#patchwork oriental

[propagandagothic]

Atlanta Basement

Ideas for a large, rustic-style basement renovation with a concrete floor, beige walls, and a traditional fireplace

[quicksllvers]

Lookout Basement in Atlanta Inspiration for a large rustic look-out concrete floor basement remodel with beige walls and a standard fireplace

[loitersquadtv]

Atlanta Basement Ideas for a large, rustic-style basement renovation with a concrete floor, beige walls, and a traditional fireplace

[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.

[blooming-flower-of-agony]

hey #gang guess who is back. I redrew my niigo cbcs refs !! look at them and see them. their names are carnation (oriental longhair) snowdrop (flemish giant) narcissus (british shorthair) and patchwork (norwegian forest cat)

and heres them side by side kinda

[songoftrillium]

Hi!!

I saw your reblogged ask about WtE redesigning the Get, and I'm curious what you can share?

I'm working on my own rewrite project (it's mostly a redesign of the W5 system, designed to work with either my patchwork mess of lore or with WtE lore) and I've been having some trouble with the Get, so I'd love to hear your thoughts!

I'm sharing this as someone who has always held a deep affection for Fenrir.

When redesigning the tribe I wanted to do it from a few angles at once.

What motivates a warrior? What is, what is it that makes a society one that is oriented so closely around battle prowess?

What history can do to shape a society into a society of warriors

How does the warriors outlook shape society at large?

What parts of Fenrir history can have direct parallels with minimal effort?

What key parts of the Fenrir are absolutes that cannot be removed without making the tribe unrecognizable to fans?

So, I did exactly that.

The first thing I did was I talked to scandinavian, sami, and slav people actively living in europe and got some pretty deep lessons on outlooks and culture, as well as numerous history lessons from a first-person perspective on things. I then befriended a polish-speaking pagan that was happy to teach me about cultures on sacrifice as both a literal practice and one that affects outlook. In that light, I rewrote the tribe to be one that went from 'seeking a good death' to a tribe that 'seeks causes worth dying for.'

Actually, why don't I just share with you the Get! (glyph used with permission by Feral Noesis)

Get of Fenris (see below the cut)

Dziewanik. Fenrir. Gummoš. Feriksen Suku. Vilkati. Vukarci. Legends, clothing, and common parlance from Sápmi to Carpathia speak of lupine spirits, warriors and deities all linked to the wilderness, hunting, society, and even to some of the oldest creation myths, and in each of these societies, a tribe of fearless Garou emerged. Even among a race of warriors, the Fenrir stand out as the one tribe well and truly composed of warriors from the top down. They throw themselves heart-first into a worthy cause, wearing scars with pride, howling the defeat of their enemies, and maintaining a reputation built on Glory wrought through great sacrifice and determination. Theirs is a culture of warriors whose history is etched in rocks and ancient temples deep in the wilderness.

Their origins can be traced to before the crusades, following the emigration of Germanic and proto-baltic-slav tribes fleeing the Huns both west and northwards. Regularly raided from the Carpathians, it would be Fenris’ wolves who came to find human tribes espousing their very ideals, worshipping the plants and rocks around them. Taking up the hammers and axes these people used in everyday life and now had to use to defend themselves, these became the symbols for the tribe itself—the weapons of the common man fighting alongside kin against insurmountable enemies and overcoming side-by-side.

This culture of adoption, cause, and sacrifice remains unchanged to this day. Lineage alone doesn’t make a Get of Fenris. If a cub cannot stand up to the tribe’s brutal and often bloody trials, they stand no chance against the kind of enemy the Get pursue. Fenrir maneuvers and tactics were first developed deep inside the mountains, combating the Jotunn. Long ago, these twisted and vile giants battered Fenrir around like playthings.

Since the beginning, those espousing the ideals of Fenris seek worthy causes they can throw themselves into body and soul. Their fearlessness lies in their determination weighing their strikes. To a Fenrir, nothing in life worth having comes without significant personal work to obtain, from the manner in which they maintain their spirit affinities to their very homes they always build by hand.

Heroism is not without its drawbacks. The life of a Fenrir is often short and violent. This has led to a belief that the tribe is comprised of mindless warriors with insatiable bloodlust. Those who run with the Fenrir find them to be direct, plain-worded, and espousing deep convictions for the causes they’ve dedicated their lives to.

Leadership in the tribe follows the philosophy of Fenris, that seniority has no meaning. Those most capable of leading in their position do so. Their zedakh’fa, or jarls, earn their right to rule with iron and fang; the leaders of their packs are those most capable of instilling valor in their wolves, and the leader of the household is the kin most knowledgable and skilled in navigating the specific needs and boundaries to be navigated at home.

The combat prowess inherent in every Get of Fenris Cliath is one that is hard-earned and, if they learn to appropriately harness their rage, often ascend to become unparalleled champions in their septs once they ascend the ranks to Adren and beyond — assuming they live that long.

Appearance

Extant Fenrir lineages reveal themselves to be massive gray wolves with broad shoulders and hard-set jaws. This trend, however, peters out significantly, given the diversity of their tribe members. The visual marking of their tribe members are what truly helps them stand out.

The tribe observes a skin marking tradition originating from packs among 9th century Lechites, where Fenrir, lacking battle scars for their prowess, took to their Galliards, adorning them with glyphery. These Get chronicled their deeds for all to see, with both ashes rubbed into fresh wounds to make them clearly visible. In modern times, this has grown to represent multiple kinds of tattoos across numerous cultures, with the glyphs appearing in the negative spaces between the tattoos.

To quote the late Mother Larissa: “Covered in Blood is the natural state of a Fenrir.” In ceremony, a Fenrir is nearly always marked with blood in some way, from adornments of glyphs touting their latest deeds to bearing the bloodspatter of their fallen allies (and their enemies) so as to gift the sept’s lupus with their scent.

Tribe Patron

Fenris is himself one of the original 13 Garou of the First Pack before; the one who held strength and honor most dearly in his heart. He and his wolves waged war against the ancient Jotunn, deep in the mountainous Fjords of Norway. It was here he learned how to think before acting and listen before thinking. Beyond a Warrior, Fenris was a believer in sacrifice, whose tactics espouse his own personal participation in battles. His chiminages to Gaia were of great personal loss, but also strengthened his packs.

All Fenrir espouse these values, that nothing in this world that is worth having is merely given, but gained through personal sacrifice, be it time, task, or blood, expecting no quarter, and giving none.

Character Creation

A well-made Fenrir is a fighter first and a lover second. Physical prowess matters more to this tribe perhaps than any other. Dexterity, Brawl, and Melee are great investments, with Strength and Stamina coming in a close second. A stoic tribe places very little stock in Expression; a Fenrir simply speaks their mind. Where you can however, give them a little empathy. This helps them read through those hard exteriors.

When it comes to Gifts, Fenrir are known for their unshakable will. Willpower, that is, Resolve and Composure, are key to using most of their Gifts. For other Gifts, plan to invest equally in Intimidation and Primal-Urge.

Outlook

The philosophical foundation of a Fenrir is one grounded firmly in materialism. That is, a Get will seldom concern themselves with the affairs of their afterlife and will often consider the things they will leave behind when they go. A Fenrir hero is one whose communities venerate them, whose stories are told, and whose values are upheld as philosophies by the families affected positively by a Fenrir.

The journey to finding motivation to equiring considerable effort on behalf of these warriors to make such a legacy. But, once established, there is no hesitation, no fear, when they take up arms to protect those they love most. This is where the stalwart, unshakeable resolve the Get of Fenris are known for comes to the surface, leading to the bloody tales of glory and unfettered violence that hallmark their mythology.

Spirit Affinities

Bear, Champion, Fenris, Wolf

[mariacallous]

In this 2024 “super election year,” a common concern across Europe and the United States has been the growing popularity and electoral successes of far-right movements and narratives. Though right-wing parties exhibit clear distinctions in different countries, they echo each other strongly in their nationalist orientation, their softness on Russia—and skepticism toward support for Ukraine—and their harsh anti-immigration stance. In the European Union (EU), one election after another has demonstrated the centrality of irregular migration and border security in public discussions and forced mainstream parties to take more restrictive approaches to calm fear and anxiety fueled by xenophobic, far-right rhetoric. The conflation between regular and irregular migration has also severely distorted the debate.

The results of the European Parliament election, France’s snap election, three German state elections, and the Austrian election all showed a strong rightward drift and signaled voters’ distrust in their national governments, confirming the notable shift in tone on migration in Europe toward a more securitized, hardline approach, even among mainstream parties. A look at the numbers indeed reveals a challenging situation as the European Union faces its highest number of asylum applications since 2016, which is straining resources for processing, accommodation, service provision, and thus integration.

In the aftermath of Europe’s so-called “refugee crisis” or “migrant crisis,” which began in 2015, EU member states tried and failed repeatedly to rethink and renew the union’s common policy, until a breakthrough this summer concluded the new EU Pact on Migration and Asylum. In the interim years, however, national governments made separate plans, implementing ad hoc measures to fortify their borders, restricting access to their asylum systems, and negotiating deals with non-EU states to limit movement.

