Title: “Where the Heart Stays”
Pairing: Poly!OT8!Ateez x Fem!Reader
Word Count: ~3k
Genre: Angst, Action, Romance, Post-Apocalyptic AU
Warnings: blood/gore mentions, zombie attacks, emotional distress, survival themes, strong language, separation anxiety, protective themes
Summary: You’re a soloist under KQ Entertainment. When the evacuation transport is attacked, you’re separated from the convoy. Now the other idols are safe at the evacuation base—but your boys refuse to rest while you’re still out there. The military won’t go back. But Ateez will.
The sky bled smoke.
That was the last thing you remembered before the bus was overturned—flames bursting through the undercarriage, the shriek of metal, glass biting into your face as the world flipped sideways. Someone screamed. It might’ve been you.
Then silence.
And now?
You were alone.
You’d crawled your way out of the wreckage hours ago, your ankle twisted and lip bloodied. A few corpses surrounded the burning vehicle—not walkers, just soldiers. Killed in the crash. Or by what followed.
A broken radio hissed with static somewhere behind you. Your staff? Gone. Dead or turned. The driver? Head smashed against the steering wheel. The smell was already turning your stomach.
You limped through the outskirts of the city—what was left of Seoul—clutching the thin KQ windbreaker tighter around yourself. The symbol was still there, faded on your back. A silent prayer. A mark of something before.
“Y/N…”
You could still hear Seonghwa’s voice in your head, calm even in chaos. The last thing he said before the buses departed.
“Don’t let go of my hand.”
But you had let go. The soldier had ripped you apart at the checkpoint, screaming for your ID. You were being checked—delayed—while the others boarded the convoy. Then the alarm sounded. Walkers broke through the gate. And everything spiraled.
Now they were gone.
And you were still here.
Alone.
At the Evacuation Base, 36 Hours Later
“I don’t give a fuck if she wasn’t on the roster, she was supposed to be with us!”
San’s voice cracked through the base corridor, echoing off metal walls. Mingi held him back with both arms, muscles trembling as San shoved forward again.
“She’s not dead,” Yunho growled, jaw tight, eyes haunted. “Don’t you dare say that again.”
“She was assigned to Vehicle C,” the soldier repeated coldly, tapping his clipboard. “Vehicle C was attacked. We recovered no survivors.”
“Check again,” Wooyoung spat, his voice low and sharp. “You said the same thing about Karina from aespa—and now NCT’s tearing apart four districts looking for her.”
Hongjoong stepped forward then—calmer, scarred, but just as dangerous. “You don’t understand. We’re not asking you to send a unit. We’re telling you we are going. Try to stop us, and you’ll have a problem.”
Jongho tossed his backpack over his shoulder, cocking the shotgun he wasn’t supposed to have. “She’s still breathing. I know it.”
“And if she’s not?” the soldier challenged.
Yeosang finally spoke, voice quiet like a blade unsheathing. “Then we bring her home. Either way.”
Somewhere in the Wastes
You hadn’t eaten in two days. Not since the crash.
The convenience store you’d found was already ransacked—no food, no bottled water, just a ruined makeup display and one shattered screen still playing an old music video. Ironically... it's yours.
You stared at yourself on the flickering monitor, barely able to recognize the glittered smile, the confident choreo. The girl in the glass was a ghost.
You limped past the back door and into the alley, hoping to scavenge something from the trash bins. That’s when you heard it.
Groaning.
Slow, dragging footsteps.
One. Two. Then more.
The walkers.
They’d caught your scent.
Panic lanced through you. You could barely run. But you had to. You bolted, nearly stumbling, your injured ankle screaming. The alley was tight, trash bins making the path difficult. Hands reached from behind you, claws grasping, yellow eyes locked on your skin.
You screamed.
And then—
Bang!
A walker dropped.
Bang! Bang!
Two more.
Gunfire. Precise. Familiar.
You crashed to the ground as the last body hit the pavement behind you. Your head spun. You looked up—and a shadow stepped out from the fire escape above, gun still raised.
“Y/N…”
You blinked, dazed. “...Hongjoong?”
He dropped to his knees, arms wrapping around you in an instant, holding your shivering frame tight. You clutched him like a lifeline.
“I thought—” you choked. “I thought they said—”
“We didn’t believe them,” he whispered. “We never would.”
Minutes Later....
The boys surrounded you.
Tears. Laughter. Desperate touches. Each of them taking turns holding your face, checking your wounds, combing blood from your hair.
“You’re hurt,” Seonghwa said, voice trembling as he held your face. “Why didn’t you wait for us?”
“I didn’t know where to go,” you whispered, finally breaking. “I—I thought you’d moved on. I thought you were safe. I didn’t want to—”
“Shh.” San knelt beside you, taking your hand and kissing your knuckles. “We’ll never be safe without you.”
“You’re our girl,” Mingi muttered, pulling you into his chest. “Always have been. Always will be.”
“Let’s go home,” Jongho said, rising to his feet and scanning the alley. “Before more show up.”
“Where’s home now?” you asked.
Yeosang looked at you. Then at the boys.
“Wherever you are.”
That Night — Temporary Shelter
You guys settle on an old building sat between Yunho and Wooyoung, wrapped in blankets that still smelled like the base. They’d stolen them—along with half a medkit and three MREs. The military refused to help them. But Ateez didn’t need permission.
Hongjoong crouched in front of you, gently disinfecting the cut on your temple. His hands were careful but firm.
“Still hurts?” he asked.
You shook your head. “Not as much.”
“I hate seeing blood on you,” he murmured.
You leaned into Yunho’s side, exhaustion catching up with you.
“Did the military let you out just for me?” you asked quietly.
“No,” Wooyoung said. “They tried to block us.”
“Jongho threatened to blow the fuel tanks,” San added with a grin.
Jongho didn’t deny it. Just shrugged. “They had it coming.”
Seonghwa came over with a warm water bottle and pressed it to your hands. “Sleep now. We’ll take turns watching.”
You looked around at them—eight tired, blood-splattered boys who crossed hell and fire to bring you back.
“Thank you,” you whispered, voice breaking.
Hongjoong met your eyes.
“No thanks,” he said. “Just stay alive. That’s all we ask.”
Days Later, Hidden Safehouse
The world was still burning.
The base had fallen two nights ago. No warning. NCT’s truck rolled in with smoke trailing behind it far from the safehouse. A mix of once idols now roamed the outlands—Red Velvet, EXO, some of Enhypen.
But your boys kept you hidden, safe behind a barricaded door.
They slept in shifts.
Cooked over fire.
Held you close every night.
And when you cried, they didn’t speak. Just held you tighter.
❝like the grass wants to grow, i want to run anywhere that you go.❞
summary. 'a tiny butterfly flapping its wings today may lead to a devastating hurricane weeks from now.' or alternatively, it takes six lifetimes for you to find each other.
pairings. poly!marauders+lily x reader.
word count. 8.9k (i tried to keep it short. i really did T-T)
tags. hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, happy ending. reincarnated/regressor!reader. no specific gender described. not proofread, we die like lucerys velaryon.
cws. brief depictions of death and war, themes of mental health and trauma.
note: lmaoao, as per the poll, here is the time-traveler!reader fic! i didn't cry during the angsty parts so it's probably not that bad.
YOU WAKE UP to a familiar weathered stone ceiling, owls softly hooting beyond the curtained windows, sunken in the mattress of a canopy bed with low snoring on either side of you. There’s a wilting candle on your nightstand, alongside an unfastened leather journal—a whiff of spilt ink under your nose. In your limp embrace, is a plush capybara with a turtle attached to its head. The quilt blanket is entangled between your thighs, the early morning breeze flurrying past the exposed stretch of your belly where your oversized granny-square jumper has ridden up.
It’s only then, when you try curling your fingers and wiggling your toes, that you realize that your body feels as though it had been hit by a shrinking charm.
You sit upright instantly, heart skipping a beat from fright.
No.
You can’t have.
You reach for your brass handheld mirror, tucked away in the bedside drawers.
There is no way you are this unlucky.
Yet staring back at you, is your eleven-year-old self.
Naturally, you end up screaming in frustration—startling the robins idle on the windowsills and all but waking the entirety of the Gryffindor castle. Prefects burst inside the dormitory, wand at the ready and crust in their eyes, in search of a threat only to find you on the verge of hyperventilating.
Bloody hell.
Not again!
Merlin, Morgana and Arthur—you are not going through puberty a sixth time.
“Oh, fuck me,” you mumble defeatedly as you fall back onto the patchwork pillows. Your roommates are gawping at you in horror, the sound of heavy footfalls echoing in the halls outside.
