#''if my pain will stretch that far''

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 05: Sunburn

Healing Salve + "If my pain will stretch that far"

2385 Words; Raised by Serpentine, sometime before "Can of Worms"

TW for mentions of past attempted indirect genocide (the serpentine entombment)

AO3 ver

“I wonder if we should go down to the lake later.” Lou mused.

Skalidor turned his attention to Lou, “You hate the lake.” It was true—the lake was a deep half-flooded underground cavern that seemed to stretch on forever, the other end unlit and unreachable. Lou did not consider himself a strong swimmer, and rarely went down there if he could help it.

Lou shrugged. “I was thinking we might have fish for dinner.” He stepped to the side as an overexcited hatchling barreled between them, a harried parent chasing after them.

Skalidor hmmed. “That does sound good. Perhapss Cole and I can go down there to surprisse you with one.” The tunnel they were in opened up as they reached the central chamber, torches and patches of growing moss illuminating a spiral up to the ceiling high above. Chanting filled the area—there was an active Slitherpit in progress towards the center.

“You and I can what?” Cole arrived before them, the same hatchling tucked under his arm and squirming furiously. He turned his attention to the hatchling—ah, Skalidor recognized this one. Little Pebbline, the youngest in the entire tomb. “You can’t just run around recklessly,” Cole was chiding, as Pebbline struggled valiantly to return to the ground. “You’re going to break your face on a wall.”

“Will not!” Pebbline protested, hanging upside-down in Cole’s arms at this point.

“Pebbline!” And there was Bytar, her father. “Thank you for catching her, Cole.” He smiled, taking Pebbline in his arms, and she hissed her displeasure before subsiding.

Cole grinned. “Of course!”

Bytar turned back into the tunnel, then, heading off with Pebbline in tow. Skalidor could faintly hear her begging to go back so she could see the Slitherpit.

“It’s a good thing you don’t run around like that anymore.” Lou commented, as Cole fell into step with them. “I could barely catch you back then, I wouldn’t want to imagine having to catch you now!”

Cole opened his mouth to respond—

A terrible grinding sound filled the central chamber, the sound of stone against stone harsh and loud. Screams broke out as everyone looked for the source of the noise, and Skalidor clutched his staff and pulled Lou against his side. Cole leapt forwards, arms outstretched as though he might prevent the inevitable cave-in—as though he was yet capable of moving more than small pebbles.

“It’s coming from above!” Someone shouted.

“The ceiling will crush usss!” Another voice realized.

“EVERYONE OUT OF THE CHAMBER!” Skalidor commanded, watching as Dweller and Constrictai alike dashed for the tunnel entrances lining the wall. He started to slither back, Lou still close at hand, once it seemed as though almost everyone was out—Cole!

“Cole, what are you—” Skalidor started, almost ready to go back in just to drag him out. This reckless boy—!

“It’s not caving in.” Cole’s arms had fallen to his sides, and he was gazing up into the shadows of the ceiling with an unreadable expression. “It’s—”

He stumbled back at the same time that the grinding stopped, arm raised above his head as he stared up towards the ceiling.

“Cole.” Skalidor hissed. The whole chamber was clearly unstable, after a noise like that—or worse, it had been one of the tunnels, and Skalidor’s order had seen several of his people buried—

“Skal,” Lou stepped forwards, pointing up towards the ceiling, “dear, look up.”

Skalidor looked up.

His staff clattered to the ground from a suddenly boneless hand—Skalidor ducked down to pick it up, keeping his eyes up on the ceiling—at the top of the stairs that wound around and up, a remnant of when their community had first been entombed generations ago—

Eyes locked on the bright circle of light where before there were shadows.

The light shooting down the stairs was brighter than any torchlight Skalidor had seen before, brighter than any glowing moss. It almost didn’t seem real—never, in all of his decades, had Skalidor conceived of the tomb being opened. But that was what the light had to be, right? Surely, it couldn’t mean anything else.

Faces were peeking into the central chamber from the tunnels scattered about, curious mutterings filling the air as everyone present took in the new development.

“Open?”

“That light!”

“Impossible! Nothing can break the barrier!”

“It’ss ssso bright…”

“How did it open?”

“A monster! A monster iss coming down to kill uss all!”

There was a shape casting a shadow upon the steps. Skalidor gripped his staff, and slithered forwards. Cole fell into step beside him, and Skalidor held his staff in front of the boy to stop him.

“Wh—lemme help!” Cole protested, voice close to a whisper.

“Sstay here.” Skalidor hissed. “I will invesstigate. You will protect.” Cole made a face, but backed off, standing beside Lou as Skalidor ascended the ancient steps.

That the stairs were completely out of use wasn’t actually true—though the tomb was magically sealed, the stairs allowed access to the upper walls of the central chamber—Skalidor passed by murals and carvings that had existed long before him without a second glance. He slowed down as he reached the top, squinting against the light.

The form that cast the shadow stood at the entrance, backlit by light so bright that Skalidor couldn’t make out any features. But their shape was vaguely serpentine—they would likely be strong, if it came to blows. They might even have some of the strange adaptations Skalidor had heard the supposed other tribes of Serpentine possessed.

“Who goesss there?” Skalidor asked, when the figure remained still. After a moment, they moved, slithering forwards and ducking their head. Their neck was very long—a potential handhold for grappling, then.

“Greetingss, my Constrictai cohort.” Their voice was smooth and even, and they moved to the side of Skalidor. They were scaled, just as he expected—but where Skalidor bore the blacks and oranges of a Constrictai, they were violet.

“An Anacondrai?” Skalidor asked. He’d heard the tales—they were the strongest of the Serpentine, the fastest and most resilient. They outmatched every other tribe, and lead the charge in the ancient war—but even they, too, had fallen, or so every tale assumed.

The Anacondrai nodded his head. “Oh, where are my manners?” They offered a hand, “Pythor P. Chumsworth, at your service.” He smiled, then, pleasant and disarming.

“How did you open the tomb?” Not even an Earth Master could break the barrier, nor could they tunnel around it—though there had been plenty of attempts. The tomb was meant to be permanent—a resting place, where those entombed were to die and never return.

“Curious, no?’ Pythor inclined his head towards the entrance. “Far as I can tell, for all the effort they put into making the tombs inescapable from within, that same effort wasn’t given to prevent them being opened from the outside.”

Skalidor balked. “That easy? But why?” There were no intentions to let the entombed out—or else they wouldn’t have been trapped down there for generations. Right?

Pythor shrugged. “Well, the rock was rather heavy. But yes, I could feel the magic breaking as I moved it. The seal didn’t wear off.”

Skalidor hissed. The light seemed to beckon him, and he tore forwards, needing to see for himself that the tomb has well and truly been breached—

Skalidor recoiled as the light from outside the tomb hit him in full. After a moment, he reopened his eyes, slowly enough that, though the light still burned, it did not sear quite as bright as before. His eyes adjusted, to a light level they had never experienced before—

Skalidor gasped.

Pythor slithered up beside him. “Well?” He prompted, staring out at the sights he had already seen.

“It’s…” Skalidor searched for the words. He had thought nothing could dwarf the underground lake in terms of sheer size—and yet. The light bearing down was hot, far hotter than any torchlight, and brighter as well. It reminded him of a festival years past when they had set up a bonfire in the central chamber. Back when Lilly… back when she had still been alive, standing at his side and making sure the smoke didn’t flood the caverns.

But not even the bonfire had anything on this. Skalidor turned his head towards the sky, eyes squinting against the light raining down. It was so bright. He could hardly see—and yet it was still better than when he had first emerged, and couldn’t see at all.

Pythor watched as Skalidor breathed in the outside air—it was hot, bone dry, so different from the caverns—patiently allowing the general to adjust. “Incredible, is it not?” He asked.

Skalidor breathed slowly, just trying to take in the enormity of the sky above him. Brilliant blue—he wasn’t sure he had seen blues so deep—cascading from horizon to horizon like the roof of a cavern—and yet the sky seemed to go on forever in a way that stone did not.

“It’ss something.” Skalidor breathed, dizzy from the magnitude of it. “I never imagined…”

Pythor chuckled. “I think we’ve all felt like this.” He swept an arm out, “I can’t believe this was kept from us—and for what?” his expression darkened. “Because of some trifle like a war that ended long before you and I were born? For generations, we’ve suffered beneath the surface, locked away from all of this world that they’re not even using—!” He paused, taking a breath. “My apologies,” He bowed his head. “I lost control of myself. But the knowledge of all that we’ve been denied—” He cut himself off with a hiss, shaking his head.

“No, I think I get it.” Skalidor spoke. “There’s just. Sso much.” From this perch atop—a mountain, was that the word? Skalidor had to think back to the stories of the surface passed down through generations—but from up so high, Skalidor could see so much. And yet he couldn’t make out anything living—that he recognized. All this space…

The tomb was never really cramped, in Skalidor’s memory—there simply weren’t enough Constrictai or Dwellers in it. Maybe it had been cramped when the original community had first been sealed away—but that had been long before Skalidor’s time. But he had heard the stories, of what could grow up here, of animals much bigger than cave newts. The vast distance laid out before him suddenly seemed so ideal—and yet he couldn’t spot a single surface human, nor any sign of their communities. He absently noticed his tail buzzing. He didn’t quite care to stop it.

“They have all this space that they’re not even ussing.” Skalidor hissed. “We have had to sscrape together what little we could find—”

“They don’t deserve this.” Pythor agreed, “Not one bit. Not after locking us away like vermin!”

Skalidor’s grip on his staff tightened.

“Skal, you ok—OWWW—” Skalidor turned around to see Cole poking his head out the entrance—well, no, the boy had stumbled back into the shadows of the entrance, what little of his face wasn’t hidden behind his arm scrunched against the light.

Skalidor chuckled. “Bright, isn’t it?” Beside him, Pythor’s eyes narrowed.

Cole tentatively reached his hand out into the light. “It feels like I’m sticking my hand in fire.” He muttered, before pulling back. Slowly, he lowered his arm, eyes blinking open—and immediately squinting against the light.

Pythor grimaced. “There are humans in your tomb?” He sounded put out by the very idea.

Skalidor regarded him curiously. “Sssurface humanss were willing to entomb their own kind.” He spat. “But now the dwellers are simply more of our kind—our community—” He looked at Cole with fondness— “Cole is our Elemental Master. Earth, in fact.” There was uncontained pride in his voice, for all that Cole had yet to fully inherit Lilly’s mantle and powers.

Pythor hmmed. “I had heard that a Master of Earth took up arms on the side of the Serpentine.” He stared at Cole curiously. “I had thought it just a tale to tell hatchlings, to give them false hope.”

“Well, I’m real.” Cole replied. He glared at Pythor for a moment more before schooling his expression. “Thanks for opening the tomb.” He said, in tones of quiet disbelief.

Skalidor could hardly believe it himself. “We can leave the tomb.” He murmured. “We wouldn’t be trapped anymore—what you’ve given us access to, I—I don’t know how we could ever repay you.”

Pythor waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, no no! I don’t need anything in return! I just abhorred the thought of any of my fellow Serpentine continuing to suffer in their tombs.” His mouth curled in distaste, “It really was cruel of the humans to entomb us all. They don’t deserve this pristine surface of theirs.” He hissed. “Not one bit.”

Skalidor nodded. “You have my agreement on that.”

Cole leaned against the side of the entrance, arms crossed. When Skalidor glanced back, he could see others had climbed up the stairs—even if most of the watching faces were sticking to the shadows, eyes squinted against the light.

Pythor’s head tilted as he regarded them all. “Well, while I did say that I didn’t need anything in return…” He mulled over his words before continuing, “I was hoping you might join me in my endeavor to reunite the Serpentine once again. It would be so wonderful to take the surface back from the humans, don’t you think?”

Skalidor wanted to. Just looking at the open space spilling out before him, and knowing that there was yet more that had been denied to his people by the sealing of the tomb—he wanted the surface humans to pay for their crimes. To deliver the grievances of hundreds of Constrictai and Dwellers from generations of suffering unto them, and make them pay.

There was one problem, though. “We barely number two hundred.” Skalidor pointed out. “And many of our number are not built for war.” There were the elderly, the young, the sick and those disinclined to fight. Nobody was at full strength—especially not with the current blight. “How will we ever defeat the surface humans, when our ancestors could not?”

Pythor chuckled. “Oh, my practical friend, I have just the plan for that!” He looked to Cole, and then to the cautious faces peeking out of the tomb’s entrance, and spoke.

“Have any of you heard of the legend of the Great Devourer?”

[susiequaz12]

Whumptober 5- "If My Pain Will Stretch That Far"

CW: Bruises, blood, whipping.

-

"Come on now, you can take more." 

He rolled over onto his side, his body littered with cuts and bruises. Pulling his arms underneath him, he managed to make it onto his hands and knees this time before the whip crashed back down over his skin. 

"Yeah, I- I doubt that." He panted through the pain. 

"You will take as much as I say you will take." 

"Yeah, if my pain will stretch that far." He gasped, falling back onto his chest with a sob. 

A splash of blood crashed over him as the whip came down and he choked out a mangled scream. 

"Haven't I had enough?" He pleaded, curling back into his side. 

The man holding the whip knelt down next to his face, locking a hand around his throat. 

"You will never have enough." He spat. "You will only have enough once you are so broken, that the only words you can speak are 'yes sir.' Once you are so beaten down that you will do anything I ask without a second of hesitation. If I tell you to lick my boot, you do so like it's Thanksgiving Dinner. Until that day, you will take every beating I give you. You will stretch your pain so far like a balloon ready to pop, and then I will take it farther. Do you understand?" 

When the man at his feet remained silent, choking on his air, he let him go and stood up, crashing the whip against the ground.

"I said, do you understand!" He cried.

The man responded with a light cough, his hands coming to rub at his throat as he stared out at the empty room. He didn't respond, didn't utter a single word. Just a light groan torn out of him when the whip crashed over his skin once more.

-

[oxideblack]

[psychologeek]

Whumptober #5: TimKlone bb

No. 5: SUNBURN | Healing Salve | Heatstroke | "If my pain will stretch that far." (Lottery Winners, Burning House)

"So," Kon says. "What's her name?"

And it's not supposed to be such a hard question. Such a terrible, heartburning issue. 

(But it is. Because that's who they are. Because there are other Robin and Superboy and none of them willingly handed over their names. Because they both had to name and rename themselves, to curve out that place in the world one should be handed freely. Because Kon-El and Konner and Conner and Kon. Because Timothy and Jackson and Timmy (and everything he was named before). Because Drake and Wayne and Kent and El. Because of legacies and families and how permanent it is.

Because names are words to describe a future. And they are important.)

It's supposed to be a light question. But just like the sun, every light can burn.

"I still call her baby," Tim says, softly, looking at the miracle in another miracle's arms. "I thought... I had a name planned. When she was born. I wasn't in a good place, then. I… I'm still working on it. I thought about naming her Dani-el, which means ‘god has judged me’. Because I was, you know? It felt like that. It felt like a sentence. A punishment because I was so greedy and couldn't let go. You were gone, and I kept messing around, and - and that was what I deserved.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Kon's face. 

(There's pain, and it hurts in ways nothing else can.)

“I still consider Emunah, for her middle name,” he tries to lighten up the conversation. “Which means... well, I guess you can translate it to something like faith, or belief. Something irrational, if you like." He sums it up.

The sun beams at them, and the baby is happy. Kon's presence is a supernova by his side.

"But then she was born," he says. "Then she was born and real and there. And she wasn't a punishment or irrational or a gift or a curse. She was just. A baby. Someone that needs things and for some unbelievable reason, it was on me to care for her. And it felt. I don't know. Selfish to name her about me. About my choices or feelings or thoughts. Because she isn't - she's her own person, and she has so much to grow into."

“Daniel Emunah,” Kon says, trying the name. 

“That's what I wrote on her papers,” Tim agrees. “I just… couldn't send them.”

“Judgment and irrationality,” Kon says softly to the baby. “No, you don't look like Judgment, do you? You aren't a punishment. Not only judgment or irrationality. Your family has definitely got THAT part already covered."

Kon blow a kiss on her stomach, and the baby laughs. And it's sweet and pure and new.

(It's warm. Nothing like cold looks and loneliness in the old manor. Nothing like judgment.)

“Yeah, irrational, sure,” he looks at the teen by his side. “Some might even say crazy, or obsessed. But also fierce. Strong. Keep going against all odds. It's trying and growing and-” Kon tries to find the right words. To explain the difference between a winter's hearth and a summer’s wildfire. 

“Hope,” the word strikes him. “It's hope. People keep going because they have hope.”

And he smiles. And this makes Tim feel warm and something inside of him loosen. Like this acceptance, this unapologetic way Kon handles things, is a salve to a wound he never let himself notice.

“Hope Emunah,” Tim tries, and can't help but snort. "Hop Emunah. Sounds a little like a leap of faith.”

Kon considers that for a moment and shrugs.

“Well, if the shoe fits-".

~

(Like it? I have more mini-fics Whumptober index | And full size fics on ao3. )

[mrmustachious]

If My Pain Will Stretch That Far

He thought he could go on a little longer, but he went too far.

Day 5: "If my pain will stretch that far."

The pain hit when he was still fifty metres away from Thunderbird Four.

He was glad his comms weren’t open so his brothers didn’t hear his cry when the lightning shot up through his back and down his legs.

He had to freeze his movements as the pain took over. His teeth were clenched and so were his fists as all his thoughts were quickly taken over by the agony that consumed his body.

Read on AO3

[jamiesfootball]

Whumptober Day 5

Prompt: "If my pain will stretch that far."

He’s glaring daggers at the man bun in the front row when he feels his leg twinge.

At first he tries to ignore it. With Roy’s sadistic yet effective new training regiment, Jamie’s been feeling the pain more often than not during workouts. It’ll pass; it’s just an adjustment period as his body gets used to the new demands being asked of it. In the meantime, he’s gotten used to carrying around a dull ache in his muscles, and the way that stretching trades the ache into a dull burn.

But when he tries to extend his foot while bending over his knee, something sharp pings through his calf muscle. Instinctively he pulls his knee back up. The pressure recedes, and in its absence a strange tingling sensation dances underneath his skin.

He’s wiggling his toes, trying to get the odd numbness to go away, when he feels his own personal gargoyle take his spot behind his shoulder.

Jamie already showed up late to training (he’d nodded off in the shower, his sweaty forehead pressed against the glass as he tried to work up the energy to rinse his hair), already fell asleep during meditation (apparently the shower nap wasn’t enough), and now he's got Roy Kent standing over him making a low, rumbly growl like one of those metres that detects toxic radiation. It’s all the warning Jamie needs.

Ignoring his own better judgement, not to mention every safety speech he’s sat through starting from the U10s on up, Jamie sucks in a sharp breath and stretches his leg back out in front of him. He leans forward, lowering his chest towards his knee. His muscles spasm as his leg refuses to extend all the way. The twinge is back, sharp and insistent, as Jamie grabs his ankle and pushes down on his thigh above his knee.

He grits his teeth, ignores the angry man behind him and, throwing his weight into it, forces his leg to stretch.

Pop.

The whole back row hears it.

For the blink of an instant, there’s confusion. Roy whips his head from side to side, scanning the room for what sounded like a champagne cork popping off, but all he meets are the confused faces of the back row, most of them still half-stretched out – with the sole exception of Dani Rojas, whose eyes are wide with distress as he looks between his teammates.

Then Jamie makes one little hiccup of pain and curls over his leg, his fingers digging into his calf as a strained noise leaks out of the back of his throat. He’s completely frozen still, his leg outstretched in a painful clenching rictus, muscles and tendons in sharp contrast as his foot remains flexed forward and visibly shaking.

With alarm bells ringing in his head, Roy steps forward and steadies him by the shoulder. "Jamie?"

Jamie slaps his hand away with an audible smack, only to crumple back over himself with a sharp keening noise that gets the whole room's attention and sends the hair on the back of Roy's neck to standing.

Someone runs to get the physios. Roy grits his teeth and tries again, attempting to pry Jamie's hand off his leg and take a look.

Jamie attempts to curl over himself tighter.

Whatever remaining fragment was holding things together snaps. Abruptly, the tension in his leg gives out. He lurches backwards with a sharp gasp. A loud sob bursts out of his chest, and then he's choking, his lungs struggle to breathe around the sheer agony. It feels like someone's grabbed a fistful of his nervous system and twisted. He rocks back and forth, broken gasps punctuating the movement like a drum being stabbed to death

Roy's crouched next to him, one hand on his thigh to keep him from thrashing around and the other holding onto the back of his neck as he twists around in pain. Someone's shushing him, and even through the pain Jamie's pretty sure it isn't Roy because it sounds too gentle. "Woah, easy. Easy, lad, just hang in there. The physios will be here any minute, take a deep breath for me, that's it."

The physios arrive with a stretcher. Roy spares half a second to wonder that Zava was the one who ran to fetch them, and then the world descends into chaos.

[ourceliumnetwork]

dry swallowing pills is my stupidest flex. i'm not even showing off anymore i'm just impatient

[rewrittenwrongs]

Whumptober day 5: Sunburn / “if my pain will stretch that far”

Read on Ao3 (registered users only) | day 4 | day 6 coming soon | Whumptober masterpost

TW: nothing, I think. Unless chronic pain counts?