This patchwork of policies did little to deter an increasing number of displaced persons worldwide from heading toward Europe in search of safety. It did, however, create divisions within and between member states, thus impeding progress on effective EU-wide responses. This political incoherence, together with fluctuating irregular arrivals, has since been exploited by populist parties, who propagate the sense that governments have lost control over their sovereignty and can no longer protect their populations.

To provide a better understanding of the complex situation Europe finds itself in today, this explainer aims to clarify the EU’s role in migration and asylum policy, why the issue became so controversial, how to understand recent developments in the migration space, and what opportunities the new pact offers.

How does migration and asylum policy in Europe work?

The free movement of goods, services, capital, and persons has been a fundamental pillar of the European idea, as enshrined in the 1957 Treaty of Rome that founded the political and economic community that today constitutes the European Union. Within the EU, national borders became almost fully invisible with the creation of the Schengen Area in 1995, which today includes 25 EU member states and four non-EU countries, collectively home to more than 450 million people.

When it comes to regular migration, the law stipulates that the EU has the authority to establish the conditions for entry and legal residence in member states, “including for family-reunification purposes, applicable to nationals of non-EU countries. Member States retain the right to set quotas for admitting individuals from non-EU countries seeking employment.” The fight against irregular immigration requires the EU to implement “an effective returns policy, in a manner consistent with fundamental rights.”

The EU’s Common European Asylum System (CEAS) was established in 1999 to enhance coordination across member states and streamline systems for processing asylum claims and supporting refugees granted protection. More specifically, the “Dublin Regulation” governs relations among member states and manifests that the country of an individual’s first arrival in the EU is responsible for asylum processing and refugee reception. For years, the Schengen regulation of free movement has made the Dublin system difficult to administer, as it unintentionally permitted asylum seekers to self-select destination countries—often based on linguistic abilities, families, perceived hospitality, and benefits. It has also placed disproportionate obligations on EU border countries at the forefront of irregular movements to Europe, particularly in the Mediterranean (Greece, Italy, and Spain) and the Balkans (Hungary, Croatia, and Bulgaria). Finally, a lack of enforcement to relocate applicants in instances of violation has sustained pressure on more “popular” destination countries and undermined authorities’ credibility.

Before this year’s overhaul of common EU policy, as reflected in the agreement on the new EU Pact on Migration and Asylum—more on that below—member states at the national level and EU leadership implemented incremental measures to deter irregular arrivals. While some actions temporarily led to decreases in arrivals in certain member states, however, they failed to address the underlying drivers of displacement.

Most notable have been a series of EU deals with third countries in Europe’s neighborhood to improve border management and halt irregular departures toward the EU, in exchange for the provision of financial support. A 2016 agreement with Turkey became a model for future EU deals with North African and Middle Eastern countries, including Lebanon, Egypt, Mauritania, and Tunisia. Italy, on its own, concluded a memorandum of understanding with Libya in 2017, which pledged millions of euros in assistance to enhance the maritime surveillance capacities of the Libyan Coast Guard. In exchange, Libyan authorities would prevent people from departing the Northern African country and intercept irregular migrants at sea to return and detain them in Libya. Yet these “migration partnerships” have been severely criticized by humanitarian groups and lawmakers alike, who express concerns about how the policy legitimizes and increases Europe’s dependency on autocratic regimes, disregards human rights, and threatens migrants’ physical safety. A recent investigative report by The Washington Post and Lighthouse Reports further revealed that local authorities, aided by EU funding and equipment, have violated human rights and asylum law. Several research studies have further criticized the migration deals’ lack of effectiveness.

Why is migration so controversial?

When over 1.2 million people entered the EU in 2015 to claim asylum under international law, most of whom were Syrian refugees fleeing civil war, the CEAS and the Dublin Regulation quickly proved dysfunctional and ineffective in absorbing the shock to European processing and integration systems. The situation sparked tensions among frontline countries—which were challenged by the arrival of 1,216,860 and 1,166,815 asylum seekers at their borders in 2015 and 2016, respectively—and countries further inward, which in many cases resisted migrant transfers to share responsibility and restricted access to their asylum systems under fear of adverse domestic consequences. Municipalities in major destination countries were overwhelmed by the speed and scale of arrivals and faced difficulties mustering enough resources for housing, financial support, and integration of newcomers in their local communities.

Despite agreements by the European Council to relocate up to 160,000 asylum seekers from frontline countries Italy and Greece to other member states to reduce pressures on the Italian and Greek asylum systems, fewer than 12,000 relocations were realized by the end of 2016. Hungarian Prime Minister Viktor Orbán, for instance, refused orders from Brussels to take in 1,294 asylum seekers and instead organized a national referendum on whether the EU should have the authority to “mandate the obligatory resettlement of non-Hungarian citizens into Hungary,” which he used to validate his harsh domestic anti-immigrant approach. Stoking fears of a Muslim “invasion” and claiming his country was the “last Christian-conservative bastion of the Western world,” Orbán’s approach also included the construction of fences at Hungary’s southern borders, changing asylum laws to speed up processing and reduce protections, and introducing “transit zones” at Hungary’s border with Serbia, which have been condemned as “container prisons” surrounded by barbed wires.

In stark contrast, German Chancellor Angela Merkel valiantly declared “Wir schaffen das!” (“We can do it!”) and decided to keep her country’s borders open, leading to the arrival of around 1.2 million asylum seekers in Germany between 2015 and 2016. The real pressure on municipalities and the sense of chaos and disorder, however, benefitted the far-right populist Alternative for Germany (AfD), which entered the federal parliament for the first time in 2017 and became the largest opposition party.

Over the years, asylum seekers have become convenient scapegoats for disillusioned and frustrated Europeans who have seen their societies change and economies tumble because of successive external shocks, from climate change and a global health crisis to rapid technological change and a disruption of Europe’s decades-old security order. In this time of great uncertainty, a rights-based vision of migration and asylum has become a perceived political vulnerability, replaced with a security approach stressing law and order.

In a 2021 effort led by Marine Le Pen, the head of France’s National Rally party, 16 right-wing parties from across Europe—including the governing parties of Hungary, Italy, and Poland at the time—declared their opposition to a “European Superstate” allegedly being created by “radical forces” within the EU. They objected to a perceived “cultural, religious transformation and ultimately nationless construction of Europe” and instead pressed for “respect for the culture and history of European states” and “respect for Europe’s Judeo-Christian heritage.” Uniting diverse national political actors, their communique demonstrates the focus on national identity and Christian values that the far right has portrayed as being under threat because of the EU’s migration policy. Hence, the EU finds itself caught between a rock and a hard place: its policy is weaponized by right-wing populists as too weak, and it is denounced by nongovernmental organizations and observers as not respecting its own values.

How does the new Pact on Migration and Asylum address prior shortcomings?

A sound European policy that attempts to better manage the drivers of irregular migration in countries of origin and centers on the collaboration of all EU member states is needed to handle rising global displacement trends. The passage of the new Pact on Migration and Asylum in May 2024 offers a chance to transform the EU’s current governing framework if implemented effectively by the time the new legislation takes force in 2026. It represents the first major agreement on migration and asylum policy in over a decade, intended to accelerate procedures and enhance cooperation and solidarity between member states.

Framed by the European Commission as a “fair and firm” approach, the new legislation consists of 10 major reform proposals that cement Europe’s policy shift to fortify borders, enhance scrutiny in asylum processing, double down on deporting rejected applicants, and partner with non-EU states of origin and transit to limit irregular arrivals. A key aspect is a new accelerated procedure for asylum applicants from countries with a low recognition rate, whose probability of getting their asylum application request granted is low. The mechanism will take a maximum of 12 weeks (about three months) and permits fast-track processing at EU external borders, during which migrants, including families and children, will stay in collective detention-like facilities. Further, the pact aims to correct the failures of the Dublin Regulation through a new solidarity system, which obliges all member states to share responsibility, either by receiving up to 30,000 asylum applicants per year, paying a fee of 20,000 euros per asylum applicant to assist hosting countries or contributing other resources.

Critics have pointed out, however, that the focus on securitizing EU borders as opposed to addressing humanitarian implications is unlikely to reduce arrival numbers and increases the risks of human rights violations. The European Union must satisfy its obligations under international law to ensure fast-track processing facilities satisfy human rights standards and that all asylum claims are evaluated fairly, as required by the 1951 Geneva Convention on the Status of Refugees and its 1967 Protocol. These principles should apply equally to EU-funded migration management projects in Europe’s neighborhood.

