Leader crept silently back toward the inner rooms where he’d been held. Red hot rage filled him. The desire to hurt Whumper, to bring him to his knees and make him scream and get some god-damned revenge made his blood race and adrenaline spike. Vengeance for the months of pain. The small voice at the back of his mind telling him he was stupid, that he should run while he has the chance was silence by his bloodlust.
He paused in front of one of the torture rooms, this one held the knives he was sure. Leader slipped quietly inside and drew close to the cabinet, the shiny metal reflected the madness in his eyes. Leader selected a cruel curved blade, but snarled in disappointment. The cabinet was locked. Whumper must lock his work away when he was finished, just like he locked Leader away when he grown tired of the screams.
Leader looked round the room in frustration, the rage flaring even higher. His eyes quickly found a long cross head screwdriver left abandoned on the nearby table, he grabbed it up and continued to the room he knew would contain a sleeping Whumper.
He lent close to the door hardly daring to breath as he listened for any sounds inside. After a moment Leader detected Whumper’s soft snores, his lips pulled back over his teeth on a feral grin that darkened his features. This was it, his payback.
Leader kicked the door open and launched himself into the room, ready to restrain Whumper with his bedsheets and then beat the living shit out of him before the real fun began. But there was no Whumper…. The bedsheets were in disarray. Leader paused, momentarily confused, he’d heard the snoring. Just as he began to realise the situation and react to the fear now racing through his veins, he heard a soft noise from behind.
He knew it was Whumper, he knew he’d been outsmarted, before his brain even sent the command to his body to turn there was a loud sounding crack at the base of his skull. A millisecond later the searing pain bloomed, radiating out through his entire body. Leader’s vision tunnelled and he registered the secondary crack and shards of agony as his knees hit the floor before he slumped face forward, unconscious before his head even hit the ground.
************
Leader slowly came too, his head thumped with agony, his eyes blurred and his shoulders ached. He tried to move, quickly realising his feet only just touched the floor.Â
Panic gripped him like a vice, the adrenaline surge woke him fully and he looked up at his hands manacled above his head, chain stretching toward the ceiling.Â
NO! no no no, he’d been so close to escape. He’d been so close.Â
Tears filled Leaders eyes as he realised how stupid he’d been. He should have left and learnt how to deal with his perceived humiliation at Whumpers hands.
A soft snigger made him tense as Whumper walked into his field of vision.
“It was an impressive escape effort Leader. I was amazed you got to the exit and with the key too. But then you came back. For me.”
Whumper put a finger under Leaders chin and lifted it gently. He gazed into Leaders eyes, the cruel smirk plastered to his face.
“I would have let you go to, I’d got what I needed from you. But since you decided to try revenge, I think it’s wise you stay here for the rest of your short life.”
Leader felt his stomach drop and his gorge rise. He could have got away and now he would die down here. The whimpered as tears rolled silently down his face.
“I see you came with a nice looking screwdriver?” Whumper pulled it from his back pocket and waved it slowly in front of Leaders eyes.
“I think you were going to see how much damage this could do, weren’t you?”
Leader kept silent, his head still held up by Whumper’s finger at his chin.Â
“Answer me!”, Whumper suddenly screamed, grabbing Leader by the hair and bringing the tip of the screwdriver within millimetres of Leaders right eye.
Leader managed a shaky jerk of his head and a whispered “yes”.
“I thought so, let’s see how much damage it can do then.”
And that was all the warning Leader received. Whumper drew the hand holding the screwdriver back and then slammed it into Leaders stomach. Leader let out a pained cry as the metal punched deep causing god knows what sort of internal damage.Â
Whumper circled him and stabbed the screwdriver deep into Leaders lower back, he arched forward away from the cold invasion of the tool and then gasped in relief at the pull as the screwdriver was removed. He felt hot blood start to flow.Â
Another piercing blow to the side had Leader howling in agony. Whumper became emblazoned by Leader screams and pleas for mercy, as he stabbed randomly into fleshy parts with much more ferocity and speed. Leaders eyes rolled in his head as he experienced the brutal thrust, the pain as the tip of the screwdriver broke through his skin and the sickening push against his tissues, his muscles, his organs as it buried deep. Then the wet pull as it was withdrawn, a wet pop as it exited his body and more blood ran free.Â
He howled as Whumper slowed and began to pierce him slowly now, so each feeling was magnified. The push of the point against his body until his skin finally broke and gave way.  The cold metal inside him as Whumper twisted it deeper.Â
Whumper finally threw the bloodied weapon to the floor and released the chains suspending Leader, he fell to the floor in a heap. Whumper ran his hand through Leaders sweaty hair and cradled his head. A much sharper point of pain stabbed into his neck, making Leader flinch.
“Shhhh now, sssshhhh.” Whumper whispered as he depressed the plunger on the syringe.Â
“Just something to knock you out for abit whilst the doctor patches you up.”
The sneer in Whumper’s voice was back and through the last verges of consciousness heard Whumper’s whispered promise.
“You’ll be begging for death long before I grant it. You thought you knew pain before? You have no idea how much worse it’s going to get. Every moment from now on spent in agony. The things I’m going to do to you.”
[Content Warnings: defiant whumpee, creepy whumpers, medical whump, restraints, mention of past asphyxiation, interrogation, forced temperature regulation]
The tone plays softly through the room.
Not loud, not sharp. Pleasant, almost.
But painfully familiar.
His body reacts before his mind does.
Adrenaline crashes through him in one violent surge, pulse spiking hard enough to hurt as his chest tightens around instinctive panic. The restraints snap sharply against the table when he jerks against them, breath catching halfway into his lungs while every muscle locks in anticipation of airflow disappearing again—
But nothing changes.
Air continues moving steadily through the room.
No restriction.
No deprivation.
The tone fades gently back into the low mechanical hum threaded through the walls, leaving only the harsh rhythm of his own breathing behind.
For a second he just lies there, furious at himself.
His pulse is still racing.
He can feel it hammering everywhere now—throat, wrists, ribs—his body struggling to come down from a threat that never arrived.
Somewhere beside him, a monitor answers with a soft confirmation chime.
Logged.
Of course it’s logged.
The room feels cold.
Not immediately noticeable cold. Not dramatic. Just a gradual, invasive chill that’s been accumulating long enough to work itself deep into the metal beneath him. The table pulls heat steadily from his body through the thin fabric stretched across his back and shoulders, leaving every exposed inch of skin painfully aware of the temperature difference.
His fingers twitch once against the restraints.
Then again.
Tiny involuntary movements he tries unsuccessfully to still.
Across the room, pale monitor light reflects briefly against the interrogator’s gloves while lines of data scroll endlessly down the screen beside them. They barely seem to notice him waking anymore. Their attention remains fixed mostly on the numbers shifting across the display—heart rate fluctuations, respiration patterns, oxygen saturation curves, stress responses translating neatly into measurable information.
Not reactions.
Metrics.
The interrogator studies the screen for another moment before speaking.
The observation drifts into the room with the same detached calm as everything else here.
He swallows against the dryness in his throat and exhales slowly through his nose, trying to steady his breathing before the monitors can chart exactly how badly that tone affected him.
Too late for that.
“You could at least sound impressed,” he mutters.
A soft tone answers from the monitor almost immediately.
The interrogator glances briefly toward the spike it records.
Even the sarcasm means something now.
That realization settles unpleasantly into his chest.
Nothing gets wasted here.
Not pain. Not panic. Not exhaustion.
Not him.
The cold continues deepening gradually enough that he only notices it through accumulation. First in his fingertips, where numbness prickles faintly beneath the restraints. Then in the stiffness gathering through his forearms and shoulders, tightening already overworked muscles until every shift of his weight drags a low ache through the joints.
His left shoulder throbs constantly now.
Not sharp anymore.
Heavy.
Damaged in the temporary way things become damaged when they’re pushed too far for too long without quite breaking completely.
He tries flexing his fingers again.
The tremor running through them worsens immediately.
The monitor records that too.
“Peripheral muscular instability beginning earlier than projected,” the interrogator says quietly.
He lets out a thin laugh that fogs briefly in the cold air between them. “Glad to know I’m exceeding expectations.”
No response. There almost never is anymore.
Not because the interrogator ignores him deliberately. That would require emotional investment. Most of the time now, they simply seem more interested in the systems around him than the person restrained at the center of them.
That may be worse.
Another soft tone drifts through the room.
This time his pulse jumps before he consciously registers the sound.
His stomach tightens immediately afterward.
No. Not again.
He forces himself to breathe slower, deeper, fighting the instinctive anticipation clawing up through his chest.
The airflow never changes.
Still, his body remains tense long after the tone fades.
Waiting.
The interrogator watches the monitor carefully. “Conditioned response latency decreasing.”
The words settle coldly into place.
Conditioned. Like training an animal.
He stares hard at the ceiling lights above him, jaw tightening. The terrifying part isn’t that the tone scares him now.
