#syncsynd

[syncope-syndrome]

Every Medical Site Out There: Losing consciousness from blood loss is a symptom of hemorrhagic shock and a sign of loss equaling 40% volume, and when your body reaches that point it’s extremely difficult to save a person from death as organs are beginning to fail, including the heart.

Me, whose favorite part of whump is fainting: So what if I just… ignored that.

[syncope-syndrome]

If I may:

the juxtaposition of being in a place so public and so private all at once; the only people who aren't transient are the staff, and staff can be bought off.

the anonymity — no one knows who you are, as a triumph. no one knows who you are, as a fear.

beds dressed up in crisp white sheets — and all the ways you can ruin them. blood, sweat, tears, and bile, just to name a few.

the tense dance of staving off a staff member at the door so they can't see further into the room. you don't want them to see the bloody sheets, the mess of bandages, the restrained whumpee, for them to stay long enough to really look at you.

the walls of your hotel room being a bitter reminder of all the fun you could be having, of the vacation you came here for, but here you are: sick or injured or otherwise indisposed. (alternatively, you're chronically ill and this is an unfortunately regular occurrence, and while your loved ones carry on without you, you're stuck cursing yourself and sobbing into over-starched sheets.)

the haze of waking up in unfamiliar surroundings — trying to piece together the remnants of a night you can't fully recall over waffles that taste the same as the ones from the last hotel you went to, and the one before.

being so previously miserable and starved of comforts that a ragged, streetside motel feels like a Four Seasons. the room smells vaguely of smoke and sweat, the mattress is lumpy, there's stains in the carpet, but God, anything is better than where you were before.

standing aimlessly in the shower and letting the hot water run over your exhausted body in a way you can't do at home, with soaps that make you smell like a different person, that take you away from being you, just for a moment.

all the dark corners and crevices in a parking garage that are just out of the camera's view, perfect for an ambush.

all the ways the metal doors of an elevator can close on one scene and open to another — a pair with one resistant and angry opens on them now disturbingly quiet, someone staggering in but losing consciousness before they can step out, the adrenaline wearing off as the doors close, an arm moving to expose a bloody stain that wasn't visible before, resolve breaking once you're alone and you can't stifle your sobs enough by the time you reach your floor.

realizing something is horrifically wrong with where you're staying — but you don't have a choice. you didn't pick this place, there's nowhere else, it was the only option you could afford. every time you leave your room, your skin prickles with fear, but your room doesn't feel that much safer either. every minute ticks by agonizingly slow as your paranoia gets the better of you...

Thinking about hotel/motels as a setting for whump. Too tired to elaborate but I’m thinking about it

[syncope-syndrome]

Headache/Migraine Whump Prompts

from a Certified Migraine SuffererTM.

TW: VOMITING

picking up on a migraine aura* and trying to rush through their work so they can finish before it hits

conversely, not picking up on the aura and having the migraine bloom on them unaware and in the middle of something they have to finish

having to work around a screen or in a room with bright lights while their vision wavers or starts to white out, knowing that it's hurting them but not being able to leave until this task is done

snapping at someone abruptly and not quite understanding why they're so irritable all of a sudden, just that they are; it's when they stand up to apologize that their head throbs and it all clicks

trying to block out the light as much as possible and get a few moments' rest, but it's that specific time of day where the sun comes right through their windows and these coverings don't do shit

ducking into the bathroom during a night out to pop a few muscle relaxers hoping for some relief; the relief works a little too well and they're half-asleep on their friend's arm by the hour

deep breathing to keep themself from crying because of the pain, because crying will just make it worse (and failing)

getting dressed up for an event they know will have bright lights and loud sounds, and just before they're ready to leave the migraine hits them and keeps them from going

or, they go anyway, and all the excess lights and sounds exacerbate their migraine and make them incredibly sick, to the point where a concerned person offers to take them home

needing to present something to their superiors but an aura's in full force and the migraine is inevitable; the best they can do is stumble awkwardly through the presentation and hurry to lie down

someone assuming the whumpee is drunk at first — they're swaying, their speech is slurred, they're squinting against the light... until they suddenly clutch their head and double over in pain (or even fall over).

