whumpy-muffle

[whumpy-muffle]

[whumpy-muffle]

the crash landing of a time traveller

[whumpy-muffle]

thinking about someone who usually ALWAYS does something just suddenly not doing it when they’re sick or injured. maybe they’re always on time but one day they’re 15 minutes late. everyone teases them until their facade slips and the others find out they were injured on the way over.

or someone who is usually cheery, or at least positive, is in a bad mood. the others speculate—or maybe she is mean enough that they avoid her—until one of them finds out that she’s concussed and simply confused/defensive.

maybe they always perform a simple gesture for the others, like making coffee first thing or doing a small task that no one wants to do. and one day they don’t do it and the others notice, but maybe they just think it’s an off day and don’t want the person to feel like they have to do this extra thing. but they discover the person is running a fever and is too out of it to remember everything (but frankly the others are shocked they’d done as much as they had in their condition).

and the person gets the care they need. maybe the others explain how they figured out something was wrong and they feel loved, for the others to notice when they’re off. or like in the first case, the others might apologize for not realizing sooner. the person apologizes for not saying anything (or purposefully hiding it) and they all promise to do better. guilt will allow all of them to make better choices in the future… hopefully.

[whumpy-muffle]

Windows in whump:

Parted on a cool day as Whumpee lies miserably in bed, taking solace in the breeze hitting their face.

Sealed tight, glass frosted as a storm assaults Whumpee’s shelter. Rain or hail threaten to pierce the window pane, sounding like gravel on glass. It’s a constant reminder of what Whumpee had been exposed to just a few hours ago.

Buried in a wall of snow that blacks out the room and bars our characters from getting supplies or medical care.

Shattered. Maybe poorly patched up with planks of wood or a tarp. It doesn’t shield Whumpee from the elements, let alone their assailants. Maybe there’s sharp, dusty, or even toxic debris scattered about, making for a shelter that facilitates more harm than healing.

Wide open on a hot day. Whumpee’s fever is beyond dangerous, and the meager damp cloths and home remedies can only do so much.

Closed on a rainy day. Caretaker and Whumpee are cuddling beneath a heavy quilt. The soft pattering of droplets is enough to lull Whumpee to sleep despite their pain.

Rattling with the sound of thunder. Whumpee hides, terrified. It’s enough to fuel their delirious hallucinations or trigger their PTSD.

[whumpy-muffle]

I would LOVE a mash fic where Hawkeye has the flu that turns into pneumonia because I’m in the mood for you to kick the shit out of him 😂

GIRL THIS TURNED INTO A 4.5K WORD ADVENTURE THAT GOT ME THROUGH THE HORRORS (a week at work)

i loved this prompt and had so much fun kicking the shit out of hawkeye with it lol

Hawkeye groans as soon as he wakes, rolling over in bed and immediately cancelling all plans to get up. 

“Oh, no,” BJ says, his voice still a little rough from the past week. “Did you finally catch it?” 

“Unless there’s a little drummer boy in my head and a small volcano in my stomach.” BJ winces as he coughs. 

“Sounds like you’ve got it bad. Want me to bring you something?”

“Please.” 

A cold has been going around the 4077 for the past two weeks and has dragged nearly everyone down with it. Frank first, then BJ, then Margaret, then Radar and Potter, and, finally, Klinger and Padre. So far, he’s managed to dodge it, but they knew it was a matter of time, especially since he’d been taking on the tasks they were too tired to do, like putting away shipments and laundering scrubs. Exhaustion combined with exposure. A horrible combination. 

He blinks and BJ is standing at the head of his bed, pills and a cup of water in hand. 

“Thanks, Beej,” he says as he takes them. “Think I’m gonna skip breakfast. Not hungry.” 

“Well, you’ve got to eat. Otherwise those pills are going to burn a hole through your stomach lining. I’ll bring you something. What could you stand?” 

“I owe you. I might be able to try a piece of plain toast.”

“You’ve got it. I’ll be right back.” 

Once again, it feels like he’s barely shut his eyes when BJ appears once more, toast and orange juice in hand. 

“I want to see you eat at least a few bites.” BJ sure knows him well. His plan was to toss it immediately. Reluctantly, he takes three tentative bites, showing an open mouth at him after the first and smiling when it earns a disgusted scoff. When he’s finally satisfied by about half of the bread, BJ takes the plate and heads out the door for some breakfast of his own. 

Though sleep comes easy, it also goes easy. Between hot flashes and chills, he wakes every hour or so to fuss with the blankets. He wakes up coughing over and over. He skips lunch, as well, too exhausted to move. He doesn’t even roll over to sit up when BJ brings him more toast. 

“I’ll eat it later,” he whines. “Let me sleep.”

“You want another dose of codeine? It might help you sleep a little better.”

“Not if it means eating. Just let me sleep.”

“Well, if you change your mind,” he says, “I’ll leave this here.” He sets the plate down and heads out, leaving Hawkeye alone to sleep. 