Months ago, you had heard about the gruesome passing of Dorcas Meadowes—you weren’t necessarily close friends with the girl, despite being sorted in the same House, but you would grieve where grief is due.
YOUR FIRST LIFE came to an abrupt end at the age of nineteen, in a quaint coffeehouse where the owner knew your name and the baristas wore a sunlit grin everyday. That day, no one had expected for Death Eaters to wreak havoc in Diagon Alley—it could have been anticipated, if only the Ministry was competent during the onset of the war. But with the extensive list of Muggleborn and half-blood casualties after that incident, Ministry officials had no choice but to restrict certain areas and propose the ‘lesser-breeds’ go into hiding for their safety. This alluded to many families; most condemned to be blood-traitors.
(There had been fleeting whispers of her dying at the wand of Voldemort himself.)
Then, you’d woken up in the four walls of your dormitory. The sensation of being ever-so cruelly struck by the killing curse burning in your chest—a scorching fire, yet bitterly cold all the same. You had sobbed wretchedly, curled up in a shuddering ball of tears until your roommates had called for the prefects. It got worse when they tried to console you—you felt everything still. The panicked cries and screams of the wounded ceaselessly echoing in your head. You remembered the shards of glass sinking into your skin as you dove for cover, Unforgivables apathetically hurled in every direction.
It was not until Madam Pomfrey administered a Calming Draught and an elixir for dreamless sleep that you finally went out like a light extinguished.
Your second life was relatively longer—you had spent it under the supervision of mind healers at St. Mungo’s, after all. For the next thirty years, you’d been confined to a ward on the fourth floor. (Later, you would share this space with a couple who went by the names of Alice and Frank Longbottom.) Regardless of the bleak walls, it was not so bad. The quilts were warm and the assigned matron, Madam Strout, was kind and fussed over you regularly. While the healers had done everything they could, you continued to struggle with discerning what appeared to be your ‘first life.’ (Which one was your true reality? The first? Or the second?) Eventually, all the poking and prodding wore you down. Your fingertips had bruised and brittled. You could not look over your shoulder in fear of finding a Death Eater staring back at you. Night terrors plagued your dreams.
(Your parents who had always embraced you with loving arms—they could not look you in the eyes now.)
Memories bled into newer memories as the days went by. You haunted the corridors with a plagued stare, quickly becoming a woeful canard amongst the residents of the hospital. ‘The hysteric fortune teller,’ they called you. You who spoke of wars and rebellion at the age of twelve—but whose words nobody cared for when Voldemort began rising to power. You who’d gone mad and overwrought. In the end, you believed everyone else.
(See? It must have been all in your head—a wayward spell that unfortunately damaged your memories.)
You’re unsure of how you died, but perhaps, you were never even alive in the first place. There was only so much Draught of Peace you could take before you inevitably became a soulless, sleep-walking husk of a person.
You woke up in the Gryffindor tower once more—this time, you’re careful enough to smother your cries.
If you flinched every time Marlene McKinnon coarsely bellowed Dorcas’s name in the middle of the school hallways, or if you averted your gaze at the sight of Alice Fortescue and Frank Longbottom’s intertwined hands—it was nobody’s business but your own. In this life, you kept your head down, breezing through your homework and exams—although you had seen no purpose in it, at this point. Each morning that you woke up, you wondered if this was a favor from the Gods, or a relentless hell so meticulously-crafted for you.
(But what sins had you committed for them to spit on you as they had done? Surely, you would be granted peace after two deaths.)
You could not tell your family, nor could you ask anyone else in Hogwarts if they remembered fragments of their past lives—for the last time you had done that, you were met with vindictive laughter and cruel gazes.
(At that moment, you had understood Xenophilius Lovegood a little bit more. You never knew how many sought to trample on the wallflowers of the castle.)
And so, you’d kept your head down until the end of your time in the castle. You stayed away from Diagon Alley and surrounding areas, and you willed yourself to perfect the art of apparating—a skill you wished that you had learned earlier.
On the first of November 1981, witches and wizards had come to celebrate the fall of Lord Voldemort—which ultimately meant the death of James and Lily Potter. (You could not come to their funeral the first time around, seeing as you were chained to your hospital mattress that day, inebriated on the third dreamless sleep potion administered to you.)
Under the eyes of St. Jerome, you laid bouquets of white roses and dahlias on their tombstones.
“Wherever your souls are now, I hope you find each other and unearth peace,” you whispered to the two names engraved on the slate, hands clasped together as you rested on the grass. The winds had been cold and biting, a testament to the looming winter that would sweep away the tears on their graves. Like Dorcas Meadows, you did not interact much with James and Lily—but more than anyone, you knew how death was no easy enemy to conquer.
(You hoped their orphaned son would live a life that would not take him too early.)
A few months later, you met your demise to a werewolf named Fenrir Greyback.
As you bled out on the grassfields, you wished for Death to come and take you faster.
When you awakened, it was in the same bed and the same dusty ceiling.
There was nothing you could do but go back to sleep this time around.
After dying pathetically for a third time, a stubborn part of you wanted to fight back—so you did.
Unlike your previous lives, you joined the Dueling Club, supervised by Professor Flitwick himself. Your wand work was clumsy and you stumbled on your incantations. You could not lift your wand without remembering a coffee shop laid to ruin and wreckage or the hardened gaze of Greyback as he sank his teeth into your neck. The times were merciless, your dance with Death even more—but you would not die helplessly again.
As you lay in your bed, muscles aching from dueling practice, you had realized one thing.
You did not want to stain your hands with the blood of another—having grown tired of the Reaper and his antics. If the Gods would not let you rest, then you would not let them take anyone else.
After all, you had the stubbornness of a Gryffindor lion.
For the next six years or so, you devoured your textbooks on charms and healing spells, refining your spellwork until your tongue grew numb and your wrists became sore. When the time came, you followed James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Lily Evans, and many more, in joining the Order of the Phoenix. (Perhaps you should have realized earlier that you all were just wide-eyed children on both sides, forced to partake in a war that should have never been yours to fight.)
The First Wizarding War transfigured the years into a blur of mourning, surviving, and fighting in alleys now-bloodied. Even the sun hid behind the clouds, for brothers began turning on one another. You could only find solace in the fact you had kept Dorcas away from Voldemort’s clutches, volunteering to go in her stead during incursions, and Marlene McKinnon alive for another day to see her family.
But for how long could you cheat fate?
Hours before your death, you found yourself in a forest clearing. The campsite was filled with witches and wizards afflicted with severe hexes and curses—a few of Dumbledore’s best fighters screaming in agony from the Cruciatus.
There you found Remus Lupin, bruised and worse for wear, attempting to wrap a bandage around his shoulders in an empty tent.
“You look like you’ve seen better days,” you said in a soft greeting, stepping inside the tent with a forced smile, your collection of potions and jars of herbal pastes jostling in your leather satchel.
Remus chuckled tiredly. “Haven’t we all?”
You gently pried the bandage from his trembling hands and maneuvering yourself at his back. You stifled the urge to cry at the sight of his scars—so violently red against his pallid skin. Compared to your previous lives, you had developed a friendship with Remus and his group of bold marauders—a camaraderie as true as it could be in dire times. (And if providence had been kinder, you could have dared to want more than just friendship.) You poured drops of Dittany onto his shallower wounds, murmuring empty words of comfort as he flinched and hissed.
“It’s Peter,” he rasped, abruptly holding onto your wrist as you turned to leave. “He’s been missing for hours. Please. I don’t know what I’d. . . what I’d do if. . . if. . .”
You squeezed his hand. “I’ll find him, Remus. Don’t worry.”
True to your word, you had found Peter at sundown deep within the forest. There was an unsettling quietude that hung in the air as you trudged to his side. He was kneeling on the muddy ground, head hanging low. It’s only then that you noticed the body laying still in his arms. Violent chills slithered down your spine as you recognized the woman in his embrace.
“Mary!” you cried out, hurrying to them as fast as you could.
“What happened?” you asked frantically, hands in a desperate search for a pulse. When you were met with no answer, you pressed again more heatedly. “Peter! Look at me!” You gripped his chin, heart hammering in your chest. “You have to tell me what happened! I can’t. . . I can’t help her if I don’t know what hit her.” Droplets of tears fell from your eyes down to Mary’s pale cheeks. “I can’t. . . I need—please. . .”
Bloodshot eyes stared back at you. “I. . . I didn’t want to do it.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” he croaked, burying his head into the crook of Mary’s neck. “I was so, so scared.”
“Peter, what are you talking about?” You grimaced impatiently when Peter lifted his gaze—but he was not looking at you, rather behind you.
