#syncopein3d future reference

The moment when an exhausted character is finally out of sight of other people and can just collapse onto a couch for a minute.

The moment when someone who's been awake too long has to stop and rub the grit out of their eyes because they literally can't see for a second.

A character trying to fight through the kind of fatigue you get from blood loss, where your body feels heavy but your head feels light and floaty. They judge their balance wrong and stumble right into the person they've been trying to hide their injuries from.

The moment when someone just blanks out in the middle of a task, asleep on their feet, and has to struggle to remember what they were doing or saying.

There's a minute where it seems like they might actually get to rest, but no, here comes a cheerful demanding voice and it absolutely can't wait and they have to get up.

The way a body starts to just ache from moving around too long, and even relatively easy things become literally, physically hard to accomplish. Opening a door feels like trying to pull their own weight uphill. They stifle little grunts and groans when standing or sitting or bending because not only does it hurt, it's just so hard.

The loss of coordination where they just stumble into things, and another character tells them off for spilling or breaking something, only to look at them more closely and realize something is wrong.

Consider a space marine from Warhammer 40k's Deathwatch. (I know a lot of y'all whump friends prefer twinks to these inhuman genefreak monsters that I love, but imagine the marines as all drawn by the great Vezimira or tagedeszorns if that makes you see the vision.) The only way you can canonically get veterans from radically different chapters to work together seamlessly is to drive them to the point of collapse.

Space marines do not tire out easily, so we're talking days to weeks of training in armor without a pause, living off the recycling systems. By the time they're finally allowed to pause they practically have to carry each other back to quarters. A Salamander might have to literally carry an Ultramarine (Guilliman is a less physical guy as Primarchs go) or an OG Blood Angel (depending on where they are in their Red Thirst progression; they probably can't stop and slurp down a Serf Capri Sun during DW training). A Templar helps haul a literally unconscious Blackshield who's some kind of comparatively smaller purple-eyed albino from who knows what ancient chapter. He hates that, hates this weakness, but he will not shame his own chapter by letting the squad fail.

So at some point all of that is over, the tech-priests have taken the armor away to be serviced, and everyone has been slapped back to consciousness and been given a good talking to by the Templar veteran and a more surreptitious word of encouragement by the old Salamander. They all stumble through scrubbing down with scouring powder in the showers, and the Salamander, every scar of achievement twinging, can finally flop facedown onto the slab in his quarters. Maybe his branding priest or priestess is there, a trusted grandchild of a niece or nephew twice removed, not the first of his extended family to perform the office and already growing old in his service. He can hear them bustling around murmuring orders to the serfs. When the first pour of hot oil hits his back a heavy muscle twitches, startling the younger ones, but with a little encouragement they roll up their sleeves and dive in. Massaging ceremonial oil into an Astartes is no easy task, but now it is made easier by the limp exhaustion of the Son of Vulkan's muscles. At first they can see sinews pop out in his jaw and temple against the pain, because they've never had an unkind word from Milord the Astartes, and he's not about to start now. But as they go along his face slowly relaxes. The middle back between the shoulders proves a bit stubborn, and at a nod from the elderly branding priest, a bigger and younger serf climbs up to kneel on the Salamander's back so he can pound on it with his two fists bunched together. They all see the sigh of relief from the triple lungs, raising and lowering the young man in place.

On his night-black skin with its network of little red cracks, the older of the whorls of paler scarring are hard to read, faded with time. They'll have to be renewed one of these days, while the priest remembers what they were. But for now the space marine is at rest, breathing easier as a dozen little weights knead at his sore body.

The ones who serve the Templar veteran are probably going to need mallets, and if he thinks any one of them is trying to spare him he'll bat them across the room. They'll die, or they'll learn. The Blood Angel's serfs are pale and listless, and at least one definitely won't survive the night, but at least he'll be unfailingly gentle and courteous with the survivors. The son of Guilliman's serfs run like a well-oiled machine. He might mumble a mild reprimand if he notices anything isn't precisely according to routine, but he's not a harsh man, only a very meticulous one.

- Villain character with a concealed injury who is in the middle of ranting at a hero about why they're wrong, stupid, morally bankrupt, poorly dressed, etc. They start to gray out in mid-sentence, suddenly standing slack-jawed for a second as they try to fight off the narrowing of their vision. That's all the warning there is before their eyes roll up and they crumple. Does hero try and catch them, or just watch them fall over?

