#implied beating

Welcome to my presentation. A caning is usually associated with a thin flexibel rod. But I don't want that. Okyeahsometimes. What I want is a sturdy wooden stick. Because sometimes you need to whack a motherf-- Ahem. Let's start the presentation.

- Canes are about style! They give classy, stoic, cold even, observing, patient!

- But mostly, canes are all about anticipation. The ominous taps of wood that precede footsteps. The 'oh shit it's him'. Getting closer. A hand casually resting on the handle. Seeing the tip of the cane leave the ground, slowly raised; a prelude to pain.

- Start with a backhanded swing to whack them off balance. Followed up with some precision hits to the face or ribs. Or just completely let loose when they are on the ground, only stopping when they are screaming and begging for mercy--

- Precision damage with just the tip. A sharp jab to already broken ribs, to a vulnerable stomach, to zone in on bruises.

- Great to just lean the end onto their ribcage, or better: on their hand. And then slowly leaning forward, leaning more weight onto it.

- Embellishments. Imagine blood spatters on polished dark wood, on silver patterns. Wood reinforced with metal. A sturdy metal handle, shaped into something personal or just a round, orb handle.

- So yeah, if a beating with a stick is not giving the right results, turn it over, hold it by the end and slam that silver handle into them.

- Even more fancy: hidden weapons in the handle! A sword, knife, poison!

- But it doesn't have to be all fancy. Exhibit A: the simple walking stick with a curved handle. Perfect for yanking your victim closer. Hitch it around their neck while you whisper sweet threats in their face.

Right after being kicked in the ribs "f-fu-huck"

A cry that pitches up into a whistle

Getting tired of holding in cries, panicking, through the nose "hm, hm, nnn"

Pleading and they see aggressor not skip a beat taking down the whip, voice pitching up "I didn't mean to I just--please--"

Startled cry

Betrayed "what?"

Wheezing whimpers, tiny agonized whines, as they try not to move their broken clavicle by screaming

Self-debased whine of despair after their best plea went completely dismissed

The pain was still there. Their wrists itched and stung from the handcuffs that were no longer locked tightly around them. And they could barely move for their cracked ribs that made their breathing shallow and their whole chest hurt. But it was all only dull aches now rather than the constant onslaught reminding them of the terrible waiting game they were trapped in

Whumpee groaned weakly despite being more comfortable than they could remember being in days. Or had it been weeks?

The mailable thing they were propped against stirred and began to move.

“Shhhh.” A voice rumbled soothingly from nearby. A gentle hand reached up and began to stroke Whumpee’s hair.

“Just rest now Whumpee. You don’t have to worry about those men anymore. I paid the ransom and got you out. You’re safe now with me.”

Safe. That word sounded wrong for some reason. The voice that said it was calm and familiar, but Whumpee couldn’t place who it was from.

With the very little energy they had, Whumpee tilted their head towards the voice and pried their eyes open. After a moment their eyes focused on the sympathetic, smiling face of Former Whumper.

Whumpee jolted out of their dream very suddenly. Taking in a sharp breath that made their cracked ribs protest in a way that necessitated Whumpee immediately curling in on themselves to keep from crying out.

They were in a comfortable bed. Propped up on a mountain of fluffy pillows and surrounded by blankets that smelled like dryer sheets and home. But the chill was already deep in their bones and they let out an involuntary cry that had nothing to do with the dull pain in their chest and wrists.

“Whumpee!”

There was rapid movement from across the room and a few seconds later Caretaker appeared in Whumpee’s tear stained line of sight.

“Everything is okay. You’re okay. You were just having a dream.”

Whumpee fixed their eyes on Caretaker’s tired face trying to force themselves to remember that they were no longer in a dream. That this was the real story. Caretaker had gotten there first. Their kidnappers had been taken care of. And Former Whumpee wasn’t involved in any of it.