The answer to your question was a killing curse to the back.
An unseen rustle in the bushes that you should have paid attention to, a cloaked figure darker than any shadow; a Death Eater that’d come to ensnare you in a perfectly-laid trap.
(Damn it!)
(Damn it all to Hell!)
You awoke to the sound of your screaming and your limbs thrashing in the bed you’ve grown to despise. There was nary a remorse in your body as your roommates wailed at the sight of your nails drawing blood from your arms. Later that morning, the common room would be filled with talks of your faraway gaze and your scratched-up flesh.
You could not take it anymore.
In your fifth life, you had sought peace—or rather, the most beautiful mockery of it.
You decided to give up your magic to chase a semblance of normalcy. No more wands, no more moving portraits, no more jinxes and pranks, no more owls and wizard robes. Most of all, no more war. (‘But it did not work like that’, Death laughed.) In this life, you wanted what was denied of you in the previous ones.
A family.
A happy ending.
Bitterly enough, the Gods saw fit to give you only one of the two.
You married a Muggle, to your parents’ dismay. He was nice and compassionate—a distant contrast to the ongoing turmoil of the wizarding world. But you could not bring yourself to feel guilt. You had been stripped of everything, which included the privilege to die and lay your soul to rest in perpetuity.
(Who were you, if not a dead man walking?)
Over the years, you would have three children with your husband—three beautiful children born from love, in a world that would not actively seek to take them from you. You raised them all to adulthood, hoping they would not fault you for finding relief at the lack of magic in their veins. Their names were Kinsley, Piper, and Avery—and you had adored every inch of them, from their striking eyes to the tips of their stubby fingers.
On your deathbed, you were surrounded by your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren. An image you held close to your heart as your vision began to deteriorate.
Just this once, you prayed to all that would hear.
Let me die surrounded by my family.
At the age of ninety-one, you drew your final breath.
And when you opened your eyes, you were back in Hogwarts for the sixth time.
TO SIRIUS BLACK, you are a curious little wallflower, albeit a withering one—you who blend among the crowd, with a sad gaze in your eyes and the fretful twisting of your fingers. He doesn’t know why he’s particularly drawn to you—but perhaps he understands, more than anyone, the hesitance of taking up space in fear of punishment for one wrong move. But you look so lost, meandering along the corridors like the ghosts of the castle—but even the spirits seem more alive and colorful than you.
“What is it that they have taken from you?” Sirius wants to ask.
(What judgment has fate placed upon you so—for you to cry each morning?)
There is a raging urge in his veins to reach over and wipe your tears away, but what can he do as a stranger, if not watch powerlessly as you fade into the background?
His fingers feel like they might fall off if they do not entwine with yours. He wants to offer up his shoulders to carry the burdens that weigh down on a creature as lovely as you.
There are times when he and the other Gryffindors catch you crying at the long tables of the Great Hall.
“O-Oh, was I?” Your reply is quiet. Resigned. Sirius has never felt his heart break more than in that moment. You move to weakly swipe at your tears. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. . .”
“It’s alright, really,” Lily says, her voice strained, the words lodged in her throat. Under the table, she seeks James’s hand for comfort. (How can someone appear to be so lonely and defeated?) “We all have those days.”
“Yes.” You blink away the fresh tears pricking at your eyes, mindlessly pulling at the threads of your woven bandages, a weary chuckle falling from the cracked skin of your lips. “Except, it seems the days never end for me.”
Lily stays silent.
Sirius shares a look with Remus from across the table, an unspoken question hanging between the animagus and the werewolf.
How do their voices call out to the one who so faithfully believes that the world has abandoned them?
But Sirius Black is determined and unyielding—what good of a prankster would he be if he could not bring a smile upon your beautiful face?
He gets his chance during Transfiguration class, when McGonagall instructs the class to pair-up for an activity in turning miniature statues into birds. Predictably, you don’t move a muscle, staring ever-so intently at the sights beyond the classroom windows that you don’t notice the professor observing you worriedly—her lips tightly pressed and her eyes wrinkled with concern. Sirius slams his buttocks onto the wooden chair next to you; the sound of chair legs screeching bounces off the cobblestone walls.
“Hullo, partner.” Sirius grins as he offers you an enthusiastic wave, his dark curls floundering with his energy. He feels the gazes of his best mates boring into his back, but decides to ignore it for now—Remus can live without him for one class. In his mind—a perfectly-reasonable logic for an eleven-year-old, mind you—he figures that you would find class more entertaining if you had the right company. And, Sirius is wonderful company.
You stare at him with furrowed brows and Sirius wishes nothing more than to bring fire to your eyes. “Partner?” you repeat, a tinge of confusion in your voice—a deafening cadence to his ears, as for once, it is not desolation that laces your words.
“Partner,” Sirius affirms with a nod of his head, barely paying heed to McGonagall’s directions at the front of the room—but noting the mention of a prize for the pair who would successfully cast the spell for longer than ten minutes. He takes your silence for uncertainty, and replies with a light-hearted scoff—finding the pout on your lips adorable. “I’ll have you know I’m a bloody master at Transfiguration. Not even James could match me in this class—okay, maybe he could, but that’s not important, is it? Point is, with me at your side, Minnie will have no choice but to give us a hundred points!”
From the frown on your lips, Sirius gathers that you’re unimpressed by him—a first, but not a total setback.
He seizes the small box of porcelain figurines before you can blink, a wry smile on his face as he wrangles a boastful laugh from his throat. “Ready to have your mind blown? I’ve been practicing this spell since last night. There’s no way I’m getting this wrong.”
“Oh, I’m Sirius Black, by the way—at your service.” He holds out his hand for you to shake, wondering what your palm would feel like in his. Cold? Warm to touch? Or, perhaps, a perfect fit—just as Lily’s hand feels laced with his?
He doesn’t find the answer to his question. Instead, you draw your wand from your robe pocket, and point the tip of the wood at the earthenware at Sirius’s grasp.
“Avifors,” you recite delicately—such a flawless incantation that Sirius hears Merlin himself weeping in the depths of his grave.
The figurine grows feathers and a beak—Sirius and the rest of the students can only watch as the weebill flutters its wings and soars through the roof.
He’s stupefied. Breathless, one might say. But not because of your little trick—rather, the growing smile on your lips as you watch the bird fly across the room. Your eyes flicker with mischief, and like a man on the edge of a cliff—what is Sirius Black to do, but fall?
THE END OF YOUR first-year at Hogwarts draws near, and so does the springtime—a coveted season for lily flowers to bloom. The April winds find you out by the lake edge, swinging your legs idly on a marble stone bench where the cypress vines grow along the cracks. Songbirds fly overhead as the daylight glistens on the surface of the Black Lake, a beech tree in the near distance, butterflies dancing past the gnarled trunk. Pollen floats like dust in a cupboard under a staircase. Ducklings waddle after their mother as riverine rabbits scurry on into the tall, purple nettles. On days like this, you find it easier to settle into your new life—but, perhaps, you have your friends to thank for that.
Yet, as you find yourself wanting to reach out to their outstretched hands, flashes of children with your hair, your eyes, cheekbones whittled to resemble your own, haunt you. Their pure and gentle temperaments, painfully akin to their father’s. You mourn them every day. Their names are forever inscribed in the locket of your soul. (You did not find it fair—you who live again, and they who disappear forever. An existence that would cease to be—all because you fear what awaits you in this life. Why must it be you who should walk this land with a body scarred by wounds no one else can see? Why must it be you who mourns the loss of your family, your friends, and all your loved ones—everyone murdered by the Gods who spit on the five graves with your name written on it? Why? Why?)
Do you dare to live a life without them? Is it fair to deprive them of a chance of being a family while you waste away on the Isles? You may have lived multiple lifetimes, but not once have you been given the answers you seek.
You will not find happiness without them; it is as you deserve.
(For why else would Death torment you so if you are seen as innocent in their eyes?)
“How did I know I’d find you here?” A sing-song voice emerges from the trees, and you’ve no need to turn your head—the sound of Lily’s bright cadence is one you’re familiar with. But, somehow, you’ve grown fond of her voice, more acquainted with her smile and laugh than you’ve ever been in the last five lives. (You have to wonder if this friendship is one you’re permitted to enjoy.) Her grin is blinding, more so than the afternoon sun behind her. Lily’s wavy hair falls over her shoulder as she plops down on the empty space beside you. “We didn’t see you at lunch today,” she says, looking ahead, the warmth of her hand inching closer to your own. “I figured you didn’t want a bunch of whiffy boys around.”
