The thief’s toes scuff dust into the air as their struggle crosses the hard packed earth outside the city’s northern gate. Their body mass is paltry against the muscle and armor of the guards, but desperation lends a wildness to their efforts that delays the inevitable – only delays. Manacles clink about their wrists, fixing their arms above their head to a thick wooden post. 

The thief stills, panting lightly. Cold steel does not give as flesh might; they are trapped, well and truly. 

“For crimes against various worthy citizens of our fair city! For thievery and base pick-pocketing! For breaking and entering! For disturbance of the peace! For evasion of justice! This thief, name and parentage unknown, is sentenced! To thirty lashes, and thence to hang in chains until sunset!” 

The herald gives the thief a sideways, contemptuous glance.  “Enjoy yourself, scum.” 

She steps away, and the thief is left under bright morning sun. Behind them, they hear the clatter of carriage and cart wheels and the murmur of travellers and traders milling about, waiting for the city’s gates to open for the day. Justice for petty crimes like theirs is delivered outside the city gates where travellers can take warning that here the laws of the land are upheld with parsimonious vigor. Their heartbeat is loud against their ribs, pulsing blood quick under their skin in readiness for the flight that’s been denied to them.

Around them, voices hush. The thief clenches their hands, pressing ragged nails against their palms. They set their forehead against the post, clenching their eyes shut as every muscle in their body tightens. 

The justiciar doesn’t waste time, at least. They suppose they can be grateful for that much. A crack splits the air, flatter and sharper than thunder, but for a half-second they think only of rain. 

But then the whip meets their back, and the thief thinks of nothing else. Their torso presses against the post in a futile effort to arch away from the line torn across their back, splitting their shirt to rip at the skin beneath. A yelping, startled cry echoes across the foregate area. 

Before its echo has faded, the whip meets their back again. The thief jerks, tearing a nail against splintering wood. The skin on their wrists splits against the edge of the manacles, but it’s hidden under bright, too-present agony rippling outwards from the two lines crisscrossing their back. 

After the third strike, the thief loses count. There is only white-hot moment after moment of unbearable pain which somehow must be borne. They scream. Their throat roughens, but they have no say in the sounds torn from them, not any more. Each strike reinvents the horizon of their uttermost pain, building and building and building and still somehow never too much, never enough to tip them over the edge of blacking out. 

Their legs give out. The whip curls across their shoulders as they stretch. One pops out of place, and the thief screams. Their head tips back to stare sightlessly up at the bright, hot sky. The tip of the whip catches their cheek, tearing a flap of skin open. 

The whip cracks. Their back is a hungry maw, tearing at them with ravenous appetite. The whip cracks. Their face pulses in time with its sodden leather beat. The whip cracks. There’s mud under their bare feet. It hasn’t rained in weeks. 

The whip– does not fall. The thief shudders, bracing for a blow that does not come. There is no announcement that their appointed strikes are complete, but they take a hitching, tiny breath, and then another, and the whip’s flat crack does not come. 

Voices and the sounds of travelers filter back in. They must be done. It must be over. The thief sobs wretchedly. They have to stand up. They have to stand here, dripping and bleeding and torn apart until they feel as if their very spine is exposed to the hot, dusty air, until sundown. 

They get one foot set in an approximation of where it should be to take their weight, then the other. Attempting to lever themself upright drives splinters under their skin where they shove themself against the post to try for leverage that their legs can’t find on their own. 

For a moment, they think they almost have it. But one leg buckles, and that’s all it takes. They collapse, falling with a jolt to the extremity of their shackled arms, and the wrench on their dislocated shoulder is what finally grants them the mercy of unconsciousness. 