The sunburns are actually pretty minor, but I just HAD to include them in some capacity. The duality of the source of Kon’s powers and energy being able to hurt his loved ones… yeah, I’m a fan.

Tim and Kon’s relationship can be interpreted as both platonic or romantic.

Kon was concerned about Tim.

Honestly, it shouldn’t be surprising at this point. He gets concerned for him a lot. But the reason for his concern was certainly surprising. You see, despite the entirety of Young Justice being present at base, Robin was the only one who hadn’t shown up to training today.

Now, if you know anything about Robin’s, you know they take training seriously. They never let injuries, short of something truly obscene like a dozen broken bones and three gunshot wounds, keep them from doing at very least some stretches and/or cardio. And yet. Kon has been hanging around the training rooms almost all day, and has seen literally every other member of their team at least in passing, except Robin.

Kon knew Tim liked to get his workouts done in the morning. He’d have a protein bar, sling a towel over his shoulder, and lock himself in the gym or training room for at least an hour, usually closer to two. If he was injured or tired from an exhausting mission he might stick to cardio, or cut his session short, but he never skipped all together. And yet, when Kon checked the time after the dozenth repetition of a move Robin was supposed to be teaching him, he found it was already 5 PM.

And while Kon hasn’t actually been in the gym or training room the entire day, he’s spent most of the day nearby, or in areas between the gym and the bedrooms. He hasn’t heard Tim’s bedroom door open once all day. He didn’t even see him at breakfast or lunch.

Frowning at the clock on the wall, he spared Cassie a wave before leaving the training room. He put back on his shoes at the door—his balance was better without the soles of his boots in the way, and he liked feeling the texture of the mats. He walked at a brisk pace rather than flying or running like he was tempted to. Tim must be seriously injured or drowning in casework if he didn’t have time for exercise. Kon didn’t recall seeing him get hit in yesterday’s mission. They’d spent the entire day in the sun and he was looking a bit red by the end of it, but sunburns weren’t enough to keep Robin bed-bound. Even if he had horrific tan lines around his eyes.

Kon knocked on the door to Robin’s room, listening closely for a response. Most of the rooms were soundproofed, but there was little that could hold up to a kryptonian up close.

He heard a muffled groan from inside. He knocked again, calling, “Rob?”

A tense moment of silent deliberation, before Tim said, “Come in,” sounding strained and quite miserable.

Kon tapped the touchpad and the door slid open obediently, lock either disabled or not up to begin with. Inside the only light source was a nightlight that threw pale star silhouettes against the walls. Tim was lying shirtless face down on his bed, blanket draped over his legs and waist.

Kon walked over, door shutting behind him. “Hey, bud, I haven’t seen you in the gym today. Or at lunch. You feeling good?” He reached the bed and sat on the edge of it. He heard in sharp relief the cut off whimper Tim made as the bed dipped, and the strain of fabric as his fist tightened around his pillow.

Kon went very still and scanned Tim for injuries. “Tim?” Save for some nasty sunburns on his neck, biceps and forearms, where his suit didn’t cover, he only had a few pale bruises on his hands. They were pressing against the pillow but Tim would just move them if they actually hurt. Kon eyed the sunburns distrustfully—the thought of the same thing that literally gave him his powers being able to hurt his friends still made him queasy, but he doubted they were the cause of this pain.

Tim groaned into his pillow. He sounded miserable.

“Tim?” Okay, Kon’s worry was increasing. Had he been hit with a curse? Yesterday’s mission was uneventful compared their usual, a pretty standard search and rescue after an earthquake. Minimal casualties, none of the team were hurt, there were no major aftershocks. Tim was in earshot the entire time. What was happening? Was he sick?

Tim made another pained sound, a whimper, and he shifted his head to the side so Kon could see some of his face. The sunburn there wasn’t nearly as bad as he expected, but there was water welling in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Kon tried not to panic. Tim and Red Tornado always told him panicking in high stakes situations would lead to mistakes. But this time a little hysteria was justified—Tim never cried! The only time Kon’s ever seen him cry was the time he took a bullet between his ribs and his lungs briefly collapsed. Did someone die? Did Kon miss an injury? What kind of illness could make Robin cry? What was happening!?

Tim’s jaw flexed, shaking, and he squinted shut his eyes. A tear trailed over the bridge of his nose and fell onto the pillow. “Hurts.”

“What hurts? Where are you injured?” Kon moved to rest a hand on his shoulder, but his palm hovered indecisively over it instead. “Are you sick?”

“No,” Tim whimpered, eyelashes fluttering. “No injured. Or sick. Just pain.”

“Just… pain?” Kon wracked his brain. If there was nothing specific causing it… Tim had brought up this mysterious pain without a source before, when he first witnessed one of Kon’s migraines a few months back. He’d been explaining to Kon that there were tools he could use to avoid or lessen his headaches, especially if outside sources were effecting/causing them. He listed doing stretches the day after a workout as an example, and briefly mentioned how sometimes the pain wouldn’t go away, no matter how long he held positions worthy of a contortionist. He said that holding still helped, and hot water bottles, ice packs, massages.

“Chronic,” Tim mumbled, another tear falling.

“Chronic,” Kon repeated quietly. He didn’t recognise the word. “How can I help?”

Tim whimpered.

“You said massages helped, didn’t you?” Kon checked, shifting his position to have easier access to Tim’s back, using his TTK to stop the bed from shifting.

“Mm-hmm.” Tim blinked open his eyes and looked at him. He opened his mouth—

“Don’t even think about telling me I don’t have to. I know, I want to.” Kon eyed the dresser. “Do you have any lotion? Or aloe?”

“…Lotion’s in the bathroom.”

Kon lifted off the bed, using his TTK to make the bed adjust slowly to the lack of weight rather than spring back immediately. Tim didn’t make any further noises of pain. Kon floated to the en suite bathroom and opened the cabinet beneath the sink, grabbing a bottle of lavender scented lotion. He was a little surprised by the amount of skincare products, but he supposed gluing fabric to your face for hours each day wasn’t conducive to clear skin.

Kon closed the bathroom door behind him as he reentered. “Where’s the pain?” he asked quietly. There was a furrow between Tim’s brow, the one he always got when he was injured.

“Everywhere.”

Kon winced. “Where is it worst? I’ll start there.”

“…Shoulders. Back.”

Kon set down the bottle of lotion, TTK curling the blanket beneath it so it would stay upright, and lowered himself slowly onto the bed, a leg either side of Tim’s hips. He stayed on his knees so there wasn’t any contact. Tim made a little choked whine as the bed slowly dipped. Kon dispensed some lotion onto his hands and rubbed them together.

“Heat and cold help too, yeah?” Kon asked, settling his hands in the centre of Tim’s trapezius’s, gently digging in the heels of his palms. He heard Tim’s breathing stutter, his heart rate speeding up as a muffled whimper left his lips. “I’ll grab some ice packs later…”

Kon was pretty sure his massage was just making things worse. It wasn’t the first time he massaged Tim or any of his teammates after a mission, but it was the first time Tim was so vocal about the discomfort. He knew Tim would normally rather bite his tongue off than make people concerned for his health or think he’s in pain. Yet this time, Kon’s almost every action caused a pained whimper or groan, a new tear glistened in Tim’s lashes every few moments, and the reactions weren’t shifting to contentment and pleasure the way they usually did.

Kon swallowed. Usually, if he took his time and was thorough enough, he could work out all of the aches and pains and exhaustion. But this time even his TTK couldn’t find any cramps, only a couple knots—there was no specific source for his discomfort. There was no helpful trail leading him to the final bosses. There was just… pain.

Kon slowly worked his hands across Tim’s back, occasionally collecting more lotion, carefully attacking each of his muscles in turn until they were loose and relaxed. He especially took his time massaging Tim’s shoulders. Tim had buried his face in the pillow at some point, muffling the worst of his whines. Occasionally he’d go tense all over for a second, only to cry out like someone set him on fire.

Kon asked regularly if he should stop. Tim replied no every time. Kon was seriously starting to wonder if he was a masochist.

At some point he started talking. Rambling, really, about anything and everything that came to mind. He cracked jokes and shared fun facts and teased their other teammates and recounted stories. Sometimes he’d prompt Tim to join in or share his opinion, and Tim would either force out some incoherent mumble or spend the next few minutes slowly stringing together words, past the tears and the pain. Kon was fairly sure his distraction was helping.

Once Kon had well and truly massaged the entire expanse of Tim’s back, shoulders included, he moved on to the arms, kneading and working each muscle attentively, one arm at a time. Tim’s pained noises, while still frequent, had slowly lost their volume, though they raised again each time he started a new area.

Kon finished with his hands, digging his thumbs into Tim’s callouses and working his palms. He rubbed over his fingers, his wrists, the back of his hands, his thumbs, all the while trying to ignore how significantly Tim’s pained noises had increased in both volume and occurrence. He sounded like he was being tortured. At one point he actually sobbed.

Kon froze instinctually upon hearing that. <i>He</i> caused that noise, those tears, that pain. He was hurting his best friend. Why hadn’t he stopped earlier?

Tim shifted his head so he could blearily open an eye at Kon. “Keep going,” he implored, muffled into his pillow. Tears were shining in his eyes and staining his cheek. He looked… resigned.

Kon took a deep breath, steeled his nerves, and kept working the joints and tendons in Tim’s hands.

Gradually, ever so slowly, the noises quieted. Shifted from muffled groans and high pitched whines to short whimpers and miserable sniffles. Kon spent maybe fifteen minutes on his hands alone. Finally, he allowed himself to stop, and pulled back, sitting beside Tim. He no longer made a sound when the mattress dipped.

Without much thought, Kon reached out and stroked Tim’s hair. It was longer than usual, in need of a cut. Kon hoped he’d wait another few weeks before trimming it. “Are you okay?”

Tim hummed tonelessly. Not a confirmation or a denial.

“Want me to get some ice packs now?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Kon went and got some ice packs. They had quite a few in stock, for recovery after missions or workouts. Kon grabbed two smalls ones and a larger one. He returned swiftly, knocking on the door before entering, and presented his haul to Tim. “Where do you want them?”

Tim stared at him, seemingly gathering his thoughts. He didn’t spare the ice packs a glance. “…C’mere.”

“Sorry?”

“Come here.” Wincing like it took a great effort, he forced his torso to twist like he was trying to turn on his side. “Cuddles.”

Kon stared. Tim had participated in cuddle piles plenty of times, but he’d never asked for or initiated one. It took him months to be comfortable even joining in. Trying not to look giddy, Kon toed off his boots and slid under the blanket beside Tim, thankful he was wearing loose workout clothes rather than all the straps and bits of his costume.

There was some fiddling, and pain on Tim’s part, while they arranged themselves into a comfortable position. Kon ended up on his back with Tim on top of him, head resting on his collarbone, the larger ice pack spread over his shoulders and the smaller ones pressing against each hand. The blanket was pulled up around his back and Kon let himself card through Tim’s hair, once he was sure it wasn’t causing pain. Tim seemed more tired than Kon had ever seen him, which was really saying something.

Tim fell asleep quickly, heartbeat slow and breaths even. He’d tucked his head beneath Kon’s chin, snuggling up against him like he was the comfiest bed in the world.

Kon stayed awake for longer, thinking. He was glad Tim had let him stay and try to help. Even thought he wasn’t sure his massage had done any good. He was thankful, honoured, almost. He felt… undeserving, of Tim’s trust. Of seeing him so vulnerable. To see his walls fall so blatantly was a little overwhelming.

Kon, absently pressing a kiss to Tim’s head, made a silent vow that he would never do something that would get that trust taken away.

He fell asleep trying to think up new ways to help Tim with his pain.

[killjoyconstruct]

Whumptober Day 5: If My Pain Will Stretch That Far

Yael operated on a lot of child soldiers during the war. She often wondered if the pain she felt for them would be enough to save them.

It wasn't. Not always.

[ahmoseinarus]

Day 5

Sunburn | Healing Salve | Heatstroke | "If my pain will stretch that far." 

[volfoss]

Pro tip if you have shoulder issues do NOT yoink your thread really high above your head repeatedly.

[sushimango]

Day 05 of Whumptober!

Steve if very prone for getting bad sunburns and the like since he got albinism

[blancheludis]

Whumptober 2024 Day 5: "If my pain will stretch that far"

Fandom: Star Wars Characters: Cody, Obi-Wan Kenobi Tags: Minor Character Death, War, Grief, Building Trust

Summary:

Cody finds quickly that no training or simulation could have ever really prepared him for the realities of war. After a battle, he walks the field, walks amongst his fallen brothers, certain he will never get used to the grief.

He is only mildly surprised to find General Kenobi out here, doing his own rounds.

"What are you doing?" he asks when Kenobi kneels down at a dying man's side.

"Taking their pain," Kenobi answers, as if that is supposed to make sense. As if there is nothing strange about a natborn caring whether or not a clone dies in pain.

- Cody, Obi-Wan, and slowly beginning to trust each other.

Real war is different than the simulations. Cody knew that. He knew it before they shipped out from Kamino and has experienced it often enough since then. But he will never get used to it. To the earth going muddy with blood, caking to his boots. To bodies littering his surroundings to the horizon and beyond. To calling out to brothers and never getting an answer back.

Perhaps worse than the dying, however, is the aftermath for the brothers still alive. The reluctance to accept this reality. The pain. The grief.

As Commander, Cody has a thousand things to do. Reports to write and review. Supplies to organize. People to command. Yet, he finds himself walking over the battlefield, stepping carefully between droid parts and bodies too similar to his own. He does not even know all their names. He hopes all of them already had one.

He is tired. Not just the exhaustion that comes from fighting day and night, but something that sits deeper, rattling his bones with every breath he takes. This war has just begun and he is already done with it. Done with the very reason he exists. There will be nothing beyond this for the clones. Privately, Cody thinks that might be all right. This cannot be a good purpose to create life.

"Cody, my dear." a voice rips him out of his dark musings.

General Kenobi appears out of nowhere in the middle of the battlefield. He has not changed his robes, has probably not even sat down since the fighting ended. Of course, Cody has not either.

