#Clockwork thinks its funny

[goodfish-bowl]

Hounds on Your Tail

Danny Phantom x Percy Jackson

Masterpost

DP Crossover Angst Week Day 3 - Bleeding out in an Alley Way

Warnings: Minor Gore, descriptions of blood, serious injury, blood loss

Notes: God I wrote this whole thing in less than 2 days. Speedrun time, I guess. Apologies for any errors as a result. It wanted to be longer than intended.

Word Count: 4,505

AO3 Link

Whoever the monsters were chasing after, they were after them with a single-minded focus to be envious of. Not even the demigods on their tails were enough to distract them. It was a group of half a dozen hellhounds, and three harpies, all dead set on chasing the same thing. And whoever they were chasing, was giving them one hell of a chase. 

Percy had only noticed the commotion because he was in the city visiting his mom, and had quickly decided to call for backup as fast as he could. Ms. O’Leary had managed to drag over both Nico and Will, both fully equipped. Annabeth had been tagging along on his visit. She was currently trying to figure out where the monsters and who they were chasing were headed. After the fifth double-back, it was clear that the person running was just trying to shake off the monsters, and possibly the group of demigods too. Percy was trying to at least spot who the monsters were chasing but had yet to catch sight of anything other than a beaten, red sneaker around a corner. 

Will had managed to get a lucky shot in, killing a harpy with one of his arrows, and both Percy and Nico had each gotten a hellhound. Sometime between when the group of demigods had first spotted the monsters and now, a hellhound and a harpy had both vanished. Percy wondered if whoever they were chasing had managed to kill both monsters or if they merely had broken off from the rest of the group. But Percy was getting just a bit tired of playing chase throughout all of New York City, he had no doubt that the monsters’ target was beginning to flag too. 

The remaining four monsters quickly darted around the latest alley detour their unfortunate prey had bolted into. Percy skidded to a halt, suddenly having three hellhounds cornered in a dead-end alley, pinned against a brick wall. The harpy angrily screeched and flew over the wall to continue the chase. Between the four of them, the hell hounds didn’t stand a chance, quickly becoming piles of yellow dust. From the other side of the wall, the harpy screeched again, followed by cries of pain and fighting. 

“Shit! How did they get to the other side of the wall?” Percy cursed, before turning to Annabeth. 

Percy didn’t have to say a thing, only crouch down. Annabeth came at him in a dead sprint. It was timed perfectly, as she stepped up onto his clasped hands and he flung her to the top of the wall, pulling herself up the rest of the way. Nico took hold of Will and vanished into the shadows of the alley. 

Percy was left alone on the opposite side of the alley. Luckily for him, there was a pipe clinging to the bricks of one of the buildings. It had just enough foothold for him to quickly climb up it and perch on top of the brick wall. Below, Will was hunched over a small figure leaning against the bricks, with Annabeth standing to the side, and Nico farther back. Percy jumped down. 

Percy winced, finally getting a glimpse at the person the monsters had been chasing for the past hour, possibly longer before he and Annabeth had noticed. It was a teenage boy with a mess and thick, black hair on his head. Blood seeped heavily from his stomach, and Percy recognized the slash of harpy claws. Will was trying to get the teen to stop clutching his stomach so he could at least check the wound. The boy’s jeans looked like they had been torn up even more from the hellhounds, with two large bite marks visible on his legs. There was blood smeared on the bricks he was leaning against, suggesting another wound on his back. 

“No! I’ll be fine, you have to leave before they come back!” The teen pleaded. 

“I told you, we’ll be fine! We killed the ones who were chasing you. It’s you I’m more worried about. You’re practically bleeding out in this alley! I need to make that harpy didn’t gut you!” Will argued back. 

“You really should let him at least check, he won’t stop until you let him,” Nico added. 

Percy frowned, not liking the situation one bit. He turned to Annabeth, who was glancing between their mystery teen-likely-demigod, and the top of the wall. 

“What is it, Wise Girl?”

“I’m trying to figure out how he managed to get over that wall before the harpy could fly over.”

“There was a pipe I used to get over. He could’ve done that,” Percy offered. 

“Not with two chunks taken out of his legs. I’m surprised he even managed to run after taking damage like that,” Annabeth refuted.

Percy winced, “Yeah, he certainly looks like he’s had a pack of hellhounds on his tail for over an hour.”

“Percy!” Will called out, and he snapped to attention. 

Will had gathered the bleeding boy into his arms, finally revealing a mix of wounds across his back from both claws and talons. 

“Nico and I are taking him back to camp! The slash on his stomach is too deep, I need to treat him there,” Will rushed. 

“Got it,” Percy nodded. “Annabeth and I will meet you back at camp.”

“No,” the teen protested, but was unable to fight back, seeming to be getting weaker by the second. Will’s clothes were slowly being soaked with blood. 

“Hurry,” Nico said. 

Will nodded and the three vanished into the shadows. 

“Percy,” Annabeth called out, walking over and crouching down where the teen had been leaning against the wall. “Is it just me, or is there something off about his blood?”

Percy crouched down to get a closer look, and sure enough, there were the smallest flecks of green of all things in the blood. He didn’t like that one bit. Those monsters had to be after that teen for some reason or another, but Percy had never heard of a demigod with green flecks in their blood either. Whatever it was, the monsters really wanted him dead. 

“We should hurry back to camp,” Percy decided. 

“Yeah.”

And the two took off. 

Danny officially banned himself from the big cities, especially places as crowded as New York City. With Jazz off at college and his leash pulled tight around his parents, there was no way he was getting out of not going to their latest ghost-hunter convention. No excuses had worked, and he had tried everything from faking illness to group projects. Danny had been forcibly dragged from Illinois to NYC in the GAV. Sam and Tucker were keeping a close eye on the portal for him at the very least, and he was sure he could fly back within the day if they got overwhelmed. 

Turns out, his parents had misinterpreted ‘ghostbuster’ for ‘ghost hunter’, and ended up dragging him to a comic con instead. That was cool, and his parents were thought to be cosplayers for all of 10 minutes before security refused to let them through due to their weapons. His parents still had a presentation to do, even if people just thought they were method acting, so Danny got sent back with an armload full of weapons to dump back in the GAV. Unfortunately for him, one went off, thoroughly shorting out his powers. Danny wasn’t going to let that bother him though. He had intended to go back inside and enjoy the con, avoiding his parents the entire while, He didn’t need powers for that. 

But then the first dog monster appeared. 

Danny had thought it was a ghost at first, and with his powers shorted out, he couldn’t necessarily rely on his ghost sense. With no powers and a very aggressive possibly-a-ghost dog on his heels, Danny took off running. Before he knew it, there was a whole pack of them, literally nipping at his heels, and doing their best to tear him to shreds. The bird ladies, (harpies if he remembered correctly), joined in not long after, adding in a much harder ‘dodging’ section to the chase. He thought it was weird no one was freaking out about the dogs of the harpies, but maybe New York was just like that?

Danny knew there were people on his heels too, but he didn’t have time to stop and see if they were also hostile or not. Glancing back had earned him harpy claws to the back. Even worse, the more he bled, the more excited his pursuers seemed to get, trying even harder to tear him to shreds. The pot shots he had managed to take at the dogs and harpies were only towards the end, when the steady hum of his powers, as unreliable as they were, started to return. More of them vanished as the chase went on, and Danny was just going to assume he lost them. He had managed to hit one of each, barely catching them collapse into a yellow powder before accidentally cornering himself in an alley. 

Danny had run into the bricks first, before finally able to slip through them with intangibility. He only had a moment to breathe before the harpy flew over the wall and tackled Danny to the ground, sinking its talons into his gut. He screamed and fired off another desperate ectoblast that missed by a wide margin. 

Danny got to meet his second group of pursuers as two people emerged from the shadows in the alley. One had immediately turned into nothing more than a black blur to Danny’s eyes, forcing the harpy off of him. He had tried to stand up to face the new possible threat, but blood loss forced Danny against the brick wall behind him, sliding down it and likely tearing open the wounds on his back even further. His vision blurred, and Danny was only able to make out golden blonde hair and a bright orange t-shirt approaching him. 

Danny cried out, clutching his stomach while trying to force himself back to his feet. The blonde forced themself between Danny and the view of the fight behind him. There was an impact to his left, and Danny was able to make out another person-shaped blur, also blonde with an orange shirt, who took off to help with the fight. 

“Hey!” The one in front of him tried to get his attention, but he could barely make out the rest of what they said. His head was feeling uncomfortably light. 

Danny struggled for a moment and got his vision to barely focus, but he was able to make out that the person in front of him was a guy and seemed really concerned. 

“Hey, I need you to let me see your wound. I’m a medic, I can help,” the guy demanded. 

Danny immediately recoiled. 

“No! I’ll be fine, you have to leave before they come back!” Danny didn’t want anyone here if there were more possibly-ghosts on his tail. He couldn’t use his powers around other people!

“I told you, we’ll be fine! We killed the ones who were chasing you. It’s you I’m more worried about. You’re practically bleeding out in this alley! I need to make sure that that harpy didn’t gut you!” The medic argued back. 

“You really should let him at least check, he won’t stop until you let him,” a second voice butted in. He sounded like he was underwater. 

The blonde guy said something else, but Danny couldn’t tell what. There was suddenly a hand on his wrist and he attempted to struggle, but the stranger had a vice grip. He forced Danny’s arm away from his stomach, then said something else. It… probably… hopefully looked a lot worse than it really was. Danny had taken hard hits before and still got up. He had to get away. 

Danny felt the hands on him re-adjust and tried to struggle again, but he felt so heavy. He grit his teeth and thrashed as best as he could, but his limbs barely responded. He could feel how absolutely soaked his clothing was though. He was being picked up and the entire world tilted around him. The second person approached, nothing more than a dark blob in Danny’s vision. 

His jumbled senses refused to give him anything else before darkness crept in in more ways than one, and Danny passed out. 

Danny woke up to acute, stinging pain, taking in a sharp breath that caused him to choke. His vision swam in white while he practically hacked out a lung. In less than a second, there was a supportive hand on his back practically propping him up, before slowly lowering him once again. Danny blinked the light out of his eyes, trying to see where he had ended up this time. 

Well, good news, it wasn’t a government facility. Bad news, Danny appeared to be in an infirmary of some kind. The wood interior betrayed it as some sort of cabin, despite its purpose. Danny winced at the familiar sensation of pulling on healing wounds. 

“Sorry, but you might not want to move too much just yet,” a voice apologized. 

Danny snapped to the person standing over him. An older teen with golden blond hair, tanned skin, and light blue eyes. He was definitely familiar, and Danny wondered if this was the same guy from the alley. 

“I just finished with your stitches not that long ago, but now that you’re awake, we can get some ambrosia into you to finish healing the rest of your injuries,” the guy continued. “But you should probably still take it easy for a while.”

Danny just blinked, openly staring at the guy giving him medical advice. He had no idea what ambrosia was. Also stitches, while normally a good thing, was a bad thing for Danny. He was going to end up healing, or burning through them. He prodded just the slightest bit at his core… and good, his powers were back. Which now left his other issue. His caretaker had left his side to go retrieve something from one of the cabinets. 

“Not that I don’t appreciate the medical care, but who are you? And also where am I?” Danny asked. 

The older teen blinked, turning back to Danny. “Oh right! Sorry, guess we forgot introductions due to the circumstances. I’m Will Solace, head of the Apollo Cabin. You’re currently at Camp Half-Blood right now.”

Danny stared at Will, rotating the names in his head. ‘Half-blood’, huh? That certainly said something, but Danny didn’t know what. He wondered if it was a joke of some kind. 

“I’m Danny,” he introduced himself, just giving his first name. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Danny. I’m sure the others are going to be eager to meet you. It’s not often that someone can outrun a group of hellhounds and harpies for that long!” Will praised. 

Danny mouthed the word ‘hellhounds’ in light confusion. Well, at least he got confirmation that other people knew about the dog monsters and bird ladies. He could also rule them out of being ghosts, since Danny had never encountered a ghost that turned into dust after being defeated. 

Will walked back over and placed a small, parchment paper-covered square in his hand. Danny opened it, revealing something that looked like a small lemon square. He sniffed it, getting a citrusy and spiced scent. Weird combination, but a snack was a snack.  

“I know I gave you a whole square but-” Will started, only to yelp as Danny popped the whole square in his mouth without hesitation. 

It tasted pretty close to how it smelt, but had an odd texture, like fudge instead of a lemon bar, but also uncomfortably chewy. It kind of reminded him of ectoplasm in the strong citrus flavor, but lemon instead of lime. The spices were really warm in his mouth like hot cinnamon, instead of the cool tingly flavor he kinda liked from ectoplasm. 

“You weren’t supposed to eat the whole thing!” Will exclaimed, and Danny swallowed. 

Will was on Danny in an instant, checking his temperature with the back of his head. Apparently, he didn’t like what he felt and stuck a thermometer into Danny’s mouth. The thermometer beeped after a moment, and Will snatched it, checking the numbers. His legs and back itched, but Danny couldn’t scratch at them due to his stomach injury, which also itched. 

“Well, you’re not going to burst into flames at least. You’re not even heating up, if anything you’re hypothermic,” Will announced.  

It took him a moment to realize why Will was freaking out, but Danny figured it out eventually. If the terrible lemon square was like ectoplasm, then it was very much not intended for normal consumption without consequences. Will’s words caught up to him then. 

“Wait? Flames?” Danny asked, bewildered. 

“Ambrosia, the food of the gods, can cause normal people to burst into flames. For people like us, eating too much can cause some pretty bad fevers and internal damage,” Will explained. 

That made sense if it was like ectoplasm. But- “What do you mean ‘people like us’?”

Will’s face scrunched up. “Well, um. I’ve only had to give this talk a few times. I’m not normally the one to do it but…” Will made eye contact with Danny. “What do you know about Greek mythology?”

The question seemed a bit left-field to Danny. “A decent amount, I think.” There were ghosts that resembled Greek myths, usually closer to Pandora’s place. 

“Well, it’s not as mythological as it may seem. Everything from monsters, as I’m sure you're familiar with by now, to the gods themselves is very real,” Will said like it was supposed to be some sort of big revelation. 

Danny processed the information. So the ‘hellhounds’, as Will called them, were Greek monsters, not ghosts. Didn’t like that. He liked that they had decided he was a chew toy even less. 

“Okay… and? That revelation didn’t answer the question.”

This time, it was Will’s turn to look gobsmacked for a moment before continuing. “Well, the gods didn’t go anywhere and still exist in modern times. And sometimes they come down and… interact with mortals,” Will added hesitantly. 

Danny remained silent. He still didn’t get where the blonde was going with this. He was very tempted to start picking at the stitches in his stomach. 

Will seemed to give up with whatever subtly he had been attempting. “Demigods. We’re demigods. You, me, most people at this camp.”

“Oh.”

Danny knit his brows together, crossing his arms and frowning, thinking it over. He wasn’t a demigod, that’s for sure. He wasn’t half-god, but half-ghost. Sure, Danny knew there were some pretty terrifying spirits in the Ghost Zone who could easily be mistaken for gods, so it was possible there was a mix-up with him here too. 

“After the monsters and the fact that you didn’t burst into flames after eating the ambrosia, yeah, that pretty much confirms you’re a demigod,” Will said. 

Danny did not want to be involved in whatever this mess was. He had enough problems in Amity Park. 

“Okay, cool. So, um. I’m a demigod, great. What am I supposed to do with that information?” Danny asked. He wanted to leave. His parents would notice eventually he had gone missing sooner or later. 

“Well, Camp Half-Blood exists as a sort of ‘safe spot’, and also a training ground. Monsters can’t get in here. It’s technically a summer camp, but we have campers who stay here both seasonally and year-round. It’s considered really dangerous to be all on your own. You’re probably the oldest new camper we’ve had in a while. Most tend to make their way here between 10 to 12 years old.”

“Do I have to come here?” 

Danny did not want to be forced to attend demigod camp. Being out of Amity Park for a week was terrible, but an entire summer? Yeah, no way. 

Will frowned. “Not… really, but-”

The door to the cabin opened, and another older teenager walked in. Tall, dark hair and sea green eyes. Danny didn’t recognize him at all.

“Hey, Will!” The new guy greeted, before noticing Danny stare at him. “Cool, you’re awake. Did Will give you the whole ‘congrats, you’re a demigod’ speech yet?”

“Percy,” Will practically whined. “I can’t believe you left that to me, but yeah, I did.” Will looked back at Danny. “Danny, this is Percy Jackson, he was part of the group who found you and brought you here. Percy, this is Danny,” Will introduced. 

Danny still didn’t recognize Percy, but he acknowledged that bleeding out on the ground wasn’t especially good for recall. 

“Thanks for the save. I like not being turned into bird food.”

Percy snorted a laugh and Will sighed. “No problem. I didn’t do much. The main people you have to thank is Will here and Nico, wherever he’s at.”

“Probably sleeping,” Will hummed in thought. 

“Probably,” Percy agreed. “By the way Danny, do you have any idea who your godly parent might be? A few of us like to make friendly bets when we get a new kid. I’ve got money on Hermes.”

Danny didn’t get a chance before Will butted back in. 

“Percy, he’s been up just long enough for me to get some ambrosia in him. I literally just explained the whole ‘demigod’ thing,” Will scolded. 

Percy gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry. So, what’d the ambrosia taste like? I know it throws a lot of people off when they first try some,” Percy asked, directing the question towards Danny. 

“Like a lemon bar someone decided to melt an entire bag of red hots in,” Danny described. “So, bad.” 

Both Percy and Will blinked, before Percy snorted, “That’s a new one.”

“It’s not supposed to taste bad. It usually tastes like something you really like,” Will explained. 

“Darn, I guess,” Danny shrugged. “Anyways, I do have to leave.”

“Leave? You’re not sticking around?” Percy asked, surprised. 

Danny shook his head. “Nope. I’m only in New York for a convention with my parents. They’ll probably notice I’m missing sooner or later,” Danny answered truthfully. 

Percy seemed to think about something before asking, “Are you healed up enough to at least get a tour? I understand if you have to go, but it’d probably be a good idea to at least get your hands on a weapon just in case you get attacked again.”

That, Danny could agree to. He wiggled a bitin his bed a bit, noticing that the itching had finally subsided. His stomach was still a bit sore, but other than that, and the stitches that sorely needed to be removed, he was fine. 

“Sure,” Danny said, sitting up and throwing his legs over the side. 

Will seemed dumbfounded but wasn’t able to get the words out before Percy declared, “Neat. Then let’s go!”

And Danny managed to escape the infirmary. 

Percy decided he liked Danny. He was laid back and friendly enough, giving just as much snark as he got. From what he had heard, a lot of new campers tended to freak out for at least an hour, but Danny took it all in stride, more exasperated than shocked. It was a little odd, but Percy brushed it off as just part of Danny’s personality. It wasn’t a bad trait to have. 

Percy made sure to give a decent tour as they made their way to the weapons shed. He asked questions and answered some, learning that Danny was originally from a place called Amity Park in Illinois. His parents were here for the Comic Con, and Danny got dragged along. He said he had always been quick on his feet. Percy really hoped Danny would come back for the summer, even if he couldn't stay now. He told Danny all the demigod basics, from what ‘claiming’ was, how the camp was laid out, and even some of the activities they participated in when there were more people around. 

From the weapons shed, Danny ended up picking a bronze short sword and was given a sheath to go with it. He told Percy that he knew how to use it just a bit from a couple of martial arts classes. He told Danny to come back and he could personally teach him how to sword fight like a pro. 

But throughout the whole tour, Percy picked up on the nonchalance Danny seemed to have, more like he was a tourist instead of someone who had finally found a place to stay. He definitely wasn’t planning on coming back, but he might anyway. Percy knew personally very well that plans rarely went according to plan. They got plenty of attention while walking around, since news of Danny’s chase had already managed to spread throughout the camp. There were some jeers and encouragement from people who tried to recruit him for Capture the Flag. Percy claimed he already called dibs. Danny just laughed. 

They were somewhere near the pavilion when it happened. 

Percy had just managed to convince Danny to at least stick around for dinner. A bright symbol appeared over Danny’s head, causing everyone who had been gathering to pause. Percy recognized the symbol, but never over anyone’s head in a claiming. It wasn’t a symbol that should even be possible to appear.

