#altprompt survivor's guilt

[sukoshininja]

Outta Time

"We're not gonna make it."

Lance gritted his teeth as he held his breath as he lined up the sights and delivered a clean headshot. He did not come this far to have it end here. He would see this through.  "We're gonna make it. We have to."

"Lance."

It was just his name. But something about the way it was said. Just one word, but the sadness, acceptance, and firm finality of it. It was the truth, and it hit him hard enough that he lowered his rifle a hair. 

No. He shook his head and repositioned the barrel along his cheekbone. No, they could fight this, they could still make it out. "We just gotta--"

"Lance."

Now inflected with brokenness, a pathetic urgency. Suddenly he had to remember how to breathe. He missed his next two shots.  

"They won't, not while we're still inside."

But the funny thing was, somewhere in his mind he knew that wasn't true. They had waited so long for a chance like this, a chance that they were never going to get again. His comrades, they'd have no choice. He knew it but chose to believe they would wait anyway. Because if he didn't--

"Lance." 

Oh. He knew a spirit shattering when he heard it. His lungs were convulsing. Was he breathing?  His hands were trembling so hard he could barely hold his gun. 

A hand reached out and guided the gun down. "It's over."

Lance wrenched his attention away from the advancing enemy to see the most devastating thing he had ever laid eyes on.

Keith looked at him so tenderly, tears running streaks down his face that was mussed with grime and blood. So this is what giving up looked like. 

"Breathe, Lance."

Casualties were a part of this great game known as war. They all knew it could come at any moment. But for some reason Lance didn't think the day would come when his card would be up.

Why was Keith holding him so tight? What were those sounds? Like a dying sheep. Wait. That was him. Oh he was sobbing. Screaming. 

Keith cradled his head against his chest.

"It mattered. Everything mattered," he whispered, soft and soothing despite coming from his cracked lips. "If nothing else, you matter to me."

There was a weight on Lance's chest, making it so that he had to gasp for breath. His heart to beat so fast he was sure it would burst. The corners of his vision started to fade to black as all the sounds closed in around him. 

Only Keith's rough voice, quiet and calming made a lifeline that Lance desperately grasped for, keeping himself afloat. 

"Holy shit. We're gonna die, and you'll never know because I never told you."

Lance's tongue felt too big for his mouth, dead weight and useless. Somehow, he managed to ask "Told me what."

"That your smile lights up the universe more than a thousand suns. That everything sucks to the point that somedays I don't want to get out of bed in the morning, but I do, because I get to see you, and when I'm with you everything is a little less awful. That I break every time you look at her."

Lance was able to focus his eyes. Too bright lights. It took all he was to look into those impossibly beautiful, red-rimmed watery eyes. 

"Lance I lo--"

*   *   *

They won.

Ten thousand years of oppression had come to an end with that blast.

Allura and Coran clung to each other as they watched the waves of radiation wipe out the end of the empire.

Hunk stood as still as a statue. Tears streaking down his cheeks. 

"They were still down there," Pidge whispered as they collapsed to their knees on the cold floor. 

It took everything in Shiro to keep his intestines from emptying out his mouth. The bile was there, bitter and biting.

It was necessary. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. That's what they would say. He would be applauded. A hero. But only the people in this room would see it as it really was:  a choice.

A choice that was easier than it should have been. Cruelly quick and almost as thoughtless. He had the rest of his life to mourn. He hoped it wasn't long.

my whumptober masterlist

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumptober 2024 No.18 & No. 20

Prompt 18: Survivor’s guilt (Alt)

Prompt 20: “It’s not your fault.”

Warnings: Mentions of canonical character death

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

gif by @daryl-dixon-daydreams

There was no answer when you knocked, the silence as thick as the tension, making the door heavier and harder to open. The single candle had burned down to an oddly shaped sculpture, its curves and dips dimming the flame’s reach. The dinner tray you had brought earlier remained untouched, the soup cold and sandwich soggy.

Your heart ached just as much as it burned, scorched with rage that simmered just below your ribs. Daryl was on the edge of the mattress, staring blankly at the floor. It was as if he’d turned to stone, frozen within a nightmare. And you feared he had forever become trapped in a place you couldn’t reach.

“Daryl.” You tried, keeping your distance. He was a wounded animal, fearful and dangerous at the same time. He remained as he was. He had clung to you so tightly when he had clambered off the back of the bike, his legs giving and his tears flowing. It had been the only reaction you had seen from him in his day and a half back at Hilltop. “Daryl.”

You still didn’t approach, but finally he blinked, his bruised and bloodshot eyes sliding over to finally acknowledge you. The attention didn’t last. He was back to staring at the floor within seconds.

You risked two deliberate steps toward him before crouching, making yourself smaller in hope that it would not arouse the terror held at bay within him.

“You need to eat, sleep.”

Nothing.

Sighing, you slowly stood and stepped back before turning away, bending over the candle in preparation to blow it out, a new one beside it so as to keep the darkness away from your partner. The least you could do was stay, give him a measure of comfort that he wasn’t alone.

“Should’a been me.”

His voice was raspy, tired, and so unexpected that you gasped. When you spun to regard him, he hadn’t moved. “What?”

Daryl cleared his throat after an agonizing period of silence. “Was ready. Deserved it. Should’a been me.”

A flash of red, Glenn’s final words. Your lip quivered and your eyes closed as you gathered your bearings. “No.” You whispered, reassuming the earlier position a few feet from him. “Daryl, it’s not your fault.”

“Was. Is.” He muttered, a tear breaking free to cascade down his cheek. You wanted so badly to wipe it away and hold him.

“Negan was going to do what he was going to do. You had no influence over him.” You attempted, dropping to your knees and shuffling forward a few inches at a slow pace.

“F’I hadn’t—” The words dried up on the tip of his tongue, his eyes squeezing shut.

“Oh, Daryl.” You knew he would carry this forever, a guilt on his shoulders that he’d never shed. He still carried Beth after all this time. The weight had lessened, finally splintering off to allow you to carry a portion for him, a burden you were more than willing to bear for him. “You couldn’t stop him.”

His eyes slowly peeled open, wet and shining, and you could no longer stay away.

“Please.” You began. “Let me help you.” When his head turned, even with the heavy pain his expression bore, you had never been more relieved. No, that wasn’t true. The relief came when he nodded, a simple dip of his head that had you carefully climbing to your feet and approaching.

When your hand touched his shoulder, the dam broke. His hands found your waist and pulled you toward him, his face finding shelter against your stomach as his shoulders shook in silent sobs. Gentle fingers carded through his hair, hushed syllables making an effort to soak up even a portion of his suffering.

Each tear, each jerk of his body was gasoline on the inferno raging within you.

And Negan would burn.

[amethystfairy1]

"I don't think I need that...but thanks..?" - Ren, probably.

Todays whumptober prompt is up, cutting it close but I got it in! I hope you enjoy it!

[friendship-ditch]

Whumptober Day 14 - Survivors Guilt (Alt.)

Platonic Aragorn x Fem!Reader ✼

Summary: After a harsh battle in Bree, Aragorn blames himself for the lost lives.

Warnings/Notes: Lil alcohol abuse and sad Aragorn

Word Count: 1201

  “How many of those drinks do you plan on downing?” You watched in amazement as Aragorn finished his sixth flagon.

  The man beside you, your ranger partner since the two of you both first started out, was not a heavy drinker. At best he had a few ciders and even then he felt it terribly in the morning. Now here he is finishing these drinks off like it was a job and he was being timed.

  Aragorn wiped his mouth with a grimace. Alcohol’s effects on him were slow but once the hill steeped downward there was hardly a second in between his sober and utterly inebriated states. It hadn’t kicked in yet but you had a feeling that time was coming.

  “As many as I can.” He muttered gruffly before waving to the bartender for another. His fingers eagerly reached for the new glass, about to lift it to his lips when your hand grabbed his arm.

  “Take it easy…” You murmured. You expected him to comply, not to suddenly drink as much of the ale as he could. When he finished the whole thing in a few gulps you slapped him on the arm. “What is wrong with you?!”

  You were quite right. The alcohol's effects were beginning to seep in.

  Aragorn stared at you through bleary eyes for a moment, twitching a little. Then he turned away. “I need to forget.” He mumbled. “Just for a while…”

  You tugged his arm again but he refused to look at you. Even your gentle slap to his arm didn’t draw him out of the strange trance he had fallen into, eyes boring a hole into the wooden counter of the bar. Finally you shoved him with your shoulder, snapping him out of it a little.

  “Forget what? What’s going on with you?” You frowned, moving your hand to rest on his back. 

  Earlier today the rangers had taken down a large army of orcs in Bree. You all had arrived halfway through the battle and saved the remaining citizens of the small town. It was Aragorn’s idea to go to the Prancing Pony Tavern afterwards and celebrate victory, but now it was as if he wasn’t even there beside you, more of a shell than a man.

  “We should have gotten here earlier.” Aragorn finally whispered. You could hardly hear him over the loud banter of the bar, but his words clicked in your ears after a few seconds.

  Your thumb rubbed in soft circles against his cloak. “There was nothing we could have done, Aragorn.”

  “There was… If we had run faster.. Traveled lighter… didn’t stop for that stupid, stupid rainstorm, we could have saved so many more lives, y/n…” He rasped, voice starting to become a little incoherent as both the grief and alcohol numbed his mouth, filling it with ash and fluff. “Everyone that died… those poor citizens. They were unprepared and… and we were supposed to save them.” Aragorn was struggling to catch his breath now, fingers digging into your arm as his eyes stung with tears. “We were supposed to save them but we didn’t.”