He has a feeling that if he hadn’t been taking care of them all week, they wouldn’t be letting this fly. He checks out of not just meals, but work for the day, too. Luckily, going is slow, so they never have more critically wounded than they have doctors. It means he gets to sleep, even if he does feel a little judged by Frank’s shocked reaction to saying he doesn’t feel well enough to move. Being awake feels worse than Frank’s disapproval, so he takes that on the chin and just hopes that he’s the only one greeting this situation with that little empathy. 

This doesn’t feel like what the others had been fighting all week. He’s seen them sick before, and, with the exception of Margaret, none of them are exactly brave about it. He doesn’t think they’d be on their feet, either, if they felt the way he does now, but it doesn’t make it sting less when he hears an implied eye roll in someone’s tone. Given the attitude that meets him when he does try to be honest about how he’s feeling, he thinks it’s not just Frank who thinks he’s being dramatic. Even BJ has been making little teasing jabs, all of which he’s ignored because he doesn’t have the energy to quip back. It’s frustrating. 

He can’t think of the last time he’s felt this sick, and they’re doing nothing but downplaying it even after he spent the past two weeks running around like a madman trying to do everything for everyone. BJ is doing a great job at taking care of him, sure, offering food and juice and always bringing him another dose of cough medicine right as the last one is wearing off, but even he has his limits, and by the third time he complains about his aching head and painful body and crushing fatigue, he starts writing it off, saying that it’s because he was exhausted, the only assistance he’d received being that when there were wounded and he couldn’t handle them all on his own. He’s just tired and his body is having a harder time fighting this off. He’ll feel better tomorrow morning after some sleep. 

He does not feel better tomorrow morning. Even though he skips breakfast again in favor of sleeping in, even though he’s done nothing but rest for the past day, even though everyone seems to expect him to be back on his feet by now. None of it lifts the overwhelming exhaustion.

“You’re alive,” BJ teases. “For a minute there, I was afraid Frank gave you a checkup when I wasn’t looking.” 

“I would be so lucky.” BJ smiles. 

“Feeling any better?”

“Is it possible I feel worse?” 

“You know that mornings are always the worst with a cold. Give it a little time to settle. Breakfast? I’m buying.”

“Sleep,” he declines, rolling over. 

“Don’t you think you’ve slept enough? A shower and something to eat might make you feel a little better." 

“I’m not up to that. Later.” BJ chuckles, half mirthful and half mirthless.

“Wow. I wouldn’t have pegged you as someone who gets this dramatic when you’re sick.”

That irks him too much to form a response, so he doesn’t gie one. He’s calling him dramatic? He’s barely said two words since this started. How can you sleep dramatically?

“Only wake me if someone’s dying,” he says as he rolls over to face the tent wall. 

He manages a few crackers for lunch, but other than that, he just sleeps. He tries to read the paper, but the words dance before his blurry eyes and he can’t think straight, not to mention that he can’t manage to read more than a few paragraphs at a time before he falls asleep with it in his lap. He covers up with and kicks off his blanket in an endless cycle of hot and cold flashes that he knows likely means he’s spiking a fever. 

He’s only just decided that he’s going to tell BJ as much when he hears the worst sound he could possibly imagine right now: sirens. Radar’s voice. Incoming wounded. He curses. Everything around him spins when he sits up, leaving him dazed and spacey for a moment. When he pulls himself to his feet, he’s even more lightheaded and dizzy. Everything goes black for a few seconds before he gets ahold of himself and sits back down on the edge of the bed. He can’t do this. If he tries, he’s afraid he’ll faint. 

“BJ,” he calls, then coughs so hard he thinks he pulls a muscle. BJ barely looks at him in his rushed state. 

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think I can operate like this.” He seems incredulous. 

“Come on, Hawk. You’ve operated through much worse, and besides, I did it last week. We all did. It wasn’t so bad—it’s just a cold.” 

He’s beginning to think that’s not true, but if BJ thinks he’s being dramatic now, he can’t imagine what he’d say if he claims he has a fever and he’s wrong. Besides, he shouldn’t have to say anything. If they were taking care of him as well as he’d done them, he’d have had his temperature checked yesterday and would probably be in post-op getting fluids.

“I don’t know. I feel… off.” 

“Of course you do,” he says, able to keep all but the tiniest bit of irritation out of his voice, “but we need your hands on deck. There are kids out there who could die if we’re too slow.” 

“They could also die when my shaky hands puncture an artery with a scalpel.” BJ rolls his eyes. 

“Look, I can’t drag you there, but I think you’re overreacting to this a little bit.”

Hawkeye wants to tell him. About the roaring headache, shivering chills, aching body, the worrisome tightness in his chest. It feels more serious than any of them are giving him credit for, but given the circumstances, a cold makes the most sense, so he has to think horses even though he swears he can faintly see zebra stripes. 

“You’re probably right,” he lies. “I’m just tired. I’ll be fine.” 

