18+ only - Resus - Havoc (he/they)
Just a fun little place to put my CPR and resus writing!!
Don't be afraid to interact, I love RP and chatting
about OCs going through it :)
I write: whump, successful cpr/resus, drowning, rescues, choking, aftercare, pure porn sometimes (my boys deserve to fuck nasty after all), team dynamics, polyamory, post-post apocalypse high fantasy, modern fantasy, LOTS of gay and bi boys (because I like men a whole lot)
I have some OCs with the serial numbers shaved off, so if you recognize my writing style or characters, good job! ;) It can be our kinky little secret.
I also RP privately! I can do victim or rescuer, and all my ocs are boys but I'm open to any gender to play against. I'm also just down to chat or vibe! First time RPers are very welcome, too, I might be newer to resus RP but I've been RPing in general for almost two decades.
Characters (all available to RP with)
Mars: early-thirties, transmasc but 6'0, no surgery but yes hormones, stoic, secretly so so anxious. Ex-military, a strong swimmer, BAD resting bitch face, lowest possible luck in terms of avoiding Bad Things Happening, highest possible luck with surviving. My babygirl, my sweetiepea, will be suffering so much. Terrified of drowning. :) Sometimes he's a mage prince, sometimes he's a swordsmage in a lush post-post apocalypse world.
Bartizan (Bar or Barti): late thirties, bear, cisgender man, 7'0 dragon shifter, boisterous and good-natured. Wealthy, super protective, pretty and he knows it. Very babygirl as well, strong enough to do one-handed compressions and delicate enough to cradle someone afterwards. Sometimes he's a dragon prince, sometimes he's a wild, rowdy dragon in love with his favorite traitor.
Litany: Mid-thirties, cisgender man, ex-military, a healing mage who isn't afraid to draw his gun or get brutal to preserve a life. Bubbly and sweet otherwise, also itty-bitty at 5'6 and very much a twunk. Sometimes he's a royal doctor, sometimes he's a disgraced medic, wandering with his favorite disasters.
Kostas: late-thirties, cisgender man, 6'4 ex-military, the tech and bomb specialist, also Litany's medical assistant. If you need it done, he's your guy. Also a goth with a horrible resting bitch face. Wields lightning like he's done it all his life. Sometimes he's a chef, sometimes he's just a scary mage with huge beautiful biceps.
Metrie: early-forties, cisgender man, 6'0 ex-military, the leader of the group. Acidic, mean, he's not really here to be nice but heaven forbid you cross him or his boys. Terrified of losing anyone else, will haul you out of the jaws of death himself if he has to. Hates the cold. :) Sometimes he's head of the royal guard, sometimes he's just mean.
Dallas: early-forties, transmasc and 6'2, yes top surgery no bottom surgery and yes hormones, ex-military, the glue that kept them all together. Bright, shining, happy personality, if you look up german shepherd boyfriend his photo is in the definition. Just wants people to feel safe, can in fact carry you to safety. Weak heart, though. :) Sometimes he's second in command of the royal guard, sometimes he's just doing his best.
Leo: mid-fifties, cisgender man, 5'8 ex-military. Was in charge of their spec ops group, lost everything when Mars whistleblew. Sorta kinda never got over it. Terrified of losing anyone to anything that could be prevented, deeply paranoid. Sometimes he's the royal advisor for Mars' dad, sometimes he was head of the mage training program for the tyrant king Mars slayed.
Something I think is very fun that doesn't get talked about outside of whump spaces is just how hard it is to feel a pulse when you're freaking out. Like especially your own, but even someone else's can be a nightmare to get if your own heart rate is elevated at all. The panic, the drama, the intensity of not knowing if someone is alive because you can't FEEL it, god it's so good.
Desperate breaths, urgent compressions, begging them to wake up, to stay with you. A rib gives and they wince or groan or their eyes flutter open but when you check there's still nothing and that shouldn't be possible, but you're no doctor so maybe it is. The body is weird and all you know is a pulse is maybe the most vital thing to have, so you keep trying. Like do you see the vision?
Since some of us have noticed a lack of cardiophilia centered/heartbeat related prompts on this site, I've come up with a short, non-exhaustive list to boost your writing!
Text version under the cut:
CARDIOPHILIA/HEARTBEAT RELATED PROMPTS
SOFT:
accidental listening
"your heartbeat is soothing"
hand to one's chest while kissing
falling asleep to the beat of one's heartbeat
feeling one's heartbeat through the clothes
sometimes, home is two arms and a heartbeat
after exercise heartbeat
"can you hear it/feel it? It beats just for you"
tired after a long day
reacquainting with someone's heartbeat
WHUMP:
collapsing after strenuous exercise
bad fit of tachycardia
"fuck, my chest hurts"
cardiac tamponade
overdose
medicines don't work/failed healing magic
heart disease
defibrillation/cardioversion
heart torture
cardiac arrest
NSFW:
drugged heartbeat
self-stething
comparing pulses
playing doctor
lazy morning
heated fuck
making out while hooked up to an EKG
"I wanna make your heartbeat run like rollercoasters"
Characters who are so exhausted that breathing feels like a chore. They've been through so much, they've been so hurt, dragged through the blender then the wringer and back through the blender again. They're safe now, and stable, but they're lucky to get their eyes open or speak, much less form thoughts.
The blankets are a godsend for their chilled body, so tired that heating itself is hard work. A hand on their forehead is inescapable, but they don't want to slip free. The thumb sliding along their hairline, or the bridge of their nose, it's soothing.
"Shhh." A familiar voice soothes. "Shh. You need to sleep to heal properly." This hand, that voice, neither has ever meant bad things. "I'll be right here."
The warmth, the pressure, the softness that surrounds them, everything delicately pulls them back down into sleep. They're safe here. Maybe it's okay to rest a little longer.
