You Know What I Think Its Grossly Under-rated In Fandom? Second Loves.

You know what I think its grossly under-rated in fandom? Second loves.

What it's like to love and lose and then love again. To suffer through either the death of a loved one or the death of a love you used to share. To know that loss, to know that hurt, and to still make yourself vulnerable to someone again. To love scared, to love wounded, to love anyway.

Beautiful! Absolutely Beautiful!

Day Three [Protect Thy Savour]

Summary: When Jake and Hollywood are enjoying a fire in the comfort and silence of Jake’s courtyard, Hollywood reminds Jake that nothing was ever his fault.

Warnings: PTSD. Shared Trauma. Jake Seresin x F!Reader. Mentions of Captivity. Survivor’s Guilt. Mental Health

Word Count: 0.9k

Whumptober Prompt Day Three: Shared trauma, survivor’s guilt, “It’s not your fault.”

Author Note: Please make sure you read the warnings provided. Disclaimer: I do not condone nor endorse the actions that are written about during the month of October. These works of fiction are just that, fiction and should be treated as such. Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for this year's prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Bruises Masterlist

“I wish this moment could last forever.” Time is a strange thing. When you’re waiting for something good to happen, it can often feel as if time is dragging on. But when you want it to slow down? It goes by in the blink of an eye. 

“We can stay right here, like this, for as long as you want Hotshot.” The odd part is time isn’t real. It’s a concept imagined by scientists based on the imperfect movement of Earth around the Sun. 

“Hmm, sounds perfect,” So why do people put so much importance on something that’s just a theory? The simple answer to that loaded question….is that it’s sometimes all people have. 

There’s never enough time. Work, friends, being held hostage in the middle of nowhere for months on end, life, death. Something always cuts our time short. So our best bet is to make the most of the time we have. Or we can strive to make up for lost time. But sometimes, if we’re really lucky….time stands still. 

The crackle of the fire pit filled the comfortable silence you and Jake shared. His courtyard had become a space where the two of you would go to fill the empty void you both shared. The void where innocence and hope in humanity once resonated within your souls. 

The orange hume cascaded down your shared silhouettes in the midnight darkness. Still, it could never be as dark as the pit of hell the two of you had shared. 

“Your hair smells nice.” Jake sighed as he held you close to his chest. Your back was pressed firmly into him as he let the side of the concrete seat hold both his and your weight. His arms hung around your shoulders as your fingers danced up and down his forearm. 

“Black plum and vanilla,” You replied, a little drowsiness in your tone. “It’s new, Phoenix made me this basket full of products, said it was a pamper kit.” You chuckled softly, the kindness of those closest to you hadn’t gone unnoticed. 

Jake didn’t reply, he simply stayed holding you close, afraid that if he were to let go he’d wake up and still be in that godforsaken cell he spent months being jealous of the rats that got to come and go as they pleased. It had just been one of those days. One where Jake couldn’t for the life of him quiet the voices in his mind. The voices that told him everything had been his fault. That he was responsible for all your pain and the trauma that would follow you for a lifetime. 

One of those days where if he closed his eyes and never woke up, Jake wouldn’t mind. He’d welcome the sweet release of death if it were to take him tonight. The only person who kept him sane enough to remember to breathe was you. 

“Hey Seresin?” You mumbled as you snuggled a little deeper into Jake’s warm embrace. 

“Yeah?” Jake replied as he felt tears welling in his eyes as he let his chin rest against the top of your head. Your touch was grounding, all-consuming, settling. It was the only medicine Jake would admit he needed. The anti-psychotics, the pain meds, the sleeping tablets, he didn’t need any of them in his damaged mind. All he needed, all he wanted, was you. 

“It’s not your fault,” Battle. Fight. Win. Loose. These are the words we use when someone is diagnosed with an illness or disease. People tend to use militarised language that implies it’s a fair fight. “None of what happened to us was your fault.” 

But when it comes to life and death, what does winning really look like? Is a person you love a loser for dying when the outcome isn’t really in their control? 

“What happened to you, me, us, none of it falls on your shoulders, Jake,” You continued as the crackle of the fire filled the silence. Jake never responded, all he did was hold you closer, hold you tighter. His tears streamed down his cheeks freely, to the point that when they fell your hair sucked up the moisture. 

“I love you–” Jake whispered as the heat from the fire and the warmth of your heart kept him sane. “Thank you,” He followed up as he placed a simple kiss to the spot where his tears had fallen on your head. “I love you with everything I have, with everything I’ve lost.” 

“I love you with everything we’ll build together,” You mumbled as you moved Jake’s hand up towards your lips. You couldn’t help but to leave a gentle kiss on his knuckles. “I Promise.” 

When it comes to medicine, who’s to say what’s winning or losing? There’s just as much value in trying again as there is in letting go. Letting go of suffering, regret, pain, fear. Instead of saying someone we love is battling, beating, fighting, winning or losing, why do we just tell the truth? 

That its not always a fair fight. 

*******************************

Instead of "Said", consider

replied

stated

exclaimed

remarked

declared

mentioned

commented

responded

articulated

noted

announced

asserted

observed

suggested

opined

acknowledged

claimed

professed

explained

affirmed

This scene. This scene. I swear this scene is the reason I love ANGST. I blame this scene for not being able to enjoy fluff as much as I enjoy angst.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk today.

