#fighting whump

[yonbwekh]

Whumpee who is usually powerful, superpowered or just really strong, winning all the fights

Then they meet Whumper who's even more powerful, they go into the fight all confident and have to flee in terror, pride shattered

[gaylittlewhumpee]

Altair's Dark Years, Chapter Seven - A Fighter Or A Corpse

young whumpee, non-human/monster whumpee, fighting, forced to kill, death, blood, defiant whumpee, healing abilities/healing blood, punishment, bloodletting

Altair grew up. Grew up in the same fashion a broken sapling does – twisted, weird, but still fighting for its life tooth and nail.

She took Beorn’s advice to heart. Become a warrior, or become a corpse. And though the latter would surely be less painful, she still fought for every second of the miserable life she led under the rule of Orcs. Altair was not really sure why, what the point of fighting for every scrap of food and every sip of water was, but she kept on doing it anyways. Maybe it was her childishness, she thought, though that was soon beaten out of her. Yet, the perseverance continued.

Not after long, the presence of the skin-changer became Altair’s main reason to stay alive. Beorn was huge, strong, fierce, and kind. He reminded her so much of Alderan, who tried to help her and protected her from others. Beorn did the same now; in his bear form, he was a formidable beast, and the wargs did not want to mess with him when he was out of his cage. He chased them away when they were tormenting little Altair, until her fangs grew long enough for her to do it herself.

And Altair found that she could help him, too – the first time in her life she could actually be useful to another. The healing properties of Dreamwolf blood were not previously known to Beorn, not until one day.

When they dragged him back from the pit, Altair already knew something was wrong. Beorn was a fighter who walked away from the fights on his own legs. But now, his unconscious human form was thrown into his cage, next to Altair’s. The space between them was just big enough so that she could not reach over it.

,,Avake avhe Hundur,” snarled one of the Orcs and nodded to her. ,,Iav liwo niukh iav.”

After the few weeks that had passed – or was it days? Months? –, Altair had begun to pick up some of their words. Hundur was what they called her. Hound. She did not feel like one, small and scared and beaten. But that was what they were going to mold out of her. Niukh iav, she knew that one. Finish it. It preceded death.

She was dragged out of the cage now. It still angered her how the Orcs just grabbed and threw her around, and she snarled and nipped at them. When she was successful, she could take a whole finger like that, before they found something to muzzle her.

Not today, though. A sharp whack of a club made Altair yelp and cower, sharp pain shooting up through her left shoulder and wing.

,,You try that again and you get the Tamer,” the Orc hissed, making sure that she understood. Altair growled at him defiantly, but still, a chill ran through her spine at the mention. She shut her mouth. The Orc’s eyes squinted and he grimaced at her, showing his teeth.

,,That’s a good dog,” he jeered. His companion shoved her forward. ,,Parpara.”

Forward. Her stomach churned with anger when she was faced with no other option than to obey, burning with a hurt pride she did not even know she had. When her siblings overlooked her or when the Queen berated her or when the other wolves mocked her, she didn’t feel like this, because they were in the right – she was inferior to them, in every aspect. She couldn’t blame them for being disappointed in her. She did not feel angry at them, only at herself, angry and sad for not being better. But the Orcs? What right did they have?

It took Altair a long time before she came to terms that this was not a mistake. That Queen Aldebaaran did really, really trade her for peace. And that it meant that the Orcs – and mostly, their leader, whose pale hand rested upon the handle of the Tamer tucked behind his belt – were given every right to do with her whatever they wished.

But not in those first few months, while Altair was still coming to terms with her situation. In those first few months, she was still fighting back.

That anger was a great fuel. Under the Orcs, she was behaving in all the ways she could not even fathom while living back with the Dreamwolf pack. She snarled and growled and gnashed her teeth, bit and tore and mauled when she could. She barked, hissed, clawed at the wargs that bit her. She hurled insults at her captors. Never before had she been so loud, so willing to fight for herself.

So, when they had tossed her into the pit, Altair was almost glad to have something to take all that anger, desperation and fear out on.

She had seen mountain lions from afar before, but they were never this huge. The animal hissed and snarled, fur bristled, its greyish yellow fur stained by blood running down its chin onto its chest. Beorn’s, as Altair realized.

The lion pounced at her the second it saw the wolf. Altair’s wings flapped as she jumped away from its attack. She was less than half its size, it was almost as big as Beorn in his bear form. Only her speed – and her blood – were the only reasons Altair had not yet died in the pit fights. So she dodged and tried to get behind the beast, but the lion was faster. Its claws dug deep into her skin, tearing out pieces of fur, and she cried out. Kicking and squirming, she backed away. The cat was still at her tail, pupils almost invisible in its widened eyes. They were both terrified and angry, and at least one of them was going to die because of it.

Altair’s heart was beating in her throat now. What was she supposed to do? Gashes on her back bled and burned with strain, four claw marks carved into skin.