It’s that his body reacts before he can stop it.
Before he can think.
The interrogator adjusts something on the tablet in their hand while the room hums steadily around them. A vent somewhere overhead shifts with a soft mechanical click, spilling another wave of colder air downward across his exposed arms.
This time the shiver hits immediately.
Small at first—a brief involuntary tremor through his forearms and shoulders.
Then stronger.
The accumulated exhaustion in his muscles makes suppressing it nearly impossible now. Every tremor pulls painfully through strained joints already destabilized by prolonged restraint, each involuntary movement dragging fresh ache down his arms and across his chest.
The monitor records all of it.
The interrogator finally steps closer to the table.
“The second individual remains unaccounted for.”
His pulse spikes instantly.
Damn it.
A rapid sequence of tones answers from the monitor before he can even school his expression.
The interrogator watches the response curve rise steadily across the screen. “Protective recognition remains immediate.”
He closes his eyes briefly. Because now even trying not to react feels dangerous. The room has become a place where his body speaks before he does. Where panic reveals things faster than interrogation ever could.
The interrogator continues studying the monitor while speaking in the same calm, measured tone.
Everything here gets translated into clinical language until it stops sounding human at all.
He laughs softly under his breath, though there’s nothing funny in it.
“You really found a way to make kidnapping sound administrative.”
No response.
The silence stretches around the steady hum of machinery and the quiet rhythm of his breathing.
Then, slowly, another realization begins settling into place beneath the cold and exhaustion.
No significant questions have been asked in several minutes.
Yet the session never stopped.
The monitoring continues.
The tones continue.
The cold continues.
His reactions continue feeding information into systems designed to collect it whether he speaks or not.
The interrogator moves toward the counter lining the far wall. Organized trays rest there beneath harsh white lighting, instruments arranged with the same sterile precision as every other part of this room.
Nothing improvised.
Nothing emotional.
Procedure.
The interrogator returns holding a compact device connected to thin translucent tubing. Condensation beads faintly along the lines.
He hates that phrase almost as much as he hates how true it is.
The device connects somewhere beneath the table out of his sight. A moment later something presses lightly against the inside of his wrist beneath the restraint.
Then the temperature changes.
At first it’s only cool pressure against sensitive skin.
Then colder.
And colder.
The sensation spreads inward in a slow, invasive ache that sinks beneath the surface almost immediately, wrapping around tendons and muscle instead of remaining on the skin where it belongs.
His hand jerks instinctively.
The monitor chimes.
The interrogator adjusts the flow slightly.
Pain blooms sharply up through his forearm.
Not burning.
The opposite.
A deep, penetrating cold severe enough that his muscles begin tightening around it automatically, fingers curling hard against the restraints while his body tries unsuccessfully to pull away.
The movement sends another painful strain through his shoulders.
Everything hurts together now.
The cold.
The restraint.
The exhaustion.
The anticipation.
The interrogator watches the monitor rather than him.
The pressure of the cold intensifies another degree.
A sharp ache flashes up through his wrist into his elbow, deep enough now to feel buried inside the joints themselves.
His breathing shifts unevenly around it.
Immediately the monitor responds.
Every weakness translated instantly into visible data.
Too measurable.
Everything here is too measurable.
The interrogator’s gaze flicks briefly across the readings before speaking again.
“He remains difficult to locate.”
The reaction tears through him before he can stop it.
Pulse surging.
Muscles tightening hard against the restraints.
Breathing hitching sharply in his chest.
The monitor emits a rapid sequence of tones.
“There,” the interrogator murmurs softly.
Not satisfaction.
Recognition.
Like a successful result repeating itself under laboratory conditions.
His stomach twists hard.
The cold pressure against his wrist increases again, pain radiating sharply through stiffening fingers.
“Stop using him,” he snaps, voice rough with strain, “to measure me.”
For the first time in several minutes, the interrogator looks directly at him instead of the monitor.
“We are measuring you regardless.”
The words land with horrifying simplicity.
Because that’s the truth underneath all of this.
The questions matter.
But they are not the center of the process.
Whether he speaks or stays silent, the procedure continues collecting him piece by piece anyway.
The interrogator studies the monitor again.
“Your responses indicate elevated concern regarding his recovery probability.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“Incorrect.”
Another soft tone plays through the room.
His body flinches instantly.
No airflow change follows.
Still, his pulse spikes hard enough to trigger another sequence of monitor confirmations.
The interrogator watches the reaction carefully.
“Conditioned panic response stabilizing.”
He hates that his body belongs to them faster than his mind does.
Another vent shifts overhead. The room temperature drops another degree.
This time the shivering becomes impossible to hide.
Tremors ripple visibly through his arms and chest, worsening every time the cold application tightens around his wrist. Exhaustion leaves his muscles unable to compensate anymore, every involuntary movement dragging painful strain through already damaged shoulders.
The interrogator watches the monitor quietly while the data accumulates.
Then, almost conversationally:
“If recovered, would he survive extended protocol exposure?”
His eyes snap toward them instantly.
Too fast.
The monitor answers with a bright pulse of sound.
The interrogator says nothing for several seconds afterward.
They simply watch the readings settle across the screen.
how about a defiant whumpee manages to break free but chooses to go get revenge on whumper first but oops that didn’t go the way whumpee planned, now he’s recaptured before he can ever escape >:)
The Escape - Part OneÂ
Leader crept down the darkened hall, he’d been here many times whilst being dragged from one torture room to another. Whumper had tried to get government secrets out of Leader each time, and each time he had remained silent until the pain had overwhelmed him and he’d screamed himself hoarse, his voice eventually giving out as his body collapsed from blood loss. His tears dripped from the end of his nose as he passed out time and again, thankful beyond anything that his team weren’t witnessing his failure.Â
Whumper worked for a corrupt branch of a foreign agency, Leader had known him for years, they’d got along until he’d made a mistake and Leader had seen him for what he was.
Leader took a deep breath as he passed another room and continued forward. Each room held a specialty that Whumper enjoyed. Each session of brutality flitted through Leaders mind, replayed in clarity as he continued his escape bid.Â
The first room held a collection of shiny bright knives, the metal glinted in the low light. Leader could still feel the cold bite of the metal as it parted his skin. Slices down each arm barely a centimetre apart, knife dug in deep to tear his skin so that each cut would scar. The pain eventually becoming overwhelming enough that he’d begged for it to end. The blood that ran down his arms and dripped to the floor making him dizzy, whilst Whumper forced his head back, placed the knife in his mouth and sliced into his tongue with enough force that he couldn’t speak even if he’d wanted to.Â
He continued past doors.Â
This room was where his hands had been forcibly held over the flames of a roaring fire. Leaving the skin on his hands twisted and red even after they’d healed.Â
Another room where he’d had his arm pinned to a table whilst Whumper had screamed questions at him. When he’d refused to answer a fingernail was slowly pulled from his body or a bamboo spike was rammed under his nail punching deep into the nail bed. Pain shrieking through him as he howled.
Leader reached the final door with a shudder. The room that he had been held him suspended from the ceiling, multiple times, arms pulled tight above his head, unable to do anything as Whumper had whipped the skin from his back. Each time the lash had landed, he’d felt his skin part with a searing line of fire. The fire had changed with each lash, the whip feeling more like being cut open with razor blades. Whumper had loved the screams Leader produced when the whip had curled round his torso and assaulted the front of his body too. Blood had ran in streams down his back, down his legs to the floor as he had begged for mercy.Â
But no mercy ever came, as soon as his back was healed, Whumper would whip him senseless again. The mass of scar tissue that now covered him instead of smooth skin pulled and tugged with each movement. Another permanent reminder of his ordeal to complement the brand on his neck, so he’d be reminded of his torture every time he looked in a mirror.Â
Leader had come so close to breaking over and over again. And Whumper knew it too, the fury of his torture had increased along with his screamed questions.Â
Leader stood for a moment staring at the exit, key in hand, his freedom a second away. Rage and hatred filled him. He wasn’t going to escape without his revenge. He was going to make Whumper pay for every moment of torture he’d suffered. He turned back and headed back into the labyrinth, ready to deal Whumper twice the agony and humiliation that had been inflicted on him.Â
Not because they let him. Because his body refuses to do it quickly anymore.
Awareness drags upward through layers of ache and heaviness, each breath arriving a fraction too shallow beneath a transparent mask that is now secured over his nose and mouth. Cool air moves steadily through it with a soft mechanical hiss, measured and artificial.
His eyes open to blurred white light.
For a moment he just lies there, breathing carefully through the mask while sensation catches up in pieces.
The restraints first.
Wrists secured above him again—not as high as before, but high enough to keep tension threaded continuously through both shoulders. His left arm tingles unpleasantly from elbow to fingertips, intermittent numbness breaking apart whenever he shifts even slightly.
Then the pain underneath it.
Deep. Settled.
