#unconventional restraint

[99point9percentwhump]

Whumptober Day 1- Unconventional Restraint

"It was a bustling evening in Waldo's before Maguire showed up and changed everything. I was playing the piano and people were having a good time, a nice Friday evening for most people, just not for me"

"Maguire showed up at about 10:30. He was a distraught man, mid-thirties with a military regulated mustache. I could see that a mile away as he cut through the tables and cigarette smoke looking for something, apparently me. As soon as his eyes saw me he made tracks and sat down without an invitation. I had kept playing when he whispered desperately in my ear that he needed help. I nodded over at a spare booth and he sat there and waited as I finished the set and then wandered over to the eagerly waiting man."

Sitting down Johnny lit a cigarette, not needing to offer one to the man tapping the table worriedly. "How can I help you?" Johnny offered.

"My name's Maguire. I need you to help me find someone." Maguire took a desperate heavy swig of the drink Waldo had brought while he was waiting.

"Okay, I need some more details."

Maguire shook his head. "I don't know who, I just need your help finding out who they are."

Puzzled, Johnny smoothed a hand over his dark hair. "Look friend, if you want my help you're gonna have to give me more than that."

The man 'Maguire' dragged a hand down his face. "I don't know her name." The man had an air of experience and he seemed well traveled, but he also looked like a man who was just put out to dry.

Taking a long drag on his cigarette, Johnny leaned forward. "What did this woman do then?"

Shifting uncomfortably, the man leaned closer to Johnny. "She robbed me."

That wasn't an uncommon occurrence in the city, not even in the world. I'd heard many stories in Korea of GI's being robbed by a dame.

Johnny flicked the loose ashes. "When and where?" The man leaned back, eyes looking toward the door. "What did she take?" the PI tried. Maguire's attention returned to him. "My wallet, my train ticket and my watch!" he said louder than he intended, quickly casting a wary eye around to make sure no other patron had overheard.

Johnny waited, then beckoned to the bar who quickly jumped to making another drink and brought it. Maguire finished it in a gulp. "It was last night, this girl at a bar well…" he trailed off. "Yeah, I get it. Okay, when did it happen?"

"We got back to her hotel room at the fireside motel, she said she was only staying in New York. The next two nights she made drinks and then the next thing I know I'm waking up on the floor, wallet and watch missing and so is the girl!"

Pretty classic case.

"So, how am I supposed to find this girl if she wasn't supposed to stay in the city?"

Maguire said, face flustered, "You're the investigator and you come highly recommended!"

"Okay, I'll see what I can do." Johnny stubbed out his cigarette. "Leave your contact information and I'll let you know.

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Johnny made his way across the busy streets on a mission.

What Maguire was looking for was one in a million. Trying to track down one girl who swindled him was nearly impossible, but I said I'd try and I have a place to start. The Fire Motel.

I had some dealings with the manager of the motel through some other cases. She wasn't my biggest fan but my work with the police is the only reason she helped. This was to avoid them looking too much at the comings and goings of the motels business.

Johnny stepped up on the curb bathed in the neon red sign reading Fire Motel, a second one that flashed vacancies and a sign on the wall giving price of stays by the week, night, and hour.

The PI stepped through the creaking door into the lobby, its old, well worn carpet half the color it once was. The wallpaper was peeling in patches and the front desk's proprietor was sitting in an ancient leather desk chair that once would have been properly seated at a fancy dining hall, now leather cracked and sunken from use. The woman sat in it smoking, her eyes already on him peeking over her crooked glasses. She huffed a cloud of smoke in irritation at the site of him.

"Donna." he said, trying to be friendly. She replied by jamming her spent cigarette in an already overfilled ashtray and twisted it violently. He smiled at her.

She was in her early 50s, involved in the various businesses that ran out of the motel for most of her life. Her blond hair was tucked back. "Whaddya want Staccato?" Her voice once might have been pretty but was now warped from years of heavy drinking and smoking. It was raspy and harsh and filled with spite for the man. "I was hoping you'd have someone here I'm looking for."

"Ohh I got lots for you." She gave a dark smirk at her own innuendo. "Not that kinda girl, Donna. One that's just passing through, robbed a guy last night."

She lit another cigarette. "Doesn't happen at my place," she said defensively.

"Not without your permission at least," Johnny countered. Donna let out a raucous laugh "You know, I could be very offended by that kind of statement Johnny."

Johnny caught movement from the shadows, someone he had missed. A hulking man in a black suit, arms crossed, a hand tucked inside the jacket. "i'm only looking for a girl, if she doesn't work for you, then you should want her gone. She's giving your place a bad reputation," he countered, a smirk playing up. Donna stood sizing up Johnny "We've only had one room let for someone just staying the night."

Donna reached down and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of dark liquor and poured a round into each glass. She slid one at Johnny. The glass slid across the polished desk, stopping right at the edge. Donna smiled wickedly. "Still got it." She raised her glass at Johnny expectedly.

"The room, Donna," he countered without touching the glass.

"Oh! That's right," she turned with a flourish, grabbing a coffee mug and then the pot sitting on a burner. She filled it while Johnny looked towards the heavy-set man who was staring at him from the shadows, just waiting for Donna to tell him what to do. A clink of the mug on the counter brought Johnny back to Donna. She took the amber filled glass she sent to him and drank it.

"Donna. I don't have all night."

She pulled a face. "And I always thought the one thing you had was manners," she pouted glancing at her bodyguard. Johnny suppressed a sigh and took the stained cup, debating whether it was safe but lacking a better alternative, he said "To your health," and he sipped the drink. It was lukewarm, watered down but very bitter still. Donna smiled pleased and finished off her second drink Johnny forced himself to take another drink of what once was coffee, then Donna stepped out from behind the front desk, smoothly grabbing a key off the wall. "I'll show you the way."

"I can find it myself." Johnny argued. Donna dramatically frowned and looked hurt. "Oh Johnny, it's not everyday I get to take such handsome men to one of my bedrooms," she leered at him. He plucked the key from her hand and put the cup down.

"Still haven't," he said equally.

She leaned back against the desk. "If you insist, it's your loss."

Johnny checked the tag on the key. Room 12. He eyed the guard as he passed and made his way down the narrow halls of the Fire Motel, doing his best to ignore the various sounds emanating from different rooms he passed. He looked for Room 12, he finally found it at the poorly lit dead end of the first floor. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he glanced back at the empty hall. He shook it off, chalking it up to the location. The PI slid his hand to his revolver nestled in his waist holster as he eased the key into the lock and opened the door.

