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🇬🇧 Whumptober day 27

1 Let´s hang out sometime

I woke up, but my movements were restricted, my whole body hurt and my feet did not touch the ground.

When I got my bearings, I realized I was chained and hung a few inches off the ground.

-Welcome! It’s time to play a little- says a voice that I don´t know where it comes from, lights go on, and I realize I’m not the only one here. -Let´s hang out.

🇲🇽Whumptober dia 27

1.Pasemos el rato

Desperté pero mis movimientos eran restringidos, todo mi cuerpo dolía y mis pies no tocaban el suelo.

Cuando logre orientarme me di cuenta de que estaba encadenada y colgada a unos cuantos centímetros del suelo.

-¡Bienvenidas! Es momento de jugar un poco- dice una voz que no sede donde proviene, una luces se encienden y me doy cuenta de que no soy la única aquí. –Pasemos el rato.

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Box Boy 583299

Training Facility: Day 16 part 2

(Warnings: dehumanization, modern slavery, humans as pets, institutional(ish) setting, trans whumpee, mental conditioning, sleep deprivation, restraints, noncon touch, implied noncon threat, internalized victim blaming)


The first step he took almost sent him crashing back down to the floor. The chain was short and checked him mid stride, but he kept his feet. He would have to learn to walk with- what had Handler said?- grace and restraint. His legs shook like a new colt’s and he deliberately shortened his stride. Now the chain only caught him when he forgot. The soles of his feet were still a little bit tender, but nothing like they’d been after he’d walked without permission. It felt like pins and needles, like he’d slept with his legs folded wrong. ‘Like the little mermaid on land’ he thought, and then wondered why. He was so tired of his thoughts going on without him and then running off into darkness and pain when he tried to catch them up.

When they reached the showers the burly orderly had to unlock his chain so that he could get undressed, then relock it. He thought he’d grown immune to the constant lack of privacy, but still it made him feel nervous and skittish to have him so close. As soon as the chain was locked in place he tried to move away at speed, but it jerked him up short again.

“It will help you be good,” Handler had said. He guessed that running from the orderlies was probably not good. There was a little flighty burst of panic in his chest but he breathed through it, got under the spray of the water. It was warmer than the air today, luxurious on his tired grimy skin. He lost himself in the joy of soap for an indeterminate amount of time before he heard the warning buzzer cuing him to rinse.

It was harder the second time, to come close to the orderly and stand still as the chain was undone. He tried to distract himself with the freshness of the clean clothes he was given, but as he stooped to pull up the black shorts he felt a hand graze his bare back side. He yelled and toppled, tangling his legs in the shorts. The orderly laughed for a long time, then locked the chain tight again. He scrambled to pull the shorts up from where they tangled around his knees, shaking.

“I guess they haven’t broken you in yet. Oh well, give them time.”

Broken him in? He shook it off.

This time when he stood he struggled to concentrate. He wanted to lay down and sleep for a week and forget about everything, and he kept tripping himself up. Finally as they rounded a corner he fouled his leg in the chain and went down again. This time his ankle felt tender and hot under his hand, and when he tried to stand it wouldn’t hold his weight.

Tears of frustration rose in his eyes. He didn’t want to crawl again. Not when he’d just gotten clean, not when he was allowed to walk. His thoughts were petulant and useless, and he knew it. The orderly’s smirk galled him. Carefully, he used the wall to climb up on his good leg. He couldn’t walk, but he managed a little shuffling hop, and kept his feet even when the orderly yanked teasingly on his leash.

By the time they reached the door of his little room he was shaking from the effort, panting with his fresh clothes already clinging to hid sweaty skin. It chilled him in the cold air. As soon as the door was open he made for the mat, sinking down in relief. As the lock clicked shut and he started to drift off, he realized that he was grateful. The thought unsettled him somehow, even though he knew it was the right way to feel. He deserved nothing, he knew, so to be allowed to shower and sleep was vastly more than he deserved. His tired mind refused to wrestle with it any longer, and he sank down into cold, bruised dreams full of fear and pain.

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Training Facility: Day 16

(Warnings: dehumanization, modern slavery, humans as pets, institutional(ish) setting, trans whumpee, mental conditioning, sleep deprivation, restraints, sadistic whumper, creepy comfort)


The plush back of the leather chair creaked as Handler Benton leaned back in it. He’d paid a fortune for it, and it was worth every penny for the upper back support alone. His lunch was fresh and fragrant on his desk when the orderly led his newest trainee in.