“That’s the spirit.” 

By the time they make it to the OR, he’s breathing consciously so as to not sound as out of breath as he is. It doesn’t keep him from coughing, however, but hopefully the second dose of codeine they give him while he scrubs up might help. 

It does, for a time, but then it wears off, and there’s no one available to hand him another dose even if he had the time to stop and take it. Desperately holding the cough inside his lungs makes him dizzy. It doesn’t help that his head is swimming from the heat and low blood sugar, unrelenting vertigo threatening to pull him underwater. 

Adrenaline and determined focus get him through the entire nine hours, but that’s about all he has left. His gas tank bottoms out the second he places the last suture and approves the soldier for release to post-op. He barely even has time to set his scalpels down before beelining for for his pyjamas and robe, followed by BJ and Frank. He has to catch himself on the wall to keep from toppling over, but once more, that concern is treated as a joke rather than a terrifying reality. 

He just has to get dressed. After that, he can go back to sleep until whatever hell bug this is either passes or leaves a pretty corpse. Determination, however, is no match for the body, and he finds himself unable to let go of the wall. It’s that stomach dropping feeling that’s stopping him, the kind of freefall that comes with standing somewhere tall and looking over a steep, faraway ledge. If he lets go, he might fall. 

But if he doesn’t, he has to sleep here.

With one push, he meanders in a wobbly line toward his clothes, then fumbles to take his scrubs off. The feeling only becomes more frantic as heat starts to creep in, trapped under is collar and circling until he’s sweating and shaking. The devil works hard, but his scrubs work harder, because he’s never had to work so hard to take off a shirt in his life. 

“Do you need a sponge to the forehead? Looks like a pretty intense fight you have going on.”

“Normally I can charm a shirt off without lifting a finger,” he replies, but the joke is flat and forced. Neither of them seem to notice. The world is spinning faster by the minute and he can’t find his balance. It’s only intensifying the heat and nausea. He needs to sit, but he can’t see to ease himself down. Instead, he blindly reaches out for the nearest surface to steady himself on—unfortunately, it just happens to be BJ’s shoulder. He spins on him irritably. 

“What are you—oh!” he exclaims, irritation turning quickly to surprise  as he finds himself catching him by the arms to keep him from falling. 

“Sorry,” he breathes, eyelids fluttering. 

“Easy. Down you go,” he says, easing him to sit on the floor and gently pushing his head between his knees. 

“What the hell just happened?” Frank asks. The chaos had all unfolded in the time it took him to put his shirt back on. 

“He collapsed.” His eyebrows knit together in either confusion or concern. BJ kneels down beside him.

“Hawk, can you hear me?”

Hawkeye doesn’t move his head, but does offer a thumbs up. 

“Are you okay?”

“Just got a little dizzy.”

“I wonder why,” Frank says sarcastically, “considering you haven’t eaten in two days.” That hurts a little. It makes it sound like it’s his fault that he’s ill, like he hadn’t spent the past week and a half taking care of everyone and everything. On a normal day, it might have made him sad, but with no sleep and a raging headache, it just pisses him off. 

“Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t exactly plan this.” 

“Don’t get snippy. As much as I hate to say it, he’s right, for once,” BJ argues. “You could be taking better care of yourself.” 

No gratitude at all. They probably feel like they’ve already repaid him the favor by allowing him to do nothing but rest for two days straight. It’s not concern, it’s inconvenience. 

“Great. I’ll start now,” he says harshly before storming off. 

“Wait, Hawk,” BJ calls disapprovingly before he’s out of earshot. “Let me walk you.” 

“Why? It’s just a cold.” 

“And two days of doing nothing but sleep. You need to eat something if you don’t want to swoon again.” 

“I told you, I’m not hungry.” 

“Clearly, your blood sugar says otherwise. At least drink some juice.” 

“I’ll get right on that. I’ll be in the Swamp, if you need me.” 

Before he can plead his case further, Hawkeye is walking away. BJ doesn’t chase after him, not when he’s in a mood like this. It’s so rare to see him this crabby. He knows he’s not feeling good, but this seems a bit excessive for just a cold. 

“You don’t think something is really wrong, do you?” BJ asks Margaret, who sighs. 

“You know him. No stranger to making a spectacle of himself. I’m sure he’s still exhausted.” 

“He’s had two days to sleep that off.” 

“Yes, and now he’s ill. It’s stress and a cold. I wouldn’t examine his motives too closely. You’ll drive yourself mad.”

He nods, reassured that he’s right in his assumption and not being too harsh. He’ll talk to him again when he cools off. 

Hawkeye doesn’t manage much sleep that night, either, leaving him ill-prepared for the next day’s work: the inventory count. Both luckily and unfortunately for him is the fact that it’s pretty low impact, physically speaking. Just counting how many boxes there are of this and that, putting things back in their proper home if they were left strewn about, reporting usage of painkillers and anesthesia. It requires focus and attention to detail, but he can do most of it while sitting. That’s nice, but he’s pretty sure that if this were more strenuous, he might be exempt entirely and allowed to go back to bed. He’s never been so tired in his life. It’s a struggle just to keep his eyes open. 

