In the aftermath of the Spamton NEO fight, the party is left burnt and, in Kris's case, unnerved. Susie tries to use her new healing powers to tend to Ralsei's burns.
Read the fic here!
Fandom: Deltarune
All-ages friendly fic.
No warnings, but it does contain vague descriptions of burns and injury.
Deltarune Chapter 2 spoilers, especially relating to the Secret Boss fight. (But also... Chapter 2 has been out for years now so maybe the moratorium on spoilers is over? Who knows.)
A short and sweet little fic written to get me some practice in writing Susie and the Fun Gang more broadly. I care them.
Check out @whumpmasinjuly/ @whumpmasinjuly-archive for more entries from other writers for this event!
More Love and Deepspace today because I will never get over Xavier's Feverish Attempts card and the canon whump we got from that <3
~~~~~~~
Xavier’s skin was still too hot to the touch as she pressed her hand to his cheek. He gave a soft moan and nuzzled into it, eyes fluttering.
“Xavier? It’s time for you to take more medicine.”
His face scrunched up but his eyes fluttered open, the usual crystal blue hazy and dull. “Again?”
“Your fever still isn’t gone.” She pursed her lips together. “In fact, you only seem to be getting hotter.”
Xavier could feel himself burning from the inside out, making it hard for him to think but he was too tired and weak to care at the moment.
He heard the rustle of foil and plastic as she popped the pills out of the bubble packaging. He tried to sit up, but his body ached. Not only from the fever, but the injuries he’d sustained—he’d almost forgotten, he didn’t know where one hurt began and another ended.
“Can you sit up?”
He tried, and she helped him, did most of the work. He burned against her side as she held him up, pressing the pills to his lips before reaching for a glass of water.
Xavier swallowed them dutifully, before he let his head sink back to her shoulder, unable to hold it up another second.
“Try to sleep,” she whispered, turning his pillows over so they would be cool before lowering him back down onto them.
He felt her slipping away and reached out weakly before her arm slid through his fingers. “Please…don’t leave…”
The words didn’t come out, frozen on his tongue. Panic set in as he felt her slip away anyway, trying to keep his eyes open, to look for her, but she was gone. He’d lost her…again and he was too weak to search for her.
Then something cool pressed to his cheek and slid down his neck. He let out a sharp exhale, forcing his eyes open to see her worried face hovering over him.
“You’re back…” he whispered.
She smiled. “I just went to get a fresh cloth.”
She soothed the cool cloth over his face and chest as Xavier was finally able to relax, leaning into her touch.
“Please stay,” he finally whispered as he felt himself drifting away again, fingers reaching out blindly.
This time, she caught them in hers and held on tight. “I’m not going anywhere, Xavier.”
hi here's a little illya fic that starts right at the crash scene in the film. it's a missing scene sort of thing and it's canon compliant! hope you like <333
He hears Gaby cry out his name, and then all sensation—feeling, hearing, sight, smell, taste—combines into a cacophonous mess as he and the motorbike tumble down the hill. And then everything goes black.
He opens his eyes slowly. Mud. Rain. The sounds of struggle. Gaby, her orange dress. Solo, a hit to the head.
He moves with the strength that has been trained into him. The strength that allows him to survive, to fight, against all odds.
Gaby shrieks, there is a gun pointed at Solo, and Illya stands, lifts the motorbike off of himself, and throws it with all his might at Alexander.
He sags for a second, the oppressive, all-encompassing sensation of pain momentarily overriding his mental instinct to fight, and then Alexander is standing and Illya goes for his knife and Alexander picks up his gun and Illya grabs his arm, steps in close, and stabs. He locks eyes with his opponent. I have beaten you. Alexander blinks, falls to the ground.
The others.
He walks over to Solo, still lying on the ground. “Cowboy.”
Solo waves him off, “I’ll be okay, Peril,” and his voice hardly sounds okay but he cannot dwell on this because Gaby is there too, shivering and dirty and bloody, and he holds her as tenderly as he’s ever held anything.