The room was dark, so he reached for a switch. He found one and snapped it on, revealing the room. It was like any room for money, minimally furnished with anything but a bed. It had no signs of being occupied. Johnny shook his head, he didn't think his quarry would be here but he had to check. He turned for the door when a wave of dizziness hit him he pinched his eyes shut, caught off guard at the feeling. He tried to stand straight but the world tilted out of his control. He caught his hands on a support, the brass footboard of the bed as a slow ringing started in his ears, then it occurred to him he hadn't seen Donna pour the coffee. "Oh no."

He didn't mean to say it aloud.

"Something wrong?" a mocking innocent voice asked. Still gripping the footboard for support, he looked at the open doorway to find Donna leaning wantonly on the doorframe.

A cold sweat broke out all over Johnny, he tried to speak but all sound caught in his throat coming out only in a slight moan. He could feel his hand slipping on the brass as Donna took a slow purposeful step toward him. He tried to stand upright when the room began reeling. All senses dulled, he barely felt his knees drive into the worn carpeted floor. All he saw was an up-close look of the shredded fibers when, somehow, the world violently turned again and he was facing the ceiling. He blinked slowly as it shifted in and out of focus, then Donna's face came leaning over him. She was heavily leering at the prone detective. Johnny tried desperately to get his arm to move to his revolver, but his body refused to respond.

He was helpless as kneeled down. Donna flicked away his suit jacket covering his waistband holster. She placed a hand on his chest to support her as she plucked the hand gun from its place, then leaned down draping herself across his chest. She dragged the nose of the revolver under Johnny's chin.

"And you said I'd never get you into my bedroom," her smokey voice purred in his ear as she ran her free hand over his cheek. Then she dragged it down his face and lower to places she had no place in being. Johnny was almost grateful as his vision dimmed and he lost consciousness.

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The first thing Johnny noted as his sense started to return was the painful ache in his shoulders and the pins and needles in his hands. Then the headache made itself known. He wanted to fall back into oblivion and escape the feelings when the memory of himself collapsing and Donna came rushing back to him. The panic forced his eyes open and his eyes struggled to focus, his stomach turned in knots. He swallowed back the nausea, then he went to lean forward to ease the nauseous feeling when he was stopped. The pain in his shoulders flared, so he sat back, then he saw what was holding him back. Each of his wrists were bound to the brass footboard with a nylon stocking. he tried to twist his hands free but the stocking held fast. A mocking laugh came from the door causing him to freeze. Donna stood again in the doorway eyeing him nastily.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen. That's the oldest trick in the book, Detective."

He could help but glance down, happy to find his clothes mostly intact. Only his jacket was removed, and his shirt was unbuttoned half way. He sent her a fury filled look. She sauntered over as he shifted. Still helpless, she casually checked the knots "I was tempted to use my best silk ones for you Johnny." She chuckled and bent down and grasped his chin, forcing him to look up at her. He jerked his chin free of her grasp. "Let me go."

Donna let out a laugh. "Oh don't you worry your pretty little head about that. Someone will." She walked to the doorway, swaying her hips a little more than necessary as she walked.

She turned and leaned against the doorway. "I called the police, they'll be here shortly." She smiled smugly "Adieu, my dear." She left, pulling the door shut behind her, leaving Johnny alone

Johnny fought against the bonds holding him a fresh wave of dizziness washed over him. He let out a small whimper and tried to rest his head on one shoulder, but the nausea returned. Lost in his own head, leftover drugs in his system overtook him and he fell asleep.

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The sound of voices and doors clattering open woke Johnny. His arms were on fire and now he had an uncomfortable crink in his neck from sleeping. Considering his plight he felt better, more aware. Even his stomach had settled and the room before him was in more focus when the door knob shifted and slowly eased open, revealing the figure of a man in a crisp suit and fedora sitting at an angle; his colt looked specially drawn. Johnny let out an uncomfortable sigh. Detective Sullivan scanned the room, never letting his police instincts down. "You alright Staccato?"

Johnny sighed. "Do I look alright, Sully?!"

Sullivan smirked a bit, letting Johnny get away with the snap. He holstered his Police special and walked over, inspecting the stockings holding Johnny prisoner. "She never runs out of surprises, does she." Sully retrieved a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and went to work freeing the private detective. "You arrest Donna?" Johnny grimaced as Sully finally cut through one. He cradled his arm in his lap

"Nope, she flew the coop" he stated as he cut through the last of the stocking. Johnny rushed to stand but swayed dangerously once he did. Sullivan grasped him by the arms to steady him. "Easy Staccato," he looked sympathetically at Johnny. We

"We have to find her." Johnny said adamantly. Sully raised his eyebrows and didn't let Johnny go, preventing him from running off. "Johnny, Donna is a pro but she'll turn up again. The only place you should be is the hospital."

Johnny weakly tried to pull free of Sully's hold. "No, no hospitals. I'm fine."

The police detective scoffed. "Then you're only going back to Waldo's. At least he'll keep an eye on you till you're thinking clearly." Johnny went to protest but Sully wasn't one to debate. "It's Waldo's or the police station." That got through to Johnny that he has no real choice in the matter. He conceded, "Fine. Waldo's."

"Alright then."

Releasing Johnny, he walked the private investigator out, grasping him by the elbow when he staggered and helping the younger man to the car. Waiting for him, Sully got the door. Johnny waved his hands "Sully I'm fine. I can walk."

Sullivan scoffed. "You're not walking ten feet, get in," he ordered. Reluctantly, Johnny obeyed and got in the back seat. He was followed by Sully, who ordered the driver to Waldo's. "Donna's a heck of a player to get you, eh Staccato." There was no response. Sully looked at Johnny who'd fallen fast asleep leaning against the car window.

"Walk indeed," the detective said under his breath as the police car took off into the night. AO3 LINK

[queenangst]

✦ Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki & Midoriya Izuku ✦ Characters: Bakugou Katsuki, Midoriya Izuku             ✦ Additional Tags: Kidnapping, Escape, Head Injury, Caretaking, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bakugou Katsuki & Midoriya Izuku Friendship, Hurt Midoriya Izuku, Whump, Whumptober 2022

After they're kidnapped, the only thing keeping Katsuki from escaping is the one person he'll never leave behind: Deku.

Whumptober Day 1: Unconventional Restraints             

Part 1 of Whumptober 2022

[aceofwhump]

Dungeons and Dragons: Honor Among Thieves (2023)

[whump-side]

WHUMPTOBER 2022 No. 1 A LITTLE OUT OF THE ORDINARY

Adverse Effects | Unconventional Restraints | "This wasn't supposed to happen" Gotta be creative when you don't have a rope or chains at hand

[ssomagni]

@kryptonite-week Day two Red & Blue - Captured by the enemy, Calling for backup, unconventional restraints, Secret identities.

