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Okay, everyone loves a good Whumpee faint. But consider the whump potential of a whumpee who doesn’t faint.
Their face is colorless. They stumble over air. Their eyes go unfocused at random times and they can’t seem to make it through a sentence without loosing their train of thought. They keep doing that thing where their legs give out and they catch themselves at the very last second.
It’s obvious that they’re using every ounce of strength they have left just to stay conscious. Everyone around them keeps side eyeing them, and refusing to go more than an arm’s length away because it’s bound to happen any second, and what if they have to catch them?
But Whumpee just keeps going and pushing through to not be a burden to the rest of the team. Only everyone would probably feel better if they did pass out because oh my God, what have they already been through that this isn’t taking them out?
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)
Could you do something like MV or OP x f!Driver!Reader where the Reader catch a fever & tired since before the race but she insists to still going then she’s overheated & faint or smthh
Pushin' it - MV3 x fem!mercdriver!reader
You insist on racing while sick and push your body too far, Max watches it happen in real time and loses it when he realizes you hid it.
warnings: merc driver reader, overprotective max, crash, injuries, mentions of reader feeling poorly and fainting...idk
a/n: I love this idea anon!!! <3<3<3 im choosing max, one of my last fics was about oskie :0 I don't really know if u wanted them like dating or so but for the plot.....they're dating ^o^
support me here: ko-fi
🔊 listening to: Liability - Lorde / Tove Styrke (goes harder for me)
You wake up and just stare at the ceiling.
Your head already hurts. It’s there the second you open your eyes, like pressure sitting behind them. When you shift, your body feels slow, heavier than it should, like you didn’t rest at all.
Your mouth feels dry. Sore throat....Hell nah...
Your skin feels warm but you don’t check your temperature.
You already know.
Max is still on the other side of the bed, fast asleep, one arm draped over his face as the early sunlight slips through the curtains.
You carefully get up and head to the bathroom, every step making your body protest.
“God… I feel awful,” you mutter to yourself as you turn on the shower.
The cold water hits your skin and you flinch, sucking in a sharp breath.
It’s one of the rare Sundays where you actually have time for a proper breakfast, maybe even a walk before the race, before the press, before the chaos.
Before everything gets out of hand.
When you step out of the shower, you find Max in the kitchen, already making coffee. He glances at you, eyes scanning you up and down.
“Good morning, schat. You okay?” he asks, grabbing another mug.
“Yeah… just a headache,” you reply.
“Then call Toto and go back to bed.”
You huff lightly. “Only if you do the same. We could stay in and cuddle.”
He smirks, not even hesitating. “Not a chance. I’m winning this race.”
You lean against the counter, raising a brow. “Not if I’m there.”
Mechanics rush around in every direction, tools clattering and voices overlapping in a constant buzz.
Nearby, the social media manager trails after George, camera in hand, as he paces around the garage, gesturing animatedly and explaining something, God knows what, to the lens.
You lower your head and slip into your driver’s room, shutting the door behind you as you go to change into your race suit.
Suit on. Zipping it up feels more effort than it should.
Gloves. You flex your fingers a few times, trying to ignore the slight stiffness.
One of your engineers says your name. You turn.
“Yeah?”
“Everything okay?”
You nod immediately.
“Yeah, just didn’t sleep great.”
He hesitates for a second, like he’s not fully convinced, but there’s too much going on to push it.
“Alright. Let us know if anything changes.”
You nod again.
It won’t.
You fall into step beside George, who immediately shoots you a knowing look.
“Tell me that’s not a hangover before race day,” he teases.
You scoff, bumping his shoulder lightly. “Please. I’d still beat you with one.”
He lets out a laugh, shaking his head as you both keep walking, trading a few more light comments along the way.
By the time you reach the others, the rest of the drivers are already lined up, ready to listen to the national anthem.
You straighten your posture, but it takes more effort than it should and for a second you have to steady yourself, locking your knees just to stay still.
You hope no one notices but Max always does.
He watches for a few seconds longer than he means to.
Then when the music stops, he walks over.
You’re standing near your car when he gets there.
“You good?” he asks, casual on the surface.
You don’t look at him straight away. “Yeah.”
You finally glance at him, but it doesn’t last. “Just tired.”
Max tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a bit. Your face is flushed under the helmet, but your eyes look…glassy.
He doesn’t like it.
“…right,” he says.
He doesn’t believe you but they’re calling drivers in, there’s no time.
Inside the car, everything gets quieter, as the noise stays outside, you focus on what’s in front of you.
The start goes clean.