Mars, splayed out on the ground, pale and weak with his eyes fluttering. Dark hair spread out under his head, curls trying their best to cushion him from the unforgiving floor. Shallow gasps and a racing heart, his hands trying to undo his own shirt.
"Hh...!" He tries, the plea not making it past his chest.
His head rolls to the side, eyes casting about for someone, anyone who could help. It makes his glasses skew on his face, pressing into his cheek. It doesn't help to keep him any calmer.
He wishes he knew what was happening. He wishes his voice would work. He wishes he could remember where he was.
Litany and Mars are SO cute so time to put them on everyone's dash
Contains: post-resus care, talk of broken bones, a soft careful medical exam between a prince and his doctor, a feverish prince, a doctor who might be flirting but with a 106 degree fever who knows, listening to a racing heart, does this count as cardiophilia? It might who knows it's cute tho c:
"Hm, I don't like that fever." Litany's voice swam in the air. His hand rested on Mars' forehead, cool as ice on his prince's heated skin.
Mars frowned, a low groan escaping as another wave of aches pulsed through his joints. "That makes two of us." He muttered, clutching his thin sheet tighter to himself. It was all Litany allowed him to have, his other blankets stripped from his bed and folded neatly in a corner of his room. "You won't even let me have my paperwork."
"Correct. You are still recovering from the cold you had prior to that kidnapping, the kidnapping itself, the drownings that happened while you were kidnapped, and the broken ribs we gave you while resuscitating you during the rescue." Litany said, voice even as he took Mars' wrist in his hands. Two fingers pressed to Mars' pulse, the too-quick pace almost as impatient as the man it belonged to. "So the most strenuous thing you're allowed to do until you're well again is walk to the washroom."
Mars groaned again, this time in displeasure. "I can't even take a bath?" He was sticky from sweat, his chest feeling gross and heavy from struggling to take even a slightly deep breath.
"Not without myself, Dallas, Metrie, or Kostas there." Litany said, without missing a beat. "And not a hot one. If you weren't a fire mage, your temperature would be a dire emergency instead of just very serious. I don't like your pulse either."
Litany stood from his seat beside his prince's bed, reaching into his bag for his stethoscope. "This will be cold, bear with it."
As promised, it felt like ice when Litany pressed it to Mars' bare chest. He felt his heart race quicker still, a nervous rabbit desperate for a chance to sprint. The lightning bolts of pain that wound through his ribcage from his sternum lit up when Litany applied a little more pressure. The stethoscope bounced with every beat of his heart.
Mars bit back the whine that so desperately tried to crawl up his throat.
"Breathe as deep as you can." Litany said, sliding the now-warm metal up under one of Mars' breasts.
Mars did, slowly, delicately. His heart raced as he did, sending his head spinning. He felt every shift and creak of his bones, not quite pain but a far cry from being comfortable.
"Good." Litany murmured, his other hand resting on Mars' sternum. Careful fingertips lay against Mars' skin, taking in the hidden bumps and ridges caused by the desperate CPR from days ago. "Good, there's congestion that I want to keep my eye on, but nothing unexpected all things considered."
Mars watched as Litany kept examining his ribs. He slid his hand along the curve of Mars' ribcage, taking in the true extent of the brutality he'd forced Mars to endure. His touch was gentle this time, no unending pressure or vicious snapping of bone.
This was what Mars associated with Litany, no matter how many times he felt the wintery lightning rip through him or was reminded of just how strong his doctor was. The quiet, careful moments of care. The practical reassurance from every decision Litany made.
The stethoscope slid to the other side of his chest, Litany's wrist delicately supporting Mars' other breast. "One more deep, slow breath for me." He said, his voice a balm against the creaking pain that spread through Mars again.
Mars exhaled slowly, fighting the urge to cough. When Litany leaned back, Mars couldn't stop himself from giving in. He tried not to curl in on himself, letting Litany steady him.
Warm, light brown eyes met Mars' when he was able to catch his breath, Litany's brows creased in worry. He cradled Mars' face in his hands, thumbs tracing his flushed cheekbones. "I might see if Metrie has time to help you take a bath." He said, pressing his inner wrist to Mars' forehead. "We really need to cool you down and get you to relax a little bit. Don't need your heart giving out from all the stress."
"If you're certain," Mars started, keeping his voice low to match Litany's volume. In his room like this: alone, and in the haze of a raging fever, Litany looked like an angel. "I know I was complaining earlier, but it's not--"
"Shh, your highness." Litany said. "If the worst you do while sick and suffering through broken bones is politely whining for a bath, that's more than fine." His freckles bunched up at his cheeks when he smiled, Mars couldn't look away. "Now let's see about a lukewarm bath and some of that tea you like in the evenings."
Contains: M victim, m rescuers, multiple rescuers, minor character death, like really vicious gory murder but it's deserved, near drowning, mouth to mouth, heimlich maneuver, chest compressions, CPR, victim POV, royal whump, like just the soggiest prince and his family's loyal loyal dangerous mages, conscious CPR (or close to it), just a GOOD dramatic rescue by men capable of both incredible violence and tenderness
Metrie breathed behind his mask through gritted teeth, harsh and deep. The air was thick with blood already as he pulled his plasma forward again. "Breaching!"
Shouldering the door open in front of him, Metrie felt his blood run cold. A few men, clothed in the colors of the Winged Cities stood over Prince Mars, who lay still and draped over a basin of water. Before Metrie could give the order, Kostas and Dallas leaped.
They sailed through the air like starving panthers, plasma at the front of their masks and at their gloved palms. Metrie took the leader, swiping his brilliant, sun-hot sword twice as he darted forwards. The man's torso fell one way, his head fell another.
Behind him, he heard Litany hauling Mars out of the water. "Your highness--your highness, we're here."
Metrie ran over, his knees smarting as he dropped to the floor next to them as Litany began to straighten Mars out. He drew his dagger, slicing Mars' waterlogged layers off for their doctor. "Litany, what do you need from me?"