He smiled. The boy was the picture of defeat. He crawled behind the white clothed orderly without raising his head to look ahead of him. His movements were halting and pained, and he swayed slightly as though he might collapse. Bathing was a privilege he hadn’t earned, and grime from the floor mixed with the sweat on his skin. Benton nodded to the orderly, and the man stepped back out of the room.

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Square fill: Helmut Zemo for @winterhawkbingo

Day 1 - shackled - @whumptober2020

Day 4 - gaslighting - Ten Trails (Trail Ten: Tricked and Treated) @yuckwhump

Prompt by @whumpster-dumpster got me started!

Summary: Subjected to a new HYDRA torture technique, Bucky begins to question his sanity and the existence of the most important person and relationship in his life.

Warnings: gaslighting, forced drug use, shackled, human experimentation, angst

Rating: T+

Word count: 1047

- o - o - o - o -

“I know what happened! I know he’s real, and you took me from him!”

Bucky sat across from the facility’s head psychiatrist, Dr. Zemo (What kind of a name is that anyway? Bucky thinks). He gripped the arms of his chair white-knuckle tight. All he wants is to escape this place and back to his and Clint’s apartment in New York City. Bucky doesn’t even really know how he ended up in the psychiatric facility, but the orderlies and the doctor told him he had a psychotic break. He has no recollection of snapping or “losing it,” so he just has to take their word for it. But something has begun to not sit right. Bucky thinks he remembers somebody, thugs, ambushing him as he walked back to their apartment, dinner in hand, and being thrown into a shady looking van. But that’s very fuzzy, so he doesn’t know if that’s real or not.

“The brain is a delicate thing, James, especially yours. You have such a big imagination; you make these daydreams, so you can feel better. You come up with these ‘comfort characters’, like Clint Barton.”

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Wrapping the plaid scarf tight around my neck, I stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind me. 

A hand grabbed it, forcing it back open. “Don’t forget the chocolate,” Declan yelled, leaning out the door of our apartment, before being pulled back inside by his shirt collar. I shook my head, lips twitching in a slight grin. “Carmel and Hazelnut, Amara! Don’t fecking forget!” 

“Get the heck inside, man, before someone hears you” Liam grumbled, the door slamming shut. I shook my head, jogging down the staircase to the ground floor. Outside, the autumn breeze caught my hair, whipping strands around my face. 

Despite the coldness, I embraced the sweet smell of rain, the crunch of fallen leaves under my boots. Declan and I decided the small town of Wolfville had a good … atmosphere, as Liam declared. We, our small group of runaways, wanted somewhere quiet and rural to settle. If only for a little while. 

And it had been good, so far. 

Locals didn’t question us, assuming we were university students from campus a few miles away, and welcomed us with open arms. Just yesterday, the three of us had been in town, adventuring, like we did every Saturday morning.

Declan joked with a few older women, while Liam questioned a man an incident at the shipyard. I had enjoyed the coziness of the little bakery, huddled up with a doggy-eared book, occasionally casting curious looks when the bell dinged and customers flooded in and out.

“Would you like a refill, dear?” Dorthy asked, the owner of the store, gesturing to my empty cup of coffee. 

I offered a small smile. “I’m about to head out, actually,” I said, “a few more errands to run.” Don’t forget the chocolate, Declan’s voice echoed in my head. How wonderful it was to worry about something so small, so simple, when the last year had been nothing but harrowing. 

“I’ll meet you at the cash -” 

The sharp jingle of the bell above the bakery door cut her off. We both looked up and I sucked in a deep breath. 

The two men in white stepped in. They both sported pristine white scrubs, each with a taser and radio at their hips. Handlers

These two know how to make an entrance, I thought, shrinking into my seat. Most of the customers gave them an odd look of wonder, turning to their cups of espresso and company without a second thought. They were both young, dark hair, probably mid twenties. The tall one, with piercing hazel eyes, stepped forward, cautious as he searched the faces around him. 

Red, the second handler, stayed by the entrance, blocking a potential escape attempt. No one seemed bothered by their presence, yet a cold shiver made its way up my spine. 