“It’s okay.”
A helicopter arrives. Men inspect the bomb and the three of them stand uselessly to the side. Solo is holding a compress to the bleeding wound on his forehead, and Gaby is wrapped in a blanket. Every part of Illya hurts, but he has neither asked for nor been offered anything beyond a damp cloth to clean his face. He is used to this. He soldiers on, always. There is still a job to do. And so he stands there, face clean apart from a bloody scrape, and tries very hard to hold himself like nothing hurts at all.
It is not until after—after the enemy has been neutralized, after the mission is over—that the pain becomes the predominant thing on his mind. It is harder to ignore, now. It always is. There is nothing to distract him.
The aircraft carrier makes its slow way back to shore, and Illya locks himself in a tiny bathroom and tries not to pass out.
His entire body hurts. His head is pounding and his forehead stings and his ribs ache and stab whenever he breathes. His hands are scraped and two of his nails are broken and his legs are shaky and his left ankle is throbbing and there is a horrible, searing, burning pain across his entire right thigh.
It is all too much to deal with, but it does have to be dealt with. There are, however, no medical supplies in this bathroom, and he is not about to ask for them, nor does he have the strength to go hunting for them on his own.
He’ll wait. They’ll be back at the hotel soon enough.
He intends to remain in the bathroom until they dock, but a pounding on the door ruins this plan.
He tries at first to ignore it, to ignore the way it makes his head ache even worse, but the knocking is insistent.
“Illya?” Gaby’s voice is muffled through the door, and it sounds worried.
“Peril, you okay in there?” Solo adds, not any less worried.
Something has happened. Illya wills himself to forget the pain, to snap back into the version of himself that can deal with anything. He sort of succeeds, straightening up and taking a mostly normal breath, before opening the door.
“What happened?”
They both just look at him.
“Nothing happened,” Gaby says. “We were worried about you.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you ran away and locked yourself in a bathroom the second after that bomb went off.”
Illya looks away from them. “Is nothing.”
“Don’t think we haven’t noticed you holding your ribs.”
“Or the way you’re trying to hide a limp.”
“You’re hurt. We want to help.”
He blinks. “Why? This is not for you to do.”
The two of them look at each other, communicating something that Illya does not understand.
“You saved both of our lives out there,” Solo says quietly. “We would’ve been dead if you hadn’t gotten up and done what you did, but Illya, we saw that motorcycle crash on top of you. We know you’re hurt. We just want to return the favor and help you out.”
“Let us, please.”
He finds that he does not have it in him to refuse.
--
He…does not know how to submit to this. Usually, he fixes himself up, or, if the damage is bad enough, he finds himself in the sterile, capable hands of a KGB doctor.
This is different. They are different. They want to help him. It is not their job. There is nothing forcing them into it.
Solo disappears and returns two minutes later with a first-aid kit in his arms. He leads them to an unoccupied room holding a table and four chairs. Illya is directed to sit on the table while the others stand.
“I do hope you’re not particularly modest, because there is no way we can help you without losing a few layers,” Solo says, opening the first-aid kit and rifling through its contents.
There is no room for modesty in the KGB. This is different, of course, but the principle is similar. He removes his clothes, slowly, trying not to let the pain show on his face.
When he takes off his shirt, Gaby and Solo both nearly gasp. He looks down and sees the purple stains spreading across his chest. He’d been expecting this, based on the pain and the impact to his breathing, and does not react.
“That looks awful,” Gaby says, fingertips brushing against the bruised skin.
Illya tries not to pull away. Not because he does not like or want this contact, but because he does not know what to do with it.
“Ribs,” Solo says, and shakes his head. It’s his turn to touch Illya. His hands are sure and steady like those of a KGB doctor, but there is a warmth behind them that Illya has never experienced before.
“How’s your breathing?” he asks, as Illya tries not to wince.