The lion chased the wolf around the pit, leaping from place to place, trying to pin her to the ground and finish her off. The Orcs jeered and shouted, watching impatiently. Panic clouded Altair’s mind. After a few successful fights, she had almost thought that she could take anything. A foolish thought, as she now realized. The stupid pride of a young pup learning how to bite and feeling that it is invincible.

I do not want to die. I don’t want to die, rang in her head dreadfully. Not here. Not like this. Please. Someone–

Something heavy swished through the air, and then, a pained roar was elicited from the mountain lion. Altair turned around, and saw that a thick jagged spear was struck through its hind leg, burying itself deep into the ground. Red blood seeped through the mud and stained the stone. The cat cried and struggled, trying to rip it out, but to no avail. The weapon had lodged itself deep, and the back hooks running along its tip made removal of it almost impossible. The weight of the spear had slowed the lion down, one of its legs now immobile.

Altair looked up, and a chill ran across her spine – because she saw the Pale Orc standing at the brim of the pit, Tamer in hand. His cold eyes burned down on his wolf. He scowled, gesturing towards the animal.

,,Niukh iav, woravhleuk Hundur.” Finish it, you useless mutt.

Altair winced. The scorn in his voice was clear to hear, even if she couldn’t fully understand him. The lion still hissed and barred its fangs at me, but its pale eyes were now wide with fear.

She had gained an advantage.

Her throat was almost closed with the ache burning through her heart. She felt so sorry, so sorry for the formidable beast now rendered slow and weak by one strike of a weapon. She did not want to kill the lion, not now, when it was no longer coming after her throat. But she had to. And in the end, making its death as quick as she could would be the kindest option.

It could have ended up like me instead, Altair thought bitterly. And that wasn’t a fate she would bestow on anyone.

And so she approached. The lion growled and snarled at her, snapping its teeth in the air. She dodged a tired swing of its paw. The beast’s breaths had become labored now. It was losing blood.

When her jaws wrapped around its throat, bit down and snapped, its last roar rising to the dead sky was an angry confession to the injustice that was dealt.

Altair stepped back and spat out the blood running down her chin and her heaving chest. Only now she realized that she was shaking, shaking with the closeness of death that breathed on her neck. It could have been me, rang through her head as she stared at the corpse of the majestic animal, a mountain of muscles and strength. It was almost me.

She slowly looked back up and dread overran the brief relief of surviving. The Pale Orc was scowling with disdain, his right hand impatiently playing with the whip’s handle.

,,Thrak Hundur avo alnej,” he gestured to two Orcs standing nearby. Bring the mutt over, he said. ,,Iav ukhall geav ij leukon.” It shall learn a lesson.

No, rang through Altair’s head. No, no. Please, no. Not another beating. Now she wished that the mountain lion had ripped her to shreds. A desperate whimper slipped through her teeth, but there was nothing that she could do to stop the punishment from coming. Her skin prickled with anticipation as dread started to close up her throat.

When the Orcs jumped down into the pit, Altair had no longer any space to back down. With fur bristled and mind clouded, a single thought circled through her head – there was no way out.

No other way but through.

The first Orc tasked with retrieving me to her Master tried to grab her. Teeth snapped, a sharp bark rang out, and before Altair knew it, her fangs were sinking and tearing through his flesh. The Orc shrieked and toppled back, kicking and squirming underneath her. A kick to the stomach made her convulse and a ragged howl flew out of her, but she did not let the Orc go. She was skinny, small and underfed – if her fangs yielded, he would kick her right off.

And so, instead, when she saw a glimpse of the creature’s softer, lighter neck, she spat out his arm and sank her teeth right down into it.

His flesh yielded, and blood spurted out. She tore out his throat. The Orc’s howls were muted by the blood he choked on, his hands grasping to his collarbones in useless panic.

Altair didn't have the time to see his fight subside. Anger and helplessness built up from everything, from Beorn’s injuries, to the death of the mountain cat, to the beating she was supposed to endure, how unjust and cruel it was and there was nothing she could do about it — it all swarmed through her, making her blood boil.

She turned to the second Orc before he could have the time to attack her. She did not give him time to move. Two leaps and she was at him, going straight for the throat this time. He collapsed, sputtering and squealing.

Fur bristled, blood running down her chin, Altair looked up at the Pale Orc, almost prompting him. Come on, come down here. She was not going to take this whipping without a fight.

What was on the face of the Pale Orc was not disdain now, no; Altair felt a bolt of surprise when she realized that he looked almost pleased. He nodded to another Orc now, prompting him to come down. The Orc snarled, but he did not dare to disobey. Drawing his sword, he jumped down into the pit.

Altair backed up, a faint growl coming out of her throat without her even realizing. She eyed his blade cautiously. The Orc hissed, waving it in front of him.

Azog, standing up high above him, nodded and moved two fingers from Altair to the Orc. ,,Sulmog,” he ordered her. Attack.