"Breathe for him when I tell you to."
-
Mars felt...heavy. Everything felt heavy. He was too tired, too cold, too everything.
He couldn't remember why. He remembered being afraid, terrified even. Now it was just dark.
Something kept pressing into him, down against him, he couldn't breathe from how rough and harsh it was. Mars' throat felt too full, all at once, and he couldn't cough.
He did anyway, though, when his stomach was pumped again. Before he could stop himself water spilled from his mouth and nose. He wanted to stop it, wanted to swallow it back down. He had to be making such a mess.
He was too tired to clean it up--this was impolite. The cleaning staff would be so afraid if they found him like this. His arm twitched as he tried to roll onto his side, a choked noise escaping.
"Mars--that's it, c'mon, give me something to work with."
Doctor Litany was there? Mars felt shame roll even higher in his chest, following the rush of more water spurting from his mouth. His stomach kept getting shoved against, harsh and insistent, as though Doctor Litany thought he was choking.
"Now, Metrie."
The awful, painful pressure ceased, and then lips were pressed to his. Hot air rushed down his throat instead, down into his chest. It was almost like the time Dallas had helped him breathe.
It lessened some of the heaviness, brushed away some of the cloying fog in his head. When he exhaled, an awful, rattling gurgle escaped. Again, Mars' mouth was covered by Metrie's and he was forced to accept another deep breath.
Calloused, burned fingertips pressed to either side of Mars' face, almost cradling him as instead of his stomach, this time the awful pressure started pumping his chest. Water still bubbled up from his lips, and Mars tried to remember why that would even be happening.
He didn't remember seeing Leo.
"Mars--c'mon, I just--I need something." Litany's voice was tense.
Off to the side, heavy footsteps ran over, and Kostas' voice drifted in.
"Let me take over after this cycle." The warm baritone washed over Mars, easing something in him.
Sure enough, Litany's slender hands were replaced with larger, softer ones. There was so much more strength behind them, too. Mars' chest bowed deeper with every compression.
It hurt. It hurt like the time that Leo taught him how to cope with the pain of broken ribs. Each pump forced a soft whimper or whine from him, his brows creasing.
More hands wrapped around one of Mars', and Dallas' voice joined the sounds around him. "That's it, your highness. It's safe to come back, they won't hurt you anymore." His thumbs traced the back of Mars' hand.
"Yeah. Cough it up, brat. Take a breath." Metrie's voice sounded thick with emotion, even as the rough nickname stirred something else in Mars' chest.
"Again, Metrie, give him more air." Litany said, just as the compressions stopped.
Like before, Metrie's mouth sealed over his and Mars' lungs were filled. His chest jerked when he hit the limit of what he could take, and when Metrie lifted up Mars started to cough.
It was a wheezing, rattling, harsh bout that threatened to rip Mars' throat to shreds. The four Shadowguard all began to move, talking low amongst themselves. Hands, warm and soft and safe helped him onto his side, rubbed his back, pressed to his chest and forehead and side to steady him.
A cloak was draped over Mars as he began to gasp, fingers burying themselves in the soft rabbit fur as he coughed up what felt like the entire tub of water that he'd been forced under. He really was making a mess this time. Metrie's fingers slid through Mars' hair, puling it away from his face and off of his throat.
It all rushed back in, leaving Mars shaking like a leaf. He'd been kidnapped. He'd been tortured. He'd drowned, over and over and over.
He thought he was going to die, and that left him clutching the cloak even tighter.
Kostas lifted Mars into his arms as coughing settled into gasping, cracking sobs. "I'm--god, I'm sorry, I didn't--" Mars wanted to promise that he hadn't given anything up. "I didn't say an--anything, I'm s--"
Kostas shifted him in his arms, letting Mars hide against his chest. "We know, your highness. You wouldn't, just like you wouldn't just leave us like that." As they left the building and Dallas and Metrie began to set fire to the place, Kostas settled himself and Mars on the largest lesser dragon of the group.
Once they were situated, he tipped Mars' head back, giving him another breath. It soothed more of the panic, calmed his racing heart a little bit more. "I...I shouldn't sleep." Mars mumbled, even as the intoxicating warmth invited him down.
"No, you shouldn't." Kostas agreed, helping him sit up more as the others hopped on their dragons. They started off, the sway of the dragon sending magma through Mars' ribs.
He shuddered, blinking back tears. Pain would keep him awake. This pain was fine. It was just a sensation, and sensations could be endured.
Kostas' voice brushed away the worry as surely as strong arms kept him upright. "I'll keep you breathing, your highness. Just focus on staying awake and keeping your heart beating."
One last one for the CPR awareness prompts.
This one's #14-Magic
The girl, Lark, is a poet who writes all her feelings in secret poems. So she's cursed to have her lungs fill with the ink of all her words, which she drowns in...multiple times.... many times :B..
ANYWAY thank you for everyone who participated!!
Thanks goes to
@saphicresus
@heimlich-heathen
@wol-vee
@severedfromthesource
@beatingheart-writingwoes
@pound-my-heart-make-it-start
@resusbunny
If you haven't checked them out, go see what they made! (And also if i missed your name and you made something please let me know so i can add you here)
You can call me Dahlia <3 and you can find my writing here! :) Answered asks are here. I may post some art at some point too :3
Info under the cut!
Things I love to write:
- Well, resus, haha. But no, I tend to stick to choking scenarios, but I may whip out the occasional drowning!
- FANTASY!!! I love a choking prince or a drowning knight <333 I tend to keep it low magic, though, if any
- Power play! Half the fun for me is messing around with dynamics between the victim and the rescuer. If someone has authority over someone else you can bet I’ll torment them at least a little, haha <3
Things I will not write:
- Time called. Sorry, not my thing
- F/M female victim. Also not my thing, but I’m alright with the other way around :)
- Underage
- Gore
Things I love that aren’t resus (talk to me about them!):
- Video games (been really into Baldur’s Gate 3 and Ace Attorney for the past few years <3, always been a Stardew Valley enthusiast!)