- Character who, believing they are dying, reveals something important about their identity or actions that shocks everyone around them. Blackness rolls over them, but they are at least satisfied that they got that off their chest. This is very confusing to the people providing them first aid as they remain limply unconscious but very much alive.

- Tough character being given anesthesia who thinks they can beat it just by sheer strength of will, right up until the head rush hits. They immediately lose their concentration, make a truly stupid remark, and slide under with a drunken smile.

Tropes/content warnings: M for mature themes overall. Tropes/content warnings: vampire whumpee/caretaker, male whumpee/caretaker, non-binary whumpee/caretaker, morbidity or thoughts of death. There will be a lot of play with, and discussion of, the concept of consent in this series, as it applies to many topics, but mostly biting.

In this episode: Recovery tropes mostly, semiconsciousness

If you would like to be added to, or removed from, the tag list of this series, please let me know!

Part 17: Painmother

Masterpost

Tolly had his taloned hands on the silly little wheel of the Kia Soul. He was over there to Arden’s left in the dark, bars of light passing over him every now and again, making the whiteness of his flesh blinding. Aeolus’ voice was almost there, dim and far away, coldly angry, out of reach.

Sometimes Tolly said something, too. Sometimes he had a hand on Arden’s shoulder, cold, heavy, but better than just the constant all-over ache. He had such huge hands. Vampires were supposed to be fancy and thin, weren’t they?

“God, you shouldn’t be driving.” That sounded like Arden’s voice, except worse.

“One of us must, and you are in no condition. We can worry about renewing my license later.”

It was darker and darker and lighter. The rumble of traffic felt louder. Someone was moaning about the extra vibration, because it made the ache worse.

“I know. I’m sorry,” that was Tolly again. “We still have an hour to go, but no more, I promise.”

It probably was about that long. Probably. They hadn’t heard Aeolus in a while. Maybe he’d given up. There was kind of a ringing in their ears they hadn’t been able to hear earlier, so it must be quieter outside the car. They should probably open their eyes to check. It felt like a lot of effort.

Car door opening to their right. Cold arms gathering them up, like they weighed nothing.

“I have you. Just try to relax.”

“Tolly?”

“Yes, still. Shhh, now.” Air moved past them – was he running? There was a sizable THUD, like he’d run right into a wall, then a grind and screech of old machinery. Light and dark and light again passed behind Arden’s eyelids.

Sound came and went. At some point hands were pulling their shoes off, then, against their fuzzy protest, their pants and socks. It felt too cold, but a reassuring voice sent them sliding away from sounds again.

This time, they stayed gone longer. When they came back, the ache was still there, waiting. Arden groaned into something warm - pillow? They were lying on their side with their cheek on something that didn’t seem very soft. Arden squinted their gluey eyes open slowly. A gently glowing dial on a cord lay not far from their face: an electric blanket.

A few facts slowly began to show notifications on the lock screen of Arden’s brain. The room around them was mostly dark, lit by the glow of the blanket control and the screens of two phones that looked to be sitting about three feet away. They might be on a table. The dim shape of cords said they were plugged in. There was a faint smell of bleach and maybe dust. A nest of blankets and sheets surrounded them.

When they stirred slightly, something heavy around their shoulder became an arm, limp fingers brushing their chest. Arden’s eyes popped all the way open. They were lying on Tolly. Tolly’s shirt. They were in bed with Tolly and they had no pants on. They sat up hurriedly. The arm slid off with a slithering little thump and no seeming effect on the heavy body beside Arden otherwise. Tolly was not breathing. Arden’s heart jumped in their chest for a second until they remembered.

It must be daytime. Arden peered under the sheet suspiciously. Tolly had sweat pants and socks on, and a gray tee shirt. That was a small comfort in the cold light of the realization that Arden had only their dark red boxer briefs on, but it was something. They groped across Tolly to get their phone, trying not to elbow him in the chin. The undead didn’t move or react, eyes shut. Not ashes. Not dead, Arden reminded themselves.

