Content: noncon nudity, manhandling, injuries, beating, fear, defiant/stoic whumpee

Throwing whumpee onto their knees before the enemy leader and holding them there by the back of the neck

Whumpee half-curled into a fetal position as they're being relentlessly kicked

Whumpee forced to strip. And doing so flushing and getting ashamed.

Whumpee shuddering and shaking from exhaustion caused by screaming, resisting, and fear

Wiping blood off hastily, grabbing injuries, making faces as they try not to cry

Ripping their pants down or shirt up so roughly it jerks whumpee's body

The broken sob that's kind of the end of a cry they barely managed to hold in

Whumpee feeling stupid, humiliated, even though anyone would, in their position

Sweating, swallowing, and keeping their face under control, trembling as they are inspected

Being twisted by the wrist, spun around, and slammed face-first into a wall or desk

Compromising positions like whumper sitting on their butt, in a non-sexual, violent way that just emphasizes the desperate physical struggle.

Grabbing them by the face to look at them and make snide observations about how scared they are

Slapping whumpee in the cheek

Small whumpees being thrown around and restrained physically by big whumpers

Grabbing their hair to slam them into the wall and whispering something in their ear that makes whumpee grimace

"turn around and face the wall."

Slapping a knife wound or gunshot injury and whumpee winces, cries and curls over the injury

A sarcastic remark dying on whumpee's lips as they see what whumper brought to beat them with

whumpee won't be able to put any weight on their leg, so they can't run away even if they try (they could crawl, but with the pain it would be very hard) and they would have to be rescued

the pain is inmensurable, like, to the point that whumpee may pass out or get very close to it (not seeing anything, feeling like there's cotton in their ears)

it will get a reaction even from the most stoic of whumpees

Whumper: “This punishment is going to hurt you a lot more than it’s going to hurt me.”

Whumpee: “Um, don’t you mean the other way around?”

Laramie S04E22, The Violent Ones: Slim is badly beaten in order to send a message to Jess.

"Easy, Mort, I think a couple of my ribs are busted." "Who did this to you?"

Masterlist

He has a name now! (Thank you @anarlossethedunadan!)

Contents: sleep deprivation, torture, stress position, beating with a metal rod, royal whumpee, defiant whumpee, multiple whumpers

The young king tried to sleep, uncomfortable though his bonds and the cold stone floor were. But every few hours, as best he could guess, a guard or soldier came by, banged loudly against the bars of the cell, then left. It seemed he would not be allowed to sleep.

Eventually, the soldiers from before came, stopping at his cell. He tried to get to his feet, face them standing, but his exhaustion coupled with having his hands bound behind his back threw off his balance. He was yanked up and dragged down the hallway, not allowed to walk on his own. He glared at them.

“I can walk, you know.”

They ignored him.

They hooked his bonds to the same device as before. He tried to steel himself for the pain, but the wrench of the chain on his already tender and aching arms forced a cry from his throat.

Bent over, shoulders aching as he tried to hold what he could of his weight on his tiptoes, he found himself again wishing he had just been executed.

The general took the lead this time. He grabbed the young man’s hair, forcing him to look up. “Let us start simply. Tell me your name, boy.”

The young king hesitated. He did not want to give them any satisfaction of answers, yet was refusing to answer something they already knew really worth the pain they would enact if he did not speak.

He saw the general prepare to strike him and he choked out, “Cinn. My name is Cinn.”

The blow came anyway, the impact radiating through his body. He gasped in pain.

“Wrong. You have no name, until you choose to beg for the name of ‘slave’.”

Cinn clenched his jaw. Hot tears pricked at his eyes but he met the general’s icy glare with his own. “My name is my own, and I know it whether you recognize it or no.”

That was most certainly not the answer the general sought. He held out his hand and a soldier — the one who had lost his brother — handed him a metal rod. The soldier’s smile looked almost giddy in anticipation.

Cinn tried to brace himself but he had no leverage. The first blow hit his ribcage, hard, and he felt something crack. He screamed. The next blow hit his legs, then across his spine.

The blows after the first were measured, not dealing debilitating injuries, yet each made his body jerk in pain. His vision began to dance with dark spots.

A blow struck his right arm, wrenching it harder against the ropes. His shoulder flared in agony.

Then his left was struck, and with a sickening pop it dislocated again. His cry of pain was a strangled howl. Tears streamed down his face beyond his control.

Suddenly the suspension slackened and he was dropped again to the floor. The soldier came over, pressing a knee heavily against Cinn’s back. He grabbed the young king’s arm and re-located it roughly.

“Look at me,” the general commanded from above him.

Cinn strained to look up.

“What is your name?”

Cinn spat a gob of bloody saliva at the general’s foot. “Cinn.”