Then, she looks around, searching for any prying ears, a stream of giggles falling from her lips. “Although, I must warn you—their pockets are loaded with food stolen from the hall, saying they’d give it to you when you returned to the tower. But I think Minnie caught onto them.” She chortles, a fond gaze in her eyes.
You hum in thought, a smile unknowingly pulling at your lips. “Thank you, Lily. It’s sweet of you to come and find me.”
She harrumphs light-heartedly, snootily lifting up her nose. “Don’t get too used to it. We’re only just best friends, after all.”
A silence encompasses the two of you, sitting under the shade, pink fingers shyly intertwined. Lily allows the minutes to flow by like a breeze on the waters, until she stares at you with thick emotions flickering in her emerald eyes. She nibbles on her bottom lip, long lashes kissing her eyelids. “Are. . . Are you alright? Is it one of those days again?”
You grin at her question, impishly nudging her legs with yours. It’s a gesture you deeply appreciate—befriending you and growing closer to you in ways you imagine are never in your cards. But Lily is only eleven, and you will not act upon your selfishness. (But, maybe—just maybe—you are allowed to relish in their company until you are called once again to your deathbed. In the next life, they might not know your name as they do now, and the revelation frightens you immensely.)
“I’m okay,” you say, a gnawing lie that sounds unconvincing to even your own ears. You stare at the flock of swans diving in the lake. “I was just missing a few friends back home.” You remember the toddlers that you used to call your own—their spittled possessiveness toward anyone who dared to snatch your attention away from them. “I don’t know if they would be happy with me going off on my own adventure,” you say, sparing Lily a knowing look. “They are—erm—Muggles.”
“Oh.” Lily nods, mulling over your words. “Tuney. . . my sister. She sort of resents me ever since I left for Hogwarts. We live a world apart, and it barely helps that she ignores me during the holidays.” She sighs, averting her gaze elsewhere, a grimace pulling at her mouth. “Sometimes I wonder if all of this was never meant for me. That I was just a fluke. Why do I have magic and not her? Any day now, I expect for McGonagall to come and ask me to pack my bags and head straight home.”
“But,” says Lily, her eyes resolute and her fire unwavering, “until that day comes, I will enjoy every bit of this world as I can. Tuney will just have to deal with that.” She offers you a mellow smile—a likeness to a kind husband that you had once in a past lifetime. “Besides, I think those who truly love us will understand the paths we must take. Even if it means parting ways for a long time. Your friends will not blame you; they’ll want you to live truly and freely.”
Her words sink deep into your bones, and you can’t help but let out a hearty laugh. You simper at the confused tilt of her head. “Wise words, Lily Marie Evans. Are you sure you’re only twelve?”
Lily beams. “Mum likes to tune into the Sunday motivational-talk channels.”
(“The ones we love never really leave us, do they?” Sirius Black will tell you one day, when you’ve bared to him the truth of your lives, and he looks at you no differently than he has before—with all the adoration and fondness of his heart.)
Later, before you and Lily make your way back to the castle, you pick three flowers among the chicory weeds. She stays behind as you kneel by the riverside. For the children you have loved, and will continue to love for eternity. Droplets of tears fall onto the water, joining the floating blue petals. “I’m sorry that I cannot find you as you are,” you whisper, a heavy weight lifting from your shoulders. “But I hope that we meet again in this life, whichever names you may take.”
(After all, what love is stronger than one that perseveres across endless lifetimes?)
You carry them in your heart—letting cherished memories remain as such. Otherwise, you’ll be chasing what can never be again. It would be an injustice to their names to try and replicate a shallow imitation of them. They deserve more than that—to be treated like a pawn in Death’s game. They were alive and you will honor them befittingly.
You bid them goodbye and allow the tethers of their soul to untangle from your grasp.
It is the most difficult farewell—and yet, the easiest act of mercy you have ever carried out.
‘THE FLAP OF a butterfly’s wings can evoke a hurricane in the next world over.’
This is a phrase you’ve come to be familiar with over the span of your numerous lives. It has never been truer than the moment you step outside the infirmary to find a group of mismatched Gryffindors waiting for you in the halls. Their heads snap in attention at the sound of your footfalls. In an instant, you’re crowded with their questions and worries—but you find it endearing, the way your friends fuss over you. It’s certainly a welcome change from a past spent by your lonesome in the castle. (You only wonder what makes this life so different from the rest? Why is everything changing without you noticing? What will be taken from you for this deviation in time?)
“How did it go?” James asks, now seventeen and captain of the Quidditch team, wavy tendrils of brown hair swooping over his round glasses. The broad of his chest fills out his red and yellow jumper, crocheted by Lily over the yule break—the five of you, including Peter, Marlene, Mary, and Dorcas, have matching sweaters as well.
Except, you like to tease them with a jest that Lily made yours with the most love—as no one else had the pattern of a capybara with an apple on its head.
“Well enough,” you answer, patting his shoulder with a tired smile that reaches your eyes—for how could one not cheer up in the face of James Fleamont Potter? That would be saying the skies do not brighten in the company of the sun.
By incontestable decree of Poppy Pomfrey, the headstrong matron of the castle, you are required to meet with a mediwitch from St. Mungo’s twice a week, since the start of your fifth-year. Healer Robbins floos to Hogwarts on Wednesdays and Saturdays to check up on your health, physically and mentally. Of course, you don’t divulge anything about your time-traveling dilemmas, lest you end up confined to a hospital ward again for the rest of your years. But you do end up addressing—albeit, begrudgingly—the dried tear stains on your pillowcase every morning, your wayward habit of purposefully missing meals, or your tendency to withdraw yourself from your peers on certain days—which coincidentally happen to be the anniversary dates of your deaths. (If no one would grieve for you, then you’d do it alone.)
Who’d have thought that healing would be much more tortuous than hurting in the quietude of your room?
But one thing is for certain—this is a suffering you will endure with greed and hunger.
For today’s session, Healer Robbins suggests you proactively live in the present more—which is easier said than done.
“Although, she did tell me to stop slouching all the time,” you inform James, scrunching your nose in feigned offense, to which he replies with a hearty chuckle, pulling you into his embrace for a side hug. You burrow your nose in his scent of oakmoss and orris root, a lingering touch of broom polish as well—you feel the warmth of his hand splayed out on your back, and hide your grin into his chest.
“Well, someone had to tell you,” says Regulus Black with a scoff, arms crossed over his chest, yet no genuine heat in his trenchant eyes. He looks pleased that you return unharmed from your meeting with Healer Robbins. Funnily enough, you’ve no doubt that the famed Black temper would emerge should you utter so much as a single word against the mediwitch. (You like her, though. Some days, Robbins lovingly spiels about her clumsy-footed wife—and in return, you talk about your sad feelings. Eurgh. Talk about a fair exchange.)
Among the many divergences in this life, one of them is the unforeseen friendship you have forged with Regulus Arcturus Black. But that story begins with Xenophilius Lovegood, when you stumble upon him in the Forbidden Forest chasing after a family of bowtruckles with a fervid expression and a journal in one hand. You protect him from foul-mouthed Ravenclaws, and he allows you to tag along in his woodland escapades—including a lifelong access to the kitchens beyond curfew. His lack of regard for personal safety is both endearing and maddening, you realize early on. One stormy night, you chase Xenophilius into the forest—he is barefoot, following the Mooncalf hoofprints, as you spit out strings of expletives and mouthfuls of rain. That is where you find Regulus, groaning in pain and carrying a burden that is much too heavy for a fifteen-year-old.
Then, a year later, they decide to give you a heart-attack when you discover that Pandora and Xenophilius have taken Regulus under their wing—figuratively and literally. And, most of all, romantically.
You’re more speechless than Sirius had been when you catch him one fateful evening.
(“Don’t do it, Sirius Black,” you greet, startling the ebony-haired boy as you step out from the shadows. The common room is silent, save for the crackling embers in the fireplace. You stare at the sixteen-year-old with a vehement resolve, your hands curled into fists. If there is one fixed event you had to live through over and over again, it is the news of Severus Snape being nearly mauled to death by a creature so feared and gruesome. You will not let it happen in this life. His eyes flicker with shame amongst a sea of gray, and he knows that you know about his abhorrent idea of a ‘prank.’
You sigh, taking another step forward, hand coming to rest on his tense shoulder. “Let it go, Sirius. It’s not worth it. Bringing someone to harm is never worth it. If he dies, his blood will be on your hands—and you don’t want that, trust me. Be kind to him, Sirius—and even kinder to your brother. The two of you are all each other has.”
“Not true,” Sirius whispers back, almost afraid, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheeks. “I have you, Prongs, Lily, and Rem.”
