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.
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.
Hands bound behind your back and ankles tied and being thrown roughly onto the ground unable to properly brace yourself so you're forced to take the whole painful impact unprepared slamming your shoulder and your head into the hard unrelenting surface beneath you. You agree.
I need that character screaming until their throat is sore, thrashing, pleading to just- get off of me, let me go, no don’t, I hate you, make it stop. Especially when they’re normally so composed and quiet when they react to things, if they react at all
“Do you want to be in a cage? Huh!? Tied up in the basement?”
“..no-“
“Are you sure? Because I can head to the hardware store right now and grab some chains and padlocks. I could have you shackled to the wall down there within the hour.”