Like a snake, she bolted forward, keeping her head low and her stomach close to the ground. Her teeth clamped  around the Orc’s leg. She bit down fast and hard, tearing through muscles, and jumped back before the Orc could swing his sword at her. He cried, leg yielding underneath him. Another swift lunge, and she managed to get his arm. The blade rang against the ground. He could not stop the wolf with bare hands. A snap and a thrust against the stone and the Orc was down.

Before Altair knew it, there was another one, running up to her. She dodged his spear at the last second, scurrying away. She snapped at his heels, jumping at his shoulders from behind. He toppled, falling to the ground.

Azog looked down upon his Hound, and slowly, a wicked smile widened his mouth when he saw it tear another one apart. Blood matted the grey fur.

Good. He just might make something out of her.

>><<

Dragged back to her cage, Altair was covered in blood, both hers and Orkish. Legs weak and wobbly, head spinning, and mouth perched and full of the taste of death, she had no more strength to fight the hands touching her.

She got her beating nonetheless, but not before the Pale Orc tired her out. She lost count of how many throats she tore today, but she still knew that her success lessened her punishment – nine lashes. When she tried really hard, she could stay on her legs for a while. Still, the blood weeping from the injuries was making her head spin. The exhaustion ringing in her head was unbearable.

Beorn laid in his cage, curled up in a ball, naked and covered in claw marks. It snapped Altair out of her haze. She realized she had completely forgotten about him, about how they dragged him in unconscious.

,,Beorn,” She called out his name, outstretching one paw through the bars as far as she could. ,,Beorn, please, wake up.”

A low, tired grunt could be heard from the man. Altair whined, all tiredness now washed away by the sheer fear for him. Because if Beorn could not get up and go on, how could she survive?

,,Beorn!” She cried, voice strained and broken. At last, the man quietly grunted, shifting slowly. Quiet whines escaped Altair’s mouth. Without her even realizing, she was almost hyperventilating now. I cannot lose him.

,,Beorn, look at me.”

He did so, slowly, with great difficulty. His eyes were half closed, his face pale and strained. He had lost a lot of blood, and he held on only with the last bits of strength.

,,Altair,” he let out a raspy breath. ,,You… Still alive.”

,,Yes,” Altair whimpered, trying to reach over the vast stretch of stone that divided them, smudging the dark ground with red. ,,Beorn, listen to me. Give me your hand.”

Beorn shook his head, an amused tired smile appearing on his worn face. ,, …No point,” he breathed. ,, ‘m… Dead soon.”

,,Give me your hand, I say!” There was resolution in her voice not heard before, and her command was so demanding that Beorn, at last, did as she said so, outstretching his shaking hand over the cold stone. The red liquid pooling up on the rock, seeping from the lashes and marks crossing Altair’s battered body, slowly crept its way towards his own cage.

With desperate frustration, Altair gritted her teeth. It was not enough, she realized, watching the blood drip. Beorn still could not reach it. Resolution to save him hardened her will, and she sank her fangs down into the already torn fur on her shoulder. Pain surged through her, the lashes burning in agony, but she did not yield, forcing more blood to spill on the cold stone.

,,Beorn,” she urged the man. ,,Beorn, put it on your wounds. I beg you.”

The skin-changer’s eyes, half-closed with exhaustion, flickered weakly. He saw now that Altair was bleeding, and he frowned, his hand shakily threatening to withdraw.

,,Beorn!” she snapped at him, voice almost cracking. ,,Do as I say, please, please. You can’t… You can’t die.”

Beorn was too tired and too confused to have a reason to argue with her. His great palm smeared some of the red liquid as he tried to pick it up with the last bits of his strength. He pressed his trembling hand onto his stomach, onto the seeping gash. His face contorted in pain as he put pressure on the wound. Altair watched impatiently, pressed against the bars of her cage, eyeing him closely. Please, please, let it be enough.

Beorn drew in a sharp, hissing breath through his teeth, as his side had started to burn.

,,Take some more, come on,” the wolf urged him, her heart beating with impatience and desperation. Beorn did as he was told. He gasped for air suddenly and withdrew his hand – and Altair could see the bleeding ceasing and his flesh scarring over where the wound previously gaped.

Relief crashed over her like a wave, and the last bits of strength, fueled by panic, dissipated away. She laid my head down, her nose stuck through the bars.

,,How… How did you do that?” Beorn gasped, not believing his eyes. His hands wandered around his muscles and the fresh scar.

,,That’s what our blood does,” Altair breathed out. ,,That is why Dreamwolf warriors are so feared. They heal fast.”

,,Then why don’t your lashes heal?” the skin-changer frowned. Altair sighed, shifting in a vain attempt to gain a more comfortable position. Her stomach tightened as she searched for as indirect answer as possible.

,,The only reliable thing that can leave scars on Dreamwolves’ skin is another one of their kind,” she managed at last, avoiding Beorn’s eyes.

Beorn’s brows furrowed, then worry appeared in his eyes.

,,So that thing was forged by one of your kin?” His gaze widened when the horror dawned upon him.

Altair tucked her nose under her wing, closing her eyes shut. ,,I don’t want to talk about it,” she mumbled.