They wanted more than anything to throw their arms around Caretaker and cry. But they were still so tired at they could barely keep their eyes open, much less lift and arm. And when Caretaker reached out a hand to brush a sweat soaked lock of hair off their forehead, all Whumpee could think of was Former Whumper’s soothing dream hand and gentle, turned possessive stroking of their hair.

Caretaker immediately retracted their hand when they saw the little color drain out of Whumpee’s face.

“Is the pain getting bad again?” The urgency was fading from their voice now. “I can’t give you more painkillers for another two hours. But Friend is down stairs making soup I can tell them to hurry their ass up.”

Whumpee shook their head. Even that took seemingly to much energy.

“Former Whumper.” They croaked, blinking so slow they may have fallen asleep between the movements.

Caretaker blinked back at them for a moment before realization seemed to dawn.

“Is that who you were dreaming about?”

Whumpee nodded. Their eyes stayed closed when they blinked this time, squeezing out a few loose tears from between their lashes,

“Oh God.” Caretaker murmured to themselves more than Whumpee, sounding sad.

“Former Whumper’s not here. They don’t even know where here is. They tried to contact us when the first ransom note got sent out but we didn’t respond. As far as I know they’re still trying to scrounge up the money and won’t even realize you’re out for another few days. You’re safe right now. Can you believe that for me?”

There was that word again. Safe.

Whumpee wanted to believe it. They knew they should. Caretaker had promised they wouldn’t let Former Whumper weasel their way back into their life. And so far they had gone to every length to keep that promise. But it had been such a close call this time.

cw: hospital setting, implied beating

---

“Hey.”

Alonzo turns around at the sound of Bomba’s soft voice. She walks slowly into the room, her heels clicking solidly against the tile floor. Nothing echoes in the hospital room, but the sound of the monitors tracking Cassandra’s heart rate echoes in his ears. He hears it around every corner, whether he’s awake or dreaming, and often his dreams are filled with blood and fear and that infernal beeping. It never leaves him alone.

Bomba settles herself in the chair next to him and lays a hand on his shoulder. He watches her do it, out of the corner of his eye, but he stares at Cassandra, battered and bruised and sedated, unable to look away. The warmth of her hand travels up his arm. He should find it comforting, but he doesn’t.

It should be Cassandra’s hand on his arm, not hers.

They should be at home, not in the hospital.

Cassandra shouldn’t even be here.

“Al?”

He finally turns to her, choking on the tears he doesn’t want to shed. He’s cried so much already, in the privacy of his car, in the tiny bathroom in Cassandra’s hospital room, in front of her when it’s just her and him—

But can he really say it’s in front of her if she’s not conscious enough to hear it?

Bomba’s face is wrought with concern, her misty chocolate eyes searching his face. “Are you alright?”

Alonzo sniffs. He’s never cried in front of his fellow Protectors, he’s never cried in front of anyone, never, not even during his father’s funeral—he saved it for later—he’s never—

It’s too much, he realizes, it’s too much for him to handle on his own. He shakes his head. No. 

B was sitting in a metal chair that was nailed to the floor, their arms and legs shackled to it with iron chains and a thick collar around their throat, attached with another chain that was connected to the wall behind them.

The team had taken every precaution to make sure B wouldn’t be able to get away.

Still, it took everything A had to unlock their muscles to move forward into the room.

B watched on with amusement pulling their lips to a slow smile.

There were heavy shadows coloring B’s face and arms, and A suspected they would shortly bloom to bruises, no doubt put there by C.

C might’ve been scared of B too, A thought, but at least they didn’t freeze up, they did something with their fear.  A wanted to be brave enough to do something too. That’s why they’d come down here, to look B in the eyes and tell them off, tell them they couldn’t hurt A anymore and they never would, ever again.

But before they could muster up anything to say, B had lost their patience, and beat A to it.

“Do you feel powerful now? Finally being able to do to me what I did to you, that one time. Are you getting your sweet revenge? Unlocking your true potential.” B stared at them intently and leaned forward, stretching the chain as far as they could.