couch surfing except it's where they have to stumble from chair to chair because every time they stand for too long, their vision blacks out — and of course, one chair is a little too far away for them to make it without slumping to the floor

the agonizing cycle of having a migraine make them nauseous -> throwing up making their head throb worse -> the increased pain making them nauseous again

*an aura is a term for sensory and emotional changes that can occur about 30 minutes to an hour before a migraine comes on proper. aura symptoms can be visual (flashes of light, white outs, blind spots, blurred vision or vision loss, shimmers or stars), sensory (numbness or tingling in the hands/face, mild hallucinations), emotional (sudden depression or irritability), or speech-related (slurring words, trouble speaking or finding the right words). You can have migraines without auras but most commonly they come with them.

[syncope-syndrome]

The ever-constant dilemma of wanting your whumpee unconscious now versus the ability to milk more out of them if you keep them awake.

[syncope-syndrome]

FINALLY settled on a tagging system... I just have to work on something for promotional tags (aka those critical 5 tags). Now I feel like I can kind of start writing!

[syncope-syndrome]

Prompts For When You Need A Whumpee To Fall Like A Sack Of Bricks

For when a slow and steady loss of consciousness doesn't quite cut it (but that's still good, don't get me wrong).

whumpee's still running on adrenaline when they bump into caretaker, nothing but smiles until they catch onto caretaker's horrified expression. they follow their gaze until they see the familiar stain of blood against their shirt. their shock drains the adrenaline from them, and before caretaker's even able to take a step forward their knees have buckled.

a sudden wound — a gunshot, a stabbing — and the pain lancing through them white-hot and agonizing. they're still processing what's happened to them, gaping like a fish out of water when they feel the ground slam into the side of their head. they're not sure when they fell, but every pulse pours out more red and reminds them over and over of why.

a caretaker running themselves ragged with just how many people are hurt or in need of them, unable to take a moment's rest for themselves. their vision starts to swim when they stand up but they ignore it, because it's not that bad yet and others have it worse. they're doing an excellent job pushing through, until they're suddenly not. their vision wavers a little stronger this time, and then into black, barely able to get out a surprised "oh" before they're on the ground.

bending down to grab something and not hearing the approach of someone from behind them. one moment, they're sifting through papers, a drawer, a cabinet — the next, there's a burst of horrible pain at the back of their skull and a deep, sudden darkness.

trying to climb out of bed after a broken fever — common sense tells them to stay in bed but they want a bath so badly. their body trembles the moment they move to stand, and they're barely upright for more than a few seconds before their weakened legs fold and they collapse in a pile of exhausted, aching limbs.

doing nothing, thinking of nothing until there's a bright surge of light and heat, white bleeding into black, so abrupt that it's not until they wake again that they even comprehend that anything happened to them.

[syncope-syndrome]

Mermaid Whump Prompts

Because the whump is better down where it's wetter.

mermaids who have magic in their tears, their hair, their blood, their scales, and have been hunted down relentlessly for them over centuries. some who successfully capture a mermaid harvest them down to the bones, others hold them hostage for years, taking little pieces to preserve their supply and access for as long as possible. those who imbibe in parts of a mermaid are changed by it — a more alluring voice, a sharper gaze, a near-constant thirst, an itch underneath their skin missing the sparks of power that run through it, and there's always, always this need for more. no matter how little or how much is taken, it's never enough. it's never enough.

conversely, that's a human whumpee, given a cure for a terrible illness made from parts of a mermaid and never understanding why they always felt right in some ways and wrong in others. they're as healthy as an ox but they drain bottles of water like a sink. people always listen when they speak but they fantasize about having rooms filled with admirers, glassy-eyed and clinging to their every word. they think themselves strange, maybe even twisted, until they're told why they feel the way they do. their horror is loud... but the itch in their brain is louder.