I don’t want to think about it.

A sudden clamor awoke her from her thoughts. She jumped to her feet when she saw the Pale Orc standing there in front of her cage. Beorn shuffled back in his own one, growling at him, and so did Altair, barring her teeth, still bloody from the fight.

,,Lathugi avo avell uuk liav ukecreav, Hundur?” he snarled. Altair could not make out what he was saying, but her heart still beat loud with terror. He opened the cage now, and stooped to grab her. Altair snapped her teeth at his huge hand, pale and merciless, but it only slapped her over the nose and yanked her out. He grasped Altair by the scruff of her neck, lifting her off the ground. The wolf hung in his clutch helplessly, whimpering in pain from the strain put on the lashes crossing her back.

Azog gestured to one of the Orcs he had brought with him to come forth. When the warrior did so, Azog drew a crescent knife from his belt, and slashed him right across the face. The Orc shrieked, toppling forward and grabbing his cheek, from which dark blood now poured, and his companions snarled and barred their teeth at Azog, but their leader only carelessly turned his knife and struck Altair’s neck with it, not heeding Beorn’s angry yelling. The wolf yelped out, feeling the burn as the blade cut, more blood pouring out from the loose skin between the nape of her neck and her shoulderblades. Azog threw the blade to the ground, collecting the red liquid with his other hand. He stepped closer to the wounded Orc, sitting on the ground and clutching his cheek, and crudely smeared the blood over his face. The Orc squealed, but soon his slanted eyes squeezed shut and the cut on his face closed itself slowly. The watching Orcs hummed in wonderment.

Azog chuckled, throwing Altair to the ground. She scurried away from him, hissing and growling like a rabid animal, but to no avail. No matter what she would do, she could not get away from him.

,,Gijak lav-li thag,” he said to the Orcs, pointing at the wolf. Altair did not know what his words meant, but she learned their meaning soon.

Bleed her dry.

taglist - @painwithoutplot

i dont know why this took me so loooong, ahah. anyways, enjoy altair going through the horrors:) i'm thinking of skipping forward and posting something with thorin and the main timeline of altair's story already.

[honeybunny-og]

[Fight] Flight Freeze Fawn

cw: explicit language, implied human trafficking, abduction, drugging, defiant whumpee, mentions of vomit/vomiting, beating whump, hand-to-hand combat, blood, bodily injuries (not gory), mentions of future female whump at the end.

When he’d first started, Clarke had assumed that the big, frat boy types would be the hardest to get. Their athletic bodies made them prime real estate, so to speak, but that also meant they would be hard to subdue and transport; they couldn’t easily be snatched off the street or thrown into the trunk of a car.

However, these types also tended to party, and they made themselves easy targets by never paying attention to their drinks. They weren’t vigilant like girls were told they needed to be. Their physical strength, and the audacity it gave them, became their downfall. After all, a little dose of K doesn’t discriminate, and Clarke could quickly swoop in and transform into a concerned friend helping his inebriated buddy get back home. The men could be easily guided into the backseat of his car and driven off. Then, out came the zip ties, with their wrists bound before they could process what was happening.

Clarke’s night was going smoothly: he’d managed to guide his newest catch into the backseat of his car with the help of another partygoer, a real Good Samaritan type. Clarke patted down the intoxicated man the best he could, pocketing his wallet, keys, and phone. A quick peek in the wallet told him the man’s name was Amir and he was in his prime at 23. As Clarke drove away, he started trying to calculate just how much his payout on this job would be.

Clarke was halfway to the drop off point, an empty warehouse on the outskirts of the city’s port, when Amir began to come back to himself in the backseat. Thankfully, Clarke had remembered to line the seats and floor in plastic covers, as the last one he’d had back there threw up all over the upholstery, and themselves, almost suffocating in their own sick. Clarke had to detail the seats three times for the smell to finally disappear, and that idiot had to be stripped and hosed down in the warehouse before they could see the buyers.

“Who are… what’s going—” Amir slurred.

“It’s all good dude,” Clarke assured, cursing himself for not realizing he should’ve upped the jock’s dose, because of course this meathead had to have a fast metabolism.

Clarke slowly drove through the warehouse loading doors, his headlights illuminating a group of men gathered around a crooked card table, a game of poker laid before them.

Amir was quiet again in the backseat when Clarke slipped out of the car. When he opened the backdoor, he was met with a battering ram of muscle. Amir had lunged out of his seat, knocking them both over, with Clarke now pinned to the dirty warehouse floor.

Before Clarke could regain his bearings, Amir bashed his bound hands down on Clarke’s head. Even though the man was sluggish from the drugs, his blows were still plenty powerful.

Reaching for Amir’s bound wrists, Clarke managed to catch them before he landed another blow. Clarke gritted his teeth, feeling his veins bulge in his neck, as he wedged a knee under Amir’s hip and tossed him to the side.

Amir landed with a heavy thud and Clarke quickly scrambled on top of Amir, one knee pressing down onto the man’s stomach.