Not the sharp, tearing agony from before. This feels older now, worked into the joints themselves after hours of strain. Every muscle across his chest and upper back aches with the dull instability of overuse.
They didn’t let him recover properly.
The realization comes without surprise.
Nothing here resets. It only progresses.
A shape moves quietly near the foot of the table.
The interrogator.
Already working.
A monitor beside them casts pale reflected light across one sleeve while streams of data slide silently down the screen. Numbers pulse and shift in careful sequence, updating in real time with each breath he takes inside the mask.
The interrogator notices his eyes open.
“Conscious,” they say.
Not to him.
A second voice answers somewhere beyond his field of view.
“Recording resumed.”
Something cold settles low in his stomach.
He turns his head slightly. The movement sends a tight pull through both shoulders hard enough to sharpen his breathing for a second.
Immediately, one of the numbers on the monitor spikes.
The interrogator watches it happen.
Not him.
The screen.
He stares at them through the clear surface of the mask.
“You people ever get tired of narrating my existence?”
A soft tone sounds from the monitor.
The interrogator glances briefly toward it.
“Verbal engagement remains stable.”
He lets out a dry laugh beneath the mask, then regrets it instantly when the movement drags fresh pain through his chest.
Even the jokes count as data here.
The thought hits harder than it should.
The interrogator steps closer, tablet resting loosely in one hand.
“Session continuation authorized,” they say calmly. “Concurrent extraction and protocol collection remain active.”
Protocol collection. Not interrogation. Not questioning.
The wording settles unpleasantly into place.
His gaze shifts past them toward the equipment lining the far counter now—organized trays, sealed instruments, monitoring arrays quietly cycling through status indicators. Everything arranged with the same sterile precision as before.
Not improvised.
Prepared.
This was never punishment. Punishment implies emotion.
This feels administrative.
The mask hisses softly as he exhales.
“What exactly do you people call this?” he asks.
The interrogator adjusts something on the tablet without looking up. “Protocol advancement.”
Like they’re discussing software.
His pulse ticks upward before he can stop it.
The monitor records that too.
The interrogator watches the change with mild attention, then reaches toward the side of the mask.
A quiet click follows.
The airflow changes almost imperceptibly.
At first he thinks it’s psychological. The kind of thing you imagine once attention gets fixed on breathing.
Then his next inhale arrives thinner than expected.
Not absent.
Reduced.
His lungs pull automatically for more air that doesn’t quite come.
His chest tightens reflexively.
The interrogator studies the monitor. “Initial response remains anticipatory.”
“Aw,” he says tightly, “you say the sweetest things.”
No answer.
The airflow remains steady at the reduced level, forcing his body into an awareness it can’t fully ignore. Every inhale now arrives with the faint instinctive sense that something is missing—not enough to panic yet, but enough that his breathing starts regulating itself around the deficit.
Slower. Deeper. Careful.
The monitor tracks all of it.
His eyes narrow slightly.
The interrogator still isn’t really watching him. Their attention stays fixed mostly on the data feed.
The breathing. The pulse.
The oxygen saturation steadily recalculating itself on the screen.
The questions come almost second.
“What was stored in Archive Seven?”
His jaw tightens.
“No idea.”
A pause. Not dramatic. Not threatening.
Just procedural.
The interrogator taps the tablet once.
The airflow lowers another fraction.
His next breath catches unevenly in his chest.
Not enough air. Not enough to hurt him.
Enough that his body notices immediately.
Adrenaline flickers low beneath his ribs.
The interrogator watches the monitor carefully as his breathing shifts around the restriction.
“Compensation begins quickly,” they murmur.
Again—not really to him.
His stomach twists.
The questions continue.
“Who provided access authorization?”
“No one.”
“Incorrect.”
No anger. No satisfaction. Just data correction.
The mask hisses softly with each measured breath he forces himself to take. He can feel his pulse now, heavy and intrusive beneath his skin.
The interrogator makes another adjustment.
This time the change is immediate.
The next inhale stops halfway.
His body reacts violently before thought catches up.
He jerks hard against the restraints, shoulders screaming as instinct tears through him in one savage pulse of panic. His lungs pull sharply against sudden resistance that isn’t there anymore—
Air.
Need air—
Then the flow returns.
Not fully. Enough.
He drags in a harsh breath through the mask, pulse hammering wildly now as adrenaline crashes through his bloodstream.
The monitor emits a soft confirmation tone.
“Elevated response achieved,” the interrogator says quietly.
His breathing refuses to settle completely.
The worst part is how fast his body learned the fear. One interruption and now every breath arrives waiting for the next one to fail.
The interrogator studies the screen.
“Interesting.”
He laughs shakily despite himself. “You keep saying that like I’m a science fair project.”
No response.
The interrogator adjusts the tablet again. New readings slide onto the monitor.
Graphs.
Response curves.
Comparative metrics.
His stomach drops slowly as he realizes what he’s looking at.
Previous sessions.
They’re comparing him against himself.
Tracking progression.
Not interrogation results.
Adaptation.
The questions continue almost casually through the analysis.
“What designation were you searching for?”
“Wasn’t searching for anything.”
Another adjustment.
Airflow reduction increases. Not enough to choke him. Enough that speech starts costing breath.
His chest rises harder now with every inhale, lungs unconsciously overcompensating against the restriction while he fights to keep the effort from becoming obvious.
The interrogator finally looks directly at him. “Your resistance metrics exceeded qualification thresholds.”
The words cut through the haze immediately.
Qualification. Not selection. Not targeting.
Administrative language. Clinical. Cold.
The interrogator continues evenly. “The archive breach simplified protocol approval.”
A horrible understanding settles into place piece by piece.
The crime.
The capture.
The testing.
Not separate events.
Connected.
He was useful before they ever took him.
The monitor tones softly again.
His pulse just jumped. The interrogator notices.
Of course they do.
“Cognitive stress increasing,” they note.
Like weather conditions.
He stares at the ceiling, breathing carefully through lungs that still can’t quite fill properly anymore.
“How many people,” he asks quietly, “have gone through this?”
The interrogator doesn’t answer immediately. Their eyes remain on the monitor while another set of measurements scrolls across the screen. Then:
“Few produce viable long-term data.”
Something cold crawls slowly down his spine. Not because of what they said.
Because of how they said it.
Matter-of-fact.
Like durability is the only meaningful distinction.
The airflow drops again.
His next breath fails completely.
Panic detonates through him instantly. His entire body strains violently against the restraints as instinct overwhelms thought, lungs pulling hard against sudden emptiness while his pulse erupts into chaos.
No air.
No warning.
His shoulders wrench painfully as his body fights restraints it cannot beat. Heat flashes across his vision, sharp and immediate, survival instinct drowning everything else beneath raw animal urgency.
Then airflow slams back into the mask.
He gasps hard enough to choke, dragging air into burning lungs while tremors ripple uncontrollably through his arms.
The monitor sings softly somewhere beside him.
The interrogator watches the data.
Not him.
The realization settles slowly and horribly into place.
The questions matter. But not as much as the responses. They aren’t hurting him to get answers.
They’re getting answers because the procedure is already running.
His breathing stutters unevenly behind the mask.
The interrogator studies the monitor another moment before speaking again. “We know you did not enter Archive Seven alone.”
His pulse spikes immediately.
Damn it.
The interrogator’s eyes flick briefly toward the screen. “Significant recognition response.”
He turns his head sharply away, jaw tightening hard enough to hurt.
Too late.
The interrogator steps closer to the table. “Where is the second individual involved in the breach?”
Silence.
He focuses hard on controlling his breathing instead.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Ignore the ache in his shoulders.
Ignore the panic still clawing through his chest.
Ignore the monitor recording every failure in real time.
The interrogator waits. Patient.
Then:
“Where is he?”
His eyes snap toward them.
Tiny movement.
Instantly logged.
The monitor tone changes.
Shit.
The airflow cuts completely.
Panic crushes through him all at once. His body arches hard against the restraints, breath failing instantly as his lungs seize around sudden emptiness. Every rational thought vanishes beneath primal need while his pulse hammers violently against his ribs.
Need air—
Need—
The flow returns abruptly.
He sucks in a ragged breath that breaks apart halfway into a cough.
And before he can stop himself—
“He doesn’t know anything—”
Silence.
The words hang there.
His own voice sounds distant suddenly.
The monitor emits a long, soft confirmation tone.
The interrogator goes still.
Not surprised.
Satisfied.
His stomach drops out completely.
No.
No no no—
The interrogator lowers the tablet slightly, eyes fixed on the data stream updating across the screen.
“Unintentional protective disclosure confirmed,” they say quietly.
Not to him.
To the system. To the record.
The interrogator turns toward the observation window built seamlessly into the far wall—so invisible he hadn’t noticed it before.
Someone stands behind the glass.
Watching.
The interrogator speaks toward them without looking away. “Protocol response successful.”
10th installment, these are mostly humorous. For more: check out my masterlist.