“Okay.”
“If it starts feeling tight, or like you can’t get enough air, you need to go to a hospital, okay? A punctured lung is nothing to mess around with.”
Illya nods. He’s well aware.
He has already cleaned off the scrape on his forehead, but Gaby dabs it with antiseptic and carefully applies a bandage, sticking her tongue between her teeth as she works. Illya does not remember the last time he had a bandage for anything so superficial. He does not hate it.
Solo cleans the raw skin around his broken nails and applies an ointment. Gaby cleans the scrapes on his hands and bandages a scratch along his inner arm that he hadn’t even noticed.
Then it is time for the worst pain, the one he has been dreading to face head on.
His leg.
He wriggles out of his pants and the fabric scrapes against the aching skin beneath. Even this is enough to make him feel sick and dizzy. He does not want to look, even though he knows he should.
“Jesus,” Solo breathes, and Illya forces his eyes downwards.
There is a large, angry red burn mark across his entire thigh, several inches wide. It is blistering in places, there are black spots near the edges, and it hurts. He imagines the motorbike’s exhaust pipe, feels the sensation of hot metal pressing into skin, trapping him. Recalls distantly the smell of burning flesh, intermingled with all the other sensations.
Solo sends Gaby out in search of water, and when she is gone, he asks, “how badly does it hurt?”
Illya shrugs. “I have had worse.”
“Not what I’m asking.”
Another shrug. “It is not good. It is painful, but nothing I cannot handle.”
Solo sighs. Gaby returns with the water.
“They said this was sterile. They also asked whether you want an actual medic, instead of us.”
Illya shakes his head. This is enough.
“Okay. This isn’t going to be terribly pleasant.”
He had figured. Solo cleans the burn with the water while Gaby prepares bandages. It hurts and the towels Solo is using sometimes stick to the skin and he hates the sensation, wants it to stop, and then it’s over and there’s ointment being spread gently over the wound and a dressing is taped carefully but securely in place.
“Done,” Solo proclaims. “You should wash it more thoroughly back at the hotel, with running water, but this is as good as it’ll get until we’re ashore.”
Illya nods, and finds his voice after a second. “Thank you.”
Solo squeezes his shoulder and Gaby does the same to his hand.
“We should be docking soon. We’ll let you get dressed. Come find us on the bridge.”
They leave. For a moment, Illya just sits there. His whole body still hurts, but the pain has lessened. Partly from the physical treatment, but also from the way he’d been treated.
Not like an asset, repaired swiftly and coldly to be sent back into the field as soon as possible. But like a patient, he thinks. With care and warmth. He doesn’t get that sort of treatment. It’s not for people like him.
But he’s gotten it now, and he cannot say he’d hated it. Cannot say he hates them, even though he thinks he is supposed to.
He likes this, and he likes them.
This is going to be a problem.
thanks for reading!! hope you liked it, i had fun with it!!
Okay so, this is approximately 1/4 part of the alt ending of Force of Nature, it's very angsty/emotional whump, a fun conversation between a vampire!Carter and ghost!Myles
TW: character death mention, burning mention, guilt, betrayal, ghost whumper, vampire whumpee
The dirt under her knees was cold and unforgiving, the lumps of the ground had dug divots into her skin; still she knelt stubbornly, tears streaming down her face.
Myles was sitting on the gravestone, swinging his leg lazily, as he watched. Her skin looked sickly, translucent, even under the soft, all-concealing greyness of the moonlight. He sighed, heavily, and she finally looked at him.
"You never came here before," he said, with a scornful half smile playing on his lips. She sniffled, but didn't respond, just stared up at him. There was something akin to betrayal in her eyes, making him tense up with a wave of red hot contempt.
"You didn't care enough. Or you couldn't face me," he said smugly, and Carter had to admit there was some truth to his words. "Which one is it?" he asked, tilting his head.