Arden ducked all the way under the covers, hidden in a small warm world as they unlocked the phone. 2 p.m. on Saturday. Okay, they’d left the lodge Friday night, before –

A shudder ran through them. They remembered power running through them, hot and cold like sticking your finger in a light socket, burning as it went. They remembered Aeolus hissing instructions, demanding they use some spell they couldn’t make work, swearing at the one they did use – fuck. They’d torn someone apart. They’d torn someone apart. They remembered too clearly what it had felt like to intrude fingers of power into a living body and then just separate them from themselves. They were sure they’d killed another woman, too, not just the Painmother, but the image of what had happened to the second one was vaguer.

“I told you to disintegrate them, you thundering idiot. Now there are bodies.” That was an irritatingly familiar voice. He couldn’t see Aeolus currently, but the source seemed to be outside the blanket, muffled. Aeden received a fleeting impression of the man in the black suit standing at the end of the bed, leaning forward with his hands resting on it.

“Go fuck yourself, Aeolus,” Arden mumbled into the mattress. “We were lucky I could do anything at all. You’re the worst teacher in the universe.”

“Miserable, ungrateful little wretch. I saved your life!”

“No, you tortured me inside my own brain for three weeks. Tolly saved my life.”

“You’ll learn how real the outer world is soon enough,” Aeolus said, a sneer in his voice.

“Maybe. I know you weren’t doing that to Uncle Nick all the time. And I think you would’ve if you could’ve. So he stopped you. I can, too.”

“For that, you’d have to actually learn, whelp. And not these clumsy flailings and tearings. Control. Wisdom. Thought.”  

Now that the connection was weaker, Arden’s body empty of power, the connection that bound them to Aeolus was a constant small irritation, easier to identify, harder to miss, like a splinter in their head. They could touch it, almost, if they shut their eyes. What would happen if they pulled?

It hurt. It hurt like someone pulling on the end of a severed muscle anchored into their soul. But it must have hurt Aeolus more, because his scream rattled on for long seconds after they let go.

STOP! He wasn’t able to simulate sound in Arden’s ears now. Pain twanged between them.

This hurts you more than me, Arden told him.

I don’t have to stay and give you power, Aeolus said sullenly. I can just leave. I can break the summoning bond and return to the place between.

Yes. But you don’t. Whatever being attached to me does for you, you want it bad, Arden said. Maybe you’re just waiting on another chance at possession, I don’t know. Right now, I don’t care. If you want to stay, you can teach me, but you’re not going to hurt me. Or I will hurt you back.

You MUST learn disintegration. For our safety.

Later. Arden crept out from under the covers, wincing. The movement seemed to tweak every muscle in their body, like they’d run a marathon and then been beaten with tire irons afterward. Tolly hadn’t moved, still a corpse for all intents and purposes. Arden shined their phone light around the room. There was the night stand where the phones had been, a door standing partway open into a walk-in closet, a door standing all the way open into a small bathroom with a standing shower, and a door that was closed.

They went to look out Door Number Three out of curiosity. The floor underfoot was hard and cold, and a glance down with the phone said it was hardwood or maybe pergo. The door opened into a room with a couch against one wall facing a flatscreen TV. The other half of the room was taken up by a kitchenette with all steel appliances. It was all empty and stark, a small print of the ocean above the couch just emphasizing how little else there was in the way of decoration. Nothing in it was personal, like – Arden’s mind ran back over the elaborate artistic designs Tolly had carved into the wall of his cell. This wasn’t a place he would live, just a place to hide.

They couldn’t see anything that looked like a front door. Maybe there was a secret lever somewhere or something. There was a sort of distant rumble all around, like maybe traffic, but it was too faint to tell. Arden went into the bathroom and shut the door, then turned the light on. It took a minute for their eyes to adjust. Then they remembered that they’d unlocked their phone, and their messages had shown a notification.

Arden opened the message app. It was a text from Tolly.

I’ve done my best to make the place presentable, but the weight of dawn is growing heavy again and I must sleep. Please don’t leave without me. Please wake up. Please read this.

They stood there reading and re-reading it for an embarrassingly long time. Then they set the phone down carefully on the steel sink and –

There was a little cupboard to one side of the sink that was made of wicker. A folded pile of Arden’s clothes sat on top of it. They hadn’t packed them nearly that neatly. Tolly had taken them out of the spinner and re-folded them right here so that Arden would find them.