Too Far Verse: Jo and Ari, shared with @just-horrible-things, Riven also belongs to JC, who helped write this piece! Timeline: Day 1 as a prisoner So Close-Too Far-Part 3 CW for impalement, torture, verbal abuse, whipping, implied gore, dehumanization, death mention (mind the tags please, there’s a lot!) 

~~~

She’s thrown hard on the concrete floor, shoulder and hip taking the brunt of the impact as she lands on her side. She tries to roll to her feet, but a harsh kick knocks her on her back. Jo manages to choke in a breath, using that air to spit out a few choice curses in Arabic as he grabs her. She struggles violently to get away under his heavier weight, aware of people yelling and the alarm still blaring in her ears. Her head is wrenched up and suddenly slammed into the ground before she can fully process what’s happening. Light and pain have overwhelmed her senses, head ringing, thoughts confused and spinning. She’s still reeling when her head is pulled up and rammed down once more. The world is filled with blinding constellations and the cacophony in her skull is nearly unbearable. “Mouthy little bitch,” he is snarling, more meaningless vitriol. “You’ll regret fighting me.” Her vision is still returning when the blows start coming without pause. She’s not aware of much except that he’s on top of her, punching, brass knuckles colliding with bone and tearing skin. Jo tries desperately to shield her face with her unbroken hand, and Riven grabs it and beats it into the concrete. She can hear something snap, and maybe she cries out, she doesn’t know. There’s so much happening. She tries with everything to reach for some last bit of magic, but she has nothing more than a tiny flame that dances on her fingertips before dying out. Her other hand is grabbed, the one he broke earlier, and more snaps ring through the air as a couple fingers are yanked and twisted. Footsteps approach, two of the terrible suppression cuffs wrestled over her broken wrist, the iron bands wrapping around her magic and fully containing it. “That should hold the fucking thing,” says a voice that isn’t Riven’s, and he grunts a barely-verbal agreement. Another hit across her face, tearing her cheek open, and then the weight is off her at last.

‘Verse: Kethrys (for more writing in this verse, check out @just-horrible-things)

CW: whipping, bleeding, death mention (fear of being killed)

[Part one, Part two, TBC] 

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A good whipping always makes me hhh and this is no exception. Jo going from confident to determined to really genuinely desperate... is excellent.

Particular favourites:

Steady in her voice, answering promptly after each lash as her eyes well up with tears from the pain. Twenty is doable, she’s had way more than that.

and

“T-ten.” It’s stuttered out, and her heart sinks when she remembers that she’s only halfway done.

and

It’s worth it, it’s worth it, it’s worth it.

and

“Language.” He chides, running the whip across her back. Jo can’t hide the shudder from just that simple touch. “How many more?”

and

Everything is on fire, they can’t keep going, this is too much, too much on top of what she’s already been through—

and

She flinches at the shadow of his arm moving, ready for the whip to come crashing back down again.

and

The soft smile sends a chill down her back, and  she whimpers again at the pain that comes from the tiny movement. 

With a little “oh” and a rush of breath, Lux moves to the side of the couch, standing just out of reach. The Hunter’s hiding his head in his arms, lying on his front. His back is wrapped in bandages through which blood has seeped, staining the white gauze with brown-red hues.

“What happened to you?” Lux asks, voice light and tremulous.

The Hunter shifts with a moan, enough to peek out at Lux. His face is flushed and sweaty. “My light… you came.” His eyes are bright, but he’s unable to move, it seems. “I wonder… nngh, are you here to… help me, or for revenge?”

Lux frowns and moves closer to crouch down and get a closer look. The Hunter’s eyes follow him lazily.

“I’m here to help you.”

The Hunter smiles, eyes shifting between Lux’s. “So sweet.”

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Another one I think about. Lux is so good (and so fucky) and the Hunter is such a fucker even when feverish and hurting. And I love, viciously, that Nick is so hurt that he’d rather lie still and die of infection than move. Weaker than Lux!

Particular favourites:

With a moment’s hesitation, Lux presses the whole back of his hand there, and the Hunter sighs in relief, his eyes slipping closed as he gets lost in the cool touch.

and

“Are you being good, little one?”

and

“I know,” The Hunter replies dully. “Don’t hurt me.”

and

The Hunter shifts, and groans - and then, when his skin starts to pull together, when the gashes try to close and the infection is being purged, he goes rigid and shoves his head down into his folded arms to scream.

and

He doesn’t realize he’s been gravitating toward the cellar until he’s standing at the door, trembling. He’s not going to go down there. He’s not, he doesn’t have to, he doesn’t belong down there in the dark and the cold.

and

and then he leaves, only able to breathe better once he’s out of the house and away from the wards, and the concrete, and the Hunter.

whumptober no. 1: shaky hands

He didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to. It’s just hard, it’s hard to swing the weighty thing slick with his sweat, blood getting flung everywhere and flicked off the end of the braided leather.

“Do you know what these are, Nicholas?” His supervisor asks, tapping unmarred skin right next to the welts and slender gashes on the prisoner’s arm; Nick focuses on not reacting.

“They’re from the whip,” The eighteen-year-old answers, staring at the concrete wall just past the man scolding him.

“They’re marks of failure. You still haven’t gotten a handle of using the whip, so it snaps in toward you and cuts you. Instant consequences for inadequacy.” The man’s curt tone makes Nick feel very small, despite his ample height and muscles. He does his best to never flinch, but every time he feels the burn along his upper arms as the whip kicks up in the wrong way, another spark of panic is added to the heap stinging in his chest. He’s changed so much to survive here but it’s not enough, not yet. He still has these little failures.

“If you’re so eager to add onto your collection of new scars…”

Nick’s eyes glisten with the fear he can’t let loose in a cringe or a step back. “No, I’m learning, I’m just - the whip, it’s hard, maybe I can try something else?” He’s seen the combat knives that the senior officers carry at the hip. Big, jagged weapons that can cut through rope, skin, anything meant to give way under a blade. He wants to get to choose what weapons he uses, if he’s going to be forced to use them on people.

His supervisor steps right up to him, and Nick takes an unsteady breath. They get close when it’s time to take his lashes, or to be observed in his agony after the lashes. The supervisor leans in closer, hands wrapping around Nicholas’ upper arms, calluses rough against sore, swollen, stinging wounds.

“There’s a reason we give the new ones the whip to use. So when you fuck up, your supervisor can see it, can count how many mistakes you made.”

“I know,” Nick bites out, scared and trying so hard to hide it behind immediate frustration and pain.

“But more importantly, these help you remember, help you improve. Now. How many do you have?”

“Nnh, I don’t - I haven’t counted. S-several.”

“Let’s count, then. One, two, three, four…”

Staring down at his own arms, following his supervisor’s pointing finger to count the marks, Nicholas’ fear grows. There are far more than he thought - his supervisor counts past ten, past fifteen, and he’s not nearly done. Some of the marks are scabbed over, some in the early stages of scarring. How long will he keep making mistakes? It’s been weeks but still, his hand slips or his mind wanders or he winces at a prisoner’s scream and a new livid red mark is sliced across his skin.

It starts in his hands - it always does. The hands that are made to hold weapons and tools dripping in blood. No amount of steadying breaths will stop the tremor that’s found its way into his hands.

“Stop that quaking,” His supervisor grunts, fingers digging harder into welts.

“T-trying, sir.”

“Now, Whitmore.”

“I’m -“ Nick gasps as he’s forced to his knees, shirt yanked up to expose his barely-healed back. “Trying!”

Despite his plea-tinged cry promising effort, his hands tremble worse by the minute. He can’t stop thinking about his failure, or about the coming consequences.

“Disappointing, Nicholas.”

“Sorry, sir.”

The whip is unfurled from its clip at his supervisor’s side. This time, Nick flinches.

“No-!” Nick cries, blanket swooping upward as his fist swings. His gasps ring out in the dark of the room; his back doesn’t burn with pain, his arms aren’t torn up… but his heart is racing. His chest is heaving with shallow, rapid breaths.

His hands are shaking.

More Nick whump. Still innocent and suffering and my heart hurts for him in this one and I love it.

He didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to.

and

His supervisor steps right up to him, and Nick takes an unsteady breath. They get close when it’s time to take his lashes, or to be observed in his agony after the lashes.

and

Staring down at his own arms [. . .] Nicholas’ fear grows. There are far more than he thought - his supervisor counts past ten, past fifteen, and he’s not nearly done.

the hunter, recaptured (pt. 2)

continuation of this drabble, where the Hunter is captured and whipped.

By the time someone returns to his cell, the Hunter is feeling faint from sitting up. He’s lost a lot of blood, he should think, and the pain is immense. The air of the room stings against his open wounds and the drying blood over the ones trying to heal cracks and draws soft sounds from him. His head hangs, and he sways, but he is still kneeling rather than lying down.

His arms are taken hold of at his sides and used to haul him up off his legs, enough to unfold them. He’s shoved to the floor and forced to stay there lying prone. The Hunter’s attempts at fighting it looked like nothing more than being recalcitrant and not moving as they guided him to; he’s too weak from the magic on him to even pull his arms out of their grips.

He can’t see who’s standing above him. He saw that four men walked into the room, but he doesn’t know where they’re standing, or what they plan to do. He didn’t see a whip in their hands. He is relieved that they don’t plan to tear his back open further, yet.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve been in a government facility.”

The Hunter stares at the floor by his face. His cheek is once again pressed to the ground. He tries not to look tense with the anticipation of pain. “They’re not my favorite.”

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I love this piece, and the one before. I still think about them. Boot on whipped back is an absolute favourite and this might be my favourite instance of it.

I love love love Nick, both as the terrifying Hunter, an excellent whumper, and when he is vulnerable and hurt and mmh, yes, give me that good whumper whump.

I love the description of the whipping, and the way he assesses his situation from a torturer’s perspective. I love his frustration at being controlled and the way he tries to shove down the terror of it.

I love “They’re not my favorite.”

and I adore

Something presses to the back of one of his torn shoulders and makes it shift - a boot, at the top of his back. The Hunter can’t catch a mortified, high-pitched moan before it escapes him.

and

The burning pressure at his shoulder blade leaves, and Nick winces as his torn back settles without it - before the boot presses down again, this time in the center of his back, where all the skin’s been torn up and sliced through with the whip. Nick screams desperately, clawing at the floor, although his arms can’t move, and his fingers are difficult to curl. The boot presses down harder, and his screams morph together into dry sobs as he pants for air, whimpering with each breath.

and

The boot presses down with a slight twist and Nick collapses back to the floor with a dry sob.

A whumpee is caught trying to escape or fomenting rebellion. They are dragged out into a public place and bound kneeling with their hands cuffed to the ground in front of them. The ritual number of lashes is given, furrowing their back and flicking around the edges of their shoulders, their arms, the bare soles of their feet.

When the whip stills for the last time, they sag forwards, hardly able to believe they survived. But they are not released, and dimly they hear the number of hours they must wait under the sun before they will be released.

They took a whipping. They can survive the waiting.

They can’t muster the energy to flinch when something weighted thunks down near their slumped body, but it doesn’t inflict more pain on them, and they ignore it in favor of making sure they manage to take one breath, and then another.

They can hear people passing by. They’ll be a spectacle, a lesson, a witness to the folly of resistance.

They’ll be a symbol, a sign, a marker that there are still those who dream of freedom.

Footsteps pass closer. It’s fine, they have to get through the square somehow. But then they pause, and the whumpee cracks tear-crusted eyes open to see an arm dipping into the bucket that’s been left next to them.

They catch, briefly, the look of regret on the civilian’s face – and behind them the watchful guards – before they toss the handful of salt across the whumpee’s torn-open back. 

When awareness fades back in from the white-hot spike that pierced them, the whumpee cowers from the sounds of more people passing through the busy square. Each one slows, as they must, to dip their hand into the bucket and offer tribute to the spectre of order propped up by looming guards and the vice of collective fear.

‘Verse: Kethrys (for more writing in this verse, check out @just-horrible-things)

CW: whipping, bleeding, death mention (fear of being killed)

[Part one, Part two, TBC] 

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cw: whipping, blood, calling whumper “sir”, death mention

“Twelve. Now, you know, Nicholas, that what you did necessitates punishment.” Crack. Blood splatters across the floor. “Thirteen.”

“Ye-es, sir.”

Crack. Someone sighs in frustration as blood splats in a thin spray across the neat paper on their clipboard. “Fourteen. And you understand that your punishment will well exceed your regular ten lashes.” Slash. “Fifteen. You will be healed by an asset after this, Nicholas, so don’t worry about not being useful. You will continue your rounds after this is done. Sixteen. Seventeen.”

Two lashes in rapid succession get blood dripping down Nick’s chin as he bites into his lip. Deep groans escape him, but he works hard not to yell. More signs of weakness after today’s failure would be… bad.

“Eighteen. You allowed a witch to escape her cell.”

“Yes, s-sir.”

The next strike of the whip almost makes him yelp. That would have been humiliating. That wouldn’t have been directly punished, but it would have been noted in his file. He doesn’t want embarrassing notes in his file, he’ll just have to hear them being read back to him at the end of the month.

“You didn’t want to hold her down, so you loosened your grip. Hesitated. She managed to escape your hold and run out. That’s what you reported to your superior.”

“Ye-, nnhh! Yes, sir.”

“Nineteen. She’s been killed. Shot. The hallway is being scrubbed as we speak. Twenty. Nicholas, you lost us a witch today. You hesitated, so she’s dead. She won’t reveal any information to us. Twenty-one. Nicholas, how many lashes should you get for losing us a witch?”

