“Start with the youngest,” the captain, and their newest master ordered.
Killian’s stomach dropped and filled with a cold dread that spread up through his chest cavity. Tears began to burn in his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them fall. He knew what his tears did to Liam, and he wouldn’t put his brother through anymore anguish than he’d already have to endure. The rough hands of the first mate dragged Killian forward, and Liam’s shouts of protest echoed in his ears.
“No, please! Don’t do this! We won’t run. We’ve never run. You don’t have to-” The backhand of one of the crew silenced Liam and knocked him to the hard boards of the deck. Killian stared at his brother with a resolve no eleven year old should ever have to display, and shook his head when it looked as though Liam might argue again.
He could endure this. He’d have to. It was gong to happen to him whether he wanted it to or not. Just as all the other atrocities had. Those that Liam had tried to protect him from, and several he knew nothing of and never would. No amount of pleading had ever served to alleviate the burden, and most times it only added to it. Killian would endure their new captain’s order, if for no other reason than to spare Liam an even harsher consequence.
When the red hot poker, emblazoned with their new master’s seal, met the bare skin of Killian’s shoulder, he realized the awful truth. There would never be a worse consequence for Liam than hearing his little brother’s screams echo across the open waters of the sea as a ruthless man branded him as property.
Drop me a Would you rather… / This or that / Top 5 / Have you or would you ever… / FMK / Personal questions / Creepy anons / Random questions / AdviceLove/hate / Anonymous secrets / Anything you want!
Anonymous😘 Could you use that as a prompt pretty please? (The whumpee is forced to choose between two tortures they believe will be used on them, when in fact, the torture they chose is used on a loved one. The option the whumpee didn’t choose is later used on them, as their newly tortured loved one watches.)
Liam knew his captain was lying. It wasn’t really his choice. It never was. Silver already knew what course of action he’d take in teaching the eldest Jones a lesson, but he’d never pass up an opportunity to have his fun first.
Fun, like offering a taunting choice between two punishments, and letting the poor unfortunate soul who’d found themselves in their captain’s displeasure believe they actually had a choice. Liam knew better. No matter which option he chose, Silver would find a way to twist things so Liam would receive the consequence of the captain’s choosing, not his. Given the choices before him, it wasn’t too difficult to guess which one he’d be destined for.
Lashes before the mast, or manually stocking the on-deck armaments.
Granted, hauling up cannonballs from the hold by hand without the use of a winch was exhausting, back breaking work, but it paled in comparison to the damage the cat o’ nines could do, to one’s back or their spirit. Liam was just thankful Killian had been spared their captain’s ire this time around.
“Well, Jones?” We haven’t got all day. Let’s have it.”
“The lash… sir.” Liam straightened himself to full height as he answered. He was in no mood for Silver’s games. He’d take the lash and be done with it.
“Liam, no,” he heard Killian hiss behind him, standing among the rest of the crew that had assembled in order to give audience to the discipline about to take place.
Liam clenched his jaw, willing his little brother to remain silent.
“Very well, Jones.”
Silver nodded, and Liam braced himself for the manhandling that did not come.
“Oi!” He heard Killian shout, causing him to spin around and watch in horror as his little brother was drug across the deck towards the mast.
“No, no, no!” Liam shouted. “This is my punishment! Not Killian’s! I chose the lash!”
“Aye, you did,” Silver sneered. “But I never said you would be the one to endure it.”
Liam rushed forward, but was held back by the crew. The shredding sound of torn linen echoed in his ears as Killian’s tunic was split in two. Long, lanky arms he hadn’t quite grown into were forcibly wrapped around the mast, his hands bound with rope on the other side, securing him in place.
“How many?” Liam questioned, realizing for the first time Silver had never expressed a specific number.
“That depends on you, Jones,” Silver answered, taking the cat in hand before stalking toward Killian’s bared flesh with an sick hunger gleaming in his eye. “How quickly do you think you can restock the armaments by hand?”
Liam blanched and stared at Silver. “What?”
“You still have to be punished, Jones. You’re brother’s lashings will continue until the job is done.” Liam sucked in a breath and choked back a sob as he watched Silver swing his arm, cracking the cat against Killian’s back. A pained grunt resonated in his hearing, and Liam knew Killian would try to hold back his cries for as long as he could. “Better get going, Jones,” Silver commanded. “The lads have placed their wagers, and no one thinks you’ll be able to complete the task while there’s anything left of your brother’s back. You wouldn’t want to prove them right now, would you?”
Another slap of the lash had Liam sprinting towards the hold, jeers and laughter from the crew following him down into the dark. Should he try and carry as many as he could manage each trip, even though the extreme weight would slow him down; or take them up one at a time, which would be faster, but require more trips? He didn’t have time to consider the merits of either option. Another muffled strike, encored by cheers from the heartless men above deck filtered down with the dust and dampness. Liam secured two shots, one cradled in each arm, and raced back to the stairs. Nearly stumbling from the blinding light of the midday sun, Liam did not wait for his vision to adjust before depositing the cannonballs and hurrying back for more.
Five.
He fumbled in the darkness for two more.
Eight.
He made the mistake of glancing over at Killian once he was back on deck. Angry, red welts cris-crossed his back.
Nine.
Some of the marks were no longer welts.
Twelve.
Liam grunted in his attempt to carry a third ball this time; a sound that harmonized with Killian’s scream, who could no longer remain quiet.
Fifteen.
His legs burned, but the pain was forgotten as his stomach turned at the sight that met him when he reached the deck again. The crowd had parted, purposefully leaving him with the perfect vantage point to witness his little brother’s suffering. Blood ran down his back, and spattered through the air.
Sixteen.