As the European Union enters a new governing cycle—following the European Parliament election in June and with a new college of commissioners later this fall—it has an opportunity to prioritize a new common migration and asylum policy and take functional steps to achieve a more balanced and orderly system among member states, which provides for the dignity, safety, and rights of those seeking international protection. The number of displaced people globally has increased consistently over the past 12 years and is expected to have exceeded 120 million persons in 2024. However, it is imperative to remember that 75% of displaced persons remain in low- and middle-income countries in the “Global South,” which often struggle with political, economic, and social insecurity themselves. As war continues in Ukraine, conflicts escalate in the Middle East, political instability grows across sub-Saharan Africa, and the secondary effects of climate change jeopardize people’s lives and livelihoods, the EU will be forced to grapple with irregular migration for the foreseeable future.

The nationalities of first-time asylum applicants in the European Union in recent years demonstrate the global nature of migration today. In 2023, for instance, Syrians (183,250), Afghans (100,985), Turks (89,985), Venezuelans (67,085), and Colombians (62,015) represented the five largest nationalities among first-time asylum applicants in the EU. Certainly, contemporary migration flows to Europe are mixed and not all persons applying for asylum fall into the protected categories of the Geneva Convention.

It is also true, however, that many EU countries are changing demographically as birth rates fall across developed economies and are experiencing severe shortages of workers across professional and blue-collar sectors, threatening future social and economic vitality and stability. Immigration, therefore, offers an enormous benefit for Europe to counteract downward demographic and economic trends. Beyond the pact, leaders should dedicate greater efforts to expand legal pathways at the national level for people not considered refugees under international law, but who desperately seek greater economic opportunity and are eager to contribute meaningfully to host societies.

Recent political developments in the European migration space

The yearslong EU effort to agree to a set of clear, cohesive policies as represented by the new Pact on Migration and Asylum, however, appears to be undercut by a recent shift in tone on migration across the bloc. National, xenophobic rhetoric is no longer contained to the fringes of the political spectrum across the European Union. Anti-immigrant sentiment today features dominantly in public debates, after years of far-right populists amplifying cultural anxieties and accusing governments of having lost control of their sovereign borders. Right-wing leaders, from Hungary’s “illiberal democrat” Viktor Orbán to Italy’s Giorgia Meloni, whose Brothers of Italy party has its roots in a 20th-century fascist movement, have increasingly shaped the direction at the EU level toward a more restrictive approach focused on border security and a defense of European culture and values.  

Recent electoral outcomes across the EU revealing strong support for far-right parties have sent shockwaves across the continent. Following June’s European Parliament election, parties to the right of the European People’s Party—the center-right Christian Democrats—now hold over one-quarter of seats in the EU’s lower legislature (187 out of 720). The vote produced a snap election in France, from which a center-left coalition barely emerged ahead of the far right. In Germany, the extremist AfD emerged from the European vote as the second strongest party, ahead of all three governing coalition parties. In three recent regional elections in eastern Germany, the AfD and the Alliance Sahra Wagenknecht—a new party on the extreme left founded in January 2024 that has also adopted a harsh anti-immigration stance—fanned the flames of fear and xenophobia and soared to a combined 42%-49%, both landing among the top three strongest parties in each state. Finally, Austria’s September election saw the far-right Freedom Party become as the strongest new parliamentary grouping, whose campaign included promises of “remigration” as part of a larger theme to create a “Fortress Austria.”

In response to these volatile political trends, member states—including many led by centrist governments—are once again turning to reactive, unilateral measures to contain the far right by way of a more restrictive stance on migration and asylum.

Most notably, Germany’s center-left government has drastically shifted its tone on combating irregular migration and enhancing domestic security after two fatal knife assaults occurred in Germany this summer, whose perpetrators turned out to be foreign nationals. In a stark break with Merkel’s hopeful and humanitarian spirit, the government expanded temporary controls to include all German borders—defying the Schengen regulation—imposed stricter rules on benefits and protected status for asylum seekers, and even began deportations of convicted Afghans to Afghanistan. Not only are these actions inconsistent with the principle of EU solidarity and grounds for heightened tensions with Germany’s neighbors, but the German police union has deemed the border checks largely ineffective, particularly as people claiming asylum can still enter.

Emboldened by the German turn on the issue, Orbán most recently threatened to send buses of migrants to Brussels—copying his conservative MAGA friends in the United States. The new French government, led by Prime Minister Michel Barnier, has also vowed to crack down on irregular entries and strengthen controls at France’s borders. In Poland, Prime Minister and former President of the European Council Donald Tusk announced a temporary suspension of the right to seek asylum for irregular migrants entering through the Polish-Belarusian border, claiming that Russia and Belarus were “weaponizing” migrants in attempts to destabilize the EU. The policy could violate the right to non-refoulement—which protects individuals from being returned to a country under international human rights law—and set a perilous precedent for other member states trying to restrict irregular entries.

In a novel move, Meloni concluded a new “partnership” with Albania—a non-EU country—under which Italy will send up to 36,000 asylum applicants per year to process their claims externally. Though the policy only applies to adult male individuals intercepted in international waters prior to arrival at Italian shores, several attempted transfers of migrants to Albanian processing centers have already been invalidated by an Italian court. Together with six other EU countries, Meloni has also tried to advance normalization with the Assad regime in Syria, in part to reconsider the possibility of returning Syrian refugees to the war-torn country.

At the October 2024 European Council summit, European Commission President Ursula von der Leyen, European Council President Charles Michel, and leaders of EU member states gathered to discuss a full agenda of topics in which migration featured prominently. In a letter setting the tone for the summit, von der Leyen stressed to European leaders the centrality of expanding third-country partnerships like those concluded with Turkey and countries in North Africa and the Middle East, to improve processes of return and counter the “weaponization” of migrants by Russia, Belarus, and others attempting to instigate political instability in Europe. During the meetings, the agreement between Italy and Albania was lauded as a model for the EU to emulate, confirming the shift toward externalization that has gained traction in Europe.

Notably absent from the summit communique was any mention of the new common EU Pact on Migration and Asylum or strategies for its timely and comprehensive implementation. The recent uncoordinated measures by EU members and their preoccupation with “weaponization,” third-country deals, and “return hubs” at the EU level are unlikely to provide the sense of reassurance, cohesion, and opportunity that people expect of their national and European leaders.

[girlwithwolftatoo]

What is chained -Chapter 2

Warnings: None

Summary: Boys like party

Words: 3525

Quo tendimus?

During the campaigns, the soldiers' bundles, regardless of their rank, carried more or less the same thing: crackers, a portion of spicy cheese, bean paste. They took it in the breaks, the proper meals were mostly for the evening, and the pungent and intense aroma of the broths in the pots - patchwork broths, Acacius called them - gave him a melancholy that he could not name.

In the palace, the breakfast table was so exuberant that the general could not believe it was for only two men. And it certainly wasn't; emperors usually lunched with one or two men they trusted, weak senators who complied with their whims, foreign merchants who sought to curry favor with them, and the like.

The twins ate, as was the ancient oriental custom, lying on their sides between fluffy cushions lined with vibrantly colored fabrics; Geta was already fully dressed, Caracalla on his side, was wrapped in a gold-embroidered tunic that slipped off his shoulder, still in bedclothes, and at his side, fastened by his long solid gold chain, his monkey.

A servant approached to offer him water for the lavatory, and the younger twin made a gesture of displeasure, holding a hand to his head. When another servant poured him wine, his face changed to a relieved smile.

“This I do like,” he commented, contentedly, raising the glass to his lips. Geta reached out to take a couple of ovis hapalis, one after the other, popping them whole into his mouth, and only then did he see Acacius arrive.

“Ah, general!” he said by way of greeting, his mouth full of egg. He chewed with the delicacy of a cow and gestured to the nearest cushions “Please...have breakfast. You're up very late.”

“Actually I've just come from the stables” replied the general, sitting down with his legs half crossed. Caracalla, busy emptying his second cup, didn't even look at him. “I had a very enlightening night, your majesties, I would like to share my findings as soon as possible...”

“We don't discuss politics while we eat, do we, brother?”

Caracalla did not reply to Geta, but stared into his goblet, thoughtfully. The older twin cleared his throat.

 “Brother?”

“This wine is sour” Caracalla muttered. Geta snorted, grinning sarcastically.

“Can you hardly tell? It's your second glass, isn't it?”

Caracalla gestured to the servant with the decanter, and when the servant bowed, he grabbed him by the collar of his robe with such force that he almost threw him face first into the table.

“This wine is sour” he hissed in his ear. Geta watched with silent reproach, Acacius for his part stirred, almost on the verge of rising.

“Majesty” he called to him with the firmness with which he would address a clumsy soldier.

“Send some wine that's good!” the twin spat, releasing the servant only to add, ”And somebody whip this one!”

“Majesty!” Acacius raised his voice, and this time Caracalla faced him, shrugging.

“They've brought bad wine,” he excused himself. Acacius frowned.

“Majesty, though you may not like it, it is through servitude that people know masters. If a servant is constantly mistreated, people will think the worst of you.”

“Well simple, we cut out the gossipers' tongues.”