being trapped in a net, the ropes snagging on scales and bending them back, ripping them off, as the mermaid writhe desperately to try and escape. they're gasping for air and half-smothered in the flopping bodies of suffocating fish, twisted around in a way that they can see them break the surface, watching the lapping waves move farther and farther away and hopelessness creeps in.

a mermaid who's selectively mute, unable to sing or speak when they're near land because their voice is hypnotic and causes nothing but chaos when they do. they've learned to only use their voice for emergencies, and struggle to pick and choose what counts as enough of an emergency to use it.

a mermaid who isn't mute at all, keeps their whumpee at their beck and call with nothing more than honeyed words. by now whumpee knows that they're being hypnotized, but they also know that there's nothing they can do the moment the mermaid speaks, and the mermaid loves seeing the defeat in their eyes melt into vacant subservience.

dehydration as torture.

conversely, accidental dehydration. taking a trip with a friend or lover to a landlocked place and being unable to tell them what they need lest they out themselves.

dragging their heavy bodies across the sand, leaving a trail of blood, water, and a serpentine track in their wake. any other time they're able to crawl along the shore with relative ease, but their arms are growing weaker, their breathing turning to gasps, this damn tail is so, so heavy...

the paranoia around any kind of liquid, anything that could splash on them and dissolve their fragile human form, especially in an environment that's unsafe for them to reveal themselves. every meal, every overcast day outdoors, every accidental splash from a tub or the dog shaking themselves off... the hypervigilance wears them down mentally and physically, trying desperately to stave off panic attacks and bring even more attention to their already attention-grabbing wariness over things humans see as insignificant.

[syncope-syndrome]

Because @whumpprentice and I keep getting recommended car blogs... car whump!

Seriously, where amongst my #cats, #nature, #pretty people fainting do you think I'm interested in cars, Tumblr?

TW: CAR ACCIDENTS, KIDNAPPING, DROWNING, VOMITING, DRUGGING

being trapped in the trunk of a car left out in the sun. they've slipped out of the restraints a few minutes ago, but the metal's too hot to safely touch, the heat exhaustion is weakening them, and there's not a sound from the outside. sweat makes their hands too slick to grab onto much securely and dripping into their eyes, mingling with the tears forming at the thought of them baking alive in this car, alone, and no one coming until it's too late.

sitting in the front seat next to their captor, the whumper's hand heavy on their knee as a reminder to stay quiet. the whumpee stares helplessly at the officer checking the car's registration, handing it back to the whumper with a smile and bidding them both a good day and a warning to go a little slower next time. there's triumph in the whumper's responding laugh, and the whumpee's heart sinks into their stomach as their potential savior walks away.

trying to slide their way out between two cars nearly crushing them, feeling the metal of the first car's bumper and the second car's license plate scraping and tearing into their skin with every little sidle.

a vital limb pinned down by crunched-up metal, the impact harsh enough to break bone. even if they wanted to move, they couldn't either way, trapped in by the wreckage and the intensity of their pain both.

a car sinking beneath the water, a whumpee's desperate struggle to try and shatter a window to escape. they bang their hand onto the glass until it's bruised, taking in a last-ditch lungful of air before they're completely submerged. finally, they find something sturdy enough to break the glass, but they have to pull themselves through the mangled window. every shard of glass that digs in or slices them brings a gasp of pain, and every gasp threatens the very little oxygen they have left.

a fever-ridden head pressed against the rain-cooled window, the passing streetlights and zooming cars a blur as the whumpee fades in and out.

trying to use anything and everything to keep the blood off the linen seats — the car's an antique, a rental, a friend's. if there was any other option, they wouldn't be in it at all... but there isn't. all they can do is smear more and more blood on their clothes, their blankets, even their bag in an utterly desperate and mispriortizing attempt to keep the car itself clean.