My heart thumped, blood curdling in my veins. Keep quiet, don’t move, I thought, maybe that glanced around the cafe, eyes blank and calculating. Maybe, they will look right past me, not recognize my bleached hair and weathered clothes. Maybe -  

Ms. Mayfield,” hazel eyes called, staring directly at me. 

Nope, I’m a goner. 

“Do not move,” he warned, charging forward. “I am -”

I bolted, heaving the scalding coffee in the direction of the handler, hoping it’ll burn him. I gave two craps what he had to say, what he wanted. I sprinted for the back exit, the cashier gasping when I shoved her aside. 

“Get the van. I can handle her.” I heard one of them call. 

I scoffed, throwing open the heavy door at the back, bounding into the chilly wind once more. Hazel eyes was on my heels, refusing to let me get away. Panicked, I headed for the park, hoping to lose the handlers. The park had woods I could disappear into, to hide, to survive - anything but capture. 

Capture meant a certain death. 

Things were a blur as I dashed for the park, crossing streets, vehicles nearly taking me out. Drivers honked as I continued, shouts of anger falling on deaf ears. 

In a slow whirl, I had slammed to the wet grass and a tangle of arms made my heart race, blood pounding in my ears. I couldn’t help but focus on the hands grabbing my waist, flashes of white over my head, the tinge of peppermint filling my nostrils. 

“Don’t make this harder on yourself,” Hazel eyes warned, flipping me onto my back. He straddled my waist, using his weight hold me down as he reached behind him, baring a pair of handcuffs. 

I fought him, thrashed and spit and swore, but it was no use. When he managed to encircle the metal around my wrists with a triumphant hmm, hauling me up to stand, I knew I’d made a mistake. 

“You can run, but you can’t hide,” he sang, his hot breath tickling my neck. I lifted my lips in a sneer, spitting on his shoes. His calm, nonchalant demeanour faltered, but only for a second. “I’m Stephan, your new handler.” 

“I don’t care what your name is, dipshit” I shouted, struggling in his hold. He let out a low, irritated breath, glancing up. The second handler rushed forward, seeming uncertain and flustered. Must be new to the game.

“Sawyer, let’s get her secured in the van and radio into headquarters,” Stephan said, with a sickly sweet smile in my direction. “Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you, Amara.”

I kicked out my leg, catching Stephan in the shin. He groaned yet his hold never loosened. Sawyer took my forearm, jerking me forward. “Well, ain’t she a defiant little one,” he muttered, shoving me into the side of the vehicle, the back of my head bouncing off the metal. 

The tall man stepped forward and smirked, a flash of hunger sweeping over his expression. “Mhm,” he said, winking, and reached out to stroke my cheek, “and the most fun to break.”

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Prompt 1
Part 1

Let’s Hang Out Some Time, Shackled/Hanging/Waking Restrained.

Warnings: Creepy whumper, abduction, bit of gross blood gore thing, stalker, horror

“Let’s hang out some time,” Martha said. Josh nodded, feeling a swell of pride in his chest. He’d done it. She was agreeing to go out with him! Awesome.

“Yeah! That’d be great!” he said, eagerly, impulsively, reaching for her hand, reaching to make contact with her. Martha took a step back, her smile faltering.

Josh faltered, too. He realized how awkward that was, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Uh…” he mumbled. “Okay. I’m gonna… that’s great. I’ll see you later!”

“Yeah… see ya,” she said, giving a tense smile. Josh nodded, turned, hesitated, turned back…made up his mind, and left the coffee shop.

Martha took a deep breath. She pulled out her phone, sent a text to the number Josh had given her, saying Hi! :)  And then she put it away. On her way out, she blinked and looked away from a guy in tattered jeans and plaid, and she checked around herself before she got into her car and drove off. 

Well, that date went alright. She hadn’t gotten kidnapped, and the guy seemed nice. Neat.


Two weeks later, Josh woke blearily in what seemed to be a basement. He blinked, barely able to see through the haze over his eyes. Pain shot through his skull from the back of his head, a dull ache with periodic flares. He sniffed, and a clot of blood hit the back of his throat. He almost gagged, but swallowed.

“Uuungh,” he groaned, shaking his head a bit. Big mistake, greater pain. He leaned his head against his arm, and then realized…oh. His arms were fixed above his head. Josh stared up at them. Between his hands, there was a pair of thick cuffs – shackles, held by chain to the ceiling. His heartbeat sped, making the throb in his head pound faster.