1.
"I like being alive. In fact, I like it so much, I've been doing it nonstop for the past several decades."
2.
Whumper, mockingly but with a hint of annoyance: You're always so stoic...
Whumpee: I'm not a stoic, I'm actually more of a hedonist. And annoying the hell out of you is my greatest joy in life.
3.
Whumper: You have to put some skin in the game. *strides over to Whumpee with a sharp blade and an ominous grin*
4.
Character A: Do I look like I care?
Character B: Yes.
Character A: Well, appearances can be deceiving.
5.
*Whumper starts filming Whumpee's torture/beating*
Whumpee: Go ahead, keep filming this. Police will need some evidence for when you get caught.
6.
Whumper shares some random torture trivia as an intimidation tactic, and whumpee just shrugs and mumbles: "Citation needed."
7.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because there's nothing stopping me."
8.
Whumper: So are you going to cooperate?
Whumpee: I don't know... Does my insurance cover torture?
9.
Whumpee: Go to hell!
Whumper: That's not the answer I want to hear.
Whumpee: Too bad, 'cause it's the only answer you're gonna get.
10.
"I hate you."
"I hate you more."
"I hate you most."
11.
A character who has just had the most traumatic experience of their life: "Well, that could've gone better."
12.
Whumper describing their plans for whumpee, and whumpee responds with "Don't care, didn't ask."
13.
Whumper: You're insane!
Whumpee: Oh, I wish I was.
[Content warning: defiant whumpee, medical whump, stress position, restraints, interrogation]
He wakes to pressure.
Not pain at first.
Just pressure—deep in his shoulders, across his chest, threaded down both arms in a way that feels wrong before he fully understands why.
Then sensation catches up.
His eyes open sharply.
The lights are dimmer.
Not dark. Never dark. But lower than before, the white glare softened into something colder, flatter. Enough to make the room feel unfamiliar for half a second.
Enough to disorient.
His breathing stutters once before he steadies it.
Okay.
Okay.
His wrists are still restrained, but higher now. Spread wider apart than before. Elevated just enough above the line of his shoulders that tension pulls continuously through the joints. Not unbearable.
Not yet.
That’s the problem.
The position has no relief in it. No way to settle. Every inch of him feels suspended in the anticipation of strain.
His ankles are secured separately now too, farther apart than before, keeping his spine locked flat against the table.
He tests one arm instinctively. The restraint answers with a sharp metallic pull.
And pain immediately flashes hot through his shoulder socket. Not from the restraint itself.
From the position.
His jaw clenches before he can stop it.
“…you redesigned the furniture,” he mutters hoarsely.
No response.
But there’s movement nearby. Not hidden this time.
A chair sits several feet from the table, angled toward him with deliberate neatness. Someone occupies it already. Watching.
“You know,” he says after a second, voice rough from disuse, “most people buy me dinner before the bondage setup.”
Nothing.
The figure studies him for another long moment before speaking.
“You slept intermittently for three hours.”
His throat feels dry enough to crack. “Congratulations to me?”
“No sedatives were required.”
That lands oddly.
Not praise.
Assessment.
He shifts again despite the warning already screaming through his shoulders. The movement drags another sharp line of pain through both arms, deeper this time, immediate and ugly enough to pull a harder breath from him.
The figure notices.
Everything here notices.
“Muscular fatigue beginning,” they say calmly.
“Yeah,” he says tightly. “That tends to happen when you hang people up like spare parts.”
No reaction.
The figure rises from the chair.
His body goes still automatically.
Not fear, he tells himself. Readiness.
The person approaches the table without hurry, carrying a slim tablet in one hand. No instruments. No tray.
That somehow feels worse.
They stop beside him. “Your cooperation will reduce duration.”
He laughs once under his breath. “Sure it will.”
The tablet activates with a soft tone. The figure glances at it briefly.
Then:
“State your name.”
He stares at the ceiling. “No.”
A pause. No immediate consequence.
His pulse doesn’t lower anyway.
The figure taps the screen once.
Something beneath the table shifts with a quiet mechanical sound.
Then—
His arms are pulled another inch upward.
The pain is instantaneous.
A violent stretch tears through both shoulders hard enough to wrench a sound out of him before he can stop it—a sharp, involuntary gasp as every muscle across his chest locks tight in reflex. His back arches automatically against the restraints.
The position holds. Doesn’t release.
Oh, fuck that—
He sucks air carefully through his nose, fighting to force his muscles to unclench, but there’s nowhere for the strain to go. It just sits there, digging deeper into the joints with every breath.
Not sharp anymore. Heavy. Grinding.
The interrogator watches him stabilize.
“State your name.”
He laughs again, but it shakes at the edges now.
“…creative,” he manages.
Another tap. The table shifts again.
Not upward this time.
Outward.
His arms spread wider.
A white-hot bolt tears through his left shoulder so suddenly his vision flashes. He chokes on the breath that tries to escape him, fingers convulsing hard against the restraints as pain radiates down both arms in brutal, pulsing waves.
The position stops there. Held precisely at the threshold before something tears.
Tears.
His breathing loses rhythm for a second. The interrogator waits through it patiently.
“State your name.”
He squeezes his eyes shut hard enough to see sparks.
Don’t react.
Too late for that now.
“…go to hell,” he bites out.
Silence.
Then:
“Deflection maintained.”
The tablet chimes softly. The table does not move again.
Instead, the restraints at his wrists tighten incrementally.
Small adjustment.
Tiny.
But in this position it changes everything.
Pressure bites hard across already strained joints, forcing his arms into stricter alignment. The pain deepens instantly—less explosive than before, more invasive. A relentless pull buried deep under muscle and tendon.
His shoulders tremble. He hates that they can see it.
The interrogator’s voice remains perfectly level. “You accessed Facility Archive Seven on the nineteenth.”
His eyes open slowly.
There it is. Real questions.
He swallows against the dryness in his throat. “Sounds fake.”
“Who authorized your entry?”
He says nothing.
The strain builds by degrees now—not mechanically, but biologically. Muscles tiring. Nerves inflaming. The slow dawning realization that his body cannot maintain this position indefinitely.
That’s intentional.
The interrogator watches the silence stretch. Then asks calmly: “What did you remove?”
Another adjustment. Not wider.
Higher.
The change is minimal. The effect isn’t.
Pain lances viciously through both shoulders, deep enough now to feel nauseating. His head jerks back against the table with a muffled sound as his entire upper body strains involuntarily against the restraints.
A broken breath escapes him. His hands are shaking openly now. He can’t stop it.
The interrogator waits until his breathing starts working again. “What did you remove?”
“Nothing,” he snaps immediately.
Too fast.
The interrogator’s eyes flick briefly to the tablet.
“Stress elevation inconsistent with response confidence.”
Shit.
He turns his head sharply toward them despite the position screaming in protest. “You measuring my heartbeat now?”
“Yes.”
That shouldn’t make his stomach drop the way it does.
The interrogator steps closer.
“Who else accessed the archive?”
“No one.”
A beat.
Then the interrogator says, almost conversationally:
“That answer was truthful.”
His chest tightens.
Why tell him that?
Before he can process it—
The restraints pull wider again.
This time he actually cries out. The sound tears free before he can contain it, rough and sharp as agony rips through his left shoulder hard enough to make his entire arm spasm violently against the restraint.
For one horrifying second he thinks something dislocated. The pain surges hot and unstable through the joint, radiating down into his elbow, his wrist, his hand—
Then settles just enough to remain survivable.
Barely.
He’s breathing too fast now. He knows it. Can’t stop it.
Sweat slicks cold along the back of his neck despite the freezing room.
The interrogator studies him with clinical focus. “Why did you enter the archive?”
He laughs once—breathless, wrecked around the edges.
“You really—” he sucks in air sharply as another pulse of pain cuts through the shoulder, “—really need better security.”
The interrogator regards him silently. Then reaches down.
Not to the tablet.
To his arm.
Gloved fingers press carefully against the damaged shoulder.
Not gentle.
Precise.
Testing.
The pressure hits something deep in the joint and pain detonates instantly through his arm. He jerks hard against the restraints with a strangled sound, muscles locking uselessly as panic flashes bright and animal through his chest.
“Easy,” the interrogator says calmly.
The word almost makes him hate them.
Their fingers press again. Slightly different angle.
His vision blurs.
“Answer the question.”
“Fuck—”
Pressure. White pain spears downward through his shoulder blade hard enough to make his whole body shake.
“Why did you enter the archive?”
“I didn’t take anything!” he snaps, voice cracking violently this time.
The room goes still. Too still.
The interrogator slowly removes their hand from his shoulder.
Looks at the tablet. Then back at him.
“You did not deny entry.”
The realization hits him like another blow.
No.
No, no—
His pulse spikes so hard he can hear it.
The interrogator watches the reaction with terrible attentiveness. “Interesting,” they murmur.