Geta decided to intervene, addressing his brother more than the general:

“Servants should not talk about their masters behind their backs, slaves much less, they know it so what's the problem, are you implying that they are the ones inciting the people, general?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Acacius replied, making an effort not to become impatient. He searched for a way to explain himself, for he noticed the venomous eyes of the two brothers upon him. “Consider a horse, your majesty. A well-kept horse takes notice, his coat is clean and shiny, his mane smooth, his legs are strong and light, his head is proud. A horse will never say a word about his master, but whoever sees him will know, by that alone, that he is in good hands or not.”

Silence, on Geta's face appeared a sign of understanding, but Caracalla, indolent, jingled the monkey's chain and remarked:

“Dondus looks very well, if the people see him they will know he is happy here. And the servants should be too.”

“Brother, the general has spoken a truth” Geta rebuked him, taking another ovis from its bowl “A wounded servant is obvious to anyone's eyes, even if they don't see his marks.”

“Who cares about that? I'm talking about Dondus” insisted Caracalla with a childish grimace.

“Honestly no one gives a fuck” Geta whispered, shoveling food into his mouth. Something exploded in the head of his twin, who stood upright like a snake about to bite.

“What did you say?” he whispered, squinting, and receiving no immediate response, he picked up another ovis and threw it in his brother's face.

“What do you think you're doing?” mumbled Geta, and the two began to argue loudly. Acacius sighed, pouring himself some sugary globi and trying to ignore the quarrel; if he were in the army, he thought bitterly, he would send those two rowdies to be tied up in the sun for a while, but even his new appointment allowed him no such chances.

It was not possible for him then to speak to the emperors, and at noon the parade of audiences began, where he remained standing in the midst of the thrones, seeking to whisper some advice to them when he noticed, shrewdly, that neither knew what to say; the day was brief, an hour at most, and then they both retired to their quarters.

“Ah, by the way,” jumped Geta ”we will send you to one of our dressers, general. You will come with us.”

“Where to?” asked Acacius, frowning.

“There will be a nice get-together this evening at Scylla's house, I'm sure you've heard of him. You are invited, in our name.”

“No one informed me of a party, and besides, I thought I told you about it” growled the general. Geta smiled, and his brother, having forgotten the morning's grudge, hung on his shoulder.

“We're not giving the party, general, that's out of the norm, isn't it?” Caracalla pouted. “You're coming with us, and you'll have a lot of fun. You can tell, with all due respect, that he hasn't had any fun in... a long time....”

Caracalla let out a chuckle and left with awkward steps. Acacius wondered if it would not be wrong to stick to the original plan and better, taking advantage of the party, take the heads of those two unpresentable.

Scylla was, as Thraex explained to him, the master of immense vineyards in the south of the empire, and he had a family engaged in those same duties in some provinces of North Africa, so in short, he was an immensely wealthy peasant, in the senator's words. But in addition Scylla was a quirky, fancied himself an artist and was, in short, a suitable pontifical friend for those depraved twins. Acacius took that in the best way, for one does not defeat the enemy by attacking and already, one must have a proper idea of the terrain where battles will be fought, so he accepted with a false good face to go in the same chariot with the emperors, who had chosen for the occasion really unusual fabrics: Geta was all dressed in blue and gold, Caracalla however, sported a long tunic of thin linen and on top, a pink cloak embroidered with pearls and natural shells.

“What do you think, general?” he asked, cocking his head coquettishly. Acacius found no kind words so he repeated:

“Is there any reason for this special occasion, your majesties?”

“Don't you know? It's a bacchanal. Our dear Scylla has just won a fortune through his third son in Caesaria, and we're going to celebrate.”

Acacius had understood that bacchanals were forbidden but imagined that, emperors being what they were, they had no compunction about allowing them as long as they were invited. The carriage rattled through the city in the twilight to a centrally located villa, the interiors of which were lit by a host of lanterns, some decorated with expensive tissue paper in shades of pink. The servants who greeted them bowed deeply, and were bare-chested; Acacius sighed, it was going to be a very long evening.

There were already at least two dozen guests, all dressed in the same bewildering extravagance as the emperors or even more: there, one man wore a grotesque Greek mask and a crown of thistles on his hair, there, another wore a diadem with real ram's horns entangled in ivy.

“The theme of the feast is the gods,” Geta explained to him as he took two goblets in passing and handed one to Acacius. “I am Helios, see, lighting up the dark sky.”

Caracalla was already lounging on a mountain of cushions, pampered by more half-naked servants offering him viands and wine, his monkey, who for the occasion wore frightful golden wings, was pacing back and forth as if fleeing from the crowd.

The host appeared soon after, also dressed in blue and with vine leaves on his head. Scylla was precisely the kind of man Acacius could not stand: goofy, petulant, self-satisfied, he knew it just by looking at him and above all, by the way everyone applauded him as if Jupiter himself had come to Earth; the rich landowner went to the emperors and bowed deeply to them.

“My majesties!” he exclaimed in a strangely shrill voice. Dondus leaped upon him and tried to snatch some of the grapes he was carrying among the vine branches, and let out an anxious chuckle. “Welcome to this humble abode! I pray the gods you have everything you want.”

“Everything, yes, as always, Scylla” Caracalla reached out a hand to stroke the hair of one of the servants surrounding him. Acacius pretended that the statue beside him was fascinating, but Geta pointed it out, raising his voice:

“Scylla, let us introduce you to our beloved general Justus, Marcus Acacius.”

The man waddled over to the general and clapped his hands, delighted.

“Oh, it's quite a pleasure, general! He is much taller in person, yes, and more wonderful!”

Acacius feigned a smile as he gazed at that made-up face with rudely red cheeks.

“How did you persuade him to come, your majesties? I always hear that the general is very secretive.”

“The general has been promoted... to royal advisor,” Geta explained, giving Caracalla a warning glance; no one outside the senate knew Acacius' true role and so it was to remain.

“How, a general? He sure knows a lot about wars and conquests, of course...” replied Scylla. “Does that mean he will no longer fight?”

“There will be more victories for Rome, of course, but for now he delights us with his keen mind and prudence.”

“What do you think, Scylla?” Caracalla leaned forward, resting an awkward hand on Acacius' shoulder. “He's come dressed for the occasion, can't you guess who he is?”

“Why certainly, no... uh, let me think, majesty...” The tubby landowner cocked his head like a deaf dog “Jupiter, perhaps?”

“No, no, Mars! Take a good look at his mantle...”

“Ah, ah! Of course, Mars” Scylla chuckled ”How else? The god of war who has benefited him so much, yes. And he looks very good, if I may, just the other day I met a bronze artist, he's on the lookout for models here in Rome, our general could well pose for him...”

Soon Acacius understood why Scylla was the favorite of the emperors, he gave them everything they wanted and he knew their weaknesses very well, so they paraded before them the most exotic dishes, wine in abundance and servants who, especially with Caracalla, let themselves be done without complaining. The lightness of the atmosphere was due above all to the absence of women, and that gave the general a clue.

“I hear this feast is in honor of your family's good fortune,” he told him when they had been listening to the musicians for a long time and the emperors were entertaining themselves in a game consisting of the guests imitating scenes from the myths and stories, each one more ridiculous than the last. The host smiled, clearly blissful that he was addressing him.

“Oh, sort of. Wine, general?” with a curt gesture he called a servant over and took two glasses. Acacius accepted and took a sip, smiling to pretend he loved it.

“Exquisite. From your vineyards, I suppose.”

“That's right! A unique vintage, from my campo magno near Herculaneum. That's where my ancestors used to vacation, until, you know...” he made a noise with his mouth that simulated an explosion, and drank from his glass in large gulps. Acacius squinted.

“You've said something about your family before, haven't you? Something like that, were his words...”

“Well, well, General, what do you want me to tell you?”

Scylla invited him to sit down, and Acacius spent a while pretending to enjoy the talk, and discreetly emptying his cup each time it was refilled, unlike Scylla, who was already somewhat drunk at the beginning of the party but was now at a loss.

“I had five children, all boys, glory to the gods!” he exclaimed, raising what was like his eighth cup. “Three of them are married here in the empire, the others in the provinces, and I have about twelve grandchildren. That's more than enough for me, when my Bellona died I swore not to marry any more, with once I had already been criminal.”

“Criminal, to marry?”

“I don't like being a liar” he explained with a pout ”I don't like women. I understand that you find them pretty and all that, who would deny, for example, the loveliness of two firm breasts? But I did my duty, and I don't want any more whores in this house... Or what do you think, general, do you lean more towards Mercury or Venus?”

Acacius smiled out of commitment.

“This party is of a high standard, sir” he commented.

“Scylla, please, General, call me Scylla. There is nothing... that would make me happier right now.”

“All right, Scylla” Acacius made a toast gesture, and that ended up disarming the landowner. “You must have spent an awful lot of money for this... lovely evening.”

“Not a talent out of my pocket” the man hiccupped, smiling mischievously ”This party, as I told you, is thanks to my son... or rather at his expense.”

“I don't understand.”

“You see...” Scylla leaned in to whisper to him, his breath laden with the scent of fermenting grapes “My dear Septimius died a short while ago.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Acacius voiced quickly.

“No, no, please, it's the best thing that could have happened to me! Septimius was ungrateful, he wanted his vineyard to be just for himself and his despicable little half-breed children. My children, they pay me every year two hundred talents each, as compensation for my help, and so we keep in touch and I make sure their future is good. Well, me and their majesties...” he raised his glass with trembling hand towards the mountain of cushions where the emperors were resting.

“Two hundred talents per child, that makes... a thousand talents a year minus taxes” mused Acacius aloud.

“Taxes?” Scylla let out a chuckle and, with the same hand that held the cup, gestured around him “This, general, is my tax! Their majesties enjoy it very much and I... I keep my well-earned money without interference. Of course, now that Septimius is dead, all his goods pass to me, do you know why?” A servant poured him more wine and half of it was left scattered on the cushions, Scylla no longer supported himself.

Acacius squinted and shook his head uneasily.

“Well, because I killed him!” Scylla smiled exhibiting severely damaged teeth. “I paid some mercenaries, they got rid of him and received, as promised, a quarter of his earnings. And ah, the bastard sure was living the good life. After the cashing out I'm left with a little over two thousand talents, isn't that fortune, general?”

“Indeed it is,” muttered Acacius. He was disgusted, that man murdered his son out of greed, and he found it commendable, he wished to teach him a lesson but it wouldn't be wise to rebuke him in front of the crowd, his reputation was at stake, he had to be careful and....

“General!” Geta approached him, reeling from the drink.  “You're having a good time, aren't you? Sorry but you must help me find Dondus, my brother has lost sight of him and...”

Caracalla was even drunker than Geta, if that was possible, and was crying his eyes out as guests and servants tried to comfort him. Grateful to have an excuse, the general abandoned Scylla and went out into the gardens, in search of the monkey; to his surprise, Geta was with him, muttering something about his brother's stupidity in taking the animal with them.

“It's always the same, he gets drunk and lets it loose out there, then he can't find it and thinks it's been eaten, the beasts or the slaves. He has this crazy idea that slaves eat monkey.”

“Hungry anyone would eat whatever they could find,” punctuated Acacius, who was using a long-range torch to peek through the leaves of the trees.

“General, I would like to... ask you a great favor, now” Geta bowed his head, dizzy but aware. “I know what people believe, that my brother and I will one day slit each other's throats, but that is not so. I recognize his faults, which are many, but I love him. We've been together since... since our mother's womb, yes? I haven't spent a day without him. If anything were to happen to him, I...”

The emperor's eyes filled with tears, Acacius found it pathetic but, gentle, he patted him on the shoulder as if he really wanted to comfort him.

“Your Majesty, it is my duty to protect you both, but to achieve this, I need your trust, and your understanding. I am nothing... without Rome at my back. If I too am lost in the eyes of the people, there will be no one left to aid you.”

He dared to be this blunt because the emperor was drunk, and to his relief he took his words calmly, nodding meekly.

“I understand, general... yes, we will... we will do as you say...”

Acacius felt that battle would be lost as soon as the effects of the alcohol wore off, but for a moment he saw himself undefeated.

Dondus was high up in a Thracian palm, it took three servants, a pole and a fruit to force him down, and Geta reluctantly handed the golden chain to Acacius, who had to act as guide. Caracalla, seeing him return with his pet, exclaimed as if he had just been stabbed, and threw himself on the ground.

“Dondus! My dear... precious... sweet little friend!” he sobbed, hugging the monkey with devotion. Then, he looked at Acacius and hugged him too. “General, you're such a hero, you're returning my adored Dondus to me safe and sound!”

“Brother, calm down,” Geta told him, obliviously oblivious.

“Oh, General, I'd kiss you if I could! What do I say, of course I could!”

And to the mute amusement of the crowd, Caracalla planted a kiss on his cheek before Geta pushed him away. Acacius was livid but kept a hieratic face.

“I think their majesties need to return to the palace. It's been a long party and... surely Dondus is exhausted” he added to get the younger twin to agree to his suggestion. Geta agreed, and the two had to be half carried back to their carriage.

Acacius had to endure sitting in the middle of the emperors, Caracalla was sound asleep against his shoulder, Geta nodded, peering out the sleeping city through the holes in the wooden window.

“It's pretty, isn't it? Rome” he mused.

“Yes. It is,” Acacius affirmed.

“Our father adored it. More than he loved us. Actually I don't think he ever loved us” he added bitterly. “Mom loved us, but she's gone too.”

“Losing a mother is painful.”

“She would tell us stories until the wee hours of the morning...she said that, since I was older, I should take care of him.”

Geta motioned with his head toward Caracalla, who snuggled more against Acacius in his sleep.

“Do people really hate us?” the elder asked, looking at Acacius with an expression he had never seen on him before, that of childish anguish. He hated them both, with all his heart, but he couldn't help but imagine them as children, two spoiled brats who nevertheless looked at the world and took it as an enemy, or as treasure.

The general bit his tongue.

“Actually... I'd like them to love us,” Geta continued in a weak voice, her eyelids drooping at intervals. “I really would like...”

Drowsiness got the better of him and finally, the carriage fell silent.

[perfectlovevn]

how's milo's fashion sense? i get the impression that pre mostly just wears whatever's comfy, but any particular types of clothing or styles he gravitates towards? how about violence and manipulation, what styles do they like most?

in particular, how is he with more feminine styles of dress? would he be comfortable in a skirt? how about a crop top?

i know there's a few different lines suggesting he doesn't really mind changing his style to suit his lover's wants, but how would he feel about a more alt fashion-oriented lover who would want him to dress up with them?

Yup, something like that. I think if PreMilo did care to put in more effort into his style, it would be either more patchwork or some sort of cottage core since I can imagine him wearing sweaters. This is probably why I think Mycheal from Mushroom Oasis and him would get along since the two of them both like knitting. (I’m actually considering giving him a new sprite with him in pajamas for a certain scene.

Violence I think goes towards biker gang styles? Or just more gang based stuff. He’s focused on fighting and looking scary so anything that would make him more terrifying is probably something that he would gravitate towards.

Manipulation is probably more into flowy clothes, but I feel like he would care more about popular fashions compared to Violence. I think in general he wants to come off as friendly to others so it’s easier for people to trust him.

PreMilo himself… hmm I’m not sure. I don’t think he would be too fond of dressing with dresses in public since he probably feels like it somehow will make him an even bigger target for bullying. Same with crop tops, though I think he’d be more willing. Like everything though, you can encourage or influence him to wear them more so that he gets more comfortable with it. If he were to match with his love, I think he’d be more down to do that.

Violence I’m sure probably wouldn’t be too keen on wearing dresses or crop tops since it’s not that great for fighting people and isn’t that intimidating (in his eyes). You can get him to wear it but anyone who tries to mock him for it will seriously get pummeled. I think he’d be embarrassed about it if you got him to wear it privately.

Manipulation on the other hand, totally down without a second thought. He wears it very confidently, dresses, crop tops anything. If you tell him you like that style, he will dress up for you. Anything to make you happy, anything to make you like him more.

PreMilo would be happy to match with their lover, though you might have to encourage him a bit. He’s kind of shy as you know and he isn’t really used to wearing that kind of stuff. But if you put in the effort to help him and it makes you happy, he will for sure enjoy it. Careful though it’s possible for him to change into another form if you’re not careful.

[bees-headmate-hive]

Might I request ragatha from the amazing digital circus? ty in advance! /gen

@the-universe-of-the-first

🍯🥮 | * ° - Buzz Buzz! New Headmate has been Built ~ !!

Name(s) - Ragatha

Gender(s) - Xenicfem , Ragdollgender , Patchworkic

Orientation(s) - Sapphic , Objectum

Pronoun(s) - she / xe / rag / doll / patch

Species - Digital Ragdoll

Role(s) - Stressholder

Personality Traits - Kind , Light-hearted , Enthusiastic , Comforting

Hobbies - Watching / Playing Farming Games

Other info - Dollkin , Loves farm animals , Enjoys Stardew Valley

Faceclaim(s) -

art by @/pikavani on tumblr

Source - The Amazing Digital Circus

Signoff - 🎀,🔵

🐝🍯*⁠･⁠↝ | Remember, Headmates will not turn out 100% accurate. Feel free to adjust anything you want !

[irrealisms]

that bright, clear line liner notes

fic here if you haven't read it!

the title comes from that one animorphs quote about ruthlessness. it's one of the things that immediately springs to mind for me whenever i think about s4 spoke. the fic is... not actually about that, really; it's about the aftermath of that. getting to point B and looking back at the wreckage and going oh, fuck. something that struck me in his newest video which provided a lot of the inspiration for this fic is how much-- in s4 he is so purely goal-directed; everything he's doing is always for this, and no matter what happens, his only thought is how do i spin this back in my favor, with no thought given to collateral damage or irl feelings. and then, afaict, as soon as s4 ended and he actually thought about the past year he went “holy shit that sucked so bad”

my backup title for it was let future historians wonder from, uh, burn from hamilton. yeah, i know. but this fic cares a lot about ... what you do and don't make a matter of public record. choosing to keep some relationships and conversations private. controlling the narrative. parrot ultimately taking himself out of the lifesteal narrative altogether. and on a different level, i joke about feeling like a historian in my approach to unstreamed events and relationships on lifesteal, trying my best to piece together guesses about what happened from a varyingly biased and patchwork record. and it's also fun bc, well--hamilton is also fiction about real people :P

this fic was very much sparked from conversations i had about the most recent spoke video; i mention this in the end notes but i'd like to give extra shoutouts to @void-chara , @myrmica , and @taiey for conversations they had with me about the newest spoke video. this fic might still exist without those but it'd probably be different.

something i've been thinking about a LOT is the way that spoke is deliberately sort of cutting a lot of himself off from the audience? and the way that neither spoke nor parrot streaming means that the NPPP, from dupe war to end of server, gets a lot more privacy (and deliberate, post-hoc control over the narrative and information flow, when they do end up making things public) in their fallout than, say, eclipse did. and spoke himself, from very early s4 until Like A Week Ago, just... does not mention the NPPP in his videos. in his dupe war and wormhole videos he has to edit around its existence, it's not just that he's making videos about other things, it's very much him making a deliberate choice to leave it out. there's a bunch of possible motives you could extrapolate there--i tried to suggest a few different ones in the fic--but it's interesting to me! this is also a big part of uhhhhh why this fic had to be rpf and not something in character on the lifesteal server.

i like the little character note where spoke is really judgy of eclipse in general and zam in specific for the amount that they are emotionally vulnerable on stream. and then is like "wait no shit i'm trying to be a better person". that was one of the first things that popped into my head when i got the idea for this fic

all video view counts are accurate. when possible i tried to check wayback machine for an approximation of how many views they had at the time, since the fic starts in 2023. in general i tried to be as accurate as possible but i'm much less knowledgable in general about anything they do off-server so it's totally possible i got some details wrong lol

it was fun to write spoke and parrot bc they are both so oriented towards content. in different ways admittedly but like. spoke is ALWAYS thinking about views. he cares sooooooo much about the algorithm. and content is the implicit motive for a lot of lifesteal but i don't usually make it as explicit as i do in this fic bc, well, i'm usually not writing rpf! but in this fic the viewpoint character is just. CONSTANTLY thinking about specific view counts, which videos do well, how well they do in comparison to each other, what affects that, and i get to really draw that out. my beta for this fic, @fitmc , wrote me a lifesteal drabble once, formatting, and the author's note of it lives in my mind forever. The posing of himself for the camera. The fact that Lifesteal players are as sweaty about YouTube growth as they are PVP.

parrot on the other hand is oriented towards content in a way where.. a huge part of their conversation where spoke apologizes is that parrot can't quite bring himself to be mad because. it was good content. parrot keeps repeating that, and it's... when you sign up for lifesteal you're signing up for people to fuck you over for good content. that's the job description. he trusted spoke, not only in the way where he trusts spoke's words, but in the way where he trusted spoke to make the apocalypse a good video for parrot. and it was. so in some ways it was only half a betrayal? the unforgivable line for parrot would be if spoke had done that and it wasn't even good content. (extremely normal way to relate to your friend hurting you.) but parrot's...still upset, because it is still a pretty major betrayal of his trust. and so he switches to making content where Doing Fucked Up Mind Games To Your Friends In Real Life is NOT part of the job description. (also a lot of other reasons, the obvious one of which is "pays better and more consistently without a corresponding increase in work". but, yknow, The Way Lifesteal Is is also part of it.)

also writing about the fact that spoke blew up when he was 14 is. well i already knew this but also. Oof. spoke in this fic is NOT thinking about this as horrifying at all, he thinks it's awesome, but i the author think it's kind of horrifying. fame in general scares me & i have a particularly ambivalent fascination towards the sort of fame where your entire life is a story you're telling. if you've read enough of my other stuff you probably already know this. fourteen!!! that's a kid!!! and while he's 18 now as of a few days ago, even this fic starts when he's 16, like....he's so YOUNG. it's fucked.

“of course” is kind of a motif here. at first parrot is the one to say it to spoke but then i had a vision and edited the fic a couple hours after posting so spoke now says it back at the end.

i think this is... kind of weird for rpf? like--don't get me wrong, i'm not trying to claim any sort of superiority over other rpf writers. but it's also very focused on the fiction they are creating and the process of it, and almost entirely disinterested in their general personae or in aspects of their life that...aren't that. what can i say, i have specific demons. but like...most people who have demons primarily about a fiction and don't care as much about the author's life, including me, don't usually write rpf! i'm not sure i would write rpf of anything that wasn't lifesteal, bc my demons are so tied to the fiction, but lifesteal is so weird with c/cc dynamic that ... idk. writing rpf of them felt like what i wanted to do to process my feelings around the story they created together on lifesteal, bc ... the story they created together on lifesteal is in many ways the same as the story of them becoming best friends irl. when spoke goes far enough hurting parrot in lifesteal, he hurts parrot in real life. they're not easily separable. arguably this changes when parrot leaves lifesteal altogether and removes "~ic, as part of the story being told on lifesteal" as an option on the table for their interactions but this only pushes it further towards rpf in terms of resolution for them & therefore also for the story they told on lifesteal. idk! interesting to think about

i wrote this fic in like. 6 hours. and then did a couple edits the next day. total time between "starting the fic" and "publishing the fic" is only barely over 24 hours. i was possessed by the spirit of rpf i think

i haven't actually watched any unstable. i'm sorry.

[buildabuddy]

hello can we have a forwards beckon rebound by Adrianne Lenker songtive:33

𝜗𝜚 custom headmate!

name(s) :: soleil, tabitha, stellara, astrophel, starbright, lumen

pronouns :: they/it/star/cosme/sun/sol/lume/light/lullaby/fluff/lala/plush/patch

age :: ageless, presents 8-12

gender(s) :: solahealine, starsunsetic, starcloudic, esanecesa, duskhealica

terms :: any

orientation :: asexual, alterousromantic

other labels :: desirstarbodied

roles :: etherealuller, absorber therapist

species :: anthro star cat hybrid!

source(s) :: songtive - forwards beckon rebound by adrianne lenker

fashion style :: floral, patchwork, vintage

music taste :: angelic milk, yaelokre, the crane wives

[dirtyreign]

꩜

breaking    :    ROMINA   "ROMI"   REIGN  spotted   at   some   VIP   afterparty   she   probably   snuck   into.   the   TWENTY FOUR   year   old   has   been   making   moves   at   gravity   records   as   a  MEMBER   OF   NEON STRAYZ   (   BASSIST   )   -   known   for    dodging   interviews   like   it’s   a   sport   and   turning   every   performance   into   a   spectacle,   it’s   clear   they’re   not   here   to   play.   with   a   reputation   for being   UNPREDICTABLE   and   MAGNETIC,   they’ve   already   made   quite   the   impression,   but   will   it   be   enough   ?   let’s   see   if   they’ve   got   what   it   takes   to   stay   on   top.    |    (   ana.   24.   they/them.   sa.   )

꩜ NAME :

Romina "Romi" Reign

꩜ BIRTHDAY :

October 30, 1999

꩜ ASTROLOGY :

☉ Scorpio Sun ☾ Pisces Moon ↑ Capricorn Rising

꩜ ORIENTATION :

Queer (but never publicly labeled it) – To define herself would be to surrender control. Instead, she lets the world speculate, dissect, and project. If a picture is worth a thousand words, the tabloids have written a novel on her dating history.

꩜ PERSONALITY :

Romi is a walking contradiction—intensely magnetic yet impossible to hold onto. She commands attention without trying, her music raw and intimate, like torn diary pages set to melody. A master of ambiguity, she invites speculation but rarely offers clarity, leaving others chasing a version of her that may not even exist. Fiercely loyal but emotionally evasive, she’ll disappear when things get too real, but she’s not a quitter—when it comes to music, she’s relentless. Her ambition is quiet but unshakable, a slow burn rather than an explosion. There’s something wolfish about the way she moves—restless, sharp around the edges, always looking like she’s about to bolt or bite. Her voice is whiskey-warm, her laugh rare but full-bodied when it comes. Beneath the detached exterior, she wants more than she lets on, but she'll never be the first to admit it.

