#does this count as poetry tho?
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Sometimes I find it scary how much I love.
How much beauty I can find in things.
Like- I love people so much.
I love so much it hurts.
I love how one of my friends has braces that show whenever she smiles.
I love how she has acne and its scars all over her face as if they're painted onto her.
I love how another has a big, hooked nose and curly hair and she always squints when she laughs.
And I love how she laughs like there's nothing wrong in the world.
I love how one of my other friends has a button nose and the most expressive eyes.
I love his curly hair and the way he shows his creativity.
I love how yet another has long, straight hair, and a rounder face and body and the softest voice.
She's the gentlest person I know; a picture of serenity.
I love how my best friend is the greatest person to be around and how we have so much in common.
I love how we never have dull days and how he's never failed to make me laugh.
This love for people isn't sexual or romantic and I doubt it ever will be.
If I'm attracted to them, it's like being attracted to an airborne melody in a busy, crowded place.
There is so much going on around you, you should have more important things-
but you find yourself wanting to chase that blissful song.
Where it goes, you follow.
It can be scary for me sometimes.
How much I can love people.
So I think it is easier sometimes to express my love for other things.
I love colors and nature and all sorts of things that are okay to love- a concept I've never gotten, because why on Earth would you only ever care for some things? - and I love them all so deeply .
I love how I can express myself.
Through letters that make sentences and sentences that make paragraphs and paragraphs that make stories.
Stories of love and loss and people and places and fictional fantasies that I think of and share.
And they are real, because I feel them.
I love how art is everywhere and how people can show others how they feel.
I listen to music in languages I don't know and look at paintings from countries I've never heard of.
It's beautiful how emotion has no borders.
I love simple things too.
But how can anything be truly simple?
Everything has a bit more to it.
I love the sound of rain and the smell of candles and the way both feel like home.
I love how I hold my pencil when I write and how my hand cramps up when I do it for too long.
But for some reason, love- deep and unconditional love- is seen as foolish and gullible.
It's for teenagers who believe in soulmates and children who believe in fairytales.
I know how this world works. I've been hurt by it more times than I can count.
I will keep loving it anyway.
I will love the world until my heart stops beating.
I'm not religious- but I'll love it from beyond the grave if I can.
This is a broken, hurt world. It needs tenderness, compassion.
I don't care if others think it doesn't deserve it.
So, yes. It hurts me to love people.
But it hurts me more to see them unloved. People are my world.
So I'm writing this, hoping that maybe someone can see their world through my heart.
And if you are seeing this, I love you too. No matter what. Don't forget that.
#writing#writeblr#writer#poetry#does this count as poetry tho?#someone please tell me#my work#my writing#i actually posted this on my tiktok first#same username btw#love poetry#i guess#i love everything so much#and sometimes its a beautiful feeling#but sometimes it hurts#like a lot#so i wrote about it :)#does this count as vent writing?#idk I'll tag it anyways#vent writing
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Girl help, I’m regressing to that point in my childhood where I’d imagine a fictional crush standing by my bedside as I try to fall asleep, gazing lovingly down at my resting figure in awe of the raw beauty and honesty that comes with the peaceful stillness of slumber
#text post#shitpost#my text post#relatable#? i guess#man idk#maladaptive daydreaming#adhd#adhd things#probably#daydreaming#or actually nightdreaming i guess#idk man I just work here#it’s weirdly comforting to fall back into old habits even tho I know it’s probably indicative of a larger issue#womp womp#writing#does this count as#poetry#probably not but I’m tagging it anyway
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And upon the rising ruins she stood,
her claws digging into the bones of what was built before, ripped and damaged from the treacherous climb. Blood followed her every footstep, but not her own. The sun scorched the smogged-out sky, demolishing any sign of a once-friendly blue. Truly, the sight was to behold a god amongst catkind, as her caterwaul echoed the dying lands before her… I, her loyal servant, repeated the call, and thousands more cries of mimicry rose from the grounds around her pillar of despair. There was no going back. The world as we had known it was gone, and in its wake stood the face of our new ruler, for the rest of all we would ever know.
#warrior cats oc#xenomoggy#warrior cats writing#xenomoggy oc#warrior cats#xenomoggy writing#random blurb#random inspiration#does this count as poetry or regular prose#idk but i was going for a kind of ozymandias vibe#the first segment came to me like a vision and i had to expand it#lowkey tho this would make a killer story
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theres almost always two of everything
two hands
two eyes
two legs
two ears
and yet theres only one of us
maybe thats why some people
are drawn together
as if even the universe itself
couldnt keep the two apart
#i dont even remember what prompted this but#it intruiged me#how there always seems to be two of everything#and i had to write about it obvi#love my polyamourous ppl tho#yall are lovely#poetry#spilled thoughts#my thoughts#spilled ink#poem#does this count as a love poem?#love poem#fortieth post
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and yeah, you know by now that it does more harm than good to talk when you’re down like this. you’re aware that your usual saccharine ways of responding and replying is more suited than whatever this is - saying things that can’t change anything.
this isn’t productive. you aren’t doing anything productive. just trying not to drown in the tears that chase your every footstep and invite themselves into your breath. this won’t change anything.
so let me be indulgent, today, and tell the same lies I always tell later to the concerned who read my page. let me indulgent now, and say later that I’m over it and what they give me is enough to heal. it never will be, but it will always light a small portion of my oath and path for me. it will be another small reason tugging at my sleeve and asking me to stay behind.
let me be self-contradictory. let me forgive myself for burying all the pain and willing it to grow. it only became a vine that choked me, but how could I have known? let me forgive me, for taking their words to heart. for wrapping myself up in the consoling idea of self-reliance. let me forgive them, too, for not loving me. let me indulge again in silly posts and stupid jokes.
touch your own bruised cheek. let me forgive me for not having the capacity to be kindly silent right now.
#personal#I didn’t think I needed a vent tag but maybe I do. Maybe this doesn’t count tho because it’s more poetry than vent and touches on#the situation less than it does my feelings…
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It's about 4am. The air is really nice, my room is cold, and it feels fresh. Outside the grass is wet and I can hear the birds chirping. It smells like rain and cold morning air. Outside my open window I can see white blooming flowers rinsed with rain droplets, growing on a bush on top of a fence, and gray morning sky. The cool wet air after the rain at night feels good on my skin. It's a very nice morning.
#an exercise#i like doing these tho it's my first time posting one#and doing it in english#it helps me calm down#writing#poetry#does this count as it#my text#my post#garden talks#personal
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I’m in the garden pulling weeds. As I unearth the roots of a ragweed, a harvestman scuttles away. An earthworm flails when it’s body reaches the surface. A grasshopper nymph leaps out of reach.
I tear a thistle from the ground. I do not hear the cries of the purslane as I pluck them from their bed of soil.
A cranefly flits out of sight. A centipede seeks refuge from the sun. My eyes meet those of a toad, who stares solemnly.
“I’m sorry,” I weep, “I want these tomato leaves to see the light of day.”
#idk what to tag this#thoughts#it doesn’t rhyme but does this count as poetry?#I was inspired to write this because I felt bad decreasing the biodiversity of this garden bed#seeing toads make me happy tho#gardening
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I Feel More Than A Simple "Miss You"
A short extract of my new fic.
I basically challenged myself to make nearly every last word of a sentence rhyme.
Then one day (night), in a snap, all bond was gone. Dick left the manor, making Alfred mourn.
Extract:
He hated it. He resented Bruce. He missed Dick.
The bright laughter within the halls. The little handprints he found on the walls. The pencil marks that didn't track his height, but how high he could climb. The sudden swaying of the chandelier that gave him a heart attack every time. The antics he saw that made the word "monkey" pop into his mind. The balled up papers he saw on the floor showing a variety of drawings which he still shrined. The toy elephant, Zitka, that was found in random places everywhere. His room that always looked to have gone through a warfare. And of course, the specks of glitter which he still found from The Great Prank™. It was a pain, but at least the manor wasn’t blank.
#alfred pennyworth#bruce wayne#dick grayson#ao3#fanfic#fanfiction#rhyme#it all rhymes#well#most of it does#i promise it's satisfying#poetry#does this actually count as poetry tho?#idk#all ik is that it rhymes#i love rhyming
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Maybe in another life we never met;
We never spoke, never saw each other
We lived our lives without each other around
In another life I never met him;
I didn’t go with mom to the apartment
I stayed at my aunts house, mom went by herself
In another life I stayed at home;
Mom never left him, I never saw him badly
My counselor blamed me for what I couldn’t control
In another life he wasn’t my dad;
I lived as a normal and happy child
Never hurt, or abused, or damaged
In another life I’m in the kitchen;
Nobody ever hurt me
I was never abandoned
I was just in the kitchen of a childhood that never existed
Making lunch, happy
But that life isn’t this one, is it?
#kits thoughts#thoughts#poetry#does this count as poetry?#wrote this in tears about being left by another friend#they’ll never see this tho so it’s fine#still crying but at least I’m more tired ig?
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finally reading again
#hardly read at All in november and barely this month too.#i did read a gay comic anthology which does count but i was really only reading it to feel like i was reading something and i knew it was#easy and fast-paced. it was good tho its the book of boy troubles 2. i havent read the first one but at work theres a physical copy so i ha#been reading it during my shifts. fun stuff and interesting read bc its from 2008#but anyway i just read a chapter of w&p after not reading it since october and ik starting a new poetry book rn#t.s eliot (: and then idk i dont have time today but i wanna start a new nonfiction tomorrow maybe
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Guess me and Eddie Munson have another thing in common
#does it count if it’s a headcanon#fandom treats it like it’s canon#leo.txt#leo talks to the void#Leo is fucking going through it#Leo just finished crying again#Leo is going to cry some more#cw vent#kinda#kinda vent#i feel so empty#i feel ill#I feel unreal#tw#no fandom tags even tho it’s a random post#I might have to write heart breaking angst to cope#I’ve already written three pieces of poetry about it#she’ll never change#she’ll never teach me how to drive#I just can’t believe she’s gone man
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BACK TO CHEST (SOUL TO SOUL). jade leech
Saprophytic organisms obtain their nutrients by breaking down dead organic matter.
tags: main character death (permanently tho?), dark magic, family dynamics, survivor guilt, established relationship, malleus’s unrequited crush on reader, & happy halloween
a/n: jade & floyd's mother's name siphon from @mochinomnoms
word count: 12, 802
When Malleus Draconia, prince of Briar Valley, overblotted, you were beheaded.
Jade has been rolling that sentence in his head for the entire month. He has been trying to make sense of it. Like a student retyping a sentence, he changes it up every so often; when housewarden Malleus Draconia overblotted, you were beheaded; when Malleus Draconia, born January 18th, 202 centimeters tall, green eyes, a hundred or so years old, overblotted, you were beheaded; when Malleus Draconia, nicknamed Tsunotaro, overblotted, you were beheaded; when Malleus Draconia overblotted, Jade had to watch you be beheaded from Diasoma’s dormitory barbican. The facts do not seem real no matter how much he edits them.
