call me shark. refer to me with he/him pronouns and masculine terms. I'm into whump and its not really a sex thing for me but like nothing here is safe for work anyways? we are kidnapping and torturing people. sorry ....also I haven't written anything in like a bajillion years. deep and heavy sigh
🐀 Leo The Lab Rat 🐀 - my first series. lab & pet whump.
An Old Friend- part one of a series I don’t have the motivation to continue anytime soon. The working title is Mourning Dove.
An Old Friend, part 2- if this thing sits in my drafts for any longer it’s gonna start sprouting like a potato.
Primavera- meet the world’s oldest vampire!
Sweet Red Mouth- Any organization that protects humanity from vampires is certainly a charitable cause.
The Peanut Butterverse- a series of segmented fiction pieces of varying connectedness, all following the same whumpee. First known as Samuel, then simply as "the patient", and now as Peanut Butter. Chill with any pronouns. Part hyena. Eternally incomplete. (See my "peanut butter tag" for miscellaneous posts about this story.)
stepping out of the woods- the beginning of PB's story.
the naming and bathing of PB- second segment, exactly as the title suggests.
dinner, finally- the third and final complete segment.
untitled PB snippet- recovery era. POV their mom. Louise Rainey. I don't know how to summarize it lmao
If u could bring dead ppl back 2 life with magic like in video games the hollywood stunt scene would be out of control. There'd be professional snuff actors winning awards for dying the best. Producers would be like "If u need somebody to get killed in a film call up Resurrection Eddie, nobody gets killed as good as Eddie"
I’m a sucker for whumpee being thrown against a wall.
The huff of air that is forced from their chest. The hands on the wall to steady themself. The dazed expression or bloody nose when they hit their head/face off the wall. The crumpling/sliding to the ground. The cowering and curling up to shield themself from further attack. The aggravation of previous injuries
its always "what are your plans for the future, you should really be planning for the future" and never "wow that character you're obsessed with sounds so cool can you explain them to me. im sure you get them more than anyone else"
picks up your ill and injured whumpee who has been left to sleep on the ground, regardless of how they ache to their bones and struggle to draw breath, and tucks them into a clean soft bed supported by plenty of pillows. btw
[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.
“Your disclosure accelerated recovery efforts.”
Recovery efforts.
Not pursuit.
Not search.
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.