@yearoftheotpevent Crack treated seriously

Pairing: Superbat

C/W: None

Story Summary: When Clark Kent starts speaking an dead language, when his hands shake with powers that rival a gods, when his eyes lose their blue, become unnaturally red, there's only one thing his boyfriend Bruce can think to do to save him, hold an exorcism.

Story link: Now you're speaking my language

requests Open: Yes

[gentlespace]

Whumptober Day 1 - Unconventional Restraints!

And it’s a collab with @stolen-pen-name23 who wrote the incredible fic The Vines That Bind Us which I based this piece off! Please go give it a read because there is nothing better than Anakin getting angry with a tree!!

[whumpty-dumpty]

Whumptober2022 | no. 1 | A LITTLE OUT OF THE ORDINARY

[livingforthewhump]

I hope you are having a great night! Maybe I could ask for another part of civilian saves villain, please?

Thank you <33

the long awaited continuation is here folks, and still several days late! (part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six)

Whumptober No 1. A Little Out of the Ordinary

Adverse Effects | Unconventional Restraints | “This Wasn’t Supposed to Happen”

The next time Civilian woke up they were screaming. Something was crawling up the inside of their arm, a razorblade making its way through their veins. Their other hand flew up, blindly clawing at the pain. Somehow, their fingers caught around something round and flexible. They grabbed onto it tight and pulled.

“Civilian, stop!”

A voice, rapid footsteps, and then a weight on the bed next to them. Gloved hands wrapping around their own and lifting them away. A frustrated, agonized growl crawled out of Civilians's throat. The fire was all around them now, burning and itching under their skin. Their eyes were closed tight against the overwhelming onslaught, hot tears leaking out.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” The voice sounded frantic, somewhat breathless. Familiar. “Can you look at me, Civilian? Where are you right now?”

Their head spun. How were they meant to answer that many questions? They couldn't even remember the questions they'd been asked. The only thing they could think of was—

“Hhnn, h-hurts,” they managed, throat burning with the effort it took to breathe.

A slight tightening of the grip on their wrists. Their breath shuttered, choppy. In, out, in, in in inin…They were being bad, weren’t they? When it hurt, it was a punishment. That meant they weren’t supposed to make it stop. They weren’t supposed to be struggling. They hadn’t even apologized, never mind that they couldn’t remember what they had even done wrong. They slowly forced themself to fall limp.

The person—Hero, they were sure, seemed to sense the shift in them.

“Civilian…?” They sounded hesitant now.

They gasped, choking on air slightly. More tears wound their way down their face, cooling on their jaw, their throat. “H-Hero.” Their voice was a pathetic whine, but they couldn’t help it, and they no longer knew what shame felt like.

Hero stiffened.

Oh. They weren’t supposed to call him by his name right now, was that it? If they’d just been punished, they should be groveling. Before they could make their voice work again, though, Hero started talking again.

“No, Civilian, Hero isn’t here. They’re not going to hurt you again, do you understand?” A long pause, during which Civilian stayed quiet because no, they didn’t understand. And everything still hurt like the worst of Hero’s serums. “Can you please open your eyes?”

That caught Civilian’s attention. It would be a cold day in hell before Hero said please to them. And so they forced their eyes to open, to blink away the stark white that covered their vision at first. Finally, their eyes focused on the face above them, and it wasn’t Hero at all.

Civilian’s brow furrowed deeper. Another whine slipped from their throat.

Villain—why was it Villain? Why were they here?—glanced down at Civilian's twitching hands and said, “If I let go of you, can I trust you not to hurt yourself?”

Civilian hesitated, then shook their head. They would start clawing at the source of the pain again, they couldn't help it. It was a burning need, to get this torture out of them, to make it all stop. Their skin stabbed and prickled, and they shifted restlessly as though it was on the bed they laid on rather than inside of them. Now they could see an IV pumping fluid into their arm right where the agony had started.

Villain muttered a curse. “Okay. I’m going to tie your right arm to the headboard. Just with a blanket. Nothing that’s going to harm you. Then I’m going to check on your injuries. Do I need to up the painkiller?”

Civilian must have looked confused, because Villain gestured towards the IV.

Oh. The “painkiller”.

They shook their head, biting their lip against another sob.

Villain huffed out an annoyed little sigh as they knotted the blanket around Civilian’s arm. “Could you tell me where it hurts so I know where to look?”

“E-ev, nnh, everywhere,” Civilian gasped out, tossing their head back against the pillow. They briefly wondered if they could hit their head against the headboard hard enough to knock them out. “Plea, pl-please make it s-stop-op,” they all but wailed.

Villain looked almost taken aback, but the gears were turning behind their harsh eyes. “The painkiller?”

They reached towards it, and Civilian nearly shrieked. “Hurts, ple-ease!”

If they hadn’t wrenched their eyes shut just then, they would have seen Villain’s widen in realization. Then horror. Then, as they sprung into action, guilt.

Moments later, both of Civilian’s arms were freed, and the all-consuming pain didn’t lessen, but it stopped building. They shuddered in relief, tears falling even more freely now. Villain just stood back and watched them, eventually moving to get a cloth and wipe Civilian’s face clean, silent as the grave. They were probably planning the ways Civilian would have to make up for this. The punishments for taking advantage of their kindness, for not taking a lesson as it was meant to be.

When Civilian had recovered themself enough, they sniffled out a small, “thank you.”

Villain jolted and quickly resumed their soothing motions. “I’m sorry,” they said softly, in that firm and almost dangerous way of theirs. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Civilian's forehead tightened again. “Hn?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. The IV was administering you painkillers, but I’m guessing they didn’t react well with your powers. I’m sorry.” And Civilian almost found a part of themself offended that Villain sounded so damn tired.

But that part of themself wasn't the part in charge of their mouth, so instead they ended up saying, “I was bad…?”

“No.” Villain balled the cloth up in their fist, fury rising into their voice now. “You are not bad, and you do not deserve to be hurt.”

Another tear slipped down their cheek.

“Civilian. Do you remember what happened before now?”

They thought very hard, and nodded.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened? Start from the beginning. Then we can figure out what we need to talk about, because I get the feeling there’s going to be a lot.”