The lack of air he’s getting isn’t helping that, either. His breathing has turned noticeably shallower, crackling around in his chest like popcorn. He’s surprised no one is commenting on how deep and soupy his cough is and forcing him to get a chest x-ray. He’d order it himself if everyone weren’t already so irritated with him for slacking. 

After about 45 minutes upright, he can’t stand any longer. Exhausted joints are screaming out for rest, upsetting his head and stomach, which cry in turn. Besides, the labels on the bottles keep blurring in front of him, making it nearly impossible to tell morphine from quinine. When he feels like he can’t take it any longer without fainting, he feels his way over to the corner and sits with his head between his knees, allowing his eyes to shut mere seconds after. 

Someone is shaking his shoulder. 

“Caught you,” BJ teases, the jovial smile leaving his tone as he watches Hawkeye startle genuinely, which results in more coughing. “Relax. Just me. Were you sleeping?” 

“Was I?” he asks, genuinely unsure. It felt like a blink. An uncomfortable, sweaty blink. 

“Unless you were ignoring me the three times I called your name. You were out like a light.” 

“I’m exhausted.” 

“You’ve been busy,” BJ concedes, “but you also haven’t been sleeping through the night. Maybe moving around will tire you out enough to sleep through the night.”

“I’m plenty tired. It’s my lungs that aren’t sleeping.” 

“You could take meds for it if you would just try to eat a little.” He’s explained this already, that he hasn’t simply lost his appetite, but the thought of food actively nauseates him. He’d rather be able to hold down a little water than end up dehydrated from throwing up. The pills wouldn’t work in either case. 

“You really should eat,” Margaret interjects. “You’re awfully pale.” 

“That would be the plague,” he snaps. “I’m finishing this. Let me focus.” He tunes out everything else. 

It’s amazing how much they rely on Hawkeye to boost morale. Even Margaret, who is constantly begging him to shut up, feels a little heavier in the silence. On a typical day, he and BJ would be joking around, laughing at each others’ jokes even when they’re not funny. They’ve only been restocking the OR for about an hour, but it feels like it’s been four. 

BJ has been watching him out of the corner of his eye and so far, he hasn’t loved what he’s finding. Despite that the whining has stopped entirely, along with any other conversation longer than a yes or no question, he looks worse than he has. Or maybe it’s just the first time he’s really looking. Not only is he pale as a ghost, but  he’s sweating profusely. Frequent breaks to cough and to rest make the process slow, but it’s steady, and he’s helping as much as he feels like he can.

“Do you need a break?” he finally asks when he glances over to find him massaging the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed. “You’re looking rough.”

“No, I’m fine. I just want to be done with this.”

“A ten minute break isn’t going to hurt anything. Why don’t you just take a moment?” 

He looks hesitant, but he also looks like he’ll topple over if he doesn’t accept. 

“Ten minutes.” 

But ten minutes comes and goes and he’s nowhere to be found. After half an hour of Hawkeye being MIA, it appears as though he’d wandered off somewhere and left the hard part for everyone else: putting away the shipment of this week’s supplies. Though no one had expected him to do much of the heavy lifting like he usually does, he could, if nothing else, open boxes and stock the shelves. Collectively, they decide someone should track him down and drag his ass back to the OR. 

After a short search, BJ finds him in the mess hall alone. He has his head down, resting on folded arms, and as he gets closer, he can hear congested breathing that would normally concern him if he weren’t so annoyed. 

“Are you sleeping again?” he demands, this time not as gentle as the last. His eyes fly open and he nearly jumps out of his seat. 

“Sorry,” he jolts, “sorry. I wasn’t trying to.” 

“So you’re  saying you didn’t ditch us to take a nap?” 

Hawkeye blinks at him like he’s not even listening. 

“I don’t feel so great,” he finally says. It’s an understatement for how mottled and foggy his mind feels right now, but because of that cloud, he can’t articulate it. 

“You’ve mentioned that, but sometimes you have to suck it up. If we don’t get that shipment unpacked, we’re not going to have enough supplies if a round of wounded arrive tonight.” 

He at least has the wherewithal to look embarrassed. That cough again, low and painful. It slices through his foul mood enough to soften his posture. 

“What’s really going on with you? You’re really blowing this cold out of proportion.” 

“I needed a break,” he insists. “I haven’t been able to catch my breath all day.” 

For the first time this week, BJ hesitates. “Are you saying you’ve been having trouble breathing?” 

“Tightness in my chest,” he replies. “I just needed a minute to get my bearings. I was planning on coming back.” Embarrassed to have been caught, he stands too quickly and tries to blink away the specks of sparkly, shimmery black that overtake his vision. BJ motions to stop him but doesn’t reach out.