BIO:

Romi is the only child of Sabrina "Sabby" Reign, a woman who never quite left the afterparty. Sabby wasn’t famous, but she had stories—enough to fill a memoir no one would ever write. She was the kind of woman who knew which hotels had the best minibars and which rockstars liked their women reckless. Depending on the night (and the amount of whiskey in her bloodstream), Romi’s father could have been the lead singer of some cult-favorite ‘90s grunge band or the guitarist from a forgotten punk outfit that never made it past CBGB’s. Or maybe he was just some roadie with a knack for sweet talk. The story changed every time Romi asked, so eventually, she stopped asking.

Their life was a mixtape of cheap motels, smoky dive bars, and eviction notices. Sabby made ends meet through a patchwork of bartending gigs, cleaning jobs, and hustles too unsavory to name. She wasn’t cruel, just absent—there in body, but always chasing a dream that had long since rotted.

If Sabby had one redeeming trait, it was her record collection. She had good taste, even when she had bad judgment—Romi grew up on Patti Smith’s poetry, Kim Gordon’s detached cool, Suzi Quatro’s swagger, Tina Weymouth’s groove, and Courtney Love’s chaos. She worshipped the feral energy of L7, the sharp edges of PJ Harvey, the rawness of Babes in Toyland. But the moment—the moment—was seeing a grainy VHS recording of Melissa Auf der Maur playing bass for Hole. That was it. That was the dream.

At thirteen, Romi decided they needed a bass. They worked shitty under-the-table jobs—washing dishes, reselling cigarettes they stole from gas stations, occasionally slipping a twenty from a bartender’s tip jar. Shoplifting was easy, but instruments were harder to pocket. By fourteen, they had enough for a secondhand bass from a pawn shop, its body chipped, its pickups half-busted. It was ugly, but it was theirs.

They taught themself to play. No lessons, no guidance—just muscle memory and stolen hours in front of YouTube tutorials. They played until their fingers bled, until their hands cramped, until they could feel the music vibrating under their skin.

By fifteen, Romi had already carved out a name in the underground scene. They weren’t in a band yet, but they were always there—lingering in the back of club photos, at the afterparties with rockstars twice their age, draped over the arm of some indie frontman who’d later pretend they never met. They knew how to get into places they weren’t supposed to be, how to make the right people notice them, how to turn fleeting connections into opportunities. They weren’t waiting for a break—they were hunting one down.

Sabby, for all her flaws, never resented Romi for being young, for still having a future. If anything, she lived vicariously through them. When Romi started playing in shitty garage bands, Sabby was their biggest fan. When they skipped school to play open mics, Sabby left the porch light on. She wasn’t a good mother, but she never tried to clip Romi’s wings. She just wasn’t built for the long haul.

At seventeen, their mother disappeared. Not dead—just gone. Maybe she left for a man, maybe she owed the wrong people money, maybe she just got tired of failing in front of her kid. Either way, Romi was on their own.

By then, Romi wasn’t looking for stability—they were looking for a band. Music wasn’t something they stumbled into—it was the thing they had been chasing all along.

They met the other members of Neon Strayz the way all great bands come together—through a mix of fate, desperation, and sheer dumb luck. Whether it was a Craigslist ad, a last-minute fill-in at a gig, or a drunken promise made at 2 AM in some stranger’s basement, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that, for the first time, they weren’t just surviving—they were creating.

They write lyrics like they’re stitched together from diary pages and cigarette burns, play bass like it’s the only thing keeping them from burning out completely. They love the band. They love the music. They hate the idea that they should be media trained or sanitized for public consumption.

Since Neon Strayz started getting recognition, Romi has leveraged every bit of hype to get the band into the right rooms—crashing industry parties, making nice with club promoters, talking their way into exclusive aftershows. They know how the game works. They aren’t afraid to play it.

Their reputation took on a life of its own after the now-infamous photos leaked—grainy but unmistakable images of them kissing a rising starlet outside an industry event. The problem? The starlet had been in a long-term relationship with one of the biggest male singers in the world. The breakup was messy, the internet was ruthless, and when the singer dropped a hit song that heavily implied Romi was to blame, it became impossible to escape the narrative.

The fling with the starlet is still on and off, but the media fixation never wavered. Since then, paparazzi have been trailing Romi’s every move, chronicling every late-night rendezvous, every rumored fling. They’ve become a tabloid fixture, the kind of rockstar whose personal life overshadows their music. And while they don’t give a shit what people think, they know better than anyone how to turn bad press into good business.

Now, they’re in Atlanta, fighting for a record deal with Gravity Records, proving that Neon Strayz isn’t just another teenage garage band that got lucky. And if the industry wants to mold them into something palatable—well, they’re gonna have a hell of a time trying.

꩜ WANTED CONNECTIONS:

THE BAD INFLUENCE – Open to any gender. Romi isn’t exactly known for self-control, but this person makes it worse. Partying, bad decisions, reckless nights—whatever Romi is trying to focus on, this person makes it very easy to get distracted. Whether it's a friend, a rival, or a fling, one thing’s for sure: when they're together, trouble follows. THE LONGTIME RIVAL – Open to any gender. Maybe it started years ago at some dingy underground show where Romi's band got all the attention. Maybe it's recent, fueled by a bad first impression and bruised egos. Whatever the case, they can’t stand each other. Their bands are constantly compared, their styles clash, and whenever one of them makes a move, the other is right there to one-up them. It’s toxic. It’s competitive. And worst of all? It might just make them both better musicians. THE EX-TURNED-ENEMY – m/nb. The one who really put Romi in the headlines. They were the golden boy/girl/they of the industry, beloved and untouchable—until their long-term relationship imploded, thanks to leaked pictures of their partner kissing Romi outside an event. The breakup was messy, and they turned their heartbreak into a chart-topping hit that only fueled the media storm. Now, they're in the competition together, and the resentment is real. THE ON-AND-OFF FLING – Open to f/nb. The one Romi definitely shouldn’t have gotten involved with—but that’s never stopped them before. They were dating a major artist when they and Romi had a reckless, passionate moment outside an industry event, and the paparazzi caught every second of it. The fallout was brutal: their partner (see above) wrote a song about the betrayal, and Romi’s reputation as a homewrecker was sealed. Since then, they’ve been on and off, always drawn back to each other no matter how bad the idea is.

[fellamarsh]

Want to keep reading? The first four chapters of Taker of the Third Path are available for free!

If you want to be among the first to read the novel - and get a lot of fun extras out of the deal - consider backing the ✨Taker of the Third Path Kickstarter!✨

(Image description and transcript under the cut)

(Image ID: The first image is a banner with a foggy, forested background, mountains rising in the distance and birds flying just above the trees. "Taker of the Third Path" is written in large red text across the center, with smaller black text reading "A queer fantasy romance novel" beneath it. The second image is an excerpt from the prologue of Taker of the Third Path. End image ID.)

Text transcript:

The spiral spins away in the same movement that it turns back.

A priest and a hedgewitch—both one man—tramped down the wide forest road with customary resolve, following the long unspooling thread laid out by his god. This thread oriented him. If asked, he would say he admired the trees reaching across empty earth and stone to lace their delicate, branching fingers together overhead—that he watched the light that filtered between them, slanted orange with afternoon, as it performed its subtle, dappled dance across the ground. The canopy was a patchwork of red and rust and yellow, a bright blaze of life before leaf-fall that he did not miss.

And it was true that he saw these things. True, that his thoughts meandered over the people he had said goodbye to when he left Art Ehnk’telin, the northeastern most of the continent’s great Elven cities, days earlier. He’d spent one of his longer stints there, a full three months. It was only natural that he’d formed some loose attachments.

But these perceptions, these thoughts, these questings outward, were always drawn back in by that red thread wrapped tightly around the fist of the priest’s heart. That thread drew him inexorably forward—like gravity or magic, which are one and the same—into the future, along the slow spiral axis of the seasons. He was, at all times and despite appearances, rushing forward. Eager to widen his own spiral.

[valy-gc]

Chapter 6

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

-VI-

Old Farm

You take a step forward, your gaze landing on the structure before you. It’s a house—or at least, it must have been, long ago. The dilapidated Victorian-style building looms in eerie silence, a testament to time’s relentless march. Its two stories lean slightly, as though bowing under the weight of decay. Weathered wood siding, faded to a patchwork of greys and browns, clings stubbornly to the frame. The porch sags precariously, its railings missing in places, and shards of glass glint like jagged teeth in the broken windows. Above it all, a turret rises with an air of faded grandeur, its shingles peeling and curling like the scales of a dying beast. Overgrown vegetation encroaches from every angle, vines snaking up the walls and weeds bursting through cracks in the stone path.

You glance at Solon, standing beside you with his usual composed demeanor. This… this is where he’s brought you?

It’s barely 200 meters from the main building, yet it feels like stepping into another world entirely. Fibble’s voice cuts through your thoughts, grumbling from his perch on your shoulder.

“Charming. Truly. Does the school provide tetanus shots as part of orientation?”

Solon’s expression tightens, and he gestures vaguely at the house.