—

taglist: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @twistedcaretaker @lonesome--hunter @poppys-writing @endless-whump @multifandoms-multishipper @shadowylemon @utopian819 @whumpkitty @journey-the-panda @freefallingup13 @prettyboysinpain @1becky1 @chartreusephoenix @thelazywitchphotographer @onestopheroxvillain @smolxhero @mylifeisonthebookshelf @broadwaybabe18 @grizzlie70 @sunflower1000 @tobeornottobeateacher @wolfeyedwitch @canigetanamenforbritney @ladygwennn @onlywhump @suspicious-whumping-egg @lemongrass404 @alainayumira @icarusinstatic @will-ruadh @pumpkin-spice-whump @michelleswhumpyreblogs @cyberneticfire @tinyreadinglifelight @savagelysarcasticsilence @void-fireworks @dead-whispers @strawberryglitterball @writing-with-olive @rose-pinkie @didieatyourdog @bliss757 @nomadghost @cake-lovin-ace @viitalvoiid @hurting-fictional-people @melancholy-in-the-morning @lailan-rosie @deflated-bouncingball [the taglist is just one person too long so I will be tagging one (1) singular person in the replies]

[cerebrocentric-bullet]

As if there were any other outcome

-Day 1 of Whumptober 2022

[rookthorne]

Amandla | ꜱᴛᴜᴄᴋʏ

Pairing; Stucky (IW) Word Count; 3.1k Warnings; angst (it's whumptober - buckle up), hurt/comfort, amnesia, restraints, nightmare/insomnia, fluff, pet names A/N; FIRST WHUMPTOBER ENTRY! this marks the beginning of some of the darkest stuff I have ever written. translations will be at the very end - I am aiming for you, as the reader, to be just as confused as Steve is. SORRY IN ADVANCE! 😘

WHUMPTOBER MASTERLIST

Bucky wasn’t acting himself, but Steve had the determination and strength to bring him back where he belonged - home. 

The crisp night air of Wakanda was a relief to Steve’s lungs as he looked to the shrubby horizons where clusters of Marula trees stood proud, indifferent to the way Steve marvelled at their beauty and captured it with the scratch of lead on paper. 

Since the serum, Steve had found that one upside that Dr. Erskine may have never anticipated nor accounted for; the speed of which he could draw. The artistic streak that both his Ma and Bucky had been in awe of had bloomed with such intensity it had consumed him.

If he sifted through the countless memories he still possessed of his time during the USO tours, he could still hear Colonel Phillips berating him for sitting on the stairs of the stage exit with a pencil in hand. There were days he could not tell the difference between the monkey on a unicycle, parading around in his suit for all to see, compared to himself. 

After losing Bucky all those decades ago, Steve had never picked up a pencil, let alone entertained the thought of putting one to paper. The memories of seeing Bucky lounge in their apartment and smoking a cigarette with the breeze blowing through an open window with the scratching sound of his charcoal and parchment in the background were always hard to stomach. Painful as it was, he stopped drawing for good. 

But here he was all these years later, dressed in Bucky’s favourite button up and sweatpants while listening to the soothing scratch of lead over paper as he observed and drew Bucky’s goats under the light of the moon. 

They slept peacefully, unperturbed by the struggle that Bucky faced day in and day out. Steve knew all along, no matter how much Bucky tried to deny it, that Bucky cared for them so deeply because it was one of the first opportunities presented to him - a choice - to care for something; a chance to prove that he was, in fact, capable of doing good. 

It had taken weeks for T’Challa to finally convince Bucky that it was safe to be here, in his own small hut amongst the villagers and their children. Hell, as soon as T’Challa had waved them over to meet a few of the villagers, Steve had known that it would be a perfect fit. A safe place for Bucky to recover and learn how to be a man once again, not a weapon. 

When a crowd of excited children had rushed towards Bucky’s approaching figure he had turned still as stone, rigid and unmoving under the panic of possibly hurting them. It broke Steve’s heart seeing the absolute fear in Bucky’s eyes as he looked over his shoulder at him for guidance, and since Steve had never led him astray, Bucky listened when Steve spoke. “They’re only kids, Buck. They won’t hurt you, even when they want to bowl you over.”

The relief that had flooded Steve when Bucky looked back down into the children’s faces, wide eyes and bigger smiles as they stared up at the White Wolf who crouched down so they could play with his loose hair was immeasurable. Bucky later admitted to Steve that it was one of the first times that he had felt safe. “Children are harmless. It was only a braid.”

Of all things considered, Bucky’s recovery had been on a steady incline, getting better day by day - sure, there were times when he took a step forward only to be pushed back another three, but he had never given up. It was with a swell of pride that Steve told him he was starting to come back to himself, back to being Bucky Barnes. 

However, something had been off all day and it was making Steve feel on edge, poised like a coil ready to spring at a seconds notice. There wasn’t a way to pinpoint exactly what it was because there was too much to go off of; too many variables or scenarios.

Bucky had been withdrawn all day and had barely touched his food. He had tended to his goats with a very noticeable lack of his normal enthusiasm. Sam, the goat who had a habit of climbing to the highest bales or boulders and jumping off had pulled off a particularly impressive leap from the top of the hut - Steve had no idea just how the little creature had managed to get up there - and Bucky didn’t even crack a smile. 

Steve’s protective instinct screamed at him to bundle Bucky up and get him away from whatever it was, no matter the cost, but Bucky had shrugged away or, honest to god, snarled at him a ‘no’ or ‘get away’ whenever Steve had tried to offer a comforting touch - it was as though the Winter Soldier had his way out of the depths of Bucky’s mind and taken control.

Which led to now. 

The breeze that rustled leaves in the trees and the fabric of the door leading to the inside of Bucky’s hut brought with it a smell he could only describe as home; its earthy tones and slight spice from the slow cooking pots over blazing campfires, and the sound of the few awake villagers bustling about their business. 

A slight shuffling sounded from behind him and Steve froze. 

The rustle of leaves and the crackling of fire became mute as he honed in on the sound, desperate to discern the source. Was it Bucky? Had Sam somehow escaped the goat pen again?

Another sound - a sharp intake of breath, came from beyond the rippling fabric of their door. “Buck?” Steve whispered, barely audible over the wind but if Bucky was awake, he would have heard. There was no response and Steve started to move quickly but silently to place his book on the stump beside his seat. A low whine came from inside the hut and Steve felt his stomach sink.

It was a nightmare. It had been days since his last one and if Steve hadn’t had the serum, he could have sworn those bruises would have been around for weeks. 

“Bucky?” Steve said a little louder, peering into the hut and looking around until he found the source. Bucky was laying on his side facing the wall, the sheet covering his lower half and leaving his muscled back on full display. He wasn’t shaking, or tossing and turning as he usually did - that alone set off alarm bells in Steve’s mind. 

“Buck, c’mon,” Steve whispered as he ducked through the doorway, his feet silent on the thatched floor as he padded over to the bed to sit down gently. “Come back to me, you’re safe.”

He didn’t dare run his hand down Bucky’s arm or side like he did last time while half asleep - Bucky had almost broken his nose with how hard he had swung out against his imagined captor. Instead, he opted to keep talking, praying that somehow Bucky would hear his voice and be lulled back into sleep. “I’m here, Buck, I need you to relax for me.”

Suddenly, Bucky became deathly still, his shoulders no longer rising with breath. A second later he began to shake. 

“I don’t-'' Bucky wheezed and Steve almost felt relieved, he was talking, but it was short lived when he began to move his only arm as though to yank away from something. “No, I don’t want it! Stop!” Bucky shouted and Steve felt his gut turn with the vivid image that demand painted of his dream. 

“Buck, come back to me, you’re safe,” Steve tried a little louder, almost letting the desperate need to hold him close win out, but he stayed his hand. “I need you to breathe for me, sweetheart, c’mon.” 

Bucky turned further into the mattress and whimpered, his white knuckle grip on the sheet not lessening even when he started to breathe raggedly. “That’s it, Buck, that’s it,” Steve soothed. He knew that Bucky was nowhere near being awake enough to acknowledge his attempts at calming him down, but his mind seemed to register Steve’s voice as something soothing. Steve wasn’t the enemy.

“GET AWAY!” Bucky suddenly screamed and Steve jumped back, watching helplessly while Bucky thrashed around in their bed. “No, no! NO!” 

A violent jerk landed Bucky on his back and his arm and legs became twisted in the sheet, making his flailing all the worse. There was a sheen of sweat over his chest and tears were streaming down his face from behind his closed eyes. 

“Oh, no, god no,” Steve gasped in horror. The knife that Bucky normally kept under his pillow had moved with all of the thrashing and the blade glinted in the moonlight. If Bucky kept this up, he was going to get hurt. 

“Bucky!” Steve yelled over Bucky’s sobs, and he stood just shy of the edge of the bed. “I need you to wake up!” To Steve’s anguish, Bucky didn’t wake up, he only continued to flail and become more tangled in the sheet. 

To hell with the bruises, Steve thought, and he leapt into action. 

“I am not cleaning up after the damn goats if you hit me,” Steve mumbled with a huff of laughter and he climbed onto his side of the bed. Bucky continued to cry out in pain or fear, Steve couldn’t tell, while he shook and strained against the restraint of the sheets. 

The sudden dip of the mattress made Bucky still momentarily, gasping for breath. 

It was now, or never. 

Quickly, Steve threw a leg over Bucky’s hip to straddle him and grabbed ahold of his fist, pinning it against the soft pillow to prevent any surprise blow. 

“Отстань от меня!” Bucky yelled while he tried to twist away and out of Steve’s grip, but he held fast, suppressing the shock of hearing Bucky speak Russian. God, I hope he didn’t hear those damn words, Steve cursed to himself. “Да отвали ты от меня!” 

“Bucky,” Steve said a little louder, drowning out the sound of Bucky’s legs twisting against the bed and the rustle of the sheet. “You’re safe, you’re with me, it’s me, Buck,” Steve paused when Bucky stilled as his brows furrowed, his eyes still closed against the flow of tears. “It’s Stevie, come back to me.”

While not thrashing against the weight of Steve on his hips or the restraint of the sheet tangled around his arm and legs, Bucky still laid tense beneath Steve. His brows were pinched and his face was pulled into a grimace, the slight twitch of his left eyelid and side of his mouth was the only warning Steve had before it actually happened. 

Bucky’s eyes opened quickly, but he remained frozen. They were glassed over and his stare was empty as he looked up at Steve from the pillow, then to his wrist still in Steve’s grip and then back up to Steve again. It was like watching a child trying to figure out just how they made it to bed the night before, only much scarier. 

“Я готов отвечить.” Bucky’s tone was flat, almost gravelly after all the shouting, and all Steve could do was stare in shock - he had hoped to never hear those words again. Impatiently, Bucky - no, the Winter Soldier - tried again. “Готов подчиняться, Пирс.”

Oh, hell. 

“No, Buck,” Steve started, shoving down the urge to scream from the anger that boiled in his blood. He had to focus if he was going to bring him back and he hated the fact that the only way to get through to Bucky while he was like this, was to give orders. “I’m going to get you out of this sheet, I need you to stay still. Can you stay still for me?”

The only way Steve could deal with this is to pose it as a question, rather than an order, but Bucky took it all the same. 

Quickly, before Bucky grew restless, Steve released his wrist and sat up slowly. “I’ll start here,” Steve pointed to Bucky’s arm while Bucky stared into his face. It was unnerving to be watched with such an intense scrutiny, especially from Bucky, but Steve powered on. “I dunno how in the hell you got it so tight, Buck,” Steve mumbled, not particularly talking to Bucky but he responded as though he had. 

“Это приемлемо.” 

Steve eyed him cautiously but continued, finally lifting himself up and off Bucky’s hips to stand at the end of the bed to loosen the tangled sheet wrapped like a vine around Bucky’s legs. 

Once free from the tight grip of cotton, Bucky’s mind seemed to switch from being the Winter Soldier to a Sergeant of the 107th Infantry Regiment of the US Army - exactly how Steve remembered him best in his pressed uniform and tilted hat. 

“Please, please don’t,” Bucky gasped and Steve watched with dawning realisation that this Bucky was hurting - it wasn’t the toughened soldier that left Brooklyn. “I don’t want it anymore, please,” the scrabble for purchase against the now damp mattress made Bucky whimper pitifully, desperately trying to put distance between the two of them. “It hurts, I don’t want it, please don’t make me,” Bucky whispered pleadingly, curling in on himself and avoiding Steve’s gaze.

And just like that, Steve’s heart shattered. “Oh, Buck,” he soothed, fighting the urge to rush to Bucky and hold him. “You’re safe, can you tell me where you are?” 

It wasn’t uncommon for Bucky to become disorientated after such a horrific nightmare, but Steve could never steel himself enough to hear the answer. 

“A-Azzano, there were men disappearing er’ywhere, a h-huge tank came, I-I didn-” a wet hiccup interrupted his slurred ramble and Bucky groaned, clawing at his shoulder as he looked around the hut with wide, fearful eyes.

“Do you know who I am?” Steve questioned lightly as he sat down slowly on the edge of the bed furthest from Bucky. 

Bucky only grimaced and swallowed thickly, looking anywhere but at Steve. He was casing the inside of the hut for escape routes, Steve suddenly realised. “You are safe here, Buck. You’re in Wakanda, with me, with your goats.” There were no sparks of recognition and Steve sighed quietly. 

There was one way to help him remember, but whether he’d react violently, that was another story. But if Sarah Rogers didn’t raise a stubborn man, Bucky sure as hell cemented it. 

Steve pointed to the lamp beside the bed. Light was always a way to ground him, Bucky didn’t like the dark. “I’m going to light this, and then I’ll stay up while you try to sleep again, Buck.” 

The sudden flicker of yellow and orange lit up Bucky’s face and Steve inhaled sharply - he looked sunken, so pale and afraid. 

“Do you want some water?” Bucky looked at him sharply. It was like he had forgotten Steve was standing right there. “Buck?” Steve urged and Bucky nodded hesitantly, as though he wasn’t sure he was allowed to. 

Steve smiled softly and retrieved the canteen. “I need you to go slow, okay?” Bucky nodded at his request and reached for the canteen with trembling hands, and promptly dropped it with a cry of shock. 

“‘M sorry, I won’t do it ag-” Bucky started but Steve shushed him gently. 

“I’ll help you, here,” Steve slowly reached a hand out and held the back of Bucky’s head to tilt it back slightly. The canteen rested against Bucky’s lips as he drank greedily, parched from the shouting he had done earlier. “That’s it.”

Bucky backed away to the far side of the bed and cradled his knees to his chest, watching Steve with apprehension as he placed the canteen on the bedside table and moved to sit against the headboard. 

It was going to be a long night. 

Finally comfortable with a pillow behind his back, Steve grabbed his book from the bedside table and flicked it open to a random page, silently hoping that Bucky would come closer once he saw the title on the bound cover. 

A few moments later, Bucky piped up from his perch on the corner of the bed. “What’re you readin’?” Talk of the devil. 

Steve looked up to see Bucky cautiously meeting his eye and pointing to the book in his hand. The sight of Bucky taking interest so soon made Steve grin, while Bucky hesitantly smiled back. 

“The Hobbit.” Bucky’s eyes brightened suddenly with recognition and Steve couldn’t help the sudden rush of relief he felt - he was getting somewhere. 

“Want me to read it aloud?” Steve had to hold in a gasp when Bucky nodded slowly. “Come sit next to me,” Steve gestured to the spot next to him and watched as Bucky scooted closer, peering curiously at the book while he did so. He settled against the head of the bed and waited patiently. Steve smiled. “Alright then.”

“There were many paths that led up into those mountains,” Steve started, still smiling. “And many passes over them.” Bucky made a small noise of discomfort and shifted and Steve waited patiently for him to settle again, ignoring the fact that while shuffling, Bucky had moved closer. “But most of the paths were cheats and deceptions and led nowhere or to bad ends; and most of the passes were infested by evil things and dreadful dangers.”

Steve continued to read, still feigning ignorance to how close Bucky was shifting to his side until they were almost touching. Suddenly, Steve felt Bucky staring at him and he looked up from the book expectantly. “Are you alright?”

“Can I,” Bucky hesitated, a slight hum leaving his lips before he continued. “Can I lay there?” He was pointing at Steve’s lap. All the while Steve could feel the burn of tears building as he looked into Bucky’s face; so hesitant and unsure, scared even, to be comforted. 

“Of course you can, Buck, here,” Steve adjusted and uncrossed his ankles. Bucky slowly rested his head into Steve’s lap and Steve had to fight the urge to sob with relief. “There ya go.”

Finally comfortable, Steve continued to read until the end of the chapter while running a hand through Bucky’s hair, absolutely content to finish an eventful night in such peace.

The tranquillity was broken when Bucky spoke up quietly, his voice breaking only slightly at the end. “Stevie?”

Steve’s grip in Bucky’s hair tightened slightly and he sighed, finally letting the relief flood his body. Bucky looked up at his sniffle but Steve was only smiling. 

“Yeah, it’s me, sweetheart. It’s me.”

отстань от меня! = leave me alone! Да отвали ты от меня! = get away from me! Я готов отвечить. = ready to comply. Готов подчиняться, Пирс. = ready to comply, Pierce. Это приемлемо. = It is acceptable. Amandla = Strength (Xhosa) (thank you, google translate.)

Graphics & Header made by yours truly.

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[aceofwhump]

No. 1 A LITTLE OUT OF THE ORDINARY: Unconventional Restraints

Wandavision 1x08 | The Mentalist 2x23 | Stargate SG-1 8x16 | Avengers Infinity War | Once Upon A Time 4x09 | Damien 1x09 | Moon Knight 1x03 | Merlin 3x01 | Once Upon A Time 4x16 | Stargate SG-1 6x06 | Shadowhunters 2x14 | Warehouse 13 1x11

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

[pegasister60]

No. 1 A LITTLE OUT OF THE ORDINARY

Adverse Effects | Unconventional Restraints | "This wasn't supposed to happen"

How terrifying it must be to know you’re not tied down or knocked out but you’re just as stuck as your teammates.

All because some dumb gadget makes your head all fuzzy if you try to say one specific word.

Shazam.

You should’ve gone left.

--

Whumptober: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, ALT 12, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, ALT 1, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31.

[whumpworld]

A Little Out of The Ordinary

Hello, I will be attempting to do Whumptober this year, so here is my first post! Thank you so much to @whumptober for setting all of this up.

Prompt: No. 1 A LITTLE OUT OF THE ORDINARY

[Adverse Effects | Unconventional Restraints | "This wasn't supposed to happen"]

CW: Intimate whumper, pet whump, noncon drugging, captivity, mention of “putting down”/euthanasia, implied suicidal ideation, sensory overload, panic attack, self-harm, restraints

When Whumper came into the room, Whumpee was still curled in the corner where they had left them. They sighed deeply, though this wasn’t unexpected. Still, it was frustrating. This behavior would not cut it. Whumper refused to continue force feeding and watering Whumpee, caring for them like sickly kitten.

Whumper had always provided them enough to be sufficiently healthy and active, hell, responsive at the very least, but responsive was the last thing they were. They didn’t move except when Whumper moved them, didn’t eat or shiver, didn’t cry or whine or scream anymore, no matter how much Whumper encouraged them to. They had tried everything they could think of and their pet still did nothing but lie still and sleep, and really, judging by the pits under their eyes, Whumper wasn’t sure they weren’t just closing their eyes as opposed to actually sleeping.