“Hang on. You’re starting to worry me. I think we should give you a quick look-over, after all.” 

“No,” he replies. “I just…” 

“‘Just’ what?”  BJ prompts when he trails off slowly. 

“Little lightheaded," he admits, and that’s when it sets in, the fear. The realization that he wasn’t, wouldn’t be playing something up to the point where it’s interfering with his work and leaving the rest of them screwed over. Not only has he been accusing him of being dramatic, but he’s done it at the expense of his health and allowed a potentially serious problem to go four days untreated. 

“I’m going to bring you some things. Stay put.” 

But before he can even turn around, he sways, catching himself with a frontward stumble that ends with crashing into a table with his hip bone. It must be terribly painful, but he doesn’t even seem to register it. 

When another coughing fit starts, it’s considerably more alarming, deep enough to come with a serious sense of foreboding.

“Hawk,” he calls, “sit down.” He guides him to sit on the ground, but instead, he droops forward, relying solely on BJ’s support to remain upright. “Is this good, or do you need to lie down?”

He nods fervently, blinking long and heavy. Clinging to consciousness is taking all his effort. Had it been this bad through surgery yesterday? All through inventory? How long has he been this sick?

“Alright. Just relax.” With one hand on his back to help him ease down, BJ guides him to lie down, elevating his legs on the seat of the table. 

“I’m grabbing reinforcements. I’ll be back.” He jogs off before Hawkeye can object and returns a few minutes later with Margaret, who kneels down and has to shake him by the shoulder to get his attention. 

“Hawkeye,” she calls softly, “come on. Wake up.” He blinks, then stares at her, eyes puffy and dark from illness and sleep. She places her hand across his forehead as she slips the thermometer under his tongue and looks shocked, nearly anxious. 

“He’s burning up,” she says. “I don’t think he has the cold that’s been going around.” 

“Then what is it?” BJ asks. "It came on so fast. The flu?"

“Hawkeye, have you been spending any time with that young boy in bed 6? Jack Jones?” 

“We play cards,” he rasps. “Why?”

She turns a serious gaze to BJ. “He’s got primary pneumonia.” 

BJ is so overwhelmed that he has to shut his eyes and take a breath. Worry, anxiety, guilt, all of it passes over him in a strong wave that makes him nauseous. 

“You’re joking,” he accuses as a last-ditch effort. She removes the thermometer and shows him the reading just to prove it—nearly 104. “Damn it. We need to get him to post-op. Can you—”

“I’ll take care of everything,” she reassures. “Stay with him.” 

While she hurries off to find help, BJ resists the urge to apologize while he’s in a state in which he might not even remember it, while he’s likely to accept it just because he’s too out of it to say anything other than “okay.” As if it’s going to come away with a different result, he places his own hand to his forehead and curses again. 

“Beej,” he says. “S’going on? The shipment.” 

“Don’t worry about the shipment. You’re going to bed.”

“I thought—”

“I was wrong. Very wrong. Just relax, alright? We’ve got it from here.” With that, he shuts his eyes and drifts. 

When he wakes, he notices three things. First, his head is no longer throbbing. Second, his mind is clearer than it has in days. And third, he’s not alone. BJ is on post-op duty and probably has been for a while now, but he’s not sitting where he normally does, but rather, has pulled a chair up next to his bed. He’s scribbling away on a patient chart when he notices Hawkeye stir and looks up, a wide grin overtaking his face. 

“You’re awake,” he says. 

“Really? But you’re the man of my dreams.” He laughs. 

“How do you feel?”

He takes inventory for a moment. “Better. What did you do to me?”

“Antibiotics and a lot of fever reducers. By the time we listened to you about how sick you were, your temp was sky high.” 

“How long ago was that?” 

“Just a few hours. You haven’t been out that long.” 

“Then it makes sense that I’m still exhausted.”

“Yeah, that’ll probably stick around for a while. You’ve got pneumonia.” His eyebrows raise, but he tries not to show too much shock on his face. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you earlier. You shouldn’t have had to get this sick for someone to do something about it. I thought it was a cold.” 

“Because it made the most sense, in terms of timing.” 

“But not in terms of your symptoms. I was so convinced you were being dramatic that I wouldn’t hear anything else. We were so harsh on you. And—god, we demanded so much—”

“Beej,” he curtails. “Look, I survived. It’s okay. Just breathe.” Great, now he’s making him comfort him while he’s still so sick. He bites the inside of his cheek to get his emotions in check. 

“Well, I’m sorry. Really. And I’m going to make sure you get the opportunity to rest proper, now. You’re not gonna have to lift another finger until you’re fit to leave this bed.” 

“Does that mean what I think it means?”

“Sponge baths?” 

“And bonbons.” 

“Already added to the inventory checklist. We’ll see if they pull through.” 

“We can hope.” BJ smiles. 