A recoiled and stepped back and B let out a cold laugh.

“I’m… I’m nothing like you!” A sputtered, their eyes going to the chains, the iron collar, just to make sure, to calm themself. B wasn’t going anywhere. They couldn’t do anything now.

“No, I guess not.” B said after watching A for a moment.

Suddenly they slumped back in the chair, making the chains clink and A flinched again. “You’ve actually deluded yourself you’re doing good in this world. That you’re some kind of hero.” B’s smirk turned to a disgusted sneer.

A dared a glance at their face, their eyes. B looked… disappointed?

Something swelled in A at that. A had worked so hard to change. To become something different, something better. To forget everything that had happened.

And now, maybe B could see it too. Not that A had to prove themself to someone like B. But they wanted to.

“I haven’t killed people.” It came out barely a whisper, but it made them feel… stronger.

B’s eyes slimed to slits. Something in their jaw twitched.

They huffed, the sound so utterly filled with disdain that it made A look them in the eyes again.

“Hm, I think D would disagree.”

And just like that, their courage left them, sinking to the floor and through it.

“That… that wasn’t-”

“Intentional?” B cut in. There wasn’t even a drop of humor left now. “An accident? Not your fault?”

The words rang in A’s head. It was exactly what C had told them, reassured them with. It didn’t sound reassuring when it came from B. It sounded like damnation.

“D’s still dead. Intentional or not.” B spat at A.

a ragged sob escaped A before they turned and finally bolted from the room, not even slamming the door shut on their way out.

B scoffed humorlessly and tipped their head up, willing the burning in their eyes to stop.

For erystos and seraphina

tol and smol prompts

CW: demon whump, implied beating, implied humiliation, comfort, angel x demon

I do now!

-a journalist whumpee who will do anything to pursue the story, someone who refuses to let the truth go undiscovered, no matter the cost

-restless nights filled with racing dreams. They can’t shut their brain off. Obsession with the story pulls them from the bed. Another pot of coffee at 2am.

-stress-chewing plastic pen caps until their jaw is sore

-tiny pocket notebooks they use to take notes on the go. If Whumpee misplaces them for a moment, or straight up loses one, they slip into a breathless panic, patting their pockets, upending the furniture, until it's found

-always, always dark bags under the eyes

-total lack of self-preservation. They throw themselves into the craziest scenarios to pursue a lead, even situations they know will turn dangerous

-showing up to work with bruises from back-alley beatings, sprained ankles from running all over the city, cuts and scrapes from climbing over barbed wire fences. They always write off the injuries as silly accidents. No one buys it, of course

-going undercover in the Villain/Whumper’s headquarters, sneaking around, snapping pictures of important evidence whenever they can. The story comes first, but they admit: the adrenaline rush is a welcome perk

-getting caught by security/minions and dragged into the boss’s office for...a talk

-Whumpee doesn't go quietly. A blow to the head makes them see stars. The digital camera in their pocket shatters against their hip when they fall. They don't do a lot of talking or fighting as they're nearly dragged the rest of the way

-kneeling before of the villain, squinting through the black spots in their vision, trying to focus on the room, always looking out for story-important details, but the room is spinning, spinning...

-choking through the bitter cloud of cigarette smoke blown in their face until they can't help but cough

-hands ripping back their shirt collar, exposing the skin from the base of their neck down to the round of their shoulder. They protest, confused, tugging, twisting, trying to wrench their arms free from the guards' hold

-when they see the cigarette, their song changes. Whumpee steps back into the guards, making as much distance as they can from the glowing cigarette

-with a stoic, almost bored expression, Villain presses the cigarette into the shallow divot above their clavicle with a sickening hiss. There's no chance to respond, only scream, as the searing pain blossoms out. Villain holds it there for a long time, until the hissing stops, until Whumpee thinks it's been fused to their skin