“I - I - hnnggh… I don’t know, sir.” A shudder of horror runs through him against his will at the thought of her falling to the floor, suddenly a corpse, blood on the wall. He got her killed because he didn’t want to bruise her wrists.

“Twenty-two.” This time, Nick screams, horror welling up in his chest and choking him and exploding with the wave of pain that just keeps building and building and refuses to crash. “You’ve taken twenty-two lashes. I think you should take fifty for this mistake. And next time it happens, it shouldn’t be counted at all. You should be whipped until there is nothing left to whip. Twenty-three.”

Nicholas sobs. Bellows at the strike of the whip, and sobs. “Y-yes, yes, sir.”

“I’m glad you agree. Twenty-three.”

“You - you miscounted, sir, it’s - hnnnnngh!”

“Twenty-three,” His superior repeats dryly, on the twenty-fifth lash. Another strike, and Nick howls in agony. “Twenty-four.” Crack, sob. “Twenty-five.”

Please break your character’s wrists, tie their hands behind their back and above their head, and then whip them. That’s all I ask of you.

Imagine: The whumpee’s contorted pained face; bloody and bruised, their eyes screwed shut tight as the chains dig into their broken wrists. Their breathing; shallow and hitching every now and then as their agony spikes with each crack of the whip. Imagine their cries, or maybe pained grunts through gritted teeth, trying to put up a strong front. 

Imagine when it’s all over and the whumpee is left alone, still hanging. Their head spins from the blood loss and intense pain. Blood still runs from their open wounds. It hurts. 

Gravity is a new fiend; their broken wrists are swollen red, screaming in agony as the whumpee gets weaker in their knees, unable to carry themselves up for much longer. It’s a slow burn, the whumper’s cruel game.

@the-metalhead-chick (an AMAZING writer who you should go check out NOW) asked for kneeling aesthetics for a defiant whumpee.  Let’s see what I can do!

Kneeling in Penance:  Imagine a whumpee with a guilty conscious that grates on him constantly.  Each day, no matter how tired, sore, and beaten he is, he gets up before the sun to kneel in a precise spot.  Maybe he’s praying to a deity to forgive his past sins.  Maybe it’s just a reminder to him of broken promises or oaths that he now wants dreadfully to keep.  For whatever reason, he falls heavily on his knees, pelted by rain, hail, the laughs and blows of others, always getting back to kneel with his head bowed until his daily penance is complete.

Kneeling in Submission:  The whumpee would never bow to the whumper of his own accord.  The whumper knows that.  But to save others?  Imagine the sun burning the whumpee’s back as he grits his teeth and kneels lower, lower, lower, debasing himself before the whumper in a desperate plea to divert his wrath.  The whumper smiles wider as he places his boot upon the whumpee’s head.  Now he is in control and can keep his promise or not as he so choses.

Kneeling to be Whipped:  We all love a defiant whumpee forced to their knees, thrown the hard ground and manhandled until their hands are tied spread eagle behind them.  But imagine a whumpee taking this punishment to save others.  They know what is coming.  They have felt the fire of the lash before and they know the one holding the whip hates them with passion enough to scar.  Still, they take of their shirt, they kneel in the dirt, and focus focus focus only on holding position as lancing pain cuts into their back.  They have to hold on.  They have to do this.  They must take this pain so others do not have to feel it.

Human Shield:  Kept in captivity with someone weaker, someone who doesn’t deserve the pain, the whumpee falls to the ground, holding their fellow captive.  They kneel, using the broad slope of their back to shield the other person from the blows of their whumpees as best they can.  They bite through their lower lip, trying to hold back screams, trying to make the other captive believe that everything is going to be alright.  They don’t know how long they can hold on before, starved of food and water, their knees collapse and they cannot protect the innocent any longer.

Whumptober Day 22, 24, 25, 26, 31 and Alt. 1

Prompts: Punctured, drugged, blindfolded, blurred visions, ringing ears, disorientation, concussion, and whipped 

Word Count: 2660

TW: Oh boy there’s a lot. Head injury, creepy whumper, whipping, bleeding, character death, choking, drugging, broken bones, torture 

This is what happens when you get behind on whumptober, but you want to finish, so you just cram a ton into the last day to ensure that you finish and then smile all pleased delusionally thinking that cramming this many tropes in a single drabble actually worked. 

When she comes around, her world is a mess of confusion and pain.

Head fuzzy, buzzing, ears ringing, beyond disoriented.

It’s still dark.

She tries to sit up, the cacophony in her mind tripling at that slight movement. 

Her eyes flicker open, fabric pulled tight over them, keeping her plunged in darkness. Almost a blessing with the way her head is pounding: If she sees light, it might make the agonizing, splitting-head, pain even worse than before. The blindfold is damp, probably from tears streaming, or blood from the wound. 

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