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just-a-silly-little-whumper · 8 months ago

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Attention

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Another side story! Based off of this piece by @crash-bump-bring-the-whump because I couldn't get the idea of a vampire party out of my head. This is (loosely) for @whumpril Day 12: Weak Pulse.

Lord Denholm hosts a party. All of his guests are enamored with Elze'ith. This ends wonderfully for Lord Denholm, and terribly for Elze'ith.

Contains: Vampires, intimate whump, captivity/gilded cage, blood drinking, bloodbag whumpee, blood loss, multiple whumpers, briefly referenced prior noncon, dissociation, dehumanization, mind control, lots of complicated emotions

~~~

“And where did you get this one, Milord?”

The noblewoman, dressed in a fine silk gown and ornate golden jewelry, regarded Elze’ith with a hungry look in her piercing red eyes. Elze’ith couldn’t quite meet her gaze, instead shifting barely closer to Lord Denholm and looking somewhere over the woman’s shoulder. The way Lord Denholm’s grip on him tightened in response was almost a comfort. Almost.

“Oh, he came to me,” Lord Denholm said, dark and pleased. “Was fleeing some nasty bandits, but they didn’t survive the journey into my Valley. My light, on the other hand, did, and decided to stay with me after I gave him a bit of help.”

The words grated against Elze’ith’s soul. It wasn’t a lie, and Elze’ith knew firsthand the way nobility danced around the truth the same way they danced around the ballroom floor. But hearing Lord Denholm tell his story, leaving out so much detail and context, not even mentioning Altair, just made his heart twist with so many emotions in a way he hadn’t quite expected. It shouldn’t have meant anything; that part of his life was over now, gone and abandoned, nothing but a memory of something beautiful but ephemeral. What did it matter if it was misrepresented, if he couldn’t tell his own story? What did it matter if the man who never came for him was treated as beneath acknowledgment?

His eyes slid to the young woman at the noble’s side. She was slight, and pale, and shaking. There was an emptiness to her eyes that haunted him with its familiarity. The fang marks in her neck stood out starkly against skin that clearly hadn’t seen sun in ages. Elze’ith wondered what she saw when she looked at him. Wondered, if he smiled at her, if she would afford him any response at all.

Not that he would have the chance, because the noblewoman’s gloved hand came up to grip his chin, forcing his eyes up to meet hers. The intensity there made Elze’ith swallow instinctively, feeling like a cornered animal despite the abundance of space in the ballroom. “Well, he is quite the catch, Milord. I hear he is magically inclined as well, is he not?”

“Indeed. My light’s healing abilities are unparalleled. He is extremely impressive in many regards, even beyond his magical prowess.” Though he couldn’t see it, Elze’ith could feel delight radiating off of Lord Denholm, completely unconcealed. “Watching him work is something I never tire of.”

“Beautiful and talented.” All Elze’ith wanted to do was shrink away from the predatory gaze, but he couldn’t, trapped as he was between Lord Denholm and his guest. “I can see why you like him so much, Milord. I have to say, I envy you. My current attendant pales in comparison.”

The pale, shaking woman flinched, shrinking in on herself. Elze’ith felt bile turn in his stomach as Lord Denholm laughed, dark and cold enough to send shivers down Elze’ith’s spine. He was sure Lord Denholm could feel them. “Oh, you flatter me, Lady Hawthorne.”

“I only speak the truth. He seems absolutely delectable.”

“He is indeed.” Lord Denholm’s hand ran up and down Elze’ith’s arm in what could have been a soothing gesture, had it not felt so possessive and ensnaring. “And I would hate to let you leave without sating your curiosity. It is what he is here for, after all.”

Blood turned to ice in his veins as Lady Hawthorne grinned, her fangs glinting in the magical lantern light. “You really are too kind, Milord.”

Somewhere deep inside him, the instinct to flee rose up, warring with the deeper urge to stay still and unobtrusive and compliant. Any decision was taken from him, as it always was, by Lord Denholm’s weight pressing against his back, and his voice, low and smooth in his ear. “Go on, my light. Hold out your wrist for our guest. Let her see how impressive you are.”

His arm rose of its own volition, extending out towards Lady Hawthorne like a humble offering. Gloved hands took his, and for a moment her thumb just traced over his wrist, right under the seam of his own glove and right over his pulse point. He wondered if she could feel his heartbeat pounding away frantically under his skin— wondered if she could hear it. She probably could; Lord Denholm always could, after all, and she was just like him.