"General."

Cody's body slips into a salute automatically. He is thankful for these ingrained instincts. General Kenobi has not yet given any sign that he demands strict adherence to protocol at all times, but Cody knows better than to test him. Some natborns have shown their real colours immediately, their disdain for clones and the war palpable in every single interaction. The general, as most Jedi, truly, has not been anything but kind, but that does not mean he will remain so. They are all tired.

Kenobi walks towards him, steady and calm, not untouched by the battlefield around them but moving on anyway. He is, Cody has learned, very good at compartmentalizing. 

"Are you making your rounds?"

"Yes, sir." If that is what the General wants to call his grieved wandering, Cody will take it. "I'll be back in the command centre in a few minutes."

"No need." Kenobi shakes his head, offering a smile that is distinctly sad around the edges. "The battle is won. The stronghold is secured. We can go back to strategizing tomorrow." Softer, he adds, "You should get some sleep."

No matter how short they have been at this, Cody has found out quickly that General Kenobi is a hypocrite. He constantly tells the men to take breaks, to eat, to sleep, yet he never seems to do so himself. He is up at all hours, pouring over datapads in his office, haunting the training rooms, spending hours in calls with the Council or other generals, even mingling with the troops. A few times, Cody has found him meditating, only to jump immediately back into action if he is needed. He spends little time in his quarters and Cory can only hope that he, at least, rests there. The rings under Kenobi's eyes only seem to get darker with every day, and the Jedi robes might hide the rest of his body, but his progressively gaunt cheek are very much visible for anyone with eyes to see. Cody sees.

With anyone else, Cody would command them to go to the mess and then to bed. Everyone else does not hold his life and that of his men in their hands, though.

"Are you going to take a break, too, sir?" he still asks. They were made for the Jedi. Surely that means more than that they are supposed to die for them.

"Don't worry about me, dear," Kenobi replies as expected. "I'll be finishing my round out here and then I'll go to the medics tent."

The tension that has been slowly bleeding out of Cody at finding his General unharmed and exuding calm is back with a vengeance.

"Are you hurt?" he asks, eyes roaming over Kenobi's form. Blood sticks to the robe in a number of places but he holds himself upright and does not look hurt. That does not mean anything, of course. Nobody would know better than Cody, who will always uphold his duty to his men first before taking care of his own pesky needs.

"No," Kenobi reassures him, although, in this matter, his word do not count for much. "I'm going to see if I can help out with the men."

A completely different tension creeps into Cody's muscles at that. "I didn't know you also trained as a healer," Cody says, just barely swallowing his scepticism. Belatedly, he adds, "Sir."

From what he has heard from the other commanders, the Jedi might have ordered an army to fight this war, but have also neglected to train their own people accordingly. A number of the Jedi are fighters and truly an asset to have on the battlefield. But few have more than passing or historical knowledge of warfare. Of troop movements. Of supply needs. Of strategic manoeuvres. The 212th is lucky to have Kenobi who, after a brief adjusting period, has shown himself to have a keen mind - and is willing to listen to Cody, who knows his men and their capabilities much better than any outsider ever could. Other battalions do not fare so well. So, he has come to trust the general's instincts and knowledge when talking strategy and when dealing with the more political side of the war. But this?

"Oh, nothing beyond the basics," the general says, nonchalant as if the admission does not set Cody's heart racing.

No matter how nice it is that General Kenobi wants to be involved with the men, Cody is not sure how to tell him that it would be better to leave the healing to trained professionals. Helping can quickly slide into making things worse when one does not know what they are doing.

Carefully forming each word, like he is navigating a minefield, Cody says, "I don't think the medics are so overwhelmed that you need to sacrifice your rest to help."

"It is not much of a sacrifice," Kenobi says with a smile, making things worse.

"Let me accompany you on your rounds, then, sir," Cody decides more than offers. If he is with Kenobi, then he can try to steer him past the medics when they return. It will not be hard to find some pressing matter they need to discuss. Neither of their desks is ever empty. And with them having been occupied with this battle, the flimsi will have stacked up exponentially.

That, of course, gives Kenobi halt. "Have you rested?"

"I will, after," Cody says and keeps his tone polite, even though his eyes are piercing into the general. Hypocrite, he thinks loudly, still not sure whether the Jedi can read thoughts or not. He definitely deserves to read this one.

Kenobi raises a single eyebrow at him, which could mean anything, really. But then he inclines his head. "Very well."

They walk in silence. Cody looks at every dead brother they pass, takes in the details on their armour. Mentally, he checks them against the casualty report he demanded as soon as they were all back in camp. He does not yet know all their names, but he will. It is the least he can do.

It is a terrible thing, to walk amongst so much death. The sun is beginning to set and the sky is slowly turning blood red, a fitting accompaniment to this tragedy.

The camp is long out of sight, when Kenobi suddenly hastens his steps. He hurries to where a few bodies are thrown over each other. Almost carelessly, he pushes the two upper bodies to the side. Cody's hands ball into fist of their own volition and his mouth opens, chain of command be damned, to stop Kenobi. Never before has he shown such callousness when dealing with the troops, but -

There is a whimper. Low and choked, but undeniably there. Cody's feet are moving before he has fully grasped the implication. Together they unearth a trooper, still clinging to life amongst so many that have already marched on.

He will not make it. Cody can see that immediately. One of his legs is mangled, almost ripped off, and it is still bleeding but only sluggishly. Blaster bolts riddle his torso. And now that he is free, his hands are coming up weakly, grasping for something only he can see.

"It's all right, dear," General Kenobi says, kneeling down in the bloody dirt without a second thought. Everything about him is gentle; voice, face, hands. He mutters quiet reassurances as he makes to unlatch the bucket.

That is what gets Cody moving, having frozen in place at the sight before. Several squads have already gone over the battlefield to recover the hurt and help the dying. It should not surprise him that they have not found everybody. The field is a mess of dead men and broken droids, and everybody is tired. He is choking at the mere thought of dying out here alone, his brothers carried away, only empty bodies remaining, nobody to wait for him for the march ahead.

The bucket comes off, revealing more blood underneath and glassy eyes, tracing invisible things. His lips move, forming words he does not have the strength to actually say.

Kenobi cups the man's jaw with one hand while the other settles down on the mangled remains of his leg. He closes his eyes and suddenly looks peaceful. Cody can only watch, helpless, pouring all his energy into swallowing down the scream building in his chest. All he wants, right now, is to bundle up his brothers and leave for the Wild Space, anywhere that is not here.

Whatever Kenobi is doing, the trooper calms. The whimpers die down, his breathing evens out, his eyes actually settle on the General.

"There, my dear," Kenobi says, voice hoarse but still so very gentle. "That's better."

Cody does not know what is happening, but he uses the chance to take the trooper’s hand. "What's your name?" he asks, feeling inadequate, but he needs to know. Nobody should be left behind.

The trooper looks at Cody, almost certainly does not recognize him. "CT-5-"

"No," Cody interrupts him softly, squeezing his hand. "Your name."

"Tumble," he says, barely a whisper. Then he closes his eyes. "'m tired."

"I know, Tumble." Cody wants to cry but keeps his tone light. "It's all right. You can rest now."