He clamps his mouth shut hard enough to hurt.
Idiot.
Pain throbs relentlessly through both shoulders now, each pulse of his heartbeat grinding deeper into exhausted muscle. His arms are trembling continuously.
The interrogator returns to the chair.
Sits. Composed. Unhurried.
Like they have all the time in the world.
“You will continue answering questions.”
His breathing still won’t steady completely. “And if I don’t?”
The interrogator folds their hands again.
“Your joints will fail before the restraints do.”
Silence.
Cold and absolute.
His stomach twists hard.
Because the worst part—
The worst part is that they say it like a measurement.
Not a threat.
The tablet gives another soft tone. The interrogator looks down at it briefly.
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(CW: Torture, interrogation, electricity, sadism, military whump)
There’s something about the blindfold.
They sit there, row after row after row of prisoners, under the looming walls of the compound’s outside courtyard. They are totally silent. They do not move.
That strip of cloth lends them an unnatural stillness. I don’t know what it is, but I have never seen a person hold quite as still as when they’ve been blinded. Maybe it’s a defensive mechanism. Maybe it’s something lingering over from when we were all small creatures in the jungle—if we can’t be found, we can’t be eaten. If they can’t see, then their only choice is not to be seen. If they don’t move and don’t speak, maybe the predator will pass them by.
In this case, though, they’ve already been found, and stillness isn’t going to do them a bit of good. They are the prey, and I am the hunter. And the hunt is already over.
My boots crunch in the gravel as I pace slowly through the yard, flanked by a pair of guards. None of the prisoners move, although they can hear us coming. I imagine their heartbeats quickening at the sound. This group is fresh off the battlefield, captured just last night. Some of them are wounded—and if it wasn’t life-threatening, it wasn’t treated. Some have patches of blood on their uniforms.
It’s hot. Midday. There’s no shade in the courtyard, and they’re baking as they sit. No water since this morning. No food since their capture. We want to give ourselves as much of an opening as possible, and the dehydration and hunger and heat will do much of our work before we even begin the interrogations.
Already they are suffering. I see a few panting with the heat, dripping with sweat. Wrists tied behind their backs. Most of them are hunched over, drooped, heads hanging. It might be the easiest posture to maintain under these conditions, but I have another theory. Even when we capture rebels in cooler weather, or when they’ve been well fed and watered, they still sit that way after the blindfold goes on.
It’s a submissive posture. Whether they do it on purpose or it’s merely instinctive, most of them adopt it. Like a dog groveling before the alpha of its pack, they cringe and drop and make themselves as small of a threat as possible. All of them, row after row after row, are shrinking before me.
Except one. Along the third row, after bowed head after bowed head, one stands out.
He’s sitting upright, back ramrod straight, shoulders back and head up. Eyes forward—at least, the blindfold is. I get the feeling that if the prisoners hadn’t been forced to the ground, he’d be standing at attention.
He is not leaning forward. He is not submitting. His jaw is tight, and even though he doesn’t move, even though he doesn’t speak, even though I cannot see the look in his eyes, I can feel the hostility radiating from him.
Now that I’ve seen him, I can’t un-see him, and the sight of that single defiant head in a sea of bent shoulders makes me chafe. I turn to head up his row, staring at the taut muscles and straight spine, seeing the ever-so-slight scowl that twists his lips.
Suddenly I have a vision of him, broken, lying on the ground in front of me. His scowl is gone. He’s curled in a ball, all the fight driven out of him. He is begging me for mercy, and the thought fills me with a warm rush.
I came out here to choose the first candidate for interrogation. And now I think I’ve found him.
I march up the row, guards trailing behind, and stop right in front of the defiant prisoner. “This one,” I tell the guards.
To the left, the captive at my feet twitches. He can’t see where I’m pointing, who I’ve chosen. When the guards drag his neighbor upright, he visibly sags with relief.
As soon as my target is on his feet, he shakes the guards off his shoulder. “I can walk on my own,” he mutters. It surprises me a little to hear him speak.
The guards respond by seizing both of his arms tightly, so tightly that it must bruise the skin and send pain stabbing through his muscles, and although he doesn’t cry out or wince he does stop talking. I turn and begin striding towards the interrogation chamber, the three of them close behind.
Inside, it’s suddenly very dark after the brightness of the courtyard. Cooler, too. We move down a hallway and into the main debriefing room. It has a single high window and a reinforced door. There is a chair in the center of the room, bolted to the floor, with large equipment cabinets around the walls. The guards force the prisoner into the chair and begin fastening him down.
I watch as they do so, analyzing him, planning out my strategy. I wonder how this prisoner will react. There’ll be screaming, of course, but sometimes they just let it rip out of them and other times they make an effort to avoid reacting to the pain. I suspect he’ll do the latter. It’s a pride thing, and this man seems very proud.
That’s why I don’t think he’s going to cry. They occasionally cry, but this one isn’t going to. Whimper? Maybe.
He is, of course, going to break, whether he sheds tears or screams his throat raw or simply decides to give up before the agony begins. They all break, in the end. Some sooner, some later, some without a fight and some after epic battles of will—but they all eventually break. This one will be no different.
I take pride in my work, and I am very good at my job.
He’s tied in, feet securely fastened to the legs of the chair, arms bound in the back, chest and hips and thighs all tightly strapped down. And his blindfold still over his eyes, still keeping him powerless in the dark.
And yet still, despite it all, he’s sitting ramrod straight, perfectly at attention. I feel the longing in my gut.
I want so badly to see him slump.
But first things first—information is more important than my gratification. And information has to come from the right psychological state, and I have to start laying the base before I can reap the rewards. So I gesture to one of the cabinets. “We’ll start with the electrodes.”
My assistants obediently move to the cabinet and start digging out the equipment—power pack, metal alligator clips, control pad. “Don’t forget the knife,” I remind them, and one grabs a blade from the shelf and moves back towards the prisoner. We hear the fabric being cut, and with a few deft strokes the uniform is reduced to ribbons.
When the guard gathers the scraps of material and pulls back, the prisoner is naked from the waist up. It gives us better access to the torso, so we can work, but there’s a significant sense of humiliation and fear that comes with having his clothes ripped away. He’s bound hand and foot and there’s nothing he can do.
“Should I get the bit?” asks the other guard, still back at the cabinet. He holds up a wooden dowel covered in tooth marks. Sometimes we let prisoners bite down on it.
I shake my head. “No. I think it’ll be good for the others outside to hear the noise. Besides, look how tight that jaw is—I don’t think you’ll be able to get anything into there.”
The prisoner’s lips twitch. We are, of course, holding this conversation in large part for his benefit—it’s business as usual, and we’re talking about him as though he isn’t even there. He’s an animal, an object, blind and immobile.
The guard moves away from the cabinet, holding the clips. He has two of them, and he connects the wires that link them to the powerpack before tapping the ends of the clips together. A few sparks fly between them, crackling. I imagine the sound is terrifying. The guard pinches the skin over the prisoner’s chest so that he has a place to anchor the clips. The prisoner doesn’t react as they bite into his flesh. It’s probably painful. But it’s going to get much worse.
I watch from the corner. “Start calibration.” The other assistant picks up the control pad and then waves his partner away from the chair. Once they both have their distance, he pushes a button.
The prisoner stiffens, sweat springing out across his brow as his breathing quickens. I can see his toes and fingers curling, his head tipping back, the way he locks his jaw to keep from making a sound. It does not take a highly trained eye to see that he’s in pain.
“Current flowing,” the guard reports. He releases the button and the prisoner relaxes, taking a few shaky breaths. He’s still disappointingly upright. I come by and take a look at the controls, examining the readouts.
“Increase the voltage to twelve hundred and drop the current five milliamps,” I order. Current measures how much electricity is flowing, while voltage measures how quickly it moves. Current is the one that can kill you. Voltage is the one you can feel. A high voltage and low current is excruciating, but unlikely to leave any permanent damage.
The guard complies with the order and presses the button again. The prisoner gasps, the pain forcing air into his lungs, and arches his back. His muscles twitch and his chest heaves, straining against his bonds. They are unyielding. After a second or two my assistant releases the button, and our captive sinks back to his original position. I check the readout again.
“Twelve hundred volts,” I correct. “Not ten.”
This time the prisoner cries out, a shout forcing itself through his teeth that echoes around the small room and hopefully out into the courtyard. There’s a thud as he bucks, once, jerking against the chair. His lips draw back and his face contorts into a grimace.
The guard releases the button. The prisoner sags forward, and just for a moment I feel the thrill of satisfaction. But just for a moment, because then he takes a deep breath and sits upright once again.
Looks like this will be a long session after all.
“Good,” I say quietly, and motion for the guard to put down the control pad. He does so. “I believe we are ready.”
The prisoner is sitting in his chair, blind and upright and very, very still, and aside from the fact that his breathing is hard and shaky you’d never guess that his muscles are on fire. His nostrils flare as he draws in the air, and his jaw is still clenched shut just as firmly as ever.