“With a little magic, it will be livable again,” he says, clearly trying to sound reassuring. He pulls a sleek device from his pocket and waves it at you. “I’ve already sent a message to the staff group chat for assistance.”

You glance at the object in his hand. It’s a sleek, rectangular device crafted from a blend of enchanted metals and polished glass, faintly glowing with runic etchings along its edges. It looks suspiciously like a modern smartphone, albeit more ornate. He calls it an Arcane RelicTab, and though he appears confident in its effectiveness, you notice his grimace.

“Most of them are likely already in the staff dorm at this hour,” he admits, tucking the device back into his pocket.

You’re about to ask why there’s an actual house sitting on school grounds when Fibble, ever the embodiment of tact, beats you to it.

“Let me guess,” he says, stretching his wings. “It’s haunted. Or maybe you keep the misbehaving students here?”

Solon sighs heavily. “It was the school’s farm,” he explains. “A long time ago. It provided fresh ingredients for the kitchens, but students and staff complained about the smell. The farm was relocated far from the main building, and this house has been abandoned ever since.”

You glance around, noting the forest encroaching on the property and the faint outlines of what might have once been fields.

“The school grounds are enormous,” Solon continues. “They could rival a city. Each dorm has its own parcel of land and the school ground provide them a large space with forests, fields, and even stables near the new farm. The farm manager lives on-site year-round to care for the animals, even during vacations, so they usually bring their family to live with them, this is why they needed a full house.” He pauses. “The current manager lives alone though.”

“You bet I am.”

As if summoned, a figure approaches from the treeline. They stride confidently toward you, their bright red hair looking like feathers catching the fading light like a flame. When they step into view, you’re struck by their striking appearance. Amber eyes meet yours with an intensity that feels almost piercing. Their ears are composed of yellow and turquoise feathers, and a set of small, vibrant wings—red and yellow—rest on their back. The long, shimmering tail feathers of a rooster sway behind them, the dark turquoise hues catching the light like polished metal.

Noticing your astonishment, the newcomer chuckles. “Never seen a Rooster Beastman before?”

You shake your head slowly, managing to mutter that you don’t even know what a Beastman is. Their laugh deepens, warm and hearty, and they glance at Solon, who steps in to explain.

“Our new student here is from another world,” Solon says, his tone tinged with weariness.

He begins recounting the events of the Resonance Ceremony, also recording himself on his Arcane RelicTab as he speaks to send the explanation to the others. You’re not sure whether to feel grateful or embarrassed by the attention.

When Solon finishes, the Beastman’s expression softens.

“You’ve had quite a day,” he says, his voice steady. “I’m Rustan Featherstone, the farm manager—or, as some call me, the Master of Cultivation. My resonance is with the Little Red Hen.”

His gaze sharpens slightly, and he adds, “If you need anything, just ask. But don’t get used to relying on others. Everyone here pulls their weight.”

You nod, unsure how to respond. Fibble, on the other hand, flaps his wings indignantly.

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll be sure to get my own feed,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Not that it matters—caring for me is supposed to be that human’s job anyway. I didn’t ask to be stuck with this arrangement, but here we are.” He glares at you pointedly, as though the entire situation is your fault.

Rustan’s amber eyes narrow, and the faintest hint of a smirk tugs at his lips. “Good to hear,” he says simply, before turning to inspect the house.

Solon suddenly speaks up, breaking the momentary silence. “By the way,” he begins, pulling something from his pocket. “I’ve been curious—what’s money like in your world?”

He holds out a small copper piece and a bill. The copper coin gleams faintly, and the bill is a mix of ornate designs and magical sigils, with a figure in the center, a man with a refined and composed demeanor. He have a clean-shaven face, a high forehead, and prominent features, framed by a long, flowing wig that were fashionable in the 17th century, curled and reaching his shoulders.

“The piece is one Scriptos, the bill is a 100, Scriptos is what we use here.”

You glance at them and shake your head, indicating you don’t recognize the currency at all. Solon sighs and tucks them back into his pocket.

“Well, for starters, I’ll cover anything you need. But if you have to stay here for a while you might want to make some money of your own.”

He gestures vaguely toward the surrounding area. “You can work on the farm, at the shop, or in the cafeteria. There’s always something to do.”

You nod again, agreeing with the idea of working to earn your keep. Solon offers a reassuring smile.

“It’s just temporary,” he says. “Until I find anything about worlds travelling and a way to send you back. For now, you can consider this place like your home.”

You glance at the dilapidated house again, the sinking feeling in your stomach growing. This place is going to take more than a little magic to feel like home.

Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

I described the house from this image: (searched "old house" on google, it come from the free stock image site "freepik")

[cxtxclysmics]

(  avan  jogia  .  cis man  .  he / him  )  .    ⸻  ajay  “  jay  “  desai  ,  a  twenty  -  seven  year  old  ,  has  survived  another  day  in  red  creek  where  they  have  lived  for  three  months  .  the  wayward  is  known  for  being   steadfast  and  enigmatic  and  is  often  associated  with  the  whirring  engine  of  a  getaway  car,  a  cigarette  tucked  behind  your  ear  for  later,  the  stubborn  refusal  to  ever  feel  regret .  in  a  small  town  where  they  work  as  a  mechanic  at  white  pine  auto  garage  word  travels  fast  .  it’s  hard  to  keep  a  secret  ,  and  it  looks  like  the  boogeyman  knows  that  redacted  .

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 ... ajay desai .

measures of success were different for jay when he was growing up. his mom didn't pin a+ pieces of homework to the fridge, and his dad didn't come along to sports games to cheer him on. plagued by hyper-focused realism, his parents worked long hours to make ends meet and their success was in how they functioned as a unit. ajay's independence served as a blessing, happy in his own company from as early as middle school. life in his ' shitty dead end ' rural nothing town wasn't the kindest to jay. opportunities were few and far between, wages stagnant as he watched his parents take on longer hours to deal with rising costs of everything else. kids were mean about how different he looked, how broke he was, how little he cared about what they thought. he was somehow an easy target, and also one they couldn't quite hit. after school activities introduced him to his love of music, isolation at lunch times making him eat in the music room and consequently get free music lessons from the teacher who was always around. high school was when jay came into his own. he got a job at fifteen as a busboy, walking an hour into work from the other side of town. he put all his money aside to buy a secondhand guitar when he and his friends dreamed of starting a band. more money aside as he saved to buy a shitty car that he repaired himself, self-taught from youtube tutorials and with a guide thanks to the friendship he'd drawn up with the school's automechanic. he started carving a life for himself, always getting into trouble with his friends and adopting that dumb life motto of being ' here for a good time, not a long time '. he scraped by in academics, average at best, but excelled in anything creative. junior year he and his buds started performing, flashing shitty fake id's to secure slots to play at bars around town. senior year, he met savannah who sent his whole world into a spin. he's never had a reason to try before, now all he wanted was to be good enough to be seen at her side. she seemed to like everything that mattered to him: his music dreams, his sly humor and patchwork quilt of warnings from local cops. he was different, edgy, and had a house that was always empty that they could build their own world in. poetically, her leaving seemed to bring both that world and his own world crashing down. life went on, his relationship with his parents becoming ever more vacant. in his early twenties he moved into a shitty apartment with his band buddies, when they eventually made enough money to support themselves .. kind of. there were desperate times where they turned to not-so-favorable methods to get by. following a ... mishap, jay's spent the past three years moving from town-to-town. he never settles in one place for long before moving on, refusing to stay still and further refusing to build roots in any one town. there's a comfort in the quiet, and red creek will do ... for now. if you told them there'd be something here to make him stay, he'd laugh at you. but life's strange sometimes.

NICKNAME(S): jay . AGE/DOB: twenty seven . september 2nd . ORIENTATION: bisexual / biromantic . RELIGION: athiest . LIVING ARRANGEMENTS: wc a roomie in a shitty-mid apartment . PET: has a 1 year old giant orange maine coon cat called scooby doo . HAIR: dark, curly, has had 837893279 styles over the years . EYES: brown . HEIGHT: 5'10 . TATTOOS: some shit stick n pokes his friends did when drunk, a couple decent ones from his travels [X] . PIERCINGS: one small hoop per ear lobe, lip ring that's currently healing over . DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS: resting bitch face, always has a hair tie around his wrist, faint scars on his hands from work . SLEEPING HABITS: usually runs on a few hours until he crashes, light sleeper . EXERCISE HABITS: lifting cigarettes to his lips, active in work . EMOTIONAL STABILITY: 5/10, hot headed with wild abandonment issues . SOCIABILITY: 6/10, depends on the day . DRUG USE: weed regularly, takes other drugs rarely . ALCOHOL: regularly . BAD HABITS: doesn't talk things through, laughs at inappropriate moments/discomfort, never lets people get close . WANTED CONNECTIONS: roomie, someone he regularly throws hands with, flings, rivals preferably for a stupid reason, colleagues, party friends, terrible/good influences, ex friends .