Sebastian Stan in ‘Captain America: The Winter Soldier’, (2014). Dir. Anthony and Joe Russo.

BEAUTIFUL. This was beautiful

Whumptober 2024 No. 1

Prompt: Panic Attack

Warnings: Mentions of torture; anxiety attack

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

gif by @daryl-dixon-daydreams

It happened so fast. 

One moment, you were in the kitchen, preparing dinner—a stew of venison and vegetables. The next, you were crouched in front of Daryl, whispering words of encouragement while he tried to catch his breath. 

Tara hadn’t meant any harm. Over for dinner, she had been rummaging through a box of records—a bonus from a recent run that had gone smoothly. The record player and vinyls had been the reward you had bestowed upon yourselves when you had extra time due to the lack of walkers to dispatch. 

First, to Daryl’s utter joy—expressed by a grunt and appreciative nod—she had chosen Johnny Cash, allowing the record to play through in its entirety before deciding to try her luck with a random choice. The moment the song began, you knew—even before the sound of Daryl’s knife and whetstone clattering on the floor—what would come of it. 

We’re on easy street

“Tara, no!” The spoon you had been using to stir was abandoned somewhere in the kitchen to be found later. Your steps were hurried, finding Daryl with his back pressed against the wall, eyes wide and shining, unseeing. “Daryl. Baby.”

“What’s—I didn’t—” Tara stammered from across the room, her hands flailing uselessly. You waved her off, somewhat urgently. 

“Just turn it off.” Your focus was centered on the man in front of you, his face pale, breaths quick and shallow. “Hey. Hey, you’re okay.”

“Can’t—can’t breathe.” He gasped, a hand coming up to lay against his throat, the other palm flat against his chest. “Don’t—I can’t—”

“You’re not there, Daryl. You’re here. With me.” You yearned to touch him, to ground and comfort him, but knew that he would only flinch away, lost in the torment of those days trapped and tortured at the Sanctuary. “You’re safe.”

“Ain’t—” His breaths were sobbing rushes of air that he thought he couldn’t capture. He was pale, his skin glistening with perspiration. “Y/N—”

“I’m right here.” You followed him as he slid down the wall, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Breathe, Daryl.”

“Can’t—I can’t—”

“You can.” You replied, encouragement outlining each syllable. “Do it like me.” Your gaze honed in on the flutter of his pulse beneath the skin of his neck, too fast. If you didn’t help him gain control, he would pass out. He would be mortified by the display of weakness, an entirely new issue but not a surprising one. Still, if it could be avoided, that would be ideal. “Like me, Daryl.”

He finally dropped his hands, swaying where he sat as his gaze locked onto yours. He blinked hard, attempting to focus. You drew in a deep breath and held it before exhaling, slowly for but a few seconds more. Daryl gasped and hiccuped, trying to imitate your efforts with intense struggle. 

“I’m going to touch you, okay?” You said, simultaneously reaching for him. With a gentle but firm hold on his wrist, you placed his palm against your chest and continued your breathing techniques. “There we go.” You whispered. The redness coloring his skin was receding, the strained tendons in his neck beginning to relax. He was wheezing but each hiccuping breath appeared to come easier than the one that preceded it. 

While you continued your gentle coaxing, you glanced at Tara from the corner of your eye and thanked every deity you could possibly recall that she noticed and grabbed her coat on her way out. You didn’t want her to dwell on guilt. You would talk to her later. 

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart.” You could have cried when Daryl finally dragged in a deep breath, the fog that had clouded his eyes mercifully receding. He said nothing while all but collapsing toward you, his forehead meeting your shoulder roughly. “You’re okay.” His willingness to lean against you was all the permission you needed to fold your arms around him. One hand cradled the back of his head while the other rubbed circles over his back. 

“M’sorry.” It was barely a whisper around breaths that still seemed too fast but came without struggle. 

“Don’t you dare apologize, Daryl Dixon.” He tensed beneath your touch but for a mere heartbeat. “What you went through was not just cruel. It was barbaric.” You held him tighter and felt his right arm encircle your lower back. “But you survived. You came back to me. You’re here and you’re safe.” Nuzzling your cheek against his hair, you pressed a kiss against the spot right above his ear. He had yet to pull away and buried his face against the junction of your shoulder. 

“Ain’t none’a us safe.” He mumbled, the words muted. He was right, of course. The world that existed didn’t offer safety or security. All you had known since the turn had been running, surviving. Still—

“We have each other, Daryl.” You pulled back, willing him to meet your eyes. It was a struggle for him. He loathed any display of what he thought was weakness, of what was truly just humanity. His gaze was searching, a hint of sadness outlined with something akin to hope. “Isn’t that enough?” You offered. You brought a hand to his cheek, your thumb wiping away moisture there. Sweat or tears, who knew? 

After a moment, he sniffed and cleared his throat, his hand coming up to cover yours. 

“Yeah.” He said. “Yeah. S’more than enough.”

Ngl, actually getting feedback from readers actually makes me want to write!!