Part of him deducts that it might be because beheaded is the wrong word. Beheaded implies decapitation: the head fully cut off from the body. You did not resemble a cleanly-made dullahan. The slashing, void magic Malleus Draconia sent out cut from your frontal bone diagonally down to your occipital bone.
Jade hopes more fiercely than a child wishing on a star that it felt like a painful flick to your forehead than nothing else. He does not want to entertain the thought you might have been conscious, wondering when your hair caught fire as you suffered through incomprehensible pain. Visible brain matter stuttering with a few painful last thoughts as you were cut apart.
So, with that said, it has not really registered in Jade Leech’s own brain that you are really dead. He can find the words perfectly fine. He cannot find the meaning of that mysterious poetry, no matter how embellished or how nudely plain.
Which is why his brother has to say certain words to him real slowly. Make sure the meaning sticks. Elongating them, sometimes repeating, “Today’s (Name)’s funeral, Jade. You have to get up.” Which comes out as fuuuh-neeer-al, yooo-u, and uuuh-puh.
Floyd has to repeat ‘get up’ four times because Jade refuses to. As he has been for the last month, he rots in bed. Luckily, Jade has always been an exemplary student so he will still be able to graduate his second year with all his high marks. Thank the Seven for small miracles.
“Cooome on, Jade. Jade, please, get up. Jadeee.”
Roughly, and then softly and sorrily, Floyd tries to shake Jade out of his pretend sleep. His brother has been doing that a lot – sleeping and then, not sleeping, but still laying in bed with his eyes closed. Who knows what is so alluring about the ebon made from flesh-shuttered windows. A week ago, Floyd had a thought that turned his stomach rotten. What if Jade has been sleeping so much so he can pretend he is still under Sea Slug’s spell, before anything happened?
He does not like to think about it. To be frank, he has been hating thinking this entire month. It makes bile poke its tiny fingers on the muscles in his throat, watching his mirror reflection lie somnolent in bed, looking halfway dead. Which is why Floyd shifts back to shaking Jade at a harsher pace – which he will eventually slow down again, feeling regret for being rough.
“Jaaadiooo, waaake uuup. Jade. Jade Jade Jade!”
Floyd wonders if he has to get Azul to assist him in picking up Jade. It is not that Jade puts up a struggle when getting dragged out of bed; it is just that his weight feels like dead weight and that makes Floyd queasy. He likes having Azul there. Azul dresses Jade; Floyd brushes Jade’s teeth. They both take turns taking cups of water and rinsing shampoo out of his hair.
However, Azul is not needed because Jade voluntarily opens his eyes a moment later. Dull, rusted gold and olive peers through black eyelashes. Lifeless eyes flicker, registering what the waking world is showing him.
Shoes that are worth a king's ransom crease because Floyd decides to crouch rather than kneel by Jade’s bed. His hair is neatly slicked back, gel fixating his black strand behind his piercing. Dressed in a simple black suit, Floyd gives a shy smile and whispers, “Hey.” Jade notices something that makes him close his eyes.
Floyd did his tie correctly this time.
“Hey, no goin’ back to sleep. Ya gotta get up today, Jade, c’mon. I’ll eat one of your mushrooms if ya get up. You can decide which one, whatever works for me. Hehehe, how does that sound? … Jade, please. Get up.”
“What’s the point?”
“Because you’re gonna be pissed at yourself if ya don’t. Ya gonna hate yourself more if you don’t get up.”
“Not possible.” Jade’s nose wrinkles when Floyd starts to run his fingers through his hair, combing back black hair.
“You have to get up today. If you do, next week, Azul and I’ll leave ya alone.”
“Leave me alone now.”
“Ya have to get up to say goodbye. Come on, (Name) deserves you there. You have to get up for (Name).”
Jade does the only thing that allows Floyd to know his brother is not a corpse - he sheds a tear. Dried-up, pruning corpses cannot shed tears. It comes with a double edged sword of relief and pain; Floyd watches the tear escape from Jade’s left eye, descending down over the bridge of his nose, and onto his pillow.
Emptied of one of a thousand tears, Jade whispers back, tormented, “I can’t.”
In your absence, Floyd’s verbose brother has turned into a man of little words. As if the action of talking is just as strenuous as getting up. It is unnerving for Floyd who is so used to his brother talking so much.
Grief shackles a body like an anchor. So used to swimming through life with dexterity, grief has tangled itself upon Jade like cutting, tangling fishing gear or stabbing, soda-can-holding plastic. Each limb is ten times heavier than it has ever been. His tongue is an iron paperweight.
And, Floyd knows. That weight has been crushing him too.
Floyd still looks towards your designated seat in Mostro Lounge by mistake. Waits with a heavy heart to see you sitting there, ordering one of their chocolate-or-caramel themed drinks. Waits for your voice to just suddenly be in his ears talking, asking about basketball practice or new menu items.
But, he has been brave for his brother’s sake. Which is why he requests, touching their foreheads together, “Then, get up for me. Get up for me.”
For the first time in the month, Jade brushes his teeth without help. He cannot manage to do his hair but Floyd gives no complaints, slicking his own hands up with opaque green gel.
Only one month after death, a body fully liquifies. Life deflating, the soft tissue starts to decay. Oval holes in the skin appear with the ease of stretched dough. Flesh’s solidity fails and melts like candle wax. In a month’s time, a cadaver is expected to expose its vulnerable skeleton.
Against all physical laws, you have not rotted away like an apple attacked by fungi and bacteria. In fact, it would be appropriate to say you look alive. It is inappropriate though because of the downward, diagonal scar across your forehead. Magic keeps your body fresh but your grave-ushering wound remains.
They stitched you back up? Jade wonders which friend of yours had picked the top part of your cranium off the rain-soaked ground.
Even though Ace and Deuce were the closest to you – both physically, you had thrown them out of the way of that slashing attack and emotionally, you had thrown them out of the way of that slashing attack –he cannot picture them picking it up. Neither Grim; paws are too small. Perhaps, aspiring not-yet-doctor Riddle Rosehearts had the guts in his tiny stature to scoop up the top half of your brain. Holding a hand under like one does with a napkin full of broken eggs, making sure nothing drips onto the floor. Jade grows too sick to think of the hypothetical of who stitches you back up.
Jade only remembers shaking, cold due to the rain and the sight. A hand reaching up to his breast pocket to grab his magic pen. Then, Floyd grabbing his shoulders to stop him from making the awful mistake of firing a spell at THE Malleus Draconia. Jade forgets the rest.
Apparently, he screamed himself hoarse. Apparently, Floyd got a broken wrist from their tussle. Apparently, Azul knocked him out with a powerful sedative spell. Apparently apparently apparently.
The following memory goes like this: waking up in bed the next morning, throat sore, thinking about what tea you might generously brew for him to fight off his evident illness. Usually in good health, Jade is a bit surprised that morning to wake up with a flu. Then, his world is torn apart. Then, Azul and Floyd explain to him slowly – they are always talking to him slowly now – why his throat burns. Not from bacteria-made illness, from screaming, from losing you.
Sometimes, just for a span of a few moments, Jade wishes another thing with childish ferocity — prays to a shooting star.
He wishes he could have stayed in that peaceful dream — “There is no need to shed tears nor are farewells necessary! … A new world in which none shall ever experience the pain of loss!” he had said — that Malleus was bestowing upon them. I wish Malleus had succeeded in his overblot. With a similar vehemence, he wishes Malleus Draconia died.
There is no graveyard on the northside of Sage’s Island. No one expects to bury a student. So, someone, perhaps Dire Crowley or your trio, has chosen to bury you just a bit off the hiking trails you and Jade use to venture on. A glade chosen by someone to put a coffin smack in the middle of, still on land owned by Night Raven College.
Your dead body rests ahead, laid in a virgin’s coffin. A tree line formed by an expanding corpse of trees marks a clean circle. Him, Floyd, and Azul come upon the funeral last. Right at the start of the column and rows of seats, Jade’s feet suddenly grow roots into the ground, on par with a neem tree which has the strongest taproot system. He is paralyzed by the sight: you, arms resting on your abdomen, laying in a fairytale’s glass coffin.
The casket is elegant beyond elegance. Silica sand dug from Al-Asim’s numerous deposits was smelted for the glass. Inscribed with gold, your name playfully stretches its arms across the coffin, bordering angels and swans kneeling before it.
Your head rests on a pillow-bouquet. Speckles of white daisy, ivory white carnations, and eggshell white spider mums kiss your hair. The centerpiece flower is Easter lilies, though. Trumpet-shaped, with shooting stars of pollen branching out from the center of them, Easter lilies crowd the bouquet like purple prose in a literary work. They crowd around your resting, stitched head with delicateness. Another bouquet of identical pattern rests too in your hands.
The fairytale ensemble makes you look like a martyr.
You are not a martyr. Jade hates the very thought that that could become your legacy. Wrongly transcribed and reprinted, a publisher who does not know you writes you as martyr. It makes his stomach rot. Neither hero or villain, you are not to be idolized. Bread should not be broken in honor of you and wine should not be drunk in honor of you.
You were wonderfully simple, with flaws and strengths. Now, you are gone.
“Jade, come. There is a spot up at the front for us,” Azul says softly and slowly.
A gentle hand pushes on Jade’s back — Floyd’s hand. “They’re not goin’ to start without us.”
That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried that —! Jade, not really thinking well, rips himself away from his brother too fast.
“Woah,” Floyd shouts like a cowboy whose horse has started acting erratic. His gold and olive-brown eyes flicker with concern. Once more, Floyd goes to put his hand on the back of Jade’s suit, only to feel more like he is touching stone rather than flesh. Hm?
Out of Floyd’s knowledge, students, close friends of yours, have started to turn around, and one of them happens to be Malleus Draconia — who makes direct eye contact with Jade Leech.
I can’t breathe.
Eyes that shimmer like Sheecle’s green take their poisonous green hands, stealing oxygen from the eel-mer’s body.
Jade finds himself breathless. In his chest, his heart grows in weight tremendously. All of the hurt in his bones is pulled towards his center, acceleration like fire. Heavy as osmium. Heavy as tungsten. He feels like something is crushing him with a sleep paralysis-esque weight. Out of his nose, his last breath slithers away; out of his brain, all his thoughts file out of the building in fire-drill-fashion. Buh-bye, Jade! his thoughts wave as they go. His breath walks out like a scorned lover, never to be heard from again.
I can’t breathe.
Suddenly, Jade’s motionless chest is grabbed by a wayward arm. His spine collides into a breathing, functioning chest. Over his shoulder, Floyd whispers to his brother, lazy drawl slithering in Jade’s ear:
“Follow along to my breathin’ pattern. Try-a match your breath to mine.”