“And Remus is exactly who we should be with right now,” you reply with a harsh glare. “Not in the common rooms trying to one-up Snape because of some childish rivalry.” With a long sigh and a shake of your head, you push back the dark curls from his face. “The times are cruel, Sirius. We must hold onto what we can.”
His forehead will fall onto your shoulder, and your shirt will be soaked with his tears, but you realize that you will hold him, and all those who’ve captured your heart, until Death himself pries you away from their embrace.)
But, it all pales in comparison to the horror in Sirius’s eyes when you point at Regulus and Peter, as you utter with absolute conviction, “They are my dearest friends.”
While Peter may have been a traitor in another life, a murderer with blood and guilt staining his hands—he is only a skittish boy in this one. A timid student who hides behind the shadows of his friends. You will not let him go down that path again. The Peter Pettigrew you currently know is a mousy little thing, pun intended, who sneaks in a pouch of sugared jelly worms in the library for you and him to enjoy whilst copying off each other’s Arithmancy homework—you two automatically get perfect marks, seeing as you’ve went through school multiple lifetimes already. Truthfully, when you see him tongue-tied before Mary Macdonald, you can’t envision anything else than a lifeless body and a man apologizing for his sins. But it is hardly fair to condemn Peter for the sins of a life he has not lived—and will never live through, if you have anything to say about.
A lion protects their pride, and that is what you shall do. Even if it tears you apart in the process. (Healer Robbins won’t be so pleased about that, though.)
But, perhaps, the most unexpected surprise you’ve received this year is—shockingly—not the news of Dorcas and Marlene dating, and neither is Alice and Frank’s relationship as you have already known that since your first life. It is James, Remus, Lily, and Sirius announcing to the world, with a poorly-written poem for a gnome to recite on Valentine’s Day—courtesy of James Potter himself—that the four of them are in love. In all five lives, that has never happened. Not even Lucius Malfoy can call into question the genuineness of their devotion to one another—and he will not dare to do so in your presence, otherwise he’d find himself at the mercy of you and Narcissa Black.
The four of them are happy as one, and you would die to ensure they stay together until the end of their time. Dark lords be damned.
An even bigger shock comes when their affection for each other unspokenly extends to you. Not in a manner that equals their rambunctious gestures—because the Marauders don’t do anything half-arsed. (And if they fall in love, they fall without fear.) But in a way that is quiet yet intense, ever-so mindful of your walls—with an intention to break them down slowly and only with your utmost permission. They leave you confused with each day that passes. (You fear that they think you pitiful for having not found a significant other.)
(For months now, your heart is set aflutter just by the sound of their voices—if they look at you as a token charity case, it would tear you apart.)
Forehead kisses, hand-holding in the corridors, late nights in the kitchen—tipsy on gillywater and the scathe of each other’s touch. Picnics by the lake, bodies intertwined where no one knows where they begin or end. Ventures in the library where not a soul is paying attention to the passages of their textbooks—hushed giggles turning into unrestrained laughter until Madam Pince rounds the corner and has you all thrown out. (How long has it been since you felt so free?) It’s the little things, like your fingers brushing against theirs as you walk side-by-side, or the soft glint in their eyes as they stare at you from across the room—as though you are a jewel to behold.
It is one thing to know that you are living a life after life—but it is another thing entirely to feel alive when they are nearby.
You are alive when Remus relaxes on the carpeted floor of the Gryffindor tower, and as you lay on the velvet couch, he draws protection runes on your palm with his finger. When he thinks you’re asleep, he presses a kiss to the back of your hand. When the nights are unbearably long and you find a safe haven in his embrace, and he in yours.
You are alive when James cages you in a bear hug after an intense Quidditch match against Slytherin, limp tendrils of hair clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, pressing a series of fervent kisses to the side of your head until his voice is louder than the cries of victory coming from the cheering stands.
(“Lay back down, James Fleamont Potter,” you command tersely as you push him onto the infirmary bed. You narrow your eyes at the bandages wrapped around his arms and neck, as though it’d personally wronged you. “Don’t even think about getting up,” you quickly add when you notice his droopy eyes staring at the doors—where Sirius, Remus, and Peter have gone off for a night of mischief. With an exaggerated sigh, James will roll his eyes before pulling you into the bed with him.)
You are alive when Lily scours the Great Hall in the mornings, hair fussed from sleep and her face bare, and when her eyes finally land on you—none misses the way she lights up blindingly, as if she were a poppy flower emerging from the forest floors and all her petals are curling towards the sun. She bounds over to you with a smile that draws everyone in the room to her. And your heart will have no choice but to swell three times its size when Lily falls asleep mid-meal, snoring with her neck bent and a spoon dangling from her mouth.
You are alive when Sirius dashes across the room to claim you as his Potions partner. He’ll spend the rest of the class with a triumphant grin on his face—sitting on a rickety chair as he lazily admires the view of your backside. And may the Gods help the poor soul who dares to question your work.
(“See that lovely creature over there?” Sirius will say with a dangerous lilt to his voice, pointing to you who’s quite busy squabbling with Severus and Barty Jr. over frog legs. “They will be the greatest apothecary to ever walk the wizarding world—so watch your tongue, mate.”)
They are your limbs, the blood in your veins—the ache in your heart. The fires of your soul. And when they are near, you are finally whole. (Healer Robbins certainly won’t like that, either—but this is a thought you shall selfishly keep for yourself.)
That is why you had come to a decision at the beginning of the year.
“I need to tell you all something,” you say, breaking out of your stupor and finally meeting everyone’s eyes. You meet Sirius’s gaze from where he leans against the wall, his attention on you—and only you. You reckon he notices the way you’re fidgeting nervously with your fingers, gnawing on your lip as you suck in a deep breath. It’s similar to the way he acted when he first told the group about his intentions to run away from his mother. Healer Robbins told you earlier to not dwell on the past—it’s only a thing that time-travelers do, she had said. You suppose there’s no better way to exercise honesty than to tell your loved ones about the secret you have been keeping for the last five lifetimes. You just hope they won’t look at you differently when all is said and done.
Marlene’s gaze worriedly flickers from you and to the infirmary doors. “Has the mediwitch said something?”
You shake your head. “There’s something you should know about me.”
Like a badly-written joke, a pack of lions, a snake, and a badger follows you into an empty classroom. They watch with furrowed brows as you cast a silencing charm over the room. You feel the weight of their curiosity as you take a seat in the center, drumming your nails on your lap as everyone moves to do the same. Remus wordlessly takes the seat next to you, as though being by your side is a natural phenomenon—like the shores never straying from the sand. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze and you return his kindness with a weary smile. You look at the protective circle that’s somehow formed around you. Marlene, Dorcas, Mary, Xenophilius, Regulus, Lily and the Marauders. (Since when did you gain a family like this in such a short time?)
“Where do I even begin?” you ask with a shuddery breath. “It might get a bit intense. . . and sad, and I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you. So it’s okay if you aren’t prepared to take this all in yet. I’d understand.”
“What one of us goes through, we all go through together,” Dorcas vows with her head high. “It’s not the first time we’ve done this, love,” she says, looking at everyone else in the room. “We’re here for you. Always have been. It’s what friends are for, aren’t they? You taught us that. Let us return the favor now.”
You laugh wetly, eyes crinkling with gratitude. “I suppose you’re right.”
There is no time like the present.
And if all goes awry, you probably might just jump out of a window and reset everything. (You wouldn’t, really. This life is precious to you more than anything in the world.)
You close your eyes and draw air into your lungs.
No time like the present.
“When I first died, I was only nineteen.” Despite the pinched expressions and soft gasps, you force the words out. You have to. Otherwise, the tale of your lives will be buried with you forever. This is the first time you have ever said the words aloud. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying. “Death Eaters came to Diagon Alley. It all happened so fast, next thing I knew the killing curse was cast straight at me.”
Regulus flinches, and you offer him an apologetic grimace.
“But that wasn’t the end,” you continue amidst their horrified wide-eyes—feeling Remus tighten his hold on your hand. You chuckle bitterly. “If it had been, maybe it all would’ve hurt less. When I woke up, I was back in the Gryffindor tower.”
“What?” Lily frowns as a shadow is cast over her eyes. “But how?”
“I wish I knew,” you reply with a lodge in your throat, eyes thick with incoming tears. “I really wish I knew. But I woke up back in Hogwarts. I was alive again. Somehow, someway, I was alive. But I was dying.” You shut your eyes, head craning to the ceilings as you swallow back a sob. “Have you felt what it’s like to be burnt alive? That’s what the killing curse is like. And I feel it everyday. When I told the nurses this, I was sent straight to St. Mungo’s. They could not heal what was not found in my body. They called me mad. And there was nothing I could do but believe them. It was like that until I died on an infirmary bed, leather straps around my wrists and legs, forbidden to leave the ward and feel even the sunlight on my face. I was deemed a threat to the others and myself.”