“What the hell?” he whispered, looking around frantically. There was a small window in the side of the basement. There were bars on it. There was a sink. Its faucet was rusted, the rust making a trail down the ceramic surface. Its pipes were exposed beneath. “Oh man…” he said softly.

The door opened. Down came a set of heavy, heavy, steal-toed boots. Tattered, filthy blue jeans. Stained plaid shirt. Cigarette set between lips, in a jaw dusted with grown-out whiskers. Ratty hair, unwashed for weeks, most likely.

Worse, a baseball bat leaning over his shoulder. The man was a little shorter than Josh, could’ve looked nicer if he’d put any work into his appearance. He was stronger, though, and that was obvious.

“Let’s hang out,” the man said.

Josh blinked, winced at him. “The fuck? What the fuck are you doing? What is this?”

“You said, Let’s hang out,” the man repeated, in a firmer, louder voice. Josh noticed a thick accent on it, like he was from the country. “You said that. To Martha. You said it, in the coffee shop on Ninth, two weeks ago. I heard you.”

“Who the fuck are you? Were you watching me?”

“Naw,” the man smiled, and by now, he was standing in Josh’s space – close enough for the stench of his breath to hit Josh’s nose and make his stomach twist. “I weren’t watchin’ you. I was watchin’ my girl. You said you wanted to hang out. Well. Welcome. We gonna hang out fo’ a looong time…Joshua.”

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Waking Up Restrained | Shackled | Hanging

The boy woke slowly, as if trying to pull himself out of the sand – the dream did not want to let go, lying heavy on his mind. Still, he retreated, as sand crumbles, making it easier to free himself. However, the sleepy haze remained, like those grains of sand stuck to the body that have to be shaken off separately. Hmm, why can’t he shake it off? Something prevents the hands from moving, holding them in, it should be said, an uncomfortable position. This circumstance makes him wake up more – the boy finally opens his eyes and looks up- are these chains? Why is he in chains? This discovery, like cold water, washes away any remnants of sleep, leaving behind only shock. Why is he in chains?! Where is he? Who dared to treat him like this! He’s the Prince of the Fire Nation Zuko, not some hippo cow on the butchering! And he can’t even kick in his frustration – his ankles are chained to the floor. How could this have happened?

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Whumptober Day 6 and 12: No More/Please Stop+Broken Bones

[Inky Depths Masterlist]

[CW: broken bones, blood, panic, manipulative whumper, unexpected whump]


Her head spun, and in the whirlwind of panicked, confused thoughts, one memory stuck out like a sore thumb. The voice of Mr. Schaal, flat and monotonous, dragging through a lesson in health class.

It can be hard to see when a situation turns abusive. Turn the page to 342. Often the metaphor of the frog and the pot has been used to describe the phenomenon. In essence, a frog placed directly into a broiling pot will hop free. A frog placed in lukewarm water will stay, and remain complacent as the water heats slowly and boils it alive. Marnie, I’d like you to read the diagram A.2, and...”

And for the life of her, Rosalind could not remember the water beginning to heat. It had been only days ago, she was sure of it, that warm arms had held her while she cried, gentle assurances falling like water from his tongue.

She thought of paper airplanes, folded painstakingly from assorted pamphlets, flying over library shelves and sometimes hitting her. More often than not missing, and always providing a laugh for those there to witness it.

She recalled warm, sympathetic smiles on cold evenings, and the soft wool of a tan sweater often passed to her before he left for the night. The tail lights winking at her as his truck pulled from the parking lot for the night.

She remembered a laugh full of wonder, the smell of campfire smoke and the rich earth surrounding them.

She couldn’t remember when the water had reached its boiling point. But she knew it was far too late for her to hop out. The restraints locked around her wrists made that point very clear.

It had been a normal afternoon. Well, as normal as anything in her life could really be called, anyway. She had been just…adjusting, honestly, as she had been for the last week or so.

She had gone from sleeping on concrete that seemed to soak in and hold the chill close to her to a real, warm bed overnight.

It was shocking, and a lot to take in. It left her weak and a little dazed, but Pascal had been kind, and assured her it was all perfectly normal. He had held her on days where the world seemed to spin around her, and she was left open and scared. Had tucked her into bed with blankets to chase away the lingering chill. Soft pillows to aid her to sleep.