We didn’t, strictly speaking, have to run those tests with him connected to the device. We could have just as easily done it with the clips off his skin. But I’ve found this is an effective way to show the prisoner what we’re capable of, to teach him the consequences of a wrong answer. We want to soften him up before we actually begin questioning—after all, the hunger, the thirst, the heat, the pain of the electricity have all been things that he has no power over. Once we hand control to a prisoner by offering a way out, he tends to take it.
I doubt that this one will. No, what will happen here is resistance, a battle to avoid saying anything, a fight to keep his mouth shut against wave after wave of electric current. But as the painful seconds turn into minutes and the painful minutes turn into hours, his resolve will begin to waver. Nobody is invincible. They all have a breaking point.
At first, he’ll probably hope for the solace of unconsciousness, a lapse into darkness where he can’t betray his cause and can’t feel the agony we pump into him. But I know the signs that a blackout is coming, and I’m going to ease back right as it nears. We’ll douse him with water or wave smelling salts and he’ll find himself jerking right back into wakefulness. If that doesn’t work, then we’ll shift methods to keep him from passing out—moving from electricity to a beating, or maybe mock drowning. These cabinets are full of lighters and knives and needles and everything we need to keep him awake until we’ve extracted every ounce of information that he has.
As the hours wear on and it hurts more, and more, and more, he’ll keep fighting, continue resisting, hoping desperately that something, anything will help him find a way out. Nothing will. And I will always be there, asking questions, harrying him, catching lies, befriending him and betraying him, rewarding cooperation and punishing disobedience. We’ll play the game of interrogation over and over again, and I’ll always have the edge.
Eventually, his willpower will drain away. He will break. He will tell us everything he knows. And then—I feel that familiar rush of pleasure again—he will beg me for mercy, lying here on this floor. And I will be victorious.
But first, we have to begin, because that moment is many hours, maybe days away. Right now, he is sitting before me, back straight and head upright, breathing returned to normal, ever-so-slight scowl upon his lips, waiting for me to ask the first question.
So I step in front of his chair, lean over him, and for the first time I address him directly. He’s waiting for me to ask my first question, and I do.
“Are you afraid?”
There’s a long moment before he answers. I can almost see the confusion in his eyes, the racing mind as he decides what to say. When he does respond, his tone is contemptuous. “What kind of a question is that?”
I almost laugh. I smile, but he can’t see that. This one has spirit. “It’s the kind I ask to assess my projects before I begin,” I tell him, straightening up. “And your answer is the kind that a man gives when he doesn’t want to reveal exactly how terrified he really is.”
I’m right, of course. He didn’t actually answer the question, and he’s trying to mask his nerves with false bravado. The contempt is probably real, but at this point, having had a taste of the agony to come and waiting for the rest to begin, fear will be the dominant emotion.
I begin to pace around him, making sure that he can hear my footsteps. I’m examining his helpless body from every angle and I want him to know it. “I don’t blame you,” I say, after a moment. He does not move, facing straight ahead, and the guards don’t move either. “If I was in your place, I’d certainly be afraid.”
He takes a deep breath, as though steeling himself, and I pause to wait for his response. Probably a denial of terror, or a declaration that I won’t get anything from him—which we both know is a lie.
But then that’s when he turns to face me, almost as though he can see me through the black strip of fabric, and I blink, nonplussed. This is new.
He speaks in a low voice. “If I was in your place,” he says, “I’d at least have the courage to look my victims in the eye.”
I stand there for a long moment. I do not say anything.
And then I pick up the control pad and slam that button down until he passes out.
Content Warning: medical whump, defiant whumpee, electrocution (of sorts), restraints.
The hum never stops.
It presses in from all sides—a low, steady vibration under the table, in the walls, in the air itself—threading through him before he’s fully pulled free of the last wave of pain. It settles into his bones, a constant, mechanical presence that makes everything feel…controlled.
Measured.
He swallows. His throat feels dry, tight, like he hasn’t used it in hours.
He doesn’t move right away.
Not because he can’t—because he’s thinking.
Don’t react. Don’t give them anything.
The thought comes slower than it should. It drags through the haze, but it lands solidly enough. Something to hold onto.
Something his.
A faint shift of his wrist tests the restraint. The metal answers immediately—firm, unyielding, cool against skin that feels too warm, a soft clink that sounds too loud in the quiet.
So. Still stuck.
He exhales through his nose, controlled, careful. Even that feels monitored somehow.
There’s a pause—long enough that he almost starts to believe he’s alone again. Then—
A click.
Not loud. Precise. His eyes snap toward the sound.
The door.
He didn’t hear it open. He should have heard it open.
Footsteps follow, measured and unhurried. Not heavy. Not rushed.
Confident.
He tracks them as best he can from where his head is angled, vision still slightly unfocused at the edges, like it hasn’t quite settled back into place. A figure moves into view—clean lines, neutral colors, nothing distinctive except the way they carry themselves.
Professional. Detached.
“Responsive,” the person says, almost idly.
Not to him.
About him.
His jaw tightens.
“I was before, too,” he manages, voice rough but intact. It scrapes a little on the way out, but it holds.
That matters.
The figure pauses at his side. He can’t see their face clearly from this angle—just the tilt of their head, the brief stillness as they assess him.
“Baseline resistance remains consistent,” they say, again not quite addressing him. Like he’s a data point.
He huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “You always narrate your thoughts out loud, or is that just for my benefit?”
There’s a beat. Then—something shifts. Not visible. Subtle.
Interest, maybe.
“Verbal coherence intact,” the person continues smoothly.
He lets his head fall back against the metal with a soft, controlled thunk. The surface is still cold. It hasn’t warmed under him.
Nothing here does.
“Glad to hear I’m performing well,” he mutters.
Another pause. Then the figure moves.
He tenses automatically as something enters his peripheral vision—a tray, stainless steel, set down within reach. The sound is deliberate. Meant to be heard.
Inside it, a small arrangement of instruments. Clean. Ordered.
Not rushed.
His eyes track them despite himself.
Thin leads. Adhesive pads. A handheld device with a smooth casing and a single, unlit indicator.
Not as invasive-looking as before. Which somehow makes it worse.
His fingers flex involuntarily against the restraints.
The figure notices.
“Anticipation response,” they note.
“Or pattern recognition,” he shoots back, a little sharper this time.
Silence.
Then—unexpectedly—
“Possibly.”
That almost throws him.
Almost.
He swallows again, slower now, buying time. Watching.
A pad pressed just below his collarbone—cool, slightly damp adhesive against his skin. Then another, lower, near his ribs. Each one placed with clinical precision, no wasted motion.
He forces himself to watch. To catalog it. To stay ahead of it.
“Comfortable?” he asks dryly.
No response.
Of course.
The device gives a soft tone as it activates. Not a beep—something smoother. Almost pleasant.
A sound that doesn’t match what he knows is coming.
He inhales slowly, bracing without letting it show.
There’s a fraction of a second—
Then—
It starts.
Not sharp. Not like before. This is different.
It seeps in.
A low, crawling sensation slips under his skin—diffuse at first, unfocused—like something moving where nothing should be. His muscles twitch before he can stop them, a small, involuntary jerk that pulls against the restraints with a muted clatter.
He clamps down on the reaction immediately, jaw tightening.
That’s it?
He almost believes it.
Then the current shifts. Finds something. Locks in.
The sensation narrows suddenly—pulling tight into a defined line that bites inward rather than spreads.
His breath catches—not a full gasp, but close. The sensation deepens, tightening into something more focused, more insistent. Not overwhelming—just…persistent. Impossible to ignore.
Like a muscle cramp that won’t release.
He exhales slowly through his teeth, trying to ride it out.
The figure watches.
Of course they do.
“Still boring?” they ask.
He lets a beat pass.
Then, strained but steady:
“Yeah.”
Another pulse rolls through him—stronger this time. His shoulders jerk before he can fully stop it, tension snapping tight across his back. His fingers curl.
The restraint chain shifts with a soft metallic sound.
He closes his eyes briefly—not to escape it, but to contain it. To keep the reaction from spilling outward where they can measure it, quantify it, use it.
Don’t give them the scale.
When he opens them again, he forces his focus back onto the room. The lights. The ceiling seam. The edge of the tray.
Anything but the sensation threading through him.
The hum in the walls continues, unchanged.
The current doesn’t stop.
It builds—incrementally, carefully, like someone turning a dial a fraction at a time.
Testing.
Mapping.
Learning.
A soft note from the device marks each adjustment. He starts counting them without meaning to.
One.
Two.
Three—
His breath stutters on the fourth.
He swallows it down immediately, but it’s too late. The figure’s head tilts slightly.
Logged.
Everything is logged.
“Response curve established,” they murmur.
He lets out a quiet, shaky laugh despite himself.