She had wrestled with herself for days and sleepless nights, for months, but she couldn't ignore it now. Not anymore.
"Which one?" His voice grew loud and he slammed his hands down on the stone next to his thighs. It sounded like thunder, as it echoed through the cemetery.
"I couldn't- I couldn't face you," she replied shakily and averted her gaze, looking down on her hands resting in her lap. Myles scoffed.
"And that isn't so much about me either, as it is about you, isn't that right, Carrie?
You are a murderer. It doesn't matter how nicely we package it, how much of a saint, no, a martyr you've made yourself, you know you have killed, and that this man," he patted the top of the headstone, "is no longer."
"You were turned into a fucking monster and you-"
"What, I wanted to live?" He laughed, a terribly bitter, contemptuous thing. "And now you, saint Carter, a 'monster,'" he spat, drawing air quotes, "have to do the honorable thing, and you just can't."
"I'm sorry," she whispered, utterly defeated. He pushed off the headstone, rounded her and crouched down, to whisper directly into her ear.
"I can't give you an absolution. But I can tell you a secret"
Carter closed her eyes and waited.
"The sun is almost up. The first rays will spill over the horizon behind us, and hit your back," he traced a line up her spine. His touch was cold and barely there, but she felt it in her bones and shivered.
"It will be hot, hotter than you've ever felt," he said, then he stood back up and went to lean on his headstone, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
Carter could have sworn she felt colder, now that he wasn't next to her. She'd missed his warmth, his presence.
"You'll catch on fire, your hair, your skin will char, and the burns will go deeper, and in those few agonising seconds - the sun is merciful like that," he added, "you will feel all of it."
"And you'll forgive me then?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"Only one way to find out," Myles shrugged.
She took a deep breath, gathered herself and stood up. "Will you be here if I come back?"
His expression darkened. "You can't remember me the way I really was, then what's the point? Martyrdom? Torturing yourself with guilt?"
Carter shook her head, but he was right and she knew it.
"The sun is coming up," he stated, void of emotions.
Carter turned around to see the sky just above the horizon turn a shade lighter. She felt her skin blister up, the smoke and the soot clung to her entire being, as the light carressed her skin, charring it.
She didn't turn to say goodbye, just bolted. Barefoot as she was, but faster than she's ever run before, not stopping until she pushed the door of the antique shop open, ringing the bells above.
Taglist (because I have one of those now): @whumplicity
Etho digs down to try and run from the battle, but the flames dancing on his skin remind him too much of his tree.
Notes:
Hi I rewatched Etho’s 3rd Life for this. Love that series. I really love how literally everything he cares about (his tree, his base, him also) catches on fire in the end.
(Quick note on my Etho design, he’s a polar bear hybrid. Claws, fangs, ears, tail, silly nose, really thick hair, stuff like that.)
Oh yeah also, I get 3rd Life!Etho a LOT. My only friend for an entire year was a tree and it got cut down and I STILL cry about it sometimes and it's been at least ten years. :”( I miss you buddy.
Also I cannot even express how late this is. 3 (This was planned for the ninth of this month HELP.)
Warnings: Getting shot with a flame bow and burning, loss of trees, being sad. 3rd Life SMP typical things.
Words: 1,014
(This fic can also be found here and under the cut.) @whumpmasinjuly-archive
The flames crackled around the arrow in Etho's chest as he slumped against the wall of the hole he had dug for himself. “Augh-,“ he groaned, unable to fight the fire as he pawed at the arrow shaft, claws scratching uselessly at his armor, ”Ow.“
He felt his health dropping as the flames licked at him, burning, hurting. The sounds of battle raged above him. Ren was yelling something, and Martyn’s call in response was hardly heard over a shriek of pain from… someone. Etho was slipping, it was hard to tell anymore who was crying in pain or victory. The one thing he knew that his team was losing, Impulse had betrayed them and given arms to the other side. And now that power five flame bow had stuck an arrow in his chest. Now he could hardly hear anything as blood pounded in his ears, pinned as they were against his head. His chest heaved. It had only been a few seconds burning, but he felt it just as agonizing as if it had been hours of poison.