First laps, you’re fine, more than fine. Your body knows what to do, even if your head feels off. Muscle memory carries you through corners and for a while, it almost works.
Then you turn in slightly too late on one corner.
You correct it quickly, but in the Red Bull, Max notices immediately. He frowns, that wasn’t like you.
Then your radio.
“…yeah, I’m fine.” You sound fatigued.
The heat builds slowly, but it doesn’t stop. It sits under your skin, spreading until it’s everywhere. Sweat sticks to your back, your hands, your neck, but your arms feel cold and numb.
Your grip on the wheel keeps shifting.
You flex your fingers briefly on a straight, trying to get them to cooperate.
It doesn’t fully work.
Your vision dips at the edges. You blink hard.
Focus.
You can’t afford to lose focus going this fast.
“Radio check.”
You press the button.
“…yeah.” Your voice sounds distant even to you.
Your breathing is too fast, you try to control it, but it just makes you more aware of it.
Your chest feels tight.
Your head is pounding harder now, making it harder to concentrate.
You start falling behind.
For a second you think about just letting the car go and pulling in to get some water and a Tylenol.
In his Redbull, Max swears under his breath. He’s getting frustrated and worried.
This isn’t you. Not even close.
There are only a few laps left.
You focus on that; just finish.
Your hands are shaking now, actually shaking.
You tighten your grip on the wheel, trying to force it steady, but it¡s too heavy, it doesn’t stop.
Your vision narrows as you try to take a deeper breath.
It doesn’t help. Your head drops forward just slightly.
And then the impact.
It’s not the worst crash the circuit has ever seen, but from inside the cockpit your body feels the violent jolt snapping through. The car stops skewed against the barrier.
By the time they get you out of the car, you’re barely responsive.
Your helmet comes off. The air hits your face, but you don’t react properly.
Voices overlap around you.
“Stay with me—”
“Get her cooled down—”
“Careful—”
The medical car is gone within minutes. Then the ambulance follows.
Max doesn’t hesitate.
He’s still in his race gear, half-unzipped suit hanging off his waist, helmet gone but his hands still shaking slightly as he moves. Someone from Red Bull tries to stop him at the garage exit.
“Max, you can’t—”
“I’m going,” he cuts in immediately, not even looking at them.
There’s no argument after that tone.
He gets into the team vehicle that’s been dispatched to follow the ambulance route.
His knee won’t stop bouncing.
The hospital comes into view too fast.
“Max—wait—” someone starts again.
He’s already walking to her room.
“Is she okay?” he asks immediately, voice breaking more than he intends. “Is she awake?”
The doctor pauses.
“She’s stable. She lost consciousness briefly, likely due to dehydration and exhaustion. We’re monitoring her, but she’s conscious now.”
That’s all Max needs to hear.
He doesn’t even wait for permission, he’s already moving toward the room.
And when he finally reaches the door, hand hovering for a split second, he pushes it open.
He drops down next to you, close enough to actually see you properly.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Fever, most likely. Heat on top of it.”
He goes still for half a second. His jaw tightens.
“You knew,” he says, looking straight at you.
Your eyes open slightly. Not fully focused.
“Didn’t… wanna stop,” you mumble.
That makes something in him snap.
He exhales hard, running a hand through his hair, frustration sitting right under the surface.
“That’s not how this works,” he says, voice tight.
“…did I finish?” you ask, voice rough.
He stares at you for a second.
“No.” A small pause.
“You passed out.”
You close your eyes briefly. You already knew.
Silence sits between you.
Then he leans forward slightly.
“Next time,” he says, steady, “you tell someone. You tell me”
His voice isn’t loud.
But there’s no room to argue with it.
He holds your gaze.
“Please. You don’t get anything out of pushing yourself like this schat.”
There’s a second where it feels like he might say more but he doesn’t, instead he leans and gives you a soft kiss on your forehead.
What if she ever fainted? (i have pots so this is a bit self indulgent)
Fainting
(I am so not happy with this one, so sorry...)
Omg, imagine she ever fainted.....
So, it would be a very hot day, and Yn has already complained about the heat to her Mama.
Of course, Pascale has been very attentive, giving her sweet daughter water and making sure they are always under a shade.
But no one could have anticipated that the heat would be too much.
Imagine Charles, Mama, Lorenzo, Arthur, and her having lunch, and Yn is just sweating and very pale.
Everyone already offered to get her something to drink or somewhere cooler, but Yn, always too polite, declined.
So when she stands up to get some water, all the blood rushes too quickly to her head, and she faints.