Lily beats you to the punch and cries into her hands—the harrowing sound torn from her throat. Mary, with her own stream of tears, pulls Lily into a hug.
“I-I told you it was ugly,” you say timidly, averting your gaze out of remorse. “We can stop here if you’d like.”
“We’re staying,” says Lily with a guttural edge to her words, eyes quickly growing red.
“Then, in my third life, I died by a. . . Greyback—it was Greyback who killed me.” You intertwine your fingers with Remus’s, who’s gone ashen from the reveal. “It’s alright.”
“The bloody hell do you mean it’s alright?” James bellows, running a hand through his hair as he tears himself from his seat, chest heaving up and down. “None of this is alright! How could you say that? We. . .We should tell Dumbledore or something—or anyone! This shouldn’t have happened to you—it’s just too cruel. . .”
“I know,” you acquiesce with a low hang of your head. “I know.”
Sirius exhales jaggedly. “Was that the last of it? Of your. . . your deaths?”
“No.” You stare at him with regret. “In my fourth life, I died in a Death Eater ambush.”
Xenophilius looks like he might faint any second.
“But in my fifth life, I met some people in the Muggle world,” you explain, remembering kind eyes and wide smiles, a family made in a home far away from magic and wars. “I loved them dearly. When I thought I was being punished by Gods, they gave me peace. They taught me unconditional love and I. . .” You let the tears drip onto your skirt. “I might never find them again, but I’ll never forget them for as long as I live. It was the only death given to me without pain.”
You watch as Lily’s doe-eyes flicker with realization. Three flowers in a watery grave.
“And here I am now. The end,” you say, forcing a crooked grin as you brush the dust off your school robes.
No one moves a muscle for the next few minutes.
You freeze in fear.
(Have you upset them? Do they see only a talking corpse now?)
The room is suffocatingly quiet and you can’t bear to see the pity or judgment in their eyes—so you run out of the room as though Death himself was hot on your heels.
They are right behind you—of course, they are. (Where a part of their soul goes, they will follow.)
“Are you angry?” You quietly ask, wrapping your arms around your waist—afraid to turn around and face them. “I would not blame you if you are.”
“No, not mad. Never.” Lily falls into place by your side, hovering but never stepping past your erected borders. “Maybe at the circumstances. It’s all so unfair. I’m. . . We’re just upset that you had to live through that all alone. To die over and over. I can’t imagine how much it must have hurt each time.”
You nod, swallowing the urge to crumble on the floor. “Then you’ll understand why. . . why you and I—all of us—I can’t be with you.”
Remus frowns, stepping forward to reach out to you. “What?”
“Don’t make this any harder than this has to be, please,” you beg, voice hoarse and hands trembling.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Sirius presses further, a bitter acid to his words. He looks frightened, almost—guilt instantly pools in your stomach.
“Don’t you see? Everything is changing!” You exclaim, grateful that you’ve chosen the abandoned corridors of the castle where no one dares to venture on a sunny day. “I can’t protect you if I don’t know what’s to happen next! I’d rather die again than let any of you get hurt.”
“Then don’t!” shouts James, veins straining against his neck, tears of his own glistening within his hazel eyes. “I would rather die than pretend none of what I feel—what we feel—for you isn’t real.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying, James,” you retort with a sharp scoff. “I’ve no need for a relationship that’s borne from pity or charity.”
“Pity?” Lily echoes incredulously. “You think I’ve confused love for pity? Is that how low you think of us? After all that we’ve been through?”
“Are you stupid?” Sirius bites back.
“Excuse me?” you shriek. “Must I spell it out for you? I’m trying to protect you! I am cursed!”
“Not anymore than I am!” Remus bellows with his fists tightly clenched, his canines laid bare and his cheeks lit ablaze. “If you’re cursed, I must be damned. Why can’t you allow yourself the same grace that you’ve given us?”
You wilt. “I can’t do it, Remus. I just can’t. If I die again, and everything resets—don’t you know how much it will kill me if we start as strangers again?”
Remus encases you in his warmth, an embrace that promises to keep you safe from all harm. (What good of a monster would he be if he can’t rip apart your fears for you?) “Then we will find you in that life. And every life after that. We’ll use a pensieve, or anything at all—just so we don’t forget.”
You melt in his arms, bathing in his scent of caraway and bergamot. You feel Remus placing a kiss on the crown of your head. “All these things I know. All these lives I’ve lived through. What if I ruin everything in this life?”
“Then do it,” Lily provokes stubbornly.
“Ruin me,” James pleads raspingly—a falter in his steps as though he’d get on his knees and beg in an instant just for you to stay with them. “Ruin me as much as you’d like. You would be the most beautiful devastation of my life.”
And so, you choose them.
For there was never any other option from the start.
YOU WAKE UP in the dead of the night, sunken in a mattress that is one too small for five people to fit in, leafy vines and fairy lights wrapped around the posters of the bed. Sometime during the night, Lily had thieved the wool blanket for herself. You rest in between her and Sirius, their snores echoing into your ears as the grasshoppers chirp outside. The potted plants will swing from the ceiling as the evening breeze passes by. (You’ll scold James in the morning for leaving the windows open again.) By your feet, is a fat Tabby cat with one eye named Tuna. (Full name: Tuna Belly.) There are moving pictures on the flower-plastered wall, a testament to the life you share—and the life you have fought hard for. Ruffled pillows are strewn across the carpeted floor. Parchments and notes lay askew on the desk table across the room—Remus’s jittery preparation for his first day next week as Hogwarts’s newest professor.
Remus will catch you wide awake and tuck you into his chest, murmuring, “Rest now. We’ve got an early morning tomorrow for Wormy’s wedding.”
You’ll hum and relinquish your thoughts for the night, holding onto James hand over Remus’s belly. “I love you,” you’ll whisper.
Remus will say it back without hesitation—and you know the others feel exactly the same.
Minutes later, the door will creak open and a tiny shadow will come crawling into the bed, knocking into everyone’s knees and stomach. It’s a little Harry who’s three years old now. He curls under your neck and you will hold him with all the love that six lifetimes can offer and more.
When you close your eyes, it is a comforting darkness that envelopes you.
(Somewhere in a castle beyond valleys and lakes, locked away in the dusty shelves of Dumbledore’s cupboards, sits a broken Time-Turner that finally stops ticking.)
a/n: i wrote the last 2k words like a woman posessed! LMAO. i have to be at training in 2 hours and i haven't prepared yet. tell me what you thought aaaaa!!!! and yes, your sixth life is your last life so u die happily and in peace mwah mwah. might continue this universe with drabbles, idk. if u spot any mistakes.. ignore it for a bit LMAO, i'll proofread this soon.
Summary: can u do a mega sad avengers imagine (no pairing) where reader®-spidey’s age-is depressed & everyone is v concern like ?u ok bro? & R’s like !yea totally man! :’) *internally crying* & the team has wanda or someone read R’s mind & sees that R is mourning her friend who went missing & died & the team’s all like :O ?? y u no tell us ?? & R breaks down n tells them she hasn’t been eatin & sleepin right & just feels like crap. basically just platonic buck, loki, pietro & parker cuddles. (vanilla)
Request: by the coolest, @hey-garrett-shut-up.
Warnings: Avengers x Reader, Angst, Fluff.
Note: A golden request for a golden person.
How does one heal from pain?
The kind of pain that just rips you apart on the inside without mercy. Pain that breaks down every inch of your soul. Pain that tears your heart out as you lay in bed, tear after tear falling from your face onto your pillow.
People revolved around pain, as much as they’d hate to admit it. We fear pain incredulously. We inflict pain for some sick reason. And some of us, tend to crave for pain just so we can feel alive.
But how did you heal from pain?
Were you supposed to confine yourself and hide away until you’ve considered yourself healed? Or were you supposed to seek help and voice out all your worries? The answer to that question flew out the window as the heartache removed your common sense.
All you could feel was the aching pain in your heart, the tightness squeezing your chest. Your muffled sobs were all you could hear. As you let out a whimper, you now realized that your own lips were trembling to the point of numbness.
Life was unfair. How could God just give you the best person you’ve ever known and take them away just like that?
With a blurry sight, you look a swift gaze at the room. You found no closure at all. Instead, you felt flaming rage that burned your rationality within seconds.