"The fighting -" Tumble asks, cut off by a coughing fit that wracks his entire body. "'s done?"

"Yes," Cody says and can do nothing against the way his eyes burn. "You did good."

Command classes in Kamino prepared Cody for a large-scale war. For directing a vast number of men where they need to go to win the most battles. It prepared him for managing losses from a logistical and strategical standpoint. It did not prepare him for kneeling in the middle of a battlefield, holding the hand of a dying brother.

No clone is a stranger to death, to losing some of their own. There were clean deaths, brothers being called in for meetings with Nala Se and never returning afterwards. And there were less clean deaths. Training accidents, punishments. Priest's battle circle. The clones are a product, made to be used. Made to be expendable. Yet, for all their clinical training and theoretically optimized procedures, the Kaminoans did not manage to breed feelings out of the clones. Right now, Cody almost wishes they had.

They sit there, together, Marshal Commander and General, holding a dying man, waiting until the breathing stops and the eyes go unseeing again. Cody wonders, briefly, whether he should offer to end it. But whatever the General is doing, Tumble does not seem to be in any pain anymore.

"Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum, Tumble" Cody says, quietly, as he closes Tumble's eyes. Since being deployed, the words stopped sounding clumsy on his tongue. Just another terrible thing they are getting used to.

They remain sitting there for a moment longer, exhaustion sinking even deeper into Cody's bones.

"I'm sorry, Commander." General Kenobi then says, voice breaking halfway through.

Cody's head snaps up, staring at Kenobi. What would he apologize for?

"You found him, sir," he says, still haunted by the very thought of suffocating underneath his brothers' dead bodies. "I'm grateful he didn't have to die alone."

But Kenobi shakes his head. "I'm sorry he had to die in the first place," he corrects, none of the sharp edges in his tone directed at Cody. "It is cruel to create an entire people only to send them to war."

Unsure what to say, Cody drops his eyes to Tumble, to any of the bodies around them. He does not want to offer platitudes. Kenobi is a Jedi and the Jedi ordered them. Reality often looks different than dreams or simulations but, as a natborn, Kenobi should know that much better than Cody. During training, the clones did not have time for dreams, nor, really, any comprehension of what those are. There were classes and training and scores. There was survival or decommissioning.

With a small sigh, Kenobi gets to his feet. He does not seem as steady as he did before, but when Cody jumps up and offers an arm, he waves him off with a smile.

Silently, they continue their round. Kenobi finds two more brothers that are barely alive and beyond saving. For each, he kneels down, calms them. For each, Cody asks their name and commits them to memory.

After, Kenobi looks progressively worse. The rings under his eyes seems to get darker, his shoulders are hunched and now he is limping, if only slightly.

"What are you doing to them, sir?" Cody asks, less meant as an accusation but more with growing concern. Kenobi obviously cares about the men, but a well-placed vibroblade will help them just as much and might not injure their singular, very much not expendable Jedi General.

"I'm taking some of their pain," Kenobi says as if that is supposed to make sense. "I am not a healer, but I can do that for them, at least."

As glad as Cody has learned to be for the Force, he still cannot even begin to grasp what it is capable of.

"Take their pain?" he questions, brow furrowed. "As in muffling it?"

Cocking his head to the side, Kenobi looks at him. "More like siphoning it out. Taking it for myself."

That is not - "Sir," Cody protests, entirely out of his depths. "You can't -"

"It's all right, Cody," Kenobi cuts him off, still calm, like he has not just dropped a conversational bomb on Cody. "It's not harming me. It's just a little bit of pain. With a bit of rest, I'll be as good as new."

If he ever allowed himself to lie down and properly rest, perhaps.

Cody cannot help but stare. The very thought that a natborn would willingly take on pain just to ease a clone's death is overwhelming, even with how long he has known Kenobi now. Even with how many of his expectations Kenobi has defied. 

"The medics could take care of them," Cody offers, pushing the words out around the sudden block in his throat.

"They are busy caring for those that can be saved."

This is worse. This is General Kenobi admitting that he actively decided to search for and help the men that will die, no matter what they do. He is sacrificing himself for dead men.

"I'm grateful that you found them, but next time, let me or one of the troops end their suffering." Nausea rolls in Cody's stomach at thinking about a next time. Likely, Cody's entire life will be made up of next times, right up until it is his turn to die. That is what he was made for.

"No, my dear Cody," Kenobi argues with all the stubbornness of a natborn. "You are already doing so much. This is a burden I can take from you. And I see them as my men just like they are yours." Quieter, he adds, "It is the least I can do."

As if he is not doing enough. As if he is not fighting for them in every call with politicians and officials. As if he does not learn the name of every soldier he comes across. As if he does not have a kind word or deed for everybody.

"We need you more than we need them," Cody says, trying to ignore how much these words taste of ash and bile. It is what is demanded of him as commander, however.

"No," Kenobi counters, just like that. "Every life is sacred. Everybody deserves as much comfort and dignity as we can give them, living or dying. Jedi exist to serve life. Already, this is so far from where I expected to end up when I was a child. Let me do my part, Commander."

There is nothing Cody can say to that. He is grateful, even knowing that he should not be, that he should tell Kenobi to stop wasting energy on them. But then Kenobi touches him, just lightly, on the arm, a feeling of serenity layering over his skin that is definitely not his own but needed nonetheless.

"I'll be going to the medics, now," Kenobi says, half an offer, half a dare. "See whether they need a hand."

"Thank you, sir," Cody blurts out.

And, with a smile, Kenobi answers, "Always."

Together, they walk back to camp. Together, they see to the suffering of Cody's people. And, perhaps, he is beginning to believe that General Kenobi truly sees them as his people, too.

[riderofblackdragons]

A Threat No Longer

Day 5: Sunburn | healing salve | heatstroke | "if my pain will stretch that far"

Once again, posting rather late in my timezone, but this time, I bring more An Original Mother AU! I didn't really know what I was going to do for this day, but then I realised it was a great prompt for AOM, so here it is!

Hope you enjoy!

It was after they'd settled with the De Martels that Elijah finally let herself feel again. The pain and anger that had come with her Turning, with her parents being the ones to give her this extreme craving to eat and to kill. To feel the guilt that had come after she'd killed Tatia, the love of her life, when Elijah's wife had only tried to help her.

All the hurt that Elijah was feeling, knowing that her baby, her little girl that she'd been so excited for, that she and Garmr and Tatia had spent so long planning for… That she was dead. Her little girl hadn't even breathed before she was dead, had died before leaving Elijah's body.

Elijah's parents had made her like this, a monster, who'd managed to kill both her wife and her child, one before she was even born. And then Elijah had fled, unable to face her husband or child in the eyes, unable to tell them the truth of what had happened.

Yet still, she couldn't stop craving blood. The sweet taste of Tatia's lifeforce stayed with Elijah, lingered on her tongue, even though it had almost been a year since she'd had it. Every other drop was lacking in comparison, and still Elijah kept drinking it anyways.

Her siblings didn't seem to have that problem, she begrudgingly noted. Kol and Klaus enjoyed draining other people of their blood, and Rebekah was only tempered by the way she wanted to steal the pretty clothes off their victims.