Charles drivers reflexes immediately kick in, and he is catching his sweet darling sisterx while Arthur runs for a doctor. Lorenzo is immediately fanning her and making sure she is lying more comfortably.
Charles tries to get Yn to wake up, and Enzo tries to get her to drink some water. When the doctor arrives, Charles immediately carrie sher into his drivers room, so she and the doctor can have privacy.
Of course, it only took a matter of minutes for every driver to reach the news that sweet Yn Leclerc has fainted.
Max, who has been in the middle of a strategy meeting, immediately grabs some RedBull and walks towards the Ferrari garage.
Kimi and George stopped their Mercedes video and informed Toto and Susie about what happened. George and Kimi have produced (no one knows from where) a huge ice-cream container and some flowers.
Oscar can be seen running through the paddock with several water bottles, Lando only a few steps behind, carrying a high fan.
Lewis would be the one to look over Pascale, reassuring her that Yn is super brave and thoughtful and that she will be okay (he is definitely winning some cookie points with the Leclerc family for this)
And Yn, she is already awake inside Charles's driver's room, finally getting her deserved rest before she will be ambushed by the drivers.
Pierre is seen pacing outside along with her brothers, muttering about how they should have seen it sooner and making up a plan about how they will take care of her.
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Hey.. hope you’re doing okay😊annnywho, if it isn’t any trouble, I would like to request a teen!reader (platonic ofc) with Welt, Jing yuan, Gallagher and Mydei where reader is like their right hand (assistant) or something similar to that and reader has been working hard to try and impress them and show them that they are capable of helping them, and in the process ends up overworking themselves to the point where they faint🫢thought of this request because I might’ve almost fainted while marching today but it’s all good😊anyways make sure you’re hydrating and taking care of yourself🙏🙏
“Until the Morning Finds Us”
Tags: Welt x Reader, Gallagher x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Teen!Reader, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Overwork, Exhaustion, Fainting, Recovery, Mentor & Apprentice Dynamic, Gentle Scolding, Protective Mentors, Wholesome, Soft Angst, Fluff, Reassurance, Emotional Support.
Warnings: Mentions of Exhaustion and Fainting (non-graphic), Brief Overwork Themes, Mild Emotional Distress, Protective/Comfort Scenes.
A/N: I hope you are alright!! 😭🙏
The stars outside the Astral Express always seemed to move slower when you were awake at night.
Welt had once told you that wasn’t true — that time didn’t bend for sleepless minds, only perception did. Yet even as his calm, instructive voice replayed in your head, you sat at the observation deck again, eyes bleary, hands trembling over a stack of reports. You’d volunteered to take care of the logistical summaries, the maintenance requests, even the passenger inventory from the last jump. It wasn’t glamorous, but it mattered. And if you did well, maybe Welt would finally see that you could be relied on — that you were more than just a “young helper tagging along.”
So, you pushed through the drowsiness. The pen slipped from your fingers more than once, your handwriting faltering into a blur.
“Still awake?”
The voice came quietly, like the shift of space itself. Welt stood behind you, cane in hand, glasses glinting with faint light from the viewport. He looked tired — not from lack of sleep, but from that kind of old weariness that came from knowing too much.
“Oh, um—” you startled upright, nearly knocking over the tablet. “I’m just… finishing up. You said we needed to compile the data before morning.”
“I said we’d work on it together,” Welt corrected softly, stepping closer. “It’s three in the morning, [Name]. You should be asleep.”
You smiled nervously, rubbing your wrist. “I just wanted to… take some of the load off you, Mr. Yang. You always do so much.”
That earned a quiet chuckle. “I appreciate that. But overworking yourself won’t help anyone — least of all me.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but your vision tilted. The world seemed to lose its balance, the gravity that kept you steady suddenly turning unreliable. You gripped the edge of the table, blinking hard, but the stars blurred. Welt’s voice sounded distant.
“[Name]?”
You collapsed before you could answer.
When you woke, the light was soft — not from the deck, but from the warm glow of a lamp. You were in Welt’s quarters, a blanket pulled over you. Your head rested on something cool and steady; it took a moment to realize it was Welt’s arm, as he sat reading beside you.
“Ah. You’re awake.” He adjusted his glasses, voice gentle.
You tried to sit up, but he placed a hand on your shoulder. “Easy. You fainted. March found us just in time.”
You felt the flush of embarrassment rush up your neck. “I—I’m sorry, Mr. Yang. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“You didn’t,” he said, setting aside the book. “But you did remind me that even the youngest explorers can forget they are human.”