- I’M CRAZY ABOUT ONE PIECE RIGHT NOW
- Music and poetry! I’ll share mine if you share yours :)
Don’t be afraid to reach out or send an ask! I love to make new friends in the community <3 just be cool, yeah? We’re all here to have fun!
Augh NOW I'm thinking about Prince Mars held captive, drowned and brought back over and over because they figured out it's his worst fear. Hand tangled in his hair, pretty clothes torn away, leaving him exposed. Chest bruised, water still dripping from his lips from the last one.
"Tell us, pretty prince, who does your father keep on roster for his personal secret guard?" The hand resting on his chest is almost gentle, and if he pretends it feels like it almost cares about him.
"I can't...I don't..." Mars' voice is thick, each exhale crackling. He squeezes his eyes shut as another coughing fit overtakes him.
"Not sure if he can take another round, sir." A younger, newer voice says.
The resounding crack of knuckles against a face echoes through the room. "Then he'd better cough up who those bastards are, if he values his life."
Mars whines as he's lifted again by his hair, forced to bend over the metal basin in the middle of the stone floor, and then his head is shoved underwater. He barely has time to gasp in a breath. The laughter of the men surrounding him is dulled underwater, his only respite other than the merciful darkness that drowning grants him.
But he needs to hold on. They've been doing this for three days. Three days is always the limit to how long Leo promises it'll take to save him, if he's ever taken like this. He never really believed it, but...he has to hope it's real.
Mars worries the man who spoke before might be right. It's only gotten harder and harder to wake up each time he drowns. A boot presses into his back, driving the rim of the basin up into his diaphragm. He wants to cough so badly. The pressure in his chest is unbearable.
He knows who is on the shadowguard roster. Kostas, Metrie, Dallas, Litany. They're the most powerful mages he knows. They're the strongest people he knows. They are the ones who will be rescuing him.
He hopes he gets to see them again. He hopes he gets to see his parents again. The boot slams down, and Mars can't stop himself from crying out, all his air forced from his lungs at once.
The water rushes in, cold and awful and burning. Mars chokes. He tries to cough, tries to struggle. His magic fights against the warded collar locked around his neck.
The hand in his hair holds fast. The water presses in deeper, accepting his lungs' panicked invitation. It fills his chest as he chokes, driving out what scant oxygen he could've still held on to. Swallowing doesn't help. Everything is water. Everything burns. He jerks, back heaving as he starts to lose the fight.
He tried, he thinks. He failed in the end, because this does feel like the end. But he tried to make Leo proud.
Mars' eyes slip shut. His weak thrashing goes still. He doesn't hear the bloodcurdling screams as a solid steel wall is eaten through by plasma. He gets released, left still and small, draped over the basin as three figures clad in all black storm in, whistling and hooting behind faceless, black masks.
Their magic strobes, their gritos promise a death that will be agonizing and cherished. They are not interested in prisoners. The Shadowguard of House Ortiz is there for their prince, and they will bring him back at any cost.
QUICK don't think about your royal physician and their prince having an Emergency while traveling home together after some big Event somewhere, all on their own and the physician desperate to keep their prince alive until they get to safety
TOO LATE IM THINKING ABOUT IT!!! This is such a fun scenario, it could be taken in so many different directions
Maybe a slow-acting poison kicks in during what should have been a peaceful ride. The healer suspects the prince needs an antidote and he needs it NOW, leading to absolutely disastrous horseback resus. Believe it or not, rubbing someone's chest, breathing into them, coaxing their failing organs to hang on for just another minute, this all gets exponentially more difficult while goading a steed into carrying two people home at a canter.
Or maybe they've taken a carriage and it's attacked. With the coachman killed and prince wounded, the physician has to make some rough decisions. Drive their prince to the nearest safe place, possibly heading right into another dangerous encounter? Or is that risk amplified by remaining on the road? Should they leave the carriage altogether, dragging their prince into the woods to hide and patch him up? The clock is ticking as the prince bleeds out. No matter what option they'll go with, they're on high alert, glancing around every few seconds as they check the prince's weakening pulse.
What if, knowing how impulsive some princes can be, this one stops to admire some wildflowers growing near the road, only to learn he's deathly allergic to one of them when his throat closes up and he collapses. This might throw his companion off if they were engrossed in a map when he deviated from the path… glancing up and noticing he's gone, how would they find him? Practically tripping over his body amidst the tall grass, or following the desperate wheezes emanating from their suffocating prince?
YEAH YES YOU GET IT!! Whump and resus stuff JUST go hand in hand is all, we love a good peril scene AND a good desperate medic!!
Their prince, tossed into an icy body of water if the carriage gets attacked or overturned. Their prince, trying his best to fight, or run, grazed by a poison-tipped arrow. Their prince, strangled into awful stillness if the physician gets knocked out for just a minute in an attack.
Also like please just picture for me, the physician having to FIGHT to keep their prince safe! They know their way around a knife and the human body! They might not have started a fight for their prince's life but they can END IT. Resus gets so much sweeter when the rescuer is covered in the blood of the people who caused it to be needed in the first place, imo. c:
Right absolutely, and who's to say some of that blood isn't the physician's? After said fight, they'd ignore their own wounds to focus on the prince. Or maybe the adrenaline blocks them from even noticing they're hurt... so good
Ohhh it'd just be SUCH A SHAME if the prince had to help care for his most beloved physician in return, as much as he can. Shaking, soft hands taking direction from the paling physician, meeting eyes over and over to make sure he's doing what he needs to be doing. I LOVE mutual care, and devotion being returned
QUICK don't think about your royal physician and their prince having an Emergency while traveling home together after some big Event somewhere, all on their own and the physician desperate to keep their prince alive until they get to safety
TOO LATE IM THINKING ABOUT IT!!! This is such a fun scenario, it could be taken in so many different directions
Maybe a slow-acting poison kicks in during what should have been a peaceful ride. The healer suspects the prince needs an antidote and he needs it NOW, leading to absolutely disastrous horseback resus. Believe it or not, rubbing someone's chest, breathing into them, coaxing their failing organs to hang on for just another minute, this all gets exponentially more difficult while goading a steed into carrying two people home at a canter.