They showered and dressed and brushed their teeth quickly, tied their hair back sloppily, and went to sit on the edge of the bed by Tolly, leaving the bathroom door open a little to see by. The indentation they made in the mattress didn’t shift the vampire’s larger weight. Arden picked up his cold hand and held it to their chest.

“I’m all right,” they told him. “You don’t need to worry.”

The deep-set eyes slitted open a very little under the heavy brows, the gleam of the light reflecting from the backs of them like it would from a deer or a cat. Arden heard him inhale. It felt loud.

“Arden,” Tolly whispered. The hand on their breast flexed slightly, pressing closer to their heart. They swallowed.

“Yeah. You can sleep, I just wanted you to know I’m okay.”

Tolly turned his fingers to clasp their hand, then withdrew back under the covers, shutting his eyes.

Part 19: Underground (Coming Soon!)

Author's note: This originally came as a reply to this prompt, but I thought I'd give it its own beginning for easier linking on my masterpost page. I did a poll here to decide who finds Tolly, and it just wrapped up, so here we go!

Tropes/content warnings: vampire whumpee, male whumpee, non-binary caretaker, morbidity or thoughts of death. There will be a lot of play with, and discussion of, the concept of consent in this series, as it applies to many topics. Mostly we're talking about consent to be bitten, but being bitten in this universe varies from "mild discomfort" through "multiple climaxes" and I don't know where the story will end up yet, so I think it's important to be clear going in. If there's more specific gore etc., I'll try to also do content notes as it comes up. “Stay in this room.”

It wasn't a large room. It was the width of the basement, but shallower, so that he could lie full length on the floor in one direction but not the other. He was six feet and a handspan tall. Six feet and a handspan long, if he didn't lift his arms. He would have needed a special coffin, or he must needs lie curled up inside it, not stretched regally in state. He would never have a coffin at all. That would have meant an end.

It wasn't a large room. It wasn't particularly well decorated. There was no silk paper on the walls down here, just bare stone encrusted with mold and damp. There was a rug. It was old when he was shut up inside, the dark green and gray colors faded, pipe dottle burns scorching several spots. He knew each one by heart, and had often speculated as to their respective age and how far apart they had happened back when this rug stood in front of the fireplace in the upstairs study. He had counted every single thread and every single strand of every single dull golden tassel. It only took him a couple of minutes, so he did it often. He had never been thwarted by throwing down a handful of seeds, not Bartholomaeus Bardulf. The debate as to whether he should stop counting the thread he had pulled from one side to play cat's cradle with raged on for some time. Eventually he had painstakingly weaved it back in, a tiny bit at a time, with his long nails, just to end the torment of uncertainty.

It wasn't a large room. There was no window, because that might have ended his suffering. Black Tolly only knew day from night by the dragging of his limbs, the need to lie down and cease for a while. He never fought it. It was time away from this place. Sometimes while he lay dead, he dreamed, and sometimes in his dreams he was outside. Every time he arose from lying on his back on the rug, hands neatly folded across his once-white shirt, he scratched a marking into the wall.

It wasn't a large room. Besides the rug, there was only a table in the corner and a single chair. They were plain furnishings, the sort of straight peg-and-groove stick construction you would want for something that needed to last a long time but didn't need to impress anyone. The chair was not for him. It was for his old friend Nicholas, who had left him down here for the last time three thousand, six hundred and twenty days ago. It was where Nicholas would sit when it was time for the needle and the vials.

Part 1: Abandoned

Tropes/content warnings: vampire whumpee, male whumpee, non-binary caretaker, morbidity or thoughts of death. There will be a lot of play with, and discussion of, the concept of consent in this series, as it applies to many topics. Mostly we're talking about consent to be bitten, but being bitten in this universe varies from "mild discomfort" through "multiple climaxes" and I don't know where the story will end up yet, so I think it's important to be clear.

If you want to be put on or taken off my taglist for this series, feel free to tell me!

The stranger recoiled from the horror in front of them. For a moment the weak beam of light from upstairs transfixed them both, and Tolly jerked back, anticipating the pain. No pain came. It wasn’t sunlight. He cursed himself for a fool. He knew the basement door opened into a windowless hallway. And besides, he would have been brought low by exhaustion if it had been daylight up above.