weaving through traffic with eyes on the rearview mirror, looking for the headlights of the car that's been following them for far too long. it's still there, even as they make a risky merge off the highway. it's still there, even as they make too many right turns through an unassuming neighborhood. it's still there, even as they run a red light to try and finally ditch them. relief floods their body as the tailing car stops, then there's a sickening, screeching crunch of metal on metal, and darkness.

rushing home after a bad date and an even worse dinner, struggling to focus on driving while working their throat hopelessly to keep their food from coming up again. their friend's voice drones on and on, blurring in the background as they lose the battle against their illness just as they pull into their residence.

a caretaker trying to hold a whumpee in place as the car swerves and weaves frantically towards the hospital. every sharp turn aggravates their condition, and the caretaker's voice is nearing overwork from the constant, reassuring whispers towards whumpee and the stern warnings towards the driver.

getting into a car after a party, stumbling into the arms of the all-too-eager-to-help driver. at the time, they think nothing of it, letting themselves lounge in the haze of a wild night out... but wait. they don't know this person well enough to get into their car like this. ... they didn't have that many drinks... this isn't their neighborhood... when they try to express this, their words slur to the point that the driver can't — or won't — understand them, and as their consciousness fades, the realization hits. that's not their friend's voice... it's whumper's.

[syncope-syndrome]

"I Told You So."

as a gloat, as the whumper strolls forward towards a defeated, exhausted whumpee, after hours of letting them run around in aimless desperation in search of a safe way out of the whumper's lair. there isn't one, not one that doesn't spell death for all but the luckiest of victims, and if whumpee were lucky, they wouldn't have been captured in the first place. the words are crooned by a gleeful whumper from above, grabbing the whumpee's wrists hard enough to bruise as they haul them back to whence they came.

as a sigh, from an exasperated lover, finding their workaholic partner fast asleep over their notes again. the workaholic had claimed they weren't exhausted, that they could keep working, that all they needed was another cup of coffee... and here they are, snoring with the contentment of someone who's finally gotten more than an hour's rest in days. as much as they wish to tell their sleeping lover to wake up and go to bed, they can't bring themselves to disturb them, instead draping a blanket over their shoulders with a kiss to their cheek.

as a threat, spoken in a shaky, livid voice by a whumpee who's finally gotten their revenge like they said they would. A promise, whispered over the fumes of disinfectant and blood, over their own sobs of pain as they patched up their wounds in the dead of night. whumper had laughed when they'd first said it, but they're not laughing now, and as whumpee brings their weapon of choice down again, the wet crunch of metal against bone ensures that they won't.

as a groan, as the door opens to the sight of whumpee bundled in too many blankets with a flush spread high on their too-pale cheeks. caretaker's said it again, and again, and again, to be cautious, and what thanks do they get for all of their warnings? This, being ignored again, and whumpee's gleaming, guilty smile only softens the blow so much.

as a promise, to someone who's had time pass them by over and over, to someone who'd thought they'd been considered collateral damage and abandoned. There's so little hope left that when the door opens, whumpee thinks it a hallucination but no, there's their hero, relieved and teary and telling them over and over I told you. I told you I'd come back for you.

[syncope-syndrome]

— Everything You Know

"Unhand that civilian, Villain!"

This isn't the first time you've used some variation of that phrase. This isn't even the first time you've heard that phrase this week, which makes you wonder about how — or if — The League of Heroes communicate with each other.

The look on Villain's face is almost worth it, however, as they set down their half-empty cup and regard the blue-clad hero with an expression of utter contempt. lips curled into a patronizing sneer.

"Tell me, dear Blue..." Villain says, sweeping a hand over the table laid out between them. "Does this... anything about this... look like a kidnapping to you?"