“Stay down you piece of shit,” Clarke spat, the taste of sweat and dirt mingling on his lips.

“Hnngh—fuck you,” Amir groaned, wrestling his wrists from Clarke’s grasp.  

Clarke could feel Amir’s muscles roil and writhe under his knee. He could feel each stuttering inhale of the lungs, with each exhalation compressing them more and more.

Smack.

Clarke fell on his side, pain radiating through his jaw from Amir’s harsh blow. The taste of blood overwhelmed him and he let out a raggedy breath, watching as Amir did the same.

Clarke swiped a dirty hand over his forehead, brushing away the sweaty locks that tickled his brow.

He hadn’t noticed Amir quickly jump to his feet until a sharp kick knocked the wind from Clarke’s body.

Two more blows came in quick succession until Amir seemed sure that Clarke would stay down. Amir turned to the men standing by the card table, all of whom hadn’t bothered to move an inch as they fought. His eyes flared in challenge, expecting them to advance.

However, the men remained at their game, so Amir cautiously turned to the open loading door, not noticing how close Clarke’s outstretched hands were to his foot.

Amir fell hard, bound hands failing to catch himself when he collided with the concrete.

Ignoring the growing throbbing of his abdomen, Clarke climbed onto Amir’s  upper back, firmly planting his knees on each side.

“Get—get off me!” Amir grunted.

“No fucking chance,” Clarke hissed, fingers tangling into Amir’s hair.

He yanked Amir’s head back before bashing his face into the concrete: once, twice, three times, until Clarke heard the distinctive crunch of a nose breaking, and his squirming finally ceased beneath him.

Clarke stood, spitting out dirt and blood onto Amir’s back. He limped over to his car, grabbing a new pair of zip ties to bind Amir’s ankles.

The men were still playing their game of poker, so Clarke dragged the unconscious Amir over to them. Grabbing a bottle from the table, he took a swig of what he assumed was the worst scotch ever made, and spat it back out on the ground.

“You broke his nose,” a man, someone Clarke had never seen before, said.

“Maybe that wouldn’t’ve happened if one of you assholes stepped up to help,” Clarke grumbled.

“Eh, c’mon, we knew you could handle the bastard,” Don, Clarke’s usual contact, said. “If he wasn’t cuffed, maybe I’d’ve lended you a hand.”

“Yeah, fuck you too, Don,” Clarke replied. “Just give me my cut, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Don sighed, pulling a wad of cash from his pocket. “I know it’s past your bedtime, kid. Unfortunately, we will have to dock you for the nose—these pretty types ain’t worth much if they ain’t pretty—but I got another request for you that we need by next weekend. Just your usual: a young girl, healthy, thin, pretty—of course—”

Clarke’s eyes squinted. “How young we talking here, Don?”

“Please, we’re not monsters! Just another co-ed, like our friend here,” Don assured.

Clarke let out a heavy sigh, his battered abdomen aching. “Fine, I’ll get one by next weekend.”

Clarke took one last look at Amir, slumped over in the rusted folding chair, before he returned to his car and drove off into the night.

It’s just a job, Clarke told himself. What happens to them when I’m done, that’s none of my problem. My hands are clean.

He glanced down at the steering wheel: his knuckles white, dirt brown, and blood red.

[freefallingup13]

Naive Princess pt. 8

Part 7

Honestly my favorite sentence in this entire project is the last one in the first paragraph