“Congratulations,” he mutters. “You found…muscles.”
But his voice is thinner now—drawn tight, like it’s being pulled along the same line as the current.
The current surges again—just enough to make his back arch a fraction off the table before he forces himself down, every muscle fighting for control.
The restraint bites into his wrist, pressure sharpening where bone meets metal.
Grounding.
He clings to that instead.
Something solid.
Something real.
Not the current.
Not them.
The figure steps closer.
“Duration will increase,” they say.
Of course it will.
He turns his head slightly, just enough to look at them properly now. His expression is strained, but there’s still something defiant there—something unbroken.
“Then you’d better get comfortable,” he says quietly.
A pause.
Then, almost thoughtfully—
“We are.”
The device hums.
The current holds.
And the seconds stretch.
Masterlist | Next
Taglist: @stars-hide-our-fires @elvenarcane
Please let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! <3
A character having just had a raw scream torn out of them by a sudden surge of pain subsiding into ragged panting in the wake of it as the agony ebbs, leaving them limp and wrung-out apart from their heaving breaths.
AHHHHHHHHH Houston, we have a title!!! 🙌🙌🙌
Okay, anyhoo:
Continued from here.
Content Warnings: medical whump, needles, electrocution, restraints, dehumanization.
The metal under him hasn’t warmed. That’s what he really notices.
Not the lights—though they’re still there, bright and unblinking. Not the restraints at his wrists—though he’s aware of those too, the way they hold without digging in, firm and exact.
It’s the cold.
It’s sunk through his shirt by now, settled into his back like something permanent. Like the table intends to keep him.
He shifts—just enough to test it.
The restraints answer immediately. No slack. No give.
Right.
His gaze moves instead.
Ceiling first. Smooth panels, evenly spaced lights, no visible seams. Then the edges of the room—curved where they meet, like the corners have been softened on purpose. No shadows deep enough to hide anything useful.
His head turns slightly.
Equipment has appeared.
Organized. Lined along a narrow surface beside him. Metal, mostly. Clean. Some of it familiar in shape—clinical, almost comforting in another context.
Not here. Not like this.
He tracks movement at the edge of his vision—someone stepping closer, adjusting something just out of view.
“Awake,” a voice says.
“Baseline maintained,” another answers.
He lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “Glad to hear I’m meeting expectations.”
No one responds.
He watches the nearest one instead—a man, maybe, though it’s hard to tell with the way he carries himself. Efficient. Focused on the tray beside him, not on him.
Like he’s already been accounted for.
“Name,” the man says.
He doesn’t hesitate this time.
“No.”
A beat. Not long. Just enough to register.
“Refusal noted.”
Of course it is.
He turns his head back toward the ceiling, mouth pressing thin for a second before it relaxes again.
Baseline, he reminds himself.
They move closer.
He feels it before he sees it—the shift in air, the presence at his side. Something cool brushes along his arm, just above the elbow, deliberate and searching.
His muscles tighten instinctively.
“Hold still.”
“Or what?” he mutters.
The answer, apparently, is nothing.
Because they don’t react. Don’t warn him again. They just proceed.
He catches a glimpse this time—a slim instrument in gloved fingers, narrow, metallic. The tip is too fine to make out clearly, but he doesn’t need to see it fully.
Needle.
He exhales slowly, steadying himself against the table. The contact is light at first. Then—
Sharp.
Quick, precise, deeper than he expects. His arm jerks before he can stop it, fingers tightening hard against the restraint as the pain spikes and settles all at once.
It’s not the pain itself that lingers. It’s what follows.
A dull, spreading pressure under the skin, like something has been left behind that doesn’t belong there. His breathing shifts around it, controlled but tighter now.
“Elevated response,” someone notes.
“Within expected range.”
He huffs a quiet breath. “You ever say anything interesting, or is this it?”
Nothing. Of course.
The needle is gone, but the ache remains—low, persistent, radiating outward in slow waves that don’t quite fade. He files it away.
They layer it, he thinks.
Before he can follow that thought further, a hand settles at his shoulder. Not gentle. Not rough. Just… certain.
They rotate his arm slightly—adjusting the joint, testing the range.
The protest is immediate.
A sharp pull that catches deep in the socket, tighter than it should be, dragging a strained breath out of him before he can swallow it back. His back arches a fraction off the table, stopped short by the restraints at his wrists.
“Relax,” the voice says again.
He turns his head, just enough to look at them incredulously.
“How about we switch places and you can try relaxing?” he snaps.
They don’t acknowledge it.
They push a little further—not enough to injure, but enough to threaten it. Enough to let him feel exactly where the limit is.
Then they stop.
Release.
The relief is brief—and almost worse for it, because it leaves the joint aching, unstable, like it might slip again if he moves wrong.
He doesn’t move. Not more than he has to.
Something touches his side next. Lower this time, near his ribs.
Cool. Rounded.
He tenses automatically, eyes flicking down as far as he can manage.
Different instrument. Wider than the needle, flat against the surface of his skin.
“Don’t—” he starts, then cuts himself off with a short breath.
Because he recognizes this one too.
Electrode.
The first pulse hits before he’s fully braced.
It’s not sharp like the needle.
It’s worse.
A sudden, internal jolt that seizes the muscle beneath it, twisting tight in a way he can’t control. His whole body reacts to it, a jerk against the restraints that snaps his head back against the table with a dull sound.
The current cuts off just as quickly.
Leaves behind a trembling echo in his side, the muscle slow to release, still fluttering faintly under his skin.
He sucks in a breath through his teeth, tries to smooth it out before it turns into something more obvious.
“Response marked.”
“Continue.”
“Of course,” he mutters, voice thinner now, but still there. “Why wouldn’t you.”
The second pulse comes without warning.
Shorter. Sharper.
He’s ready for it this time—and it still drags a reaction out of him, a tight, involuntary sound that he clamps down on halfway through. His fingers curl hard against the restraints, knuckles pulling white as the aftershock ripples through him.
It lingers. That’s the problem.
Not the moment itself—but the way it leaves the muscle unsteady, like it’s not entirely his to control for a few seconds after.
They adjust the electrode slightly.
A different spot.
He sees it this time. Anticipates it. Braces—
Still not enough.
His breathing breaks on the next pulse, hitching once, sharp and uneven before he forces it back into rhythm. Slower this time. Measured. Controlled through sheer effort.
“Subject demonstrates consistent resistance,” someone says. “Verbal and physical.”
A pause.
Then:
“That could be a problem.”
He lets out a soft breath that might almost be a laugh.
No reaction.
They remove the electrode. The absence of it is immediate—but the sensation it leaves behind isn’t. His side still trembles faintly, a dull ache settling in under the surface, layered now with everything else.
Arm. Shoulder. Side. All of it adding up.
They move to his neck next. He stiffens before he can stop it.
A hand steadies his jaw, turning his head slightly, exposing the side of his throat. Another instrument comes into view—smaller, more precise.
Needle again.
Of course it is.
“Don’t move,” someone says.
He almost smiles at that.
Almost.
“Fuck you,” he spits.
The pressure is brief. Then the sharp entry—
Deeper this time.
Close enough to something sensitive that it hits differently, a sudden, bright spike that cuts straight through his control and pulls a sound from him before he can stop it. Not loud—but real.
His body tenses hard against the restraints, breath catching as the sensation flares and then settles into something heavier, thicker, radiating outward in slow, insistent pulses.
He swallows against it, jaw tightening. For a second, his eyes close.
Just a second.
Then they’re open again.
“Marked sensitivity,” someone notes.
“Record it.”
They withdraw. Step back.
Just like that.
Like this phase is complete.
He lies there, breathing carefully, feeling everything they’ve left behind settle into him in uneven waves. Nothing overwhelming on its own.
But together—
Enough.
It would be easy.
That’s the dangerous part.
Easy to answer. Easy to cooperate. Easy to make it smoother, shorter, less—
He exhales slowly, steadying himself against the lingering ache in his body.
No.
Because he already knows how that ends.
His gaze shifts, tracking them as they move around the room, already resetting, already preparing for whatever comes next.
Like he’s just another step. Another process.
Another file.
He watches them. Learns the rhythm.
And somewhere beneath the discomfort, beneath the tight control he’s forcing back into place, something sharper settles in.
Not louder. Not reckless.
Focused.
They can take what they want. Measure it. Record it. Classify him down to the smallest detail.Â
But the one thing they’re actually after—
He presses his lips together, gaze determined despite the strain still humming through him.
—that’s the last thing he gives.
Masterlist | Next
Taglist: @stars-hide-our-fires @elvenarcane
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There’s something about characters who are unhealthily used to pain that just does it for me.
Maybe it’s the way they silently grimace at the agony instead of crying out as it’s nothing they should bother the people around them with.
Maybe it’s them forcing themselves to stand or walk or speak regularly while their ribs ache or their throat burns or a stab of pain courses through their legs every time they take a step.