His body shuddered, his bloodlust flickered and almost went out. He must be close to death now. Of course it would be fire that would do him in.
The “game,” (as they had started calling it) had started out worse than expected. Alright, the sudden feeling that they were all on borrowed lives, that had not been a great feeling. Nor had the realization that they were all trapped in a small area, unable to escape the itch of bloodlust that would soon be under all of their skin. What had been an even stronger marker of how bad things would go, however, was the burning of Etho's tree. Really the situation was bad from the second they’d realized their mortality and entrapment, but the fate of that poor tree had made it so much worse.
Sure, maybe it felt like such a strong marker to him because it had been his tree, but still, it had been hardly two days trapped there before it went up in smoke. He'd told them not to, begged, pleaded even, but they hadn't listened. If it was only a few days into the “game” and they were already entirely ignoring the wishes of their friends, Etho could guess that they weren't going to be working together to find a way out of this any time soon. What was the use of trying to break through the barriers if someone was just going to sneak up on him anyway.
That poor tree. He knew it couldn't have felt anything, it hadn't been home to a nature spirit or a creaking, but he couldn't help but feel it had been the first friend of many that he had let down. He'd totally failed to protect it. Just like he’d totally failed to protect his home, his allies and villager friends.
They had all burned down. Just like his poor tree.
His castle, foolishly built almost entirely out of wool, had been burnt as soon as Scar had gotten the idea to put a flint to steel and lava in a bucket. He hadn’t realistically spent a long time there, but it had still been his home. It had been a place of hope, where he, Impulse (curse that traitor) and Tango had vowed to find a way to get through to their friends. A place where he slept well at night, the woolen walls keeping out slimes, phantoms, and his former friends alike. A place that had been an inspiration to get out of that horrible cursed land and just go home . (Oh how he missed his man cave. He’d even go back to Chocolate Island and start all over at this point.)
But it had burned.
He’d run to the drawbridge as the towers burned, been plunged into swam water as the wool gave way below his feet, nearly died trying to save it. (Funnily enough, Tango had tried to help. Now he was gone too.) Scar had laughed at the flames. Laughed as the castle fell, not by a random lightning strike, not by a mob, not by accident. On purpose. Specifically to hurt him. Because Scar had known how much the sight of fire bothered him. And because this world and their strange feeling of bloodlust had forced the friends apart.
Etho was meant to be in the snow. Cold places where his thick hair would protect his head just as well as the coat wrapped under his chestplate. He had been destined to protect that poor Dark Oak tree. Meant to keep it as a symbol of what they were trying to fight for. Meant to keep it as a friend that none of the others would dare hurt. But he hadn’t. It had burned, twice over, and they’d laughed.
Ugh. Add the burning of bridges to the list of things this horrible place had forced onto him. Was every single thing he cared about destined to burn? Tree, tree again (because apparently your friend yelling for you to stop was not enough for anyone or anything), castle, friends, villagers…
And now he was burning too.
The irony was so great it almost made him laugh, but when he tried it hurt so badly that tears picked at the corners of his eyes. Curse Impulse’s amazing armor. This wouldn’t hurt so bad if the seconds brought by the chestplate’s protection hadn’t been there to drag his thoughts out so long. It couldn’t have been very long. A second, maybe two, but his mind was racing as his blood pumped in a weak attempt to slow the fire as it slid under his chestplate and across his body.
His vision turning black, he reached up to take off his mask. He needed air. Something. Anything. It was only a second, but it felt like a billion years as his leg muscles gave out the rest of the way. Then, quite simply, he burned, and just like his poor tree, none of his former friends even cared.
Notes:
Ough. 3rd Life Etho fire motif (btw that continues in the following seasons if you squint) you will always be famous.