“Seriously, I’m sorry. And I’m glad you’re okay.” He reaches out for his hand and squeezes. “Get a little more sleep. Just holler if you need something.” 

“Deal.” For the first time in a long time, he allows himself real, restful sleep.

[whumpy-muffle]

passing out prompts

vasovagal response to phobias/pain/stress

whumpee throwing a hand out to the wall if they're alone and don't want to hit their head

the pre-pass out whimper (from personal experience this is a half-hearted attempt to warn others about passing out/an incomplete cry for help or attempt to ask something to stop rather than an actual whimper of distress) (though it is sometimes that too. lol)

more on the pre-syncope symptoms: presumably because of the lack of oxygen, you stop thinking clearly so i remember distinctly feeling my legs go wobbly and my vision go dark but thinking 'no i can just wait it out' - and then waking up on the floor

someone noticing that whumpee looks dizzy or faint and silently moving over to stand behind them

whumpee managing to get out that they feel dizzy but not managing to get to a chair or the floor so the person who catches them does a half-fall with them (because omg people are heavy hello)

or, whumpee who often feels dizzy but doesn't faint, who says they think they're about to pass out and no one rushes to them because they're usually fine. cue ✨ caretaker guilt ✨

[whumpy-muffle]

okay but!! the premise for my next fic is that a cold is going around and the MC finally gets sick, but the team doesn't put it together that he was around someone with the flu and that's what he caught. so they're expecting him to push through the discomfort like they all did, but he can't, not with a high fever and severe body aches. he can't sleep because it bothers his lungs. has no appetite and skips all 3 meals. he is struggling to keep himself awake.

eventually he collapses, but everyone blames the heat and exhaustion from being up all night coughing. they keep finding him asleep sitting down and start to get irritated that he's being lazy.

upon finding him sleeping in an odd place again, his friend gives him a little teasing about it, but he replies earnestly that he can't stand because he's too dizzy and he can't sit because he falls asleep. that's when the group realizes that he's NOT being dramatic about a cold, but is underplaying being seriously ill. then comfort >:)

[whumpy-muffle]

i can't express how absolutely important it is that when you make an edgy, brooding, badass character who's tough as nails and good at fighting and whatever, you HAVE to give them at least one reason to become completely helpless and pathetic. you have a panic attack quota to fulfill.

[whumpy-muffle]

[whumpy-muffle]

Pspsps this is your sign to get real self-indulgent and design a fictional drug or illness that only does your favorite things, bc it's super fun and you don't have to do any research

[whumpy-muffle]

whumpy hints

some tiny details that tickle the whump senses

• dark circles, bloodshot eyes

• falling asleep fully clothed, possibly with jacket and shoes still on, legs/feet hanging off the foot of the bed or sprawled half-on half-off a couch

• the “oh shit, i’m gonna faint/nevermind i’m good” face (and aborted grab for nearest solid object or person)

• a character losing their footing for a moment on rough terrain. someone reaching out to grab them so they don’t fall and they both hold on for a hot second

• closing their eyes and leaning into a gentle touch

• shaky hands, shaky voice

• falling asleep at their desk at work/tucked away in an odd place

• doing things that are out of character & having others start to notice: losing their cool, being extra chipper or extra quiet, jumpy

• zoning out

• someone getting between them and whoever they’re having a heated exchange with, gently pushing them back with a hand against their chest or shoulder

• slipping out of sight from the others to lean against a wall, tip their head back and close their eyes

[whumpy-muffle]

Maisie's guide to disguised AI

If you've been anywhere near AO3 recently, you've probably encountered AI writing at some point. As somebody who writes for, primarily, the ER fandom (and occasionally the Pitt, too), I've noticed a concerning trend over the last few days: AI-generated fanfiction clogging the tags.

Firstly, I'd like to say that if you ARE posting fics on AO3 that were AI-generated, and you're passing them off as your own, please stop. I know this is not likely to actually resonate with you if this IS you, but on the off-chance that you do see this and think it's impressive, it certainly isn't (to me, anyway, as much as that counts lol).

Secondly, before I go into some AI tells in detail, I want to preface this with a warning- just because you see one or two of these in a fic, there's no guarantee that it was AI-generated. Please approach the matter of flagging fics with care, because the last thing I want is to incite a witch hunt against innocent people just engaging in fandom.

However, when seen in tandem, these signs should act as a warning to think a little more deeply about what you're reading, and ask the question- was this human written?

1. Em-dashes

I'm getting this one out of the way quickly because it's something easily identifiable, but it should by no means discredit a fic on its own. Real people can use em-dashes, but ChatGPT uses them a LOT. Like, a distracting amount. And they're often used in conjunction with...

2. 'Not' qualifiers

ChatGPT doesn't do 'yes, and'. It seems to work off 'no, but' instead (sorry @pagingdoctorcarter , like an AI, I am stealing your phrase here. But I do have the decency to credit, I suppose!).

