All manner of ouch to be found below. Sideblog for oddsocksandstuff. Some of the content on this blog is made for adult audiences, keep that in mind before you follow or interact.
A story of kidnapping, twisted magic, horrors, and bonding despite the very worst things their captivity can throw at them. Alex and Jasper survive under the sway and at the whims of Adria and all the things her powers hold over them.
Team Whump (Current)
Zach, having been missing and thought dead for two years, arrives back to his team scarred and changed. They're so happy he's alive, but things are not exactly as they seem, and Zach has things he still has to do...
April is the Cruelest Month (Complete)
Fulfilling a series of prompts, we follow Stone as they struggle to adapt to a month of torment and what awaits them on the other side of it [currently not a proper masterlist, but I'll update as I get it set up, for now you can follow the tag to find each piece]
Kit's Story/The Pet Store Pet (Unfinished/abandoned)
A BBU story, following Kit who lives in a pet store and all the ways he tries to save those around him, and himself.
As the sun rose above the surface of the waves, the brig began to glow with an eerie blue light, streaming through the bars of the cage from the underwater porthole at the side of the room. It grew steadily brighter, more brilliant in its azure hue as the rays of the rising sun pierced the sea.
Blue filled Jonah’s eyelids as they flickered open, and it took him a moment to remember where he was. After a few seconds of confusion, Jonah realized he was still clutching a bandaged torso—his head still nestled in the lap of his fellow prisoner. Sawyer. He blinked again, saw the iron bars and remembered the events of the previous night—he was in the brig.
It was morning.
Jonah’s heart suddenly spiked with horror, as the fate he’d so conveniently forgotten in the lantern-glow of midnight reared its head in his mind once more. Fevered and thrashing, it combed its way to the surface of his consciousness and left him shuddering and frozen, wide-eyed with dread.
They were going to brand him today.
The instant reality crashed into his thoughts, tears began to seep from his eyes. Jonah clutched Sawyer’s leg and cried, shuddering and burying his face in the fabric of the other man’s trousers. He wished he could clip right through the ship's wooden walls and disappear into the water beyond the porthole.
Sawyer groaned, roused by the sounds of muffled sobbing. His wrist chains clanked as he instinctively tried to pull his arms down. He grunted when he failed and met only the cold bite of the metal that kept his arms locked to the bars above his head. He hissed in pain as he raised his gaze. Sawyer flexed his head from side to side, trying to stretch the soreness from his neck when his attention met the quivering boy in his lap.
“Hey– kid. Hey kid, what’s wrong?”
“Oh god, oh god oh godohgod—” Jonah whimpered, fingers twisting and balling up in the cloth between them.
“Hey,” Sawyer said, a little firmer this time. “Tell me what the fuck’s wrong.”
“I forgot— I can’t believe I forgot..” Jonah wailed, his words muffled against the fabric of Sawyer’s pants. “They’re— They’re gonna b-brand me t-today.”
Sawyer closed his eyes, and after a beat of heavy silence, he let out a deep sigh. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, kid,” he said, his voice full of what sounded like genuine regret.
“I—,” Jonah inhaled sharply as another sob wracked his body. “I d-don’t know how, how t-to get out, out of this— I—”
Jonah hiccupped. He slowly raised his head, suddenly aware that he was embarrassing himself by breaking down like this, but then his vision aligned with the brand on Sawyer’s chest, peeking out above the wrapped gauze on the young man’s torso, and he broke down all over again. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his face into Sawyer’s bandages.
“I.. I don’t know if there is a way,” Sawyer said, his voice low, gentle but dismayed, like he longed for a way to help. Alas, he was chained by the ankles and the wrists, in an even more helpless position than Jonah himself.
Jonah blinked his wet eyelids open and brought a hand to the surface of Sawyer’s brand. He traced his fingertip along the curled tail of the siren. Sawyer shivered ever so slightly, but let the boy touch his chest anyway, let him trail his fingers above the hem of the gauze.
The mark still looked so red and angry, despite how old it was—raised and delicate and furious and violent. Jonah couldn’t help but remember how painful his branding with Carlisle had been. His hands trembled and he clutched Sawyer’s back with his other arm. The gesture forced a pained gasp from Sawyer’s lips, but Jonah didn’t notice it through his own sharp, unsteady breathing.
Though the boy’s grip squeezed right up against his still-healing lashes, Sawyer didn’t ask him to let go. Perhaps he felt it was the least he could do, in the early blue glow of that fateful morning, to provide Jonah some tiny scrap of solace. He found himself a touch dismayed that he didn’t have use of his arms to wrap around the boy. It was a strange instinct, one unfamiliar to Sawyer, but he felt it nonetheless. Instead, Sawyer bent his knees slightly to cradle Jonah’s trembling form. He didn’t want to think too hard of how fond the gesture might seem to outside eyes, but fuck, he wasn’t completely heartless. The poor kid was in shambles.
“Come ‘ere, kid,” Sawyer said, keeping his voice as soft as he could manage. Jonah didn’t even seem to register how unlike Sawyer’s typical nature this really was, he was too preoccupied crying into the young man’s bandaged chest. Sawyer felt truly bad for the kid—he knew how it was. He’d been in the same position for two fucking years. He knew from Jonah’s ridiculously skimpy outfit that the Captain had taken him to his bed chambers the previous night, even if Jonah hadn’t mentioned it. Sawyer knew how it felt, being fucked and used against his will, being forced to please the Captain or the crew under the threat of further torture. He remembered how hellish his own branding had been—he remembered it like it was yesterday, despite the years he’d had to forget. He knew he never would. The memory—the feeling—would haunt him for all his living days. Jonah was in the same position. He hadn’t wanted any of this either.