Anyways here’s a beatdown

TW: Room-destructive beatdown, demon, post-beating exhaustion, non-graphic wounds (wounds are less like lacerations and more like dents)

~~~

The movement was effortless, almost graceful. With every swing of his arm, Jeff slammed Aidel into the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Every time he hit the dirt, he left a bastard-shaped hole in his wake, and Jeff loved it.

He wasn’t satisfied until he had used the boy to break every piece of furniture to bits. Panting heavily, he finally coaxed his ropes to bring the boy closer. He held Aidel suspended in the air in front of him, eyebrows furrowed as he admired his battered handiwork. 

Aidel was beyond squirming now, panting as he was finally allowed to recover. His head hung limp, as did the rest of his body. Jeff grabbed a fistful of that black hair and yanked it back to get a nice, long look at the pained exhaustion on his face.

“Let’s not dally, Callahan,” Gildenhos called out. “Restrain him.”

Jeff huffed. “He is restrained. But if you insist.”

Not bothering to use his ropes, he engulfed Aidel’s face in his hand. He turned, slamming the back of Aidel’s head into the ground, making the boy’s entire body jolt. He waited to hear a groan of pain and watch those red eyes open. Only then did he lift his hand away, raking his claws deeply into the boy’s face as he did. “Oops.”

The “wounds” left as Jeff lifted his hand away were more like dents than anything. Deep, angry scores were left in Aidel’s face, but his skin hadn’t broken just yet. The boy hissed lowly, but turned a heavy glare towards the demon standing above him.

Jeff wasn’t impressed, huffing as he put a foot onto the boy’s chest. “You’re going to die, you little brat,” he spat, baring his fangs at Aidel. “It’s over. I have the upper hand.”

Aidel laughed, smiling teasingly tilting his head. “Do you?”

As Jeff furrowed eyebrows, Aidel’s chest heaved beneath him. For one second, he could see the boy leaning up beneath his foot, blowing towards his face. A gust strong as a hurricane blasted into his face, bowling him head over heels into the air. The winds engulfed him, burning every inch of his body they could reach, and he screamed as he was overwhelmed.

[itsawhumpderfullife]

Whump Prompt #24

Whumpee’s hands were trembling, too weak to properly grip the pillow as they sobbed into the pillow.

They had just lost a fight they had to win and they knew what Whumper was going to punish them. Their body still ached with each little sob that wracked their body.

Their awareness slowly slipped away as their sobs ebbed away as they fell asleep even through their cries.

It didn’t matter that they couldn’t help how weak their arms were getting.

It didn’t matter that their organs were slowly shutting down with each passing day.

It didn’t matter their hair had already fallen out in clumps, forcing Whumper to shave the rest of their hair to make Whumpee look healthy.

It didn’t matter that they were dying.

All that mattered for Whumpee’s ‘sruvival’ was winning for Whumper, despite the fact Whumpee knew they wouldn’t ever win a fight...

Ever again.

[gaylittlewhumpee]

Altair's dark years, Chapter Six - Beorn

forced to fight, non-human/monster whumpees, whump aftermath, improv caretaking, making friends by fighting each other bc the evil orcs told you so:)

written from altair's pov.

After three weeks, three weeks spent trotting alongside the Orcs, three weeks of licking my wounds for a drink and having to fight for each scrap, I was still alive. And after those three weeks, we arrived here.

I knew nothing of this place, but even I could tell that this was not built by Orcs. The tunnels were too straight, the faded ornaments carved into the pillars supporting the vast halls too beautiful. It was the first time I was underground, dragged in there on a chain and paying little mind to the skill of the unknown hands that had carved the caverns.

It was an immense relief that I was not locked inside of them, but instead led out on a small, rocky plain. Even its dull greyness and the heavy clouds hanging overhead were a pleasure compared to the enclosed, unknown and terrifyingly endless underground maze.

Tied by chains so heavy my legs were barely carrying me, with aching muscles and with every move painfully reminding me of the gashes on my back, I was dragged forward. Before me, there now was a gaping black pit, dark and harsh, about three meters deep.

The orcs dragging me now stopped, and I felt a hint of surprise when they started to take off the chains. I looked around in fear. What new devilry was this?

A kick to the back sent me reeling forward. I yelped out, my paws slipping on the stone.

I was tossed inside the pit before I could do anything. My clipped wings flapped uselessly in the air, doing only so much to slow my way down, before I hit the rocky bottom. I growled, scraping up to my legs. I looked around. I saw nothing but the black stone, and a circle of orc faces up around the edges of the pit.

And then I heard a low, guttural, continuous growl that made my blood freeze.

I turned around slowly, and I saw a shadow. It was huge, towering above me, tall and intimidating. I could barely make out the contours of the creature, as it now stepped out from behind a nook of a stone. It seemed like a huge black bear, with flaming eyes fixed on me. His lips curled back now, revealing great yellow tusks. The bear growled, angered. I quickly scurried back, my heart beating in my throat.

The bear roared and charged forwards.

I jumped, dodging to the side, I slid underneath one of its great clawed paws swinging at me. The bear growled and turned, furious when his attack missed. I quickly tried to collect myself, to think, to try to outsmart my enemy, but my mind was blank with panic.

The orcs jeered and laughed when the bear’s claws buried themselves into my wing, and I cried in pain. Feathers and blood splattered on the ground. I howled and bit into his paw, he roared and shook me off. I rolled away, my head swimming with impact. The bear stood on his hind legs, growling.

I forced my muscles to contract. I bounced off of the ground, and with all the little strength I had, I threw myself at him. He swayed and toppled back, twisting and sending gusts of dust to the air. Anger busted out of him in a long, ferocious yell. He turned and charged at me, his great jaws wrapping around my leg. Bones cracked and shattered under his grip, and I cried and struggled, but to no avail. In despair, I beat my wings into his eyes, like a dove caught by a cat. The bear growled, shaking me around, but his bite lessened a bit and I slipped out, hurt and bleeding. My front paw was mauled and unmoving, pressed to my chest, ripped open and bleeding. The bear stood up to his hind legs once again, letting out a mighty roar.

A desperate need drove me to move. With the last bits of strength that I could collect in my body, I pounced into the air, and I wrapped my teeth around the bear’s throat.

The beast roared, falling back down on all fours. His claws teared and beat into me, trying to get me off, but I cling to him with all my will. If I let go, it would be my end. My wings flapped and I clawed everywhere I could reach, his fur, his eyes, face. Hot blood gushed around me, blinding my eyes, filling my nose with iron. If I go down, I go down with you.

The bear’s violent struggle was slowly ceasing. His breathing was becoming labored and heavy now, as he was losing more and more blood. I hung around his throat, floating on the edge of consciousness, my teeth driven deep into his flesh.

As I was slowly feeling myself to drift off, I felt the fur underneath my fangs swell and shrink. It may have just been an illusion, brought to me by exhaustion and blood loss, but when my jaws finally yielded, I felt a pair of strong arms cradle me. Someone was yelling, but it seemed far away. Then, all went black.

>><<

Beorn did not care for the anger of the orcs. His chest heaved, covered in blood, his knees wobbled with weakness. But he held the fragile battered body of the winged wolf closely.

It was small, more of a pup than an adult, with little prongs and soft feathers now torn and bloody, fur in the shades of gray. He felt furious that his wretched captors had thrown her inside the ring, that they almost had her torn to pieces. But she survived, he marveled, feeling the faint heartbeat inside her chest. She survived. And she beat him.

He washed her wounds with his own water that they were giving him. Though the Orcs scowled and prodded him, he kept his human form, huge hands handling the little beast with gentleness bear paws could not.

He forgot about his own wounds for a while. When he remembered to try his best to treat them, he found nothing at the place where the wolves’ teeth had buried themselves in his throat but a thick, healed scar. He huffed in surprise, and then his marvel deepened when he saw with his own eyes how the gashes on the wolves’ body left by his claws closed slowly, healing over into thick silver lines.

Then, the pup whimpered and moved her head.

>><<

When I came to myself, I felt thirst and dried blood in my mouth. The second thing I felt was dread; for if I was not dead yet, it meant more inescapable torment from the hands of the Orcs.

But the hands handling me now did not belong to any Orc. I opened my eyes and saw a great, tall man, wide, though visibly starved, with shaggy dark brown hair and unkept beard, reaching down his chest. He was naked, and his skin, overgrown with thick dark hairs, was crossed by scars both old and new, testifying that he was a seasoned warrior. He looked surprised.

,,Who are you?” he muttered under his breath. I winced when I shifted and tried to get up, squinting my eyes when reminded painfully of the earlier whipping.

,,’m Altair,” I said. The man seemed even more surprised when I actually answered his question, and his eyes widened.

,,You speak?” he stuttered. ,,Am I going mad?”

I sniffled, half-collapsing back onto the cold stone ground when my wobbly legs gave out. I slid down into a laying position, trying not to move my wings around too much and keep my backside still.

,,I do talk, as far as I’m aware,” I sneered. The desperation loosened my tongue up, making me react in ways I would never dare under Aldebaaran’s watch. But she was not here now. Because she fucking sold me. ,,But you might still be going mad, living like this. Who are you?”

,,My name is Beorn,” the tall man said. ,,I am sorry, Altair.”

,,Sorry for what?” I raised an eyebrow.

Beorn gestured to me. ,,For… trying to kill you?”

,,What now?”

He sighed. ,,Do you not know?” he shook his head. ,,You– you fought a great black bear.”

,,I did,” I trembled a little, remembering the way his teeth sank into my leg, the long claws, sharp like swords, slicing through flesh. Blood, pouring to the ground.

,,And you have fought bravely,” Beorn added. ,,I did not guess you would survive, not… like this,” he gestured to the wounds spanning from wing to wing.

I pressed my ears to my head. ,,You watched the pit fight?”

Beorn’s eyes were grave and sad when he looked upon me. ,,I did,” he admitted. ,,I did not have a choice.”

,,No choice,” I sneered. ,,You could have looked the other way.”

,,I could not,” Beorn shook his head. ,,If I did, you might have torn my throat open.”

I stopped at his words, my thoughts still slow and confused. Then, the realization arrived, and my eyes widened. I sat up, looking at Beorn.

,,You’re the bear?” I breathed out.

Beorn nodded solemnly.

,,I am the last remaining skin-changer that I know of.” he said, his voice nothing more than a coarse whisper. ,,In man shape, I am Beorn. In bear shape, I am forced to be a butcher.”

My ears shifted as I felt a shiver run up my spine at his words.

,,The Orcs have driven my kind from our homes, killing them, hunting them for sport,” Beorn spat, his face twisting with dark and pained anger. ,,They found great amusement in using me for pit fights.” He looked at me, sadness pooling in his eyes. ,,And the same they will do to you, little Altair.”

I could not breathe. ,B- But… I am not a fighter,” I managed to stammer out at last.

Beorn mournfully sighed, his voice softened with pity. He leaned in, his great hand running through my fur.

,,You better quickly become one, Altair,” he said. ,,Before you become a corpse.”

taglist: @painwithoutplot

[freefallingup13]

Naive Princess pt. 7

Part 6

FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT

TW: Acidic smoke/Chemical burns, gun violence, demons, blood, them mfers be fighting + with magic to boot