His words were warm, laced with quiet fondness that didn’t need to be loud to be real. “Do you know what the hardest lesson I ever learned was?” he asked. You shook your head. “It wasn’t how to bear responsibility. It was learning to rest. To stop seeing myself as a machine of duty.”
You blinked at him, unsure what to say.
He smiled faintly. “You’re already capable, [Name]. You don’t have to exhaust yourself to prove that.”
“…I just didn’t want you to think I was useless.”
Welt sighed softly, his tone almost amused. “Do you think I would’ve brought you aboard if I thought that?”
You hesitated — then laughed quietly. “Guess not.”
“Good.” He stood, motioning toward the small table nearby where a cup of tea waited. “Now. Drink something warm. Then sleep. I’ll handle the rest.”
“Together?” you asked, still sleepy.
He looked back at you, eyes soft with a rare tenderness. “Together — after you rest.”
You smiled, finally letting your eyes close. For once, you didn’t feel like gravity was pulling you down. It felt… grounding instead.
The Cloud Knights’ Hall shimmered with evening light, golden beams dancing across banners and marble floors. The scent of sandalwood drifted faintly through the air. You had spent the past two weeks shadowing Jing Yuan — the Divine Foresight himself — as his assistant, aide, and, in his teasing words, “coffee-fetcher-in-chief.”
In truth, you didn’t mind. Serving under the Arbiter-General was an honor beyond compare. But that honor came with responsibility — and you had taken it upon yourself to perfect every detail. Reports filed. Scrolls cataloged. Messages delivered. You barely paused to eat.
That evening, the General’s office was quiet except for the scratch of your brush as you copied down orders for troop rotations. Jing Yuan sat at his desk, one hand propping up his chin, his eyes half-lidded as if he were lost between thought and dream.
“Your handwriting’s improved,” he commented lazily. “You’ve been practicing.”
You grinned. “I just want to make sure it’s readable for you, sir.”
He chuckled. “Mm. Admirable. But tell me — have you eaten?”
“Um… I had something earlier.”
“Earlier, as in today? Or yesterday?” His tone remained calm, but there was a glint of amusement — and concern.
You waved it off. “I’m fine, General. Really.”
Jing Yuan sighed softly, rising to his feet. “You remind me of someone,” he said, looking out the window. “Someone who used to push themselves past exhaustion, thinking diligence alone could change the world.”
“Did it?”
He smiled wistfully. “No. It only made them sleep for three days straight.”
You laughed, setting your pen down — and then the world swayed. The floor tilted. The ink blurred.
“General, I—” you began, before your knees buckled.
The last thing you heard was his voice, calm but suddenly sharp with worry: “Easy, little one.”
You awoke in a soft bed, the sound of rain pattering against the roof of the palace. The scent of herbal medicine hung in the air.
“Ah, so the valiant aide awakens.” Jing Yuan’s voice came from nearby, half-mocking, half-warm. He was lounging in a chair, hair loose, holding a teacup. “You gave the healers quite the scare.”
You groaned softly. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to—”
He raised a hand, silencing you. “No apologies. Only promises — that you’ll not skip meals or sleep for the sake of paperwork again.”
You frowned. “But I wanted to show I could keep up. You’re the General. You never rest.”
“Ah,” he said, leaning forward, his eyes meeting yours. “And yet here I am, watching over a stubborn child instead of working. Perhaps rest has its uses after all?”
You flushed, looking away. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Only because I care.” His tone softened. “You’ve done well, [Name]. Your diligence is noticed. But a true knight knows when to lay down their sword — and brush — to live another day.”
He handed you a bowl of porridge. “Eat. The war reports can wait. You, however, cannot.”
You smiled faintly. “Yes, General.”
As you ate, Jing Yuan leaned back, closing his eyes with that same serene expression that always made him seem half-asleep, half-smiling. “Next time, if you wish to impress me,” he murmured, “try staying conscious first.”
You laughed softly. “Deal.”
The Dreamscape's night glowed like stained glass — fractured, beautiful, and heavy with secrets.
You stood behind the Sweet Dream bar, wiping glasses beside Gallagher. The Bloodhound Family’s security chief had been uncharacteristically quiet tonight. Then again, he always was. His silence wasn’t cold, though — more like a steady heartbeat you learned to listen for.
You’d taken your assistant duties seriously — organizing patrol schedules, handling guest requests, even mixing a few drinks under Gallagher’s distant but watchful gaze. He never praised you openly, but his small hums of approval were worth every effort.
Still, fatigue clawed at your edges. You’d been on your feet since dawn. Your eyes stung from the bar’s soft, hazy lights.