Was she gentle in slipping off his glove and rolling up his sleeve because she wanted to be, or was it just because Lord Denholm was watching her intently? Elze’ith didn’t think he wanted to know. He almost wished she would be rougher; maybe then he would find the strength to fight back. Maybe then Lord Denholm would allow it.

But there was nothing he could do to stop her from lifting his wrist to her lips. He barely winced as her fangs pierced his skin; it was a familiar pain, after all, one he had felt countless, countless times. She drank slowly, as though he were a glass of wine she were savoring. He sank back into Lord Denholm, trying not to show his discomfort at the slow pace and unfamiliar fangs and the sensation that wasn’t quite right. The entire time her sharp, keen gaze never left him, as though she could learn everything about him by studying him in this moment. Somehow, it was better and worse than the feedings he was used to.

In the smallest of mercies, she pulled away before Elze’ith even began to grow dizzy. Her tongue swiped one last time over her red-stained lips, and it was only the fact that Elze’ith had seen his blood coat Lord Denholm’s mouth in such a fashion so many times that allowed him to keep his composure.

“Exquisite.” Her voice was awed, almost reverent. “Why, if he wasn’t yours, Milord, I would take him for myself. To think, you can have that whenever you like.”

“Mm, and more than that, too,” Lord Denholm hummed. “Like I said, he has many talents. A shame that you can’t experience all of them. He is so deathly shy, after all.”

Elze’ith’s face burned in mortification. That was the last thing he wanted to think about, and to have Lord Denholm bring it up so casually, to have him brag about it… All Elze’ith wanted to do was vanish back into his chambers and never come out again. Especially when Lady Hawthorne laughed, mirthful and vicious, and looked him up and down like she was imagining what was hidden underneath all of his layers. Elze’ith shuddered. “Oh, I can only imagine, Milord.”

It was a relief when she left. As soon as she was gone (and with Lord Denholm’s permission) he healed the punctures on his wrist, and though it still ached, at least he no longer had to hold it gingerly to avoid spilling blood on his clothes or the ballroom floor. Lord Denholm pressed a kiss to his temple, murmured soft words of praise for how good Elze’ith was at impressing his guests, and the gesture made Elze’ith feel warm and cold at the same time. He didn’t want to be impressive. He wanted to be safe. And he knew that was impossible here.

Because whether by conversation or the scent of blood or just the unquantifiable aspect of Elze’ith that drew so much unwanted attention, more and more of the guests were turning their gazes to him. He could catch whispers of conversation, spot eyes scrutinizing him completely unabashed. The party was continuing on as normal, and yet it wasn’t, because everyone had a new subject for their curiosity. Even despite all of the people in the ballroom, the familiar sounds of clinking glasses and shuffling feet, Elze’ith had never felt so out of place, so exposed. He would do anything to leave the party early, to find a corner to hide in, to be anywhere but here, but Lord Denholm’s grip on his arm and his mind was firm. And it only grew firmer as another man, dressed in ornate robes and flanked by two vacant-eyed servants, approached the two of them.

He and Lord Denholm might have exchanged pleasantries, but Elze’ith didn’t really hear them. The fear rushing in his ears at the way this man’s gaze kept flitting to him, keen and wanting, drowned out the conversation. It was going to happen again. And if it happened a second time, then…

A command settled over him, and Elze’ith was pulled from his frozen thoughts as his arm once again extended to the new guest. There was no precursor of gentleness in the way the nobleman’s cold hands grasped his wrist, nor in the wicked smile that exposed his fangs before he sunk them in. Though he bit his lip, the smallest of whimpers still left him at the burst of pain and the deep ache of being drained, this time meticulous and thoughtful and deep.

Neither of the servants that had accompanied the nobleman met his gaze. Elze’ith couldn’t blame them. He didn’t know if he would be able to stomach the sight, if he were in their position. That didn’t make it hurt less, didn’t stop him from craving even that slightest bit of connection, but he did understand.

When the nobleman pulled away, a drop of blood rolled down his chin. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. Elze’ith had to avert his gaze from the sight. “I thank you, my good Lord Denholm. This truly was a treat.”

Lord Denholm laughed again. More words were exchanged that Elze’ith didn’t hear. He just cradled his hand close to his chest, as though he could shield any part of himself from more pain. As the conversation continued, even though he knew it was risky, he took the opportunity to heal over the wound. He was sure Lord Denholm noticed, but there was no immediate reprimand, no order to stop, so he had to hope that it was okay. At the very least, he felt a vague sense of satisfaction from Lord Denholm, an emotion he clung to as he tried to collect himself.

Soon enough, the nobleman left. Vaguely, Elze’ith berated himself for not catching his name. It was so rude of him, to be so ignorant to a guest, even though he knew it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t the host of this gathering, and he would never get the opportunity to use the name anyway.

“You’re doing wonderfully, my light,” Lord Denholm murmured into his ear. Elze’ith’s shoulders rose towards his ears as he flushed. Just as before, the praise ignited a mix of emotions, yearning and disgust and contentment and fear all swirling within him. “Keep doing what you’re doing. We have many more guests to entertain.”

That promise, and the sight of a leering couple approaching them, made Elze’ith’s heart knot definitively with fear. Not even the soothing, coaxing presence of Lord Denholm in the back of his mind was enough to keep it at bay.

The night became even more of a blur than it already had been. Elze’ith lost count of the number of guests Lord Denholm took him to meet, the number of eyes that looked at him like they wanted to take him apart, the number of times he was made to hold out his arm in offering. Each time a stranger’s fangs pierced his wrist it somehow became more difficult, more painful, more humiliating. No one spoke directly to him, instead talking about him as though he couldn’t hear, even as those sharp smiles and keen eyes held him in their full focus. He had never felt less like a person and more like a curiosity, an exhibit, a bottle of wine being passed around.

And even though no one took all that much of his blood, even though he was used to being fed from, it grew harder to stand and move and focus as the night wore on. Was the dizziness Elze’ith felt because of blood loss, or because of the incongruence he felt at being treated so callously? Was it both? Did it matter? Either way, he was being used for the gratificationt of people who didn’t care for what he felt. Even Lord Denholm was savoring how he flinched every time someone new approached, how he wavered in Lord Denholm’s firm, all-encompassing grasp.

If he could speak, he might have asked to retire early. He could tell that he was approaching his limits, as the world spun and his magic flickered and his fingers grew cold. But even if he could have, Lord Denholm wouldn’t have listened. Not when he was enjoying his party, and Elze’ith’s role in it, so very much.

He almost swooned as another set of fangs retracted from his wrist. It was so hard to keep himself upright; without Lord Denholm there, he was sure he would be on the ground. The idea was surprisingly tempting as exhaustion weighed down his body and mind and soul. He even thought he heard the noble who had drank from him commenting on it, a mention of low supply and weak pulse filtering in through the dizziness and sludge in his mind. Elze’ith could almost let himself hope. The party had to be over soon, right? He just wanted to be done. Wanted to rest. Wanted not to have to give any more.

That hope only surged as Lord Denholm pulled him to the side, away from the center of activity in the still-full ballroom. All he could do was hope Lord Denholm understood the pleading in his expression through the haziness he was sure clouded his eyes. He felt so terrible, drained and wrung out and exhausted. He just wanted to go to sleep.

But instead of offering any reprieve, any solace, Lord Denholm took Elze’ith’s still-bleeding wrist (had he forgotten to heal it? How long had it been?) and lifted it to his lips. There was no hiding the whine of pain and fear that escaped from deep within his soul. Even though Elze’ith had nothing left to give, Lord Denholm still took. His eyes fluttered and his body shook and the world tilted dangerously, but Lord Denholm drank anyway, long and careful as though he were relishing every moment, as though each drop of blood was an effort to extract. It was agony, so much worse than anything earlier in the night had been. His lips parted, instinctively wanting to beg for it to stop, but instead his whine only got louder, more insistent, more pitiful. And all Lord Denholm offered in comfort was a squeeze of his hand, as though that meant anything at all.

Elze’ith didn’t even get the mercy of passing out. Lord Denholm pulled away just as the darkness began to close in. His thumb pressed against the wound; Elze’ith barely had the strength to wince at the painful pressure. At least the sight of his blood on Lord Denholm’s face was familiar, even if it wasn’t any less horrifying than the first time he had seen it.

Maybe. Maybe now, Lord Denholm would be satisfied. Maybe now Elze’ith could rest. Surely Lord Denholm had to see...

“Come dance with me, my light,” Lord Denholm said, and though Elze’ith barely heard the words, his fluttering heart clenched in fear as the command washed over him. “Let us give our guests one final show.”

#flicker in the dark #flicker in the dark side stories #silly writes #whump #whump writing #elze'ith sylrel oc #lord soren denholm oc #vampires #blood #blood loss #dissociation (whump)#dehumanization #intimate whump #captivity #whumpril2024 #Whumprilday12 #weak pulse

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tildeathiwillwrite · 9 months ago

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Watcher and Apprentice

(The Watcher and the Thief Chapter 1 Scene 1)

A.K.A. The Snippet Where I Realize That a Disconcerting Number of Magicians Are Evil.

next part ->

WoW Birthday Whump Event Day 9: (Alt) Bridal Carry

Whumpril Day 21 (“Just Hold On”), Day 12 (Weak Pulse)

WoW Birthday Whump Prompts List

Whumpril Prompts List

Tales from Valaria Masterpost

TW: hunting, monster, blood, knife wounds, magic whump, corpses, gunshot wounds

Context: Hector and his apprentice Luc have been tasked with hunting down a sang, a violent creature of the mountains, before it can attack a human settlement. What could go wrong? Everything, apparently.

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The Fells held its breath, waiting in anticipation as Watcher and apprentice prowled in the cover of its trees, tracking the path of the rogue sang who’d slipped past the elven blockage. Not a sound could be heard save their soft footfalls and the occasional crunched leaf as Hector’s nephew forgot to pay attention to where he stepped.

Luc hissed in frustration as a twig snapped underfoot. “How do you watch where you’re walking and track the beast at the same time?”

Hector paused and glanced back at him. “You already know the answer to that question.”

Luc scowled. His akinaka was drawn, but he held it lowered, pointed towards the ground. Hector raised his eyebrows, and the boy quickly raised it, muttering an apology. The Watcher pointed to the ground at the footprints in the soft earth, far too big for a human, and at the branches of the trees, broken in the sang’s crazed dash through the forest. Droplets of blood glimmered in the faint moonlight, shining through the leaves overhead.

“It’s injured,” Luc noted, ��but we already knew that.”

“Not just that…” Hector muttered, studying the prints with a critical eye. “Look there.” He pointed northeast, back towards the blockade. “Between those two aspens.”

Luc moved towards where he indicated, taking more care to step silently. When he noticed what Hector had found, he swore. “There’s two of them!”

“The second one must’ve slipped past while the elves were occupied with the first,” Hector mused, “there’s no blood.” Either the elves were getting sloppy, or the sang were getting sneakier. Neither option appealed to Hector. It meant more work for him and Luc. They’d been pulled from Caenum to help with the blockade per special request from Takari, and he already wished he’d declined. Dealing with sang was different than dealing with the average human criminal or guarding a politician for a night.

“Well,” Luc said, trying to sound upbeat, “they’ve got two of them, and we’ve got two of us. It’s even now, at least.”

“And one of them is injured,” Hector agreed. “Come. We need to catch up to them before they make it to Zariya.”

Luc made a better effort at stealth this time, akinaka raised in front of him defensively in case they stumbled upon the sang or were ambushed. Unfortunately, the path of the two rogue sang split shortly after joining.

Hector cursed under his breath. “Have to admit,” he muttered, “they can be clever sometimes.” He pointed down the trail the injured one took. Judging from the position of the moon, it was heading southwest. “You track that one, I’ll take the other. We’ll regroup back here. Clear?”

“As crystal.”

Hector eyed Luc’s back as the boy took off down the trail. He appeared a little too excited at the prospect of taking on a sang on his own. He sighed before turning and following his own tracks, a more difficult task.

Without the blood, Hector had to pay more attention to the disturbed undergrowth, the broken branches, the faint footprints. This was part of why he had Luc go after the other one; that one was easier to track. Its injuries would also make it easier to take down, but Hector knew enough of Luc's fighting prowess that the boy could battle even a healthy sang.

Hector quickened his pace. He wasn’t sure how far it would’ve traveled under the cover of darkness, and he wanted to catch up before it reached a settlement. Luc wouldn’t have the same concerns. His target wouldn’t get too far in its current state.

He found the corpse five minutes later.

Sang were powerful creatures; one well-placed blow could snap a man's spine in two. But they were slower, which was part of why the elves had taken charge of the blockade. And few creatures were immune to a bullet to the head or something sharp in the throat.

It hadn’t died from either of those things. The creature lay on the ground, limbs twisted and bent at unnatural angles, mouth open in a silent scream, bleeding from a hundred thin, deep cuts. It was still bleeding, its greenish skin still retained its color. The sang had died recently.

It wasn’t the severity of the wounds themselves or the state the body was in that made Hector whirl around and sprint back the way he’d come. No, it was how the cuts weren’t random slashes by a knife or sword. It was how they were arranged in strange symbols that he couldn’t understand but recognized all too well.

A magician had killed the sang.

And she had done it slowly, making it suffer.

As he ran, Hector tried to convince himself Luc was fine. Perhaps the magician had already killed the second sang and moved on before the boy caught up. Perhaps the boy hadn’t reached the sang yet, and Hector could still join him before they encountered the magician. Or perhaps the magician had no interest in killing humans, only after the rogue sang.

Doubtful. When someone killed in such a way, magician or not, they had no respect for life. Hector quickened his pace, shedding stealth for speed. He had to find Luc.

He had reached the point where the paths divided and was only two steps down the injured sang’s trail when he heard a blood-curdling scream. Hector’s akinaka blade was already out, but he slipped his handgun from its holster as he ran. He favored the akinaka or the crossbow for stealth—the gun was far too loud—but in situations like this, stealth was out the metaphorical window.

The injured sang hadn’t gotten as far as the healthy one, so he reached the trail's end in minutes. Moonlight reflected off the magician's silver cloak as she crouched over Luc, facing away from Hector. She was between him and the boy, but he could see that Luc was on the ground, motionless. The sang’s corpse lay a few feet away from them, body twisted and mangled, identical to the other one.

Hector didn’t wait to discover her intentions, firing a warning shot as soon as he came within range. The bullet whizzed inches from her head, and she flinched away, revealing what she’d been doing. She had drawn a complex circle of runes into the soft earth underneath Luc’s body, the circle glowed with a faint reddish light as blood dripped upon it. Luc’s blood.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Only two out of the four total shots hit her, one in the shoulder and one in the side, as she dove madly to the side. She lurched away, free hand clutching her injured shoulder. Hector stared her down, gun and blade raised.

She hissed softly, frustration obvious. For a moment, she seemed to consider attacking. But she thought better of it, turning and fleeing into the night. Hector watched her go, gun and knife raised. The moment she was out of sight, he stowed his weapons and dropped to his knees beside Luc.

The boy still breathed, thank the celestials, but his pulse was weak, and the blood from the runes the magician had carved into his flesh oozed out in a steady stream.

“Luc? Luc!” Hector shook him, but he didn’t wake up. Hector cursed vehemently and scooped him up. She hadn’t finished her work. He wasn’t dead yet, but he would be if Hector didn’t get him to a doctor.

“Just hold on, kid,” he muttered as he started to run, Luc’s limp body held tightly in his arms, “just hold on.”

@fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @whumpril

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isamajor · 8 months ago

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Whumpril 2024 : day 11 to 15

11 . Can't Sleep

Nebarra came and sat down heavily near the campfire near which Taliesin was already installed, a fur wrapped around his shoulders.

“Can't sleep, mmh?”

A growl answered the elder Thalmor. Both knew the question was purely rhetorical. They were both veterans of the Great War and had experienced their share of horrors. Enough so that once you close your eyes, they take the opportunity to haunt you. Rather tired than reliving this in their sleep.

“Hand me the wine.”, Nebarra finally growled.

Taliesin sighed, rolled dramatically his eyes but handed him the bottle. Lacking sleep, Nebarra needed it to numb his memories. (100)

•

12 . Weak Pulse

Lydia was found lying in the tall grass, pale and motionless. The ground was soaked with blood beneath her. Kaidan threw himself on his knees beside her and immediately tilted his head to listen for a breath, then placed two fingers at her jugular. Time seemed endless. Kaidan seemed to feel a very slight pulse, but so faint that he doubted he felt anything.

“Damn, I think we’re losing her!!!”, he shouted.

Lucien arrived a few seconds later and, although out of breath, began to perform his best healing spells on her. Both clung to the hope of that faint pulse to save her. (104)

•

13 . Angry Tears

At first Lucien's features expressed shock. As if he couldn't believe what was happening before his eyes. Then, being assured that it was not a mistake but indeed a betrayal, his big blue eyes filled with tears.

"You said you wouldn't kill him ! I trusted your word !"

Lucien was trembling. It was not the blizzard that froze his tears on his cheeks that caused this, but rather his anger. Taking his courage in both hands, he stepped between the Dovahkiin and the old dragon.

"I won't stand for this." he finally said, his tone suddenly icy. (100)

•

14 . Urgent Care

They had faced an imposing Falmer pack which had divided their group in the maze of the cavern. Remiel clutched her stomach, pale and doubled over in pain. Inigo quickly understood that she was badly injured. He forced her to lie down and tore the sleeve of his own tunic to make a pressure bandage.

"It's gonna be alright. I'm sure Xelzaz will be here in a minute. He'll have potions to heal you.", he reassured her. But his voice was uncertain. He could only provide the minimum amount of emergency care. The Argonian needed to come, and quickly. (102)

•

15 . Mind Games

A memory had arisen. His father watched him, while he was still young, practicing the magical arts, scrutinizing his every move. “Your posture. Straighter!” he ordered, sharply adjusting his position. “Don’t shame our name.” he added.

Instinctively, at the thought of this memory more than a century old, Taliesin corrected his posture. The conditioning imposed by his father in order to make him a perfect Thalmor had left its mark. His father's little games had molded him that way, by exploiting his vulnerabilities and constantly pushing his limits. Each failure was accompanied by his abuse, forcing him into a endless search for perfection. (103)

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side-shuffling-hyperfixations · 9 months ago

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@whumpril Day 12: Weak Pulse

The heart monitor seemed so loud at first. Mrs. Afton had latched onto the sound as a chance, however slim, that her little boy would bounce back from this. Now, however, the repetition was staggered, more uncertain by the minute. Hope was slipping away. Evan was slipping away.

William had said his goodbyes in private and then slunk off, eyes wet but otherwise expressionless. He couldn’t bear to be in the room when it happened.

Mrs. Afton, on the other hand, would gladly be bawling aloud at Evan’s bedside if she could. She didn’t dare. The sobs were bottlenecked in her throat. She was there for Evan’s first breath; she wouldn’t let her grief drown out the sound of his last. His slim hand was so cold, cradled between her own, pulse fluttering against her thumb like the wings of a butterfly that had been stepped on.

Faint. Fragile. Fleeting.

#five nights at freddy's #fanfiction #drabble and a half #mrs afton #the crying child #evan afton #the bite of 83 #whumpril2024 #whumprilday12 #weak pulse

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coffeeangelinabox · 8 months ago

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Whumpril #12: Weak Pulse

Gene’s an engineer, he can do basic first aid. More than basic first aid. This is beyond him.

He looks down at the woman he loves (how had he not known until now, until everything inside him is cracking and shattering at the sight of her still face, marred by bags beneath her eyes). He can’t even think her name, to name her makes it real, might draw Death down on her. (He’s an engineer, he’s not superstitious, but here and now, superstition, wishing, prayer is the only protection he can offer her).

Her pulse flutters beneath his fingers, barely there. The beating wings of a baby bird. He presses fingers into her wrist hard enough to bruise the delicate skin and presses the other palm to her chest, over her heartbeat, as though he can force the organ to keep pumping just by the intensity of his focus.

He’s on his knees beside her, hunched over her fallen body. His whole body braced as a shield, to protect. (She’d hate it. She hates to need anyone and she so rarely does, she’s the strongest person he knows.)

His eyes drag desperately over her face. She’s pale. Eyelids not fluttering regardless of what the vids would have one believe. Her lips are beginning to tinge blue as the oxygen deprivation takes its toll. As her body (impossible, she’s strong, so strong) begins to fail.

He slips fingers from her pulse point to grip her hand. She’s cold. Only the precarious, almost gone stutter of her heart beneath his hand proving that she’s not dead already.

He’s an engineer, not a doctor. He knows that this is caused by trauma - electrical maybe, or drugs, choking or drowning, or psychic attack, but has no idea how to help. There aren’t even any visible wounds. He could staunch bleeding, soothe burns, set bones even. He curls ever more tightly around her as though he can share his warmth, his strength that she’s never before needed; as though he can hide her from the Grim Reaper who must already be lurking just over his shoulder.

“Get David down here,” he demands and his voice sounds wrong, like he’s the one dying on the floor.

There’s a very long silence. Her heart forces out another begrudging thump.

“I can’t,” Darrow says quietly, but his voice is rock solid.

Gene doesn’t turn, as though his eyes on her face are the tether keeping her here, but he jolts as though stung. “Get. Him.” He bites out.

“He’s the only one left on the ship. We’d lose the Valjean, we’d all-”

“I don’t care!” Gene all but screams.

Darrow crosses to him, crouches on his haunches on her other side. He looks down at her too, face set like stone. “I can’t,” he repeats. “They’d kill us all, and everyone we help, everyone whose sheltered us-”

To fly at him would mean letting go of her. He snarls instead, wordless and animalistic.

Darrow takes her opposite hand, checking his pulse herself, his touch more gentle than Gene’s, no desperation to drive him to brutality. “She’s too far gone,” he says. His expression doesn’t crack. “David couldn’t help her. We’d be giving everything up for nothing.”

“You don’t know that! You don’t-” beneath Gene’s palm, that brave heart thuds once, twice and slowly patters down to a still slower rate. “I’ll never forgive you for this.”

Darrow smiles humorlessly and stands, pacing away to the far side of the room. “I’m far past forgiveness, Gene.”

He’s an engineer. He deals in logic and rational facts, but there are none here that will sway Darrow and no argument he can make that will change anything. “But it’s Jemma.” His voice cracks, pleading now instead of snarling or screaming.

“I know.”

#my writing #whump #whump prompts #whumpril2024 #coffeeangelinabox's space opera ocs #aftermath of torture #implicit character death #grief #arguments #whumprilday12 #weak pulse

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astaldis · 9 months ago

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@whumpers-monthly @whumpril

Chapters: 3/? Words: 7,820 Fandom: The Witcher (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Geralt of Rivia, Vesemir (The Witcher), Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Yennefer of Vengerberg, Coën (The Witcher), Lambert (The Witcher), Jaskier | Dandelion

Relationships:Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach & Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Cahir Mawr Dryffyn aep Ceallach & Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Cahir, Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach/Yennefer of Vengerberg, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach & Vesemir, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier, Geralt of Rivia & Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy & Vesemir, Jaskier & Yennefer of Vengerberg, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt of Rivia

Summary: At Kaer Morhen, Cahir tells Ciri something that makes her scream ...

Excerpt from Chapter 3:

"Fuck," Geralt says after a moment of silence.

"Fuckety fuck, that is bad indeed," Jaskier adds with a deep sigh. "Come here, darling, let me dry those tears." He fishes a frilly, pink handkerchief from his vest pocket and, hugging her even closer, gently dabs at Ciri's eyes. Yet, now the tears begin to flow for real and Ciri starts to sob uncontrollably in Jaskier's arms. Tears of grief for her dead grandfather and grandmother, for the loss of her childhood, her home, for all the death and destruction and pain that followed, but also for the evil things she has done and is ashamed of. And for Cahir who might be dying because of her.

"Here, my daughter, drink this. It will make you feel better." Geralt holds a mug in front of her tear-streaked face when the sobs finally cease. Surprised, she looks up into his concerned face. In her grief she did not even notice that he had left the room.

Ciri takes a sip. Warm milk with honey. It does make her feel better. And very sleepy. As soon as the mug is empty, Geralt and Jaskier tuck her in. Then Jaskier starts to sing a lullaby for her. It is not the one she expected but one she has never heard before. A fairytale song about a little tin soldier with only one leg and his tiny ballerina, and their eternal love. It is beautiful and sad and exactly what she needs to finally fall asleep, secure in the knowledge that her family is always there for her. Never lost, always found, like in the fairytale.

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cynicalone94 · 8 months ago

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Whumpril 2024 - Day 12

Weak Pulse

Read on AO3 here.

A simple night out celebrating their anniversary quickly takes a turn when a medical emergency threatens to take Jay away from her.

@whumpril

#whumpril2024 #whumpril day12 #weak pulse #jay halstead #chicago pd #whump fic

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crimsonlyinglilly · 8 months ago

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Day 12 Weak Pulse

Also Day 16 Coughing Fit and Day 21 “Just hold on.” for whumpril

Still working on the catch up, and so here a collection of several days.

Familiar faces, set Season 3 x 15 of the vampire dairies follow on from CPR

Kol watches his brother and gains several questions however the answers have to wait as Elijah ignores his own health.

---

Kol watched as his mother’s protective circle starts to fail, the flames starting to flicker and die down. He looked between mother’s shock and Elijah stiff form, hand held out stretched as he focused on smothering Esther’s power.

Esther’s power as well as the Bennet line, he remembered learning under Ayana, besides her children, that line was powerful, Elijah hadn't had enough power or interest to take part in those lessons back then.

And yet Elijah was countering it on his own even channelling his original body that shouldn’t have been possible without-

Just as he thought it he noticed his brother’s heart beat start to slow from it’s heightened rate, getting to a level that would be normal to a vampire but was wrong from a teenage human under stress.

“Stop!” he ordered appearing beside his brother, one hand reaching out to grab Elijah in an attempt to shake him from his concentration

“I won’t kill me while I’m linked to you.” Elijah countered but Kol could hear the laboured sound in the words, the way he was leaning into Kol’s hand, uses it to keep him upright.

