swiggity-swump

[swiggity-swump]

A: *rough cough*

B: yeesh, I don’t like the sound of that-

A: *even rougher sneeze*

B: …or that.

[swiggity-swump]

Feeling soft about the intimacy of driving a sick, feverish date home. Poor thing tried so hard to make it through the date, but they were only getting sicker and sicker until they gratefully accepted to postpone the rest of the date for another time. After they sat down in the passenger's seat, they dozed off with their hot forehead/cheek leaning against the cool window, coughing and sniffling thickly now and then in their fever sleep, body limp and so hot you can almost feel it from the driver's seat. They were sneezing and rubbing their nose so much earlier it's a glaring red now, nostrils so inflamed you wince, it must really hurt. They loosely clutch a soggy, used tissue in one hand, just one of many they've decimated over the course of the evening. 🥺

[swiggity-swump]

Their nose is runny and they keep sneezing? Oh, it's just the weather.

Their throat feels scratchy? Just the weather.

Their ears feel stuffy? Weather.

Their muscles are starting to ache? Weather, too.

They're shaky and tired and their partner says they feel warm and ... oh.

Maybe it's not the weather after all.

[swiggity-swump]

Early morning half awake thought:

Someone waking with a groan and swatting their alarm clock off only to have their partner pull them close and murmur "Good news, you get to ignore that alarm and go back to sleep, you're burning up" because they woke fifteen minutes ago to the sweltering heat of feverish skin against theirs and there's no way they're letting them go to work today.

[swiggity-swump]

A character looks at another who is clearly not doing well- at the extremis of exhaustion, in emotional tatters, minorly but miserably ill, waterlogged, pervadingly chilled, looking like they've been dragged backwards through a hedge or several- and just opens their arms and says to them "Come here-" which is all the invitation the woebegone character needs to fall into their companion's arms to be wrapped in their embrace.

[swiggity-swump]

Astarion x Tav || sickfic

can you keep me close? (can you love me most?)

synopsis: her vision is foggy, but she's fairly certain she can discern an angelic figure by her bedside, radiating a brilliant white or perhaps a gentle golden hue, accentuated by the candlelight in the dim room. then, the soothing radiance recedes slightly, and the angel utters, "you're an idiot," with a casual air, the words tinged with a devilish tone.

an excerpt of 'cause my love (is mine, all mine)

word count: 1435

pairing: astarion/tav

other tags: f!reader, bard!tav, half-elf!tav, hurt/comfort, sickfic, non-sexual intimacy, romantic tension, friends to lovers, the usual at this point, song inspo: someone to stay - vancouver sleep clinic

ao3: here

concept: sickfic!!

Tav isn’t really sure what’s happening.

Actually, the whole past twelve hours have been a little blurry—memories and movements kept blending themselves in a non-cohesive way, she kept forcing her limbs to move but they would trail sluggishly behind, and she isn’t sure where she is right now.

When she feels something cool on her forehead, she finally startles.

Her vision is foggy, but she's fairly certain she can discern an angelic figure by her bedside, radiating a brilliant white or perhaps a gentle golden hue, accentuated by the candlelight in the dim room. Then, the soothing radiance recedes slightly, and the angel utters, "You're an idiot," with a casual air, the words tinged with a devilish tone.

Ah, naturally. She had never expected to receive her very own angel. It seemed more likely that the gods would send an eerie, skeleton-like old codger, draped in tattered robes, who would speak in cryptic riddles to assist her, or a dream guardian that, in reality, turned out to be a peculiar, haughty tentacled creature with aspirations of dominating all other races in the world with mind-controlling parasites.

She squints and blinks repeatedly until Astarion comes into sharper focus. He's seated in a chair, legs crossed, arms folded, and appears quite displeased. She vaguely recollects a caregiver mentioning bringing some medicine, and fervently hopes that her current company isn't the result of that promise. After all, her companion is one of the last individuals she wishes to see right now.

The situation is rather embarrassing. She's cocooned in blankets that are overly warm, her hair is in disarray, she can't quite manage to open her eyes completely, and her muscles are protesting, urging her to remain at rest. She's determined not to let Astarion witness her in this state or feel sorry for her.

Her first instinct is to apologize, especially under his scrutinizing gaze. Instead, she insists, “I’m dying. Can’t you be a little nicer?”

“Oh, goodness me. Perhaps I’ll just leave you to suffer this horrible affliction alone,” he offers, hand on his chest in mock offense as he gets up, pretending to leave.