You can see Blue's brow furrow as they take in the scene before them in full — the cups of tea set out in delicate porcelain saucers, the half-eaten charcuterie board, the Villain's loyal hound curled up at your feet, the lack of restraints on your arms. "What... What is this?"

"It's tea." Villain raises their own cup as if to emphasize. "Customary to serve to a visiting friend, in case the League is unfamiliar with hospitality."

"A... friend?" Blue's baffled gaze turns to you instead. The uniform shields their face, but it does nothing against the heat of their stare. Blue makes a sputtering sound, gesturing a hand weakly towards Villain. "Do you... Do you know who this is?"

"We've been friends since we were children, Blue," Villain explains, lowering their cup only to fill it again. Steam curls up and caresses their cheek before it vanishes, and the teapot is set down again with an elegant clink against the glass table. "They're so rarely in town, and given they're here for such a tragic reason, I felt it best to invite them over and provide a bit of succor."

Blue's arms fold across their chest. "What reason?" Villain's mouth opens, and Blue raises a hand to silence them. "I want to hear it from them, thank you."

"A cousin's funeral," you say quietly. "They were... killed, suddenly. I came to help get their affairs in order." Shock still coursed through you when you spoke the words out loud. Yellow hadn't asked, simply turning away with a judgmental scoff, and Red hadn't asked before they'd tried to attack Villain over the kidnapping that wasn't happening. Your family, even as they started to converge to attend, was disquietingly close-lipped about discussing their own emotions, so this is unfortunately, the first you felt able to speak about it.

Villain's gaze is sympathetic. "So, as you can see," they say to Blue curtly. "I'd prefer you and your silly little heroics did not interrupt someone's grieving. Again, mind you."

You see Blue's shoulders rise and fall with the heavy breath they take. "Forgive me," they begin. "But can I ask how?"

"No you can not." Villain cuts you off before you can reply. "You can, however, see yourself out. If you're too dull to remember how to properly exit my facilities, Henchman is more than willing to escort you."

"No, Villain, it's okay —" You speak just as Henchman manifests themselves behind Blue. "They're... My cousin worked for the local news... apparently they were reporting on an incident within the city, and... they couldn't get out of the way as some debris came down." You can still see the footage clear as day, even though you could never stomach watching it again. Their panicked waving as they tried to tell the camera person to run, their hand reaching out to shove them to the ground and to safety... their scream, and the camera panning over to the wreckage they were buried under...

"Journalist?" Blue says, and you look up at the sound of your cousin's name in surprise. "Yes, we know them. ...You... have our condolences." Blue's body language is suddenly tense, posture as rigid as stone. They give a final curt nod to you and Villain, hands clasped tight behind their back, and retreat just as swiftly as they came. It's so abrupt you start to rise to go after them, but Villain stops you with a flick of their wrist and a murmur of dissent. "Henchman," Villain calls to their ever-loyal butler. "See after them. My friend and I would like to continue our visit in peace." Henchman sweeps into an elegant bow and departs, leaving just you, Villain, and an unspeakable weight in the air.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

TW: mild/implications of torture, kidnapping

Villain does not let you leave empty-handed. Their parting gift is a dagger, engraved with gorgeous silver filagree that hides a paralytic toxin inside. You try to refuse it, but they insist, something about having a feeling you'll need it during your stay here. And you do, almost immediately. But you're overwhelmed before you can even think to reach for it.

Your poor defense — or, more charitably, their impressive offense — brings you here, in the center of a cold, dark room, strapped far too tight into a rickety dining chair. Blood oozes from your nose, and bruises ache with every shiver that runs through you. Your vision's blurred from a repeated assault, hitting you again, and again, and again, always with the same questions, always expecting a different answer. "I really don't think they know anything," says an unfamiliar voice from the shadows. Another snarls at them to shut up, a red-gloved hand fisting itself into your shirt and dragging you closer with a yelp. You stare at the big, black eye covers in their bright red mask as the hand shakes you again, hard, rubbing the rough hempen bindings against your already sore skin.