Comments very appreciated!!
(Anyone who is subscribed to me on Ao3 better get ready because I am speedrunning these now. XD)
Evangeline was burning. Her vision faded in and out of focus as her head throbbed. She couldn’t hear what was going on around her. Everything was muffled. And damp. Her underclothes stuck to her like a second skin.
She moaned in pain as her leg knocked against something, sending sparks up through her body and to her head.
Angry voices spoke nearby. They seemed to argue for a while before someone burst in. Several someones.
She cried out as they pinned her back to the floor, twisting her wings beneath her.
“Shut her up!” one of them barked, making the throbbing in her head worse.
Someone forced her mouth open and shoved something inside. Another was tearing at her skirts. She wanted to fight back against them. To do something. Anything other than just lay there like a limp rag and cry.
‘Just a pathetic weakling.’ that little voice that sounded so much like her father taunted in her head. ‘Always wanting someone else to save you instead of doing the work yourself.’
Pain shot up her leg all at once before cold seeped in. Sweat broke over her as she shivered, trembling. Everything grew dark…
Hot
Burning
Burning
Searing pain went up from below her knee and into her leg, jolting her awake as she screamed into her gag.
Her eyes rolled back into her head as she passed out.
contains: emotional whump, female whumpee* (and caretaker), implied recapture, sibling whump (if that's a trope) but that's only if you know the lore lmao
—> —> —> —> —> —>
The bathroom sink blurred in her vision. Her eyes burned with unshed tears — tears she couldn't shed, not right now, not just yet — that didn't cease even when she wiped them. The shower had done nothing to clear her head, no matter how long she'd spent in there. Must've been an hour, perhaps more.
Madeline hiccupped, leaning down to rest her forehead on her arms against the rim of the sink. Her shoulders shook, and a soft, involuntary sob ripped from her throat.
Then, she crashed.
Easing herself onto the floor before her legs could give out, Madeline wept into her hands; her throat became sore and burning like her eyes when her sobs grew louder. She heard the door open, and Vivana's hands looped around her shoulders. With a despairing cry, Madeline leaned against her. "It burns. Viv, it burns!"
"Shh, shh," Vivana soothed, pressing a gentle kiss to Madeline's damp hair. "I know. I know, it's okay. Just let it out, honey, I'm here. We'll get him back. I promise we'll get him back."
Madeline just wept louder, smothering her face in Vivana's chest. Everything was burning, but the physical pain was easy to ignore.
—> —> —> —> —> —>
prepare for a LOT of emotional whump this year. I'm not sure if I'm good at it but I need to make madeline suffer more so I chose her
*though I would like to add that madeline does go through being a whumpee, caretaker AND a whumper.......... teehee
Day 9 of @whumpmasinjuly-archive ; Writing prompt "Burning"
[Whumpmas In July FULL MASTERLIST]
TWs; chronic pain
I'm reposting an older one because I a; I am too tired to write a new thing and b; it didn't get much interaction and I crave validation.
Gawain's POV;
Gawain scowled at the page before him, covered in half written verses and scribbled out lines. Reading and writing was a rarity among the Fey, but he was one of few who knew how- taught by a learned man in Byzantium many years ago.
Poetry had quickly become not only a way to practice these skills, but to soothe his mind.
It was doing anything but that right now.
The never-ending pain burning within his spine was too persistent, too distracting, too forthright in his mind to focus.
"Curse these blasted vines!" Gawain hissed, rubbing his lower back with an ink stained palm against the low, itching ache of Nimue's magic. It kept him walking despite a shattered spine, at the cost of his sanity, apparently.
Gawain hummed softly, an idea beginning to form. Brushing the parchment he had been writing on aside, he pulled a new leaf from a pile beside him, dipped the quill again and began to write. Late did he persist by the light of a candle, until finally, at the darkest part of night did he set his quill down, cap the ink and lean back in his chair, satisfied.