Or maybe they've taken a carriage and it's attacked. With the coachman killed and prince wounded, the physician has to make some rough decisions. Drive their prince to the nearest safe place, possibly heading right into another dangerous encounter? Or is that risk amplified by remaining on the road? Should they leave the carriage altogether, dragging their prince into the woods to hide and patch him up? The clock is ticking as the prince bleeds out. No matter what option they'll go with, they're on high alert, glancing around every few seconds as they check the prince's weakening pulse.
What if, knowing how impulsive some princes can be, this one stops to admire some wildflowers growing near the road, only to learn he's deathly allergic to one of them when his throat closes up and he collapses. This might throw his companion off if they were engrossed in a map when he deviated from the path… glancing up and noticing he's gone, how would they find him? Practically tripping over his body amidst the tall grass, or following the desperate wheezes emanating from their suffocating prince?
YEAH YES YOU GET IT!! Whump and resus stuff JUST go hand in hand is all, we love a good peril scene AND a good desperate medic!!
Their prince, tossed into an icy body of water if the carriage gets attacked or overturned. Their prince, trying his best to fight, or run, grazed by a poison-tipped arrow. Their prince, strangled into awful stillness if the physician gets knocked out for just a minute in an attack.
Also like please just picture for me, the physician having to FIGHT to keep their prince safe! They know their way around a knife and the human body! They might not have started a fight for their prince's life but they can END IT. Resus gets so much sweeter when the rescuer is covered in the blood of the people who caused it to be needed in the first place, imo. c:
"Did you know people are getting scared when they read your horror stories?? Did you know that people are laughing when they read your comedy stories?? Isn't that gross? Aren't you scandalised??"
Hauling myself OUT of the Artfight Reference Mines to drop these at y'all's feet. Have just...so many Mars'. SO many, a whole month's worth (minus two that refuse to upload but it's fine y'all don't know the Risen Demon or Species-swap AUs anyway) c:
Technically poisoning an opponent is allowed in the eyes of Splitter’s clan- that doesn’t mean Zulin and Cira have to let it happen. Features M resus, F and M rescuer, CPR, unconscious mouth to mouth and assisted respiration, internal cardiac massage. Splitter would literally rather die than admit his feelings. Resus marked in red.
The fight had been over quick enough. A spry young boy that Splitter was sorry to kill, but whose ambition had outgrown his wiry frame. It was a pity he had to die. But he was more clever than Splitter thought. He only realized this too late, when he left the fighting ring to take his throne above the proceedings, and felt the first tremor in his lung. Realization dawned on him. The boy had only managed the tiniest prick with his dagger, but that was enough. The poison was in his bloodstream. While he'd been fighting and beating the boy into the dirt, his heart had been madly thumping, carrying that poison all the way through his body. His fingers curled around the armrests of his throne.
"Well," he sighed, leaning his head back, "Seems Grouse has the last say after all." He snapped his fingers. "Badger, Irontooth. See Grouse is given proper credit for my death." They comprehended at once. It was in their code. Cleverness and guile were not as respected as brute strength, but the battle was still considered honorable even in the case of trickery. A true warrior would have never been struck in the first place. If you weren't strong enough to fight, you weren't strong enough to live. Irontooth crossed his arms, and as if they were doing no more than discussing foul weather said, "Shame, that. You deserve bet’er than a clever end, m’lord." Splitter shrugged. "The gods have not seen me fit for a true warrior's death. But I still die in battle. Not so terrible a shame." Irontooth nodded his agreement, and called for the warlord's servants to attend him. By the time Cira and Zulin appeared at his feet, he was already sweating and growing pale. His fingers curled into fists to stop them shaking.
"Tend to yer lord's death," Badger barked, and shoved Zulin down with a boot against his back. They knew better than to enact senseless cruelty on his pregnant mate, so neither touched her. The two dark elves looked to the other orcs, then to their master, puzzled. "That must have been a mistranslation on my part," Zulin muttered as he rose, "I could've sworn that man said we were to attend to your death." Cira just stared with wide eyes and a look of terrible comprehension. "A paralytic, if I had to guess," Splitter supplied. Already his throat felt tight, and no amount of trying to clear it would loosen the muscles. It didn't hurt, but he could feel his muscles growing stiffer by the minute. It felt like exhaustion dragging at him at the end of a hard day, and his limbs were starting to disobey his commands. "What?" Zulin squawked, "The hell do you mean? You were poisoned?" "Fairly. In combat." "There's no such thing as a fair poisoning!" "I should not have let him strike me," Splitter sighed, "It's my own fault." A cool hand touched the back of his and he looked down to find Cira at his side. She looked as if she was about to cry. The idea that she would cry over his death had never even occurred to him. Suddenly he felt a spike of dread, not for himself, but for her. She would be sad. Maybe even heartbroken. It wasn't so hard to break her fragile heart, but still, he hated the thought of doing that to her. He brought up a shaking hand to cup her cheek. "It'll be alright, salim." "How can it be? You say you're dying," she whispered, and leaned her head into his palm. He was. He could feel the sensation flowing out of his limbs. When he tried to lift his leg to test this, he found he could only slightly flex the extremity. His fingers too could not feel her cheek. The strength was starting to go out of his arm, so he laid it back against the throne before it had a chance to numbly fall. He breathed, and even that was a slow struggle. Dignity. He could die with his dignity. He would not crumble bonelessly into the arms of his servants. Even if it was Cira. Even if part of him really wanted to.