The words are spoken carelessly, with a lazy drawl, but the intent is vigilant. Seeing his brother needing help, Floyd reacts. He holds him close enough to feel the bones of his ribcage.
On Jade’s back, he can feel the rise and fall of Floyd’s chest — Floyd elongating his breaths to gather deep oxygen in the very bottom of his lungs. They come in slow, constant waves. An inhale causes his chest to expand. An exhale causes his chest to flatten. Each slow rotation hits Jade’s spine in measured breaths — that I’m supposed to follow along to. Match the tempo of.
Jade closes his eyes so he can focus upon the rise and fall of Floyd’s living lungs. It proves difficult to hear the sound of breathing over the ringing in his ears, like detecting a single scent in a saturated perfume store. Earth makes itself into a curlicue of sensations. Amongst the raging riptide, Jade tries to grab his brother’s hand. Grab onto it and share the same breath.
It takes a few moments, a continuous rise and fall. Deeper lungfuls of oxygen push at his spine; heavier exhales stir through his three-piece earring. In. Out. Jade is trying. In. Out. In. Out.
He breathes in through his nose and out his mouth until he can complete the cycle of in and out with a skip between the steps. When he takes his first complete breath, eyelids fluttering open, he sees only the back of Malleus’s haircut and curling horns that hook up like antlers. As he studies ebony locks cascading into layers, Floyd whispers in his ear, “We don’t gotta go up. I’ll stay back with ya.”
A coward down to the bone, Jade nods his head. Well, not always a coward; he is quite a capable eel-mer. In this particular setting, he finds himself to be as cowardly as the lion in The Wizard of Oz. For this month, he has felt that only the worst traits of his personality have survived the aftermath of a torrential blot-storm.
He lets Floyd push him down to sit at the last row on the right. Your friends in Savanaclaw and Pomefiore are in the back rows as you are not too close to either. Diasomnia and Heartslabyul are gathered close to the front. The remaining dorms are in the middle.
Ebony locks styled into a jellyfish cut sit in the second row, left side. If Jade looks straight, he can completely dispel Malleus Draconia from his eyesight. Azul moves up to the front, perhaps to tell Dire Crowley or your friends that everyone in attendance, time to start. Jade is beyond grateful for the hand rubbing circles into his spine, as if the touch keeps his breath circulation working.
There are a few moments of talking. Deuce Spade shuffles a bit closer to hear what Dire Crowley is saying; Azul gestures with his hands and when passed a paper, passes it back in rejection; Grim, who now attends in Heartslabyul, starts to grow louder in volume but so far Jade cannot catch a word. Eventually, it is Riddle Rosehearts who stands up. In his hand, the paper that Azul recently rejected.
Even though it is given an introduction, explaining the contents, Jade would have known it without prelude. Off Riddle’s tongue, your poetry falls like a meteor shower, silver fish-tails stretching with warm tenor. The title and author already given, Riddle reads:
“In a sea of nightmares, I spy a rock
Smooth, with a thousand freckles of fresh rain
The maelstrom brings inky monsters and villains
When I place myself upon your shore, I stop drowning
Across the water, you and I are on a rock, braving the storm.”
You wrote a lot of poetry. You were never good friends with Rook Hunt though; you clashed a lot with Pomefoire, unable to make friends with them. Perhaps because your poetry and beauty is different. Not very often did you string words together amorously, rather the words were desolate.
Your persona – the cultivated, embellished image of the artist you were – was always sort of tortured and damaged. That worst of you created poetry with the rigorousness of an inventory. This one Jade knows well – you wrote it for him. You were embarrassed about it but brave enough to tell him: “I wrote something. I feel … I feel it describes us.”
He misses those nocturnally active times in the botanical gardens. Transcendent music playing between the spaces of silence, filling you with his feelings, sharing feelings like they were heat and you too were cold-blooded. Under a gazebo of stars on the edge of the universe, you once said. A pocket of paradise stolen was found in the moments creating and cultivating with him, you once said. It feels like a dream, you once said.
Jade stands up from his seat, not able to withstand hearing another word. This gross, wrong interpretation of your work feels like dirt and maggots grinding his mouth. It is not a poem meant for a funeral. Between Floyd’s knees and a chair, he squeezes himself tight to escape.
Bystanders expect him to do just that: escape. Floyd anticipates it too. He takes those expectations and breaks them. In a domino effect, row by row, people notice Jade drawing closer. Murmurs start to rouse awake the sleepy, forlorn crowd.
Undeterred, Jade walks closer and closer. When he briefly passes the second row, he lets his gaze flicker over to his left. Eyes pinched together in small slices, gold and brown irises catch just the briefest glimpse of rotating horns and a sharp nose. The curious quirk of Malleus’s lip has his heart electric with lightning bolts of hate.
Across the water, across the wave, Jade approaches you on that lone rock. He is going to save you from the grave and help you weather this maelstrom. The divide between you and him in life and death is a thin, easily breakable glass barrier.
“Jade,” Riddle questions.
Back to him, Jade responds, “You should sit, Riddle. Your words were very courteous but I have a few of my own to say. Can I ask you to forgive my gross impoliteness?”
“No,” Riddle fumbles with his words, “no, no it is quite alright. Go ahead … I’m - I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Your sympathy is much appreciated.”
The crowd watches on with gross intrigue, wondering what your boyfriend could possibly be thinking of or what his next move might be. Is it not obvious from your poetry – he is going to outstretch his shore towards you. He does this through violent action.
Jade brings up a fist. Jade brings down a fist.
Though it does not give easily, the glass still breaks in fractures. Triangles and rhombuses branch out from underneath Jade’s fist. Jagged, uneven connect-the-dots shapes make up a circular pattern that splinters from the point of contact. A little less than ten pieces fall into the tomb, landing on your ebony dress and bouquet.
Steeling himself, Jade turns his attention to your face. Gloss from the glass makes you look angelic, like a shimmer of makeup glitter. Someone has painted your lips in a dark, blood red – (“I can’t stand bright lipstick! It makes you look like a clown. Jade, you’ll catch me dead before you catch me in dark lipstick”) – which boils up Jade’s month long, hidden away anger.
His second punch causes glass to land on your dress like snow knocked off a branch, heavy with volume. The plummeting glass is also followed by a trickle of blood. Jade pulls back his bleeding hand, hooks it underneath a section of glass, and pulls it up like one might do with rotten floorboards. Glass pierces through the material of his glove, hitting bone. He grabs another part of the coffin, snaps it off like it is a mere graham cracker, and forms a fist with shrapnel of glass embedded in fingers. Fragile glass hovering over your face breaks and showers down like freckles. Steadily, he keeps punching and breaking off glass until none remains.
When he pulls back his right hand, the leather is thoroughly drenched in a red flood. Instead of spraying bloody water in thin sheets, it flows off his fingers like a spilled milkshake. Black and red combined, Jade adds the last color to the Snow White triptych.
Avenging, he takes the bouquet of white flowers from your hands. The stems crunch in his harsh grip; the flowers sway in their downward descent. He brandishes them down by his thigh like one might hold a sword in the midst of battle. Nitroglycerin sweat bubbles and propane sweat pops on his palm. His black gloved hand catches fire, enveloping the bouquet in a blaze that rises vindictively up to his shoulders.
As the last bits of a fire spell, done without the conductor of his magic pen, start to shimmer away in ash and smoke, Jade lets the incinerated, curled inward, black flowers fall to the ground. He takes his dominant hand and slowly places it upon your cheek.
Soft. You are so soft. I should have taken off my gloves. His bleeding hand infects your skin with a new paint. Jade puts his thumb over your lips where someone has put clown lipstick on you. When your lips part slightly under his ministrations, no breath hits his thumb.
His precious pearl, breathless. He wishes nothing more for you to open up your eyes and dispel his worries.
“Jade!” Ah, it seems people are starting to come out of their stupor at the display Jade is presenting. He looks vexatious over his shoulder, briefly catching eye contact with Azul. “What are you possibly doing!” Jade also manages to catch his brother breaking comatose to stand up.
“There is no need to fret about me overblotting. I have a secure lid placed on my emotions. Unlike others.”
Hurt flashes in Azul’s eyes. Jade cannot stomach to check if his insult hurt who he intended it to hurt. Instead, he gingerly lifts you in his arms. Limp, you tumble into his embrace with gravity-obeying limbs. Your neck tilts back and your toes point down in Jade’s careful hold.
“Jade!”
This will prove difficult with both my hands holding them and no magic pen as a conductor. It is the only thought in Jade’s head as his brother shouts his name. Worry rarely crosses his twin’s face with such an intensity; most would judge it as anger. Ah, I am really being so impolite today. Sorry Floyd. The starting sparks of a teleportation spell start to pop around his shoulders and torso like fireflies.
With a deep breath, Jade disappears in a supernova.
More or less, Jade Leech has returned to being himself. Verbosely polite and formal; eager to lend a helping, subservient hand; jumping right back into the schedule he has: classes, duties for Azul, Mountain Lovers club activities, etcetera. He is a different picture of the man laying in bed, stricken with your absence; now, he has returned to the man he was in your presence.
Is it because you two are reunited in presence? That old tale of Hercules and Meg, interlocked souls, finally touching again? Are you reunited? Azul cannot be certain that is true. Nobody has been able to locate your body since that day.
Behind his glasses, Octavinelle’s housewarden traces the motions of his vice. He cannot see Jade’s expression, only scrutinizing over his back as he pens the order of a customer. It is a week after your uncompleted funeral. Azul’s stomach turns sick, watching Jade work effortlessly in Mostro Lounge, not knowing where Jade keeps your corpse.
Corpse … All his limbs shudder at the word. It could be hidden under his own bedroom’s floorboards or locked away in Ramshackle with your three ghost companions. You could be anywhere.
Every thought Azul has on the situation makes it feel like salt and ice are colliding in his abdomen in a hissing burn. So, he decides to stop thinking about it. Which is why he is almost grateful when Jade comes up to him, distracting his mind from slipping into darker speculation.
Hand on his heart, Jade says, “Table Fifteen is requesting your presence. They have a question about one of our discontinued menu items – the salmon and lemon-ricotta pasta. I already divulged about the excess supply getting thrown out because of low demand. However, your presence was requested nonetheless.”
“Ah, thank you, Jade,” Azul says. It is just the distraction he needs before he thinks about anything more ghastly. Stock issues and dining will not haunt him with goosebumps and night terrors. He starts towards Table Fifteen.
“Though … I can return and take care of it, if need be.”
It is that odious sentence that gives Azul pause. Because that is exactly what the old Jade would offer, using a bit of rough, predatory treatment to de-escalate an issue. Same old Jade Leech, hiding a corpse somewhere on campus … who even knows if your body is on campus.
“No … No, you are dismissed from the issue. Do whatever you please for the rest of your shift.”
“Very well. If you’ll excuse me.”
I have to go make preparations, Azul thinks as he goes to greet Table Fifteen. I don’t see it as necessary but, Azul glances one last time at Jade as the distance between them grows, Jade’s spine once again all he sees, I should prepare for the event of him overblotting.
Saprophytic organisms obtain their nutrients by breaking down dead organic matter. Fungi, bacteria, and water molds all have an exclusive diet of nature’s cadavers. In the simplest of terms, they eat death to sustain their own life.
Not all mushrooms are saprotrophs. After all, mycorrhizal and parasitic and endophytic mushrooms have a different diet; it is just that a majority of the mushrooms one finds, one will find them living among them dead. As active decomposers, they refuse to let death be finite. As Jade opens his terrarium, chip-esque mushrooms that mimic the look of a body’s heat signals, he recalls fondly how saprotrophs are the easiest to cultivate.
He takes out the turkey tail mushrooms, ripping them from their roots. Well, mushrooms have no roots but the image is still true. Turkey tail mushrooms are fascinating – they look so much like thermal heat vision, little branching waves of red, yellow, and white, thus making them look alive. And, they have a history of being used as medicine.
So vigorous with life yet bloated after a meal of death.
Jade opens the book on his desk in the botanical gardens. People always chastised him for his love of mushrooms. If he had an affection towards flowers or perhaps even pretty yellow weeds, he supposes it would not be as frowned upon. He has always been this way, preferring the ugly duckling over the swan. You were of a similar disposition.
Around his work station, an incense holder burns wisps of Worm’s Wort – which can dull the odor of anything. He flips through pages at a languid pace. From the window panes, moonlight slithers down a thousand maggots and makes their congealing home on Jade’s desk. Interlocking light lies down to rest as Jade stays awake into the night.
I’m so tired. The thought seeps in like a maggot in the ear of a cadaver. Numerous times, Jade changes his pair of nitrile gloves to rub at his eyes, warding off sleep. Moonlight maggots crawl over his skin.
It is only after his sixteenth failed potion (eighty-first if you count the others he has made in the past six nights after your funeral) with the wrong color, wrong texture, or wrong smell, does Jade’s head start to slip off his neck. On the verge of burning out, eyes blinking close, the desk rushes towards him like ground to a meteor, about to kiss his nose and face with pain, and – you catch him in your hand despite the smoldering sting of touching a meteor.
“You make and pick the strangest beds to fall asleep in. I can’t take my eyes off my Jade for a second, can I?”
Jade blinks to see you resting next to him, forehead on your forearm which lies on the table. His cheek is warmed by your right hand which acts as a bridge between his flesh and the desk. Even though some of your hair is in the way and the left side of your face is shielded in the cradle of your arm, Jade can see it clear as day. There is no scar threading itself across your forehead.
You give him a warm smile and Jade, who is a cold-blooded creature, replicates that warmth. The last exhausted fuses of energy left in him lift up his lovestruck lips. “Tired, baby,” you ask him.
“Mmmmh, just a bit. I have been at this for quite some time.”
“We should head back to Octavinelle then. Can’t have you knocking over a potion in your sleep.”
“No, no. Let’s stay here a little longer.” To bask in your presence, Jade needs that to a higher degree than he needs water or air. “Don’t go so soon.”
You are dressed in your school uniform. It has all of your soul’s idiosyncrasy in each article. Not really enrolled in Night Raven College, therefore lacking a uniform, you wear a leather jacket without pockets and a grid pattern collared shirt. The sleeves of your button-up gently pull away from being sandwiched by his cheek and desk. You busy yourself with brushing strands of black hair into its correct placement.
“Okay, okay. We can stay here for a while, but you’re definitely going to have a sore neck and sore shoulders in the morning.”
“Pamper me tomorrow?”
You hum, considering it. By now, most of the mismatched, colored tresses have been tucked gingerly behind his ear. You follow the diamond outline of a single sturgeon scale with your finger as you say, “If the price is right.”
Jade's smile grows stupid at that, showing just a sliver of his teeth. You always did like poking fun at his Octavinelle habits. Allowing himself to melt under your ministrations, he murmurs, “Anything for you.”
“Happy to do business with you then, Mr. Leech.”
You move the nail of your index along diamond scales’ edges, content to do as he says. Stay here a little longer under a gazebo of stars. Sevens, it might have been cheesily poetic what you said in the past, yet Jade agrees in totality with your poesy. The universe has collapsed, burnt away worries and responsibilities, and all that remains of creation is you and him.
Jade lifts his face so the hand playing with his earring falls over his mouth. With pouting lips, he plants a field of kisses on your palm. Such a warm palm. Your hand smells of raspberries and whipped vanilla from a foam soap you were particularly fond of. Jade can even smell it over the Worm’s Wort. And, Worm’s Wort – that is meant to keep his potion-making a secret – is an overwhelming, astringent scent that blankets other smells with high efficiency.
Everything, even his nose, narrows down to you. It is not an unpredictable feat. Azul once said your voice drags him out of any task with the ease of a siren working to drown a sailor. Which is why he hears you clearly even as you mumble, “Oh, I have this poem I want to workshop with you.”
Jade mourns the loss of your hand when you move energized. Leaning back in your stool, both hands fall behind you to grip under the seat. You throw back your head, conjuring all the verses up in your head. When you tilt your eyes to look at Jade, you have this grin on your face that balances on the fence of being sleazy with gross intent or being liberative with genius intent. Like you will either tell him you found a dead animal or you found the cure to cancer. He is all ears for whatever you throw.
He is only thrown for a bit of a loop as you swing your feet to the side and leap off the stool. Not perturbed over your body but rather an article of clothes. The noose around your neck is a blood-red tie with a stark white pattern of skulls upon it, mimicking the look of cut-out paper snowflakes. Patterned by two distinct rows: skulls connecting forehead to forehead then skulls facing the viewer. It vanishes from his sight as your back faces him.
Out of your mouth, poetry diffuses in the heavy, wet air of the botanical gardens.
“Wake up. (your feet carry you out towards the stretch of cobblestone, then playfully, you turn and disappear behind large, flowing leaves and unusual flowers)
Door Death, I knock upon thee (“(name)?” jade springs up, a deep fear swimming through him because you are out of his sight)
I ask the eternal question (when he pushes back the large leaves and peculiar flowers, you are no longer in that same spot; his head moves on a swivel, looking for you)
Has my life all been a dream? (your voice carries on the eastern air)
Has all my life been a dream? (your voice carries on the western air)
The eternal question unanswered (pressure falls over his eyes and heart, where are you!)
Door Death, I knock upon thee (a finger taps his shoulder-blade)
Wake up.”
When Jade turns, your embrace retreating slowly, you are holding out a solitary Easter lily out towards him. The gesture plainly tells him to take it. A white trumpet-shaped mouth yawns at him, five or so tongues of yellow pollen sticking out. It looks so correct in your hold that Jade almost doesn’t want to accept it.
Heart knocking with lingering desperation, he takes the Easter lily in hand all the same. In replacement to his palm, he rests his knuckles to his avalanching chest, careful of the flower in his caress. Before he can comment on the verses, you beat him to the punch. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret; my Jade isn’t stupid.”
He chuckles at that, eyes squinting with mirth.“Don’t I always say you should set your expectations upon higher platforms when with me?”
“My expectation towards your stupidity or your intellect?”
“Oya? I’d prefer the latter.” A teasing eyebrow is raised.
However, you grow grim like this is a matter of life or death. You twine arms around his neck and ensnare him to lean down to your height. In your eyes, a maelstrom of mental unease rages and causes your hues to appear milky-gray with worry. Under the concern of your bruised eyes, Jade responds, “You think I’m making a rash decision? Or perhaps, one that is not fully educated. I assure you that I have rigorously studied this.”
Your mouth quirks. “I think you are choosing the wrong method.”
“Then, enlighten me please.”
You lean close to him, nose to nose. Unlike the sweetness of raspberries and vanilla, your breath is something foul. Cadaverine and putrescine scent that he can only compare to the smell of his mushrooms at peak rot. Jade cannot focus on the scent because your voice hypnotizes him.
Slowly, you recite a song like it is poetry. “A dream is a wish your heart makes; when you’re fast asleep; in dreams you will lose your heartaches; whatever you wish for, you keep.”
Whatever dust of happiness is holding Jade’s lips blows away. The frown cuts his features. It takes a great deal for him to respond over the commotion of rain and lightning storming around in his ribcage; he only manages one word, perfumed in hurt and hate. “Him?”
Your next breath smells like mint. He imagines it would be something lovely to taste in a kiss. “I trust him. He is dear to me.”
Hate and hurt dull Jade’s casual loquacity. “But he hurt you.”
“So have you.” Now only hurt remains on Jade’s tongue. You do not let him refute, listing off, “So has Riddle, so has Leona and Azul, so has Jamil, so has Rook, so has Vil and Idia, so has Sebek, so has everyone that has known me. What is one more scar?”
It is the harsh truth, Jade knows. Magicless and fragile, you have been in the infirmary as often as an alcohol back to the liquor cabinet. Nothing worse than scratches and one broken wrist, nothing like this, Jade wants to desperately argue but your eyes silence him.
“So please,” you continue. “Please, give him a chance … You know, I’m still so sad that I never got to arrange that joint club meeting – Mountain Lovers and Gargoyle Research Studies. I think it would have been a peaceful walk at night, looking out for mushrooms and gargoyles.
“You two are so alike. It amuses me.” This truth takes its knife and thunders itself into Jade’s gut. Maneuvering with incredible dexterity, truth stabs into the eight tic-tac-toe regions of his abdomen, cutting deep red mouths into pallid flesh that tell him: yes, this is a truth. We love the same person. Jade does not voice this growing pain.
“I assure you, it is beneficial to have full faith in me. Have I ever made a split -choice decision? Do I not map out everything ahead of time? Besides, failing to my weaknesses in magical areas is not something I’m inclined to do, my dear.”
“Consider it. Anything for me, right?”
Ah, how villainous you are. To use his own words against him like that is a quality he both adores and loathes. Jade maneuvers the Easter lily so it sits in his hand like a cigarette. A loving hand raises up to one of the arms entwined around his neck, rubbing along the sleeve, as he slyly objects, “Surely you can understand my hesitation. After his -”
“I almost died –” Jade’s heart stops beating, fear is a powerful clog to all his heart’s arteries. You continue softly, “ during Azul’s overblot. What happened –”
“Let’s not talk about it. Just trust me.”
“Jade.”
“(Name).”
“No matter how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing, the dream you wish will come true … Please, consider it for my sake.”
“... I will play around with it in my head … No promises that I won’t crush it like it’s a bug.”
The tone of the conversation turns light. “I hope the sound of it buzzing annoys you.”
“How cruel of you.”
“Ah, NRC has really rubbed off on me. I’m just too wicked.” A laugh breaks your lips.
“The worst. Worse than the worst. Vile.” Smiling with a mouthful of glass, shark-like teeth, Jade finally closes the gap between the two of you. The scent of mint too enticing and the sight of you too dopamine-inducing, he has to kiss your lips until you cry or moan. It is in his biological nature.
The gazebo of stars rebuilds itself. Each cedar wood paneling falls back into perfect placement. Yours and Jade’s lip find all the old familiar spots of pleasure; first just lip fat smooshing together until you both in perfect sync open your mouths to each other. It might be seen as tedious already knowing the moves but Jade thinks it is a testament to how truly made for one another each of you are.
And, of course, he never allows it to get boring. Tongues like magma flowing in combining rivulets, Jade takes to moving his hands down past the curve of your shoulders to the side of your cheeks. He tilts your head in the opposite direction of how he moves his, deepening the kiss.
You grip the back of teal strands and real pain ignites on his skin. Pain made by your physical grip. Jade follows along to mimic that harshly loving gesture. However, when he rests his fingers to cup the back of your head, he stumbles upon a scar line. A few inches above your nape. It lies like a jagged river cutting apart two pieces of land.
A warning bell blares in Jade’s mind. The sound causes him to break away. It is not buzzing though, like you were predicting.
Night Raven College’s clock chimes twice, deep in the bowels of dark, interlocking hallways. It knocks on Jade’s skull and pulls him away. When he lifts his head off the desk, blinking at the sight of potions, his shoulders and neck are incredibly sore. 2 A.M. Two chimes after all mean 2 A.M. The air is so thick with Worm’s Wort that he almost chokes on it.
He does end up choking. Not on something as flowy as Worm’s Wort smoke. Rather, he chokes on something rather salty and dangerously watery.
At 2:47 A.M, Jade Leech walks into the Diasomnia dorm.
At 3:08 A.M, Jade Leech walks out of the Diasomnia dorm, a deal made.
Floyd wakes up facing an empty bed. This is not entirely odd; Jade has a scheduled A period while Floyd opts to keep his first period free. With thick fog still lingering in his brain, it does seem a bit odd not to see Jade because for the past month he has remained in bed. But – Jade is doing better. What gives Floyd pauses is the lingering thought: did I hear Jade come in at all last night?
Floyd is a light sleeper, always has been, so he should have been able to hear him at least enter the dorm last night or exit the dorm this morning. He doesn’t even think he heard a ladybug on the creaking floor; all of Octavinelle was unnaturally still last night like a graveyard. Before he can ponder longer on dead silence, his phone rings.
What Azul hisses over the phone has Floyd kicking his covers like they have caught fire. “Tell me you know where Jade is. Tell me right now; where is your brother?”
From point A to point B, Floyd and Jade Leech’s dormitory to Mostro Lounge’s VIP Room, the distance is about eight minutes for a normal person. Due to their longer strides, Floyd and Jade can cut this measurement by two minutes while Azul takes the full eight. It takes Floyd three minutes to point B, as while Azul curses his ear and Floyd curses under his breath.
Floyd knows it bad when dogmatic Azul does not scold him for walking through numerous hallways and his precious Lounge without a pair of socks, and it gets worse when Azul does not scold him for still being in his pajamas – an XL shirt with poetry in a downward pattern saying: “®, 40S & SHORTIES, BAD DECISIONS. GOOD TIMES., WORLDVIEW” with a pair of white striped, blue cotton pants – at nine on a Tuesday morning. Two Azuls speak in unison, one on the telephone receiver and one in front of him, “I think he has sealed it up with magic.”
It is a book. Just as Floyd’s hand had fallen on Mostro Lounge’s VIP door, he had inquired why Azul Ashengrotto of all people was having such a hard time getting a single book open. A book is easy to open; a book sealed with magic should be easy too, for a mage of Azul’s talents.
“Well, can’t ya just break it? It can’t be anything stronger than what we learned in Practical Magic?” Floyd disconnects the call as he talks; he does not need two Azuls in his ear.
“If the charm was something from that course then of course. This is more on par with the third year Conjuration course … or Ancient Curses.”
Though only seventeen, one would think with the maturity etched in Azul’s features that he was nearing twenty-seven instead. He has a hand depressed on his face and his eyes drawn into a sharp squint. Behind the shield of his glasses, a dozen speculations and calculations dance like sparks of lightning. Floyd hates it as much as he is glad to see that incisive prowess.
“But … it’s just a book about mushrooms.” Which is entirely true. The book that Azul’s stare is burning a hole through has written plainly on it: Chanterelle Dreams, Amanita Nightmares.
When considering current events, the title causes Floyd’s stomach to turn inside out. However, it is something Floyd has seen Jade read before Malleus’s overblot. It is just a boring book. A boring book that for some reason won’t open.
Azul verbalizes Floyd’s inner doubt, “A book that Jade left behind. A book that is not opening no matter what elementary magic I throw at it.”
Left in the botanical gardens. Left there overnight when Jade said he was going to be right back after tending to his terrariums. Getting back into hobbies was a sign of healing from trauma, right? Floyd feels like the skin of stomach is not only inside out but being torched by fire.
“I‘ll open it. I’m on the same level as Jade. Can’t be too hard.” Just as Floyd starts walking up to Azul’s desk, he is stopped.
“No! No … we shouldn’t risk your health if this takes something more to open.”
Vexation falls on Floyd’s face. His teeth displayed and brow crinkled, “Huuuh?” He stomps over to the desk. “It’s Jade magic. It ain’t gonna kill us.”
“No, but it might drain one of us. And,” Azul hesitates. But when Floyd slams his hands down on the VIP desk, determinate coals burn in his sky-blue eyes. He stares down Floyd without a single flinch. “And you run the fastest out of the two of us, so we cannot risk your energy.”
It takes a moment for him to back down. Reading the map of the plan on Azul’s expression, it comes to Floyd’s attention what exactly Azul is hinting at. “Fiiine.” Floyd’s dominant hand still crosses up to rest on his right shoulder. “Doesn’t mean I’ma be happy about it though.”
“Trust me, neither am I.” And he really isn’t. This entire situation leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
On the ledge of Azul’s desk rests his staff. The octopus’s bulbous head keeps it steady on the surface. Authentic silver shines elegantly under the expensive lighting. Between the nest of curling tentacles, Azul’s gray gemstone sits, ready to be utilized. White gloves wrap around the sleek black handle.
When Azul holds his staff above the book, Floyd interrupts, “Ma called me two nights ago and said – (Floyd sits in his bed, stricken by the sound of his grown, emotionally shielded mother crying. The sound of her sobs feel so artificial in his left ear, like hearing a creature trying to mimic human speech patterns. Something so visceral wrong laced in the vocal cords of it.
“Mama, Mama, what’s wrong,” Floyd pleads, about one breath away from grabbing a transformation potion and rushing to the Mirror Chamber.
“Tell – Tell Jade to pick up his phone please – I just! I – auh – Floooyd,” his mother sobs.
“Mama, he’s in class. He can’t pick up his phone right now. He’s in class. What’s wrong? Ma?”
That seems to soothe something in Narissa Leech. There is a slick sound of her wiping away tears, probably bringing talons under her eyelids and probably bringing her forearm across her nose. After a few tearful breath, she whispers, “He’s not sleepin’?”
“No, he went to his A period class. Mama, what’s wrong?”
“I,” she sniffles, “I had this awful dream. You and Jade were tiny and still sharing your bedrooms. I went to wake up both of you for breakfast but Jade wouldn’t wake up. I kept shaking and shakin’ him. It was like he was in a coma and just wouldn’t get up. He looked like a tiny corpse.
“I kept calling for you and Dad, but neither of you would come help. My little baby. I kept trying to wake him up. I just tried and tried. Then, I pried his left eye open and ah!” His mother cries once more. “He looked so dead in his sleep!”). – and I haven’t been able to stop thinkin’ ‘bout it,” Floyd finishes.
It is very rare for either of the twins to show their fears. Fear is a delicious seasoning that gets you devoured in the Coral Sea. Though it wears a mask on Floyd’s face, fear is still evident in his voice despite the steadiness of each syllable. Sometimes friends can just measure how much fear the other has, even when it is not shown.
Azul frowns sympathetically. He has only really had his mother and step-father; worrying about a sibling is uncharted territory for Azul. However, if he had friends with a bond as close as a sibling relationship, it might be Floyd and Jade. It just might.
It probably is not though. Probably.
“Since we were little, your brother has always been capable. Both in his magic and in his wit. Even … even in this instance, I doubt Jade will ever make a decision hazardously.” Which is exactly what worries them; Jade is brilliant, who knows what an odious mixture of intellect and grief could end up making.
Azul touches the octopus’s forehead to the cover of Chanterelle Dreams, Amanita Nightmares. In reaction, the room explodes with the power of a violet tornado.
“Fuck,” Floyd shouts as wind body-checks him like a obese linebacker.
Azul’s hat flies off his head. His glasses would risk being magnetized into the same wind-polarity if he tilted his face away from the shimmering violet. However, Azul does not wither even once at the tremendously powerful locking spell. The violet that stains his face like grape only hones him into the irrefutable fact that this is Jade’s magic. Despite being on the verge of being knocked over by it, the realization fills Azul with relief.
Floyd’s violet nails scrap lines into Azul’s desk but Azul does not twitch out of his resolve. Papers lying on his desk go airborne. The housewarden grits his violet teeth so hard that he risks breaking his jaw, his mole stretching down with the shape of his grimace.
C’mon, c’mon! Slowly, the tentacles on Azul’s staff start to unfurl from their comatose state. His gem stone and the octopus head remain fixed to the handle unlike the squirming appendages. Silver metal moves fluidly and wraps itself around the cover of the book like a starfish.
Then, with a burst of brighter violet that fades away to nothing, chanterelle dreams and amanita nightmares reveal their faces to the two of them. Well, not to Floyd. Temporarily blind due to the atomic explosion, he is wiping his eyes with his knuckles, blinking away little spots of endless black and blinding white. Which is why for a vital moment, Floyd misses the look of absolute horror that paints Azul’s face.
“Th-This –.” As the tentacles of his magic staff congeal back into their normal state, Azul sets the handle’s end down on the ground. Uncoordinated, it tumbles to the ground just as Azul picks up the book, holding it close to his chest.
“Wha? What’s in it? Shit, this kills,” Floyd hisses, hunched over. A stray tear falls down Floyd’s left eye as he slowly straightens out. “Stupid Jade.”
With each page flip, Azul’s face turns a lighter shade of white. When a hand reaches out to grab the book, Azul slaps it with so much force that Floyd groans in pain.
“C’mon, let me see,” Floyd whines. It is not a childish whine but more of a warning, he is going to get violent if Azul does not hand over the stupid book now. Floyd grabs the desk and leans over the top, trying to get a glimpse of whatever Azul is hiding. All he sees is paragraphs of text and a block where an image is drawn.
He does not get to know what the image is because Azul slams the book shut and demands with urgency, “Where is your brother, Floyd?”
A dragon’s treasure is guarded and hoarded with a shield-and-sword-heart acting as its knights. Malleus has found his treasure to have become his memories of you. If each recollection was a shiny ruby or bright diamond, Malleus puts them all in an isolated, inaccessible cache. In times where comfort is needed, he returns to roll a precious gem in his talons, moments of just you and him unshared with others playing in his mind. Right now, Malleus rotates a rose quartz.
This particular rose quartz was formed by magma crystallization as all are. The time period it was formed in was before you knew his true identity.
You two are perched miles above the ground, on one of the eastern turrets of Night Raven College. You curl into your notepad as Malleus takes in the scenery.
He took you up here by teleportation. You have improved in leaps and bounds from your first time being maneuvered about the earth by a teleportation spell. Unlike your first time, you only gag now rather than puke. After a spell (not performed by his hands) of dizziness, you two took your seats upon the roof. Meters in front of you lies a single gargoyle. Wingspan extended out and the spine facing you.
He has already explained it to you in great detail, and you listened. Really listened. So used to be stared through, Malleus has recently been finding his ears turn pink at how you look at him. Tonight, he has cut off his presentation earlier than normal. Bashfully empty of words burnt out from your smoldering eyes.
Malleus welcomes the reprieve with gratitude. Chirping crickets and grinding graphite is the only music playing in his ears – though he can sometimes hear the jazz notes of you going no, no, that line does work, no, what’s another word for … no, too pretentious and has to keep himself from chuckling fondly.
Soon, the crickets find themselves without any further accompaniment; you have stopped writing. Curious, Malleus looks away from the stone he has been studying. His neck rolls. Rejuvenated, his pulse pounds in the taut muscles found in his throat at the sight of you. What a sight you truly are, unafraid to be here with him.
You catch onto his unshakable staring. Tongue in cheek, pencil clenched in hand, you announce “I.” The pencil weeps under your strength. “I think I got it now.”
Malleus raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
You tap your pencil on the edge of your notepad anxiously. Then, taking a deep breath, you read your haiku:
“Apathy on stone
My prince, do not reveal tears
Gargoyle, keep your face.”
The look you give him is uneasy. He imagines you are anticipating harsh criticism, writing a poem on a subject matter he is so endowed in. Rather than criticism, the only thing in Malleus’s heart is a quick skipping beat.
You have such a way with words that it leaves his spellbound despite the unequivocal fact that you are very magicless. The words seem so knitted together for his especial heart. His own face of stone. However, knowing you do not know he is a prince, he considers the five-seven-five syllable poem and covers up his growing blush with one inquiry , “tears?”
“Because gargoyles are waterspouts. So, I wanted to layer an emotion to the functionality, the rigid job.” For a moment, you consider the poem in your hand then your mouth moves a mile a second. “Ugh! Truthfully, I wanted to say ‘a prince must never cry’ so it can keep the chain of commands like ‘keep your face’ but then the line would only be six syllables! Ugh, I hate haikus! I can’t write a single good one.”
You look about ready to crumple up and toss the note away with hatred. It would not be surprising, you do this a lot. Enough to the point where Malleus has a collection of crinkled up poems — “If you want them, you can have them. They fucking stink though,” you had first bemoaned when Malleus first asked to keep your workshopping words. This one though, Malleus wants you to be proud of it.
“I happen to think it is quite beautiful, spellbinding almost.”
The way your eyes shimmer when looking at him leaves Malleus choking on the night air. He continues despite his temperature rising in his gut and nape.
“The first and third lines feel impersonal, but the middle line is soft. It is the gentleness sandwiched and withered away by the stone. Despite the cold exterior, there is a heart in there.”
The way you look at him — all the ways you look at him, but even more so now — has him falling helplessly in love with you. Stars blaze in your eyes like he has opened up the jaws of the universe and plucked your favorite part of the cosmo down for you. He would do so for you. He would do so much for you – divide the ocean down the middle, change the phrase of the moon, or tear the sky in two. Wounded so tightly across your finger that it surely cuts off circulation. You look at him so sweetly, bathed by the night’s glow. Malleus bites his tongue bloody to keep from telling you that you have the prettiest eyes.
“That’s — That’s actually really a revolutionary way to look at it. I —,” you glance down at your work, “I really didn’t have the optimism to see it that way.”
“You should be more prideful of what you create. Your work too has a heart despite its cold exterior, even at its most tortured.”
“Stooop, I’ll blush.” You raise a hand over your eyes but a sleazy grin is underneath your fingers. You enjoy praise a lot.
“I am just being honest with you, Child of Man. You always asked me to be.” He pauses then asks, “however, may I inquire why use the word prince?”
“I don’t know. Don’t they seem regal to you at times?”
“Hm, there seems to be a resemblance.”
“They remind me of you a lot. Regal. Ah, not that you’re a prince though … What’s that grin for? Don’t tell me I inflated your ego.”
“Nothing of the sorts, Child of Man.”
“Ah, whatever.” Despite your grumbled tone, you flip to the next notebook page. It is the first one he has seen you save rather than tear up.
Rain pitters on the building, starting out soft like the languid pop of popcorn in a microwave. No, not on Night Raven College’s roof. Rainfall taps like fingertips on Diasomnia’s dormitory, and Malleus realizes it is time for him to put this rose quartz back in his treasure hoard. When his and Jade’s eyes meet across the room, his breath grows thorn in his lungs. Now is not the time to reflect.
From the towering polygon windows, the icy clouds heavy with rain are just barely visible through the shower sticking to the panes. Worser weather is certain to come like an expected guest. Malleus, tongue heavy, announces, “All that is left now is to retrieve their body.”
Diasomnia’s lounge has been cleared of all its furniture and rugs. Tables teleport away and rugs roll themselves up. Black leather couches and chairs are depressed tightly on the southern wall behind Jade and Malleus, blocking the entrance. Not that they are necessary barricades when the bombay blackwood doors are locked firmly with ancient magic.
It is set in motion to take place in the lounge’s heart. The nook bordered by two grand staircases and twenty feet below where Diasomnia’s throne resides. Upon the cement ground, illuminated by no light, lies a circle of complex patterns and symbols made of thorns. In the middle of linking sigils, Octavinelle’s vice-housewarden stands with an apathetic, stone face. The same expression he had worn when he and Malleus made their contractual deal.
He keeps his cards so close to his chest, you once bemoaned on your nightly ventures. Malleus remembers it well; you were reaching tear-out-your-hair hysteria due to cooking a meal for Jade Leech and not receiving a clear glimpse into his opinion. He’s impossible to read! Your teeth flashed with frustration.
It is an appropriate analogy. Like an experienced gambler, Jade knows not to leave his hands vulnerable to any ill-intent strikes. At first, he was incredibly suspicious of your kindness until evolution changed your kindness to a craving. With Malleus, Jade hides his cards behind his back and then shields them with an illusion spell to change the faces of the playing cards.
Making this shrewd deal was one of Jade’s finer moments. Like an experienced brain surgeon, he knows where to pull with roughness or push with softness in the intricate webbing of nerve-endings. Using survivor’s guilt as keen forceps and using his own signature spell as hooks, Jade performed a deal Azul would have been praiseful of.
Which is why he will comply with the terms, because he has already prematurely agreed to them. Green eyes watch him pull black gloves carefully from his hands. He folds them once, pockets them, then unclips his magic pen from his breast pocket. A collision of two stars bursts in bright colors on the surface of Jade’s pen.
From out of thin air, you appear. You fall into Jade’s arm with all the grace of a dead body. Jade catches you in a dancer’s standard dip. Limp, your neck stretches as far as it can while dangling strands of hair point down at the ground like a thousand knives.
He plants a gentle kiss on your cheek. Mourning and love mix in his heterochromic eyes. Jade takes to silently brushing away the pieces that cover up your forehead’s scar as if to almost say to Malleus who watches Jade lift you bridal style: look at what you did to them, look.
Malleus’s otherwise imperative stare moves to a window. The rain is starting to get gradually heavier. When Malleus looks back, Jade is kneeled in the middle of the circle of thorns, as was pre-planned. The stone-faced prince of Briar Valley interlocks his gloves underneath the gem’s handle base instead of just holding it in one hand.
“No matter what you see or hear, your focus must never flicker from the Child of Man. A single interruption is a breakage in a dam of irreversible consequence. I ask you to heed these words carefully … Jade.”
“Of course.” Curt and clip, Jade’s confirmation is nothing more than contractual obligation.
The vines from the head base to gemstone bring to shift. Two interlocked vines rotate in a downward spiral, dancing around one another.
“Then, let us not waste another second.”
The spindle’s wheel starts to spin. Slowly at first, it moves at a pace where one can keep track of the mismatched sized spokes. Gradually, the spindle picks up pace. Inner spokes start to move in a heartbeat-esque pattern, up and down from long to short to long to short. Bombay blackwood twirls; the natural grain melts together into one smooth surface. It keeps picking up pace, twirling faster and faster. It is now impossible to distinguish where the spokes lie as they all melt into nebulous black. Accumulating to its peak, Malleus’s spindle moves so swiftly that it appears to slow down, moving counterclockwise.
Wind picks up in Diasomnia as if a tornado is tearing through the stone ribcage. Malleus’s hair flies around him like ebon seaweed caught along a boat’s racing hook. The obsidian markings on his forehead stay relenting to the fierce winds, tight upon his increasingly crinkling brow. Behind his pointed ears, ebon strands whip back and forth with a vengeance.
Jade’s and your hair move in tandem, blown in the same direction. Despite the discord around, despite when Malleus starts to chant, nothing tears his gaze from you. His eyes are intent on you like a mere blink would cause you to dissolve into seafoam. Despite the lighting hitting the ground, he keeps his stare.
A breath later, the lounge is plunged into green.
On the tongue of a stone bridge, Floyd and Azul appear out of thin air. Not entirely out of thin air though; around their shoulders, the shimmer of the transportation mirror into Diasomnia fades over their bodies. Rain smacks them in the face with a grievous scorn. Azul loses his footing temporarily but Floyd catches him by the elbow.
He pushes up his glasses, rain falls so hard and fast that they become more of an obstacle than a helper for sight. Getting drenched by the second, Azul stops with Floyd to watch the show of dancing lightning. “By Sevens, do you really think Draconia is overblotting again?”
Diasomnia staff and students in Mostro Lounge had started checking their phones as Floyd and Azul stepped out from the VIP room. Apparently, there was a storm brewing in the Diasomnia dormitory. Apparently, the main foyer was closed off and the vice-housewarden was evacuating students. Apparently, Malleus Draconia is overblotting a second time. Who knows if the information is reliable. All that is important is Jade was seen days ago, walking on this very stone bridge past midnight.
“I don’t care. I know Sea Slug knows where Jade is.” Floyd’s lips pull into a beastly snarl. “C’mon.”