Raw fury blinded you. One moment you were curled up on the floor and the next you broke a vase laying on your bedside table. Only did you realize that when you felt the shard of glass digging in your skin — but there was no way that you’d stop now.
The stinging sensation of the wound had you craving for more — something, anything. You were going to mask your pain with another layer of tantalizing agony. And with grief and anger as a mindset, chaos ensued.
Screaming out whatever was left of your broken heart, you grabbed another picture frame and threw it to the other side of the room. You watched as the shards of glass fell onto the floor.
You did this again. Again. And again. When you could find no more picture frames, you screamed once more in aggravation until there was nothing but a paralyzed soul left of you.
You slumped against the wall, finally running out of tears to cry. Now, you felt nothing.
Broken and cold, you laid there, wondering if you’d ever heal from the pain.
“Now, I’m telling you, the soundproof walls were an amazing idea.”
Tony Stark was quite ecstatic with his latest investment. He was rather proud, too. So much that he had yet to notice a certain person was missing from the breakfast table.
“Vision,” Steve called out with a sigh, keeping his eyes locked on the newspaper he was reading. “How long do you think we’ll have to suffer through this?”
A couple of seconds later, there was not one reply. Steve called out again, “Vision?”
The third time it happened, Steve finally tore his eyes away from the latest news and realized that Vision was in a hushed conversation with Wanda. Steve cleared his throat, “Care to share, Vis?”
Vision drifted away from his talk, he looked impossibly grim and solemn. “I can feel Y/N’s norepinephrine and serotonin reducing by the minute.”
“English?” Steve asked, wondering why Vision suddenly was worried about this.
“It’s a type of chemical in the body,” Tony answered on behalf. Though he didn’t think much of it at the time. “Depressed people have low levels of this. But we shouldn’t worry, she must be watching some sad movie.”
“Then why do I feel so much pain every time I think of her?” Wanda interjected, the shimmering of unshed tears in her eyes. Her voice cracked with her next words. “Why do I feel so much chaos in my head? There’s this emptiness in my soul. As if there was no more hope in the world.”
Vision nodded. “I think we should check up on her. After all, the loss of self is the greatest of all.”
The Avengers canceled their breakfast and headed to your bedroom, each step growing heavier by the minute as the concern weighed down their heart. As they finally reached the door, Natasha made her way in front of it.
“Honey, are you there?” Natasha called after a few knocks, dread cornering her for the first time. With no reply from the other side, she took a deep breath and called for you again. “Please open the door for us, angel.”
Once more, there was nothing.
Bucky replaced Natasha in place. He rested his head against the door, praying to anyone who was listening and begging that you were alright. “Can you hear me, doll? We just want to know if you’re okay.”
Two agonizing seconds passed, the wait killed everyone inside. Then they heard it, with great focus, they heard the ever so quiet whimper coming from you. Perhaps, the thought of you in any kind of pain was so foreign that they didn’t know how to react.
Bucky acted on instinct. His foot came in contact with the door, breaking it down effortlessly. He ignored the yells of disapproval as he searched for you. The moment he found you curled up in the floor surrounded with stray pieces of glass, his whole body shut down.
Immediately, he ran to you, cradling you in his arms. He whispered soft words as he rocked you back and forth. “It’s alright. It’s alright. We love you so damn much. We’re all going to be here for you.”
Emotionless, you stared at the plain wall. Then you felt the first droplets of tears — it came from Bucky. It was as if you felt a little spark that was the beginning of a small chance for hope.
You allowed yourself to be vulnerable, shedding one tear after another. But there was something letting you go this time. Sobbing in his arms, “… gone… meant everything to me.”
Bucky held you tighter. “Oh, doll. Why didn’t you tell us?”
You didn’t get to answer as someone scooped you up like a feather. Looking up, you realized it was Steve carrying you to the bed. He laid you down gently, fluffing your pillows. After a wordless minute, he gave you a quick hug and said, “I’m here for you, too.”
Multiple brushes of wind got your attention. After recognizing it to be Pietro, you noticed he was picking up the broken pieces of glass. Within another second, he was right in front of you, holding a hot mug of chocolate. “Feel better soon, princess. I’ll be back with pizza.”
The next person to approach you was Tony, he had a few tears slithering down his face. He held your hand and knelt at the side of your bed. “I’m so sorry, kid. This’ll never happen again. I didn’t notice this because of the stupid soundproof walls.”
“Okay,” You managed to whisper, your voice was absolutely wrecked from screaming. But as wise people said, actions spoke louder than words. You pulled Tony in for a deep hug. Unknowingly to yourself that your heart had stopped aching.
A series of barks caught your attention. You looked around for the source of the sound. It was Loki standing at your doorway, he had a leash in his hand. Then you finally noticed your favorite kind of dog by his side. Loki grinned at you, “Don’t ask how I got it.”
The dog ran quickly to your side, resting on your legs upon arrival. As the dog did that, Peter Parker arrived as well.
He brought a stack of DVDs and a laptop. With nothing but a smile from him, you leaned into him for a hug as well.
You felt the bed dip beside you. Turning around, you saw that it was Natasha cuddling up to you.
“Nat,” You said, a question rising in your throat. “How do you heal from pain?”
She knew the exact answer. Being with the Avengers for so long taught her how to heal from pain, to cope with grief, and control anger. And if there was one thing she mastered to control with the help of the Avengers, it was pain.
hey I was wondering if u could do a bakugo x reader imagine where his s/o and the girls r talking and all the boys r like y are they all laughing so hard and stuff but it was bc bakugos s/o was bragging about how fucking cool he is and saying he’s a king and stuff and saying she’s whipped. I’m so sorry if this doesn’t make sense but thank u sm 🌈🌈🌈
this is so so so cute, yes, i will most definitely do this. i hope you don’t mind the length
…
“what the hell are they laughing at?” kaminari eyed the group of girls from where he was sat with bakugou, kirishima, and sero.
kirishima shrugged, “dunno, maybe girly stuff.”
“should we get closer so we could hear?”
“maybe if we don’t make it obvi–”
“oi, whatever the fuck they’re talking about doesn’t matter when i’ll destroy your asses at this damn game,” bakugou grumbled.
kaminari rolled his eyes, sparing a few glances at the girls bunched up around the couches in the living space.
“oh my god,” jirou laughed as she pointed at you, “i think i get it now!”
you quirked a brow, “jirou-san, what are you ta–”
“you’re fucking whipped!”
a bloom of red blossomed over your cheeks, mouth opening and closing as you fruitlessly thought of a snarky remark.
“you’re right, jirou-kun,” ashido exclaimed with a wide grin. “she can’t even speak!”
you glared, “what? he’s my boyfriend! he’s just… he’s so fucking cool! the way he can just face any problem he’s put up against, or how he can literally cause explosions in his hands, and how fucking strong he is! it’s amazing, i mean, have you seen those muscles?!”
tsuyu laughed into the palm of her hand, “(name)-chan, you are most definitely whipped.”
“s-so what…,” you grumbled, eyes flitting away and accidentally making eye contact with kaminari, who was staring at your little group curiously.
“i don’t know, i think it’s kind of cute,” uraraka said. “the way you admire him, it’s like deku-kun and all might.”
“hah?!” you jumped, eyes darting towards the gravity girl.
the girl blanched, “n-no! i mean, the way you admire him, it’s-it’s really cute and sweet!”
“i can’t help it,” you groaned. “i just… baku-kun’s so cool, and he completely dominates the fucking field with his quirk. he’s like a god out there, so unlike the rest of the class or even the school. the way he can adjust to any environment and be so diligent about schoolwork and homework and make time for everything!”
jirou rolled her eyes, “and… saying all this isn’t really helping your case, (name). if anything, it proves my point that you’re so damn whipped for bakugou.”
“yeah, yeah, whatever, can we just–”
“oi, (name)!” a voice called.
a blush rose to your cheeks, “y-yeah?”
“c’mere!” bakugou said, his brow quirked up in the slightest at your red face.
you looked sheepishly at the girls surrounding you, “uh….”
and as you walked away, you could hear ashido faintly imitating a whip.
warnings: mentions of death | mentions of physical and mental abuse | dark themes | fluff!
genre: reunited lovers | fluff
words: 2k
❥ notes: fic for our favorite drunk
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Haymitch Abernathy.
He was someone you knew well- he was your mentor at a point. The 53rd Hunger Games.
It was weird having him as a mentor, he was so close in age to you, just two years older.
Yet he seemed so much older.
Like he had gone through years and years of pain, which he did in only a short period of time- you’d later go through the same thing yourself.
He barely told you anything about the games, suggested for you to start drinking and run while you can.