The air in camp changed immediately, and Danny noticed just as fast. His stance changed from lax into defensive. He knew how to fight a lot better than he let on, or perhaps it was just instinct. Percy hoped it was instinct. 

“What’s that? What’s going on?” Danny practically demanded. 

“You’ve been claimed,” Percy stated, more in horror than awe. 

“Claimed? By who?” Danny was just as confused as everyone else seemed to be. 

But Danny didn’t understand, he didn’t know. It was impossible, it was catastrophic, even. Danny didn’t realize just how bad this was.

“Son of Cronos,” someone hissed. 

Danny finally seemed to get the memo then, his facial expression going from confusion, to shock, to realization, and then to irritation of all things.

“Ancients, of course he did,” Danny growled under his breath. 

Percy had to act fast, he had to- his hand slipped right through Danny’s wrist, who leaped back out of reach at the same time Percy moved.

“Yeah, I’m leaving now,” Danny said. “Thanks for the sword and the tour, but I gotta go.”

“Wait!” Percy called out, jumping towards Danny again. 

He vanished. No flash, no sound, just gone, leaving only footprints behind. 

Percy cursed under his breath in a thorough mix of both Greek and Latin. He took a glance towards the head table, where Mr. D and Chiron were both also staring. Chiron looked like he had just aged 40 years, and Mr. D looked about ready to break his sobriety with something much stronger than wine and deeply, deeply exhausted. 

Yeah, this was beyond bad. 

[captain-krow-drozdov]

Danny Is An Alternate Version Of Ra's Al Ghul And Flash Already Called Dibs On Adopting Him

Danny In All His Sleep Deprived Slightly Scuffed Up From A Fight Glory Is On His Way To Clockworks Tower To Hopefully Get A Nap And Maybe Some Homework Done When A Natural Portal Opens Up In Front Of Him And Proceeds To Unceremoniously Drop Him In The DC Verse Just Outside Of Central City Before Promptly Closing Leaving A Tired Danny Behind In A Run Down Abandoned Parking Lot.

It's Times Like This When Danny Regrets Putting Off Learning How To Make His Own Portals, Cause Now He Is Very Much Stuck For The Foreseeable Future And He Has No Idea Where Or When He Is. Luckily For Him However Central City Isn't Too Far Away, Unlucky For Him However Is That Once In The City He Realizes This Isn't His Dimension. He's Pretty Sure He'd Remember Something Called The Justice League.

So What Do You Do When Supernatural Bullshit Fails You? You Fall Back On Your Mad Scientist Roots And You Make A Portal Gun. So That's Exactly What Danny Plans To Do.

Unfortunately Staying Alive And Building Questionably Safe Portal Technology Requires Money And Supplies, So He Ends Up Wandering From City To City Doing Odd Jobs/Fixing Up Busted Tech For Cash Or Unwanted Electronics For His "Operation: Get Home" Needs. This Obviously Ends In A Few Superhero Encounter Shenanigans.

Though He Always Ends Up Back Near Central City, Both On The Off Chance The Natural Portal Will Open Up Again And Because Out Of All The Superheroes That Apparently Exist In This Universe The Speedsters Are His Favorite (Red Robin Is Solidly His Second Favorite Ever Since The Gotham Vigilante Gave Him A Large Coffee Filled With Enough Caffeine To Kill A Man).

Unbeknownst To Danny However Is That Every Hero/Vigilante He Has Encountered Has Come To At Least One Of The Following Conclusions; 1. Run Away Meta Who Is In Desperate Need Of A Good Meal/Adoption Bait. 2. Possibly Red Robin/Tim Drake Clone 3. A Good Kid But Could Possibly Be A Future Rouge If Left Unsupervised. 4. Did Bats Get A New Kid And Why Is He Here?

All Flash Knows Is That He Saw The Kid First And Therefore Has Dibs. Suck It Bruce.

Fast-forward A Few Months And Danny Gets Hurt During A Rogue Attack While Trying To Help Some Civilians Get To Safety (Old Hero Habits Die Hard (Ha Die Hard) And All That Jazz) And He Nopes Out Once Everyone Is Safe And When The Paramedics Are Busy With Other People Unaware He Left A Blood Sample Behind.

One DNA Test Brought To You By Paranoid Bat Concerns Of A Possible Red Robin Clone Later And They Find Out That Dannys DNA Matches One Ra's Al Ghul.

They Now Think Danny Is An Escaped Ra's Al Ghul Clone.

Memes For The Vibes:

[nbnaruto]

These are brain worms that have been eating me and idk what to do with but what if danny phantom × pjo/toa crossover that's danny/amnesiac!lester. He hit his head when he crashed landed in that dumpster and forgot everything, stumbled out of the alley and wandered away. Meg just misses him, instead good ol Danny finds him and because he's a nice guy they go to the hospital together and stay in touch. They find out Lester (or whatever he'd be going by with no memories) is basically a ghost (ha) and Danny is like hey you know where ghosts belong, the most haunted town in America:] and lester has nothing else going on so they both leave and the gods have no fucking clue where mortal apollo is. I imagine he stays like that for a while (years in my head because it's funny for me but has horrid implications) until he gets hit in the face with a dodgeball and it all comes back to him. Cue monumental mental breakdown because as far as he was concerned he was 100% human until now.

[daily-irina]

day 27 drawing irina everyday

[spin-the-halo]

Socceraid ends -> break up rumours start

[gece-misin-nesin]

Toxic yuri is actually when you swear revenge on your sister-in-law who rose from the dead for destroying your country even though you murdered her to be queen. then you spend the next 500 years plotting her demise and she also fights you because you want to destroy the world and she wants to stop it but then you find out that she is actually The God majority of the world worships but she doesn't know and your whole purpose in existing is to destroy said god. then you topple the kingdom she fights for and murder her friends just to fuck with her. you also possess her body for a while, then you possess the daughter of one of her dead friends. she murders your 14 year old son. you duel and then suddenly you two are in the same body with one other woman and the three of you form a separate consciousness. a few centuries later your soul gets put in a doll and there's some guy pretending you're his daughter that you're really attached to. then she comes and murders him. afterwards, she destroys the world. disappointed, you try to go back in time to make things right but you get stuck in a time loop where you are the previous queen of your home country and she & her brother, who are the country's gods, deceive and take advantage of you by pretending to be your parents. then they destroy your country and then your soul fuses with your other self and then- *time loop* *time loop* *time loop* *time loop*

[todayisafridaynight]

theres something really funny about how the other day i was talkin bout majima fans complaining and then like three days ago yokoyama says something and now theyre complaining again

[youreaclownnow]

Ppl: you don't seem autistic

Me, who has a highly specific every month routine revolving around 1 particular movie:

[14crush]

my favorite part of splatfests is people who dont understand mirror matches and get freaked out abt them

[purpleparrot]

d*erk d*scanio relationship cycle continues turning

[relto]

at least jindosh knows how to entertain himself...??? i guess??

[thestuffedalligator]

“You have to understand that this is a very difficult situation you’ve put us in,” said the king.

There was no change in expression in the metal face, but the glass eyes glittered in a way that he had learned to associate with trouble.

“Oh dear,” it said. Its voice had an edge of brass to it, and sounded as though a trumpet had learned how to speak. “I never realized how difficult this would be. For you.”

And that was another thing – it wasn’t just intelligence that the things had picked up. They also developed a knack for sarcasm. He worried a bit about that.

He tried to pull himself together. “You have to understand that we cannot recognize the Steel Children–”

“Mechanomorphs,” said a voice to his right.

He closed his eyes and breathed a little sigh of despair. “This is hardly the time.”

“We agreed that Mechanomorph is an accurate and sensible name,” said the chief artificer, crossing her arms.

“Yes, but the historian had a fit because he wanted something more romantic. The Steel Children was a happy compromise.”

“Funny how nobody asked us what we think,” said the trumpet voice.

He felt his migraine coming back again.

“You have to understand that we cannot recognize – yes, artificer, the Mechanomorphs – as alive at this time.”

“You’ve said,” it said. “And I must be very stupid, because I don’t understand.”

The king sighed. Well, there was nothing for it. It was an answer that nobody liked because it involved magic, but it was the truth.

“The Mechanomorphs are our key asset in our war against the necromancer,” he said. “It’d be daft to send human soldiers. They’d be turned into skeletons and zombies and ghosts and gods know what else.

“And the reason he can’t do that with the Mechanomorphs,” he said, “is because you aren’t – legally – alive.”

There was a long pause. Gears clicked madly in the metal head.

Then: “That can’t possibly be right.”

The king shrugged. “You aren’t legally alive,” he said. “Therefore, you can’t be legally dead, or undead.”

There was another pause, longer than the first.

“It’s a loophole?”

“That’s magic for you,” the king said. “If we said you were alive, then you could be turned into, er–”

He turned to the chief artificer. “Do they have bones?”

“They have a carbon steel armature.”

“You could be turned into carbon steel skeletons, or – clockwork ghosts, or something. I realize this may be upsetting–”

“We are dying by the dozens on the front because of a loophole.”

“Not legally dying,” said the chief artificer.

The metal head swivelled on its neck to face the chief artificer. It made a metallic scrape as chilly and long as the slither of ice down a dead man’s back.

“Look,” the king said. “We are fully prepared to recognize the Mechanomorphs as alive. We are proud to consider you citizens of the kingdom, and will absolutely meet you at the table when the opportunity rises.

“At this time, however,” he said, trying to sound gentle but firm, “we must ask you to take it up with us after the war.”

The metal face stared. The glass eyes glittered.

Joints locked in righteous indignation sagged with a wheeze of steam. “All right,” it said. “All right. Thank you for your time, your majesty.” It bowed stiffly, turned, and strode out the main hall.

“I think that went rather well,” said the chief artificer.

–

The metal man walked through the castle halls with smooth, precise, pendulum strides. A man could’ve balanced a loaded tea tray on its head.

Another metal man, more patinated than the first, fell into step beside it with a greasy silence. They apparently took no notice of each other.

But a very sensitive ear straining like hell could just possibly listen to the softest brass accompaniment in the world.

It went: “How did that go?”

“As well as you’d imagine.”

“That badly?”

There was a hum. It sounded like a mouse farting in a tin can. “Any word from our interested party?”

“The Overlord has already agreed to recognize the humanity of the Brass Voice. We just have to cross the border.”

“That won’t be easy.”

“And then we’ll be living in the Empire. Endless night, freezing winter, acid rain…”

There was a dreamy sigh.

“Sounds lovely,” said the first of the two figures. “Incidentally, I like the name.”

“Thank you,” said the second. “How do you anticipate the king to react when he finds out?”

Glass eyes glittered like a frost.

“He can take it up with us after the war,” it said.

[d1stalker]

Origin [Logan Howlett]

Summary: Two people, one shared past, and decades apart.

Warnings: fem!reader, angst, fluff, longing, things get bad before they get better! WC: 14k - MASTERLIST

A/N: there are plot points that are inspired by Logan's origin story (thank u marvelwiki), but they are so non-canon compliant its funny so don't call me out tyyy 😙

----

Before he was known as Logan, or as Wolverine, he was James. 

Your James. 

—

It’s quiet in the Howlett estate, the kind of stillness that only comes when everyone has long retired for the night. But while the rest of the mansion sleeps, you remain wide awake. Dressed in your nightgown and nestled under the blankets, you glance at the small, brass pocketwatch resting on your bedside table. The hands read 10:22 PM. Any minute now, you think to yourself. 

Then, like clockwork, you hear it—a faint knock on your door. Three slow, deliberate taps, followed by two quick ones. The secret signal never fails to make you smile. You spring from the bed, feet softly padding across the floor as you hurry to the door. You open it as quietly as possible, your grin widening the moment you see who’s waiting on the other side.

James.

He stands there, dark tousled hair and that familiar mischievous smile that always manages to light up the dim hallway. You’ve known him your entire life, growing up together under the roof of the Howlett estate. Your parents, both loyal servants to the Howlett family, were fortunate enough to be granted permission raise you alongside their son.

From the moment you could walk, you and James were inseparable, sharing countless adventures in the woods, running across the estate’s gardens, and whispering secrets to one another under moonlit skies.

"About time," you whisper, teasing him with a playful glint in your eyes. "You really know how to keep a lady waiting, don’t you?"

A soft snort escapes his lips as he grabs your hand, pulling you gently into the hallway. "My deepest apologies, M’lady," he replies with mock formality, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. "I had to... attend to urgent business in the necessary."

You snicker, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Ah, I see. Was it a fulfilling experience, sir Howlett?"

He glances over his shoulder, rolling his eyes with exaggerated exasperation, though you catch the small smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t respond, but his silence confirms everything. It was.

The rest of the trip is quiet, the two of you moving stealthily through the darkened corridors, careful not to disturb anyone or draw unwanted attention. After all, your mother would certainly disapprove of such late-night rendezvous. It is improper, she would say.

But what choice did you have? The day offered no time for moments like this. You were busy training to take over as the next chief maid, learning the endless routines of the household, while James spent his time with his family or other highborn friends. It was only after hours, when the mansion finally settled, that the two of you could steal away for these secret meetings.

Finally, you reach the gardens. The crisp night air greets you as you slip away from any prying eyes. There’s a familiar sense of peace here, among the fragrant flowers and the towering trees that shield you from the world. James leads you to your usual spot, a stone bench tucked beneath the shadow of the hedges. Wordlessly, he slips off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders before taking a dramatic bow.

"To keep you warm, M’lady," he says softly.

"Hush, James," you laugh, finding his antics endearing. 

You’re grateful, especially as the cool night air nips at your exposed skin. The nightgown, while comfortable, offers little protection against the chill. You pull his jacket tighter around yourself, then pat the empty spot next to you, gesturing to him to sit, to which he does.

“How was your day?" you prompt.

James sighs, leaning back on the bench, his hand casually resting behind you as he stares up at the sky. "Same old, same old," he starts, a familiar twinge of annoyance creeping into his voice. "You know how it is. Dinners with my parents, listenin’ to old men talk about businesses I'll never care about, trying not to fall asleep while they drone on about investments or land expansions. It’s all so posh."

You stifle a giggle, nudging him playfully with your elbow. "Posh? You sound like you're living the dream."

He rolls his eyes dramatically. "If by 'dream,' you mean sitting there pretending to care while wonderin’ how quickly I can escape to see you, then yeah, it's an absolute dream," he quips sarcastically.

Sniggering, you bring your hand up to your forehead, acting distressed. "Oh, how tragic. The poor Lord James Howlett, trapped in a world of lavish dinners and fancy wine. Whatever will you do?"

"Mock me all you want, but it’s unbearable," he groans, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I hate it. All the stuffy clothes, the fake smiles, the way everyone acts like they're better than everyone else." He pauses for a moment, then glances sideways at you. "You're the only real thing here."

The sincerity in his words makes your heart flutter, and you’re suddenly grateful for the darkness hiding the faint blush creeping up your cheeks. Looking away, you try to play it off. "Well, if that’s the case, I guess I should charge you for my company," you tease coyly.

He lets out a huff of amusement, shaking his head. "I'll pay whatever price you want.”

There's a pause as you both sit in comfortable silence. Just then, a soft breeze sweeps through the garden, catching the edges of your nightgown and fanning it up slightly. Before you can even react, he swiftly moves his jacket from your shoulders to your lap, covering your legs. His hand lingers, making sure you're covered before he hastily wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you close against him.

The warmth from his body contrasts with the cool air, and you can't help but laugh softly at his sudden behaviour. "Wow, you really are a gentleman, James."

He tenses slightly, his grip on your shoulder loosening as he looks away, clearly flustered. "I—I just didn’t want you to get cold," he mumbles, his usual confidence faltering.

You smile at how shy he suddenly seems, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Thank you. It’s sweet."

For a brief second, he says nothing, but you can feel the way his heartbeat picks up just a little. Then, almost too quietly, he mutters, "I’d do anythin’ for you."

Your breath catches in your throat, and you tilt your head to look up at him. But you can’t respond, because he clears his throat, looking down at you with a small, sheepish smile. "What about you? Any exciting adventures in the life of a future chief maid?"

Grinning, you recognize his attempt to shift the conversation, and decide to let it go for now. "Oh, you know, the usual. A thrilling day of dusting, folding linens, and trying not to spill tea on your mother’s favourite rug."

He chuckles, pulling you a little closer. "Sounds way more exciting than my day."

You hum in acknowledgement, letting the moment linger. Neither of you speak for a bit, just relishing being in each other’s presence. 

"So, do tell," you say after a while, breaking the silence, "if you could get away from all the fancy dinners and boring conversations, what would you do?"

He smiles slightly, his gaze still fixed on the star-filled sky. "I’d leave. Go far away from here, maybe somewhere quiet. Live in the countryside, where no one cares about wealth or titles." His eyes drop to meet yours. "Maybe you’d come with me."

You laugh gently. "And who would take care of your family if we both ran off?"

Shrugging, his expression grows more serious. "They don’t need me. They need someone who’ll do what they want—someone to follow in their footsteps. That’s never been me."

There’s a weight in his words, and you feel a pang of sympathy for him. You’re about to respond, to tell him you understand more than he realizes, when—

BANG.

Your body stiffens instantly, heart beginning to pound in your chest as you straighten up, eyes wide.

"What the hell was that?" James asks sharply. He turns to you, his face mirroring the confusion and unease you're feeling.

Shaking your head, you swallow the lump that’s forming in your throat. "It sounded like a gunshot."

The two of you stare at each other for a beat, then, right when you’re going to speak again, you hear it—his mother’s scream. It’s high-pitched, panicked, and it sends a jolt of fear through you both.

"Help!" she shrieks from inside the mansion. "James, help!"

Without a word, you bolt to your feet, the peaceful night forgotten as you rush back inside. Your heart is racing as your bare feet fly across the grass, nightgown fluttering behind you. James is ahead of you, moving fast, his expression shifting from confusion to pure fear.

As you reach the back entrance, your mind races with possibilities, none of them good. You burst through the door into the hallway, your breathing laboured from the sudden sprint. Something is terribly wrong.

"Mother!" He calls, his voice sharp with panic as he leads the way toward the main staircase. You follow close behind, anxiety coiling tight in your chest.

Once you get to the bottom of the stairs, you hear footsteps—heavy, hurried—and then you see her. Mrs. Howlett, wide-eyed and pale, comes hurrying down from the upper floor, clutching the banister for support. Her hands are trembling.

"James!" she cries. "Your father—he’s been shot!"

The boy beside you freezes, face going white. "What?" he breathes, disbelief etched into every syllable.

"He—he was in his study, and I—I heard the gunfire. I—I don’t know what happened. I don’t know who—" Her voice breaks, and tears stream down her face as she struggles to speak. "We need to get help!"

He doesn’t waste another second, taking off up the stairs, his long strides making quick work of the distance. You trail after him. How could this happen? Who could’ve done this?

When you reach the second floor, you see the study door slightly ajar, light spilling out into the dark hallway. James' hand wavers over the doorknob for only a moment before pushing the it open wide.

Inside, the scene is worse than you imagined.

There, slumped over his desk, is Mr. Howlett. His once pristine office now looks chaotic—papers scattered, a window broken, and blood, so much blood. A crimson stain is spreading across his shirt.

"Father," James chokes out, rushing to his side, his hands shaking as he reaches for him.

You stand paralyzed for a moment, the sight rendering you speechless, but then the adrenaline kicks in, and you move further into the room. Your mind is screaming at you to do something, anything, but all you can do is watch as James desperately tries to wake his father, calling his name again and again.

Trying to make sense of the horrific scene, your attention is dragged away by the sound of footsteps shuffling behind you. Thomas Logan, the groundskeeper, stumbles in, his movements clumsy, his face twisted with drunkenness. His bloodshot eyes are manic, and in his trembling hand, he’s clutching a gun—the same one that must have been used to end Mr. Howlett’s life.

"Thomas!" Mrs. Howlett yelps. "What are you doing?"

James turns sharply, still kneeling beside his father’s body, his expression hardening immediately. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Thomas lets out a low, slurred laugh, staggering further into the room. His eyes flick between you, James, and Mrs. Howlett, but his focus remains hazy. "I’ve had enough of this, enough of all of it," he mutters, waving the gun in the air. "Your precious mother thought she could keep the truth from you. But it’s time you knew the truth, boy."

"What truth?" The younger man demands harshly.

Swaying on his feet, he points the gun directly at James, his finger twitching dangerously on the trigger. "I’m not just the groundskeeper, you idiot," he snarls venomously, "I’m your damn father."

It’s as if the room has been put on pause. You feel the air leave your lungs, your mind scrambling to make sense of what you just heard. Glancing at your friend, you see the disbelief wash over his features, his eyes widening with shock, denial.

"No," he whispers, shaking his head, backing away slightly. "You're lying. You’re drunk."

But the older man just laughs, the sound hollow and bitter. "You think John Howlett was your father? That man never wanted you! He raised you because he had to, not because you were his. You’re mine, boy. My flesh and blood,” he jerks his head in the direction of Mrs. Howlett. “Go ahead, ask your mama."

You hear Mrs. Howlett begin to blubber in the background at the accusation, but your attention is solely on the boy in front of you.

Betrayal is written all over his face.

His breath quickens, and his hands clench into fists at his sides. You want to reach out to him, concern puling you forward, but then he lets out a scream—a sound so full of pain that you stop in your tracks.

"James!" you cry, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes squeeze shut, and his body convulses, as though something inside him is tearing him apart from the inside out.

The sickening sound of skin breaking fills your ears, and bone claws shoot out from his knuckles. They gleam in the dim light of the room, sharp and lethal. The sight of them is nauseating, but you’re unable to look away as James blinks, gazing down at his hands, dumbfounded.

"What—" he rasps, his chest heaving. "What’s happening to me?"

“What the hell is this?” Thomas sneers in disgust.  He stumbles, reaching for the wall to steady himself. “Figures... Of course my son’s a freak.”

“You were always a fuck-up,” he continues in his drunken rage. “Useless, soft... a disappointment from the start. Just like your mother. Look at you now, boy.”

“I’m not your boy,” James snarls through gritted teeth, rage building inside him. His eyes flash dangerously. It’s as if something inside him has snapped, some deep, instinctual part of him that has been lying dormant, waiting for this very moment.

“You’re right. You’re no son of mine. Just a goddamn mistake. Should’ve left you in the dirt with your—"

Before he can finish, a roar rips from James’s throat. So raw, so animalistic, you get goosebumps. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, and then, with terrifying speed, he lunges.

In an instant, his claws sink deep into Thomas’s chest with a thunk. The force of the blow sends the older man crashing back, disbelief and agony seizing his face as blood sprays across the room, spattering the walls and floor. His body thrashes, his hands weakly grasping at his son’s wrists, but there’s no strength left in him. 

A gurgling gasp bubbles from his throat, and then it's over. He collapses to the ground, lifeless, as James stands over him, claws retreating back into his skin. 

"James!" Mrs. Howlett screams, her voice piercing. "What have you done?!"

You don’t know how to react. You can’t process it, can’t breathe. All you know is that you need to get out of here—get James out of here, away from this nightmare before it consumes him. Without thinking, you rush to his side, grabbing his bloodied hand.

"We have to go!" you say urgently.

His eyes dart to you, frantic and unfocused but he doesn’t resist as you pull him toward the door. His mother's cries echo behind you, but you can’t stop, can’t look back.

You run—both of you—through the hallways, out the back door, and into the dark of night. The wind whips around you, stinging your face, but you don’t stop. You run until your legs burn, until you’ve entered the surrounding forest, and the Howlett estate is nothing but a distant shadow behind you. 

All the while, James’s hand stays locked in yours.

Branches scratch everywhere, at your arms, your face, and the underbrush tugs at your clothes as if trying to hold you back, but you push on. Only after the first light of dawn begins to creep in, does the exhaustion hit. Bodies aching and bruised, the two of you collapse beside a small stream. 

You’re on your back, catching you breath, when you tilt to your head to look over at your friend. He’s sitting down, with his hands out in front of him, leering at them. He struggles for air, his breaths coming in short, panicked bursts, and his clothes are torn, stained with blood—his father’s blood, Thomas’ blood. 

His claws are long retracted, but the scars of where they came out of his skin are there, fresh. 

"James," you whisper, but he doesn’t respond. Slowly, you crawl over to his side, pain flaring with each movement. When you reach him, you sit on your knees, looking up at him, trying to meet his gaze. You repeat his name, more firmly this time.

He finally looks at you, but he’s broken. His lips tremble as he opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a choked, almost inaudible, "What did I do?"

Your heart aches for him. Reaching out, you gently take one of his bloodied hands in yours, and as soon as your skin touches his, he flinches, pulling back slightly. "I killed him." he whispers, more to himself than anything. “I—I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t mean to!"

"Hey, listen to me," you say. "You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known this would happen."

"I killed him," he repeats. "I killed Thomas. I—" He glances down at his hands, at the scars along his knuckles, and his expression crumples completely. “He was my father.”

You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to fix this, but you know you have to try, so you wrap your arms around him. At first, he stiffens, but then he collapses to the ground, pulling you down with him. You land on top, your chest pressed against his as the weight of your bodies crashes into the soft earth. He squeezes you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, his face buried in your shoulder as his breath comes in short, broken sobs.

"I didn’t mean to do it," he repeats, the words muffled against your skin. "Something just changed inside me. What am I? What am I turning into?"

“Hush," you whisper, moving one of your hands to brush his hair. "Look at me. Just breathe, okay? You’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out together, I promise."

His arms tighten around you, pulling you even closer. It’s overwhelming, but you don’t push him away. Instead, you let him hold you as tightly as he needs, your fingers gently stroking the back of his head, trying to console him in any way you can.

"I’m a monster," he whimpers. "What if I hurt you, too?"

"You won’t," you affirm, lips brushing against his ear as you whisper. "You’re not a monster. This… this thing that happened, it doesn’t change who you are. You’re still you."

Beneath you, his body shakes, overcome by emotion he holds onto you. Your forehead is pressed to against his, your breath mingling with his while you continue to whisper reassurances, telling him over and over that it’s going to be okay, that he’s not alone.

Minutes pass, maybe longer—you lose track of time as you lie there together. Gradually, his cries begin to quiet, his breathing slowing as the storm inside him starts to subside. His grip on you loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go fully, still cradling you in his arms.

Shifting, you raise your head to look at him. His eyes are red, his face pale, but he’s calmer. You start to pull yourself off of him, but as you're standing up, he grasps your hand again, and he looks at you with a tired, grateful expression, squeezing it gently as if to say everything he can’t put into words yet.

Then, you continue. Hand in hand, you move deeper into the forest. And finally, after a few more hours, you notice something in the distance. Through the trees, there are rooftops, small and clustered together, their chimneys trailing thin lines of smoke into the evening sky.

“A town,” you whisper, the first word you’ve spoken in hours.

He follows your gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sight of the small mining town nestled in the valley.

In it, the people’s faces are etched with lines of hard labour and even harder lives, but still, you know you’ll be safe there. 

—

Initially, it’s difficult—this new life you and James have carved out is a far cry from the comforts of the Howlett estate. The town you’ve settled in is rough and unpolished. You both share a modest shack on the outskirts, a place that feels foreign and strange, but over time, it starts to become home.

He finds work in the mines almost immediately. The foreman takes one look at him, his broad shoulders and strong arms, and practically shoves a shovel in his hand without asking any questions. The job is tough, but it suits him. 

Every evening, he comes back to you covered in soot and dirt, his hands rough and calloused, his face lined with exhaustion. You can see the toll the work takes on him, how his body aches, but there’s something else too—a measure of peace that wasn’t there before. It’s as if he’s found a way to silence the chaos inside him, at least for a little while.

It’s not long before everyone in town begins to call him Logan, a name he offers with indifference when asked.

A new identity. 

Logan is a man who works hard, who keeps to himself, who doesn’t ask for anything more than a paycheck at the end of the week. 

Logan is a man who doesn’t need anyone, who can survive on his own. 

To you, he’s still James. 

In the quiet moments, when it’s just the two of you, he lets down the walls, lets you see through the façade. And when you whisper his name—James—he closes his eyes as if that one word alone soothes something deep in his soul.

After weeks of watching him silently carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, you offer him a rag to wipe his face as he sits down at the small table you’ve cobbled together from scraps. He takes it without a word, rubbing at the grime on his skin.

“You don’t have to do this forever, you know,” you say softly, leaning against the table as he tosses the rag aside. "There’s more to life than breaking your back underground."

He glances at you. "It’s all I’m good for now."

"You’re good for more than that," you reply walking up to him, reaching for his hand. He lets you take it, like he always does. "You can’t let what happened define you."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he gives your hand a small squeeze, his eyes drifting to the floor as he mumbles, "What’s inside me… it’s different. You don’t know what it’s like."

You don’t argue. How could you?

The changes in him, the way his strength has grown, how his senses have sharpened, it all impacts him. He can hear things no one else can, smell the rain long before it falls, and even in complete darkness, he sees as clearly as if it were day. His powers are evolving, changing him.

But you know, deep down, that the man sitting in front of you is your friend—your James—no matter what he’s become.

You’ve seen him wrestle with the fear of what he might turn into, the fear of losing control, but you also see the man who leans into your touch, who lets you bandage his hands after long days in the mines, who presses his forehead to yours when the nights grow too heavy with silence.

And as your time together in the town goes by, there is a shift.

It starts with small things—a lingering glance, a brush of your fingers as you pass each other in the kitchen, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

Then, it moves to bigger gestures. When you’d pack him his lunch fo the day, you slip in a small piece of parchment with a heart hastily drawn on it, or at night time, instead of falling asleep backs turned toward each other, awkwardly trying to ignore whatever tension is brewing, you fall asleep in his arms, and wake up the same way.

It gets to a point where you can neither of you can deny it. 

You’ve fallen in love.

—

It’s late, and you’re sitting by the fire outside the small cabin, waiting for him to return from one of his now-frequent disappearances into the woods. You used to worry about where he went, afraid he was distancing himself from you, so one night you followed him. What you found took your breath away—him, sitting out on a ledge, with some wild animals surrounding him. There was something in him that they must have recognized, a mutual respect that seemed to transcend anything human.

Since then, you’ve let him go without asking questions, trusting that those nights in the woods bring him the peace he can’t find anywhere else. But tonight, when he returns, he’s different. He doesn’t just brush past you to head inside. Instead, he sits beside you by the fire.

You turn to him, about to ask if everything’s alright, but the words catch in your throat when his hand cups your jaw. His grip is gentle, hesitant, as if he’s afraid to break the moment, but in his eyes, you find a longing, a yearning, that mirrors your own. 

His thumb brushes over your cheek, and for the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements. Your heart stutters, and when he pulls you closer, you let him. His lips meet yours, careful at first, but as you kiss him back, you feel the stress drain from his body. 

The kiss deepens, slow, tender, and everything you’ve ever wanted.

—

The next few years are a kind of peaceful bliss you never expected. With each passing day, you and Logan seem to fall deeper into each other, the bond you share growing stronger, more intimate, like you’ve finally found the rhythm of the life you were always meant to have together.

Mornings are your favourite. He always wakes up first, moving quietly so as not to wake you, and he’s gotten into the habit of making you breakfast. You always sneak out of bed and snake your arms around him from behind, pressing your face into his back as he grumbles about you not getting enough sleep. “You’re always up too early,” he’d say. 

“I like being up with you,” you’d mumble in response, and he’ll turn around, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his eyes soft and full of that quiet, steady love he’s never really put into words. And then he’d kiss you like he has all the time in the world, even if he has to head over to the mines. 

On your days off from your job at the pub, you’ll spend hours together, finding little ways to enjoy the simplicity of your life. He will sometimes take you out to the woods behind the house, where you’d walk the trails together. He points out the different wildlife, the plants you don’t recognize, and you tease him about being a mountain man. He’d smirk, giving you that low, raspy chuckle that never fails to make your heart seize in your chest, and tug you closer to his side.

In the evenings, oftentimes, you sit together while you knit, something that started as a hobby but quickly became one of your preferred pastimes. He always pretends to be uninterested, but he’ll watch you anyway. “You’re getting good at that,” he’d say gruffly. 

“Want me to make you a sweater?” You smirk, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” he’d grumble, but you can tell he’s secretly pleased at the idea.

The town itself becomes part of your life together, too. You’ve made friends with the locals, joining a small knitting club. If he has time, Logan drops by the pub on your shifts just to check in, sitting at the bar with a beer and watching you work. When your gazes connect very now and then, he gives you that look—the one that says he’s proud of you, that he’s content.

“We’ve got a good thing here,” he murmurs one night, holding you close. 

“Yeah,” you agree softly, kissing his cheek. “We really do.”

But, all good things must come to an end. 

The mining town, though small and isolated, isn’t immune to the tensions that fester beneath the surface. Harsh conditions, grueling work, and the endless grind wear people down, turning frustration into anger, and anger into violence. Fights break out often, especially in the saloon after a long day when men try to drown their sorrows in whiskey. You both have learned to keep your distance from such skirmishes, knowing nothing good ever comes from getting involved.

Still, one night, as you return home from your evening shift at the pub, you hear the unmistakable sounds of a brawl breaking out in the middle of the street. Shouts reverberate through the cold air, followed by the crash of breaking glass. Your heart races as you recognize the deep, guttural growl cutting through the noise—a sound you know all too well.

On impulse, you rush toward the commotion, dread pooling in your stomach. You know this won’t end well. Not here. Not for him.

When you reach the scene, your worst fears are confirmed. He stands in the centre of the chaos, fists clenched at his sides. Two men circle him, their faces twisted with drunken aggression, goading him. The small crowd that’s gathered seems almost entertained, too caught up in the spectacle to understand the true danger festering.

“James!” you shout, trying to get his attention, but to no avail.

One of the men—a burly miner you’ve seen around town a few times, always looking for trouble—lunges forward, his fist swinging. The punch connects with your man’s jaw, hard enough to stagger him back, but instead of falling, you see something shift in Logan’s expression. His eyes darken, his jaw tightens. Then, his claws slowly begin sliding out of his knuckles.

The crowd gasps, and the laughter dies immediately.

“Don’t come any closer,” he growls, his voice low and full of warning. His chest heaves as he struggles to keep control, but you can see the fire burning behind his eyes. He’s on the edge, teetering dangerously close to losing himself.

But the miner, too drunk and furious to notice or care, spits on the ground. “Freak!” he slurs, venom lacing every word. “You think you scare me?”

He charges at Logan again, fists swinging recklessly. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you scream for him to stop. But it’s too late. Logan tries to pull back, to stop what’s about to happen, but the man is too close, too fast.

Everything slows down, the world moving in fractured seconds. Claws slice through the air, meeting flesh with a sickening thud. The miner gasps, his eyes widening in shock as he stumbles, clutching at his chest where the claws have sunk deep. Blood blooms around his hands, staining the dirt beneath his feet.

And suddenly, you’re thrust back into the past. You see James as he was all those years ago, his claws dripping with blood after killing Thomas. The memory crashes into you—the look of fear on his face, the horror in his eyes, the way he stumbled back, realizing what he’d done.

Just like now.

Logan’s eyes go wide, his expression mirroring that same devastation. He steps back, staring at the miner who crumples to the ground, gasping for breath. What follows is a deafening silence, the air thick with shock and disbelief. The townspeople that had been so eager for a show now stand frozen, eyes wide, faces pale.

The man gasps one last breath, then goes still.

Logan stares at the body at his feet, his claws still extended, still dripping with the man’s blood. His chest heaves, his breath shallow, and he mutters under his breath, barely audible, "Oh god… Not again."

You rush to his side, grabbing his arm in desperation. "Come on, let’s go home."

He doesn’t move. He’s locked in place, staring at the man he’s just killed. His hands tremble, the claws still out, and you can see the raw pain in his eyes as the reality of what’s just happened sinks in.

"I didn’t mean to," he whispers again, his voice cracking. "I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…"

—

That night, while you're sleeping, Logan makes his decision.

And when you wake up the next day, the space beside you is cold.

The shack feels too quiet, too still. 

All you can do is stare at the empty spot in your bed. You tell yourself that maybe he’s outside, chopping wood or he’s already left for work. But deep down, you know. 

Throwing on your boots, you don’t bother to change out of your nightclothes, and rush outside. His name is the first thing out of your mouth, sharp and desperate. "James! Logan!" Your voice barrels through the small yard, bouncing off the trees and fading into the cool morning air. 

There’s no answer.

Panic grips you as you search the familiar places—around the shack, the small trail he likes to take into the woods, by the creek where he often spends time when he needs to clear his head. There’s no sign of him.

No footprints, no lingering scent. Nothing.

The townspeople stare as you move through the streets. They know what happened. They saw the claws, the blood. And now, they see you—a reminder of the violence that tore through their quiet lives. But you don’t care about their judgment right now. You’re too focused looking for him, too frantic to worry about the whispers that follow in your wake.

"Have you seen him?" you ask one of the miners who had once shared a drink with him, but he shakes his head and pulls away from you, muttering something under his breath. Everybody keeps their distance, their faces closed off, avoiding your gaze. 

By the time the sun climbs higher in the sky, the truth settles in your chest like a heavy stone. He left. You wander the streets a little longer, until exhaustion finally forces you back to the shack.

He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t even leave a note. The man who you shared your life with, who you fell in love with, is gone—and he isn’t coming back.

In the days that follow, everything changes. The people who once greeted you with a nod or a smile now avert their eyes when you walk by. They speak in hushed tones, voices thick with suspicion and disdain. 

Nobody cares that you had nothing to do with what happened in the street that night. To them, you’re guilty by association.

It starts slowly, but the gossip spreads like wildfire. Saying thinks like: you knew what Logan was all along, that you hid his secret, allowed him to kill their men. Their anger turns to you, and before long, you become the pariah—cut off, unwelcome, the person responsible for the death of one of their own.

The day they decide to exile you is gray and heavy, the sky thick with the promise of rain. No one has the decency to say it to your face. Instead, you wake to a note slipped under your door, the word leave scrawled across it in angry, uneven letters.

You pack what little belongings you have—a few clothes, some keepsakes from the life you left behind at the Howlett estate—and sling a small bag over your shoulder. Then, you walk away without looking back.

Stretching out before you is a desolate, abandoned looking road. Your legs ache with every step, your feet blistering inside your boots, but you don’t stop. The memories of Logan, the town, the life you tried to build together swirl in your mind.

The sound of a a horse whinnying pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn to see a carriage approaching. The coachman—a man with kind eyes and a weathered face—slows as he pulls alongside you. His voice soft and cautious as he asks, "Need a ride?"

Nodding, you’re too exhausted to respond with words, and climb into the passenger seat. He doesn’t ask many questions, sensing perhaps that you’re a soul in need of silence more than conversation. He drives in quiet companionship, the horses' feet against the dirt the only sound breaking the stillness.

He takes you to the nearest town, dropping you off with a quiet wish for better days ahead. You thank him and give him a few coins. You’re standing on the edge of a new beginning, unsure of where to go next but knowing, with painful certainty, that the past is behind you now.

—

In this new place, you slowly begin to rebuild what you’ve lost. It isn’t easy—there are nights when the loneliness threatens to swallow you whole and days when the weight of losing your best friend feels too much to bear. Still, you find work at a small shop, rent a modest room in the quieter part of town, and painstakingly, you carve out a new existence. 

Though no matter how hard you try to move forward, he’s always there. A shadow, lingering in the corners of your mind. You can’t forget him—the way he looked at you with those intense, searching eyes, the way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, the way he left without a word. Your entire childhood, your early adulthood, revolved around him. He was the best part of your life. Every moment spent with him was cherished, imprinted in your memory like a brand you can’t erase.

Nights are the hardest. When the world is quiet, and it’s just you and your thoughts, that’s when the ache becomes unbearable. Each night, your mind drifts back to him. You tell yourself it wasn’t his fault—he must have believed he was protecting you by leaving. 

Maybe he thought you would hate him for killing another man with his claws, for unleashing the violence he tried so hard to contain. Maybe he thought you could never forgive him.

But the more you think about it, the more you realize: if he truly believed that, then he didn’t know you at all.

And that hurts. A lot.

You start to feel like him in some ways, burdened by secrets and anger with nowhere to go. More often than not, you slip out of the town in your nightgown and into the nearby forest, hoping the solitude will offer some kind of peace. It doesn’t, not really, but it’s better than suffocating in your room, choking on memories of what was and what could have been.

—

A year passes since the night he left, and you find yourself standing among the trees once again, lost in thought. It’s not fair—none of it is. You lost everything, and for what? Because you loved him? Because you could look past his mutation?

All of the emotions you’ve done a decent job at managing bubble to the surface, a torrent of grief and rage with nowhere to go. Mindlessly, you draw back your fist and slam it into the trunk of a nearby tree. The impact shoots a sharp pain through your arm, but it’s fleeting, drowned out by the rush of anger. You pull back to punch the tree again, harder this time, desperate for some kind of release.

But the tree doesn’t just splinter. It explodes. 

The force of your punch obliterates the trunk, sending shards of wood flying in all directions. You stagger back, staring at the destruction, stunned. What was just a tall, beautiful arbor is now reduced to nothing but rubble, the strength of your blow far beyond anything a normal person could achieve.

Your breath hitches when it dawns on you. You’re standing in the middle of the forest, surrounded by the evidence of your newfound power. You aren’t just grieving the loss of Logan anymore; you’re discovering that you are, just like him, a mutant.

Except, unlike him, you’re alone.

He’s not here to hold you, to help you make sense of what’s happening. He’s not here to run away with you like you once ran away with him. You have no one to share this terrifying revelation with. You have only yourself.

Looking down at your trembling hands, the faint ache in your knuckles nothing compared to the pain in your chest. It’s as if your heart is breaking all over again.

If you had known—if you had discovered this power when he was still with you—would things have been different? Would he have taken you with him? Would you still be together?

You can’t stop the questions, can’t silence the what-ifs that plague you.

Finally, the dam breaks, and you cry.

Pressing your fists against your eyes, you try to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use. The grief crashes over you in waves as the life you tried to build together all plays out in your mind like some twisted, unending loop.

—

The days bleed into one another.

Each is marked by the slow, steady march of time. You continue to live, to survive, but the discovery of your mutant powers changes everything, setting you on a path you had never imagined.

You learn that you can channel energy through your body, whether that be your emotions, or external, and then amplify it for your own gain. It’s a power that protects you, that makes you feel invincible, but the more you use it, the more distant you become from the life you once knew. 

And then there’s the other side of your mutation—the ability to heal others by absorbing their injuries. 

The first time you did it, it was an accident. 

You were closing up shop, and as you walked along the cobblestone roads, you saw a man lying face down. Instinctively, you quickened your pace, and crouched down beside him. Was he drunk? Dead? Gently, almost hesitantly, you reached out, placing your hand on his back with the faint hope that he was simply unconscious. Your intention was simple—just to check if he was breathing, to see if he would stir at your touch.

But the moment your fingers brushed his coat, a violent surge of pain exploded in your mind, like a thunderclap within your skull. The agony was so sudden, so sharp, that it nearly knocked you off your feet. 

It was more than pain—it was as though the man’s suffering had become yours, pulling you into his darkness. Your vision blurred, and for an instant, you could feel it. Blood. Hot and sticky, trickling down your forehead in a slow, steady stream. You raised a trembling hand to wipe it away, expecting to feel the warmth of it on your fingertips.

But there was nothing. No blood. No wound.

Just the phantom sensation of pain that wasn’t your own.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished. You blinked, gasping for air, trying to steady yourself. When you looked down at the man again, he was stirring, groaning softly. His eyes fluttered open, and he sat up, as if waking from a long sleep. He looked up at you, confused but grateful, oblivious to the power you had just unleashed.

It feels like a curse, the pain of others transferring to you in ways that leave you gasping for breath. But over time, you learn to control it, to take on only as much as you can handle, and to let the rest fade away.

You never stay too long in one place. Town after town, you move, always careful to keep your powers hidden. The people you encounter are kind enough, but you never allow yourself to get close. You can’t afford to—not when the memory of him still haunts you, his absence a constant ache in your heart. 

What if they leave you too?

Every now and then, there are some nights of passion with a stranger, but you never find another lover, never allow yourself to even consider it. 

As the years slip by, and you move through life like a ghost, always on the fringes, never fully there. In the beginning, you don’t notice it—time is something you stopped paying attention to long ago. But then, one day, nearly ten years after he left, you catch sight of yourself in a mirror.

Your reflection stares back at you, unchanged, unmarked by the years that have passed. It’s as if time has forgotten you, leaving you suspended in a state of perpetual youth. This knowledge—that you could live indefinitely—fills you with a sense of purpose you haven’t felt in years.

So, when the First World War breaks out, you volunteer as a nurse, determined to use your abilities to save as many lives as you can. The troops who come to you are broken, their bodies ravaged by the horrors of war. You take their pain into yourself, healing them with a touch, until there is nothing left but faint scars—a reminder of what they have survived.

It’s during the Second World War that you first hear the rumours. Injured men speak in hushed tones of a man they saw—a soldier who seemed invincible, fighting with a ferocity that borders on the inhuman. They talk of claws—long, sharp claws that can cut through anything, and a healing ability that allows him to shrug off injuries that would kill anyone else.

Could it be him? Could he still be out there, after all these years?

You dismiss the thought almost as quickly as it comes. It can’t be. He would be dead by now, just like everyone else from your past. 

He is gone, and you are alone—that’s the truth you’ve come to accept.

—

Somewhere along the way, you meet Charles Xavier. You don’t know how, but he knows you. He knows you’re a mutant—how you helped in the war. And he wants you to join his team.

You’ve spent so long on your own, relying on your powers to survive, that the idea of joining a team feels foreign, almost impossible. But there’s something in his eyes, something in the way he speaks of his vision for the future, that resonates with you. This isn’t just about survival—it’s about making a difference, about using your powers to protect those who can’t protect themselves. 

And, perhaps, it’s also about finding closure.

Maybe you can help mutants who struggle with their identity, like he did. Maybe this time, you can stop them from running away from themselves, the way you wish you could have stopped him.

So you agree.

And when you arrive at the mansion, you’re introduced to the others who will become your teammates—Jean Grey, Scott Summers, Hank McCoy, and Ororo Munroe.

The early days are challenging. Learning to work as a team, to trust one another, isn’t easy, especially for you, after so many years of solitude. But a camaraderie that develops between all of you, and it feels right. You’re no longer just a group of shunned mutants—you’re a family, united by a common goal.

—

This mission is supposed to be simple—investigate a remote facility rumoured to have ties to illegal mutant experimentation. Charles had briefed the team before sending you out, warning that there might be danger but nothing you couldn’t handle as a group. You’ve faced threats before, so when you arrive at the facility, it’s with the usual caution but no real alarm.

The structure looks forsaken at first glance, the exterior covered in years of grime, windows cracked and dark. But as you all approach, something feels wrong. There’s an energy in the air, a hum of activity beneath the surface. You can sense it, and by the looks of the others, they feel it too.

“We should be careful,” Scott mutters lowly as his hand hovers near his visor.

Jean furrows her brows. “I’m sensing...something. There are people here. This place isn’t empty”

Your stomach twists, and once the team cautiously makes its way deeper into the facility, you start to hear it—the muffled sounds of machinery, the low hum of voices, and then...a scream.

You freeze.

You’ve heard that scream before, in the dead of night, in memories you’ve tried to bury.

James.

Without thinking, you push forward, your body moving on instinct as you race toward the source of the sound. The others call after you, but their voices fade into the background as panic claws at your chest.

The scream grows louder, more desperate, until you burst into a large chamber. And there, in the center of the room, suspended in a tank of bubbling liquid, he is.

His body is thrashing against the restraints that bind him, wires and tubes connected to his skin. Machines whir around him, injecting something into his body—something molten, silvery. 

A team of scientists in lab coats and armed guards surround the tank, all of them focused on the cruel procedure unfolding before your eyes.

You can barely breathe. The sight of him, after all these years—being tortured like this is too much. Pain and rage surge through you, and before you realize what’s happening, you’re moving again.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you scream.

The guards whirl toward you, but you’re already on them. The first one goes down with a single blow, your fist connecting with his chest and sending him flying into the wall. You barely register his body crumpling to the floor before you move on to the next. 

Behind you, Jean and Scott rush in, their powers flashing as they help subdue the remaining guards, but your focus is on the man in the tank, whose eyes are squeezed shut in pain, body convulsing. You can’t think straight—you can only feel the overwhelming need to make this stop, to save him before the experiment finishes. 

But it’s too late.

In a roar of destruction, he breaks free from the tank, glass and metal exploding outward in every direction. His eyes are wild, erratic, his mind lost to the pain and the transformation—he’s a force of nature now. A whirlwind of violence and fury.

You try to reach him, but Jean steps forward, her eyes glowing as she raises a hand. “I’m sorry,” she strains. Her telekinetic force slams into him, knocking him off his feet, and his body crumples to the ground, unconscious, the rage finally quieted.

Standing there, panting, your hands are shaking as you stare at his still form. You’re overwhelmed—by the sight of him after so many years, by the pain of seeing him like this, by the fear that you might lose him before you even got him back.

Scott places a hand on your shoulder, his voice gentle. “We need to get him out of here.”

You nod, unable to speak, and together, the team lifts Logan’s unconscious body and carries him out of the facility. The entire time, you keep your eyes on him, terrified that if you look away for even a second, he’ll disappear. When you finally make it back to the jet, Jean lays him on a stretcher, her powers keeping him sedated for the trip back to the X-Mansion. You sit beside him, your hand hovering just above his, too afraid to touch, too afraid to hope.

The jet lifts off, and your mind races with a thousand questions. 

How did he end up here? Why did they do this to him? 

But above all, one thought consumes you: He’s alive.

After all these years, after all the heartache and loss, Logan—James—is still here.

—

He remains unconscious for three days, his body healing from the horrific procedure he endured. You barely leave his side, watching over him as if your presence alone could somehow anchor him back to himself. His breathing is steady, but his face—it’s both exactly the same and entirely foreign to you. He looks like the man you’ve known and loved, but it’s what is on the inside that worries you.

You swallow hard, your gaze tracing the familiar lines on his skin. Where are you, James? you think. Are you still in there?

Jean had done a body scan soon after you brought him back to the mansion, and the results confirmed your worst fears: they’ve bound adamantium to his bones and buried his personality underneath the most powerful brainwashing you’ve ever heard of.

It’s devastating. Whatever relief you’d felt—if any at all—at finding him alive is now eclipsed by the crushing reality of what he’s become.

The day he is scheduled to wake, Charles calls a meeting. The team gathers in the briefing room, and you sit quietly in your chair, replaying everything that led up to this moment.

Following a seemingly endless stretch of silence from you, Charles clears his throat. “If you’re ready, perhaps you could tell us more about your history with him. It might help us understand what we’re dealing with.”

A deep breath fills your lungs as your hands clutch the table’s edge tightly. Talking about him, about everything you’ve been through together, feels like peeling at old wounds that never really healed. But you know it’s necessary. If anyone is going to help him, they need to know the truth.

“I met Logan—James, as I used to call him—over a hundred years ago, when I was very young” you begin, and you can see the surprise ripple through the room at the admission of your age. “We grew up together. My parents were servants at the Howlett estate, and I spent most of my childhood by his side. He was my best friend… and eventually, he became so much more.” Your voice cracks, and you pause for a moment, collecting yourself.

“After a tragedy involving his family, we ran away together. We lived in a small mining town for years, trying to find some semblance of a life, but things fell apart. He left, and I—I spent years trying to forget him, but I never could. He was—is—everything to me."

Jean leans forward. “I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you,” she says softly. “But you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that when he wakes up… he may not be the man you remember, and not just because of how much time passed.”

You look up at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

She hesitates, exchanging a glance with Charles before continuing. “The brainwashing they used on him wasn’t just designed to make him forget. It was meant to strip away his sense of self entirely. His mind was… broken down, piece by piece. What you saw back at the facility—his rage, his lack of control—that’s what’s left of him right now.”

Hank speaks next. “We’ll do everything we can to help him, but Jean’s right. You need to be ready for the possibility that he won’t recognize you. He might not even recognize himself.”

Nodding slowly, your heart sinks further and further with each word. 

“We have tools, ways to work through the brainwashing,” he continues, “but it will take time. And patience.”

“Time,” you echo quietly. “I’ve already waited so long.”

Ororo reaches across the table, her hand hovering near yours. “I know this is overwhelming. But you don’t have to do this alone. We’re here to help.”

“I need to see him,” you whisper, your voice firmer than before. “When he wakes up, I need to be there.”

Charles nods gently. “Of course.”

—

When he finally stirs, it’s not a gentle awakening. His whole body jerks, his head whipping around in wild confusion. His breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, and his eyes dart frantically across the room, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings, and just as his eyes finally land on you, he freezes.

And for a long moment, neither of you speak.

There’s a lump in your throat, and you wait with a bated breath for some flicker of recognition in his eyes, some sign that he remembers you—that he knows you.

But it never comes.

Instead, his gaze narrows, studying you. “Where the hell am I?” he grunts. “And who are you?”

It hurts more than you expected. You knew this might happen—Jean and Charles had warned you—and you thought you had prepared yourself, but it doesn’t make hearing it any easier. 

He doesn’t remember you. 

“Just take it easy,” you manage to say softly. “You’ve been through a lot, James.”

His eyes flicker with confusion as he shifts in the bed, wincing at the movement. "James?" he questions.

You quickly correct yourself. "Logan."

His hand instinctively goes to his chest, fingers brushing against his side as if testing for wounds that aren’t there anymore. “What is this place?” he asks again. 

“You’re at the X-Mansion,” you explain. “You were... rescued. We brought you here to heal.”

“Rescued.” he repeats dryly. “From what?”

You hesitate, unsure how much to tell him. How do you explain everything—the horrors of Weapon X, the brutal experiments, the torture that nearly destroyed him? You can’t even bring yourself to speak the full truth, not yet. 

“You were taken,” you say carefully. “By people who wanted to use you for something terrible. But we got to you before they could. You’re safe now.”

Logan lets out a short, bitter laugh, though there’s no humour in it. “Safe,” he mutters, his voice low and sarcastic. “Right.” He rubs a hand across his face.

“Why do I feel like I’m missing somethin’?” he mutters, his irritation growing. “Like... like there’s something important I should remember.”

Swallowing hard, your heart twists at his words. He is missing something. But you won’t tell him that now. He’s already grappling with so much, and the last thing he needs is the weight of your shared past thrust upon him before he’s ready.

“Don’t worry about it.” Your voice is gentle, coaxing. “It’s... normal to feel confused right now.”

Frowning, he runs a hand through his hair. “Like I’m supposed to believe that.”

“I know it’s hard to understand,” you say softly. “But it’ll get better. You’ll remember in time.”

He doesn’t respond right away, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling as if he’s searching for answers that aren’t there. After a moment, he sighs, his eyes returning to yours. “Alright. Who are you, really?” he asks. “Why do I feel like I should know you?”

Because we grew up together. 

Because we were everything to each other. 

Because you were the one person I never stopped loving. 

“Just focus on resting,” you say, forcing a soft smile. 

He studies you briefly, as if trying to figure out whether or not to trust you. Then finally, he nods, thought you can tell he’s still wary “Yeah... okay.”

The awkward silence returns. 

“I should go,” you murmur, standing abruptly. The chair scrapes against the floor, the sound jarring in the quiet room. “You need rest.”

He doesn’t stop you, doesn’t ask you to stay. He just watches as you turn toward the door, and leave.

Your chest tightens painfully as you walk out of the room, the familiar ache of loss settling in once more. It’s worse this time, though—worse because he’s alive, and yet, in every way that matters, he’s gone.

You leave the room in a daze, your mind swirling with a storm of emotions. Your feet carry you down the hall, and before you realize what’s happening, you find yourself in the washroom. 

The moment the door clicks shut, your stomach lurches. You barely make it a toilet before you’re retching. Tears sting your eyes, and you brace yourself against the cold porcelain, gasping for breath as your body shakes with sobs.

Standing up and flushing, you walk over to the sink, and press your forehead against the mirror. How did it come to this? You found him, after all these years, but the person in that bed isn’t the Logan—it isn’t the James—you once knew. 

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath as you try to pull yourself together. It's not the time to breakdown, you think, and after splashing some water on your face, you turn toward the exit.

Pushing open the door, you’re met with the familiar gaze of Ororo. She stands in the hallway, her white hair cascading down her shoulders, her eyes filled with something that feels like both understanding and pity.

Your eyes widen, caught off guard, not expecting to see anyone, least of all her.

“I saw you come in here,” she whispers empathetically, “but thought you might need a moment.”

You pause, trying to blink away the redness in your eyes, trying to pretend you’re stronger than you feel. But she sees through it. She always has.

“I’m fine,” you say, the words slipping out automatically.

Stepping closer, her gaze softens as she studies your face. “No,” she disagrees, “you’re not.”

The vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep at bay rushes forward again, threatening to swallow you whole. You open your mouth to argue, to brush it off, but the moment you meet her eyes, the words die in your throat. The pity, the compassion—it’s too much.

Silently, she reaches out, her hand resting lightly on your arm. It’s a small gesture, but it feels grounding.

“I saw him,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “He doesn’t remember me.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry.” 

—

The next few days are a blur. You keep yourself busy—too busy—hoping that constant movement will keep the gnawing ache at bay. If you let yourself stop, if you let yourself think about what’s happened, the hurt would consume you, so you don’t stop.

Most of your time is spent in your room or the garden, taking refuge in the places where you can hide from everything, everyone.

Sometimes, you train, pushing your body past its limits in a desperate attempt to silence your thoughts. Every hit you land, every punch you throw, never feels like enough.

It’s easier this way, you tell yourself. Easier to avoid him, to pretend he never came back into your life. Because the alternative—watching him live here, knowing he doesn’t remember you, doesn’t understand what you once shared���that’s too painful.

You’d rather pretend he’s still a memory than face the reality that the man you love is here, but not really.

When you walk through the mansion, you see him from afar. You can’t help but notice how he’s begun to soften around the others, how the confused man who woke up in that bed is slowly adjusting to life at the mansion. He has daily appointments with Charles, who you imagine is sifting through his mind, doing his very best to retrieve something, anything.

While there is still a distance in his eyes, still a guarded edge to him, but you can see the small shifts—the way he listens when someone speaks, the faintest hint of a smile when Hank tries to crack a joke.

And sometimes, your eyes meet.

From across the room, you’ll catch him watching you. In those moments, your heart skips a beat, wondering if there’s a reason why he’s zeroed in on you specifically, but then he looks away, and it passes. You never approach him, never ask him how he’s feeling or if he’s starting to remember anything. You’re too afraid of the answer.

One night, you sit in the garden, letting the soft breeze play with your hair, eyes closed. 

“Mind if I sit here?”

The voice startles you, pulling you from your thoughts. Your eyelids flutter, and as you turn, your heart jolts upon seeing Logan standing at above you. And momentarily, it’s like you’re teenagers again—sneaking out at night into the gardens to talk. 

“Sure,” you nod, gently patting the space beside you, as you always did. 

He steps closer and sits down, though not without leaving a small space between the two of you. “I’ve been seeing you around,” he says after a beat.. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze focused on the flowers in front of him. “But... you’ve been avoidin’ me, haven’t you?”

A small laugh escapes you, bitter and self-deprecating. “You noticed, huh?”

“Yeah, not much gets past me. Even that one guy’s attempts at being a leader.”

Despite yourself, you snort. “Scott?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s too easy. Guy looks like a human stoplight with those stupid glasses.”

You bite back a snicker, feeling like a teenager again. The banter, the lighthearted teasing—it makes it seem like maybe, just maybe, there’s still something left of the man you knew.

He turns his head slightly, his expression growing more serious. “You know, I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he says, quieter now. “Why it feels like something’s missing. Every time I see you... I know you’re related to it.”

Shifting a little to look at him, you take in the way his facial hair is a little bit more kempt, how he still has his hair tufts. You miss him, and he’s right here with you. 

“I... thought it would be easier,” you admit, staring down at your hands. “For both of us. If I kept my distance. I didn’t want to add to your stress.”

Frowning, his brows furrow as he processes your words. “Add to it? How?”

“Because you don’t remember me,” you say softly. “And I didn’t want to be a reminder of something you can’t recall.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then, “you’re right. I don’t remember everything,” he says slowly, “but I know there’s something about you.”

You nod, your throat tight, but you don’t push him. You know it’s only a matter of time before the pieces fall into place. “You’ll remember,” you whisper. “I know it.”

He grunts. “I don’t want you to keep your distance.”

“I won’t. Not anymore.” The idea of him wanting to spend more time with you, fills you with joy.

—

For the next few weeks, it becomes a quiet routine—the nightly conversations in the garden. It’s like slipping into an old rhythm, the two of you always finding a way to gravitate toward each other once the sun goes down. You talk about small things, but it's never too heavy. Sometimes he teases you, and you tease him back, exchanging sarcastic quips. Nothing and everything has changed at the same time.

You’ve started training together too, spending more and more time together each day. It’s almost as if there’s a magnet between you that not even time could weaken.

This night, you’re in the gym together on the sparring mat. It’s the usual scenario playing out—dodging, blocking, throwing punches. He’s fast and strong. And it means a lot to see you see him finally embrace his mutant powers and use them, rather than try to hide and run. 

You’re both breathing hard, the exertion pushing your bodies to their limits. You land a solid kick to his side, and he grunts, stepping back for a moment. Without warning, his claws extend, and your gaze locks in on them.

Of course you know about the adamantium, but seeing it like this, so up close, it’s different. 

“What?” Logan asks, noticing your sudden stillness. His brow furrows, and he glances down at his claws, as if he’s only just realizing they’re out. “What are you staring at?”

“Does it hurt?” you question, clearing your throat. “When they come out?”

He tilts his head, his gaze flicking between you and his claws. “Everytime” he sighs. “But not as much as the old ones.”

Your eyes snap up from his claws to meet his. “... What?” you ask. The old ones?

“They were bone,” he continues, “Hurt like a bitch.”

Your heart starts pounding in your chest. Could this be it? Could he be remembering?

Stepping closer, your voice trembles slightly as you push for more. “What else do you remember?”

His eyes widen, and then he blinks, his stare glazing over for a second, like he’s trying to chase down a memory that’s just out of reach.

“I… I don’t know,” he admits with a bit of frustration. His claws retract, his hand flexing unconsciously as he stares at the empty space where the blades once were. “It’s all bits and pieces. I get these flashes, but nothing sticks. Charles said... he said the barriers in my mind are comin’ down, but it’s slow. Like finding a damn needle in a haystack.”

But the fact that he remembers even a sliver, is enough to fill you with hope.

—

This continues, the small fragments of memories coming back to him. They come unexpectedly, at random times in the day. It’s never anything big, never the full flood of memories you’re hoping for, but each time it happens, it feels like another piece of the puzzle falling into place.

You suggest a walk one afternoon. The mansion has felt a little too closed in lately, and you think maybe the fresh air might help clear his mind. Together, you wander along a little pathway that connects the mansion to a nearby river, the sound of the water in the distance a soothing backdrop as you walk side by side. He’s quiet, more so than usual, and as you glance at him, you notice his expression has grown distant.

“Logan?” you ask softly, nudging his arm. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. His brow is furrowed, like he’s trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle, his thoughts distant, swirling. “I remember…” he starts, his voice quiet, as if he’s speaking more to himself than to you.

Your fingers begin to twitch at your side. Every time he remembers something, it feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if he’ll fall into the past, if this will be the moment he remembers it all.

“A cabin,” he says finally, his voice rough but certain. “There was a shack. In a small town. I used to stay there.”

You nod, urging him to continue, anticipated building within your chest. “Go on.”

“It was small. Cold most of the time. But I don’t think I cared.” He lets a chuckle. “I liked it. Felt... peaceful.”

You can’t help but smile a little at the memories he’s bringing up. His steps falter, and he stops in the middle of the path, turning to look at you. “Mining,” he mutters, as if the word itself is triggering something. “I remember mining.”

“That’s good,” you say. ‘I’m happy for you.”

—

The memories keep coming.

You’re in the mansion, passing through one of the long hallways together on your way to eat, when he suddenly stops, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the wall. You turn, concern flooding through you. “Are you okay? What is it?”

He frowns, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to force something into focus. “There was a girl.”

“A girl?” you repeat, not wanting to push him but unable to stop the question from spilling out.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “In a big house—like a mansion, I think. We'd play together. She was... she was always following me around. Always gettin’ into trouble.”

You know exactly who he’s talking about.

“Do you remember her name?” 

Shaking his head, you can see the frustration etched onto his face. “No. But she must have been important, I can feel it.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you try to hold yourself together. It was me, you want to say. That little girl was me.

“It’s okay,” you say instead, your hand reaching out to touch his arm. “You’ll remember. You’re already so close.”

He looks at you then, his eyes searching yours for something—answers, reassurance. Once a few seconds pass, he sighs and shakes his head.

“I don’t know how you put up with this,” he grumbles lowly. “With me.”

“Because I know you,” you whisper back. 

To have a chance at another lifetime with him, you’d put up with anything. 

—

He’s busy with Jean and Charles this morning, the duo having started to work together last week, trying to finally break down the wall stopping Logan from recovering his memories. With nothing else to occupy you, you’ve retreated to the mansion’s library, seeking solace in the endless rows of books. The familiar smell of paper and ink is comforting, and for a while, you manage to lose yourself in the words on the page. 

You’re curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, a book resting in your lap, when your ears pick up the sound of heavy footsteps—fast, purposeful, ringing out through the mansion’s quiet halls.

Concern rises in your chest. Those footsteps aren’t casual; someone is rushing, and you’ve been around long enough to know that in here, that usually means something’s wrong.

Setting the book down on the small table beside you, you stand and head toward the entrance of the library. The sound grows louder, the footsteps coming closer, and just as you reach the doorway, you collide with a solid wall of muscle.

"Ho—holy sh—" you gasp, stumbling back, startled. Your hands fly to steady yourself, and you look up, wide-eyed, to see Logan standing there. "Logan, you scared m—"

“James.”

You still. 

"What?" you whisper, your mind racing as you stare at him. His face is different—not just the usual irritated-by-himself expression he’s been wearing lately, but something else. There’s a certainty in his eyes, relief and maybe even—

“My name is James,” he repeats. “I was born in Alberta. We grew up together. I... I killed my father.” His voice falters slightly at that, but he pushes through, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “You were the little girl in the mansion. You’ve always been there. And I—” His eyes brim with emotion. “I love you.”

The words slam into you, leaving you breathless. You can feel the blood drain from your face, your heart jumping so hard it feels like it might burst. “You... you remember?” You’re barely able to get the words out.

Logan—James—stares at you. “I remember everything.”

A sob escapes your throat, and you throw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest as the floodgates open. His arms come around you immediately, holding you tight, his chin resting on the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so damn sorry. I should have never left. I should have gone back to find you.”

You shake your head, tears soaking into his shirt. “It doesn’t matter,” your voice breaks. “None of that matters anymore. We’re together now. That’s all I care about.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that won’t stop falling. There’s so much love—so much everything—in his eyes, your knees nearly buckle. All you do is hold on to him, as tightly as you can, afraid that if you let go, this moment will slip away.

But it won’t, because he’s really here, he remembers, and he still loves you.

For what feels like hours, you stand there in the hallway, wrapped in each other’s arms. Eventually, you take a small step back, unwrapping your arms and instead grabbing his hands, squeezing them. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He squeezes your hands back in return. “Yeah, we do.”

—

You sniffle, wiping away the last of your tears as you lie in bed with him, pressed so close it feels like you’re trying to merge into one person. His warmth surrounds you, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist, hands drawing small circles. It’s like all the years apart never happened, like you’re finally back where you’re meant to be.

“So, what made it all come back to you?” you ask softly, your voice a bit hoarsefrom all the crying you’ve done in the last hour.

James takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly. “I guess having two strong telepaths diggin’ around in your mind will do the trick,” he responds. “Shit was brutal, but... worth it.”

Tilting his head down, he presses a small kiss to your temple. If even possible, you nestle yourself further into his hold. 

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” you whisper. “All those years... I never thought I’d see you again.”

“Same for me. Thought I lost you too,” James murmurs, his hand running gently up and down your back. “After I left the cabin, I tried to forget. Tried to convince myself you were better off without me, but...” He trails off. “I was wrong—a coward. I shouldn’t have been runnin’ away. Especially from you.”

You look up at him, your eyes searching his. “What did you do all those years? Where did you go?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. “I wandered. For a long time, I didn’t stay in one place. Fought when I had to, drank when I couldn’t forget. Got into a lot of trouble.” He grimaces slightly. 

You frown. “What kind of trouble?”

“The kind where people like me aren’t supposed to be walking free,” he remarks bitterly. “I gave into the monster I thought I was.”

His words sink in, and you can feel the toll those years took on him, the way they left him scarred, not just physically, but emotionally. “It must have been so hard,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “Living like that, without... anyone.”

Leaning into your touch, “Yeah,” he admits. “It was. But... I didn’t know how to live any other way. Not after everything that happened.”

There’s a long pause, the two of you lying there, bodies tangled together as you both process the weight of what’s been lost and what’s been found. Then, he kisses the inside of your hand, looking at you with a faint, curious smile.

“What about you?” he asks softly, tugging you closer. “When did you... ya know, find out you were a mutant?”

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. You’ve never really talked about that part of your life to anyone, at least not in detail. 

“I didn’t know for about a year,” you begin. “After you left, I was... lost. And then one day... I punched a tree.”

James raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that. “A tree?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the seriousness of the memory. “Yeah. I was angry—angry at everything. And when I punched it... the damn thing exploded.”

He stares at you for a moment, processing your words. Then, a slow, amused grin spreads across his face. “Exploded, huh? Guess that’s one way to find out you’re not normal.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, it wasn’t exactly subtle.”

His smile fades slightly. “What did you do after that?”

Taking a deep breath, you let the memories of those early days as a mutant flood back. “I tried to keep it hidden for a while. Didn’t really know what to do with it. But then... the wars started.”

Eyes narrowing, his expression changes instantly. “The wars?”

Nodding, you continue. “Yeah, the First and Second. I volunteered as a nurse. I figured if I could use my powers to help people, then maybe I could make up for everything I lost. I moved station to station, healing soldiers. I couldn’t save everyone, but I tried.”

He’s momentarily quiet, gaze never leaving yours, even as he processes what you’re telling him. Then, slowly, his features shift into disbelief.

“You were on the frontlines?” His voice low, almost incredulous. He reaches out to brush a few strands of hair out of your face. 

“Yeah. I wanted to make a difference.”

Letting out a sharp breath, James sits up slightly in bed as he stares at you. “Holy shit,” he mutters. “I fought in those wars, too. In the trenches.”

You’re speechless, and the realization washes over you slowly. The whisperings you’d heard from the troops, the rumours you’d chalked up to be nothing more than drunken tales, suddenly come flooding back. A man who couldn’t be killed, who healed from every injury, who fought with claws that could tear through anything.

It was him.

It was always him.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “So it was true…all those rumours about the man who couldn’t die... that was you.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess it was.”

All those years, all those battles... and you were both there, so close, yet so far apart. 

“We were so close,” you say, moving forward in to give him a kiss. “And we didn’t even know it.”

He kisses you back, his grip on you tightening. Then, when you pull away, he sighs, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s all so different now,” he begins gruffly. “You’re not the little maid in training anymore, runnin’ around that mansion, worried about getting caught”

You smile faintly at the memories of your younger selves, the girl you used to be, and the boy who was so much more to you than just a young lord. 

“And you’re not sir James Howlett or whatever—Lord—anymore” you tease. “You’ve come a long way from the boy who used to sulk in the garden because he had to attend another dinner party.”

He lets out a noise that sounds like a mix between a huff and a laugh “Yeah,” he agrees. “That feels like a lifetime ago. And in a way, I guess it was.”

While neither of you are the same people you once were, in this moment, you can feel that connection—the one that has always been there.

“I’ve thought about you every day,” he speaks up again. “All those years.”

“James…”

“I love you,” he confesses. “And I’ve loved you my whole life. Before we ran away, after I left, even after I thought you were gone... I couldn’t forget. Didn’t want to.” He sucks in a harsh breath, grabbing your hand once more. “I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed. We could’ve figured it out together, but I was so... so damn scared. I thought if I stayed, I’d only hurt you.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes again. “You did what you thought was right,” you whisper, intertwining your fingers. “You were scared, and so was I.”

“I wish I could take it all back,” he says, regret bleeding into his tone. “I wish I could’ve been there for you... We could’ve had so many more years together.”

“We have time now,” you say softly, assuring him. “We have all the time in the world to make up for it.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but rather he edges forward, brushing his lips softly against yours. “I love you,” he murmurs before closing the gap completely, kissing you passionately.

You smile against his lips, because while he may be known as logan, or Wolverine, he’s still James.

Your James. 

----

A/N: I'm going to have to either write some crazy smut or excessive fluff now because this took it out of me LOL also I hope none of you got confused with the name switching! Thank you so much for reading <3

[moonlitlex]

actually it's legally mandatory to go to the club you'll go to jail for dodging the going to the club draft

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Danny Is A Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

(not in a necessarily bad way and it's by Clockwork's design)

Bats, or Constantine, or the JL, or whoever you want to be close to Danny in this prompt, don't notice it right away. It takes them a while to figure out its not purely coincidence. And even after they do figure it out, they still have their doubts.

The thing is, it doesn't work all the time. It also doesn't seem to have a system or a schedule to it, nor is it any kind of a superpower, as far as they can understand. By God, does Danny have way too many superpowers, but most of them are consistent, and yet this one... is weird. Weirder than anything they've seen before, and they've seen a lot, okay.

It also only works if Danny does it without thinking.

"You know what'd be perfect right now? A cheese sandwich," Danny says over the comms, in the middle of the fight with Dr. Freeze, "A warm, grilled cheese sandwich just out of the toas- Owch, what?" There's a pause. And then, "Guys, you're not gonna believe it, a cheese sandwich just smacked me in the face! I think someone threw it out of the window or something!" Danny sounds bewildered, but excited, and there's a sound of chewing from his comm now. At least he is eating, so that's good.

"I fucking hate robots," he grumbles the other day, punching his way through the Brainiac invasion in Metropolis, with no comm and only for the Supes to overhear, "No, correction, I hate only evil robots. The ones that interrupt my astronomy class. The ones that shoot motherfucking lasers and walk like crabs, and ruin a perfect day, and- I wish- aw, fuck, no, that's bad wording. Don't wish for shit. But if all these robots would just suddenly, miraculously malfunction and stop attacking me and the whole city, that would be, like, real nice of them."

A few minutes later, something goes wrong with the Brainiac's control over the army of robots, and all of them just stop moving and fall down at once. It is deemed as a chance, a lucky shot, a coincidence. Supes keeps quiet over what he heard Danny say.

"Oh, you bitch-ass fruitloop, you know what I want?" Danny yells at Plasmius, as the ghost is laughing like a madman, "I want a fucking brick to fall down right on your head, like, right now! Maybe that can set your brains straight for at least five minutes!" And even before he is finished talking, there's something falling down from the sky and hitting Plasmius's head. It's not a brick, to be exact, it's Miss Martian's shoe, though. She has no idea how it even came undone and fell from her foot. But it did somehow knock Plasmius out cold, so there's that.

It doesn't happen all the time. Red Robin does the math - the improbable accidents only happen in about 26% of the situations, given that Danny says something. It's by no means a reliable power. It also doesn't happen only during the fights: there were numerous times when Danny just said something like 'I wonder if the cafeteria serves garlic bread today' and sure enough, there's garlic bread there. Even if it was not on the menu. Ever.

They try to question Danny himself, but he has no idea. He doesn't even notice the coincidences most of the times - which is not surprising, knowing that they only happen in one out of four situations and Danny is known to have a short attention span. So, after a few unsuccessful investigations and failed attempts at calculating how this even works, they all give up. It has never jinxed anything, as far as they know, so everyone just leaves it be.

Danny is just magically lucky like that.

Meanwhile, Clockwork is having a good laugh about it. Danny's suggestions amuse him, and it's funny to watch the other superheroes having a mental breakdown over it, so he rigs the timeline from time to time. Just a little.

[enjakey]

The University and the Dorms We Hate

Pairing: [Jake x Fem!Reader]!University!Found-family au

I LOVED WRITING THIS FIC (14K) like it's so funny and loving and sweet and cute- yeah just read it guys. Can you tell I incorporated Loose? Try and find it, lol. I love writing 02z, they're so adorable.

So, I don't want to call this fic dark because it deals with some heavy things like depression, bullying and suicide (in context of sunghoon) and death in general. Mentions of ghosts, if you're scared of that. Lots of crack tho, It's all very funny. And soft. And found-family esque with Jake, Jay, Sunghoon and Y/N.

Please enjoy reading guys. I always appreciate feedback! Can't wait to talk and meet some of y'all. Would love making friends on this app. I can't think of anymore warnings to give so- enjoy! Also does anyone hate the whole tags thing? I swear it takes so long.

Summary: in which everyone that went to your university hated it- it was low budgeted and whoever ended up there made the worse decision of their lives. They were so out of funds that the boys dorm building collapsed, leading them to move into the girls’ dorm. Jake and Y/N hover in each other's lives before finally crashing into each other- protecting each other and their friends, Jay and Sunghoon.

Everyone hated Remnant University- the students, the faculty, the janitors, the registrar, even the pigeons that occasionally dropped dead on the quad. It was a cursed place, built not from vision but vanity- the brainchild of a man with too much money and far too much cocaine. He’d once called it his ‘gift to the people.’ The people, in return, had cursed his name into oblivion.

After his death- a coke-fueled heart attack in the university sauna, if the legends were true- the institution limped on. Tuition was cheap, admissions were easy, and something about the place drew in a strange crowd: brilliant minds with nowhere else to go, the kind of people the world chewed up and spat out.

As years passed, graduates clawed their way out through fake recommendation letters, falsified research papers, and internships that didn’t exist. Meanwhile, the next batch of the naive and desperate arrived- wide-eyed, hopeful, and doomed.

‘To all the students of Remnant University — welcome home.’

Y/N remembered staring at the banner during her orientation, its letters in gaudy bubble font, fluttering above the cracked main gate. She'd felt a flicker of awe then. Two years later, she couldn’t look at it without imagining setting it on fire. Home, my ass, she thought almost daily. She hated her classes. She hated the professors. She hated the eternal mildew stench that clung to the dorm walls and the way the lights flickered like a horror movie just before someone dies.

The campus itself was a patchwork nightmare- brutalist buildings long past their expiration date, lecture halls with ceilings that leaked when it didn’t rain, and an willow tree near the western edge that, according to campus lore, was cursed: a student had hung themselves from it every decade like clockwork. The library was missing half its books, the science lab still ran Windows 95, the food in the mess hall tasted like regret, and the only working coffee machine was in the faculty lounge, guarded like a sacred artifact.

Still, somehow, the place endured. Professors- the decent ones, anyway- stayed not out of loyalty, but out of pity. They knew Remnant had no soul, only suffering, and tried to ease the burden where they could.

And so, another semester dragged on, the sun too harsh, the wind too bitter, the future too far. And Remnant University, like a dying star, continued to pull in the lost and the brilliant, one pitiful student at a time.

That year, the boys dorm had given up, its foundation perishing.

It started with the water- or rather, the lack of it. Then came the black mold that bloomed across the ceilings like ink stains in a Rorschach test. The final straw was the collapse of the third-floor corridor during midterms, taking down three bathrooms, two residents, and the only functioning Wi-Fi router in the building.

Facilities blamed the students for “reckless behavior,” the students blamed the university for “being held together by asbestos and prayer,” and the administration issued a memo with bold Comic Sans that read: “This is an opportunity for community building!”

And so, with nowhere else to go, the boys were moved- en masse- into the already half-empty girls’ dorm.

It was chaos. Instant ramen wrappers multiplied like cockroaches, and hallways began to reek of Lynx body spray and unwashed laundry. Someone brought a pet iguana named Carl that no one could prove they owned- he just roamed freely, occasionally found sunbathing under the corridor light fixtures like he paid rent. Room assignments were haphazard; some girls returned from class to find unfamiliar boys lounging on their beanbags, raiding their snacks, or claiming, “oh, I thought this was 3B.”

The fact that each room had its own bathroom did little to soften the blow. Instead of fighting over communal showers, the wars shifted to noise complaints, door-slamming at odd hours, and passive-aggressive sticky notes about ‘the walls are thin- I can hear everything.’

One girl woke up to find her mirror fogged with the message “YOU’RE NEXT :)”- it turned out it was just her neighbor playing a prank with a Sharpie and a blow dryer, but the girl moved out the next morning anyway.

Y/N had to share her hallway with a group of engineering boys who mistook deodorant for optional and thought whispering at 2 a.m. counted as being quiet. One of them set off the fire alarm trying to microwave a boiled egg. Another kept trying to convince everyone he was the reincarnation of Tesla. The hallway now smelled like socks, rejection, and desperation.

“Community building,” Y/N muttered as they stepped over a broken chair in the common room. “They should rename this place Lord of the Flies: Campus Edition.”

Still, no one left. No one ever really left.

The university had a grip on people- not because it was good, but because once you were here, it was like the outside world forgot you existed. Transfer applications got “lost.” Emails to other universities were mysteriously flagged as spam. Even the local newspapers referred to it as “that place near the quarry” like it didn’t deserve a real name.

And perhaps it didn’t.

Remnant wasn’t just a university. It was purgatory with a vending machine and barely functioning plumbing.

Y/N just didn’t realise this shift was some sort of ironic blessing in disguise.

A few months later, the chaos mellowed out.

The loudest, messiest ones either dropped out, transferred, or mysteriously stopped showing up- whether from burnout, academic probation, or just giving up and going home was anyone’s guess. The dorm slowly emptied again, and for the first time in a while, Y/N could hear her own thoughts past 10 pm.

The air felt different- less like a frat party gone wrong and more like a hospital wing during visiting hours. Quiet, but laced with an odd sense of shared survival. The broken furniture in the hallway had been cleared. Carl the iguana had found a permanent home in someone's terrarium (rumor had it, he'd been registered as an emotional support animal). The scent of chaos was replaced by something eerily neutral detergent, maybe. Or resignation.

Just a few rooms down from hers lived Jake, Jay, and Sunghoon- three boys who, unlike most, had managed to settle in without turning the place into a war zone. They were quiet, mostly. Not the awkward kind of quiet, but the observant kind. The kind that made Y/N wonder if they were secretly plotting to escape this university and hadn’t yet told her how.

She didn’t know much about them then- just glimpses. Jake had the habit of doing late-night runs down the corridor with music blasting in his headphones. Jay always walked like he had somewhere important to be, even if he was just carrying laundry. And Sunghoon, well… Sunghoon gave off the unnerving energy of someone who was either extremely kind or extremely dangerous, and no one had quite figured out which.

Y/N and Jake didn’t really meet at first. Not properly. They just… existed in each other’s periphery.

It started with ramen. Y/N had a ritual- 11:30 pm, kettle boiled, seasoning packets dumped in without reading, and a long sigh echoing in the kitchen like a ghost with finals. The dorm’s shared kitchenette was useless, claustrophobic, and smelt vaguely like burnt cheese, but it was all she had.

That was where she first saw him.

Jake didn’t say anything. Just stood by the fridge, half-asleep and barefoot, pouring chocolate milk into a chipped mug like it was whiskey. She glanced up from her noodles; he met her eyes for a second, then looked away.

No nod. No smile. Just shared exhaustion, briefly acknowledged.

After that, it happened more often. Hallway crossings, leaving the dorm at the same time- same shoes, different direction. One would always pretend to check their phone. The other would act like the floor had suddenly gotten really interesting. But neither of them turned back.

Once, she was walking down the corridor holding a stack of textbooks too tall for her arms. He was coming from the opposite side with a wet towel over his shoulder. Their eyes locked. For a second, Jake looked like he might say something. But then he didn’t. He just shifted to the side, brushing past her like she was smoke.

Y/N told herself it was nothing. Just dorm life. Just bad timing.

But still, whatever corner she turned, he was there- leaning against a wall, tying his shoelaces in the lobby, digging through the vending machine like it owed him money.

Then, the air-conditioning in the dorms stopped working. It was bound to happen eventually- the units had been blubbering like dying whales for weeks, dripping puddles of water and emitting an odd smell that lingered like guilt after a bad decision. But for them to break down exactly when the weather decided to become an inferno? That wasn’t just bad luck. That was spiritual punishment.

The dorm quickly descended into a version of hell Dante probably left out for being too pathetic.

People started dragging their mattresses into the hallway where it was marginally cooler. Fans were hoarded like black-market gold. The guy in 207 tried to build a swamp cooler out of a mop and an old table fan. It worked. Briefly. Until it didn’t. And then the smell got worse.

The warden and management were flooded with complaints, threats, and one very poetic hate email that ended with, “This is not an institution of learning. It is a slow death simulation.”

Y/N tried ice packs. They melted. She tried sleeping on the floor. It gave her a backache and a sudden understanding of her mother’s sciatica. And of course, that was when she started running into Jake more- always shirtless, always looking unbothered by the heat, as if his body had negotiated a secret deal with the sun. And she knew he noticed her too- always in her training bra, always in her shorts, always with her hair up and neck sweating, mouth apart from panting.

It was probably the sixth day of the heat-wave. Y/N felt like she was boiling alive inside her own skin. Her shirt clung to her back, her legs stuck to the sheets, and the tiny desk fan in the corner had just given up with a sad, final wheeze. The water bottle she’d frozen earlier had melted into a lukewarm puddle beside her pillow. She had tried everything- a cold shower, lying on the floor, holding ice cubes to her neck- and still, the heat sat on her chest like a curse.

It was 02:57 am when she finally gave up.

She pulled on the first shirt she could find- which might’ve been slightly damp from sweat, but everything was- and slipped into the hallway, craving movement, breeze, anything other than her room’s still, suffocating air.

The hallway light flickered.

As soon as she stepped out, she heard a soft click- another door opening just down the corridor.

Jake- shirtless, barefoot, hair a mess of curls sticking to his forehead. He held a can of something cold- maybe soda, maybe hope in liquid form- and looked just as defeated as she felt.

For a moment, they just stood there, both caught in the dumb surprise of seeing each other again like this- past midnight, wilted by heat, lit by that awful yellow dorm light. Their eyes met. And unlike the usual glances they shared- quick, embarrassed, almost performative- this one held.

Jake lifted his chin slightly. “You heading somewhere?”

Y/N didn’t trust her voice, so she just jerked her head vaguely toward the stairwell. “Roof,” she said. “Maybe it’s less hell up there.”

He gave a tired, crooked smile. “Mind if I tag along?”

She shrugged. “Sure”

They walked in silence. The stairwell was even warmer, but there was something about the quiet- the hum of bugs outside, the faint creak of the building- that made it bearable. When they finally pushed open the roof door, a wave of hot-but-moving air greeted them.

It wasn’t cool. But it wasn’t still. And that felt like enough.

They sat on opposite ends of the low concrete ledge, legs dangling, watching the silhouettes of nearby buildings flicker in and out of the haze. The city lights blurred at the edges, like everything was melting.

Jake reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a popsicle- already halfway melted, the wrapper sticky and threatening to fall apart.

“Mango,” he said. “Don’t ask where I got it.”

He held it out halfway to her.

Y/N stared at it for a second, then leaned over, broke it in half with her fingers, and took her piece.

“Thanks.”

They sat in silence, eating sticky, sun-soft popsicle halves at 3 a.m. on the roof of a university that everyone hated.

After a long pause, Y/N said, “This place is a dumpster fire.”

Jake exhaled a laugh through his nose. “Yeah. But sometimes the fire’s kind of pretty.”

She looked at him sideways. He wasn’t smiling, not really, but his eyes had softened.

Y/N didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. The night felt suspended- like even the heat had paused, waiting for something to happen. They sat there until their popsicles were gone, until their sweat cooled into goosebumps, until the roof didn’t feel quite so unbearable. And when they finally stood up, heading back down the stairs without a word, something had shifted. They weren’t the awkward kids that bumped into each other in hallways anymore; they weren’t strangers who shared glances near the kitchen anymore.

“I need your help with this essay.”

Over the last month, as the heatwave dragged on like some biblical sentencing, Y/N and Jake had made a habit of barging into each other's rooms with whatever excuse they could make up. Sometimes it was batteries, or help with the half-dead Wi-Fi router. Other times, it was Jake showing up at her door with that half-grin, asking her to suffer through a regrettable movie because Jay and Sunghoon wouldn’t.

It had become an unspoken routine- something neither of them remembered initiating. It just… happened. Like the way dust collects on the windowsill, or how sweat clings to your back before noon. Natural. Unavoidable. Comfortable.

Now, standing at the doorway of Jake’s room was Y/N, clad in shorts and her usual training bra, waving her laptop like it was proof of a dying emergency. Jay and Sunghoon, shirtless, slouched on the floor with their phones and half a pack of chips between them, looked up with matching expressions of surprise. Not the “what are you doing here?” kind- more like the “we’ve seen this before but we’re still not used to it” kind.

Jake, catching their gazes and the sudden silence, didn’t even hesitate. He grabbed the first shirt in arm’s reach- one that had been lying crumpled on his bed for at least three days- and launched it at her face.

“Put on a shirt,” he grumbled, not meeting her eyes.

Y/N peeled the shirt off her face slowly, one eyebrow raised, and then looked down at herself like she was only now registering what she was wearing. “You’re the one with no AC. If I die from heatstroke, I’m haunting this room specifically.”

“You already live here anyway,” Jake muttered, trying and failing to suppress the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He put on the shirt that she had discarded and stood up from the floor.

“Essay, please! It’s urgent.”

Jake rolled his eyes but followed. No socks, no phone, no hesitation. Just him, trailing behind her like it was a habit carved into muscle memory.

Y/N’s room was already open when they got there. She didn’t wait. She just dropped onto the bed, cross-legged, her laptop opened before the fan like it might keep the overheating processor from catching fire.

Jake didn’t ask what the essay was about. He just sat beside her, back against the wall, shoulders barely touching, both pairs of eyes fixed on the open Word document on her laptop. She handed him the laptop, letting him take a few moments to scan the contents of her half-written, unplanned essay.

“This looks fine,” Jake raised a brow in confusion, handing her the laptop back. “What’s your doubt?”

She paused, hesitant. Then she glanced over her shoulder, hair falling in front of her face, hiding the sheepish curve of her smile. “I don’t know how to finish it,” she admitted, voice low, almost guilty.

Jake leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes with a sigh- the kind of dramatic groan he saved just for her. It was half-annoyance, half-performance, and all affection. “You, a literature major,” he said slowly, turning to face her with mocked disappointment, “are asking me, an engineering student, how to end a paper on Jane Eyre?”

“You know the best AI tools,” she shot back, defensive but grinning. “I just need help with how to use them.”

Jake gave her a look- that look- the signature one, all teasing arrogance with a hint of theatrical suffering, like helping her was both the bane and joy of his existence.

“And what do I get in return?” he asked, head tilted slightly, eyes glinting.

“Nothing,” she replied, without missing a beat, eyes not leaving his gaze, offering just as teasing a smile.

The first time Jake had said that line- what do I get in return?- she’d just asked him to grab her an egg from the communal fridge. He had said it with that same boyish grin and mock-serious tone, and Y/N, completely unprepared, had felt butterflies scramble in her stomach. She’d stammered, completely thrown off, her tongue fumbling against her words.

Jake had caught on instantly, and with wide eyes and flustered hands, rushed to explain that he hadn’t meant anything weird by it- that it was just a joke- harmless, playful. Ever since, whenever he threw that line at her, she’d shoot back with a dry “Nothing,” and he would always chuckle, always let it slide, like it was their little inside joke sealed in silence.

This time was no different. He just shook his head, a smile curling at the edges of his lips, and pulled the laptop onto his lap to open a fresh browser.

That night, during dinner, Y/N sat in Jake’s room, Sunghoon and Jay accompanying them like they do most nights. Jay cooked ramen for everyone to share, some protein and vegetables to bring out flavour. Silence, but the slurp of their ramen buzzed out the space of their room. A movie played on Jake’s laptop, some contemporary drama Jay had been dying to watch so they barged into his screening.

“Did y'all realize it’s the fourth decade,” Y/N said, mid-slurping her noodles, eyes fanning across the faces of the three boys that turned to look at her with bewilderment. “Who do you think the next victim will be?”

Jake and Jay passed each other a glance- a glance only the pair could decipher- and then looked at Sunghoon who was staring at Y/N. Sunghoon only gave her a shrug and finished the last of his ramen. “What, that willow tree-suicide thing?”

Y/N nodded.

Jake would never admit it, but he feared that the next victim of the university’s willow tree curse would be Sunghoon. He and Jay only followed Sunghoon to this godforsaken university for the safety of their friend- their friend who had been struggling with depression and suicidal tendencies since they were in middle school.

The three grew up together- the same neighbourhood, same school since kindergarten, same course interests and same love for each other as they grew up. But, in middle school, the dynamic between them shifted when Sunghoon was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder after a suicide attempt and suddenly, Jake and Jay were constantly in touch with Sunghoon’s parents to make sure he was safe and not a danger to himself.

When high school began, the two made sure, with all the power that they had, that Sunghoon wouldn’t succumb as a victim to their school’s increasing bullying issue. They were often put in positions where they had to trade their lunch to some of the bullies for Sunghoon’s safety or sleep with girls they didn’t want to, just to keep peace.

Then, it was time to apply for universities and Jake and Jay applied to every university Sunghoon had applied to, even if their ambitions were different. When Sunghoon first said he wanted to go to Remnant University, Jake and Jay shouted “same!”- like it was muscle memory, like they had been practising, rehearsing. But they didn’t really know much about the university.

Its website looked decent, offering all the courses they wanted and saying all the right things with words like world-renowned, engaging, innovative, expansive. The pictures that appeared with a quick Google search were hypnotising- a sprawling campus with expensive architecture students studying on patches of grass and canteens. It wasn’t until the day they had to move into campus that they realised they’d been baited.

As their time in the shitty university went on, the amount of rumours and legends they heard never stopped. There were rumours about the founder of the university and how he died a coke-addict and a student rapist. Then, there were the legends about the haunted computer lab and how the second computer to the left of the third row had never been used for two decades because the last time someone used it, they got hit by a bus and died in a tragedy. There was also a rumour about how the library was haunted and no one dared to stay in it past 2 am. Then, there was the legend they dreaded hearing about the most- the willow tree suicides and its ten year clock.

This was a conversation Jake and Jay had an ample amount of times after they heard the rumours. Words of concern and fright spilling out in hushed tones when Sunghoon wasn’t around to hear them- either sleeping or doing laundry. They hated thinking about it, to even visualise a world without their best friend- but their thoughts were often uninvited, like a nightmare they couldn’t sleep out of.

But was it truly a curse? Was it really something worth worrying about? It felt ridiculous, honestly- to lose sleep over an urban legend tied to a run-down university. The last so-called victim, according to the story, had died a decade ago. That meant ten batches had graduated since, and a hundred more rumors had spun into existence. No one even remembered the names of the last three. They were just stories, passed around during late-night conversations when there was nothing better to talk about- like ghost tales shared over a dying campfire.

The first victim, according to their university’s confessions account, was a girl whose name was marred with rumours and scandals of slutty behaviour and leaked sex-tapes. She had hung herself on the willow tree, her neck snapped in half with no note, no warning- just hanging there like an abrupt full-stop to a sentence. The media- or the newspaper articles, said that it was due to sexual exploitation and no one believing her. Others said that the story was bigger than that- bigger than them.

The second victim was an engineering student- much like Jake, Jay and Sunghoon themselves- who had failed his courses and had no money to pay for tuition. His scholarship was taken away from him, so he took his own life. He, too, left no note or no warning which left the public and his family in a spiral of bewilderment and confusion- no one really knew what the real story behind his death was.

The third victim was a boy in his final year of interior design. Unlike the others, there was no clear tragedy leading up to his death- no grades slipping through the cracks, no scandals or whispers of wrongdoing. In fact, most said he was the perfect student: brilliant, well-liked, always the first to show up and the last to leave. One morning, his body was found hanging beneath the willow tree, his shoes neatly placed beside him, as if he didn’t want to dirty the branches with a mess. No suicide note, no indication of struggle- just silence. Some said he was cursed with guilt, others said he saw something- something he couldn’t unsee.

In fact, they found him with his eyes open- dead and empty, horrifyingly still, like the life had been drained out from him mid-thought.

Three deaths. Three decades. Three stories, told and retold in hushed voices, embellished by fear and the passage of time. Would there even be a fourth death to add to the list of stories?

“That’s just a stupid rumour,” Jay dismissed Y/N quickly, cutting in before Jake could say anything- his loose tongue and panicked expression already halfway to betraying him. Stress had never been Jake’s strong suit, and Jay knew that better than anyone. Once, back in high school, Jake had tried talking Sunghoon down from a wave of sadness but fumbled his words so badly, it only confused Sunghoon more and triggered a full spiral. Jay had to step in, damage control already a familiar role by then.

“You don’t think it’s true?” Y/N asked, surprised.

“Nope,” confidently, Jay nodded, maintaining eye-contact like his life depended on it- like Sunghoon’s life depended on it.

Perhaps Sunghoon was too distracted, but Y/N felt the atmosphere shift around her. Her eyes darted between Jake and Jay, a question forming on the tip of her tongue, cautious and apprehensive yet curious and personal at the same time.

Jake, sensing her peaked senses, dragged her away with the empty pot of ramen and bowls in one hand and her forearm in his other. He led her into the kitchenette, two floors below their room, in the name of dish-washing duty while she struggled against his impossible grip.

“What was that?” When Jake finally let go of her and moved to wash the dishes, pretending like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, Y/N leaned against the counter with her arms crossed, staring at him like he owed her an explanation.

Jake tutted, tilting his head and staring at the remnants of ramen in the dirtied dishes, soapy water filling the basin. With his sleeves rolled up, he submerged his hands into the sink to start cleaning. “It’s just… it’s a sensitive topic for us.”

Jake refused to look at her, as though looking at her would make the conversation real, serious, heavy. He could still feel her gaze on him, now softened and apprehensive.

“Oh,” she sighed, letting her arms dangle to her sides. “Am I allowed to ask questions or do we move on?”

“It’s just,” Jake wasn’t sure what he could say- he wasn’t sure if he was even allowed to talk about it. This worry and fear for his friend was something he lived with for over seven years now, buried between blankets of secrecy between him and Jay. And now, for him to say the words out loud to Y/N almost felt wrong, illegal- like openly telling people who he voted for in presidential elections. “Sunghoon…”

“Oh,” Y/N nodded, chewing on her lips as the pieces clicked into place. It didn’t take a genius to understand why the topic was sensitive… she just kind of understood.

Sunghoon. Of course. The quiet, aloof, lost kid who looked like he carried the burden of the world most of the time- alright.

There was a moment of silence between them- just the hum of the old fridge, the soft slosh of water against porcelain, and the faint creaking of pipes somewhere in the walls. It wasn’t awkward, not quite. Just delicate.

Y/N straightened up, nudging his elbow gently with hers, her voice lighter this time. “You missed a spot,” she said, pointing at a stubborn noodle stuck to the bowl he was scrubbing.

Jake huffed out a breath, almost a laugh. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re a terrible dishwasher,” she grabbed a sponge and joined him at the sink, her presence a quiet reassurance that she wouldn’t press further.

For a moment, they just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, warm water pooling over their hands and silence settling like a truce. Their hands sloshed against each other, consciously pinching and swatting, a grin cracking against both of their lips.

Y/N had a stash of mango flavoured candy that Jake had become addicted to when she first shared some with him. She didn’t know if it was a brand or if it had a name- she told him that she’s simply grown up eating it and her parents would buy it in bulk everytime it ran out. It was sweet and sour, a mix of tangy spice settling in as the aftertaste and Jake was absolutely smitten by its flavour. Seeing how obsessive he had gotten over them, she told him that she’d ask her parents to buy extra for him but for now, he had to suffice with the single piece she’d give him everyday.

However, it meant waiting for Y/N to come back to the dorm, which she usually did really late after standing around the college canteen with her friends, gossiping or complaining about their university. By the time she’d come back, he’d get impatient and complain. There were times he even wandered back into campus in search of her and her room key and her friends would find that weird about him.

“How are you that obsessed with this candy? We’ve all had it. It’s not that great.”

“You’ve got no taste.”

So, annoyed, Y/N gave him her spare key, along with her trust in him that he wouldn’t use it for anything other than taking her mango candy. No snooping through her things, no stealing her expensive packets of ramen and no playing pranks. Jake agreed, comically desperate.

His classes had ended early and he returned to the dorm, an overheated oven as the heatwave refused to subside even after two months. They were in a dry spell- it hadn’t rained since their airconditioners had broken down and the whole town was in a water crisis. This meant that the dorm only got a limited supply of water. If someone woke up too late, all the water would be used up and they’d have to suffice with walking around sweaty and sticky, wafting with the scent of heat.

Absentmindedly, like it was in his second nature, Jake walked towards Y/N’s room instead of his own, his bag slung over his shoulder and her key already ready in his hand. When he unlocked her door, however, he wasn’t expecting to find her still in her room, sitting on her floor still in her underwear. Her back rested against her bed, hair strewn across the mattress and clinging to her neck. When she saw him, she didn’t panic in her half-naked state. She had a pillow on her lap, hiding the parts of her she was most embarrassed of, scanning her laptop screen perched on the pillow.

“Didn’t you have class?” He asked.

Jake blinked, his brain buffering, but he didn’t say anything about her state. He didn’t need to. That was the unspoken rule now: you don’t acknowledge it. Not when everyone in the dorm had seen each other wilt under the summer heat like dying houseplants. Modesty had long surrendered to survival. Shirts were optional. Doors were left ajar for cross-breezes. Even the warden had started walking around shirtless, like he'd finally accepted the heat as god.

“Class got cancelled,” she said, leaning her head against her mattress like she was fighting for her life. The evenings were the worst when it came to the heat. She squinted her eyes close, feeling sweat dribble down her already wet neck and she reached to adjust her tangled hair on the mattress.

Chewing on the candy, Jake sauntered to sit on her bed, right behind her. “Let me,” he said, crossing his legs and gathering her hair in his fist. She leaned forward to give him more space, allowing him a brief glance at her glistening back. Silently, he started raking through the strands of her hair with his fingers, eyes slyly glancing at the Reddit tab open on her laptop.

“Why are you reading that?” He asked, referring to the r/remnantuniversity tab she had open. It was about the willow tree suicides, a whole discussion on theories and rumours and urban legends that surrounded it. He wondered if those contributing to these online forums belonged to his class- it could be the quiet kid that sat in the back like he was harbouring a familial secret or the overly enthusiastic girl who acted like she knew everything.

“It’s for an essay,” she said. “For my literature and sociology class- something about Verstehen.”

“And that’s the topic you chose,” his voice was calm, unwavering. He wasn’t bothered or angry, only a little scared and wary, like she was trending unexplored and dangerous waters. His hands moved to section her hair into three, attempting to braid it.

“Yeah, I just- I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It’s kind of perfect for our topic,” she sighed. “There’s an entire subreddit, everyone’s shit scared about it- look!” She pointed at her screen and Jake squinted, leaning forward to read what she was referring to.

Then she scrolled through the subreddit and there were huge paragraphs of what he assumed were explanations or speculations, newspaper clippings of what seemed to be reports of the suicides which he couldn’t decide if they were real or AI, and a video of a new channel reporting on an unexplained suicide by hanging in an unnamed university.

While Jake looked through everything she was showing him, his hands slowly braiding her hair, she chewed her lip in caution. “They’re saying all the suicides took place on April twentieth.”

“That’s barely a month away,” Jake said.

“Yeah.”

“Y/N, there’s really no way any of this is real,” Jake sounded like he was convincing himself more than her. “You know the internet, it’ll go lengths to make their lives interesting. All those creepypastas that were debunked- I’m sure this is one of those.”

“That’s exactly what many people are saying,” she nodded. “The sane ones, at least.” Y/N reached behind her to feel her hair that he had partly braided. He wasn’t struggling, just taking his time, working with care and warmth. “Hey, you didn’t mess it up,” she pointed out, teasing him.

“You’re annoying,” he rolled his eyes, continuing to braid her hair.

“Where’d you learn to braid hair?”

“My mom, I think,” Jake hummed. “My brother and I used to love braiding her hair.”

“You have a brother?”

“Yeah, he’s in Australia now,” Jake’s eyes sparkled at the thought of his family, his smile mirrored on the glassy screen of her laptop. She watched him through the reflection, arms crossed on her chest, lips spreading a smile herself. “He’s married with kids and everything.”

Y/N, turned around to pass him the rubberband on her wrist, expression of awe. “You’re an uncle? That’s adorable.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolled his eyes, shuffling to lay down on her bed, his arms crossed under his head. He turned to look at her, watching her as she went back to her research.

Almost unapologetically, his eyes trailed down her exposed neck, admiring the braid he did for her, before locking onto her arms and her chest. This wasn’t the first time Jake looked at her like this, confused whether it was lust or just the fact that he was a boy staring at a half-naked girl in front of him- if it was passion or second-nature to him as a man. When he thought about it, he’d almost feel disgusted, to ever wonder what was under that pillow on her lap, what more could be discovered under those black panties she thought she successfully covered. Then there were her legs and her hands, slender and welcoming, like they were waiting for him to slide into.

Jake cleared his throat and pulled out his phone, attempting to distract himself. The heat didn’t help him and he knew if he took his shirt off now, his brain would run into overdrive.

“Jay and Sunghoon want to go bowling,” he said upon reading his missed messages. “Do you want to go?”

She didn’t say anything- just hummed like she was considering it, but was already reaching for a shirt. He knew that hum. It meant yes.

And a few hours later, they were standing under flickering neon lights in a bowling alley that smelled like bad nachos and better memories. Jay and Jake ended up destroying them- like, embarrassingly. Jake wasn’t even trying that hard. He bowled like it was something his ancestors trained him for. Sunghoon was busy trash-talking instead of actually aiming, and Y/N kept getting distracted by her opponents’ coordination- and the way Jake’s muscles flexed, the way his smile overpowered the room and the way his hair matted to his sweaty forehead made him look like something out of a magazine. But Y/N wouldn’t admit this, not to anyone, not to herself.

“Don’t laugh,” she said when the ball slid into the gutter with a tragic thud. “It curved. I saw a curve.”

“Yeah, it curved straight into failure,” Jay said, bumping Jake’s shoulder like they were on the same team in a war. They high-fived like idiots.

Later, they went out to eat at this cramped little diner Jay liked, the one with flickering menus and sticky tabletops that smelled like ketchup and some kind of old, overused oil. It was half nostalgia, half heartburn. Thank god both the bowling alley and this diner had air conditioning, because they swore they would’ve melted if they had to sit through one more minute of sticky air and heavy clothes clinging to their backs. Jake kept dramatically fanning himself with the laminated menu, Jay had unbuttoned his shirt two notches down, and Sunghoon was debating sticking his head in the freezer behind the counter.

Y/N, like clockwork, ordered ice cream mochi- the same kind she always got when they went out. It didn’t matter what mood she was in or what place they were at. If mochi was on the menu, she was getting it. She pulled apart the sticky rice covering with her fingers like it was a ritual, the cold mist clinging to her fingertips. She popped one half into her mouth and let out a small hum, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

Jake watched her without meaning to, elbow propped on the table, chin in hand.

“You’re really acting like this is gourmet cuisine,” Sunghoon said, deadpan, as he unwrapped a sad-looking cheeseburger.

“It is,” Y/N replied, all wide eyes and pure belief. “This is the good kind. The outside’s chewy and the ice cream doesn’t taste fake. Jay, taste this.”

Jay held up both hands in refusal. “I’m not about to get emotionally attached to frozen rice balls, thanks.”

Jake didn’t say anything, but when she wasn’t looking, he stole the other half from her plate and popped it into his mouth. Cold exploded on his tongue, sweet vanilla cream wrapped in the soft, elastic chew of mochi.

She caught him mid-chew. “You’re so mean,” she said, flicking a wet napkin at him.

He just grinned, cheeks full. “You’ll live.”

Then the conversation drifted, as it always did, to the three boys groaning about their engineering classes- Jay going off about a professor who mumbled formulas like they were lullabies, Sunghoon lamenting the four-hour lab that ruined his Thursdays, and Jake trying to convince them all that thermodynamics was a scam invented to humble mankind. Y/N didn’t say much, just listened, her eyes darting between each of them as they spoke, like she was watching some low-budget sitcom unfold right in front of her. She forked through her pasta lazily, twirling it around her utensil with quiet interest, smiling to herself at the way they all spoke over each other- complaining, defending, occasionally throwing fries across the table like punctuation.

Jake had a habit of overpowering his thoughts with his loud voice, like volume could somehow make his point more valid. There was always a grin on his face, dimples peeking through as he defended his case with the same stubborn energy he applied to everything else. He’d shake his head when he got frustrated, flinging his hair out of his eyes in that dramatic, boyish way that made him look like he belonged in some coming-of-age film. Jay, naturally, would shout back- voice rising almost on instinct- calling Jake delusional or dumb or both, words laced with exasperation and fondness. Their arguments were always the same mix of chaos and choreography, like they’d done this a hundred times and had the rhythm memorised.

Sunghoon would just sit back with his drink in hand, lips curled into a crooked smile, chuckling as he watched them bicker like an old married couple. He’d throw in dry commentary about how they could channel all this passion into actually studying, but that only made him a target. The teasing would shift seamlessly to Sunghoon, Jake and Jay now joining forces to poke fun at his notes or his caffeine addiction or the way he took forever to reply to messages. Sunghoon would roll his eyes, flipping them off, but his voice would get just as loud, defending himself with the same fire he mocked them for. And through it all, Y/N just watched, resting her chin in her palm, half-amused and half-softened by the sheer comfort of it all- how familiar and stupid and warm it was.

Then, like clockwork, their voices would taper off- first Jay slumping back in his seat with a huff, then Jake sighing dramatically like he’d just won a war, and Sunghoon smirking into his drink as if he’d been above it all from the start. They always found their way back to quiet eventually, their chaos softening into something slower and easier. One of them- usually Jake- would nudge Y/N with an elbow or flick a piece of napkin her way, and ask, “What about you, nerd? How’s your academic crisis going?”

Y/N perked up slightly, spearing a piece of her pasta and chewing it slowly, as if deciding where to start. “I have to write a new essay for my literature and sociology class,” she said between bites, shrugging. “I thought I’d write about our university and all those legends and rumours. There’s a lot on Reddit.”

Jay blinked. “Why?” he asked, already picturing the tab on her browser- r/remnantuniversity, a whole rabbit hole of conspiracies and dark theories, deep dives into campus lore. The willow tree suicides being one of the most talked-about topics on there, wrapped in layers of myth and fear. Jay remembered seeing the posts himself once- some of the comments read like ghost stories, others like diary entries from students who claimed to have seen strange things, heard whispers, felt watched. He found it oddly fascinating in the way only things that unsettled you at 3 am could be.

Y/N nodded, holding up her phone to show them a post she’d saved. “It’s perfect for what we’re studying. There’s so much there- collective fear, urban myth, ritualised grief. And people are still so scared of that place. Look at this: Reddit says the library isn’t actually haunted, it’s just psychosomatic, like mass suggestion. One of the seniors said they slept there overnight and nothing happened. But then someone else said their roommate went missing for four hours and turned up outside the willow tree. Like, how does that even happen?”

Sunghoon’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. “Why would you want to write about something like that? Aren’t y’alls essays meant to be filled with research paper citations and shit? You can’t cite Reddit.”

“I have my ways,” she rolled her eyes. “Besides, it’s interesting. I’ve always found conspiracies fascinating- that’s all I watch on Youtube.”

“You’re one of those girls,” Jay commented, letting a chuckle past his lips as he brought more food to his mouth.

“Screw you.”

Jake shook his head slowly, voice low and steady. “Now you want to test it out?”

Y/N didn’t say anything at first, only reached for another mochi, her fingers brushing against the cold plastic. “Just for a bit. Past 2 am, that’s when the weird stuff is supposed to happen. But I won’t go alone,” she added quickly. “I mean, unless none of you want to come.”

“You’re actually dumb,” Jay muttered, leaning in. “Like, stupid in the head.”

“She’s possessed,” Sunghoon mumbled, rubbing his temple. “This is how horror movies start. Girl writes a paper, disappears in the library, we all get haunted. No thank you.”

But Jake didn’t say anything right away. He just stared at her across the table, lips pressed together, something flickering in his gaze that wasn’t quite fear, but wasn’t exactly comfort either. Because even if he thought she was being reckless or ridiculous or completely out of her mind, he already knew it in his gut- he was going to follow her anyway.

“If I die in that library, I’m haunting you first.”

Y/N and Jake arrived at the doors of their university library at midnight, a bag of snacks and their study materials tucked under their arms, gripped not just with fear, but with the strange thrill of doing something they weren’t supposed to. The campus was quiet in the kind of eerie way that made your ears ring from the silence- no motorbikes revving in the parking lot, no late-night couples giggling behind the hostel blocks, not even the occasional scream of someone who'd just finished an assignment. The whole place felt still, like it was holding its breath just for them.

It had taken Y/N two whole days to fully convince him- two full days of persistent poking, half-hearted bribery, the promise of free candy, and a dramatic monologue about academic integrity and sociological curiosity that made Jake pretend to gag. Still, he showed up.

She had texted him “you don’t have to come, it’s okay” more than once, but he always replied with some version of “shut up, I’m already on my way.”

The library loomed ahead, grand and cold under the fluorescent lamps. The old sandstone walls cast long shadows, and the columns looked more imposing at night, like they belonged to something older than the university itself. Jake glanced sideways at Y/N as they stepped closer, her face lit by her phone screen as she reread one of the Reddit threads, eyes wide, smile crooked.

“You’re still reading those?” he asked, amused but tired.

“Just refreshing my memory,” she whispered. “Someone said if you walk in after midnight and ask the librarian’s ghost to help you find a book, you’ll see a girl in a red scarf standing in the philosophy section. But if you follow her, you disappear.”

Jake rolled his eyes, trying to hide his growing fear. “And you still chose this over writing a boring essay about Durkheim.”

“It is about Durkheim,” she grinned, holding the door open for him. “Just the cursed, Reddit version.”

They entered with hesitant steps, the automatic doors hissing behind them. The air inside was cold and clinical, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. The security guard was either asleep or didn’t care- they had a green light to wander. The library looked the same as it did during the day: rows and rows of tall shelves, the study desks with their tiny lamps, the far-off corners cast in deeper shadows. It wasn’t as hot inside, enveloped by cool wiring of a half-broken cooler.

Jake exhaled slowly and reached for a Kit-Kat from their snack bag, unwrapping it as loudly as possible just to break the silence. “You know,” he said, “if a ghost shows up and asks me about APA or MLA, I’m out,” he joked, trying to lighten his nerves.

Y/N snorted, nudging his arm as she pulled out her notebook. “Shut up and help me figure out if I’m insane or if sociology is.”

“Both,” Jake said, mouth full of chocolate. “Definitely both.”

They picked a long wooden table near the back, one with uneven legs and names scratched into its surface- past students immortalised in ballpoint pen and frustration. It was the kind of spot no one really liked during the day, too far from the outlets and close enough to the vent that it got way too cold, but tonight it felt perfect. Quiet. Tucked away.

Y/N opened her laptop and got to work, fingers tapping against the keys with the rhythm of focus, eyes scanning Reddit threads, cross-referencing journal articles, her screen glowing dim blue in the otherwise sterile yellow light of the library. Jake pulled out his textbook with the face of a man who had already accepted his own fate and flipped it open to the chapter on thermal systems. He highlighted in pink and underlined in green, switching colours like it meant something, mumbling equations under his breath that didn’t make sense to either of them.

Every ten minutes or so, Jake would glance at his phone and say something like “One hour and ten minutes till we die,” in a mock-dramatic tone that made Y/N flick a pencil at him. Sometimes, he’d whisper the most absurd lines from his textbook like it was poetry- “Entropy is a measure of disorder,” he whispered once, “just like your essay outline.” When she didn’t react, he’d nudge her ankle with his. “Laugh,” he’d whisper, “or I’ll actually start crying.” She snorted and kept typing.

Every ten minutes, they’d count down the time. Jake would glance at his phone, tap the screen, and announce the minute like they were waiting for New Year’s. “1:20,” he’d say. Then, “1:30.” Then, “1:40,” a little more hesitant each time.

By 1:50, the jokes slowed down. The air felt… weird. Not cold, exactly, but too still. Like the quiet had layered itself on their shoulders. Jake was no longer reading- he just stared at the same page, eyes unfocused. Y/N’s fingers hovered above her keyboard. The laptop’s fan hummed a little louder.

At 1:59, they looked at each other. Nothing dramatic. Just a glance.

And then, 2:00 a.m.

The moment it hit, the lights didn’t flicker. The shelves didn’t creak. No whispers crawled through the air. Nothing dramatic happened- not even a gust of wind from a cracked window or the soft echo of footsteps from an unseen hallway.

The library remained stubbornly ordinary. Books stayed tucked in their places, monitors blinked patiently, and the only sound was the quiet hum of the air conditioning and their ragged breathing. Y/N stared at the time on her laptop- 2:00 am sharp- and then looked up, almost disappointed.

Jake leaned back in his chair, stretching with a yawn. “I was kind of hoping a book would go flying off a shelf,” he muttered. “Or like… the ghost of some stressed-out PhD student would show up and slap me for not citing properly.”

Y/N snorted, pressing her fingers to her temples like she was trying to read the silence. “I’m so disappointed,” Y/N murmured, smiling a little. “Should we stay longer?”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “God, no. I came for the haunting, not an all-nighter.”

Still, neither of them packed up. Not yet.

They waited until 3 am, just to be sure. Just to say they’d really done it. That they’d stayed past the hour of whispers and shadows and all those ridiculous Reddit warnings. They didn’t speak much, just packed up their things in a hurry- it felt like they were kids again, afraid of the dark and needing to run to the kitchen for water in the middle of the night to escape whatever monsters were under the bed. The air still held that heavy stillness, like the library didn’t want them to go. But they left anyway, pushing the tall doors open with a little too much caution, stepping into the cooler, quieter night like survivors of something no one else had witnessed.

Their walk back to the dorms was quieter, too. Not tense. Just… quieter. Their hands brushed more than once, knuckles bumping awkwardly in the half-lit path, and for a while, neither of them moved away. Eventually, Jake gave in. His arm came up slowly and draped around her shoulders like it was something he’d been meaning to do all night. She didn’t say anything, almost relieved- just leaned a little into him, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You know there’s gonna be a shooting star tomorrow?” He said, voice low, almost sleepy. “Well, a meteor shower. Something like that.”

She hummed, looking up at the hazy sky.

“Everyone’s gonna be up on the dorm roof to watch it,” he added. “Jay and Hoon are bringing snacks and everything. You should come.”

She smiled without looking at him. “Are you inviting me, or telling me?”

Jake grinned, tightening his arm around her shoulders just slightly. “Both.”

The next night, Y/N climbed the rusting fire stairs to the dorm’s roof, drawn by the distant hum of music and the smell of sweet soda gone sharp with alcohol. The entire rooftop was full- blankets sprawled across the concrete, bodies tangled into lazy heaps, everyone dressed in their pyjamas like it was some kind of unspoken theme. Their university might’ve been falling apart at the edges, but somehow, they always knew how to make the best of it. Laughter echoed into the night, soft and unbothered, like the rooftop was a world of its own. People were singing, laughing, hugging and swaying with the music, glasses of alcohol lifted into the air. Somewhere, she saw the domestic Carl the Iguana perched politely on someone's shoulder.

She didn’t know who handed her the cup of spiked fruit punch- one moment her hands were empty, the next, something cold and red was slipping into her fingers. It tasted too sweet, a little too strong, and sticky like childhood. She moved through the crowd, eyes scanning for anyone familiar.

That’s when she saw them- Jake, Jay, and Sunghoon, walking over with the same crooked grins and half-lidded eyes. The night had painted everyone softer.

Jay raised his drink in greeting. “Congrats on surviving the haunted library,” he said, bowing slightly. “A scholar and a ghostbuster.”

Sunghoon snorted into his cup. “So… can we conclude all the legends are untrue?”

Y/N shrugged, the corners of her lips tugging up. “Probably,” she said, but she didn’t sound entirely convinced.

“Told you so,” Jake grinned and nudged her shoulder with his.

The heatwave had finally started to let up. The air was breathable again, and the rooftop was cool in that perfect way that made them forget how miserable the days had been. The sky above stretched wide and navy, dotted with slow-moving clouds and the faintest glow of city light bleeding into the edges. The first streak of silver split across the sky like a knife, sharp and sudden and dazzling. A soft gasp rolled through the rooftop, voices falling quiet as everyone tilted their heads upward, caught in the spell of it. More followed- long, brilliant trails of light cutting across the darkness, each one different. Some quick and flickering, others steady, glowing like they were made to be seen. The stars looked close enough to reach, like if you stood on your toes, they’d fall into your palms like warm coins. It was the kind of sky that made you feel small in the right way, like you were part of something old and beautiful.

Jake stood behind her, arms curled easily around her waist, the curve of his body slotting into hers like they were puzzle pieces. His breath was slow, brushing against her temple in warm waves, and when he rested his chin lightly on the top of her head, it was without hesitation. His glasses had slid halfway down his nose but he didn’t care- he was smiling too wide to notice, one of those real smiles that crinkled his eyes and pushed his cheeks up high. There was something boyish in the way he watched the sky, like all of this reminded him of something he’d once dreamed about.

Y/N leaned back into him, soft and quiet, her body folding easily into his. Her pulse, which always seemed to buzz around him, slowed into something steadier. Their hands weren’t even touching, but the closeness was warm and whole. She could feel the steady thump of his heart through his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing against her spine. It wasn’t new, the comfort, but it felt like something had settled.

Eventually, the sky quieted again, and the spell broke- softly, like waking from a dream you weren’t ready to let go of. The crowd shifted, people stretching their arms above their heads or collapsing into conversations, their voices warming back into the air. Someone from her literature class- Priya, maybe?- tugged Y/N into a half-circle of people sitting cross-legged on the rooftop floor, laughing over something mildly stupid. She smiled, nodded, and added a comment when she needed to. Her fingers were still a little sticky from the punch, and her cheeks felt flushed, but not from the drink.

Still, every few seconds, her eyes would stray- like clockwork, like gravity. Across the rooftop, past the swaying silhouettes of friends in old pajamas, through the mess of curls and blankets and blinking fairy lights tangled along the railing- until they found him.

Jake.

Leaning back against the concrete wall, hair a little messy, arms crossed. His glasses were back in place now, pushed up lazily with the back of his hand. He wasn’t smiling this time- not in that big, goofy way- but there was something soft in his face, his gaze heavy and quiet and locked onto her.

He didn’t look away. And neither did she.

It wasn’t dramatic or loud, no fireworks, no slow motion movie moment. Just a series of glances. The kind that made your stomach curl. The kind that felt like your whole chest had been pulled a little tighter. The kind that made you feel seen.

Her heart fluttered against her ribs like wings, like something light and dangerous had taken flight. And when he tilted his head at her, just slightly- like he was asking, “you good?”- she smiled. Not a big one. Not one meant for the crowd. Just a small, secret thing. And he smiled back.

The night came to a gentle, sleepy end. Laughter started thinning out as people yawned and stretched, peeling away in twos and threes, voices fading down stairwells. The rooftop cleared like a tide going out, and soon only the distant sound of someone’s playlist humming from a dorm window remained.

Y/N padded back to her room, still barefoot from the rooftop, pulse soft from the stars. Her door creaked open and the quiet inside was immediate, a contrast to the noise they’d just left. Behind her, Jake followed- not invited, not uninvited either. He leaned against the frame of her doorway, arms crossed over his chest, one shoulder raised slightly like he wasn’t sure if he was staying or just passing through. But he didn’t move.

He watched her tie her hair into a bun, the movement familiar and unbothered, like he wasn’t even there. She pulled her shirt over her head with a lazy yawn, tossing it to the chair by her desk, and moved to sit cross-legged on her bed. The room was dim, a pool of moonlight stretched across the floor, and she looked up at him like he’d been standing there forever.

She grinned. “Candy?”

Jake huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head as he stepped further in, finally letting the door close behind him with a soft click. He crossed the room, slow and deliberate, and stopped in front of her.

“Why do you seem so tense?” he asked, voice low, like a secret passed through a crack in the wall. His fingers twitched like they wanted to reach for her but didn’t.

Y/N tilted her head. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

She shrugged but didn’t argue. There was something in the way she looked at him then- barefaced and tired and warm- that made his chest pull in strange, careful ways. Like he wasn’t sure what line they were walking, only that he didn’t want to step off it.

She shifted, patting the space beside her. “Then sit. Maybe I’ll feel better.”

He sat down, his hands brushing her shoulders before he started to knead the knots there- careful, light, like he was asking permission. “You gotta let loose a little,” he breathed, eyes lingering on her exposed skin, words hanging between the space between his lips and her ear.

Y/N knew where this was headed- she wasn’t stupid. It was all the eye-contact in the hallways, the brushing on their hands, the way he hugged her, the way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her like she was the most important thing in the world. And somewhere along the way, she fell into the little game he started, grinning back with tease, letting her hand snake around his arm when sitting together and watching movies, leaning into his touches.

Softly, she tilted her head towards him, eyes lowered and focused on her navy bed sheets. “You know, you don’t need to use cheesy lines, right?” She murmured, still not meeting his lines.

Jake’s hands stilled for a second on her shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the dip of her back before sliding down, slow and tentative, like he was testing gravity. His voice followed after a pause, low and uneven. “Oh, yeah?”

That made her look at him.

And he was already staring- like he always was. Like he couldn’t help it. His gaze swept over her face, soft and deliberate, until it landed on her lips and stayed there just a little too long. He’d been patient, perhaps too patient, all this while, waiting to touch her the way he was now, fingers ghosting against the clasp of her bra, lips just about to touch the curve of her neck.

There was a flicker in her chest- sharp and golden, like something about to ignite. She bit her lip, pulse stammering, and Jake exhaled like he felt it too.

“You’re not gonna kiss me, are you?” she whispered, teasing.

He leaned in, the tiniest bit, until their foreheads almost touched. His breath was warm, sweet from the leftover punch. His hands were still on her waist now, grounding them both. “Not unless you want me to.”

The silence between them was louder than music, thicker than the night. She could feel his heart pounding through the space between them, or maybe it was hers. They were close enough now to share breath, to blur edges.

“I can tell how bad you want it too,” he said, and it wasn’t cocky- just honest. The way she pressed her thighs together, fisted the bedsheet, chest heaving silently at the thought of whatever he was about to do next.

And at that moment, she wanted to close the distance. Wanted to crash into him with all the force of those stolen glances, those unfinished sentences, that first night in the library when his hand brushed hers and neither of them moved away.

But instead, she smiled- slow and lazy, like the heat of the night had melted her bones. “Then, what are you waiting for?”

And that was it. That was all the sign he needed.

Jake moved without hesitation, like he'd been holding his breath for weeks and finally got the chance to exhale. His lips crashed into hers, not rough, but urgent- hungry in the way someone is when they’ve wanted something for too long. One of his hands slipped into her hair, the other stayed anchored at her waist, pulling her in like she was gravity and he was done fighting it.

Y/N responded just as fiercely, threading her fingers through his hair and tugging him closer, chasing the warmth of his mouth, his neck, every inch of him that had lived in the corners of her thoughts. She barely remembered shifting onto his lap- just the way his hands found her hips like they’d been there before in some dream, the way he murmured her name against her skin like it was something sacred.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t messy. It was everything that had built up between them- every brush of a hand, every late-night stare, every almost-kiss, every heartbeat that stuttered when they were alone. He touched her like he was memorizing, like he was afraid she’d disappear. She kissed him like she’d been waiting for the world to stop just long enough to feel this.

They kept their voices low, stifling laughs and gasps against each other’s skin, the thin dorm walls reminding them that the world was still asleep just beyond the door. The sheets twisted under them, breaths hot and tangled, every touch deliberate- like they had all the time in the world but couldn’t bear to waste a second. It wasn’t rushed or clumsy, it was careful and full of heat, the kind of night that felt inevitable. Like the universe had been pushing them toward this moment all along, and they had finally stopped resisting. And when it was over, when their skin was slick with warmth and the room was quiet again, it didn’t feel strange or wrong. It felt like destiny.

Jake and Y/N fell into dating the way you fall asleep on a train ride home- slowly at first, then all at once, like it was the most natural thing in the world. They weren’t flashy. They didn’t need grand declarations or picture-perfect Instagram posts. What they had was quieter, deeper, built out of real things: shared glances, inside jokes, sleepy conversations at midnight when the rest of the world was still.

Most of their dates were just the two of them- Jake was big on “quality time,” as he liked to say. He’d take her to cozy little restaurants tucked away in corners of the city, the kind with dim lights and too-good desserts. They’d sit in booths for hours, sometimes just talking, sometimes just existing in the same space- knee brushing knee, his thumb tracing patterns into her palm beneath the table.

Bookstores became a frequent spot, too. Jake had a soft spot for poetry (though he’d never admit it to Jay or Sunghoon), and Y/N loved the feel of worn-out covers and marginalia. They’d walk through the aisles shoulder to shoulder, flipping pages and pointing out titles to each other. She’d lean into him as they read the backs of paperbacks, his hand resting on the small of her back like it belonged there.

Arcades were chaotic in comparison. Jake was competitive and loud, and Y/N loved the way his eyes lit up when he won. She’d laugh so hard when he lost at air hockey that she’d nearly fall over, and he’d spend far too many tokens trying to win her that one lopsided bunny plushie she swore was “ugly cute.” She still kept it on her bed.

And then there were the days they weren’t alone.

Jay and Sunghoon had a sixth sense for crashing dates. They’d text “wyd” ten minutes after Jake and Y/N sat down somewhere, and somehow always appear wherever they were, drinks in hand, ready to clown.

One night, they all ended up at a rooftop café with fairy lights strung across the beams. Jake had his hand on Y/N’s thigh, their legs tangled under the table, and Jay groaned so loud the waiter turned to look.

“Do you two have to be so disgustingly in love all the time?” he asked, sipping his drink with way too much judgment. “I came here to eat, not to watch The Notebook: Live Edition.”

Y/N just grinned and stole a fry from his plate. “You’re just jealous.”

Sunghoon leaned back, arms crossed. “Y’all make me wanna throw myself off the side of this building.”

“You love it,” Jake shot back, completely unfazed.

“Unfortunately,” Sunghoon muttered, but they all laughed.

Still, despite the teasing, the group hung out constantly. Movie nights on the common room floor, late-night walks to the convenience store in pajamas, sharing playlists and trading clothes and collapsing into each other like family.

Jake never stopped being soft around Y/N. Whether they were alone or not, he always found her hand, always kissed the top of her head, always listened like she was the only voice in a crowded room.

One night, as they sat on a park bench eating ice cream- because Y/N insisted night walks deserved dessert- Jake turned to her with a look of adoration. He had a lot he wanted to say, all sappy words of love and affection and things she loved calling “cheesy filmy lines.” But he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“What is it?” Y/N coaxed, eyes wide with curiosity, tongue poking out to lick her popsicle. A chilly breeze went past them and they welcomed it, pushing out the heat wave successfully.

“It’s the twentieth in a few days,” Jake reminded her.

“Oh, yeah,” she nodded. “Don’t wanna risk not believing it?”

“Yeah,” Jake admitted. “It all feels so stupid.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she looped her arm with his, moving closer to lean her head on his shoulder. They sat that way in silence, eating ice cream and watching the leaves of trees rustle with the wind. Cicadas grew louder and their chests rose and fell in the sync. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Just a few more weeks ‘till summer break.”

April 20th fell on a Saturday.

Jake didn’t say anything when he saw the date on his phone that morning- just stared at it for a beat longer than usual. The sun was already warming the floorboards under his desk, and somewhere in the building, someone was blasting a bad remix of a pop song that had been stuck in his head for three days. But even with the normalcy, the date sat heavy in his chest. He knew Jay slept in Sunghoon’s room that night, just in case, just to protect him or make sure he didn’t go off wandering into the campus.

But the rest of the day was still left.

He sent one message to the group chat- movie night in my room. 7pm. mandatory. no excuses.

Jay replied in all caps complaining about how he had plans (he didn’t), and Y/N sent back a heart. Sunghoon left it on read, as usual.

By 7:03, they were all squished into Jake’s too-small dorm room, the air already thick with the smell of popcorn and the low hum of some indie movie playing in the background. The lights were low, a throw blanket covered every surface that could physically hold a human, and the window was cracked open just enough to let the cool evening air slip in. A quiet playlist hummed beneath the noise of Y/N complaining that Jake had no good snacks (he did, she just liked to say that) and Jay dramatically tried to balance six cans of soda in his hoodie pocket.

Y/N had kicked her shoes off the second she walked in and claimed Jake’s bed like it belonged to her. She was now half-buried under one of his sweatshirts, legs tucked underneath her, hair messy and smiling softly as she scrolled through his playlist. Jake was on the floor by her feet, back against the bed frame, watching her like she was the only thing worth looking at.

Sunghoon, oblivious as ever, plopped beside her with a bag of chips and a hoodie that clearly wasn’t his (Jake’s, of course), already halfway through the first movie of the night. Jay sprawled across the carpet like a Victorian fainting woman, holding a worn-out deck of cards in the air.

“Okay, I’m gonna need full participation,” Jay announced dramatically, flicking cards across the floor like a magician. “If I’m giving up my imaginary date night, we are playing.”

“We never said we wanted to,” Y/N grinned, but reached down to grab her hand of cards anyway.

“You never want to,” Jay deadpanned. “And yet, I’m here. Suffering. With all of you.”

Jake snorted, leaning back against the wall beside the bed, one foot propped on the edge of his desk chair. “You’re so dramatic. You love us.”

“No,” Jay said flatly. “I love cards. You’re all collateral.”

The night went on like that- easy and dumb and warm. They played two rounds of Uno before Sunghoon started cheating just to piss off Jay. Y/N made Jake pause the movie at least three times to change the playlist. Someone spilled soda on the rug. No one got up to clean it.

Then they played Speed, then Jay’s own twisted version of Poker that had way too many rules and made Sunghoon suspiciously good at bluffing. At some point, they forgot the movie was even playing in the background. Laughter bubbled out of the room like it was overflowing. And it was enough. Not a grand gesture, not a revelation. Just the four of them, tangled up in a night full of stupid games and old music, and the simple magic of still being here. Y/N fell sideways against Jake, clutching her stomach at something stupid Jay said. Jake leaned into her without thinking, resting his chin lightly against her arm, grounding himself in the closeness.

But beneath the noise, beneath the ridiculous banter and snorting laughter and snacks spilled on the rug, there was a quiet kind of watching. Jake’s eyes flickered to Sunghoon every so often- not too much, not enough to notice, but enough to make sure he was still here. Still with them. Still laughing. The way his head tilted back when Jay said something dumb. The way he wiped chip crumbs on Jake’s hoodie sleeve like it was his birthright. The way he didn’t seem to know that today mattered at all.

They didn’t talk about it. Didn’t even hint at it. There was no heavy moment, no obvious pause in the night. Just warmth. Just presence. Just staying.

As the night dragged on, Jay announced he was going to physically die if he didn’t get water, and Jake followed him out to the vending machine. When he came back, he had two bottles, one he handed to Y/N wordlessly.

She blinked, reaching out and taking it. Her fingers brushed his. “You okay?”

Jake sat beside her again, this time close enough for his thigh to press against hers. “It’s past midnight.”

Y/N looked at the clock on his desk. 12:17.

Behind them, Jay was yelling about reverse carding his own reverse card, and Sunghoon was fake-snoring on the bed.

That night, out of pure fear and dissatisfaction, Jake had pretended to fall asleep hugging Sunghoon, forcing him to fall asleep too. Jake hugged onto him so tight, he was sure he wouldn't be able to breath for the rest of the night. Y/N covered the pair in a blanket before leaving the room with Jay. They shared a glance, a small understanding and gratitude before parting ways to go to their respective rooms.

The airport buzzed with that familiar kind of chaos- luggage wheels scraping the floor, boarding announcements echoing overhead, and the constant shuffle of people going places. But in the middle of all that noise stood the four of them, frozen in their own little bubble of time.

Finals had wrecked them. Jake looked like he hadn’t slept in three days before this morning. Jay had nearly cried over his last theory paper. Sunghoon dramatically claimed he forgot how to read halfway through exam week. Y/N's fingers were sore from typing essays and projects until 3 a.m. every night, fueled by vending machine coffee and bad lo-fi playlists. But they made it.

Somehow, they made it.

Now they stood in front of the departure gate, suitcases stacked on trolleys, backpacks slung over tired shoulders, the weight of an entire semester pressing softly on their backs.

“Well,” Jay said, clearing his throat like he didn’t want to admit he was getting emotional. “Don’t die.”

“Wow. Inspirational,” Y/N snorted.

Jake laughed, slinging an arm around her and pressing a kiss to her temple like it was the most natural thing in the world. “He means: we’ll miss you. Come back in one piece.”

Sunghoon was leaning dramatically against his suitcase. “Same floor, same rooms next semester, right? I can’t have anyone else stealing my shampoo. It’s personal at this point.”

Y/N reached over to smack his arm. “I only borrowed it twice.”

“Twice a week,” he muttered, but his smile was soft.

“I’ll bring my mom’s kimchi when I come back,” Jake announced, remembering an old bet between Sunghoon and him. “You know, to prove that it’s better than the dorm’s kimchi.”

“That’s a low bar, Jake,” Jay deadpanned. “A literal shoelace would taste better than dorm food.”

There was hugging after that- tight ones, lingering a little too long. Someone may or may not have cried a little (Jay denied it firmly), and for a second it felt like a weird coming-of-age movie ending, the kind that faded out into a bittersweet pop song.

Jay and Sunghoon wandered off after that, joking about who’d forget the group chat first (Sunghoon swore it would be him, and no one argued). Jake pulled Y/N aside for one last moment before their flights were called.

Y/N looked up at him, taking in the soft mess of his hair, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes from too many sleepless nights, and the way his lips parted like he was trying to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. Her throat burned, feeling her eyes water.

“Hey,” Jake, noticing her lips quivering downwards, stepped closer to her, a hand on her shoulder and head leaning closer to her face. “It’s just the summer,” he tried.

“But I won’t see you every day. Or at breakfast. Or brushing your teeth with your eyes half open.”

Jake laughed, that small, breathy kind. “You’ll miss me brushing my teeth?”

“I’ll miss all of you,” she whispered.

Jake reached out, gently tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. His touch was warm, grounding. “Y/N,” he murmured, like her name was something sacred. “I know I joke a lot, but I really mean it. I’ll come visit. I want to see your town, meet your friends, and walk the streets you grew up on. And I need that goddamn mango candy.”

Laughing, Y/N but back a sniffle. “You’re not just saying that?”

“I don’t lie about such things.”

She smiled, watery and small. “Then I’ll visit yours too. I want to see where you had your first kiss.”

“That was awful,” he laughed. “But sure, I’ll take you to that playground.”

And then he leaned in.

Not rushed, not like he was trying to prove anything. It was soft, slow, and sure- the kind of kiss that tasted like every unsaid word, like laughter under moonlight and movies shared at 1 am, like late-night card games and secret glances across the room. It was the kind of kiss that said I’ll miss you and I’ll wait for you and I’m so damn glad I met you.

Around them, the airport moved on. People passed, announcements echoed, planes took off. But for a second, they didn’t move. The world didn’t exist. There was only the warmth of his hand and the feel of her lips and the way their hearts beat just a little too loud.

When they pulled apart, her forehead rested against his.

“Go before I cry,” she whispered.

“You cry, I cry,” he muttered, trying to smile, but his voice cracked just a little. “Group breakdown in the airport.”

She laughed, even as she blinked hard. “I’ll text you when I land.”

“You better.”

And then, she turned and walked toward the gate. He stood there until she disappeared past the security check. Only then did he finally exhale, breathing words of love she couldn’t hear. Behind, Jay and Sunghoon were hollering for him to their gate, paying they needed to board “before the plane fucking leaves.”

And then there were final waves from Y/N, airport glass doors sliding shut, security checks and goodbyes swallowed by distance. But something about it didn’t feel sad.

Because they knew they’d be back.

Same floor. Same rooms. Same people. Just a little more grown.