They sat like that for a while, huddled in the sapphire glow beneath the waves, the silence between them only punctuated by Jonah’s muffled sobs and sharp, uneven breaths. Finally, Sawyer spoke once more.
“Look, it’s.. It’s gonna fucking suck. It always fucking sucks.” He wasn’t sure if he was helping, but his rambling thoughts were spilling from his lips now, and he let it happen, hoping something would land in Jonah’s mind as comforting.
“You.. I know you know what it’s like. I know you do. We.. We both do.” Sawyer paused for a moment, clumsy in his attempt at reassurance—a muscle he hadn’t built. Jonah hiccuped against his chest. Sawyer felt like he was talking in circles, repeating himself, so he said the only thing that he thought might mean anything.
“I’m sorry, kid. Fuck.”
Sawyer wished he wasn’t so utterly fucking useless in this situation, but he could do nothing but twist his wrists in their handcuffs and hold Jonah with his legs as the boy wept in his lap. Their embrace was awkward, made inelegant by Sawyer's restrained position, but the two boys sat there and let the weight of fate hang over them—Jonah’s own sentence, and the one they shared here, together.
The swirling currents beyond the brig caused the blue light to waver and flicker as if cast through a kaleidoscope, and they let the seconds pass, huddled together in matching ankle cuffs, soon to have matching brands.
༻✦༺
Jonah was still crying when the door finally creaked open. Jaxon stepped through the threshold, keys jingling from his outstretched hand.
“Big day for you, eh puppy?” Jaxon called as he crossed the room to the iron cage.
Jonah sniffed, trying to stifle his crying and pressing his face into Sawyer’s bandaged stomach.
“My god, look at you two!” The mockery in Jaxon’s tone gave away that awful sneer on his face, even if Jonah refused to look up at him. “Little fuckin’ slut, already cuddling up to the mutt, are you?”
“Fuck off, Jaxon.” Sawyer snapped.
“Aww,” Jaxon chided, unfazed. “I’d love to leave you both in here all day so I wouldn't have to fuckin’ deal with either of you, believe me. But I’ve got orders, you know.”
Sawyer said nothing, just stared Jaxon down with a burning hatred in his glare. Jonah hid his face with his hands and balled himself up in Sawyer’s lap as small as he could manage. The instinct to curl up and hope to disappear didn't escape him, even now. His doomed fate loomed over him like an executioner's blade, as horrifying and inevitable as the promise of death itself.
“You little lovebirds had fun in here last night, I take it?” Jaxon sneered, unlocking the cell door.
“Do you ever fucking shut up?” Sawyer retorted, and Jaxon didn’t miss a beat—his face twisted, and he abruptly stepped forward and kicked Sawyer hard across the face. Sawyer gasped sharply and his head snapped to the side. He reeled at the force of the blow, groaning in pain as it reverberated through his skull, but he didn’t say anything more. Jaxon smirked to himself, satisfied he’d managed to silence the prisoner, at least for the time being.
Shocked by the sudden outburst, Jonah scrambled back off of Sawyer to press himself into the corner of the cell. Surely, if he just made himself small enough, the violence couldn’t reach him. If he shrunk down into a tiny pinpoint, Jaxon wouldn’t be able to grab him and haul him out of here.
“Up, mutt,” Jaxon ordered, when Sawyer’s hands were unchained from the bars. Sawyer groaned again and stretched his shoulders, sore and stiff from being locked over his head all night. He grunted in irritation but stood nonetheless, rubbing at his sore cheekbone in the spot where Jaxon’s boot had made contact.
“You too, puppy,” Jaxon warned. “Don’t make me drag your arse out of there.”
“No— No wait, please—” Jonah begged, his head spinning with dread. “Don't do this, please! Y-you don’t have to do this!’
Jaxon just laughed. “‘Fraid it's not up to me, now is it, pup!” he said, sounding delighted to be the one sending Jonah to such a painful destination.
After a moment so tense the air seemed to crackle, Jaxon’s patience withered entirely.
“Mutt, grab him, would you?”
“Fuck you. Grab him yourself,” Sawyer shot back.
Jaxon hurled a fist for Sawyer’s face, colliding his knuckles against the same cheekbone he’d just kicked. Sawyer cried out as his head snapped to the side, and the force of the blow sent him stumbling back along the wooden floor of the cell. He braced himself against the iron bars and clutched his face, willing his head to stop fucking spinning.
“I said, fucking grab him,” Jaxon hissed, his voice thick with pure venom.
“Fuck— Fine, Jesus—” Sawyer relented, still breathless from the second attack. When his vision wasn’t wavering so badly, Sawyer approached Jonah, who still huddled in a terrified, shaking ball in the corner.
“I’m sorry, kid,” he said, remorse and resignation weighing down his words as he reached for Jonah’s wrist. Jonah didn’t pull away, but Sawyer did have to physically drag him up into a standing position. Jonah just cried, stuffing the fabric of the cloak over his mouth as Sawyer led him out of the room to follow Jaxon out to the upper deck.
༻✦༺
Jonah squinted as he was led up the staircase into the bright sunlight. Dawn crested over the horizon, casting dazzling yellow beams across the deck and drawing harsh shadows beneath the tall masts that bisected the ship’s wooden surface.
Jonah hissed against the sudden, piercing light, only to be met with a matching onslaught of noise. The crew had gathered in a large semicircle around some sort of portable furnace—coal burned a brilliant orange in its lower chamber. A grisled man with thick forearms held a long iron rod, pointing the end down into the furnace’s heat.
Jaxon ripped the dark cloak from Jonah’s shoulders, revealing the silky blue slip-dress that barely clung to his form. The crowd of sailors erupted—they jeered and hollered at Jonah with a fervent vigor as he was dragged towards the center of the gathering. The men whistled, barking catcalls and slurs at him while Jaxon led him across the deck.