~~~

“Keep your filth off of me!” Aidel snarled as a spike of smoke spiked towards Jeff. They were in the thick of combat now, flying and swinging around the room. Between Jeff’s blood and Aidel’s smoke, none of the minors could get a shot in - everything between them was a blur. Every few seconds a desk would splinter, or a filing cabinet would get smashed in. Gildenhos had ordered them to put their guns away. Jeff was fighting, Jeff could handle it.

He stabbed a rope outwards, but it slammed into the wall. Aidel had flown out of the way, responding by whipping a tendril of smoke into the demon. Jeff growled as the smoke burned his skin - was it acid or heat? They had never gotten a full analysis of his powers. It was making things difficult.

"Shouldn't have trusted- you-!" he snarled, his voice distorted now that it had no Glamour. He stabbed his ropes into the ceiling, then swung. His claws were extended to catch Aidel mid-air,but Jeff found his hands embedded in the dirt of the ceiling.

“Oh, never,” Aidel mocked him, holding his hands out. His smoke slashed against Jeff’s bare back, making the demon hiss in pain. Aidel’s teeth grit into each other as he grinned, sending more tendrils to wrap around Jeff’s torso.

He never got the chance - Jeff tensed as he saw the smoke coming, and ropes exploded around him to cover him like a bowl against the ceiling. The smoke made his blood hiss as it began to bubble, but Jeff was getting used to the feeling.

Aidel had to turn his attention away - one of the minors had ignored the order to put their gun away, firing at him. He sniffed as he waved the bullet off-course with a small gust from his palm. Hadn’t they noticed how useless those guns were by now? It wasn’t like any of them had hit him, they only hit Je-

Distracted once again. His eyes widened as a black, wet-sounding rope shot out just a hair’s breadth from his nose. Jerking back, he redirected the winds to hurl towards Jeff once more. 

The demon was lunging from the ceiling when he looked back, one arm creating a shield of blood that blocked the smoke from touching his skin directly. Smart, Aidel could admit, but the air was decidedly his domain. All it took was a slight redirection, and the gales slammed straight down onto the edge of Jeff’s makeshift defense. The impact made Jeff flip off-course, slamming face-first into an overturned desk.

With a triumphant laugh, Aidel turned to the pile of hellspawn surrounding his prize. So much of the girl’s blood had been wasted, now, soaking into the ground. He could only hope that the ungodly amount of blood her system produced would be enough for the summoning.

Taking care of the minors would be easy enough. He used a single tendril to strike at the minor that had shot at him, heavily burning their arms so they couldn’t even hold the gun, let alone fire it. The shout of pain left a grin on the corner of his lips.

The tendril became a cloud, almost hand-like as it darted towards the group of minors. Burning Selena would be fine, as long as her blood wasn’t tainted. She didn’t need to be intact.

A blue, transparent bubble phased into existence around the group, making his smoke whisk harmlessly over the surface - and over them. He growled to himself as he scanned to see which one had done it. A familiar red scarf showed itself dully against the blue; it was that paranoid vampire boy, staring wide-eyed back at him as he cradled the girl. 

Aidel sniffed. Of course it would be the boy who almost ruined everything that decided to be one last hurdle.

Rolling his eyes, he lifted one hand, beginning to curl the cloud over the shield. There was a hissing sound as the boy flinched. Good - the shield could be connected physically to the boy’s pain. If he could make it just painful enough-

He ripped his hand back with a hiss, swiping his other hand across to blow away the fire another demon had summoned. No - not just a demon. It was one of the girl’s siblings. The Greed dragon - he’d lit the smoke on fire with a single breath, his cool, steady gaze burning silently into Aidel.

His teeth grit hard against each other. Great. A Patron, healers, shields. All the things he didn’t want to deal with. This was supposed to be easy.

Oh, and there was the other damned demon.

A black rope wrapped around Aidel’s torso, dragging him down with a steel grip. He started to wave his hand, but he was tackled-midair into the wall, creating a crater that shook the room.

“Got you,” Jeff hissed before wrapping Aidel’s hands to his sides with more ropes. As Aidel squirmed from the impact, coughing to regain his breath, Jeff stepped back, lifting him out from the rubble. He wrapped the ropes around his hand, gripping them tightly in his fist.

~~~

“Sir!” 

Gildenhos only slightly tilted his head towards the minor that approached him, running up from the hallway. “I trust you’ve informed my father about what’s going on?”

“Yes, sir!” The minor nodded. “He’s very wrapped up trying to get away from the crowd, sir. They’re trying to get Belial into position as we speak. Do I need to go back and tell him to hurry?”

“No,” he replied, turning completely forward with a nod. “There’s no hurry. Jeff has the situation handled.”

Part 8

[freefallingup13]

Naive Princess Masterpost

Summary: Selena is of high noble blood, being the daughter of the most powerful magic being on earth. Too bad her boyfriend turned out to just be using her for said blood.

CW: Lady Whump, Betrayed by S/O, Religion Mention, Ceremonial Blood Sacrifice, Major Character Death, Stabbing, Fire

Additional warnings are included in each chapter

Story

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9