"Don't act fucking dumb, Civilian," says Red, as Green sighs in the background. Yellow simply stares, arms folded tight across their torso, saying nothing as Red continues their assault. "You said so yourself! Villain's your friend! What the fuck do you know about them?"

"I don't —" you try to say, but Red's hand comes down and slaps you across the face again. A fresh wave of blood bubbles from your nose and falls into your gasping mouth, coating your tongue in the taste of iron. "I can do this all day, Civilian," Red sneers. "You're going to tell us everything and anything you know about Villain. I don't give a shit for your little innocent act, you're fucking friends with a literal supervillain!"

But it's not an act. Villain moved away to Metropolis after graduation, and you'd barely kept in touch until they'd had the grace to reach out to you. You didn't know what they had been up to in the years since then, too busy eking out an existence in Beachfront City to keep up with almost anyone, let alone them. You'd bought their story of being a military arms dealer and researcher, understood their unusual requests for how they'd bring you to their abode, tactfully ignored the armored car and tinted windows and the near unnecessary amount of security upon arriving... but that was it. This was your only exposure to their so-called villainy — someone who'd been so kind to invite you to their home, and let you cry on their shoulder over a terrible grief.

And these so-called heroes were... hurting you, for that.

"Red," calls a voice from the doorway. Your head snaps up despite the hurt at the sound of it, at the heavy thud of their footsteps against the tiled floor. You don't need them to step into the light to know who they are, but they do, looming over you and a snarling Red. "Stand down."

"Fuck you, Blue," Red pushes you away from them, whirling on their companion and jabbing a bloodied finger into their chest. "This was your idea in the first place!"

"I know." Blue steps around them to stare you down, and you see their head move as they look you over, taking in your pathetic form. Your skin crawls with betrayal and fear, your hurt multiplying at the news that it was them — not Red, nor Yellow — who decided to treat you this way.

"But you don't know when to change tactics, Red," Blue says coldly, kneeling down to meet your eyes. "I do. And I know we're not going to get anywhere if we don't use the best weapon we have against them." Oh God. Your body starts to shake, your eyes squeezing shut in preparation for anything they might throw at you. A superpower? A knife? A syringe? A hostage that they'll threaten unless you talk? Your mind scrambles to think of who they could have possibly taken when Blue's voice cuts through your panic, sharper than any blade they could have taken to you.

"Villain was responsible for the building collapse that killed your cousin. They killed Journalist. Along with hundreds of others. That's the kind of person you're protecting."

"I'm not protecting them..." you whisper, tears spilling out of your eyes from shock. You strain against your bindings, not caring about how raw your wrists are. "I don't — know a-anything, I don't know! I've said that! W-Why are you doing this?"

"Alright," Green says suddenly, stepping forward now to pull Blue away. "Alright, that's enough. Think of what Vi's going to say to this —"

"Justifiable restraint of a rumored enemy to the state," Blue rattles off, yanking themselves out of Green's grasp. There's nothing save for your sobs, your mind trying and failing to wrap itself around the idea of someone you thought you knew so well, someone you'd been through so much with, causing so much harm to others. You and Villain had never had the easiest lives, but... you'd vowed to fight that hurt, to end that cycle. What had happened to them while they were gone...?

"F-Fine..." you choke out. Guilt surges through you at the thought of even remotely betraying your old friend, but Red's started to advance again and if Villain is really the person the League says they are... then even you can't justify letting them go on. "I-I was just a childhood friend. That's it. But i-if you stop, I'll talk. Just — stop, stop this, please."

"And what use is that information going to be to us..." Yellow speaks up for the first time all evening, only for Blue to cut them off with a raised hand. You can hear the smile in their voice when they address you again, and it makes you nauseous.

"I knew you would cooperate," Blue says, their voice suddenly, sickeningly kind. "Tell us everything you know."