Captain Vale stood before the crowd, a confident smile on his face. Voss stood behind him with arms crossed, his expression an impassive scowl that dared any of the men to take a step out of place. It was the glare of a fierce guard dog, ready to pounce—a look that said, ‘don’t any of you dare touch what is not yours,’ and it was felt by all those who gathered around on the deck that morning.
Miraculously, the crew managed to keep their hands to themselves as Jonah passed them by. The boy was squirming in Jaxon’s grasp, desperate to avoid the scene. He missed the brig so terribly now. The crew’s fervor rose, proverbial foam gathering into their mouths—they cast hungry eyes upon the young slave, eager to watch the spectacle that was about to unfold.
Jonah cried the whole time he was led up to the Captain and that furnace that burned beside him, trying and failing to stifle his sobs as the sailors taunted him.
“Look at him!”
“Captain’s teasin’ us, showing the whore off like that when we can't even touch him yet!”
“”He’s already cryin’! Pain ‘asn’t even started!”
“Imagine how ‘e’ll sound once the burnin’ starts up!”
Jonah, in a desperate act, blinked through blurry eyes up at Sebástian, hoping for some sympathy, but he found it a stupidly naive endeavor when all he was met with was a satisfied, closed-lipped smile.
Sawyer had dropped off at a certain point when another man in the crowd caught his arm, and Jonah mourned his close presence as Jaxon dragged him to his position. Despite the fact that Sawyer’s presence should have been anything but comforting, the events of the past night had caused Jonah’s guard to falter around him. Sawyer was the only one who had yet to actually hurt him. He’d even seemed a bit remorseful. Jonah didn’t have much time to dwell on it, for Jaxon’s grip was relentless and unwavering, and he pulled Jonah harshly forward until the boy was situated between two masts.
Jaxon gripped Jonah’s shoulder and whirled him around to face the crowd. Before Jonah could steady himself, two unfamiliar, burly men surrounded him on either side, gripping both of his bony wrists in their respective grips and fastening them tightly to the ends of two long lengths of coarse rope.
“Please! Please, Captain, M-master—” Jonah cried, pleading at Vale through tears. “Y-you, you don’t ha-have to do this— Please! I’ll, I’ll be good—I’ll be good! I belong to you, I belong to you—”
“Silencio, dear boy,” came Vale’s commanding tone, his presence rising to silence the jeering crowd until his voice alone dominated the entire deck. “You will endure this for me, to cement my ownership, for nobody will ever own you but me, after this.”
Jonah gasped when he felt his arms being yanked out to the sides. The men who held the ropes attached to his wrists yanked them hard out to either side of him and began to fasten them to the masts that stood tall to his right and left. Jonah cried out when he felt himself being pulled apart—they tied his wrists so tightly out to the sides—he felt his muscles completely stretched, so taut he thought his tendons might snap.
His wrists ached with the pull of it, and he tried to writhe against the ropes, but once he’d been tied expertly into place, Jonah found himself unable to move his torso at all for how tightly he’d been stretched apart. He stood there, crying and helpless, arms wide open, waiting for the brand that would inevitably burn itself into his chest.
Captain Vale sauntered slowly up to Jonah, taking his sweet time and relishing in the theatrics of the performance he was about to direct. He slipped a finger beneath the fabric on Jonah’s slender shoulder, sliding the pale blue silk off of the boy’s shoulderblade. He gingerly completed the task on Jonah’s opposite shoulder, causing Jonah to wince at how mocking his gentleness felt now. It was almost sickening, in the wake of what was to come.
“Please,” Jonah pleaded, willing himself to look the Captain in the eyes now, in their close proximity. “Please, Master, please—! I can b-be good— I, I want to be good! Please, don’t do this to me, please!” He cried, trying and failing to keep his voice between himself and the Captain. His tone cracked with terrified sobs as he forced the words out.
Vale lifted a tender hand to swipe Jonah’s hair out of his face, before cupping the boy’s cheek almost lovingly.
“Oh, my dear, beautiful slave,” Vale cooed, his voice dripping with that same warm honey that had laced his words the night before. “I’m doing this for you, my pet.”
Jonah blinked up at him, incredulous and horrified. He couldn’t bring himself to speak.
“Yes, darling, don’t you believe me?” Sebástian smiled. “This will make you better. Surely you want to be better for me. Surely you want to be good, don’t you? You want to be mine.”
Jonah stared up at Vale with glistening eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks uncontrollably as he was faced with the horror of his poition—just how inevitable it was. He’d stupidly thought that Vale, if anyone on this ship, might appreciate his efforts, might reward his obedience with some semblance of mercy. But terror and bile rose up his chest at the full realization that he could truly do nothing to stop this. He was a squirming insect cocooned in a spider’s silk, fully ensnared by the will of the man before him.
This had all been Vale’s idea, after all.
How could he?
Jonah felt so stupid for feeling the bitter heartbreak of betrayal. He’d been so foolish for falling for the man’s faux gentleness.
But even as the thought hit him, Vale lifted a finger to Jonah’s face and almost lovingly swiped away the tears that streamed down his cheek, and Jonah felt himself melt again almost instantly. He instinctively leaned into the touch, automatically eager to earn the man’s favor again. Maybe if he groveled, if he prostrated himself and opened, pathetic and willing before the Captain, he might be spared.
Somewhere in the crowd, Sawyer bristled. What the fuck was this pathetic display? Jonah was leaning into the Captain’s hand like a well-trained lapdog—he was about to be fucking branded and he was leaning in? Sawyer felt a twist of loathing in his stomach at the way Jonah’s eyes pleaded up at the Captain. It was fucking pathetic. Jonah really did have no spine at all.