“Good. You don’t need to take care of me—”

She reaches out for her hat and makes an attempt to rise, but Astarion places his hands on her shoulders, gently guiding her back onto the bed. His touch, once more, carries a soothing coolness, alleviating the hot discomfort and muscle soreness. "Oh, no, no, no. Absolutely not. I am not suffering another heart attack because of everyone’s favourite idiot again," he admonishes her, and she blinks in surprise, as it almost seems like he's expressing genuine concern for her.

“I’m not everyone’s favourite idiot,” she protests, weakly, even as he presses her back into the mattress to lie down.

“No, but you’re mine.” He says, perched on top of her. He's leaning above her now, effectively pinning her to the bed. He senses her slight movement beneath him, though it's hard to discern if she's merely shifting or genuinely attempting to break free, given her frail state.

Nevertheless, he gazes down at her from above, her hair splayed across the pillowcase, her face flushed, eyes half-closed, disheveled clothing, and heavy breaths. He realizes the position he’s in and releases her quickly, flustered. He hides this by opting to fetch a drink of water from his waterskin for her.

“You—you could have said something, you know.” He continues, smoothly. “Before it got this bad.”

“You had other things on your mind. Didn’t want you to worry about me,” she mumbles, but Astarion detects the slight slur in her words. He lifts the glass to her lips, eyes lingering on its shape, and she takes a sip of the cold liquid, letting out a soft moan of relief.

“Don’t want you to get sick, either.” She adds, snapping him out of his reverie.

“Thinking your companion is going to die after they randomly collapse is very worrying, so you know.” Astarion chides, putting away the waterskin. “And also, I’m far too dead to contract such a simple illness. Dalyria says it’s from exhaustion—something you’re suffering from more than me, for once.”

He’s really sure that she’s dying now. She does not retort, and against all odds, it seems that she actually managed to fall asleep again. It makes sense to him that her sickness might be getting slightly worse. When he first touched her forehead, it felt scorching to the touch, and she's now buried beneath several layers of blankets, almost swallowed by the bedding.

Astarion takes in the sorry state of the room. There's a soiled towel nearby with remnants of vomit. He observes her shivering, her clothes clinging to her body, drenched in sweat.

Astarion sets out to gather some supplies—more towels, additional water, and some rations. They were running low on food, but as long as she could sustain herself, he wasn't too concerned.

He watches her as she drifts in and out of consciousness, noting her increasing confusion, likely due to the worsening fever. She mumbles about things he can't quite make out as he settles with a book to keep her company while he monitors her condition.

He glances up from the pages periodically as she rests on the makeshift bed, wrapped in old, dusty blankets. Astarion stokes the nearby fireplace to provide warmth, even though she appears to be sweating profusely, so he's unsure if it's the best idea.

She did seem to be relieved by his touch, though. To check on her condition once more, he reaches out and gently brushes her hair to the side to touch her forehead. She initially flinches, and he moves to withdraw his hand—until she grips his wrist. It’s a feeble hold, but she keeps his hand pressed against her face.

He realizes he doesn’t feel repulsed by her actions at all. It’s true, she’s using him—quite literally, as some sort of relief—but it feels like she needs him in this moment. He can’t pretend not to like the thought of being needed, even wanted by her.

He wonders, as an extension of that line of thought, if he would be okay with kissing her. Reflecting on his past experiences with the drow, he remembers the familiar, lingering disgust and self-hatred that typically arose. However, Tav doesn't evoke any of those emotions within him. His hand drifts, and his thumb traces her bottom lip gently. It's not smooth or plump; it's dry and cracked. Somehow, that makes it feel more authentic, and the question lingers in his mind.

But he doesn’t need that. He can get physical affection from anywhere. He just… likes this. That’s all it is. That’s all it has to be, right? This is rarer—he wouldn’t give this up for the world.

So he doesn’t allow his thoughts to wander beyond that.

But seeing her reluctance to let him go stirs something within him. It’s a tug at the depths of his chest, an undeniable ache. Well, if he could be of help to her like this, then who was he to deny her? After all, it wasn’t as if they hadn’t shared moments like this before.

He proceeds with caution, making every effort to avoid disturbing her as the bed slightly dips underneath his weight. He pulls the blanket over both of them and he draws her near, and she emits a soft sigh as her arms instinctively encircle him, warming his chest.

In the absence of a clock, Astarion loses track of time as he remains in bed beside her. He devotes most of it to observing her, running his fingers through her hair with a gentle touch. It's an act one might do with a lover, although she remains unconscious. He could murmur tender words, and she would remain unaware. Even if she happened to hear, he suspected her current state of mind would prevent her from retaining the information. No, this is for his own solace, and he finds it strangely comforting.