So, no, they hadn’t expected anything to have changed overnight, but they had come prepared for it.

Whumper shut the door behind them and approached Whumpee, whose eyes remained half lidded and unfocused on the empty space before them. 

“Pet, I really wish you would be better for me.”

No flinch, or hitching of breath. No recognition of Whumper’s presence at all.

“Hmm. Not to worry. I’ve made this just for you,” Whumper said, squatting in front of them and moving the pet’s hand down from where it gripped their own shoulder, arms wrapped protectively around their knees. Whumper rolled the cool syringe in their other hand. “Something to fix you up. To return that…” Whumper held up the needle, observing the metal end gleaming under the light before emptying the injection of air and glancing back at Whumpee. “...That spark to your pretty eyes.” 

The spark that made Whumper choose Whumpee in the first place, the spark that made them stand out from all the other pets Whumper could’ve chosen to take, train, care for, and be given the gift of being theirs.

Whumpee should be grateful. 

Responsive, at the very least. 

Whumper dutifully wiped Whumpee’s arm with an alcohol swab, poised the needle over a section of unbruised skin, and paused for a moment. Waiting to see if Whumpee would jerk out of it, slap Whumper’s hand away, admit they were faking it all along and beg and cry for mercy. They had always hated it before when Whumper drugged them. But they remained unmoving, unseeing, and so Whumper pressed in the needle and slowly closed the plunger. 

They discarded the syringe once it had been emptied in Whumpee’s muscles, and sat next to them, stroking the pet’s arm where they had administered the new drug. 

This had to work or else Whumper wasn’t sure what they’d do. Sickly pets get put down, but Whumper wasn’t quite ready to give up on this one, with their cute, ruffled hair and bony joints, their so easily bruisable skin. 

This durg had to work. So they waited, and watched, and scratched a hand through their pet’s hair. Minutes passed and nothing changed; Whumpee’s chest rose and fell steadily, their eyes only blinking every so often, their limbs stiff in place. And then…a flinch. 

Slight, barely there—perhaps just Whumper’s mind playing tricks—but almost as if Whumpee was trying to move their head away from Whumper’s hand. 

Ever so slowly, the pet’s breathing picked up, and Whumper finally let themselves smile and breathe a sigh of relief when a tear rolled down Whumpee’s cheek, and their body began trembling softly. They removed their hand and leaned forward to try and catch Whumpee’s eyes, almost laughing when they found Whumpee staring straight at them—not through them—eyes wide and full of confusion. Their heart nearly skipped a beat in excitement.

“How are you feeling, pet?” Whumper whispered, and Whumpee instantly winced away from the words, their hands twitching at their sides as if in instinct to cover their ears. As if Whumper’s voice was too loud.

Whumper traced a single finger along the inside of Whumpee’s forearm and a violent shudder racked through the pet’s body, goosebumps spreading outward from the touch. Whumpee whined and jerked their arm to their chest, eyes wild and flicking around the room. “W-w-wha–” Their voice cracked from disuse and they winced again, their hands shooting to their throat, startled by the feeling of their own vocal cords vibrating. 

Whumper let out a laugh finally, relieved and gleeful all at once, as tears started streaming down Whumpee’s face. They began panting frantically, digging at the too-tight collar on their throat, trying unsuccessfully to peel it off.

“Welcome back, pet. You’ve been so bad, ignoring me like you were.” 

Whumpee whimpered, actually covering their ears now, palms flattening against the sides of their head as their nails dug into their temple. 

“Awe, I’m sorry. Am I being too loud?” Whumper dropped their voice to a whisper, knowing full well it wouldn’t make a difference. If the drug was working properly, the ticking of a clock would be loud enough to make the pet cry.

If the drug was working properly, every sensory input would be multiplied by hundreds. Every skimming touch would feel like an army of insects across their skin, every smell completely encompassing, the dimmest light wholly blinding, an ounce of pain converted to tons. 

If the drug was working right, it’d make anyone more responsive.

Whumper danced their fingers across Whumpee’s collarbone and their eyes popped open as they screamed, limbs flying to batt away the overwhelming touch. Their feet scrabbled against the floor, and their cries became fractured by their gasping, each rapid exhale releasing a strangled mewl. They managed to get their feet under themselves and shakily stood, grimacing away from the wall as if the rough stone was on fire.

They looked around panicked, not knowing what to do on their feet, but began pulling at their hair and sobbing. “T-too much! Too much! Oh-oh god, oh m-my god, m-make it stop, stop, make it s-stop!” They began repeating the words, jerked their hands away from their hair to violently brush at their skin, like they were sweeping off cobwebs.

“Now, now, we have to make up for lost time somehow,” Whumper purred, stalking around behind the panicking pet to stroke their fingertips down their spine, beaming when Whumpee jolted as though struck by lightning, screamed bloody murder and stumbled to get away. 

Whumper only followed, catching Whumpee by the back of the collar so their panting choked to a stop, pulling their back to Whumper’s chest so they could wrap their arms around the trembling thing. Whumpee thrashed against the hold as much as they tried to avoid any contact, pulling their shoulders in and tucking their chin down as they flung their elbows. A shudder ran through Whumper as satisfaction curled in their gut.

This was perfect. This was how it should always be. So sensitive, reactive, receptive to Whumper’s every move. Their every word and touch should be all Whumpee knows, amplified until they can’t think of anything else. They’ll hold the pet so sweetly after this, show them how glad they are to have them back, but for now, might as well enjoy the effects while they last. 

They slowly brought their hands down the outside of Whumpee’s upper arms and pressed their lips close to the pet’s ear. “Did you miss me, darling? Oh, how I missed you,” they cooed, and Whumpee wailed in response, whipping their head to the side to get away.

 “I’m curious to see how little pain will do you while under this new drug.” Whumper pressed a kiss to their exposed neck, just above the collar and Whumpee shrunk further down, crying, “S-top! Stop!” 

Whumper released them suddenly, turning to the locked closet in the room. They had just the knife for this, so sharp one could barely feel the blade until it had already left the skin. Whumpee staggered away, bumping into the wall with a shout before crumpling to the floor to cry. Poor thing didn’t know what to do with themselves. 

They rattled the lock as much as possible while opening it, banged the door into the wall as it opened, and they could hear Whumpee shriek at the surely jarring noise. 

They practically hummed in contentment as they dug through the tools, listening to Whumpee sob so hard that they began retching. Their back was only turned for a minute, but when they spun around, they nearly took a step back in shock. 

Whumpee was kneeling on the floor, hands gripping their arms and carving long bloody scratches down them, where Whumper had flitted their hands over the pet’s skin. Each inhale rattled the pet’s form as they continued clawing at their own flesh. Whumper huffed a surprised laugh and came over to the pet, curling fingers under their chin to pull Whumpee’s gaze to theirs. “Tssk, does my touch bother you that…”

Whumper trailed off when they managed to force the pet’s face up, and felt a swell of anger when they saw Whumpee’s hazy, unfocused gaze.

They shook the hyperventilating pet by the chin. “Pet, look at me.”

More panicked gasps and wincing, eyes boring through Whumper’s collar. Blood began dripping down their hands as they continued working at their arms.

“Whumpee, stop this right now—” the growled, but Whumpee only screamed at the words and dug their nails in deeper. 

This…wasn’t right. 

Whumper impatiently dropped to one knee, dropped the pet’s face to try and wrestle their hands away from themselves, but Whumpee resisted, clamping their hands down on their own arms, scratching more furiously now. Between whines and cries, the pet was murmuring something over and over that Whumper couldn’t hear, and when they failed to force Whumpee’s hands away, they pulled their arm back to slap the pet.

Before palm could connect with cheek, Whumpee folded at the waist and slammed their head into the floor, hard. Whumper paused, again in shock, sure that the strike was hard enough to have rendered the pet unconscious, but they instead picked their head up again, whole body trembling, and slammed it down once more. 

“What the f—”

Whumpee repeated the motion, blood now trickling down their forehead, and wailed a god awful sound. “T-too!” Thud. “Much!” Thud. “Too!” Thud. 

When Whumpee brought their head up again, Whumper shoved their shoulders back and tackled them to the floor, the pet’s legs folding awkwardly beneath them, but their eyes only drifted up to the ceiling as they began instead throwing their head backwards.

No, no, no, this wasn’t right at all. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The drug was just supposed to snap them back to their body, force them to take in their surroundings, force them to respond. Maybe induce a mild panic attack, not…this. 

Whumper growled again in frustration and shoved their hand behind Whumpee’s head to try and stop the blows, but only managed to get their fingers crushed between the floorboards and the pet’s skull. Whumpee screamed and screamed and scratched and slammed their head down, and nothing Whumper did phased them.

When they at last managed to drag the pet’s torso off the floor, their head still swinging back and forth, they hastily removed their jacket, three times too big for Whumpee, and wrapped it so tightly around the pet that their hands could no longer claw at themselves. Whumpee thrashed a bit, before finally stilling, and letting the sobs overcome them. 

“Christ,” Whumper exhaled, “You really are broken, aren’t you, pet?” 

Whumpee, expectantly, didn’t reply, only shook like a leaf and stared blankly at the wall. Perhaps after feeling nothing for so long the sensory drug really was just too much for their fragile little mind. 

Whumper huffed and scooped up the pet, heading upstairs to get a sedative. They set Whumpee down atop the counter, keeping a hand on them to pull the jacket taut. When the drug was prepared, enough to outweigh the experimental one, Whumper finally released Whumpee from their hold within the jacket. The pet collapsed loosely over the counter, still breathing heavily and wincing at movement, feel, and sound, but their mind seemed somewhere very far away now. Eyes foggy and distant.

Whumper quickly administered the sedative, cleaned and dressed the wounds on the pet’s arms and forehead. They wondered if it’d be the last time they did so.

“I’m going to miss you, pet.”

Whumper looked over the little thing wistfully. The sedative was kicking in, and when they scooped up the pet again, they hugged them close, even limp and unresponsive as they were. “Okay. How about we spend your last night together, then,” Whumper whispered into their hair.

They made off for the bedroom, tucked them into Whumper’s own bed for the first time in all their stay here, and curled around the pet, pressing a kiss to their ear. Whumper scanned their empty, drowsy face and sighed.

As Whumper rolled to turn off the lights, they missed the disgusted, defeated grimace on Whumpee’s face, and the single tear that dropped onto the pillow.

[linecrosser]

Sometimes it is a slow process to leave the nightmares behind and find your way back to reality. Restraining him without being too restrictive is the best way to ensure he does not hurt himself or others in his panic and confusion.

Whumptober 2022 - No.1 - Unconventional Restraints

[emcscared-whumps]

WHUMPTOBER 2022 - 1: A Little Out of the Ordinary

"Unconventional Restraints" Whumptober Navigation Post

[(WHUMPY) IMAGE DESCRIPTION]: A young man/mer, Pete, lays in a dark alley with blue backlighting. Dim though warm light streams onto his front, while the same blue comes from behind. He has Caucasian skin, auburn hair, a scar on his left jaw, white and orange scales, webbed hands, and long, pointed ears.

He's been shot with a dart containing a special, glowing pink serum, different than the one hunters normally use. The serum forces shifters to shift, Pete is a mer shifter, and so he collapsed in an alley and is effectively rendered immobile.

He is still half dressed in human clothes-- a tan coat, light green sweater, and white collard shirt that pokes through at the bottom as well. He has propped himself up on one arm, and his red, diamond textured scarf and pale jeans are discarded before him

Since it's not natural, it is an incredibly painful process. Coupled with Pete's damaged fin, it is blinding agony. His whole body is shaking and shuddering, lined with tension. His orange fins are all flared as far as they'll go (and appear spiky), his tail, though it lacks coordination, is taut and curled, and his eyes are closed and face is twisted in a scream.

With his free hand, he reaches for the dart but he can't pull it out because it's barbed and embedded deep within his shoulder.

In the background, there are two silhouettes, hunters approaching their catch. There is also a random parked van.

Edit: uh, it might or might not've been after 0130 that i posted this, but i forgot to mention that this type of dart administers contintual doses that can last up to 48 hours :) it feels like acid in his veins :)), his shift might be finished but his body will keep pushing and hurting him until the dart is out and the serum wears off ^-^

[END DESCRIPTION] (Timelapse below the cut)

Background Image | The Hands I Stole | I forgot to keep the link of the pants lmao they're mine now *evil laughter*

I'll just pretend i remembered his boots/socks and cane and they're just behind him lmao

A timelapse, as a treat for making it through the description lmao :D

(it was brought to my attention that there is a built in timelapse function in csp :eBlurryEyes:)

[VIDEO DESCRIPTION]: A digital art timelapse of the previous image. [END DESCRIPTION]

[ladtheove]

Yeah, Whumptober is on ladies and lads, here we go with Jason again! ✨💖

Sketching fast, my time is short, but I'm on it.