warmblanketwhump

[warmblanketwhump]

just wanted to say I love seeing you pop up on my dash 💕 scrolling your blog is one of my favorite passtimes

this is the sweetest—so glad you enjoy my writing! ❤️❤️❤️

[warmblanketwhump]

Hii

Could you write about Whumpee having nightmares and shaking, mumbling and kicking in their sleep. But. Caretaker is an empath and they send out waves of calm emotions, feelings of love, care and peace, until Whumpee has fallen into a deep peaceful sleep a faint smile on their face.

Thank you so much

hi there! this isn’t really my type of prompt so i won’t be writing this, but thanks for sending this in!

[warmblanketwhump]

pls pls pls can there be a part 2 to change of heart??

hi there! i definitely hadn’t planned on doing a part 2 but i’m open to it if inspiration strikes!

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i'm polish and today my british friend said to me "you don't know what our cold is like. it's always wet and windy and it goes straight through you. if you touch anything - you're wet, and you can't get warm for hours. [in poland] you're fine as long as you get wrapped up. i can't even do that" like oh my god. my condolences. but also... SUCH writing inspo

stop this is INCREDIBLE

and i 100% agree—wet cold always feels 1000x worse because the damp chill gets in your bones and is so hard to shake 🥶 i have vivid memories of shivering for hours on cold rainy days in college when i could just NOT get warm

also i googled this and apparently the dampness makes heat loss “more efficient” which is why you feel this way!

[warmblanketwhump]

I love some good cold whump and I know you do too, I'm dealing with this right now so it's kinda irl whump but I figured you might like the idea. Cold whump from fevers or the environment is great to read, but I don't see much about cold whump from emotions. Loneliness is a big one. I've been fighting some pretty bad loneliness lately and today it's worse than usual, and I feel like all the heat has been zapped from my body. It's 50 degrees out and I'm in clothes I'd wear in much colder temperatures, yet I still can't feel my extremities and I've had goosebumps since I woke up 6 hours ago that just won't go away. I think something like that would be interesting to read about in whump, especially if it was after they went through something and are now in recovery from it. I hope that's not weird lol

ooo i haven’t though about this but it is an interesting one! so sorry you’re feeling this way and hope you feel better soon ❤️‍🩹

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i hope you're having a good day today!!

thank you so much, kind stranger! ❤️

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Send to 10 other bloggers you think are wonderful. Keep this going to make someone smile! Add a heart so we know how long the chain's been going! ❤️🖤💖🤍💚💛💗💙🩶🩵🤍🤎💟💜❣️❤️‍🩹💝🫀💖♥️💘❤️‍🔥💕🩶💜💛🫶💕💖💖💓💞🩷🫶🏻❤💜

awww thank you! this is so sweet!

[warmblanketwhump]

This is random yapping but I recently got into a car accident and broke my neck in two places, and whump stories with good endings are such a comfort for me, so I've been RPing whumpy scenarios with chatbots to keep myself distracted while I'm stuck at home lmao. I've always liked whump and never really understood why but I think I finally do now

hello! welcome to the whump club! ✊🏻

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hello! I was wondering if you know any good whump/sickfic discord servers?

hi! so sorry, i do not!

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writers reading their own writing: this is trash no one let me write again

also writers reading their own writing: who tf wrote this it’s incredible

[warmblanketwhump]

By any chance can you do prompts on a neglected sickie?

@sicktember 2023 day 1 - hopelessly bad at self care

A's hand fumbles with the amber bottle as they try to read the medicine's handwritten instructions—does that say to take every 3 hours? or every 8?

Their vision swims, and they feel themselves sway and tilt against the pantry wall. They've been standing for too long again, the weightless feeling in their body signaling that they need to lay down immediately. But they also can't bear another minute without some measure of relief, even if they know the home remedy will only make a slight dent in their symptoms.

A coughs and pulls the blanket tighter around their shoulders with a shiver. They're not sure what hit them. Last night, they were feeling a bit off, unable to get warm by the fire and battling a scratchy throat that wouldn't go away no matter how much tea they drank. This morning, they'd awoken burning with fever, body wracked with aches and chills, and an agonizingly sore throat.

It's awful timing, since B was away on their annual trip and wouldn't be home for three weeks. Meaning that A was now solely responsible for both keeping their homestead afloat and themselves alive.

A usually relishes in the fact that they live several miles from the nearest village or neighbor—no extra noise, no nosy neighbors or intruders, sweeping vistas and tall pine trees to hide amongst. But now, the lonely days stretch out ahead of them, with no help in sight, and A can't help but whimper a little at the thought.

Come on, A thinks to themselves. You can do this. Just take things slow.

Glacial would be a better word to describe their movements. After slipping two capsules under their tongue, they move along the wall, stumbling forward until they fall back onto their bed and scramble to pull the blankets close around their body. They just needed a few minutes to try and warm up while they made a mental list of what they needed to do.

Feed the animals.

Change their straw.

Repair the barn door.

Bring in extra wood.

Sweep the floors.

Make some sort of excuse for dinner.

The thought of doing all that made A's body ache. But they had no choice. It was what they had to do.

They just needed a minute to rest...

The minutes in bed flash by, and suddenly A realizes that they've been in bed for far longer than they anticipated. A glance at their pocket watch reveals that it's mid-afternoon, and they silently curse themselves for letting the day get away from them. It would already take them ages to get everything done, and they'd lost so much precious daylight during their accidental nap.

Ignoring the pounding in their head, they stumble towards the coat rack and wrap themselves in their winter jacket and a thick scarf. It's only a mild fall day outside, the breeze crisp under a cloudy sky, but the cool air sinks through all the layers, prickles goosebumps on their feverish skin, and makes their teeth rattle.

A blinks and realizes they're somehow in the barn, with no memory of walking there. Before them lie the bags of feed, too heavy to lift like usual, so A's reduced to transporting feed in half-full buckets to the waiting animals, over, and over, and over, because that's all they can carry. In their feverish delirium, they swear that even the pigs are looking at them sideways, wondering what they're doing out in the barn in their state.

The outdoor chores are done in a haze, edges of A's vision blurred by their pain and fever, body shaking from head to toe. By the time they get to the last animal, the only thing A wants to do is go back inside, sit by the fire, and sleep—forget changing the hay or making repairs. There's more to do, of course, always more to do, but they just can't. It's not even a matter of desire—A's calculating how much energy they've spent out here and how much they need to get back inside, and the numbers just won't add up to one that keeps them upright for longer than 10 minutes.

The last animal to feed is their beloved horse. A's feet drag as they pull the bucket toward the trough, leaning on the side of the stall as they haphazardly dump the contents in. As they attempt to stand back up, another wave of dizziness hits them, and they stumble and fall against their horse's shoulder.

The horse, to their credit, doesn't startle. In fact, they turn toward A, nuzzling their soft nose into A's shoulder. A lets their feverish forehead rest against their horse's shiny coat, trying to steady their breathing and hold themselves together, willing themselves not to cry. And the horse lets them, breath ruffling their hair, as if to say I know. I'm here. Take your time. After a few moments, A's reoriented enough to stand up. The barn door would have to wait, and so would the fresh hay—they just don't have it in them today. So they stumble out of the barn and back out into the yard.

The sky is already darkening as A makes their way back to their cabin, through the door. After shedding their coat and wrapping themselves in a flannel blanket, they collapse in the chair, the soft colors of the firelit room blurring in their vision. The chores had been too much, far too much, and now they're trembling with cold, thoroughly chilled and somehow achier than they were this morning. They hug their arms close to their body and rub at them weakly, praying that the warmth of the fire will even slightly revive them.

A craves soup, or even just a hot broth to ease their throat pain and warm them up, but the entire idea of standing up to get ingredients is an impossible task. There's half a loaf of bread left in the breadbox on the table, and A settles for tearing off a corner. The cold, coarse bread is painful against their throat, and they swallow and wince. They know they need food, they know, but it just hurts. Everything hurts.

What would B do, if they were here to care for A? A pushes away the ache at the thought of how much they miss B, trying to sort through to find the essentials. Medicine, A had managed. Rest? Well, who could rest when there was work to be done? Tea? Ah, there was something they could manage. Boiling water was as passive a task as you could get. They just needed to build up the dying fire—

The fire. A's eyes flit to the empty wood box, and their heart sinks as they recall one of their chores for the day. Fill the wood box.

For the first time that day, a tear slips down A's cheek. It wasn't enough that they were aching, exhausted, wrung out. Now, unless they gathered wood, any notion of heat to help them fight through a night of feverish chills evaporated before their eyes.

No. I can't be cold all night. I can't. The thought of a sleepless night shivering in bed awakes something in A, and they stand back up almost reflexively, swaying like a great tree in a storm, stumbling towards the door, not even grabbing their coat as the fever addles their mind.

Just a few logs. Even a few will help you be warmer tonight.

But as they step out into the dark, cold night, the woodpile stretches and warps in their vision—first it's 10 paces away, then 100, then right in front of them, then 10 paces back. A blinks once, twice, and before they can even cry out, they collapse to the ground in a boneless heap, swept away into unconsciousness.

______________________________________

When A wakes, they don't realize where they are at first. They're aware of a strange heat across their midsection, and an unfamiliar ceiling above their head. As the room comes into focus, there's a stranger tending an enormous fire in a great stone fireplace, their back turned to A.

Where....where am I? Blinking twice, they stare down at the pile of quilts they're buried under. The top one is the patchwork one from their old bed, but everything else is so strange—none of this makes sense—

"Ah, good. You're awake." The shadowed figure rises from their place by the fire, a soft smile on their face as they sit on the edge of A's bed, placing a cool hand against A's forehead. Despite the cold that still clung to their bones, A relished the feeling against their burning skin. "Had me worried for a spell." The puzzle pieces click into place—this is C, their neighbor from down the road. But how...how did C know?

"Wh-what....how'd I...." A can't get the words out.

"Your horse ran up my road, nearly scared me half to death. I figured he must've jumped a pen or slipped past the gate."

The gate. In A's feverish delirium, they must've forgotten to close the gate, and the horse had gotten out.

C rises from A's bedside, walking over to a stove where a small pot bubbled. "When I came to bring him back, there wasn't any smoke coming out of your chimney. Came around back, and there you were, sprawled out in your yard like a rag doll." C shakes their head, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon. "Burning up something awful, and shaking like a leaf, too."

Heat floods A's cheeks at the thought of being found in such a state. Yet they can't push away the sheer relief of being found, of no longer being paralyzed on the cold, hard dirt. But even now, they feel the deep cold in their bones, and they shudder and reflexively curl toward the heat source—a hot water bottle, they realize.

"I'd've kept you at your own house in your own bed, but I didn't know where you kept any of your goods—and I didn't want to have to leave you there all by your lonesome anyways. So I wrapped you up and brought you back here. I'll take care of your animals, of course, but you can stay here until you're better, which will be a few days out, I'm afraid."

C stops stirring and pours something into a clay mug, and brings it back over to A's bedside. "It's my mother's old broth remedy. Not sure how much it really cures, but it helps to warm the bones and ease the aches a bit."

A feels the lump in their throat rise—it was too much, needing C to take care of them. And yet they were so, so tired, and so, so grateful that they were. Despite being surrounded by comfort, they could tell their illness was worse, the chills rippling through their body like icy water was being poured over their limbs. No doubt accelerated by my multiple excursions outdoors. A eyes the mug, and feels their eyes well up again—can I even manage to hold the weight of it—

As if C can hear their feverish thoughts, they curl an arm behind A's shoulders and ease them up on the fluffy down pillows, then cradle A's head as they tilt the mug towards their lips. "Easy now. Just a couple sips to start."

The broth is just short of heaven—simple, yet with hints of lemon and herbs and some other spice they can't identify. And so, so warm.

A manages to drink nearly the entire mug's worth, but the effort saps all their remaining strength, and they slump back into the pillows, eyes too heavy to stay open.

They should say thank you. They should say anything to communicate their gratitude to what C's done for them, how scared they were. They force their eyes open to try and express everything that's swirling around in their head, but all that comes out is a whimper—and hot tears that suddenly pour down their cheeks, unchecked.

"Hey, hey now. You're alright. Just rest now, you're in good hands."

A feels a hand course through their damp curls, and it's as if all the tension melted out of their body, and they sink down, deep into the sleep of someone who knows in their soul, that they're safe.

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An injured character being transported jouncing along in the back of a badly-sprung cart or wagon- feeling every slight bump, rut, or stone in the road telegraphed through the vehicle's frame into their own no matter how well-cushioned the bed is or how carefully their companion(s) attempt to hold them still; in constant tension the entire duration of the journey trying to brace against the pain and against the jarring motions that exacerbate it more with every mile endured.

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Whumpees who can't stop shivering, whether it's due to fever or the cold, no matter how many blankets are piled on top of them. Their lower lip trembles, their teeth chattering, and every muscle in their body is starting to ache from the repetitive movements.

Caretaker sits or lays right next to them, stroking their hair and holding them close, trying to squeeze some warmth into their bones, their shuddering breaths vibrating against Caretaker's side.

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A recently hypothermic character whose core temp is technically back to normal but just cannot seem to actually feel warm enough seeking out every scrap of additional warmth they can- basking in the sun like a cat; curling up practically on top of a radiator or on the hearth nearly in the fireplace; wearing an almost comical amount of layers; padding about the house with a blanket clutched 'round them as a cloak; drinking exclusively hot beverages and cradling the mugs of tea and cocoa and mulled cider tight between their hands; constructing elaborate blanket-nests wherever they're resting; sticking limpet-like to the side of any companion(s) to leech their bodyheat or insistently cuddling any available pets- they turn into a heat-seeking missile whose entire goal is just to feel warm.

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take a vain character. a character who's constantly smirking at himself in mirrors, obsessed with the tailoring of his waistcoats, proud of his accessories and the way his hair shines.

and then throw him in the dirt. he's given just enough water to keep from dying of dehydration, and the longing to wash his face becomes secondary to survival. he doesn't care if his wounds scar, as long as he can find something to stop the bleeding. he's freezing to death and forced to wear every ragged, torn piece of clothing he can scrounge up- or maybe even having clothing becomes a luxury.

when help finds him, he's no longer vain at all. he wears whatever he's given, cleans himself only when reminded to, doesn't even have the energy to brush his own hair.

and then one day a weak voice comes from where he's resting:

"Can I have... a mirror?"

Everyone looking after him breathes a sigh of relief.

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remember: after harming your whumpee via cold environmental factors it is ALWAYS an option to then give them a pair of warm socks straight from the dryer/hearth (time period dependent of course) to put on

[warmblanketwhump]

while i work on getting back into my writing groove, here us another irl cold whump story and one of the coldest experiences I’ve ever had in my life:

back when I was in school, I had a music recital where i went first (and absolutely bombed my performance lol)

anyways, this event took place in the dead of winter in a HUGE building with high vaulted ceilings. it must’ve been impossible to heat it properly because it was freezing in there, and I was wearing thin dress clothes on that were not crafted for keeping a person warm.

at first, I was sort of sweating from the adrenaline of failing the performance, but about halfway through the other performances I was shivering hard (those deep shivers from your core when you’re super cold? that.)

by the time the recital ended I was thoroughly chilled to my bones and just wanted to go home and get warm. but of I had a long, poorly heated car ride back home first. seriously—you know when your car takes forever to heat up in the winter or has just one tiny heating vent and you’re not even sure if the heating is even working properly. so all I could do was huddle in my winter coat and just shiver.

by the time i got home i was so cold i had to wrap up in a blanket while waiting for my turn for a hot shower, and even after that it took me ages to finally get warm in bed that night.

anyways, the moral of this story is that even in the modern era we are all just one drafty building away from nearly freezing to death, and VERY simple situation can make for great cold whump inspo 🥶