It may not kill him but Kol was well aware of the permanent damage overuse of magic could cause, so he swallowed, remembered where the echoed sharp stabs of pain he felt during their journey here and with a quick jab from the hand not holding Elijah, slammed a hand into the bruises left from the CPR.

He winced as Elijah let out a choked cry and he heard the surprised grunts from his brothers as they all felt Elijah’s cracked ribs shift and ignoring his discomfort he caught Elijah.

Elijah crumpled into his arms, coughing. His magic vanishing causing mother’s protection to flare back up, he ignored that as well as the sound of Finn’s questions, it seemed mother hadn’t shared with him that Elijah would be part of this spell.

Kol let Nic inform their oldest brother of what mother's true intentions for their current human brother, it seemed Mother hadn't been completely honest with Finn, why he thought she would be this time when she hadn't when she had first killed them all, was beyond Kol.

Instead he spent his attention on Elijah, who was stuck in a coughing fit, struggling to catch his breath, while using his supernatural hearing to make sure his hit hadn't broken the rib and cause it to puncture.

He didn't want to need to take his brother to ER since they had apparently made enemies of al the witches in this town

They shouldn’t have let him come Kol thinks, the moment they realised his injuries they should have made him stay back.

But then when had any of them ever managed to get Elijah to let them go, his stubborn protectiveness was the one thing none of them had ever really tried to break because they all liked having that attention at one point.

And look where it had ended up getting Elijah.

As the coughing fit ended, Elijah slowly regathered his breath to straighten as he returned his glare back at the pair in the circle, stepping away from Kol.

Moments later the protective flames flickered again and Kol had to check that Elijah wasn't trying something before mother started to shout calling to the Bennet ancestors.

It seemed the Salvatore brothers had fulfilled their roles, it was only the fact Kol was still watching Elijah that he caught the flickering of grief in his brother’s face as he also realised what it meant.

Right, because the oldest Bennet witch had trained Elijah in this life, even if Kol was judging what and how much his brother knew, Elijah had called the woman, Grams, and the youngest was a friend of Elijah’s.

It seemed their Mother was as bad as Klaus at ruining Elijah’s new life and bringing death to the people that he grew up with.

He pulled Elijah back to him, his brother falling easily into him without resistance, Kol would assume he was lightheaded and exhausted from both using to much magic and pushing an injured body.

He discovered Mother and Finn’s escape as he looked up to find the woods empty, other than Klaus watching with concern, but for once Klaus was silent.

He rested one hand on Elijah’s neck to catch the faint beat under the skin and waited as the weak pulse slowly started to strengthen and return to its normal pace. Faster than he was used to from Elijah but this was the new normal for his brother he was going to get used to it.

The self sacrificing hadn’t changed sadly, only growing worse as it had expanding to cover even more people to Kol’s annoyance, he had thought to keep the link between them as something to stop Klaus from daggering him and protect Elijah but if Elijah was willing to use it to risk permanent damage to himself the sooner they were all unlinked the better.

“Can you walk?” he asked, as his mind started pointing out how much smaller Elijah was now, Kol wasn’t unused to being taller than Elijah but this was different, Elijah Gilbert was a growing teenager who hadn’t spent most of his time training under the unforgiving hand of Mikeal or hunting their food.

And now exhausted and in pain, it had stripped away the commanding confident aura Elijah normally had, that made himself the fearsome, merciless 'noble one'. Leaving just Elijah, his brother, and currently the most fragile of his siblings.

“Probably not.” Elijah admitted not looking at him and Kol blinked when he realised the silence from Elijah wasn’t caused by the injuries or the magic overuse but embarrassment.

“Idiot.” Klaus snapped but before Klaus could move towards them, Kol shifted his hold on Elijah and swept him up into his arms while trying to be careful not to jar his ribs, he had done enough damage tonight.

“Wha- Kol- what ar- '' Elijah started to ask looking at him with wide eyed surprised. Kol ignored the louder thoughts that Elijah should have a nosebleed if not more considering how much power he had used, he’d worry about that after they dealt with mother and her plans to kill them.

“Just hold on.” he told him, waiting just long enough for Elijah had followed his instruction before he took off into the woods back to the house Klaus had brought them.

Elijah would be staying with them until the threat of their mother had passed. It wasn’t like Elijah could argue since that was his own rule he had set in place centuries ago.

In the morning once Elijah recovered from this magic overused Kol was teaching him to heal broken bones and getting him to fix those ribs, he was getting tired of the dull echo he could feel through the link.