"When my heart stops," he said quietly, fighting the catch he felt in his throat, "The others... will help carry me to my quarters. As far as I-" He paused when a muscle spasmed in his larynx, let it pass. "As I understand, dark elf burial is similar to ours. Bathe my body and see I'm fit to-" "What the hell are you talking about," Zulin hissed in elvish, "We are not going to prepare you for a fucking burial, we are going to get you an antidote, you stupid brute!" Splitter tried to say, "It was fair combat." But no sooner did the words leave his mouth that Zulin snapped, "It is not fair to poison an opponent! You won the round!" "And he won the war. It is our way-" "Stupid fucking way you've got then. Letting yourself up and die without even trying to fight, what honor is that?"
But he knew there was no way to fight it. If he'd realized sooner, he might have. By the time he had felt the first twitch, it would have been too late anyway. He fixed Zulin with a pitying look. That only seemed to anger the elf male. He'd known Cira's tenderness towards him. This was the first time he'd considered that maybe Zulin felt tenderness towards him as well. His eyes were wet, dousing some of the anger in them, and his shoulders rose and fell hard. Splitter took as deep a breath as he could manage. His vision was beginning to go soft at the edges. His heart had fell into a sluggish crawl, and he couldn't compel his lungs to fill much. It wouldn’t be long before the paralysis set in and his body was arrested of its functions. “You’ve served me well,” he whispered. That deflated Zulin’s anger. He shook his head, his jaw set, but all the same he drew closer. Cira, surprising both males and the coterie of guards, moved in against his side, and laid her head against the broad expanse of his chest. “Oh, Agonem,” she breathed shakily. The sheer sorrow in her voice shamed him. How could he have been so stupid? He should have never even accepted the challenge. He should have seen the poison blade for what it was. He should have been fast enough to avoid it. Now he was leaving her behind. Even leaving Zulin behind felt wrong, somehow. He thought of the night they shared in the mountain pass. Of the stolen bouts of laughter and drinking they’d indulged in after. Zulin clapping him on the shoulder and guffawing at something he hadn’t meant to be so funny. Cira smiling gently at him. Her hand was on his clavicle now, her small, warm body pressed to him. Splitter found the strength enough to roll his head against hers.
“Would that I was born an elf,” he chuckled in her native tongue, lips brushing the crown of her head, “Maybe there was once a world we could have… been more than this to each other.” “It could have been this world,” Zulin grumbled in spite of the strain in his voice, “If you weren’t so bloody proud. What a senseless waste.” “I don’t expect you to understand our ways.” “No, you just expect both of us to stand by as you die. As if we-“ His voice broke. Suddenly he had taken up the side opposite Cira, so both sets of arms embraced him as they had embraced her that night. He might've blushed if his body was not shutting down. Air whistled inside his too tight throat. His heartbeat was a slow waltz, winding down until the music stopped. Splitter's fingers twitched. He wanted so badly to embrace them. His companions. The only people who had ever made him feel like a man with a mind and a heart, and not just a war machine. Cira seemed to catch the meaning, despite how small the gesture. She took his wrist and draped a numb arm over herself. Zulin did the same. All three crowded into the throne in a heap of bodies and warmth. Splitter's eyelids sagged. He'd never feared death. But holding them like this, watching Zulin shake and Cira look up at him with gemstone eyes, he felt afraid. "You're alright, my..." Cira trailed off. Shes obviously meant to call him 'master' or some other honor befitting a slave and slave owner. Instead she let go a trembling exhale and pressed her lips to the hard edge of his clavicle. "My noble prince." Zulin's face was buried against the other side of his chest. He could not feel the tears, only vaguely understanding the sounds the elf male made to be quiet sobs. Each pulse of blood throbbed in his temples. He became aware of them as he never had before, and of the distance growing between each beat of his heart. Eventually great gulfs stood between every pump. Somewhere along the way he'd stopped breathing. When he let his eyes slip closed, Cira was humming a lullaby. Though it may have been a funeral song.
---
Other orcs helped drag Splitter to his tent, as he'd said. Both dark elves didn't have a chance of moving him on their own. They laid his body with care on the same furs he'd first laid Cira down on. With a few words of respect, they left. As soon as the tent flap closed, she collapsed on top of him. Her entire body quivered.
"Zulin," she sobbed miserably, "Gods, Zulin... this can't be happening. He can't be dead, he can't.." She'd never sounded so grief stricken. She took his head and cradled it in her arms, drawing him to her breast.
Fifty-seven...fifty-eight...fifty-nine...sixty. "Four minutes," Zulin said, as if his mate wasn't sprawled over the body of a loved one. He got up on his knees and bustled to Splitter's side. "It took them four minutes to get him here. So that means his heart has only been stopped around four or five minutes." She looked up at him with a quizzical expression beneath the sorrow. He went on, "I'd say it's Lockridge. Fast acting paralytic, it does it's job within a few minutes if the dose is concentrated enough, but it absorbs quickly. I've seen healers use it to numb amputation patients. It's out of their system within twenty minutes or so." He touched Cira lightly on the back. "If we can keep his vital organs functioning, then we might give him a chance for the poison to pass." "But he said... it's a matter of honor among his tribe." "Are we really going to let him die for honor?" She hugged his body tighter. "But his clan. They won't accept him if he dishonors their custom." "So what? Hang the lot of them! We can take him far away, we could bring him home with us." Cira paused. "Do you think he'd want that? Would he be happy back home?" He fixed her with a look. "Is he happy here?"
That broke the indecision. Cira shifted his head against her shoulder and pressed her lips against his in an instant. The first breath went in only somewhat, with most of it leaking back out of the insufficient seal his tusks made poking out of his mouth. It took some awkward maneuvering and adjusting his jaw and mouth before she managed to get a good breath in. Zulin took up his task with haste as well.