  You thought back to the attack.

  The orcs were vicious and merciless, killing any citizen they could get their hands on, from the town guards to the young volunteers who had seen far too few winters and could hardly wield a sword. Out on the field you had to make the choice between saving a boy, hardly an adult, or Aragorn. Regardless to say, as much as it hurt, you did in fact choose the latter. You knew Aragorn would be horrified with your choice and angry with you but you couldn’t bear the thought of losing your best friend. 

  He never confronted you on the incident but it was clear now that it was weighing him down heavily. He was bordering on the edge of some sort of panic attack or melt down, air going everywhere but his lungs as his head spun. The alcohol in his system was not helping, making him too unsteady to stand and leave himself.

  So you did the next best thing.

  You dragged him to his feet and–half carrying him–brought him outside.

  The second the cold air hit your skin he broke into sobs in your arms. The weight of the pain and tears made him surprisingly heavy, even for you. So you dragged him once more until the two of you were tucked behind some barrels, just letting him cry into your arms.

  “It should have been me.” Aragorn wept into your chest, fingers clutching your clothing so tightly he was almost ripping it with ragged nails, torn from aiding in burying the dead. His sobs grew more animalistic and raw. Aragorn had an awful habit of punching walls or such when he was distraught like this and his fists were shaking from the force of restraint, trying desperately not to punch you on accident.

  You eventually nudged him in a way that set his energy free and he pounded into the ground a few times before his fists met your torso. It didn’t really hurt. You held him through the whole thing, accepting whatever misplaced throws and globs of tears that fell from his face. What else could you do?

  When the alcohol fully kicked in and all Aragorn could get out was soft whimpers and whines, now sort of rocking back and forth in your arms, you held him tighter. You gently tucked his face into the crook of your neck, raking your fingers through his hair in soothing motions, fingers grazing his scalp. The motion soothed Aragon slightly but it was your words that did the true deed.

  “It is not your fault Aragorn.” You murmured softly to him, feeling him gasp for breath against your skin. “I would always save you… no matter what. You do not need to wish to have given your life for these strangers… what’s done is done. Love what you still have, not mourn what you could’ve.”

  Aragorn whimpered. “But…”

  “But nothing. We saved Bree. Yes, lives were lost, but lives always are.” You whispered. “I’m sorry we didn’t get here sooner… and I’m sorry so many died, but beating yourself up over it will not bring them back.”

  Shakily, Aragorn rubbed his red face. Your words, though blunt, were true, he couldn’t deny that. 

  He slowly pulled his face and looked up at you through tear cladden eyes. “Sorry…” He whispered, sounding more like a lost puppy than a ranger.”

  You chuckled a little and shook your head, planting a gentle kiss to the top of his. “Don’t be. Just… let’s just sit here for a while, alright?”

  “...alright.” Aragorn whispered.

  If there was one thing you were not looking forward to, it was dragging a very drunk Aragorn back into the tavern and putting him to bed… as well as what would follow in the morning. For now, you were content with sitting here, curled up behind some barrels with him in your arms. And he seemed to feel the same as the last of his pain faded with a heavy sigh, his head laying back down on your shoulder.

[whump-tr0pes]

Luctus et Mors

So begins Dee's second recovery arc. This begins about a week after Comes Animae.

Masterlist

AO3

Contents: nightmare, comfort, sharing a bed, PTSD, blood, past attempted murder, past magical healing, past death and resurrection, survivor's guilt, grief, post-reunion, past burns, past torture, past religious abuse, recovery

~

Dee woke up choking on smoke. Blackness shrouded his eyes - blindfolded. Soft cloth restraints tightened around his limbs, and he cried out, terrified, gasping, lungs spasming around the smoke. 

His own flesh sizzles and peels away under the angels’ hands. His skin bubbles and burns under the eternal, blazing sun of hell.

His eyes streamed. His throat closed around a helpless scream. 

“Dee,” a voice murmured in the darkness. “Dee… shhh, I have you.”

Hands, gentle hands, loosening the sheets around his legs and chest. 

The sheets.

The hands left him, only for long enough to snap on the lamp beside the bed.

The bed. The lamp. The room he shared with Ilya.

Ilya.

His eyes found theirs immediately and he reached out, fingers grasping theirs. His hands were shaking. He could still feel blood - his and theirs - flowing between his fingers, hot and vital. He stared at his hands. 

Clean.

He could taste smoke in the back of his throat. 

“A nightmare?” Ilya said gently. 

He nodded and gripped their hands tight. The pain and smoke and blood felt as real as Ilya’s hands in his. 

“Yes,” he croaked. 

Ilya chewed their lip. “Was it… um…?”

Dee’s eyes dipped and settled on Ilya’s throat. There should have been a scar there, from where the angel had pressed his blade in to end Ilya’s life. 

Dee screams in rage, in anticipated grief that cannot have a chance to strike. He lunges forward and pries the knife away from Ilya’s throat. He tears Ilya from the angel’s grip and shoves them to the floor behind him. He growls his rage, his pain, as his shattered body burns.

Dee raised his hand and trailed his fingers along the unblemished skin. “Did Dara heal you?” he murmured. “After I…?”

After I died?

Ilya’s mouth tightened. “She did,” they said softly. They reached out and trailed their fingers along Dee’s jaw. 

Dee nodded. “Good,” he whispered. “That’s… that’s good.”

Pain flickered across Ilya’s face. Dee swallowed hard. “Dee,” Ilya said, fingers linking with his again. “Please talk to me.”

He wet his lips. His mouth was so dry. He should not stop his hands from shaking as he returned their gaze. 

Finally, he said, “I… dreamt of hell.”

Ilya nodded. Their head relaxed into the pillow and they said nothing. 

Dee continued uneasily. “I dreamt that the angels… followed me. Found me.”

Ilya’s brow furrowed and they squeezed his hands. “Oh,” they murmured. 

“I dreamt that they punished me again. For… for you.” Dee looked away. He couldn’t meet their eyes. After a long silence, he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. 

“I’m… not the one who died, you know,” Ilya whispered. 

Dee stared at them, shocked, ashamed. “Venia?” he breathed.

They wet their lips. “I’m not blaming you, no,” they said quickly. “I’m not saying… anything like that. I’m saying…” They reached out and ghosted their fingertips along his cheek. “You’re the one who suffered. You’re the one who… who died for this, Dee.”

“You suffered, too,” he whimpered. “You were… were hurt.”

“Not like you,” Ilya said. “Not like that.” Their fingers slid down his cheek, down his neck, brushed his throat with the gentlest of touches.

Even that. Even that was too much. He stiffened. Ilya’s mouth hardened, as if something they had suspected had just been confirmed. 

“There were burn marks on your throat when we found you,” Ilya whispered. “Handprints.”

“I know,” Dee said brokenly. Tears burned his eyes. 

“I held your body for hours after,” Ilya rasped through their own tears. “I t-tried to hold you for… days. Dara had to take you from me so she could bury you.”

Dee squeezed his eyes shut. Tears rolled down his temples and into his hair, soaking into the sheets beneath him. 

Ilya hitched a sob beside him. “Dara healed me. I didn’t… I didn’t hurt. I didn’t have any scars. Once she took you away, I didn’t have you. I had… nothing left of you.”

“I’m sorry,” Dee whimpered. “Ilya, I’m sorry.” He rolled to his side and gathered close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against their neck. “I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Dee,” Ilya sobbed into his hair. “When will you see that it wasn’t your fault?” 

Grief clogged Dee’s throat. He shook his head and buried his face deeper in Ilya’s neck. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never… Ilya, I never meant for you to… I would have…”

“I know,” Ilya said roughly. They squeezed him tight. “I know.”

“I would take it back,” he whispered, barely loud enough to hear. “I would…”

I would take it all again. For you.

“Don’t say that,” Ilya said. “The Powers are dead. No one will… no one will… take you from me again. No one will take you from yourself.”

Smoke burns the back of his throat. Smoke from his own burning flesh. He gags on the smell, the pain, the terror.

He shuddered and pressed a kiss to their throat, over the place where the scar would have been. Over the place where the Power’s blade had tried to claim Ilya’s life. 

“I love you,” he breathed. “Forever.”

“And I love you,” they whispered back. “You. Forever.” Their thumb slid along his eyebrow, brushed his cheek, trailed back up to his ear. They kissed the top of his head. 

He did his best to relax into their embrace. With his face pressed to their neck, all he could smell was them; the smoke was merely a memory. If he tried hard enough, he could almost believe he would never burn again.

~

Translation of the Latin lines here:

Dee stared at them, shocked, ashamed. “Pardon?” he breathed.

@womping-grounds , @free-2bmee , @quirkykayleetam , @walkingchemicalfire , @inpainandsuffering , @redwingedwhump , @burtlederp , @castielamigos-whump-side-blog , @whatwhumpcomments , @whumpywhumper , @stxck-fxck ,  @whumps-the-word , @justwhumpitwhumpitgood,  @inky-whump ,  @orchidscript , @inkyinsanity , @this-mightaswell-happen , @newandfiguringitout , @whumpkitty , @pebbledriscoll , @im-just-here-for-the-whump , @endless-whump , @grizzlie70 , @oops-its-whump , @kixngiggles, @1phoenixfeather , @butwhatifyouwrite , @carnagecardinal , @laves-here, @mylifeisonthebookshelf , @wolfeyedwitch , @batfacedliar , @also-finder-of-rings , @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @extrabitterbrain, @i-eat-worlds

[meetinginsamarra]

Take My Broken Love

survivor's guilt - chapter 27 is up on AO3

Rosamund Mary Miller, a.k.a. Mary Morstan, waited impatiently in front of a street restaurant. She was nervous and annoyed about it.

Over the last 48 hours, since the abhorrent elder Holmes had visited her in the hospital, she had been exceptionally busy. First of all, she had absconded from the clinic, knowing that Holmes would take care of her child while she was away. She needed as much time as possible to prepare for the trip to Tirana.

READ FULL CHAPTER 27 HERE

[dangraccoon]

Let's Live

Day 31 ~ survivor's guilt ~ (alt. prompt)

Crosshair

Word Count: 1008 Content: references to The Outpost and Plan 99, self-sacrifice, guilt, survivor's guilt

He wasn’t sure if it was the violent shivers that rolled endlessly through his body or the sharp cry of the ice vultures but Crosshair found himself awake and sitting upright in the early morning hours. 

A soft, warm breeze fluttered the curtains of his open window. He could hear the sound of the tide coming in, splashing against the rocks near their cozy home. The sun was far enough from rising that the moonyos weren’t even starting to chitter yet.

Crosshair groaned, using his remaining hand to pull the blanket up over him as he flopped back down onto the too-comfortable mattress. 

He knew about phantom limbs, of course–Echo had grumbled about it enough to pique his curiosity–but it didn’t stop the frustration that rose in his chest as his body insisted that his right hand was shaking again. He shoved the end of his arm under his pillow, praying for the “out of sight, out of mind” mindset Wrecker had long used as an excuse for his forgetfulness.

It never came. Groaning once more–as though acting like a petulant child might make him feel better–he shoved the blanket away, swinging his legs over the side of his bed.

Their house was an older one on the island; one of the elder residents had expressed that they wanted the batch to have it as she moved in with her daughter and son-in-law. “It was good enough to raise five kids in, so I’m sure Miss Omega can handle you lot in it.”

He walked through the house, idly thinking he should visit Mrs. Neawick soon–she was one of the only residents that could match his snark and she made sour hard candies that she pretended not to realize Crosshair loved–while stepping around the occasional creaking boards. He knew Hunter could hear him, but the least he could do was not make the disturbance worse.

He made it to the kitchen, noticing the caf maker’s timer starting the machine up. He scowled at the flimsi tooka calendar attached to the fridge. Omega had insisted on picking out different colored markers for each of them to write their various activities. “This way we can plan things together, too!”

He followed the sloppy orange scrawl that indicated Wrecker’s schedule and it made sense. Although Wrecker hated caf with a fiery passion, he’d come to rely upon it–mixed with an ungodly amount of cream, sugar, and whatever syrupy flavoring Omega had picked out, of course–for his early morning fishing trips with a fisherman he’d befriended.

Crosshair felt a little guilty that he couldn’t recall the man’s name, especially when he found their symbiotic relationship so amusing; the short and skinny fisherman had someone who could pull the lines up easily and carry their haul, and Wrecker had someone that never tired of his boisterous retellings of their missions and misadventures.

While he waited for the pot to finish brewing, he moved to the window, looking out over one of the lower sections of the island. Dawn was still an hour or so out, but the sky was just beginning to glow with the idea of first light. The various light-sensitive lamps still lit lined the walkways and outsides. He had to admit the view was… nice.

“Cross?” Wrecker hummed. “You’re up early.”

Crosshair glanced over his shoulder at his brother, who was wiping the sleep from his eyes. He shrugged.

“You okay?” Wrecker asked, joining him next to the window.

“Fine,” he murmured, though he could barely even convince himself of it. Wrecker would see right through him.

“Thinking about Tantiss?”

Crosshair winced. “No.”

“If you don’t tell me, ’m gonna go wake up Omega,” Wrecker shrugged, nudging Crosshair’s shoulder. “She’ll make you talk.”

Crosshair eyed his brother, almost trying to call his bluff with a glare.

“Alright,” Wrecker said, his tone shifting from sleepy concern to somewhat irritable. “That’s fine, Cross. Don’t talk about it. You’ll feel great keepin’ it all to yourself.”

Wrecker went about preparing his caf, pointedly ignoring Crosshair as he wrestled his unruly pride.

“Fine,” he growled, stalking over to the kitchen counter next to his brother to lean against it. “I had another nightmare. That’s why I’m awake.”

Wrecker’s facade of indifference fell almost immediately. He nodded, prodding him to continue.

“Not about T-Tantiss this time,” he continued, face twisting into a scowl at the way he struggled to push the words out. “Barton IV and… Mayday.”

Wrecker’s eyes lifted to look at Crosshair. He didn’t let a single noise slip, terrified that if he did Crosshair would retreat. Where Wrecker had always been open, Crosshair was the opposite. He’d been skittish around emotions since they were barely out of the tube.

“Mayday was the commander at the Outpost,” he elaborated. He’d only mentioned Mayday to Omega before, and that was only because she asked. “There was only him and two others left from his squad. They’d been there over a year guarding… stormtrooper equipment. Getting picked off by raiders. The lieutenant I– I killed sent us off to track the raiders. After we found and… eliminated them, there was an avalanche. I would’ve been killed if he hadn’t pushed me out of the way.”

Wrecker couldn’t help but notice the way Crosshair shivered.

“I carried him back to the Outpost. He was hurt a-and by the time we got there, that lieutenant… h-he wouldn’t get a medic. Mayday…”

A shaking sob crawled up his body and he was quickly encircled by Wrecker’s arms. He was powerless to stop the tears rolling down his cheek.

“He should’ve lived– it-it should’ve been me th-that–”

Wrecked shushed him. “Don’t talk like that. He gave his life for you to live, Cross.”

His hand clung to Wrecker’s shirt helplessly. “I… I owe him everything.”

“I know, vod. But we can’t get stuck in all the shouldas,” Wrecker whispered. “We owe it to them to live our lives ‘nd be as happy as we can, right?”

Wrecker didn’t say who he was thinking of. He didn’t need to. Crosshair nodded.

“Then let’s live. For them.”

« Previous Day

Thanks for reading! - River

Whumptober 2024 Masterlist DangRaccoon Masterlist Taglist Form Read on AO3

Tags: @writing-positivelyexisting @nekotaetae @lokigirlszendaya @get-wr3ckered @jediknightjana @idoubleswearimawriter @lucyysthings @unstable-kiwi @6oceansofmoons @l3xi3luv @winter-phoenix1995 @serenityselene @nomercyforthewarrior @ravenclawbitch426 @luna-the-lone-red-wolf @padawancat97 @flowered-bicycles @error6gendernotfound @techs-goggles9902

[estelian-01]

Chapters: 4/4 Fandom: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Hyrule & Legend (Linked Universe), Hyrule & Time (Linked Universe), Link & Marin (Legend of Zelda), Legend (Linked Universe)/Marin (Legend of Zelda) Characters: Legend (Linked Universe), Hyrule (Linked Universe), Time (Linked Universe) Additional Tags: Hallucinations, Fever, Infection, Injury, Blood and Injury, Stranded, Legend (Linked Universe)-centric, Legend (Linked Universe) Has a Bad Time, Legend (Linked Universe) Angst, Legend (Linked Universe) Has Issues, Legend (Linked Universe) Has Feelings, POV Legend (Linked Universe), Legend (Linked Universe) Whump, Legend (Linked Universe) Swears, Koholint Island Trauma (Legend of Zelda), Mentioned Marin (Legend of Zelda), Minor Link/Marin (Legend of Zelda), Guilt, Sunburn, Whumptober, Whumptober 2024, Sleep Deprivation, Thunderstorms, Thunder and Lightning, Survivor Guilt, Exhaustion, Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda), downfall duo - Freeform, POV Hyrule (Linked Universe) Series: Part 4 of Sticks and Stones - Whumptober 2024 Summary:

Legend ends up alone and wounded, stranded on a deserted island. Overall Whump Level: 6/10

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Whumptober Day 23 + 24

23: (Alt) Survivor's Guilt

24: RADIATION POISONING | Collapsed Building | Equipment Failure | “I never knew daylight could be so violent.”

Whumptober Prompts List | Masterpost

Fandom: Original Work

Words: 200

Tag List: @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion @scaewolf

@the-ellia-west

CW: injury, guilt, death, concussion, arguing, swearing

A/N: an exercise in writing only dialogue between characters

----------

“Whumpee? Whumpee!”

“Caretaker? I….”

“I got you, help is on the way. Are you hurt? Besides the… your leg?”

“My head….”

“Okay. You might have a concussion, but I need you to stay with me. Where's Teammate?”

“I… they… they were….”

“Oh no….”

“I couldn't… couldn't get to them… I hesitated… I was scared… what am I gonna tell their sibling?”

“Hey, look at me. It's not your fault.”

“But….”

“No. You couldn't have known the building was unstable, none of us did. Teammate knew the risks, we all know the risks.”

“I lived and they didn't! If anyone deserved to die it was me, not them!”

“Stop saying that! You know it isn't true.”

“What do you know?! You with your optimism and your naive blindness to everyone's faults. You don't know anything about what I do and do not deserve. And how can you act like Teammate didn't just die?”

“...I'm focusing on the people I have who are alive. We can mourn later, when everyone is safe. That's not fair and you know it.”

“Life isn't fair, dammit! If it were, I would be the one buried under all that rubble.”

“...”

“...”

“Shut your damn mouth before I gag you.”