A cold sweat breaks on Malleus’s forehead. From the two connecting diamonds imprinted on his forehead, sweat drops. It trails down over his nose to his lips which are harshly breathing air in and out.
Malleus Draconia has to minutely remind himself how breathing works as the tornado rips through Diasomnia like a savage bear. Pressure stomps on his chest with an iron boot. Through all his wild chase to keep oxygen in his lungs, he recognizes it not as pain but rather a deserved punishment. I’m sorry, Child of Man. It is an unheard sentiment; even if said, it would be torn from his lips and thrown yards away by the wind.
There are many unheard sentiments chopped by the furious air. Most of them come from Silver, Sebek, and Lilia, behindthe barracked door, drowned out by turbulent winds. Harsh air chops up the syllables like a knife, turning them into incomprehensible poetry. The sentiments matter little until among them a single voice shouts, “JADE!”
Stricken, Jade tears his hell-bent gaze away from you. He does not answer loud enough to be heard over the maelstrom but the sentiment is still sincere. “Floyd?”
“Ignore it! Focus on them!!” Under Malleus’s instructions, Jade fixes the nucleus of his sight back onto you. A resurrection can only be completed with the kiss of true love. Without that passionate embrace, the body will lose the returning soul it momentarily holds. A true love’s kiss seals it back in the body. He waits for the predestined moment where he can connect your lips together with unwavering focus.
“Just a little longer now, my love.” Jade’s lips pull into a lovestruck grin. “Soon.”
Among the wind, voices converse:
“Pry open the door!”
“We have been trying to!”
“Your hands are not broken or bloodied! You obviously have not!!”
“Malleus, this could kill you! This could kill you both!”
“ Malleus!!”
“Jade, you fuck!”
Azul shouts with all his remaining strength, “Jade, don’t do this!!”
A black star forms silently over Jade’s head.
All of his life, he has been unapproachable. All of his life, people have found his teeth nightmarish and his eyes ghoulish. All of his life, he has waited for someone like you. You mean the universe to him; driven to the point where he would do something as forbidden as this. Malleus grips his staff tighter and Jade grips you tighter.
The black star is an abomination. Quantum processes work in rotation, lapping over each other like yin-and-yang. Ebony water shimmer in the middle of the black star while the outer ring strangles the air atoms with thorns. Atomic particles split into twos, going smaller than scientists thought possible, with the strength of the semiclassical, gravitational abomination.
It thumps like a grotesque, wet heart and churns with the sound of visceral tearing. From the black thorns, the atmosphere collapses into blue-gray dust, destroying the atoms in its way. The black star gives a pained groan before it expels what it has taken.
From the inky depths of a black star, wisps of smoke start to seep down like water from overhead greenhouse hoses. The plumes of cloud hiss with head-splitting volume. Slowly, those misty clouds spiral back into a congealing mass. A split tornado swirling back into its original shape. Smoke tightens and arrows down before erupting into a cloud over your face. You swallow it; from your eyes, to your nose, to your ears, to your mouth, you swallow all the mist until there is nothing left in the collapsing air.
Perhaps you are not swallowing; perhaps it is entering.
Jade watches intent each centimeter square of your face with glassy eyes. He waits until each wisps of vapor diffuses into the very pores of your skin. When the air is clear of the smoke, he brings up his right hand to move hair that has fallen over your features.
Onto the skies of your lips, Jade Leech whispers his heart. “I love you. I cannot live this life without my heart and soul. Come back to me; where you belong, my love, is with me.” Under a gruesome black star, he kisses you.
It is an unreciprocated kiss. When kissing a corpse, one should never expect to be greeted with tender amorous sensations. This is why Jade does not despair when he feels nothing, suctioning your lifeless lips in two kisses before pecking harshly for the third and final kiss. It is alright – he can have his real kiss soon – because the black star is killing itself.
Collapsing air closes in a snap. Leftover blue-gray powder hangs in the air like dust particles seen from the sunlight’s rays. Slowly, green light starts to slither away, dimming in quanta measures. All is so tranquil; even the tornado winds bottled in the lounge start to dim away. Then, like your heart is trying to jump from your chest, you start to hyperventilate in Jade’s arms.
“(Na-Name) … (Name),” love washes over Jade’s tongue. You twist violently in his arms, throat and chest pounding up and down with irregular breaths. Like a cornered prey, your eyes are wild with confusion. “It’s okay … I got you. You’re safe … Oh, you’re so beautiful. My love.”
Neck rolling back, seizure-like eyes go white and you cough out a mushroom-shaped cloud of blue-gray dust. Black blood drips down your left nostril and trails like a tear off your cheek. Exhaustively, your chest continues to punch in and out with air that misses their connection in your lungs by centimeters. If you do not find a way to breathe, you will surely die a second time.
Not that Jade would let that happen after just getting you back. Jade maneuvers you with ease. He moves your back so it lies on his chest and whispers, “I know it will be difficult but follow along to my breath. Feel it go in … out … in … out … in … out … there, there … out … in … good, so good.”
Your chest beats wildly like the tempo of a metal song while Jade’s chest beats with the measured drum of rhythm and blues. Ungloved skin rests, fingers spread wide, on your chest. Each groove of each other’s bones are felt. Past the layers of muscle, skin, and clothes, your lungs touch together in a kiss. Jade depresses his chest on your back, bending you into a hunch. His words are almost delirious.
“I love you. I love you so much. I love you, please see it and believe it. I would do anything for you, (Name).”
Slowly, the tempo of your lungs start to dim like the lightning, green lights, and wind do. Jade moves his hand from your chest to your left shoulder. He depresses his lips on your neck, holding onto you painfully tight.
“ … Right where I want you to be again. Be here with me. Be awake with me. I love you.”
You capture your first real breath as the door to the lounge bursts open.
You turn, eyes wide as saucers. Behind you, Jade’s timid smiling face greets you from your eternal sleep. Another string of black blood drips down your face, this one coming from your right nostril. Your brows creases then flattens out, recognizing the face after a moment of hesitation..
“Jade?”
In response, Jade smiles with all his teeth.
Separate from you two, Malleus lies on the floor. His own heart and lungs beating erratically, panting like a dog on a smoldering summer’s day. Lilia may put his hand on his shoulder to try and vanquish the tidal wave of breathlessness but Malleus shrugs it off. His staff is knocked by his side from the explosion of the black star collapsing. Malleus uses it to push himself up on his knees.
His heart floods with relief and love at seeing the sight of you breathing in Jade’s arms. Besotted beyond belief, he whispers lovestruck, “Child of Man.” Then, the calm expression melts off his face and reveals panic. Because that is not –!
“Jade!”
Floyd breaks into the room like a storm; shoulder-checks Sebek who is trying to reach Malleus; jumps over the furniture that prove to be useless barracks. “Jade,” he shouts again when he notices his brother has yet to turn away from you.
Their eyes find each other across the room easily. It is incredibly hard to see in the Coral Sea, biological and environmental factors working double-time together to ensure they stayed in the middle of the food chain. Their shared beacon of gold keeps them tethered together in the sea and on the land. No one else, not even their parents have an eye similar to theirs. That’s my brother is what that single ring of gold means.
Floyd can recognize Jade as such even now at the worst of times. However, a marginal note is stapled onto the thought. That’s my brother and, right now, I’m terrified of him. It is an odious thought. Sevens, Floyd can feel the tap-dancers of bile make their merry way up his throat at this very moment. What keeps them tethered together feels more like a chain than a security line to use.
“Bad decisions, good times,” Jade reads off his t-shirt. “Hm, Floyd?”
How can he speak so calmly with that in his arms? Perhaps, that too is part of why Floyd feels goosebumps on the back of his thighs. A prey or lower predator has signals receptors to recognize danger. A cat shows its fear in a twitching tail; Floyd wonders how he must be showing his own fear. Call it animal insight but a part of Floyd knows deep down, that is not you in his brother’s arms.
“Ja-Jaido.”
“Florido.”
Do this for me, Jade’s eyes seem to implore. Ah, you asshole, Floyd’s eyes respond.
He walks forward through a graveyard of thorns. “They probably can’t walk that well. Gotta be winded.” Floyd outstretches his left hand; Jade’s eyes squint in gaiety and your own gape wide in curiosity. The grip Jade has around you is protective. “C’mon, get up.”
“Thank you, Floyd,” Jade says, placing his hand on his brother’s.
#twisted wonderland x reader#jade leech#jade leech x reader#twisted wonderland#malleus draconia x reader#twst jade
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can we maybe get hcs about the rest of the bros as camboys? levi would def be whiny af like you said but what about the others?
Nsfw!
Not sure these count as proper hcs- but here’s a few ideas I had!! CW: Faceless audio ‘streamers’ & live camboys!! Toys (dildos / pocket pussy) mentioned in a few ‘n mostly jacking off-
Lucifer I can’t imagine him as a camboy….I tried and just can’t- BUT!!! Guided masturbation audios?- Yes!! He can be faceless and it’s simple enough to record them. Whispering praise or degrading his listeners depending on his mood.
Just imagine his deep voice, right in your ear talking as if he knows what you’re saying, “Slowly darling, no need to rush. Yes, I told you to touch yourself. But I didn’t say you could cum yet.”
Mammon is probably the most likely to have a regular streaming time / setup, it’s easy money after all.
He likes to set a tip goal and do whatever the top suggestion is. (He found out that was the easiest way to make a tone of grimm fast-) loves to overstimulate himself on purpose. Again more tips that way-he knows that his audience likes to see him whining that it’s too much, while he ruts into a pocket pussy with a little vibrator in his ass.
Levi I already talked about but he’s still getting added in this post too!! He mostly does audio streams, whining, begging and moaning. Telling you his viewers how he wishes it was you touching him- how his hand isn’t enough. How it could never compared to yours.
Might do like roleplay streams but very rarely-
Satan hear me out, I’m feeding my voice kink- he reads erotic poetry or his favorite smut novels on stream. It’s actually rare for him to actually touch himself during a streams tho. He likes to focus on the book.
Asmo loves to do suggestions! Want to see him jerk off and moan about how he wishes it was your hand instead? Easy! Want to see him ride his favorite dildo until he’s crying? Done! He loves making it a show for his viewers~ not really in it for the money, he likes the attention.
Beel does kinda basic stuff and he streams whenever he feels like it. Usually it’s just a chest down view of him jerking off. Occasionally he’ll play with his nipples, running his hands over his abs, a little teasing before the show starts.
He does have a once-weekly ‘special’ where he jacks off in the gym shower, his low moans covered by the sound of the running water echoing off the walls.
Belphie lazy streams, usually a little shaky and from his point of view. Although his depend a lot more on his mood. Some days he’ll just be on his knees rutting against a your pillow, some days he’ll be moaning loudly and fucking into a pocket pussy or slowly riding a dildo until he cums.