He never seemed to get very angry, though it was clear he did have a temper about him. She wasn’t sure why it upset him when she wanted to go outside to see more of the landscape, but it made her nervous. Even if he did simply take a deep breath, and smile at her, and explain that it was simply a matter of their safety for the time. Especially in the state she was in

That made sense. She knew she was a mess, for whatever reason.

But that was nothing compared to this.

All she had done was finally work up the energy to pull her notes and papers from her backpack, and take up a spot in the little window seat to pour over them. It took her a few minutes to organize them, she wasn’t sure why she had left them in such disarray last time she had them out, but then she began sketching out the outline of the next chapter on a new page.

She was lost in her own world when Pascal came looking for her, and found her writing. She had been putting the last strokes on a sentence, dotting the i’s in her protagonists name and at the end of the phrase. He left the room for minutes, her none the wiser, and returned.

He did not necessarily have to be quiet to have easily snuck up on her. She would say, though, that she felt like the temperature of the room dropped. Still, her face was buried in the pages

Until, that is, they were ripped from her hands, and a rough hand gripped her chin, tilting it up. Alarmed violet eyes met hardened green, and there was an edge in his presence that she…had never seen before.

She didn’t know why, but he was livid

She hadn’t had the chance to ask, either, before her chin was released and the pencil plucked from her grasp. Then, she was being wrenched upwards.

She stumbled much, fear and lack of understanding a tripwire seemingly winding itself around her legs. “Pascal, h-hold on, i don’t, w-what’s-” she stammered, questions jumping into sight, then twisting and changing themselves in her head before they could leave her mouth, until she was left spewing nothing more than a jumbled mess of confused syllables.

He was unresponsive as he continued to drag her from the room. She tried to ease some of the discomfort by getting her footing and walking with him, but quickly her foot caught on the rug she had not known was coming up, and she tripped. Once more she was at the lacking mercy of his iron grip, and his ceaseless forward momentum.

There was no relief when they halted suddenly, and she was thrown against the dining room table. The wind left her lungs in a breathless sob as her stomach slammed against the side, and her knees buckled beneath her, suddenly forced into the task of keeping her up.

It was only seconds, during which she had not even begun to recover and much less to move, before hands grabbed her arms once more, coming from in front of her this time. They jerked forward, pulling her a little further up the table and leaving her on shaky tiptoes, until her wrists came to rest in circles of half metal.

Had those been there last night?

Swiftly, what she managed to assume were shackles locked closed, tight against her skin. Before she had even attempted to pick herself up from where she had been thrown, she had been thwarted.

All she could manage was to lift her head a little, pain faded now to give the fear and utter lack of understanding room to grow. Her eyes found the green ones she had gazed into so many times before, and was shocked to find she didn’t recognize the man behind them.

What had she done?

Movement drew her eyes from his face to his hand, which was reaching to pick up a large, smooth stone that was resting on the table. Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart seemed to stop beating.

“After all the kindness I’ve shown you, you go against the one thing I ask.”

She was shocked by the strong, frigid tone. She floundered first any grasp of what he could possibly mean. He…she vaguely remembered him asking her to take a break. Something about pausing with her manuscript and just relaxing for a little while. Surely that, that couldn’t be what this was about? Right?

Lost in trying to figure it out, she was caught off guard by the heavy rock smashing into her left hand. Her brain short circuited, unable to process the pain now layering itself over fear and sorrow and confusion. A high keen peeled itself from her throat as as it came down again, and again, and again.

“Pas-Pascal, wait, stop, stop please! stop I’m I’m sorry!”

Instead of stopping, he slammed it down harder. It fell upon each finger individually, smashing knuckles and dainty phalanges. It wrecked metacarpals and shattered tiny bones into fragments, a horror show beneath screaming skin, until Rosalind was nothing but a sobbing mess.

Her knees had given out after the first blow, and so she draped, dead weight, over the table. All of the weight centered in the wrists that were restrained to the table, pulling on the already agonized hands. She could barely breathe over the cries she could not fight off.

“P-please no more, please please, I don’t-don’t know what I did wrong please I’m sorry, please don’t hurt me anymore, please,” she pleaded

There was a pause filled with nothing but weak gasps for air and tearful blubbering, before he responded.

“If you don’t know what you did wrong, then you can’t be properly sorry. Guess you still have a lot to learn.”

The bloodstained stone was then swiftly brought down upon her right, and an agonized wail rang out like a prayer to a god who had no ears to listen.