[swiggity-swump]

"Breathe." + Whumpee

"Can't. I can't."

"Let go of me, let go--"

"I'm going to die, don't tell me to breathe."

"Stop, stop, don't coddle me, I'm fine."

"Just. Give me a second. I--I'm fine, just need a moment."

[swiggity-swump]

huge fan of mindless half-awake kisses to the nose or forehead or back of the neck in this scenario

sleepy acknowledgments of sniffles. maybe a little hum or a soft “oh, baby”. just something to provide a little comfort & support

[swiggity-swump]

a gentle “you don’t look well ..” trailing off into a “woah, hey, hey-“ as they lurch forward to steady, or perhaps catch, a most definitely sick character.

[swiggity-swump]

fox mulder in "the jersey devil" for @bigwarmth

[swiggity-swump]

"Did it just get really warm in here...?" + Caretaker

"I told you to rest!"

"Sit down, you've gone pale. Let me--oh, dear, you're on fire--"

"Woah, hey--hey! You're not weightless, yknow. Let's get you to the couch..."

"Are you... feeling alright?"

"You don't look well, Whumpee. Do you need to take a break? .....Whumpee?"

[swiggity-swump]

one of the KEY starvation symptoms is just being soooooo so so so irritable!! really good bc most people don't even realize that being starved is WHY their mood is so garbage.

I'm also a huge fan of dizziness/lightheadedness like, in general hahaha >w< standing up slowly and carefully, leaning discreetly on things, sitting down as much as possible, maybe shaking a bit... many possibilities here

okay I'm working on the next fic in the Yusuke status effect whump and I need starvation prompts. specifically when a character is starved but works through it, refuses to acknowledge it, and pushes themselves to the brink. hit me up in reblogs or the ask box!!!

[swiggity-swump]

Imagining a character at the end of a very long and stressful week or two, having had no chance for a break, getting sick at the tail end of it. They’re just trying to make it through the last of their deadlines, but they’re dragging, fighting a sore throat and chills. When they finally finish their project, they crash hard and end up stuck on the couch with a fever

[swiggity-swump]

I hope all the whump blogs that have been inactive a while, the ones who are too busy or tired to share new stuff, the ones who feel guilting for not posting as much as they used to, the ones who are nervous about posting their own art/fic, the ones who are experiencing a creative block, the ones who are unsure if they should share their creativity, are all having a lovely day

💜💜💜

[swiggity-swump]

Call for Submissions: 2026 Whumpy Books

The Whumpy Printing Press is now open to novelette, novella, novel, short story collection, and graphic novel submissions! We’re looking for standalone stories as well as series, and are happy to work with both new and established authors. 

Your story should clearly fall into the whump genre (i.e. a character needs to be hurt). We’re looking for strong stories with a balance between whump and plot. We are especially fond of sci-fi/fantasy settings, but will consider any story as long as it gives us whumperflies!   

Word count: at least 7,500. There is no word count maximum. 

Submissions for the 2026 publication year must be received by September 30, 2025.

Submit here! 

The Nitty-Gritty

Off-limits content: No explicit torture of children under the age of 13. No explicit sexual content of characters under the age of 18. No torture or sexual content involving non-sentient animals.  No fanfiction, for legal reasons (exception: works in the public domain).

Simultaneous submissions: Allowed, but let us know immediately if your story is accepted somewhere else.

Multiple Submissions: You may only submit one story at a time. If that story is rejected, you can submit another one.

Reprints: Allowed, but please indicate where your story was originally published. This includes if your story was originally posted on AO3 or Tumblr!

Rights: If your story is accepted, we ask for nonexclusive, worldwide, English language publication rights for ebook and paperback. All copyright remains with the author. A simple contract will be provided.

Compensation:

Authors will receive an initial payment based on word count:

7,500-17,499 words $25 USD

17,500-39,999 words $50 USD

40,000+ words $100 USD

Additionally, authors will receive 50% of all royalties.

Submissions are open to residents of any country.

You must be 18 or older to submit.

Formatting: Please submit your story as a Microsoft word document with 12pt, Times New Roman font, double-spaced. Indicate scene breaks with ###.  If your novel has chapters, start each chapter on a new page

[swiggity-swump]

"You're shivering." + Whumpee

"No, I'm not. That's... on purpose. Don't worry about it."

"I am? ...I am. Interesting."

"'S cold. Sorry."

"I just... I'm really tired. Can't really stop shaking."

"Oh. I didn't notice. I'm... I don't feel very well."

[swiggity-swump]

comm from twt