From the instruction Splitter had given him, it only mattered to force the sternum down and let that compress the heart against the spine, rather than try to compress the heart yourself. With such a broad chest, that would be difficult. He planted his palms against both sides of his chest, the heel of each hand towards the middle of his sternum while his fingers curved over his muscular pectorals. A shove. His chest barely moved. Not nearly deep enough. Zulin lifted up a bit on his haunches and shoved again with his whole weight, a huff of exertion leaving his mouth. It caved and snapped back up that time, the force enough to rock his head a bit in Cira's arms. "That's it, like that," she said in a rush of excitement. As effective as that was, a pit opened in Zulin's stomach. He wouldn't be able to keep up a pace like that for long. Regardless, he steeled himself and shoved down hard again. Each compression forced Splitter's sizable chest to bow and his muscled stomach to rise. A quiet grunting noise accompanied every sharp blow, sometimes a growl, or a snore, but never pleasant sounding. Zulin wasn't entirely sure how many of these he had to do. When Splitter had instructed him with Cira, it had been in rounds of fifteen. Was that right, or just for someone her size, or because she was pregnant and needed more oxygen? Would the orc need more for his substantial size? He was suddenly aware just how little he knew of the magic Splitter worked to restart a heart. But he had to try.
He got through three rounds of these intensive compressions. Throwing everything he had into each thump. His core burned with the strain, the muscles of his back and shoulders protesting like he was trying to haul a tree with his bare hands. Cira gave Splitter her air and spoke gently to him. She brushed her fingertips against his forehead, pushing back hair from his face. She kissed the corner of his mouth, an eyelid. She gave him whatever comfort she could. As if he could feel it. As if he was aware. It didn't matter if he could, it was more for her benefit than his anyway. While Zulin thrust his sternum inward, she clutched him to her, her lips against his brow as she rocked just slightly. "You're doing so well," she whispered against his skin, "We'll get you back, alright? Just hold on, darling, stay with us."
Zulin dropped an ear to the orc's chest, seeking out a heartbeat. Nothing. He was painfully still, with only the rush of Cira's breath in his lungs to stir his stiffening body. The elf growled in frustration and moved to push himself up. The strength went out in his arm. He collapsed back across the broad chest, heaving for breath. It had been only a few minutes of this cycle, yet it felt as if they'd been here for hours, the strain of trying to depress dense muscle and denser bone making the already exhausting efforts twice as hard. He couldn't keep this up. The sick realization made bile rise in his throat. He was failing. He was letting all of them down. Splitter would die and it would be his fault. "Do you need me to take over compressions?" Cira offered. He shook his head. They both knew that would be foolish. Her own heart could barely sustain her, a physical exertion like this would surely just leave Zulin alone with both people he loved dying on the floor of the tent.
Loved. He did love them, didn't he? He'd told Splitter once that elves give their body to many and their heart to only one, but as he slowly rose back up, wiping sweat from his mouth with his sleeve, he understood with a start that he had come to love the gentle giant. In spite of the circumstances that brought them together, he had only ever been kind. He was good. He would not die because of the foolish pride of orcs. Zulin glanced around, looking for another way to perhaps push down on his chest that he could sustain for longer. Nothing. He reached for anything he knew, anything that might help, another way to help his heart until the paralytic wore off. His hand still on his chest, he felt Splitter's ribs shift every time Cira breathed into him. Zulin felt like he'd been doused in ice water. If he couldn't compress the heart with his ribcage, then maybe...
Tugging a dagger free from the orc's belt, he felt along his ribcage until he came to a hollow between his ribs. "Zulin?" Cira asked shakily. "I'm going to try something," was all he replied before driving the point into flesh. She gasped and clutched at his head all the tighter. Zulin made a deep cut a few inches wide in Splitter's side, crimson blood leaking slowly from the wound. He braced himself for the next part. Parting the incision, he drove one hand into the wound, whimpering undignified as he did so. Sick warmth enveloped him, and he blindly felt his way inside the body. His fingertips skated across something broad and a bit soft, a lung if he had to guess, until he felt the dense wad of muscle which was his prize. "There," he murmured, more to himself. He pressed a thumb against it, anchoring himself as he shifted his other fingers to take hold of it. Suddenly he held Splitter's heart in his palm. The thing was huge, like every damn thing about an orc, enough so he felt he could not adequately cover it with one hand. Cursing softly, he widened the incision enough he could stick his other hand inside the chest cavity and cup the organ with both hands.
Cira had stopped her task while she watched this macabre display. She had no air of her own to give him, as she felt like it had been slapped out of her. Zulin huffed, "Keep breathing for him." and she came quickly back to herself. She cradled their charge's head and met his lips again, blowing air into him. Inside, the air inflated Splitter's lungs so they brushed up against his wrist and he shuddered, feeling them press against him and then slowly go lax again. Splitter made a hollow rasping noise as the air left his body.
He had to focus. He could not think of how this could easily kill him as much as save him if he did it wrong. They had no other options. Neither of them were strong enough to deliver compressions outside his chest wall, so inside it would have to be. Zulin worked the organ between his palms, squeezing gently but insistent. The ventricles collapsed and snapped back into shape with more alacrity than he thought. The nagging fear he would somehow squish his heart abated. It was dense, and stronger than he might have imagined, even with the delicate veins he could feel shifting under his touch. A marvel. Even in stillness. "Come on," he whispered, hunched over the wound he'd made, his arms flexing as he tried to urge the precious thing back to life. "I know you're still in there, you big oaf. You have to fight." Cira gave him another breath and again he felt the lungs rise and fall around his fingers as he worked. The rattling sigh as they deflated was Splitter's only reply. It continued to be his only reply as the minutes stretched on. His skin was wooden without circulation, and a terrible shade of greenish gray. The incision site had long ago stopped bleeding, not even the little rivulets it had made before, and even the remnant of warmth inside his chest cavity was beginning to cool. Cira pressed her cheek against his and let out a sob she could no longer hold. "Don't die," she whispered hoarsely, "Not like this. You can't leave us here alone..."