You thought he was a complete ass- he was pathetic really.
But during the brief time you had with him, you managed to somewhat enjoy his presence.
His bluntness and “carefree” attitude had certainly felt refreshing, and he managed to make you laugh.
He’d never admit it out loud but he liked you, he thought you were beautiful you reminded him of his late girlfriend that’s the only reason he tried to make you laugh.
It was the second night before the games, you couldn’t sleep. Of course you couldn’t- your death was slowly creeping closer.
You remember hearing a shout from Haymitch’s room- you rushed out of your bed and to his room, flinging his door wide open.
“Haymitch?! Are you alright?” You ask aloud, peeking your head into his room, straining your eyes to try and find him in the dark.
Why were you worried?
Haymitch’s eyes widen when he sees you. He gets out of bed with a huff, walking over towards you and blocking you from coming in- eyes moving up and down your body before he looks back at you.
“It’s almost midnight, you shouldn’t be here” His tone doesn’t come across as harsh, but there is some anger behind it.
“I- I’m sorry..I just thought something was wrong..” You say, awkwardly looking away from him.
He was having a nightmare- of what you didn’t know, and didn’t want to know.
"Nothing's wrong."
Haymitch's tone is flat and emotionless. He is not in a good mood, but seeing your expression makes him soften just a bit.
"But what are you doing up so late? Shouldn't you be asleep?"
“I couldn’t sleep..” You mutter out, “I don’t think I could- or can”
You were scared, scared of not knowing what will happen, scared of now knowing how you’ll die in that arena.
The change in his expression is slight. His lip softens slightly and his eyes flicker with pain, but there is also something else there.
There's a long pause. Haymitch sighs and gestures for you to come inside. "Get in here."
He closes the door behind you and leads you over to his bed, sits down and gestures for you to sit down next to him. He wraps an arm around you, drawing you close to him.
You don’t move away from his embrace, you didn’t know if this would be the last time you’d be in someone’s arms.
“What were you having a nightmare about?” You ask softly- and rather hesitantly, you didn’t know how Haymitch would react to that question.
You knew that when he won his games he was barely living- disemboweled by the other last tribute.
Haymitch lets out a sigh when you ask the question and holds you even closer. The nightmares have been getting more frequent lately, but he can't explain that to you.
He leans his head back on the headboard and is silent for a moment. Finally, he speaks in a quiet voice.
"I was back in that arena."
“Do you ever wish you died in there?” You ask, eyes flickering to dance over his face.
His eyes lock on to yours, there's a haunted look in them. "Every single day."
His voice is heavy and his words are full of emotion. There is so much unsaid, so many things that he never wants to tell anyone.
The nightmares, the depression, the memories. He wants to keep it all buried within himself and never let anyone see.
He did a good job at it- burying it all with alcohol.
“Did your family ever think of you differently after it?” You ask, reaching for his hand to play with his fingers.
Two humans in need of comfort- of reassurance.
Haymitch pursed his lips at your question, “No, I don’t think they did..I didn’t have time to ask them..” He said with a dry chuckle.
The phrasing of his words made you realize- he had no family, at least not anymore.
“I’m sorry..” You whisper out. You didn’t know much about Haymitch’s family, well apparently there wasn’t much to know.
“No need to be sorry.” He says as he tightens his grip on you. He pulls you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you and resting his head on top of yours.
It had been so long since he'd last felt the comfort of a girl's embrace. He didn’t have the capacity to reject it right now. Especially not when he knew that soon, you would be gone.
“You remind me of her..” He mutters out, looking blankly at the wall.
“Of who?” You ask, shifting to look up at him.
That night you understood why he chose alcohol.
That night you understood why he would’ve picked death in that arena.
Haymitch couldn’t believe what he was witnessing- you made it. There was just one last person alive with you, a career from district 1.
The arena was a forest, it wasn’t a bad place. You were used to forests.
You had spent your time hiding, ignoring the many alliances- you knew they would all end up killed by each other.
You used the little information and help Haymitch gave you and managed to survive till the end.
But you figured out something the Capitol didn’t want you knowing- it was brief, but Haymitch caught on too.
He knew as soon as he saw the other tribute die by your hands he wouldn’t see you again.
A wave of relief and exhaustion washes over you, it was done- you made it out.
You look down at the body of the girl you killed- Goldinia, that was her name.
She was a good tribute, she could’ve won it- but somehow you did. There was a glitch in the Capitols system, that was the reason.
Taking in a breath you let out a laugh- why? You didn’t know.
“I did it Haymitch- I did it..” You whisper out, looking up towards the sky, a smile of relief etched on your face.
You’d see him again, and again. Maybe you could help him? And now maybe he could help you.
Maybe you two could be together.
That’s all you remembered, then it was darkness.
“Well..Ms. L/n, I’m sorry things have to be this way..you could’ve been a great asset to me” Snow says, a smirk on his face.
You blink, looking around at your surroundings. A white room, tiles, your hands and feet tied to the bed you laid on- and Snow in front of you.
“No..no I’m supposed to be with Haymitch..” You say, tugging at your restraints, panic starting to set in.
What would happen to him? Your family?
“Oh don’t worry dear..he’s taken care of,” Snow says with a smile, “Now..let’s talk”
He killed Haymitch? He killed your family.
Days and days of mental abuse, and even physical.
You didn’t know how long it had been- days, months, years?
You were barely alive, at least on the inside- mentally you were gone, amount to nothing.
Then one night you were rescued. You couldn’t recall much from that night- just a lot of shouting and darkness.
“How- how is district 13 still alive?” You ask, looking at President Coin then around the hospital unit.
“We’ve been planning a rebellion against the Capitol, we want you to help us” Coin replies calmly, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Can you do that for us?”
Memories of what Snow did to you- of what peacemakers did flash in your mind. “Yes- yes I can”.
Around that time it was the 57th Hunger Games, you didn’t bother watching. You didn’t watch any of the games for years.
You didn’t care, why should you?
“Did you hear the two tributes of 12 both won the games this year?” You overheard some people say in the cafeteria.
Your ears perked up at the mention of that, glancing over you strain to hear more of their conversation.
“Yes! It was incredible..” Another adds on, “I think Katniss is what we needed for this rebellion..” Someone mentions.
You couldn’t help but wonder who was their mentor? It couldn’t have been Haymitch- since he was dead..or well that was what Snow told you.
That’s what Snow wanted you to believe- that’s what he had drilled into you for years, that his death was your fault, that all of it was your fault and that you were worthless.
Maybe he was right.
Haymitch. The man you loved- still love.
“Haymitch?!” You shout, eyes wide as you rush over to the man you recognized walking into the cafeteria.
He looked so different, well of course he did. You two were much older now.
You stop and stand in front of him, eyes dancing across his face- you couldn’t believe it- you couldn’t believe you were seeing him again.
“Y/n..?” Haymitch says, eyes wide in disbelief. With a shaking hand he reaches up to cup the side of your face.
“It’s me..it’s me Haymitch..” You say with a soft smile, tears forming in your eyes. You couldn’t believe he was standing right in front of you.
Haymitch wraps his arms around you, pulling you close to him and burying his head in your neck. “You’re alive..”
"Oh god.. you don't know how many times I've thought about you.." He whispers out, only for you to hear. He slowly pulls away from you and holds you at armslength, eyes searching over your body.
You give him a soft smile, running your fingers through his hair. “Are you still an alcoholic like I remember?” You ask with a small chuckle, ignoring the questioning looks of Katniss- you assumed.
"God I wish I could say no." Haymitch replies with a laugh, but doesn't remove your hands from his hair. He notices her watching you two, his eyes flicker over to her before returning back to you.
"Would you believe me if I said the only way I stayed sane was from the thought of you?"
“No- no I really wouldn’t..” You say with a laugh, smiling at Haymitch.
“Uhm- hey Haymitch..who is this?” You hear Katniss ask, confusion written over her face.
“This Katniss..is Y/n L/n, victor of the 53rd Hunger Games and someone I’m very fond of..” Haymitch says with a grin, moving to stand at your side and wrap an arm around your waist.
Haymitch wraps his arm around your waist to pull you against him. Katniss’ eyes narrow at his comment, she hadn’t anticipated his answer to be so..affectionate.
She found it funny to witness her normally angsty and annoying mentor to be so affectionate- even if he wasn’t being that lovey.
“Right okay…” Katniss replies, looking between you and Haymitch.
“This is crazy..” She mumbles out before walking away and off to some tall guy around her age.
“She’s the hope for the rebellion?” You whisper to Haymitch, looking towards him.
“Yes- you’ll like her, she reminded me of you at times..” He says with a small grin.
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