“Slow down,” Gallagher muttered suddenly. His deep voice carried a subtle rasp. “You’ll drop that glass.”
“I’m fine,” you said quickly, forcing a grin. “I can handle it.”
“Mm.” He eyed you sidelong, his eyes catching the dim light. “You sound like I used to.”
You chuckled softly, trying to polish another glass — and the next moment, the world spun. A sudden rush of heat, then cold. The glass slipped from your fingers, shattering across the counter. Gallagher’s hand shot out, catching you before you could hit the floor.
“Hey—” his voice cracked through the haze. “Hey, kid. Stay with me.”
When you opened your eyes, the first thing you smelled was alcohol — the sweet, fruity scent of his special blend. You were lying on one of the lounge sofas, a blanket over you. Gallagher sat nearby, flask in hand, his expression unreadable.
“Back among the living,” he said softly, not looking up. “That’s good.”
You groaned, sitting up slowly. “I’m… sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to—”
He shook his head. “Don’t apologize. I should’ve noticed sooner.”
You blinked. “Noticed what?”
“That you were burning out.” His tone was gentle, but heavy. “You don’t have to prove yourself to me. Hard work doesn’t need to hurt.”
You fidgeted, staring at your hands. “I just wanted you to think I’m reliable.”
“I already do.” His lips twitched into a faint smile. “You remind me of myself. Young, stubborn, thinking if I just worked harder, the world would make sense again.”
“Did it?” you asked quietly.
He swirled the drink in his flask. “No. But I learned to make peace with it.”
He reached over, handing you a small cup of warm cocoa instead. “No spirits for you. You need rest more than ritual.”
You smiled, taking it. “Thanks.”
As the two of you sat in silence, the lights of the Dreamscape shimmered through the stained glass windows. Gallagher leaned back, sighing softly. “You did good today, [Name]. Just… remember. We don’t need martyrs in this family. Just people who stay standing.”
You nodded, sipping your drink. “I’ll remember.”
He smiled faintly. “Good. Now sleep. I’ll keep watch.”
The battlefield of Okhema was quiet at dusk — the war banners fluttering softly in the dying light. You’d been following Mydei for months now, serving as his aide. To you, he wasn’t just a warrior or prince — he was legend made flesh.
And you wanted to be worthy of that legend.
Every night, you cataloged supply reports, trained with the soldiers, mended gear, wrote dispatches. You refused to rest until your prince did — and he rarely did.
Tonight, you were repairing armor by torchlight when his voice broke the silence.
“[Name],” Mydei called, stepping into the tent. His eyes glowed faintly in the light. “You’re still awake.”
“I’m almost done, my lord,” you said, not looking up. “You need this ready for tomorrow.”
“You’ve been working since dawn.”
“I can handle it.”
He frowned slightly — a small furrow, but for him, it spoke volumes. “You think strength means never stopping?”
“I just want to help,” you muttered, stitching another strap. “To be useful to you.”
He stepped closer, his presence casting a long shadow across the table. “You already are.”
You froze — and the next second, the needle slipped, your hand trembling. The world seemed to tilt, your breath shallow. The firelight dimmed into nothing.
When you awoke, the sound of the fire filled your ears. You were lying by the campfire outside the tent, wrapped in a cloak far too large for you. Mydei sat nearby, sharpening his blade. His eyes flicked toward you as you stirred.
“Finally awake,” he said softly. “You collapsed. Exhaustion.”
You sat up weakly. “I’m sorry, my lord. I—”
He stopped you with a raised hand. “No apologies. Only understanding.” His gaze softened. “Do you know what my curse is, [Name]?”
You blinked. “Your curse?”
He looked toward the horizon. “Endurance. I cannot die, even when I wish to. I have carried that burden for centuries. But you…” He looked at you now, his voice quieter. “You are not meant to carry that curse with me.”
You stared at him, unsure what to say. “I just didn’t want to fail you.”
He smiled faintly — a rare, beautiful expression. “You did not fail. You fought your own battle — against exhaustion, against doubt. Now your victory is to rest.”
He handed you a small cup of warm milk. “Drink. Then sleep.”
You took it, your fingers brushing his gauntlet. “Thank you… for not being angry.”
“I am many things, little one,” he said, gazing into the fire, “but never angry at loyalty born of the heart.”
You smiled faintly, leaning against the cloak. “I’ll do better tomorrow.”
“You already do enough.” His voice dropped to a murmur, almost like a prayer. “Sleep. The tide will wait for us.”
As you drifted off, you thought you heard him whisper one last thing to the sea — a promise, or perhaps a memory:
