poorlittleangels

[poorlittleangels]

Caretaker watched the stranger deep asleep on their couch. They had no idea where whumpee came from, only they were on the side of the road in that awful storm. The power was out and they had no way to call for help.

They had wounds that weren't from the storm. They were man made and varied with different tools. It was nothing like caretaker had ever seen before...

Caretaker turned their back to light a candle when they heard a quiet thump behind them. They turned around to find whumpee off the couch against the wall trying to make their way to the door.

"Woah woah woah! You're in no condition to be up like that." Caretaker scolded. Whumpee stopped in their tracks, realizing they weren't alone. They shakily turned around with a wide-frightened gaze. Their knees slowly gave in as they sunk to the floor and stayed frozen.

Caretaker dropped to a crouch, feeling odd standing so tall over them. "I know you're hurt, so let's go back on the couch and see what we can do, okay?"

Whumpee tilted their head towards the door, listening to the crash of lightning and a downpour of rain. "How did you find me?" Whumpee spoke in a whisper.

"Luck." Caretaker shrugged, scooting an inch closer. "Did someone hurt you? Are you in some sort of trouble?" Caretaker asked.

"No." Whumpee spoke shortly. Caretaker knew that was a lie; but if that's what whumpee wanted caretaker to think to be comfortable enough to let them help, then so be it. 

[poorlittleangels]

the sickfic to end all sickfics

i will never get tired of a boy going to bed feeling funny and waking up in the middle of the night feverish and horrifically sick.

he tries to brush off his sour stomach and tiredness and lack of appetite. after all, he’s been working long hours and eating the wrong things. a good night’s sleep is all he needs. he hardly touches his dinner and is in bed by 7:30.

he falls asleep quickly next to you, but his temperature rises and leaves him with feverish, confused dreams. you’re awoken by him mumbling deliriously, and when you ask him what’s the matter he starts muttering incoherent sentences that don’t seem to connect or conclude. you switch on a bedside lamp, and examine the pallor of his sweat-slicked face while using your palm to feel his forehead. he’s absolutely burning hot. his eyes, heavylidded, flutter.

“i don’t feel good” he manages to tell you through dry lips. his breaths come shallow and out of his mouth. you feel so sorry for him but can’t help but find him irresistible in such a weak state. you ask him where he isn’t feeling good, brushing back his bangs.

“stomach” is all he says. you probe further and ask him what kind of stomach ache it is, and with a heavy swallow he says “nauseous” and that “everything is spinning.” you lie there with him until his saliva is too much for his own mouth, and you have to help him to the bathroom. you stay by his side until he thinks he’s done.

the next morning doesn’t fare much better. he got sick a couple more times in the night, and is still running a fever. he mumbles incoherent thoughts about having to call into work sick, so worried about having to take a sick day, about how much he’ll be missing at work. he tosses layers of blankets to the floor and removes his pajamas, complaining about how hot it is. within fifteen minutes he is shivering and you have to help him put his pajamas back on.

he goes a couple hours without throwing up, and you suggest crackers. he manages to keep those down, and before long he agrees to a can of chicken soup. when you come to place the tray over his lap, he is lying there staring off into space looking so miserable and pale. you hope the soup will give a little color to his face.

he slurps the soup down to its bottom. you’re glad to see him eating, and after he’s done you take the bowl to wash. as you’re doing the dishes, you hear him coughing. you think he might be trying to clear his throat.

you hear him start to retch.

you leave the sink and come back into the bedroom. his head is hung over a trash can. he looks up.

“im sorry,” he mutters. “im so sorry. i didn’t mean to.”

this sight absolutely breaks your heart. in this woozy state he feels the need to apologize, worried about upsetting or offending you for throwing up the soup you made. you rub circles on his back and hush him as he apologizes again and again and again. after he’s done you tuck him back up, kissing his burning forehead. you sit at his bedside to play with his hair and make him sleepy. he goes in and out of sleep, and senses when you’re not there. when he wakes he weakly cries out for you, begging for you to make it all better. all you can do is pet his hair and shush him, hoping it’ll all be over soon.

[poorlittleangels]

unpopular opinion but whump should and deserves to be messy

"Yeah duh there's plenty of scenarios with blood and tears--" no. I want more.

I want pink tinted spit dribbling out of Whumpee's mouth. I want strings of saliva connecting between their busted lip to Whumper's tongue. I want drool running down the corners of their mouths because of a gag that makes it difficult to swallow.

I want sweat making Whumpee feel sticky and clammy to the touch. I want their skin to be slick and soaking into their soiled clothes. I want them to squirm in discomfort of a dirty shirt clinging to their back from precious fluids that are going to risk further dehydration. I want their hair to be continuously damp and hanging in thick strands in their face.

I want the scabs to turn white with pus and black with infection. I want old wounds to tear open and bleed a thick red. I want the pink flesh underneath to pulse and quiver, the sight of yellow fat and cartilage. I want blood vessels and capillaries to burst and spread over an area, I want burns to start brown and peel away to a tender pink.

I want Whumpee to vomit out of their nose because their mouth is gagged. I want bile to reek on their clothing and on their tongue. I want them to grow use to the taste of bitter blood and burning chyme forever in the back of their throat. I want them to have to snort and hack to be able to spit out whatever was still caught on their tongue or risk swallowing it down.

I want their tears to remain unwiped and crusting over their eyes. I want snot to smear over their cheeks and leave their lips uncomfortably tacky. I want their face to remain blotchy and red because they just can't get it clean. I want dirt and blood and skin to build up under their fingernails to the point they risk infecting their own wounds if they try and mess with it. I want Whumpee to only be sprayed down with cold water and an old towel, never any soap and never in all the creases of their body.

I want their bodies caked in grime and viscera and bodily fluids. I want Whumper to never give them the luxury of feeling clean and in fact actively making them more filthy each time. I want Whumpee's clothes yellowed and their hair matted and their skin sickly. I want injuries to never properly heal so that the only option is to amputate the necrosis. I want Whumper to force Whumpee to clean up whatever kind of mess they made by licking it off the floor.

I want arteries to spew like a garden sprinkler. I want the exposed roots of pulled teeth to dangle freely in their mouth. I want Whumpee's hair, including all of their body hair, to grow to unruly lengths that are constantly tangled and ingrown. I want them to find comfort in starving because it means there's nothing to risk throwing up. I want them to scrub their skin raw and bleeding, uncaring how much it aggravates their injuries or how the soap stings, the first chance they're given for a real bath.

I want it to be nasty!!!!!!

[poorlittleangels]

Whumpee who cries.

Whumpee who cries in great, violent, racking sobs that shake their whole chest.

Whumpee who cries silently, tears rolling down their face as they refuse to move of make a sound.

Whumpee who hugs themself and curls into a ball as they cry.

Whumpee who cries so hard for so long their whole face and head hurt.

Whumpee with eyes that are bloodshot from crying, and their face is sticky with tears.

Whumpee who cries until they can't cry any more, only twitching and making little sobbing noises while no tears come.

[poorlittleangels]

The scene where Whumpee wakes up in bed after everything he's been through is also one of my favorite scenes. Maybe not in a hospital, but in a small, comfortable, and quiet home for recovery.

Whumpee will wake up to see an unfamiliar ceiling, confused about his location, and not remembering how long he slept (or perhaps was unconscious). Wake up in a comfortable bed with soft pillows and warm blankets. Maybe there is a bolster on the side to keep him from falling. Whumpee's body had been cleaned and his wounds had been treated and he was even dressed in soft pajamas.

His whole body must have felt sore; perhaps his head was heavy, and his mind was blurry. Even though he wanted to get up, Whumpee actually had difficulty moving.

Caretaker will come in not long after and immediately rush to stop Whumpee from waking up. Calm him down and patiently explain the situation that has occurred. Caretaker will say what ultimately happened to Whumper, Whumpee's condition, where he is now, and how long he has been lying there. Whumpee tried to understand, even though he was still confused.

Then, the Caretaker will feed Whumpee broth or soup and help him take medicine. Caretaker will also probably replace Whumpee's pajamas with new ones.

While changing into his pajamas, Whumpee could see that his body was covered in wounds, bandages wrapped around everywhere, bruises, and he could begin to smell the antiseptic smell from his body. Caretaker says don't think about it; Whumpee will be fine and recover soon.

After that, maybe Caretaker will lay Whumpee down again. Accompany him while stroking his head and holding his hand, trying to provide comfort. Whumpee was lulled and went back to sleep peacefully.

(Anything you want to add?)

[poorlittleangels]

ruinfolk outfit/character design commission for @mussthemoose

(✿◡‿◡)

[poorlittleangels]

GORETOBER DAY ???? - GUTS

[poorlittleangels]

okay I know I just reblogged something about this but there is something just so gut wrenching about a whumpee who is absolutely flattened by illness. like, we’re talking so achy they can’t move, let alone get out of bed, so feverish and delirious that they can’t string a sentence together, so miserable that they can’t do more than stare up at the caretaker with a glassy, half-lidded glance, hoping that they’re able to intuit their needs so they don’t have to force their words through their burning throat. everything’s heavy, and blurry, and just off enough to make panic twist in their gut, but they’d be too sluggish to flee these percieved threats anyways. so they stay under their mountain of blankets and covers, praying one thing over and over to caretaker: don’t leave. please don’t leave.

[poorlittleangels]

the weary feverish whumpee aesthetic™

I love it when a whumpee is so weak that they:

are bedridden, much to their discomfort. They long to leave the bed, but cannot because they are too weak, and their legs shake at the thought of taking even a single step.

can't keep their eyes open. Their eyelids flutter but due to tiredness and too much light, they always close again. However, the whumpee has learned to rely on other senses, and is able to recognize the caretaker's voice or touch among a thousand others.

have to always lie down. They try to sit up, perhaps to eat something, but after a few minutes their head starts spinning and their body starts screaming because of the effort. Much to their chagrin, they have to force themselves back down or else they will likely pass out.

are not hungry. Their body can't handle even plain broth, making them queasy and dizzy. So they continue to refuse food, their only source of livelihood, and this obviously worsens their condition.

are too sensitive to touch. Their skin that seems to boil with fever, the bedsheets that rub down their limbs like sandpaper, the hair that sticks to their sweaty forehead, even the simple touch of the caretaker, a touch that is supposed to comfort them. They start to hate all these little things.

Please, feel free to add more.

[poorlittleangels]

Whumpees! Calling! Out! For! A ! Parent!!!!

What's the situation? Do they wake up from a nightmare disoriented and confused, enough so that it takes them a second they forget they aren't with their parents and call out to the first person they see, only to be embarrassed a moment later when they realize? Are they so delirious they actually think their dad is there with them when it's really just an unrelated caretaker who's heart is breaking for them? Are they so scared, sick, or in pain that they just really really want their mom and don't care if that's impossible right now?

[poorlittleangels]

More fever prompts just because:

Whumpee waking up with a now-lukewarm cloth draped over their forehead, and weakly reaching up to brush it away

Caretaker coming to check on Whumpee and finding them awake but silently crying into the edge of their blanket because they really just don't feel good at all

Whumpee being too weak and dizzy and shaky to eat the soup their caretaker brings them, only able to sit up for a few minutes at a time before they have to close their eyes and lie back again

A caretaker sponging off a whumpee's sweaty, feverish face, and the whumpee just whimpering feebly, so out of it they can't tell if it's too cold or feels like a wonderful relief

The crease between their eyebrows, wordlessly mouthing whatever fears they're facing in their dreams, soft sounds of distress escaping them, all while the caretaker gently thumbs damp strands of hair from their forehead

The fever finally breaking and the whumpee waking up sore all over and so weak they're trembling at the slightest movement, sweat clings to their shirt and they shiver violently when Caretaker helps them out of it and into something dry

Feeling so so cold but with that uncomfortable heat just over their skin that feels all wrong, they know they must be hot because the sheets are almost painful against them, but without them they're a shivery mess

A whumpee sitting huddled against the headboard of their bed/the back of a couch or chair, wrapped in three blankets with beads of sweat on their forehead, eyes glittery and half open, half aware of the shadows creeping from the corners of their room that might just be their imagination -- they couldn't tell the difference if they weren't

Someone going to bed feeling a little off and getting zero sleep, throat sore and mind racing and chills too prevalent for them to get a single wink - in the morning they wake up feeling exhausted and out of it and when they swing their legs out of bed they find themselves almost too dizzy and shaky to stand up and that's when it hits them that oh, this is beyond just a sleepless night

[poorlittleangels]

this my art account <3

everyone say HELLo

[poorlittleangels]

falling asleep

- in the clamor and echoing noise of a crowded room, leaning on someone’s shoulder or stretched out to rest their head on someone’s lap, eyes shut against the lights, a coat pulled over them for a blanket

- quick and merciful at the end of a long daze of pain, the downward weight of medication taking effect at last, while a hand clutches theirs and a familiar voice whispers that it’s okay now

- weary from travel, warm at last and wrapped in blankets on a hard wooden floor, the fire softly crackling behind the grate, while wind rattles the shutters and their friends’ slow breathing nearby lulls them

- over and over again into a thin drowse, feverish, sweating and shivering, achy arms and legs too heavy to lift, the cycle broken now and again by the touch of cool damp cloth against their face and a spoon pressed to their cracked lips

- worn out after a long day, head forward onto folded arms laid on the table or desk, hair slipped down to hide their pallid cheeks, as someone lays a sweater over their shoulders with a light touch so as not to wake them

- to the sound of someone singing a song they barely remember from their past, but listening to it makes them smile, long years later - they’ll ask for the rest when they wake up…

[poorlittleangels]

The phrase ‘I need to lie down’ is so nice

[poorlittleangels]

Spared the pain

Hi all, here's a little something I've been working on lately. It's about my OC Calen, a young man who works as a teacher at a boarding school alongside his friend Daniel. One night he returns from dinner with Daniel and his wife Eline feeling less than well. And so ...

Content warning: hospital, medicine (pills, injections), mentions of death/wanting to die, extreme pain, vomit

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He lifted his shirt to look at his stomach. It was very slender and pale, a soft, smooth underbelly marked only by a trail of light hair leading between his legs and a vaguely heart-shaped birthmark on the right side. He rubbed at his stomach gently in an attempt to soothe the pain, wondering what could be causing it. He had eaten quite a heavy dinner at Daniel and Eline's home, and perhaps the cream sauce and spices weren't agreeing with him. That, or he had overindulged on desserts and a cup too much of wine, and was paying his due penance for it. How could you blame him, anyway? It wasn't his fault Eline made such a rich coconut cake, and he hasn't drank in months. He sighed and pushed himself off the bed, clutching at his abdomen. He would be alright, he supposed, if he used the bathroom, washed up, and had a good long rest. Very little couldn't be made better with a hot bath and a good night's sleep.

After he'd taken his bath, he dressed in clean white pajamas and warm socks. He made himself a cup of mint tea, hoping it would settle his stomach, and took some stomach medicine as well, just for good measure. The two little pink pills didn't go down easily, though. He felt nauseated putting anything in his mouth.

Finally, he drained the last sip of his mug and settled into bed for the night, content but still feeling a nagging ache in his midsection. Lying on his side, he could hear it making gurgling noises, feel it squeezing gases around, working extra hard to digest his meal. Sweating slightly, shaking a bit when the pain grew, he tried to ignore the pain and distract himself to fall asleep.

He eventually succeeded, since he found himself awake the next day with light pouring in through the curtains. The very first thing he noticed was the pain. Oh, gods, please, the pain! It was worse than anything he'd felt in his life, somehow worse than when he'd broken his arm as a child, or the migraine that left him immobile for two days. This was a different breed of dragon. His organs felt like they'd been twisted inside out and set afire. His stomach, especially, right under his ribs, was cramping so furiously it brought the first tears to his eyes. His intestines writhed like angry snakes and his whole belly felt uncomfortably full and heavy, gurgling and blooming with new pain as his guts shifted around.

The more aware he became, the worse the pain became as well. Never being one to tolerate pain well, now Calen was unsure if he could stay conscious. Tears leaked down his cheeks and chin and pooled on his pillow, making his cheeks and nose sticky. He cried out into the dim room, whimpering and moaning. He could barely move, let alone speak a coherent sentence, and screaming was his only distraction and relief.

The second thing he became aware of was a tightness in his throat. His mouth had started to fill with a metallic saliva and his hands were shaking. Something felt like it was threatening to come up. He managed to lean over the edge of the bed and reach his wastebasket under his chair, dragging it to the edge of the bed. Unable to sit up, he leaned his face over the bin and sighed shallow, shaking breaths until he coughed and finally vomited.

A torrent of puke hit the plastic liner of the bin, white and sticky like porridge and with soft chunks of half-digested food. A little trail of pink in there, too- some red wine making its way back up. Calen's stomach squeezed in on itself, driving the liquid up his gullet and past his lips violently. The pain seized him even more, and he was feeling faint. He hung his head over the bin, sobbing in between vomiting, gagging at the horrible smell. He begged the gods for the pain to stop, to pass out, to die. It was simply too much to bear. He eventually must've exhausted himself, or been in so much pain, that he fell unconscious, head on his arm, facing a basket of his own puke.

The next hours passed in misery. Once in a while Calen would awaken, get sick again, and be unable to escape the pain tearing his stomach up. He no longer was aware of the room around him, of anything but his own blinding pain. He screamed and cried without deciding to; it was simply all he could do, to survive moment to moment. Sweat poured down his brow and his throat had gone hoarse from his crying and the bitter dregs of bile he spit up. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't even lay a hand on his stomach without it cramping even more horribly. And then, his pleading and prayers would come true for a few minutes, and he'd succumb to the pain and mercifully black out, going limp, only for things to start back up in due time, even when his body had nothing at all left to give.

He awoke later to a soft, gentle noise. The voice was familiar, deep and a bit rough, but spoke barely above a whisper. It took some concentration to understand it.

"Calen? Calen, are you awake? Oh, dear..."

He heard plastic crinkling and then someone's footsteps in the kitchen. His visitor must have tied up the bag of vomit and thrown it out for him. They returned to his bedside.

His body was completely exhausted. He didn't have the strength to open his eyes. He felt a warm touch on his shoulder, a hand rubbing his back.

"Calen, it's Daniel. Can you hear me? Gods, you look awful..."

With some effort he managed to open his eyes. Daniel was sitting on the edge of his bed, face sunk with concern. The room was pale gray and smelled of sick. He could make out the clock; it was a little past noon.

"There you are. I've been so worried. When you didn't show up today the main office called you three times, but when you didn't pick up they asked me to come check on you. My, I'm glad I did... You look like you've been suffering..."

He pressed the back of his hand to Calen's forehead. "Hm, you don't feel warm... But you've been vomiting, yes?"

Calen nodded. Suddenly he curled in on himself, attacked by a sudden cramp. Tears stung his dry eyes and a gasp escapes his lips. The pain refused to relent. He tried to scream, but his throat was raw. Daniel's eyes widened in shock.

"Calen? Calen, what's wrong? Is your stomach okay?"

"H-hurts..." He whined. "Hurts so bad... Please, please make it stop, just make it stop, I can't take it anymore, it won't stop..."

Daniel's tone dropped to a grave note. "Calen, I think we ought to get you to the hospital."

Calen didn't reply. Really, he couldn't articulate himself because of the pain. He continued whimpering, wailing, begging for mercy.

Daniel had taken his telephone and called for a doctor, his hand rubbing between Calen's shoulderblades, trying desperately to soothe him even a bit. Calen was barely aware of what was happening. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs, new voices. He felt cool, gloved hands on his arms, and something prickly pushed into the inside of his elbow. After that, the world grew dimmer and dimmer. The pain dulled to a low throb, and his eyes grew very heavy. Before he knew it he was in a heavy, dresmless sleep.

He awoke, eyes shut, in a bright room. It smelled of cleaning products and something slightly sour. People were walking in and out and in a hall outside. He must be in a hospital. For some reason his limbs were leaden and even to move was an enormous effort. He couldn't think properly either.

"Sir?" someone said "Calen Callophan?"

He pried his eyes open with a massive effort. A nurse was standing over his bed, some kind of monitor in his hand.

"You're finally awake. That's good. Don't be alarmed. You're on some pretty heavy painkillers right now and you might be feeling a little loopy."

"W-what happened?" He coughed, his throat feeling very dry. The nurse handed him a glass of water, which he graciously accepted. The nurse took his temperature and blood pressure and counted his heartbeats, and, satisfied with the results, put away his instruments.

"You've contracted a rare stomach infection and you'll need to be on pain medicine for a few days before you can go home and work. We don't have a cure for it, so you'll just need to wait it out."

"Am I going to be okay? How long was I out?" Calen was beginning to feel quite tired already, and his eyes had trouble focusing.

"You've been sedated for about five hours. It's almost dinnertime. We'll have you try some broth and juice, if you feel up to it."

So the days passed, Calen awake for little of the day, the medicine in his veins needing to be so strong to spare him the pain that he could only manage an hour or so of wakefulness at a time. It wasn't all bad, though. He drank hot broth and cool juice and, when he could manage that, a bit of porridge. Daniel or Eline stopped by a few times to see him, Daniel brining him a few yellow chrysanthemums in a vase, Eline brining some of her homemade clear soup, which he found delicious and nourishing. She fretted now more than ever about how thin he was and how she wouldn't stand to see him lose any weight. He was grateful, and with their best efforts he actually managed to put on a pound or two, owing to how little activity he was doing. By the time he could return to work he felt far better, though still recovering strength and needing plenty of rest at nights. Slowly he recovered fully, though, not meaning to offend Eline, he did swear off coconut cake for a while after.

#whump #sickdays #sickfic #sickfic prompt #whump prompt #emotional whump #emotional h/c #emeto #emeto fic #vomiting #puke #hospital #oh god #begging for mercy #painful #extreme pain #cw hospital #cw death #poorlittleangels

[poorlittleangels]

Hey guys!! Long time no fics! I recently wrote this for a friend with our characters. Aldwyn is mine, the other is hers. This story takes place in Middle Earth, the the town of Bree, 60 years or so after the War of the Ring. I hope you all enjoy! It’s pretty long but I think it’s probably the best fic I’ve written.

Keep reading

[poorlittleangels]

Sickdays 6: The Return Prompt List

It's been a while, but we're finally back! What better time to have a sickdays than during the plague, right?

This year’s event will take place during the week of May 17th through the 23rd. We've got a prompt for each day, as well as three "Honorable Mention" prompts. The Honorable Mentions are there in case there's one day that you really don't like the prompt for, you can sub in a Mention of your choice. Or, if you just want Even More Content, you can do them alongside the regular seven prompts.

Reminder that we do have two very important rules. 1.) No sexually explicit content. At all. 2.) No writing for real people. Any violation of these rules will cause your submission to be rejected. We haven’t had much of a problem with this in the past tho, so keep up the good work. If you want any other info, please search the #info or #rules tags before asking, but if you can’t find an answer, feel free to shoot us an ask!

Also, please please please reblog this to get the word out about the event!!

We left the prompts super broad this time around, just a word or phrase to get the brain juices slurping.

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Prompts are as follows:

17: Hot

18: Cold

19: Shake

20: “Oh god”

21: Noisy

22: Messy

23: Red

Honorable mentions:

Dark

“Hang on”

Crack

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Have fun and happy writing!

-Mod J