With the boy’s silken garment now barely hanging off his shoulders, Sawyer couldn’t help but notice just how small and fragile Jonah was—the way the boy’s ribs jutted out from his skin, the way his shoulders looked almost sharp, the way the light cast deep shadows into the dips above his prominent hip bones. Shit, did his last owner even feed the kid? At least Sawyer could count on one meal a day, most of the time.
As much as Sawyer hated the way Jonah kissed up to the men in charge, even he could admit he had no idea what Jonah had been through before he’d stowed away. The way he leaned into the slightest gentle touch from the Captain’s hand, it was nauseating to watch, but it fit the assumption that his life before this must have been even worse, somehow. Though Sawyer had a hard time imagining what would be worse than the ship. His lashes still fucking hurt whenever he moved.
They’d strung Jonah up the same way they’d done to Sawyer only the day prior. Sawyer wanted to look away, but he kept his eyes forward, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself. Despite it all, he really did feel for the kid. His own branding was one of the worst things he’d ever experienced.
The Captain swiped his thumb over Jonah’s lower lip and the boy took the man’s finger into his mouth, desperate to prove he didn’t need a branding to prove he was a good pet.
Sawyer’s eyes widened when he saw it. Oh that was fucking vile. Sawyer wanted to believe it was acting, that Jonah was only pretending to enjoy it, but the glassiness in the boy’s eyes, the way his eyelashes fluttered when he gazed up at Sebástian, it made Sawyer’s stomach churn with fury, disgust, and something akin to betrayal. He felt like he was going to throw up if Jonah kept being so fucking pathetic.
When the iron brand glowed red-hot in the furnace, the burly man holding the rod nodded to Vale, and the Captain turned from Jonah to address the crowd of men once more.
“Gentlemen! On this morning of Tuesday, the twenty-fourth of May, we will initiate our vessel’s newest slave.” The crowd grew restless, ready to erupt into cheers the moment the Captain was finished speaking. Vale reached into the furnace and withdrew the long iron rod, and Jonah’s stomach dropped in terror when he saw the glowing red insignia at the end—the siren with the tail curled up above her head.
“We hereby mark him with the mighty symbol of La Sirena herself!” Sebástian’s voice bellowed across the deck, riling the crowd up further with his every word. “Her mark binds this slave, Jonah, as property of myself and of this fine ship. May her spirit bless our crew and bring us bountiful fortune!”
A split second later, the crowd of sailors burst into a frenzy of whoops and hollers, cheers and eager cries, some waving hats and handkerchiefs as they buzzed with anticipation to watch the violence unfold. The noise drowned out Jonah’s sobbing entirely, though he never stopped crying.
The Captain turned to face Jonah, whose terrified eyes stayed locked to that glowing red siren. She drew closer and closer towards his chest, and the moments passed like eons in Jonah’s terrified mind. He was fully hyperventilating, dizzy with terror, sure his knees would buckle if his arms weren’t being held up by the ropes at his wrists.
And then, like a blast of blazing lightning, the iron struck. Jonah’s eyes squeezed shut and he screamed louder than he had in years. His skin sizzled and hissed beneath the siren’s magna-hot touch, melting like candle wax and morphing itself around her fiery kiss. Jonah shrieked like a banshee until he couldn’t breathe, until he felt like his vocal chords were shredding apart in his throat. He was a ball of pure instincts now, lit up like a live wire, and he squirmed and shook against the restraints as his body desperately tried to get away, away—away—
He screamed for what felt like days, convulsing as though electrified—when Vale finally pulled the iron brand from his chest and handed it off to the burly man at the furnace. The crowd was feral now, a shouting and hollering pack of coyotes—a snapping school of piranha around a fresh, bloody corpse.
Jonah’s ears were ringing so loudly he hardly heard them. He’d collapsed in the restraints, no strength left in his knees. He just wanted to fucking pass out already. Even with the iron gone, the fleshwound burned away, searing and red and furious—nearly all the blood in his body now pulsed beneath his chest. It was absolute agony, and Jonah sobbed so hard he thought he’d break apart. His chest was spasming, and he found himself choking as he tried to gasp for air—he could hardly inflate his lungs through the hellfire that radiated through his body.
At some point, Jonah felt the blessed grace of darkness seep into the corners of his vision, and he welcomed it like a gentle embrace. The pain had become too much, at last, and his body was extending a hand of mercy to end his suffering, if even for a moment. Jonah let it consume him, grateful for any reprieve. The darkness slid in like black syrup from his periphery until it overtook his sight entirely. Jonah’s head fell forward, limp, as he slipped from the deck of the ship into pure inky blackness.
Jonah was lost, deep beneath the waves of slumber, tumbling through sweeping, dreamlike currents, when a loud thumping sound suddenly thrust him up to the surface of the sea that held him.
Jonah’s eyes flickered open. The room was dark, save for a single lantern that flickered from its place atop the dresser. The sound came again—a heavy pounding—a thud, thud, thudding sound. Someone was rapping at the door.
Sebástian stirred against him, groaning a bit as he rose from his sleep.
“Mmnn..” Sebástian mumbled, his voice gravely with the remnants of his slumber. “Someone’s at the door..”
He lifted his arm from where it had been, wrapped around Jonah’s body. Jonah turned to him as he sat up, blinking up at him with unfocused eyes.
“Stay here, dear,” Vale ordered. “I’ll go check.”
“Mmn,” Jonah hummed affirmatively, burying his head back into the pillow. It was probably nothing. He was so warm here, nestled in the silken sheets atop the Captain’s luxurious bed. He just wanted to go back to sleep.
Vale slipped on a robe and padded out of the bedroom to the main entrance. Jonah heard the wooden door side open, then he heard a voice.
“Captain,” Voss’ low voice reverberated from outside. “We have a situation.”
“What on earth is so important as to wake me in the middle of the night?” Vale hissed. He sounded clearly irritated.
“Ship’s headed right into a storm,” Voss said matter-of-factly. “We need you to approve the new heading. Alejandro’s already identified several ways around it, but you have the final say, Sir.”
Jonah could hear the rushing of the rain now, if he focused his ears to listen—a rushing wind echoed from the open door like white noise. He could hear the raindrops hitting the side of the ship, pattering against the dark window on the wall to his left.
“Agh,” Vale let out an irritated grunt. “Fine. Let me put on some real clothes.”
“Right,” Voss said. “And what of the boy? Surely you don’t intend to leave him in your quarters alone.”
“No, no,” Vale concurred. “It’s far too soon for that. Take him to wherever you’re keeping Sawyer tonight.”
“Aye, that’d be the brig tonight, Sir,” Voss reported. “Mutt’s earned it with his shit behavior today.”
Jonah’s world crumbled. He was so incredibly comfortable and warm right now—it was the most incredible bed he’d ever slept in, truly fit for a royal. And now they were going to send him to the brig? After all he’d endured? He’d tried so hard to be good for the Captain. He’d earned this! Jonah buried his face in the pillow and groaned, wishing he could just disappear.
Jonah heard the Captain sigh. “Very well. It’s not my first choice, but it’ll do. Do give him a bedroll, though, won’t you? He’s been quite well behaved this evening and I don't want him messing up his bandages.”
Jonah’s heart jumped a little when the Captain called him well behaved. He was relieved his efforts had at least been acknowledged by someone on this god forsaken ship.
“Fine, fine,” there was a growing impatience in Voss’ voice. “Just hurry up and get dressed. Alejandro needs that heading.”
“Come in and get him now, then,” Vale said, sounding far too tired for this. “And don’t forget the shackles.”
“As if I’d forget,” Voss muttered, but the Captain ignored him, beckoning him into the room and sliding the door shut behind them.
Two pairs of footsteps echoed along the wood as they approached the bedroom. Jonah hid under the covers—a childish instinct really—but some tiny part of his brain wanted to hope that if he just hid from it all, they’d let him sleep.
Jonah winced sharply when the covers were abruptly ripped off of him. He curled in on himself, suddenly freezing cold—the open air snapped all that warmth out of his body instantly. He looked up, wide eyes dismayed and pitiful, and was met with Voss’ stony expression staring down at him.
“Get up,” Voss ordered sharply. “And put your clothes on. You’re coming with me.”
“Oh, I do apologize, darling,” came Vale’s voice from the other side of the room. He pulled the ruffled midnight blue shirt over his head and reached for a pair of folded trousers. “But I have some urgent business I must attend to now and I’m afraid I just can’t leave you here unsupervised.”
He buttoned his pants and walked over to Jonah, fondly cupping the side of his face.
“You’ll be good for Voss, won’t you, dear boy?”
Voss rolled his eyes, but stepped back to allow the Captain some space.
“Y-yes, Master,” Jonah said, his tone exhausted and dismayed, nearly a whimper. But he obeyed, he agreed, he did as they expected of him.
Jonah heard the familiar rattling and looked up to see Voss holding the chain, shackles dangling down threateningly at him.
“Legs out,” Voss ordered, cold and stern. Jonah obeyed without thinking, stretching his legs out in front of him on the mattress. He squeezed his eyes shut as Voss snapped the shackles around his ankles and locked them in place with the padlocks. Jonah felt the weight of them instantly—the freedom of motion taken from him once more. His heart sank in his chest. They’d never let him forget his place here, and the shackles were integral to that, it seemed.
“Arms up,” Voss commanded, holding the bunched up silken dress he’d worn earlier. Jonah felt his lip wobble as he raised his hands above his head, allowing the first mate to slip the meager garment over his body. Were they really going to take him out in the pouring rain like this?
“Stand,” Voss said curtly. Jonah slipped his body off the bed, mourning the loss of those silken sheets. He shivered in the cool air of the room.
Voss grabbed the thin gold chain that held the garment together and simply draped it around Jonah’s neck. No time to lace it up properly, he figured.
Voss was growing impatient. Jonah could feel it, and it made him uneasy. He just had to be good. Be good, and they would allow him to go back to sleep.
“Give him a cloak or something, would you?” Sebástian said, slipping his coat over his shoulders. “I don’t want that silk getting wet.”
Voss gave a low hum, not bothering to hide his irritation and urgency. This was taking too long, clearly.
Sebástian tossed a bundle of fabric at Voss, who caught it and let it hang from his fingers before wrapping it around Jonah’s slender frame. It was a long dark cloak—smooth fabric draped over Jonah’s shoulders and engulfed him down to his knees. Voss tugged the hood up, and took Jonah’s wrist in a vice grip and began to pull him out of the room. Jonah spared one last look at Sebástian, who was slipping on his boots now.
“I’ll see you later, darling boy,” he said, a fond smile curling at his lips.
Voss pulled Jonah from the room without another word, and when the door to the main entrance slid open, Jonah nearly gasped as he was hit with a sudden wave of bitter cold. He clutched the sides of the cloak and wrapped it around himself as tightly as possible, trying to shield himself from the wind and rain as best he could while Voss dragged him across the deck towards the staircase that led down below.
They descended, and Jonah had to walk slowly to avoid tripping over his chains on the dark stairs. It was warmer down here, shielded from the brunt of the storm, and Jonah was grateful he at least would be able to sleep inside tonight. He shuddered, remembering the nights Carlisle had chained him up outside for the night. The brig wouldn’t be comfortable, surely—nothing compared to the Captain’s luxurious cabin—but it was better than suffering the elements. Jonah tried his best to be grateful for that, at least.
Voss pulled Jonah through the corridors of the ship’s underbelly until they reached a room with a large metal cage along the far wall. Its walls were made of iron—thick rows crosshatched back and forth to create a grid-like pattern. More barrels and crates lined the walls on either side, resting beneath the lanterns that illuminated the space in a dim glow.
As they approached the cage, Jonah’s brow furrowed when he saw another figure was already locked inside. The man’s torso was wrapped in bandages, seated on a sleeping mat with his hands chained above his head, locked to the iron grid. Jonah recognized Sawyer instantly. The young man was slumped over in the sitting position—his head hung down limply, black hair dangling over his face. He appeared to be sleeping. Jonah’s heart clenched in trepidation at the thought of being left alone with him, but he found a tiny bit of solace that he was at least chained up. Sawyer couldn’t hurt him like this, even if he wanted to.
Sawyer startled awake when Voss unlocked the padlock on the cage and the heavy metal door creaked open. He gave Jonah a rough shove, causing him to trip as he stumbled into the cell. His chains caught on metal at the cage’s threshold and he tumbled to the floor, nearly colliding into Sawyer, who sat back against the far wall. Jonah scrambled up into a kneeling position, ignoring the ‘tch’ he swore had just come from Sawyer’s direction. He could be as smug as he wanted—Jonah was not trying to incite Voss’ ire right now.
Voss reached into a nearby crate and pulled out a folded bedroll. He wordlessly tossed it into the cell and slammed the door shut.
“You two play nice,” he ordered, staring down at the boys through the bars. His piercing blue eyes now appeared light gray in the orange glow of the lanternlight.
“Yes, Sir,” Jonah answered automatically, his voice small. He was still shivering. He curled his knees up to his chest and huddled in the cloak.
“Could you at least fuckin’ unchain me so I can lie down?” Sawyer drawled. The layer of sleepiness in his tone did nothing to mask the irritation.
“You already asked that, and as I already told you—not happening,” Voss hissed. Jonah flinched at the edge in his sharp tone, even though it wasn’t directed at him. “I already said I don’t want you fucking up those bandages.”
Sawyer let out a dramatic groan in protest, but Voss ignored him. He walked to the side of the room, extinguishing all but a single lantern. Without so much as a ‘goodnight,’ Voss thudded impatient footsteps towards the room’s entrance and disappeared into the corridor, the door slamming shut behind him.
Jonah sat in silence, grieving the loss of his comfortable accommodations. This was truly a dismal downgrade. He pressed his face to his folded knees, trying not to cry again. He didn’t want to cry in front of anyone, least of all Sawyer, who he knew would tease him for it.
“You can at least lay out the bedroll, you know.”
Jonah blinked and lifted his head up. He’d nearly forgotten. He nodded, crawling forward to grip the folded roll in his hands. He stood on shaky feet, chains rattling beneath him, and laid out the mat against the cell wall adjacent to Sawyer. He didn’t want to be near him, but he didn’t want to block the entrance either, in case Voss came back for them.
Jonah settled atop it, resuming his earlier position, huddling in the wet fabric of the cloak and trying to conserve enough body heat to rid his bones of the deep chill that had followed him in from outside.
Jonah felt Sawyer’s eyes on him. He looked back, unsettled by the unreadable expression on the man’s face.
An awkward discomfort overcame him. They were alone in the cell, nothing to distract them now but the heavy silence and the pattering of the rain that thudded against the wooden walls of the ship.
“I’m sorry, um, about your uh, your wounds,” Jonah stammered out.
“Fucking bastard,” Sawyer mumbled, and it took Jonah a moment to realize he didn’t mean him. “Voss wants to pretend I bring it all on myself, but the truth is that sadistic fuck likes it. Probably gets hard under his trousers every time he gives me a whipping.”
Jonah didn’t want to say the obvious. He hadn’t seen what Sawyer had done to instigate today’s particular whipping, but based on what he’d seen of the young man’s behavior, Jonah was certain it wouldn't happen to him so much if he just held his tongue.
“Is.. Is he like that with everyone?” Jonah asked, trying to gauge the probability of landing in the same situation.
Sawyer scoffed. “Agh, he’s a right sadistic prick that’s for sure. Cactus up his arse, I swear.” Sawyer paused. Then, his voice lowered a bit. “But, he isn’t quite as rough on the others,“ a bitter resentment and a hint of dismay laced his tone. “Seems he’s got it out for me in particular.”
He took a deep breath, looking down at his chained feet. “Though, suppose it makes sense, to a bastard like him. Anyone else would just quit if he beat them like this.. But I’m the only one who can’t leave.”
Sawyer looked over to Jonah, who was staring down at some spot on the floor.
“Though, I guess, now that you’re here, that makes two of us.”
Jonah felt his stomach twist. He hated this conclusion, that Voss just beat Sawyer because he could, because he was a slave. Jonah was in the same position—was he doomed to the same fate, even if he tried to be good? It was clear Sawyer didn’t even try to behave, and Jonah had found solace assuming he’d be spared if he just obeyed and didn’t talk back. But Sawyer seemed convinced that his torture here was inevitable. Dread rose up Jonah’s throat as he thought of Voss’ whip, of the deep bloody lashes that lined Sawyer’s back beneath the bandages.
They let the heavy silence hang over them for a few moments, before Jonah spoke up again.
“How, how long have you… been here? On the ship, I mean.”
“Tch,” Sawyer turned his head. “Fuck’s it to you, anyway?”
“Oh, um, I’m sorry,” Jonah deflated. He was just trying to make conversation. Trying to learn more, if he could. He didn’t want to make Sawyer mad, but he needed to figure out how he could avoid the same fate as the ship’s resident whipping boy.
Sawyer sighed, relenting. “‘Bout two years,” he said. “They captured the vessel that held my contract—I used to be a paid man, you know—killed most of the men, sold another few to other ships, but the Captain kept me for whatever fucking reason.” Sawyer paused, and Jonah let the silence form between them, listening intently. “Haven't stepped foot on the land since the day I was captured.”
Jonah’s heart sank ever further down into his gut. “They- They don’t even let you off the ship? Not ever??” He was trying to suppress the panic that crawled up his throat now. How on earth would he ever escape if they didn’t even let him on land at ports?
Sawyer gave a grave chuckle. “No, fucking pricks just chain me to the mast while they all go ashore and fuck around. Or lock me up down here. Must be fuckin’ nice for them though,” he said bitterly.
Jonah thought of the shore, the sand between his toes, the waves kissing the land—the trees and the birds, the bustle of a morning market, the music of a tavern fiddler. He’d only been off land for a day, and he already missed it all so much it hurt. The knowledge that he didn’t know when, or even if, he would ever see any of it again made his throat clench up and moisture prick at his lashes. Don’t cry in front of Sawyer.
“We’ll— We’ll do it,” Jonah swore, finally looking up at Sawyer. “We’ll be on land again, together. We’ll escape, we will. We have to.”
I have to.
Sawyer gave him a puzzled look, then just laughed bitterly. “That’s nice, kid. You sound fuckin’ crazy, but it’s kinda refreshing, you know? I’ve been trying to escape this damn place for two fuckin’ years now, and every time they just fucking hurt me worse than before.”
“Oh..” Jonah said, trying not to let despair overcome him.
“But that doesn’t mean I won't try again, you know,” Sawyer said, and Jonah’s head perked up a bit at that.
“R-really?” he asked.
“Look, kid, if you can come up with some kind of genius plan to get us the fuck out of here, then I’ll do whatever I have to to make it happen. But as it stands, I’m fresh out of ideas.”
“I’ll.. I’ll think of something. I will,” Jonah promised himself aloud.
Sawyer sighed, the hint of a smile ghosting his expression. He leaned back against the iron bars, clinking the cuffs as he adjusted his wrists overhead.
“Sure, kid. You just loop me in if you think of something. Maybe you’ll get lucky.” He exhaled sharply, the hint of a laugh, as though he couldn’t believe it. “I’d be willing to try fuckin’ anything at this point.”
“Just wait,” Jonah promised, trying to reassure himself it was still possible. “I’ll think of something. We won’t be stuck here forever.”
Jonah wasn’t even sure if he believed the words that came out of his own mouth, but it was better than the alternative. Better than sinking into endless hopelessness and despair. He had to remain alert, had to be ready for any opportunity to present itself. He had to grab it by the throat and jump at any chance fate would gift him.
But for now, Jonah could do little more than shiver in the damp cloak. At least they’d given him a bedroll, so he wouldn’t have to sleep on the bare wooden floor.
Sawyer studied Jonah’s huddled form as the silence stretched between them once more.
“You look cold,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, no shit,” Jonah mumbled, his voice muffled by the fabric as he pressed his face into his bent knees.
Sawyer sighed again. “Look, kid, we’d be warmer if we were closer together. Share body heat and all that.”
Jonah looked up at him suddenly. “What— What are you saying, exactly?”
Sawyer rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me— Look, I’m not some blushing bride, okay. Just get over here and you can, like. Lean back against me. I can’t use my arms, but… you’d be warmer that way.”
Jonah looked at Sawyer like he’d just grown a second head. Did he really just ask Jonah to fucking cuddle? Sawyer seemed like he’d try and bite anyone that came near him. He was practically feral in front of the crew. But perhaps Jonah was different. They did share a fate after all. Jonah shuddered against the cold for a moment longer, then thought, ‘Fuck it.’
“If you bite me, I’ll fucking punch you,” Jonah mumbled, climbing off the bed roll to drag it over next to Sawyer.
Sawyer chuckled, his chains rattling a bit as he twisted his arms. “I’m not gonna fuckin’ bite you, kid. Jesus, you really think I’m some kinda rabid fuckin’ animal, huh?”
“No!” Jonah backtracked. “I just— You...” Jonah trailed off, not sure how to finish his sentence without offending the other man.
Sawyer chuckled. “I’m just fuckin’ with you, kid. No biting, okay? Promise.” He flashed a smile. Jonah thought it was likely meant to be reassuring, but maybe he was just too jumpy from the day’s events, for Jonah thought he looked like a fox who’d just spotted an unsuspecting mouse.
Nonetheless, Jonah was freezing in here, and beggars couldn’t exactly be choosers. He settled himself upon the bedroll and tentatively scooted closer to Sawyer, until his shoulder touched the man’s bandaged torso.
“I’m not gonna bite you, Jonah,” Sawyer said again, a hint of impatience at the boy’s hesitation. “Can’t even touch you like this.”
“I— I know,” Jonah said, leaning up against him. He couldn’t lie, it felt nice. Not nearly as nice as being wrapped up in those silken sheets, but nice enough to warm his body up a bit.
Jonah maneuvered the cloak around to his front to act as a blanket, sliding the fabric over himself and Sawyer, hoping to trap their body heat together. When the blanket was situated, Jonah’s arm instinctively wrapped around Sawyer’s warm torso. He flinched when Sawyer hissed in pain as Jonah gripped his side.
“Shit!” Jonah grimaced. “Sorry–”
“‘Ss’okay, kid,” Sawyer’s voice sounded strained. “Just, yeah, uh, mind the lashes, could you?”
“Y-yeah,” Jonah said. “Sorry um, about that.”
Jonah let his arm rest across Sawyer’s bandaged torso without gripping at his ribs, simply laying his fingers across the gauze gently. Sawyer gave a low hum in approval at the adjusted position.