[semicolonsandsimiles]

Whumptober day 11: survivor's guilt

The Aurelian Cycle, Griff post-canon

Becca squints at the man coming up the hill. She won't recognize him; when Da left, she was too young to remember. But it isn't hard to figure out. "Is that my Grandda?"

"Yes."

I've already started walking, and Becca has to run to keep up with my pace. "Carry me," she demands.

I bend to let her climb on my back, then we run.

Becca has already yelled "Grandda!" Several times by the time our paths intersect, so I don't have to think of what to say first. As soon as Becca slides off my back she gets scooped up by Da, and his free arm pulls me into a hug. Not before I get a good look at his face: apart from some more lines around his eyes, he looks just as he does in my memory.

We have to let go of each other eventually, and when we do Da touches the crown. I'd forgotten I was wearing it, though the coronation was mere minutes ago. "I see things have changed."

I open my mouth to answer, and am suddenly choked by the other changes I must tell him about, why it's only Becca and I here to greet him. But Da already knows; the whole family would have been at the coronation. "Not all good changes, I know," he says. "You can tell me about it later."

But I have to confess. "It was my fault. I--"

"It wasn't Griff's fault," Becca interrupts loudly. "We were on the karst, and--"

Da puts a finger against her lips and shushes her. "Later, remember? You are right about Griff, but I want to remember our dead properly. I think, after dinner, we should have a good long storytelling. The happy stories and the sad ones."

Da is looking at me, as though this plan requires my agreement, and I realize: he's wondering if my kingly duties will interfere. "Of course. Da..." I'm not sure what to say next.

Becca takes over again. "Can I stay up late for the stories?"

I swallow down my guilt, for her. I will not make this reunion any darker. "You'll have to stay up. Don't you have some stories to tell?"

[salty-autistic-writer]

Whumptober Day 2: Survivor's Guilt

Title: Signs of a Bad Day (AO3)

Summary: Tommy has a bad day and isolates himself. A worried Buck sends Eddie to check on him.

~

Eddie has to knock three times.

When Tommy opens, his widening eyes and frown indicate he’s been expecting someone else. “What are you doing here?” He asks, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. He keeps the door halfway closed. Like he doesn’t want Eddie to see what’s hidden behind it.

“Buck sent me,” Eddie says. To check on you, he doesn’t add.

“Of course he did,” Tommy mutters. He hesitates, his eyes barely meeting Eddie’s. “Listen. I’m … I don’t know what he told you. But I’m not good company right now.”

“He told me enough,” Eddie says, raising the six-pack he’s holding in his right hand. “I brought beer.”

Tommy sighs in defeat and finally opens the door fully. “Well. Come in then. Gotta warn you though. It’s a mess in here.”

He walks in, scratching the back of his head. Eddie follows cautiously. And decides that he’s seen worse. He walks around two empty pizza boxes and a dozen crumpled tissues. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches glittering shards on the kitchen floor. From a broken glass, probably. There is an unsteady heap of dirty dishes in the sink. A row of empty water bottles on the table. A blanket half on the couch and half on the floor.

Eddie recognizes the well-familiar signs of a bad day.

Tommy sits on the couch, wringing his hands. “I don't want to hurt him. Don't want him to think I don’t want to see him either. I just … I don't want to be too much, you know?”

I know. Eddie nods. He hands Tommy a beer before he sits on the chair opposite the couch. “He’s going to be alright. Buck is smart. And not easy to get rid of.”

Tommy chuckles half-heartedly. “Yeah. That’s true. He … He’s very important to me.”

“I know,” Eddie says, taking a sip of his beer. “So. Bad day, huh?”

Tommy nods and swallows. “Today is the day my friend died. My … my friend from the army. It happened many years ago. But I remember as if it was yesterday. I see it happen again and again. Right in front of my eyes.”

He pauses, taking a few deep breaths. Eddie waits patiently, realizing this is about survivor guilt and feeling a phantom echo of his own.

“He was sitting beside me in the helicopter when things went to shit,” Tommy continues hoarsely. “He got shot. I got shot too. But not as bad as him. He was bleeding out but still told me not to worry and just focus on getting the chopper down. Which I did. I landed it in the desert and backup was quick. But not quick enough to … to save him. He just sat there, with his eyes open and still looking at me.”

Tommy shudders visibly, gripping his bottle so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

Eddie’s throat clenches. “I’m sorry.” Memories rise up to the surface of his mind … Shots being fired. Invisible and deathly. The helicopter shaking and tilting. Screams and curses. Night's darkness being lit up by flames. Slick blood on his hands.

“I saw him in front of me while I was recovering,” Tommy says, looking at Eddie grimly. “And I couldn’t stop thinking. Couldn’t stop wondering. Why did it have to be him? Why not me? He had a family. He had a wife who loved him. Kids who were waiting for him to come home. And I … I had no one.”