#I had fun with these- might actually expand on a few of them later!!#anon!#obey me!#smut#obey me smut#obey me lucifer#obey me mammon#obey me belphie#obey me levi#obey me satan#obey me asmo#obey me beel#om! smut#obmswd smut#obmswd lucifer#obmswd mammon#obmswd levi#obmswd satan#obmswd asmo#obmswd beel#obmswd belphie#obey me#om!#obmswd#roro writes#obey me headcanon#obey me headcanons
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GALE SFW HEADCANONS:
finally we got our lover boy here. its not a secret that he like gets super easily attached. i kind of hate that they patched that out bcz it fit his character so much. but yeah in my mind its canon he gets attached suppperrr easily also kind of the type of guy to love bomb tav. not in the manipulative way tho like he genuinely thinks hes in love.
he gives everything he has in relationships too like tav IS his everything. he can be pretty clingy but thats just cuz he loves them so much ❤️ ok yandere vibes hold on. not really but imagine.
the type of dude to draw pictures of him and tav holding hands in his diary (they are not drawn good) also definitely talks to himself a lot, or maybe to his cat (sometimes abt tav)
hands down the funniest mf at camp like hes the type thats just naturally funny he doesnt even try to be. its hard to take him serious sometimes bcz of it😭😭 he gets mad af about it too. like his funnyness is a blight on his existence he just wants to be taken seriously. also feel like he has the worst luck too like fucked up things always happen to him and thats also hilarious LMAO constantly has the camp in stitches
he has bad spatial awareness so hes always triggering traps and tav gets so mad 😹😹😹
love language:
giving= words of affirmation and quality time
always wants to be with tav. also loves to compliment them but he does it in his corny ass wizard way lol like in the most extra way possible. he cant just say "ur eyes look beautiful today" hes got to say some shit like "ur viewing orbs are looking most ravishing this eventide". i bet he would write poetry abt tav but he wouldnt give it to them bcz hes lowkey embarrassed 😔 like insecure in his ability not embarrassed by the action itself. he just wants to do tav justice and he doesnt think he can.
receiving= quality time
as long as tav wants to be with him too hes happy. he worries abt being too clingy so sometimes he'll distance himself and if tav closes that distance on their own itll make him so happy. like thats the best thing ever to him. to have somebody that wants to be in his presence and listen to him ramble.
i feel like gale is similar in height to astarion so like 5'11/6' hes probably closer to 5'11. like that is the most gale height to me. also hes a little thicker with some muscle. hes def got a lil belly 🤭❤️ his pecs are rlly smthng too like thats where most of his muscle goes. those look heavy let me carry them for u king 🤲🏻😼
GALE NSFW HEADCANONS:
A FREAKKKKKK !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THIS MAN IS A FREAK. WHAT was that shit in the sky ?????? THE FUCK ??? like he is THE MOST kinky mf here he will do almost anything. ONLY with ppl hes comfortable with tho. otherwise hes vanilla af. i honestly feel like hes mostly submissive tho just cuz hes chill like that. equally gives and receives. like straight up tav is his BABY he will do ANYTHING for them. probably introduced to most of his kinks thru tav (and mystra....... unfortunately.....)
loves to give head. like dear god. will beg tav to let him for real. hes very good at it too
incorporates sooo much magic. will make fake!gale fuck tav so he can watch. will use hot and cold magic and all that. electricity. the thunder stuff or whatever its called. literally anything u can think of to spice it up. he has thought of it. will also do freaky shit like using magic to mess with tav in public if u know what i mean
doesnt have a high body count i lowkey feel like mystra was his first. and he hasnt smashed anybody since. until tav.
exhibitionist AND humiliation kink. so these work hand in hand bcz like i said he doesnt do kinky shit with ppl hes not comfortable with so doing it where strangers might see is ultimate humiliation for him. but also likes to humiliate tav with it too.
will say a lot of nasty shit. this i feel he doesnt go super overboard with but its nasty compared to how he usually is. mostly when hes begging.
im gonna say gale has a solid 5 on him. and hes got hair i feel like most of the companions do but it works rlly good on gale lol. like hes got a happy trail and everything 🤤 nice hairy armpits too so u know hes got that manly ass MUSKK 💦💦💦 anyway i think his pp is pretty straight. like a wand lol. its a pretty normal pp.
aftercare with gale is the best yo like he makes sure tav is taken care of first and then cleans up on his own unless tav offers which he usually tells them to rest lol. hes just so sweet.
#gale bg3#gale dekarios#gale of waterdeep#gale x tav#gale x reader#gale headcanons#bg3 headcanons#bg3#baldurs gate 3#baldurs gate#x reader#my headcanons#love languages#love language headcanons
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thinking about how living w regulus would affect harry like
he's such a fucking snob about everything. food, decor, fashion, you name it, he's got opinions on it.
he does ballet despite being the least graceful person on the planet. he's somehow pretty good at it, likely out of spite
speaks french
very much a cat person, has a cat named leo who is his baby
like yk how james and sirius are extremely codependent? that's how harry is w leo. both of them can not handle being apart from each other too long
reads a lot of stories
thinks seeker is the best quidditch position
on that note, lots of slytherin house pride. james hates it. harry refuses to put any gryffindor decorations up in his room
harry loves taking pictures just like reg so the house is filled with photographs
and ofc harry is snobby about what types of cameras he uses thanks to reg. james now just lets them deal with the cameras & photography stuff bc he's scared to get the wrong thing lol
harry is taller than reg but bc dysphoria all of reg's old clothes (like quidditch jerseys + hoodies and stuff) are his size so half his wardrobe is from reg's hogwarts days
definitely the type of guy to change his bedding & curtains & everything in his room based on the season. will anybody actually be in there other than him and his parents? not really, but he MUST redecorate
idk what this even means but snobby about candles. this is another thing james is scared to buy him
harry and reg speak french w each other more than english
since james doesn't speak french w harry (i hc he's only comfortable speaking it w reg) harry is used to having a conversation in two different languages so sometimes he'll be speaking french w his friends without noticing
he'll be in the middle of a rant and realize they don't understand a thing he's saying lol
reg and harry control the decorating for every holiday, every birthday, etc.
the one thing harry knows how to do that reg doesn't/reg didn't teach him is cooking. reg never cooked for himself as a child so james was the one who taught him
doesn't look like it most of the time but all of harry's clothes are very expensive... did i mention he's a snob
harry is such a dry texter/writer... he's such a dick about grammar when it comes to writing even tho he can barely string a sentence together when speaking
deeply sarcastic (look! a canon detail! we never thought we'd see that on this account, did we?)
will take his partners on the most expensive dates & whatnot like it's nothing... cedric the farmboy™️ is not prepared
writes sad boy poetry when he gets annoyed w someone... like harry will storm off all pissed and then he comes back 20 mins later with a beautifully written, very angry poem for whoever made him mad
has so many clothes & different curtains and bedding sets for different seasons that he also uses the closet in the guest room (reg takes up 99% of his and james's closet for the same reason)
has an inherent hatred of fake plants
bedroom is simultaneously tidy and so messy a hurricane might as well have come through
leaves a book behind everywhere he goes
secretly the worst sense of humor lmao
he may not have gotten his love of drawing/painting from regulus, but you def see reg in the way he is, you guessed it, a massive snob about art supplies
soooo indecisive. redoes his room at least twice a year
an asshole when he gets less than 10 hours of sleep... he's mildly tolerable after 3 cups of coffee (black, of course) but you might as well just ignore him until he gets a nap in
on that note is very good at making coffee and is, drum roll please, a massive snob about it. who would've guessed (somebody count how many times i've said snob in this post and comment it please and thank you)
if he doesn't like a gift he's horrible at pretending he's happy w it so people usually go through reg whenever they buy him something... this goes both ways too, people go through harry when buying something for reg
is visually james and lily's but in personality is really just reg's (and also lily's... he definitely inherited his spite from her lol)
is a crazy cat lady by age 20
at least 10 pictures of leo in his room... he has whole photoshoots for her and she poses for them
might as well not hang out w harry at his house bc he'll make out with his cat the whole time
loves going to art museums w regulus
he's a, surprise surprise, snob about art. james just doesn't comment on art altogether atp
his vocabulary is a weird mashup of french, english, and hindi that makes it very hard for anybody who doesn't know him well to understand what he's saying lol
looks angry until he smiles (he got this from lily but a life with reg has perfected it)
needs a golden retriever to his black cat in any given relationship (enter cedric and cho) (yes i'm going to push my rarepair on everyone reading this)
tl;dr being raised by/living w regulus has turned harry into a massive snob about literally everything and regulus is proud of it (blink twice if you need help, james)
#hp fandom#harry potter fandom#hp#marauders era#harry potter#james potter#regulus black#jegulus#jegulus raising harry#regulus raising harry really#leo the cat#let's give her her own tag :)#she is immortal btw. leo never dies#anyway
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Hello and welcome to my Tumblr ✨
My name is Nighty and you probably know me for my True Form Sukuna art and fanfiction.
Here are some informations that might be important for you while browsing my tumblr.
Art
First of all: I do upload nsfw-ish art on here, that means: If you’re a minor, I don‘t want you here. Respectfully.
Second: this kind of art will probably get flagged with a mature content warning. Important: to see these types of art you need to enable in your settings, that you can see this kind of art!
Full NSFW will be uploaded to Poipiku & there will always be a link to the full image in the post
You can find all of my art tagged under #nighty art
Writing Masterlist
Most writing I do here so far is nsfw - meaning you have to have mature content enabled to see it
One-Shots are tagged under #nighty drabbles
Permission
True Form Sukuna x Reader | NSFW/Explicit |Slowburn
Warning: Graphic Depiction Of Violence
Word count: 171,730k
(tags are under the cut in chapter 1)
Chapter 1
You can find all of my Permission chapters under the tag #permission chapters
Gonna start tagging Permission related asks and posts too under #permission
You can find the whole story also here on AO3
If you have questions about Permission, check out my #permission q&a tag. There I try to collect all asks that I get regarding Permission
Harder
True Form Sukuna x Reader | NSFW/Explicit
Word count: 4,8k
Plays in Permission universe, but I think it can be read without having read Permission. It does make more sense tho. Beware! It mentions Permissions ending.
Pond and Poetry
True Form Sukuna x Reader I Mature
Word count: 1,358
Sukuna meets you in the garden, while you’re busy playing with Kois. And then you flirt. Just flirt. Permission Universe ❤️
Interactions
You’re always welcome to leave me questions or messages. I really enjoy interacting with you guys.
However, if your message is more like a short comment on something you saw on my page (I mean: if it doesn’t give me room to add anything to it except a like or thumbs up), or if the question is too personal or let’s face it: weird (e.g. if I have the feeling you‘re a minor), I might not publish/answer it.
Also if you wanna ask something about Sukuna, Stuff like “How would he react if (…)” or “Would Sukuna like (…)” please read this first > click & click
I don‘t do prompts.
Socials
You can also find me on
Bluesky
Instagram
TikTok
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