“Good thing I have all the time in the world to teach you, little Dove.”

[Tag List for Inky Depths: @salamancialilypad @lektricfergus @oops-all-whumping @khalwrites 🧡🖤🧡 let me know if y’all want to be added to or removed from the list!]

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“Anyway how do we get out of here?”

Hope had asked the question about two hours ago and it didn’t have any actual answer. Ryan had already tried almost every spell he knew that would unlock Hope’s anti magic manacles.

Life had a way of being ironic, he thought. That bitch.

“What does it say on the cuffs?” Hope asked.

“These are the symbols of Vampire, werewolf and witch. Making it useful against all three.”

They waited for the new spell to work itself. Ryan hoped this would be the last time. He sat on the floor next to Hope.

“Who is Inadu?”

Hope smiled sadly. “She is the reason my father is dead.”

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Waking Up Restrained | Shackled | Hanging


His head whipped left as the back of someone’s hand connected with his cheek. At first it stung, then a numbness blossomed in its wake.

He drew a ragged breath. His lungs stung from the way he was hanging from his wrists, the multiple bruised or broken ribs sure didn’t help any.

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inspired by Gold On Your Fingertips by @kangofu-cb [read on ao3]

1. Let’s hang out sometime

When Clint wakes up and tries to rub his eyes, he immediately finds that he can’t.

Ah, fuck, not again.

There’s an alarm going off, that much he can tell, but his hearing aids have been removed and everything is muffled beyond comprehension. But there are red lights flashing, brighter and blinding when he finally pries his eyes open. He’s in a basement somewhere, or a warehouse. Everything’s dingy and dark and the place looks like it’s been flooded twice over. It’s gross. He’s tired.

Clint’s most pressing issue, though, is that his arms are bound over his head, the handcuffs binding his wrists slung over a hanging crane hook. A sliver of hope in this god awful scenario is that the goons who him up left his bow in his line of sight.

Clint groans, taking stock of just how much his body aches. His breathing is shallow from his chest being pulled tight, his head pounding—probably a concussion—and his ribs. Fuck, he’s definietely got a cracked rib or two.

Not to mention that he really has to piss.

He shouldn’t have had that milkshake during recon.

But before Clint can gather even a sliver of coherent thought to map out an escape plan, the door to the room he’s in swings open. He’s lucky he even sees it in his periphery, he’s less lucky that the Winter Soldier is storming over to where he’s helplessly bound.

“Cool,” he says dumbly. “Hey there Mr. Winter Soldier sir, you come to kill me? Can you make it quick? I’m late for something.”

The Soldier stops in his tracks an arm’s length away from Clint. He could make it quick if he wanted to. Clint can probably annoy him into just snapping Clint’s neck instead of drawing it out with exsanguination or something equally boring.

He stays silent, though, as he reaches up for the crane hook and pulls it down so that Clint’s arms fall down. And now that Clint has both feet firmly on the ground, he goes for a nut shot.

The Soldier catches his leg, though, quick on the uptake, and pushes it back down without restraint.

Okay. Not Clint’s finest moment, but even bound he can throw a good punch.

The Soldier catches Clint’s hand with one metal fist and grabs the chain, effectively creating a leash for him to guide Clint by.

“We are leaving,” he says, as if nothing even happened. Or at least, that’s what Clint thinks he says. He’s good at reading lips, but he doesn’t think the Winter Soldier is big on enunciation.

Either way, ouch.

“Okay. You wanna tell me where we’re going? Is there cell reception? Can you order a pizza? I’m starving—”

The Soldier yanks his restraints and whirls him around until he’s pinned up against a wall, then slaps a hand over Clint’s mouth.

“Be quiet.”

And while Clint knows he likes being manhandled, he’s entirely unprepared for the magnitude of the electricity that zips up his spine, to the tips of his fingers, settling at the point where the Soldier’s skin touches his own.

His eyes go wide, he knows, he feels them, but his expression is being mirrored back at him and when the Soldier pulls his fingers away from Clint’s face they come away looking like they were dipped in liquid gold.

Which means there’s a solid gold handprint over the lower half of his face that’s going to fade to black and stay there forever to let everyone know that he’s met the person he’s supposed to spend the rest of his life with.

His soulmate.

The kicker is that Clint can’t even hear himself when he says, “Well… fuck.”

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