As if speaking to her, Splitter's heart shifted in the palm of Zulin's hand. A little twitch as the muscles rolled, one quick spasm, then again it came to rest. It was enough of a jolt he nearly tore his hands free. Instead he let it spur him on, eagerly shifting as he urged it with his rhythmic massage. "That's it, you remember, I know you do. Come on, come back to us." He punctuated his words with renewed vigor, pumping the orc's heart between his palms. His fingers had begun to cramp, but he went on, watching Splitter's face as Cira held him to her. She gave him three breaths in quick succession to try and encourage his body to pick up the message. On the last, her lips lingered against his. Tears rolled down her cheek onto his face. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him with fierce desperation. "Agonem," she whispered against his mouth, his name holding all the reverence of a holy litany when she said it, "You have to wake up. Please. Please."
Perhaps it was because she asked nicely. The organ cupped in Zulin's hands throbbed adamantly. The sudden ripple of movement made him jump, and it surprised him again when it followed up with another beat. For a moment it twitched and fluttered against his fingers, but when he nudged it, it took up a rhythm with that little encouragement. "Was that all you needed this whole time?" he laughed between euphoria and sobbing, "A little nudge?" He drew one hand out to splay bloodied fingers over the orc's chest, leaving the other inside to soothe and coax it along when it faltered here and there.
---Splitter---
Something soft touched his cheek. Words reached his ears, but he couldn't quite make sense of them. He was tired. More than he had ever been. He couldn't even raise his head. That was of little concern, because he felt someone cradling it, raising it for him. His eyes felt gummed shut as Splitter pried them open with great difficulty. Cira swam into view. Her edges were soft and fuzzy, her features not really in focus, but he knew it was her. He could always feel her near. She kissed him. Their lips were not made to fit together so well, yet they did, and it felt so good to finally kiss her he didn't even consider why she did it. He didn't even mind when she poured hot breath into his mouth. Dark elf kissing was perhaps different. Maybe it was normal for her to force air down his dry throat and into his lungs.
Though, he didn't entirely like the sensation when it made his lungs balloon out. There was an uncomfortable tightness in his chest, a fullness he didn't understand. His lungs met a tiny knot of resistance as they filled. When he drew in a breath for himself, a pain flared in his ribs. His whole chest was sore, but there was a spot between his ribs especially that panged fiercely. Something felt lodged there. A sword left inside him? It wouldn't be the first time he'd had to breathe around metal. Voices carried dully to him. "He just took a breath!" "Yes, yes, I felt it! Keep up the air, Cira, I don't know if he can get enough on his own." Zulin's voice. Cira did as he asked and again he felt the warm rush of her air in his body. He tried to croak her name, but it was unintelligble sounds raking out of him. She was kissing him, only this time she peppered them all about his face, dotting him with adoration from his hairline to his jaw. "Come on, darling, take another breath for me." He found he couldn't. The fullness of his chest seemed to dissipate. With it went his awareness of the two of them. "No, no, Agonem? Dove? Open your eyes, look at me again! Agonem!" There was a wet squelch and the sword seemed to drive between his ribs again. Something probed into his body, to the center of his being, and he felt his heart beat up against something solid. The solid thing pressed against the chambers of his heart and he could not help the cry he let out at the intrusion. It was not exactly painful, but the sensation of resistance when ventricles snapped made his whole body shudder. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Zulin was hastily saying, "I-I'm sure it's not pleasant. I'm just giving it a little help." Fingers, sticky with something slightly cool, slid into Splitter's own. Cira was petting his brow. "You're doing so well, dove. So, so well. Feel how I'm breathing?" Her breasts rose against him in a deep inhalation. She let it slowly and it stirred against his cheek, the sweet smell of something he couldn't place on her breath. "Can you breathe with me?" Again she took in a deep draft. He mimicked as best he could. His was accompanied by a dry, whistling sound. Even so, she patted his cheek affectionately. "Good boy," she murmured, "Very good. Keep going."
The rest of the night came to him in snatches. Splitter would jostle awake to find himself somewhere new. He'd dragged himself back to consciousness in his tent first, only to stir awake in the stables. Cira was breathing into him again. "I've got him," she said softly to someone, "He's just having a little trouble." Then he fell away again, bobbing back to the surface to find trees dappling overhead. Stars burned in the dark sky beyond. They were moving, the quiet rumble of wheels over dirt filling his ears. Zulin was beside him now, his lips not as soft as Cira's as they drove air into him, but still warm and inviting, enough to ward off the chill he felt creeping over him. "We're almost out," he was saying, "Hear that, Nem? We're almost in the clear. You just have to hold on." But he was trying. He was clinging so desperately to any scrap of awareness he could. It kept sluicing out of his hands.
They were still in the cart when next he breached from the river of sleep. His head was a little clearer. Enough so he could better understand his surroundings. He lay on his back, something propping up his head, with furs and cloaks bundled so tightly around his body he couldn't move, even if he'd had the strength to. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of silver hair, and glanced over to see Cira's head on his shoulder. Her arms were wrapped around him as she slept, her cheek pressed very close to his own. The angle of her body draped over his didn't make sense at first, and it definitely didn't make sense. She's making sure she can hear if you stop breathing, he thought with a sudden clarity. Dragging his eyes down, he saw Zulin curled up at his other side, thin limbs wrapped around his arm. While his head lay on the orc's chest, his hand rested over his wrist. To check his pulse, he knew. Both he and his mate had fallen asleep where they could spring up at a moment's notice if his heart stopped again. That it had stopped before was a hazy memory. Some part of him said they had done something wrong, that it had been his time to die, that they had robbed him of something. He no longer recalled what. He remembered only gentle hands on his body, giving him breath, giving him a heartbeat, giving him life.
Splitter curled his fingers around Zulin's hand. He tilted his head so it rested against Cira's. Then he closed his eyes and slept, thinking no more about it.