Jonah still couldn’t believe he was basically cuddling with Sawyer, of all people, but he couldn’t deny that it was working—he felt himself warming up by the second. Their shared body heat gathered steadily, trapped beneath the makeshift blanket. The goosebumps on Jonah’s arms and legs settled back down into smooth skin—the shiver in his chest seemed to melt away as the minutes passed there between the two boys.
Jonah leaned up against Sawyer in the dim lanternlight, listening to the pattering of the rain until his eyes flickered shut. The steady beat of the storm ravaged the walls of the ship, but none of it reached them here. Eventually, Jonah slumped over into Sawyer’s body, his head falling into his lap as he slipped beneath the waves of slumber once more.
Do you ever want to just practice anatomy and get carried away? I certainly do
The character is my oc Isidore Toller from my fanfiction What You Deserve!
so i love this trope but im not talking the basic 'locked in a room and isolated for days until they beg and break' (do love that too) but im talking about the emotional isolation.
the only people whumpee has around are people who hurt and abuse them they don't get to see people treat them a human, on top of this whumpee has to go through all of their emotions and pains alone and when they try and ask a guard or whumper for help they are completely ignored. this would make a person feel very isolated from people
The Guest shook his head in disappointment and shot a disgusted look down. “What do you do when they show such blatant disrespect?” he asked his friend.
“I hit them,” Whumper said with an apologetic grin. “Punch them.”
“And then what? Does that work?”
“Well, not really.” He let out a little chuckle. “But I don’t mind.”
A sigh, followed by a short silence. “You’re way too soft on them.”
“I kinda like it when they push back.”
“There’s a difference between liking the fire in them and allowing them to do whatever they please.” The Guest shot him a look. “Like insulting visitors.”
Both looked down in silence at Whumpee, who was writhing at their feet after a merciless beatdown, listening to their conversation. Whumper didn’t seem admonished or ashamed, but did seem to think that over.
“Maybe you should leave them with me for a week,” the Guest finally said.
Whumpee stopped breathing. Their eyes went wide. They sharply looked up, winced hard as pain shot through them, but they found Whumper’s eyes. He was looking at them with a strange expression; still thinking it over. Whumpee held his gaze, shook their head.
“You think?” Whumper asked slowly, eyes locked on Whumpee but addressing his guest.
“I’ll instill the basics. Nothing too drastic, don’t worry. I know the line between that fire you like and desired behaviour.” He looked down too, his sneer turning to a cold gaze. “And they should know as well.”
“Well, alright,” Whumper said, to Whumpee’s horror.
A hand immediately clamped around their wrist and pulled them up without mercy, not caring about the bruises and pains he inflicted just moments ago.
“No… No, wait—” Whumpee started as the pain flared up all over their body, not sure if they were protesting this horrible arrangement, or were hoping for a second to gather themself. Or both.
A slap echoed out. Sharp pain exploded over their face. Dazed, horrified, they let Whumper’s guest pull them in close.
“Do as you’re told,” he hissed in their face.
All they could do was give a meek nod. And let themself be dragged off. To god knows where. With some unknown man.
-
Days had passed and they still didn’t know a thing about this guy. Didn’t know his name, so they just referred to him in their head as ‘Whumper’s friend’. Whumper’s goddamn awful friend. Or asshole, bastard, rotten idiot. Never out loud. No, never again. That had been their first lesson.
So by now, after a week, the only thing they knew about him was that there were no bounds to his cruelty. And that he accepted no resistance whatsoever.
Even laying down, on this cold barren floor, the pain of all the punishment still racked through them. Bruises throbbed with each movement, cuts threatened to reopen, reminding them of their struggles, their resistance, of what he wanted from them. Only the welts on their back fully drove that home and were the ones that snapped that last thread of defiance.
Even a sob hurt, so they just lay there… waiting.
The door creaked open and automatically their body curled up, all tense.
Footsteps echoed closer.
Whumpee hesitated, but still raised their head. Slowly, as if it took the greatest effort. Well, it did. But it was better to gauge what his mood for the day was. Or see if he carried a weapon with him.
“Oh, my,” they heard a familiar voice say instead.
A soft but sharp inhale through their nose. They snapped up—immediately winced in pain.
Whumper crouched down in front of them.
“Oh my,” he said again, this time his tone laced with amusement instead of surprise. “Must be a trick of the light… I’d swear I saw some relief there.”
For once they were glad of their broken body and that wince that covered that relief. Still, they looked away.
But Whumper wouldn’t have it.
His hand cupped their chin, rougher than he would before, fingers digging under their jaw, and he yanked hard to force them to look at him.
“What did you learn this week?” he asked.
Whumpee snarled, biting back their anger. They didn’t want to say it, it would be humiliating. They wanted to sneer and rage instead; shout how his friend was a sadistic bastard, and so was he! But a voice in the back of their head stopped them, a voice that sounded an awful lot like—
“Please,” they started in a soft voice. “I want to come with you.”
“Why?”
Their voice died in their throat. If there was anything they had learned this week, it was to tread carefully. He’d probably get angry if they said he was softer, not as angry as his friend…
“If you learned to be this good...” Whumper purred, and lightly pushed their chin up, “Then it wouldn’t matter with whom you stayed. You wouldn’t need any more punishment.”
No. But if they did… and they would… it was an easy choice between a fist or a whip. Whumpee started trembling. Tears pooled against Whumper’s fingers. He was not swayed.
“Say it. Or I’ll think you’ll need another week here.”
A hiccup. Then a whisper. “He is cruel… so cruel. Please, I want to come with you. You’re not this wicked, you’re—” They choked on the only word they could find that wouldn’t offend but appeal—but it would be awful to say. They swallowed it down. “You’re merciful.”
He let out a soft but kind scoff. The fingers in their jaw fell away. And he held out a hand to them instead.
“Then let’s go home.”
-
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
[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.