Take this sentence I've come up with right now:

Carter was so exhausted he was struggling to stand, legs trembling with the strain of keeping him upright.

AI might write something like this (using my own creative license here because I don't want to feed the beast):

Carter was exhausted— not the regular exhaustion that came with twelve hours on his feet. Something deeper. Heavier.

3. Repetitive phrases.

AI is not original, so it can't come up with anything original, of course. This means that it relies on basic phrases it uses over and over and over again e.g 'the kind of (blank) that (blank)'

4. The classic 'concrete noun' + 'abstract noun' combo

For reasons that I can't quite understand, AI adores this. Some humans include this combo in their work, too, but AI does it even more frequently. Some real phrases I've encountered so far include:

"a story about meatballs and betrayal"

"champagne and anxiety soaked into the upholstery"

5. Anachronisms and inaccuracies

This is especially present in a fandom like ER, where most of the time we're writing about the 90s, and this CAN be attributed to genuine human error... but if Carter is repeatedly 'swiping' on his phone screen to open a call, and everyone's always texting... could be AI.

In a similar vein, if someone is shouting 'code blue!' for things that AREN'T cardiac arrest, or mixing up names and even hallucinating random characters- think 'maybe AI'.

6. Short sentences, short paragraphs, short chapters.

AI doesn't have the ability to understand how paragraphs are structured for ease of reading and flow. So it likes short sentences. Snappy sentences.

And not just when the situation suits it. But always.

If there's a hell of a lot of paragraphs, it could be AI. AI doesn't like including many clauses. At all.

7. Generic similes and phrases that don't mean anything at all

This relates to the 'concrete noun + abstract noun combo' but, more generally, AI produces writing that veers away from specifics. It won't often describe places in too much detail, and when it comes to similes, it uses simple, overused ones OR spouts a series of words that are meaningless. If you see an abstract simile in a fic, take a second. Is it abstract because it's complex and has several layers, or is it utterly meaningless?

8. A crazy update schedule

This one is less reliable because it IS possible to bank chapters and then post a lot in one go, but if an author is posting many thousands of words in the span of a few days, consider this a small red flag- especially in conjunction with the other things mentioned. It could mean they're just pumping out AI-generated writing, and this allows them to move far quicker than any human.

9. Overly mushy dialogue

AI is a thief, but it's a happy-go-lucky thief. Characters speak like they stepped straight off Sesame Street at times, lacking any kind of emotional complexity.

10. Awful, awful jokes

AI cannot write jokes. It simply cannot. If you read a joke in a fic that feels Disney-Channel esque but also doesn't make sense at all? It very well could be AI.

For instance:

Nobody talks like this.

Also, note the 'concrete noun + abstract noun' combo again here! (This actually was an AI fic as confirmed by author before deletion, not naming them here): 'gauze and intuition'.

Conclusion

Be vigilant. Don't fall for AI crap and, if you disagree with the concept of AI work clogging AO3 tags, definitely don't leave kudos.

And if you're posting this stuff, yet again I ask you politely, please STOP.

Thank you.

[whumpy-muffle]

Lazarus - Episode 12

[whumpy-muffle]

My favorite whump trope is utter confusion. It’s just so innocent and also a big “oh shit, this is bad” indication. Nothing shows helplessness more than confusion or even amnesia as the result of illness, injury, or deprivation.

When a whumpee wakes up ill or rouses from passing out and they have no clue what’s going on, what happened, where they are, or even who they are. They might not recognize familiar people. Maybe they feel affection, safety, relief, or fear towards the person/people above them, but can’t recall names.

Alternatively, a whumpee gets more and more confused as their condition progresses. This can be from blood loss, intense pain, shock, concussion, hypothermia, heat stroke, dehydration, starvation, and exhaustion as well as fever.

Always remember to give your whumpee slurred, spacey dialogue. Here are some examples:

“….ngh….w-wh’re m’I…..?”(a classic. It’s especially good when the whumpee is in their own bed)

“…wha’s…goin on….?” (when they don’t want to open their eyes and/or people are freaking out over them)

“…wha hppnd...? (When the floor/bed/cold bath/hospital/person’s arms they’re on/in is very different from the last thing they remember)

“…m’scared…” (because that’s their reaction to knowing nothing)

Of course, Caretaker will have to collect themself enough to explain to Whumpee in simple sentences what happened in a way that lessens the severity of what’s really going on. For example:

“It’s okay, it’s me. You had an accident, but we’re patching you up.” (Whumpee’s body is completely broken)

“You’re in bed. You’re not feeling well” (Whumpee passed the fuck out)

“Hey, shhh shhh… We’re just getting your fever down” (Whumpee wakes up thrashing in a cold bath)

I need more examples.

[whumpy-muffle]

In Hornblower 1x03, Archie suffers depression, imprisonment, epileptic fits, and an attempt at starving himself. Horatio refuses to give up on him, restores his will to live, and nurses him back to health.