Eddie shakes his head. “You can’t think like that, man. Your friend wouldn’t have wanted you to die. You know that.”

Tommy grits his jaw. He takes a sip of his beer. Then, he looks at Eddie and asks, “You want to know the worst thing? The reason why I couldn’t - can't - talk to Evan right now?”

“Tell me,” Eddie says. Because in some way, he already knows …

“Sometimes I still think it should have been me,” Tommy blurts. He looks both shocked and relieved. “Sometimes, I think I don’t deserve to live. And I can’t … I don’t want him to know. Because he would hate that. It would make him so sad. And I don’t want him to be sad. I … God. What’s wrong with me?!” He makes a desperate noise between a hysterical laugh and a sob, bending forward and hiding his face in his free hand.

Eddie leans forward until he can put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “You love him, man. He loves you back though. So you have to accept at some point, that you have to share the good and the bad times. Let him be there for you just like you want to be there for him. You should call him.”

Tommy looks up at him with hope in his eyes. “You think so?”

“Yeah. Call him,” Eddie repeats.

“Okay,” Tommy mutters, rubbing a hand over his mouth. He sighs, glancing around, eyes getting stuck on the shards on the floor. “I should clean this up first though.”

Eddie knows that too. Displacement activity. The urge to seek distraction from a difficult emotional task. He shakes his head. “No. I will take care of that. You call him right now, okay?”

“I … alright.” Tommy looks at his phone, then back at Eddie. “Thank you.”

Eddie smiles. “Sure, man. That’s what friends are for.”

Tommy returns the smile, but quickly says, “I’m sorry if this triggered you. You can talk to me too. About, you know …”

“I might,” Eddie says. And he means it. Because Tommy is the first friend he has who can understand what Eddie’s been through. But not today. Today, he’s helping his friends. Today, he’s not feeling the ache and the hollowness as much. But yes. He has his own bad days. And it’s good to know he has someone who knows what they look like.

“Call him,” he tells Tommy sternly, getting up from the couch and fetching a shovel for the shards. A few seconds later, he hears Tommy say, “Hey, Evan”, and smiles.

Mission accomplished.

[areyouokaypanda]

Whumptober Day 21: Survivor's Guilt (alt-prompt)

[twyrewolf]

Finished a 6000+ word, four years of work fic, and all I have to show for it is these two whumptober entries

[kyanako5972]

Whumptober Day 28

Survivor's guilt (alt)

Set a year before "Behind Closed Doors"

That makes Claire Inez ~29 years old

She lost someone very important. She blames herself.

[whump-tr0pes]

Lux in Tenebris - epistolary interlude

This is part of the Lux in Tenebris interlude, which comes after the Whumptober 2021 recapture arc which ended with this chapter.

Lux in Tenebris masterlist

AO3

Contents: epistolary writing, grief, death, burial, demon whumpee, survivor's guilt, past abduction, pining

~

Dee,

Fall is here and I can’t stop thinking of you. I know that you’re dead - Dara told me that you’re more than dead, you’re gone - but I can’t stop myself from looking for you in everything. I know we planned to carve pumpkins this Halloween, and I keep staring at yours. I didn’t carve mine, either. They’re both starting to rot. Dara keeps telling me I need to throw them out, but… not yet. I can’t do it yet. 

We buried you. Or… the body you lived in. I go and sit by your grave but I can’t feel you there. That makes sense - you’re not there. Even if there is such a thing as ghosts, Eva and Dara keep telling me that you could never be one. You’re not in heaven or hell. You weren’t exorcized after being stabbed, you just… stopped. But… please, Dee. I’m begging you to please be alive, in some way. Even if you choose to haunt me, please, please, I don’t care. Just something that would show that you’re still with me. Even if you were angry. Even if you hated me. Even if I never got to see you again because you were sent somewhere I could never be. As long as you were still alive, it would be alright. As long as I didn’t have to live with the fact that I got you killed, I could stand to be haunted by you. 

I looked for you, Dee. We looked for you. I’m sorry it took us so long to find you, and I’m sorry we got so little time together, but I looked for you. I wish I could tell you that you never deserved any of it. I saw in your eyes that you thought you did. It was a lie. It was a lie, Dee. 

I go to the playground where you were taken every day. I try to remember how it felt in those last few happy moments we had together. I try to feel something of you that might still be there. I try to think of what I could have done to stop you from being taken. I would have done anything, Dee… I’m so, so sorry. It was my fault. I’m so sorry. 

Please still be with me, somewhere in the world or beyond it. Please find your way back to me. Please still be alive. Please come back home to me. I’ll never let you go again, if you will just let me prove it to you. I’m so, so sorry. Please come back to me, Dee. Please. 

I’ll wait for you. As long as it takes, I will wait.

Love,

Ilya.

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