Maybe it’s the perfectionism they live by, knowing everything has to be just so and they must be flawless with no room for mistakes. Pain and suffering are not allowed to inconvenience them. Grin and bear it.
Maybe it’s the surrounding characters who are all worried and concerned as they are assured that it’s nothing bad and the character’s had much worse, but they know they should have had neither.
Maybe it’s the horror in their friends’ faces when they see them the next day after forcing them down the night before, watching in fear as they observe them carrying on normally with their hard tasks knowing full well they are not healed, are opening up many wounds, and they wonder,
How the hell are they doing that?
And why the hell are they so good at it?
The thought makes them sick.
Maybe it’s them thinking they don’t deserve breaks or weariness or rest and berate themselves at any small sign of weakness, even when the sign is so minuscule that no one aside from themselves recognized it.
Maybe it’s the distrust and skepticism their allies have from then on, constantly doting and attempting to protect, never wanting to allow them to do anything and worrying profusely when they get the nudge that they might be unwell.
Or perhaps it’s the sheer fury and disgust in themselves when they’re forced to accept help. They’re acting weak and useless, or maybe that’s just what they are after even a single screw up.
If they aren’t dead, they have no reason to act like it.
That mindset is so fascinating to me.(also very toxic lol)
“You,” Team Leader growled when the door opened to the room they had been locked in.
“Funny,” Whumper started, lingering in the doorway. “That was my reaction as well when I saw the security footage of you three sneaking into my facility… Leader.” He nodded at them, looking at all three. “Caretaker,” he said casually, in greeting. Then his eyes whisked over Whumpee and a hungry glint lit up in his eyes. “Whumpee. Back out here already, hm? Looks like you made a full recovery?”
“Looks like your nose did, too,” Whumpee fired back, trying to contain their surprise being face to face with him once again. “Did someone set it for you or did you do that yourself?”
At their first meeting, Whumper had severely underestimated Whumpee. After Whumpee broke his nose, that one-on-one quickly turned to a five-on-one. And yes, their broken bones had taken weeks to heal. But Whumper’s broken pride must have taken way longer, and from the looks of it – the man narrowed his eyes – it still hadn’t healed.
He covered it well with a predatory smile, bearing his teeth.
“Oh, it is good to see you again,” he sighed. A short pause. Then he stepped back. “Come with me.”
The atmosphere shifted at that. Whumpee hesitated and glowered at him.
“Don’t make me come get you.”
Caretaker and Team Leader shifted closer, ready to shield them. But Whumpee kept them away. “It’s okay,” they said. “I’ll be okay.”
They didn’t say anything, keeping their eyes on Whumper, but reluctantly stepped aside to let Whumpee pass.
Caretaker’s hand snapped around their wrist as they walked towards Whumper, but very loosely, letting their hand slide through, giving a light squeeze in reassurance, and he only let go when Whumpee’s middle finger slipped from his fingers.
Whumpee had no illusions that this time it was going to be a fair fight.
But maybe… they could slip away, run off? Or distract him so the others could run.
Those plans were dashed as soon as they stepped through the door.
One of Whumper’s henchmen was leaning casually against the wall, and pushed off as soon as he saw Whumpee step into the hall. Without a word, he blocked their path and closed the ranks, keeping them between him and Whumper.
“Where are we going?” Whumpee asked, as Whumper closed the door to their room—cell.
“Not far.”
And indeed, he only took a few steps to a room just on the other side of the hallway, one door down.
“I still need them to be able to hear you,” he said casually, unlocking the door.
Whumpee paled.
“I’m not going to scream for you,” they growled.
“Yes.” Whumper opened the door and let them walk past him into a dark, empty room. “You will.”
Something tingled over the heavy sensation of fear settling in their chest; something prepping them, for what was to come. It was making them even more antsy. Their fight response? Getting them ready? Better not waste it…
They didn’t wait for Whumper to come at them.
Whumpee launched themself at him. Raised an arm, clenched a fist. But before they could strike, a hand clamped around their wrist, pulling them back, stopping them. That goddamn henchman.
Whumper let out a taunting, triumphant little chuckle, but his laugh quickly shifted to an alarmed “Whoa!” when Whumpee, despite being held back, managed to kick him in the stomach.
Not as hard as they would have liked, but hard enough to make him reconsider his odds in this two on one thing.
They slammed an elbow back at the henchman at throat height, and bucked free before he could pull them in and really trap them.
Unfortunately, that kick was a reminder for Whumper not to underestimate them again, and he too struck before Whumpee could come after him. He closed the distance in a step. Two hands tightened in the front of their shirt. Tilted them off balance—
Their world spun as Whumper slammed them hard against the wall with a loud thud to grab the attention of his audience across the hallway. The grunt it punched out wasn’t enough to satisfy his demands for a scream. Not yet. But he could whittle them down. Daze them with a quick barrage.
The tactic worked. Unable to do more than flail against him, Whumpee crashed against the door again, this time with their head, disorienting them even more.
A brutal backhand crashed against their face. They fell back. Stumbled, barely able to stay on their feet. But something caught them. And they landed hard against Henchman’s chest.
They couldn’t break free from Henchman’s grip this time. And didn’t see the punch coming until it connected hard.
Whumper punched them full in the stomach.
It slammed the air from them in a shocked grunt. No screams. Not yet. And they wouldn’t.
They tried to push Whumper away. Regroup. But he didn’t let up.
He grabbed their arm, twisted it to their back in one fluid movement, spun them around, and slammed them face first against the door.
A sharp pain shot through their shoulder as he twisted their arm further up, taking them by surprise, and they let out a yelp.
“Come on…” Whumper tutted. “You can do better.”
His hand was tight enough on their wrist to make the bones crunch against each other. His other was on their face, thumb bruising their cheekbone and pressing their head against the door, while keeping them in place with his body. They bucked against him, fruitlessly, and he responded by twisting their arm tighter.
Slowly, very slowly, he forced their arm further up.
Whumpee squeezed their eyes shut against the pain. Held back a warbled little cry behind grit teeth.
It slowly build up; from uncomfortable, to concerning, to painful, to unbearab—
“No! N-ghh—Let go!” A strained exhale, closer to a grunt than a yell.
“Almost… keep going.” Spurred on, Whumper pressed up tighter against them.
Whumpee barely registered how he pried their fingers apart until it was too late.
A sharp pain exploded. Their little finger snapped sideways, out of its socket.
And at the same time, he forced their twisted arm up between their shoulder blades in a sharp tug.
Their surprised cry at the sudden sharp pain warped into a scream. Followed by a loud explement.
Immediately, Whumper let go, satisfied. They hoped. Immediate relief washed over them. But Whumper grabbed them forcefully by the shoulders and spun them around, slamming their back against the wall, forcing out another cry.
He got up close with a vicious grin. And covered their mouth with his hand, to their surprise. They panted hard against his palm. He brought a finger to his lips. Then pointed up; behind them.
A muffled banging sounded from outside, across the hallway, accompanied by angry shouting.
“Whumpee?! Whumpee, are you okay?!”
“Whumper you bastard, if you hurt them—"
Fists continued ramming against the door in a frenzied desperation.
“Must be nice, to have your team so concerned about you,” Whumper crooned and removed his hand.
"It is. Not like you would know anything about that," Whumpee spat back.
He sneered a smile. "Let's continue..." He grabbed Whumpee by the front of their shirt and pulled them in close. "You need to know how loved you are."
They teetered and their legs wobbled, pain still zapping through them. But as Whumper let go of them, they struck.
They bit him hard in the wrist.
Whumper roared.
Their cue to bite down even harder and they shook like a rabid dog. To their satisfaction, his howl raised a pitch.
A fist connected hard with their cheekbone and he literally punched them off him.
Whumpee stood, hunched over, breathing hard, but they straightened up a little. They twisted their shoulder, massaged it lightly, testing it. And flashed a smile with bloodied teeth.
Over the panting, they could both clearly hear it.
"Get him, Whumpee!"
"Get his ass!"
The cheers were louder than their concern. Whumpee broke out into a wicked grin.
Whumper looked from his mangled wrist to Whumpee and back. Shock quickly turned to a frenzied rage.
Whumpee spat out a bit of blood. Wiped a thumb over their mouth.
So gross. And definitely life-shortening. Not improving their chances at all. They stood straight, and baited Whumper with a little come-get-me flick of their hand.
… but so worth it.
-
General whump tag list: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @auroragehenna @chaotic-orphan @lolrpop @treasureguardingdragon @morning-star-whump @jumpywhumpywriter @stars-hide-our-fires @whumplicity @whumpasaurus101 @theloveofwhump @turquoise-peach @ieattoenailsforlunchlikearealone
If you think about it, kissing is actually deeply invasive, much harder to ignore or dissociate from that lots of other forms of intimate violence, so clearly a mockery of something that is meant to be enjoyable and mutual. Anyway I think that more people should write non consensual kissing