Finn didn't, but he was almost worse. Elijah heard his rants on how they were monsters, and she'd think of her deceased child. He spat about how they should feel bad about killing people, and Elijah's mind would flash back to how she'd sunk her teeth into her wife's neck.

Elijah's older brother never seemed to notice how the only person his words affected was his dark haired sister, or how she visibly drew into herself whenever she'd hear his words of condemnation. All he saw was the way his other siblings didn't listen, and how they blatantly disregarded him.

At least, Elijah had found a friend in the De Martels. Tristan, barely a year older than her, and they may require a chaperone to be around each other, but Elijah found herself not minding as much. Any attempts from him to court her were rebuffed by her new status as widow, yet he kept an open view on her opinions, even teaching her to read from time to time.

Of course, it helped that their chaperone was usually Finn, who was also not quite the best at reading. Their cover required that he not reveal it, but it felt nice to read together in the evenings, Elijah helping Finn with his books.

It was on one of many outings with Tristan De Martel that he broached the subject, Finn trailing after them as always. How did her partner die?

"It was an animal attack," Elijah told him softly, her mind wandering back.

It wasn't a lie, yet also wasn't the truth. She'd been nothing but an animal when she'd killed Tatia, slave to her new instincts. And Tatia had certainly looked like she'd been mauled, once Elijah had regained her senses afterwards.

Tristan gave his apologies for her loss, but they rung hollow. He was her friend, but Elijah wasn't blind. She knew that he still wanted to court, was only waiting for Elijah's mourning period to end. His sister Aurora had revealed it slyly, when she'd been teaching Elijah more elaborate hairstyles than the plain ones Elijah could fix her hair into.

Finn had promised that he wouldn't make any decisions without her input, however. He was the head of their family now, with their father far away from them. He would be the one to arrange and broker any marriage of Elijah's or Rebekah's, especially in this high society the De Martels lived in.

"Would you ever plan on marrying again?" Tristan's voice was teasing, but underneath it ran a current of fear.

He didn't want her to answer in the negative. He was scared that Elijah would say no, that her grief for her wife was too strong to ever consider marrying again. Even if he wasn't aware that she was only mourning for a wife, Elijah wasn't going to reveal it.

She'd heard of her father going after the wolfpack of Klaus' father, and Garmr was their leader's nephew. Mikael had done it after his children had ran, but Elijah knew how to connect the dots. She knew she was more than likely a true widow, with no survivng spouses or children, given that the abilities her father had given her made her far faster than any of the wolves had been.

"If my pain will stretch that far, I may not," Elijah responded honestly.

She wasn't planning on ever marrying him, however. With how Klaus and Kol were draining the servants, they'd have to move on soon, lest people come after them for it, or their father found them through it. It wouldn't be enough time to let her get over her grief in time for a wedding ceremony.

And, in what remained of her monsterous heart, Elijah felt pity for her friend. He didn't deserve the hell that being hers would bring him, and she felt he didn't deserve the false hope.

A few hundred years later, staring at the arrogant expression of her once friend as he revealed himself as the new leader of the Strix, Elijah wished she'd killed him when she'd learned he was the one to summon her father to his castle. Clearly letting him live, giving him her blood, had been a mistake.

Tag List: @captain-effy @what-the-fuckis-happening

If anyone wants to be added lmk!

[aria0fgold]

Whumptober day 5 prompt: "If my pain will stretch that far." (Lottery Winners, Burning House)

Character: Lady Irene-Janine-Karine (The Cursing of Château Castle)(In Stars and Time)

Lady Irene-Janine-Karine, a name well known in high society, famous amongst the nobility. She's regarded as the epitome of a noble lady, graceful and beautiful, she carries an air of dignity that many women envies and many men are drawn to, and with the weight that her title holds, it was no wonder that just as many desires her hand in marriage.

And yet, of all that she is known for, no one truly knows the truth behind the mask she wears. She trains diligently every day with barely any rest, it was the expectations that her family holds, the very foundation of the bars of her cage.

She hates it.

The effort she pours into her hard work were nothing but a dirty puddle in the ground for others to ignore and step on.

“You need to work harder.”

“This isn't enough.”

“You can do better than that.”

The more she lingered in her cage, the tighter the thorny vines around it grew, suffocating her further, blocking out any light, plunging her in a darkness she fears she will be lost in.

She hates it.

All her life, she had lived meeting the expectations around her, she had lived breathing for others, she had lived relying on praises she realizes were nothing but hollow. All her life, she hasn't spent a single moment living for herself.

And she hated every second of it.

“IRENE-JANINE-KARINE! What do you think you're doing?!” Her mother stormed into the training grounds with anger painting her face, it was a look Irene was more familiar with than a loving face that a mother should have for their child, “Let go of that sword right now! You should know better than anyone that ladies should never hold such objects! What would happen to your hands then? Your skin?! What would happen should a scar appear then?!”

She continued her barrage of scolding that Irene paid no mind to, she merely kept swinging the sword, as she had seen the knights done before.

“IRENE!!!” Her mother bellowed, she stomped towards her, heels clicking loudly into the training grounds' stone floor, she moved to slap the sword away from Irene's hand.

Unfortunately, Irene was tired. She was tired of how she had been living, tired of how she had been treated, she was tired of it all that she did not care for her mother anymore. So she swiftly moved backwards and pointed the sword to the woman she once lovingly called “mother.”

She gasped, fear and anger mixing in the features of her face, “Have you lost your mind?! What do you think you're doing, threatening me like that?!”

“From this day forward, I will not heed your words, I will not bow to anyone, and I will live for myself.” Irene spoke, voice stern and leveled, with an unyielding resolve and determination, she made clear that she will no longer be bound to the invisible chains they entangled her in. She will break free from her cage, no matter how painful it may be. “I'm tired of being who I am not.”

That was the last time she had spoken to her as Irene was forced out of the house. Not quite disowned, and not quite abandoned. She was her family's most prized trophy, she knew they wouldn't let go of her that easily. She was placed on house arrest, in a smaller mansion farther from the capital, situated in a poor town.

Irene didn't mind it, she lived her life forcing herself past her limit, and this, will be her greatest rebellion.

If my pain will even stretch that far…

...

I can just force it to.

Her family hoped that she realizes there was no other choice but to live as she always had. Irene will destroy that hope with her bare hands. No matter what happens.

I'll make this town flourish. And obtain a greater wealth than my family will ever have. I'll make them regret throwing me away, when I'm no longer useful to them.

She looked up to the clear sky, darkless and bright and prayed to the Change God her silent vow.

[donovankinard]

i'm still trying everything, to keep you looking at me a fic by @thefootnotes for @whumptober

“It’s not okay.” Maddie insists, grabbing his wrist and holding his arm still as she spreads the white cream down his shoulder, fingers careful but firm. “D’you know what these kinds of burns can do? Melanoma, DNA damage, abnormal cell development. Photoaging. Cancer.”

Or the one where Maddie’s leaving, Buck’s pissed, and the burns on the outside aren’t the ones that hurt the worst.

T | evan buckley & maddie buckley | 1.2k whumptober day five - sunburn: healing salve, heatstroke, "if my pain will stretch that far"

read on ao3.