[whumpy-muffle]

Whump community Reblog if you hate AI

it ruins the whole point of art

[whumpy-muffle]

Sicktember 2024 Prompt-Based Resources to Help You Get Started! 💚

**Sicktember 2023 prompt-based resources can be found [Here]

Hangovers

What is a hangover [niaaa.nih.gov]

15 hangover horror stories [buzzfeed.com]

7 ways to cure your hangover [health.harvard.edu]

How to Write a Drunk Character [allwritealright.com]

Over Indulgence

Dealing with Food hangovers [health.usnews.com]

4 Ways to Stop Digestive Discomfort  [michiganmedicine.org]

I Ate Too Much. Now What Do I Do? [osfhealthcare.org]

Is It Possible… Stomach Explode? [popsci.com]

Campus/Con Crud

Crushing the Campus Crud [hercampus.com]

So What is Con Crud  [granitcon.com]

Coming Down With the Crud  [bmhsc.org]

Rogue Organs

What Is Appendicitis? [hopkinsmedicine.org]

Gallbladder Removal [nhs.uk]

Tonsillectomy [mayoclinic.org]

Spleen Problems and Removal [nhs.uk]

Dizziness/Vertigo

Understanding Vertigo [on.bluecross.ca]

Types of Vertigo [acare.abbott.com]

Dizziness vs. Vertigo [cornerstonephsio.com]

Medieval Treatment

Medicine in the Middle Ages [ncbi.nlm.nih.gov]

6 Medieval Medical Practices [guavahealth.com]

Healing Power of Maggots/Leeches (Modern) [mountainview-hospital.com]

When Medicine was Humorous [merryfarmer.wordpress.com]

Mononucleosis

About Mono [cdc.gov]

Mono For Teens [kidshealth.org]

How to Test for Mono [mountsinai.org]

Sick People Food

What People Around the World Eat When Sick [businessinsider.com]

Sick Day Foods Across the Globe  [nyubiteclub.com]

8 Best Foods to Eat When Feeling Sick [forbes.com]

Toxin/Poison

Poisons and Toxins [sciencelearn.org]

Poisoning. What The Doctors Do [thedoctorwillseeyounow.com]

Common HouseHold Poisons [cincinnatichildrens.org]

FAQs Carbon Monoxide Poisoning [cdc.gov]

Brain Fog/Spaced Out

What is Brain Fog [everydayhealth.com]

Understanding Brain Fog [henryford.com]

Causes of Zoning Out [verywellhealth.com]

Aches And Pains

What Causes Body Aches When Sick? [uclahealth.org]

5 Tips For Writing About Physical Pain [louiseharnbyproofreader.com]

Hypochondriac tendencies

Illness Anxiety Disorder [my.clevelandclinic.org]

Signs You May be a hypochondriac [centerforanxietydisorders.com]

10 Health Anxiety Myths  [happiful.com]

How To Write Anxiety [writerscookbook.com]

Anaphylactic Response

What is Anaphylaxis  [betterhealth.vic.gov.au]

Anaphylactic Shock: What You Need to Know [healthline.com]

Waiting Rooms

What happens in the emergency department [advocatehealth.com]

Triage and Emergency Assessment  [ncbi.nlm.nih.gov]

Setting Description: Emergency Waiting Room [writershelpingwriters.net]

Summer Flu

Can You Get the Flu in the Summer? [verywellhealth.com]

Leisure Sickness  [avogel.ca]

Catching a Cold When It’s Warm [newsinhealth.nih.gov]

Heart Condition/Cardiac Arrest

Types of Heart Attacks [www.healthline.com]

Common Heart Conditions [summahealth.org]

What Does a Heart Attack Feel Like? [health.clevelandclinic.org]

How to Describe a Heart Attack in a Story [writingtipsoasis.com]

Pulling a Ferris Bueller

Define Pulling a Ferris Bueller [urbandictionary.com]

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off Summary [gradesaver.com]

10 Things Ferris Bueller Taught Us [dailyedge.ie]

A Note From the Mods [Tumblr Post]

Sick While Traveling

Take Steps to Stay Healthy While Traveling [cdc.gov]

Motion Sickness [sciencefocus.com]

How to Remove Vomit From Car Interior [wikihow.com]

Sick on Vacation Tips [apartmenttherapy.com]

Hospital Bed

How to Write a Hospital Scene [writersdigest.com]

Hospital Bed Components & Safety [robsonforensic.com]

9 Way to Help When Someone is Hospitalized [upstate.edu]

First Aid Kit

Make a First Aid Kit [redcross.org]

Travelers First Aid Kit [hopkinsmedicine.org]

Health Plan and First Aid for College [uh.edu]

Flushed Cheeks

Causes of Facial Flushing [verywellhealth.com]

What Can Cause Flushed Skin?  [medicalnewstoday.com]

Doctor's Note

Obtaining a Dr Note for Work [inhersight.com]

How to Get A Dr. Note for School  [solvhealth.com]