Killian’s body contorted, twisting and arching in an attempt to alleviate some of the torment each blow delivered.
Twenty.
Liam’s legs were like jelly. His arms ached, and his lungs felt as though an inferno raged within his chest, each breath drawing in new fuel to fan the flames. It was nothing compared to the fire licking its way through Killian’s extremities, though. That knowledge alone was enough to keep his legs moving, his arms lifting more than he should have been capable of, and his lungs drawing in against the painful sting of exhaustion. That, and the pitiful cries of his little brother, now sobbing out pleas for his torment to end between the soul rendering screams of each strike.
Thirty.
“It’s done!” Liam shouted, doubling over with his hands braced against his knees.
The cat stilled while the Bosun came over to inspect Liam’s work. A nod was given, and the captain ordered Killian’s release from the mast. He had no strength left in him, and therefore crumbled to the deck before Liam could get to him.
“I’m sorry, little brother,” Liam whispered over him, not even sure if he was conscious. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Younger,” Killian croaked, pulling a watery sound from Liam; a mixture of amusement, relief, and weariness.
There was no time for rest, though. Liam would have to dig deep within himself in order to convince his strained and overworked muscles to get Killian below, so he could begin administering his healing.
“Come on, Killian,” Liam coaxed. “We have to get you to your bunk.”
With Herculean effort, the brothers managed to get on their feet and began to make their way to the hatch.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Silver’s voice rang out from the helm.
“To tend to my brother,” Liam replied through clenched teeth.
“Has it escaped your notice that your brother has left quite a mess upon my deck? It needs swabbing.”
Liam bit back a sharp retort, and caught Killian’s eye, imploring him to do the same. Despite the toll his body had taken, his eyes blazed with murderous rage and Liam feared Killian’s tongue would get him killed if he did not quell such emotions.
“I’ll see to it once I get Killian settled below deck.”
“You’ll see to it?” Silver questioned in a tone that made Liam’s stomach drop and a shiver run up his spine. “I don’t believe it’s your mess to see to, now is it?”
“You can’t expect me to be… up to the task… in my condition,” Killian panted through pained breaths.
“Hmm,” Silver hummed, giving a show of considering the youngest Jones’ words. “Perhaps, not.”
Both men relaxed slightly, and let go a shaky breath of relief. Prematurely, it seemed.
“Very well then, Jones. If you are not up to the task… let me offer you a choice.”
(While I tried to include the most helpful resources I could here (i.e., resources that lend themselves to one-on-one communication, individual reading, etc.), there are plenty of other great resources, including regional resources, listed in these links. Some of the resources are specific to men and others aren’t, but they are all helpful for male survivors.)
**Male Survivor (regional, international, and online resources)
seriously, I’ve sat here for hours contemplating how anyone could possibly admire that relationship and I have only come up with two reasons
1. You have never been in an abusive relationship
And i hope to God you never will be. I truly do. Because no one deserves that.
2. You HAVE or ARE IN an abusive relationship and are too naive to know any better.
And if so, my heart genuinely breaks for you. I have been there. I know how much of a hold it can have. But you deserve SO SO SO much better. and trust me, it will/ does get better.
There is never an excuse for someone to keep persisting after you have said no
There is never an excuse for someone to grab you against your expressed permission
There is never an excuse to expect a “reward” for kindness.
There is never an excuse to be treated as a prize to be won.
There is never an excuse for someone to be happy you are broken, hurt or in pain.
There is never an excuse for someone to call you names and put you down
There is never an excuse for someone to LIE AND MANIPULATE YOU.
There is never an excuse to put you or your loved ones in danger.
There is never an excuse for someone to threaten self harm to get your attention.
There is never an excuse to put someones happiness above your own because you feel as if you owe them.
There is never an excuse for someone to expect they are the only thing that can make you happy.
“So is [an abuser] lying when he says he loves you? No, usually not. Most of my clients do feel a powerful sensation inside that they call love. For many of them it is the only kind of feeling toward a female partner that they have ever had, so they have no way of knowing that it isn’t love. When an abusive man feels the powerful stirring inside that other people call love, he is probably feeling:
The desire to have you devote your life to keeping him happy with no outside interference
The desire to have sexual access
The desire to impress others by having you be his partner
The desire to possess and control you
These desires are important aspects of what romantic love means to him. He may well be capable of feeling genuine love for you, but first he will have to dramatically reorient his outlook in order to separate abusive and possessive desires from true caring, and become able to really see you.
The confusion of love with abuse is what allows abusers who kill their partners to make the absurd claim that they were driven by the depths of their loving feelings. The news media regrettably often accepts the aggressors’ view of these acts, describing them as “crimes of passion.” But what could more thoroughly prove that a man did not love his partner? If a mother were to kill one of her children, would we ever accept the claim that she did it because she was overwhelmed by how much she cared? Not for an instant. Nor should we.
Genuine love means respecting the humanity of the other person, wanting what is best for him or her, and supporting the other person’s self-esteem and independence. This kind of love is incompatible with abuse and coercion.”
- Lundy Bancroft, “Why Does He Do That? Inside the minds of angry and controlling men.”
[The Shrink would like to take a moment to say that not all abusers are men, and not all victims/survivors of abuse are women.]
#let’s put this in ouat terms for a moment #who does that sound like? #not rumple #who has explicitly referred to his girlfriend his happy ending? #whose girlfriend has explicitly reacted to threats on her life by being worried he might not be happy afterward? #who gains status and acceptance from his girlfriend? #who pursued her for sexual favors? #who calls his girlfriend twelve times if she doesn’t pick up? #killy jones that’s who #anti cs #anti hook
Couldn’t have said it better myself, Vi.
