#instrumental anarchy

[chaos-reprisal]

Little Study on The Heart Acoustic and how it contrasts The Mind Electric and the Soul Eclectic :3 (This turned into me being a band kid. I'm so sorry.)

Was listening to The Mind Electric variants and realized something. Compared to Mind and Soul, Heart's song is a lot tamer. (This is more about the music and less about the lyrics.) That's not to say it doesn't have it's moments of chaos or isn't a chaotic song, but compared to The Mind Electric and The Soul Eclectic, it's arguably calmer; the notes and chords (more so at the beginning and end) are held out longer, the pacing is slower, but it still has bursts of energy. Meanwhile Soul and Mind's songs are paced a lot faster: words are sung quicker and notes are held for shorter periods of time, the background music is all over the place, and there are more frequent punches of energy in the background vocals.

Smaller detail, but in The Heart Acoustic, you can hear Heart audibly take a deep breath and release it right before the chorus. It's almost like he's steeling himself for what's to come, or trying to calm himself down before he does something he regrets.

Heart, the emotional side, the creature that hardly resembles a man, has a song variant slower than Mind's or Soul's. Heart is the one to stop and breathe before he does or says something rash. And the style/pacing of his song reflects that. But not only is this song about Heart being more collected than the other two put together, this song is also about Heart giving up. About Heart letting Mind have what he wants: control over their vessel. And once Heart gives that control over, chaos ensues. Because as much as Mind may hate it, he needs Heart to help balance him.

(Bit more in depth talk about the instrumentals down here)

Heart has outbursts, sure, but Mind has explosions. The Mind Electric is nothing if not Mind saying "Fine, I'll do it myself, and I'll do it better than you." Mind's words are punctuated by what sounds like static and glitching as well as heavy hits on the drums and a heavy, robotic bass. In faster parts, the background music consists of a lot of quick arpeggios. Think of those arpeggios from Fate of the Stars, if you've listened to it.

By the time we get to The Soul Eclectic, Soul is desperate for the two to at least cooperate instead of fighting constantly. "Call me your host or call me insane, if that will help you stay in line." Moving on, the bass is pretty heavy on this song as well, as are the drum hits, which are sporadic, much like in The Mind Electric. When the background music is prevalent, for most of the song, it's pretty unison with the notes Soul is singing; but it's really, for lack of any better words, 8-bit sounding. The arpeggios in parts parallel to where they stand out in The Mind Electric are still there, but they're a lot fainter. Overall, Soul's song sounds the most dissonant, and I think that's because this song is essentially Soul panicking and looking for any way to get the attention of Heart and Mind, even if it means threatening the lives of all of them.

(I've now realized that the scratchy sound I'm probably hearing alongside the base is the electric guitar. Also like before you read below here I get a little off track with the instruments MY BADD)

In comparison to the other two, Heart's song is a lot brighter and harmonious. I want to point out that Heart's song utilizes saxophones (whether tenor or alto I can't tell, but I've played the beginning on alto and it's pretty high. My knowledge of tenor range is limited.), which is a lot lighter compared to the electric guitar and bass. Similar to the other two, there's arpeggios, but they're slower at the beginning and faster near the middle of the song. Played by some sort of percussion instrument (I'm hesitant to say it sounds kind of like a marimba?? The soft tones make me think so. But there might be another one, possibly a xylophone. And I think there's some sort of string instrument playing staccatos layered over it, but it's really hard to tell because they're unison. Each instrument is easier to pick apart at the very end of the song. And of course near the middle of the song he's playing the arpeggios on his keyboard. But at this point I'll get off topic beginning to name every instrument I can hear). TLDR; Overall, Heart's song is a lot less bass-heavy and has a brighter sound because of it. Despite having a brighter sound, though, the song is still overall dark due to chord progressions (I think please don't quote me on that I have basic knowledge of chord progressions as of right now). The song is slower paced than the other two, and while there is definitely bursts of energy, they are less frequent than they are in the other two.

In the end, all three of them have hit their lowest points by now. Also I got WAY too into the instrumentals my fault guys but uhh yeah. Didn't expect to dig into it that much :33333 Thank you for coming to my rambles!

[covered-in-mud]

Tfw Apollo and Artemis will not die

[anaalnathrakhs]

i love album covers that go batshit hard

[funkylilomen]

currently re-listening to CCCC: Instrumental Anarchy, and I'm freaking out over the fact that, in Light, the tune to Ruler of Everything can be heard when Heart sings, "But every time I've hurt you, or at least tried to, you've laughed and smiled instead."

[tmhj]

CCCC: Instrumental Anarchy my beloved

[somehowmags]

my @mcytblrholidayexchange gift for @my-little-versaille! you asked for fictional/in universe religion which is as many people know "my shit" so here is techno at the temple of the blood god based on some headcanons i wrote a few years ago! more details under the cut

so this is based on some headcanons i had for the blood god not being a god of warfare, but instead a god of medicine! in my headcanon this also includes the idea of like, "societal medicine", so the blood god is also a god of revolution and anarchy, which is healthy for a society

the markings on the body are based on medical diagrams from the islamic golden age. when i was a kid my parents took me to a museum that had some of these diagrams on display and they stuck in my head, so i thought it would be fun to incorporate them here!

i planned from the start to have them extending an open hand towards techno, but it took me a while to figure out what they should be holding in their other hands. i wanted a torch, for the symbolism of them lighting a way forwards, but it was originally held in the top hand. i wanted them to have a weapon of some kind, and i had trouble deciding what it was going to be (ideas included a spear or a scimitar of some kind) but eventually for the sake of visual clarity i decided on just having a closed fist. i also wanted a medical instrument, and i did consider a bonesaw, but couldn't find a reference for it that i liked, so i settled on a scalpel. the sickle was because i thought it would be funny to put a farming tool in there. because potato war. yes i know you don't harvest potatoes with a sickle please leave me be

i thought about adding curtains instead of the giant columns that were tied back to reveal the painting but then i thought to myself. those curtains would be huge. who's drawing them. who's getting up and drawing the huge fuckoff curtains in the abandoned temple every day. so they became columns LMAO

the blood god reaching out of the painting towards techno was definitely intentional symbolism and NOT me fucking up the size of the frame yep mhm

in my head the story of this drawing is techno exploring an abandoned temple when he comes across this painting and it speaks to him, which is when he becomes a disciple of the blood god

in many ways this is a spiritual sequel to my eret in mizu drawing which ALSO featured a massive work of art in an arch shaped frame and a very small person underneath it. listen, i'm a simple bitch and i love arches

hope you enjoy!

[gracebethartacc]

KICB 11 aka mind yelling I AM NOT TRAUMATIZED I AM NOT TRAUMATIZED for an entire chap while showing glaringly obvious ptsd symptoms. ANYWAY SHOUT OUT TO THIS BEING THE FIRST CHAP TO GET ART <3 I had such a clear vision from my og sketch of this moment I had to make it real

anyway here’s more art of the chap similar to before I’m just reposting it here :3👍

Flats plus sketch ^

Doodles :3

[vhstown]

hobie green

— hobie brown x gn!reader

summary: You never knew punks could be into gardening — or into you.

word count: 2.9k

warnings: mentions of underage drinking, brief mentions of politics, fluff, not very edited

a/n: based on a silly headcanon me and @qiuweyballs came up with. 99% identical to my tag team fic arrest me i love friends to lovers (just lovers in my drafts prommie)

There were a lot of things you didn't expect about your friend Hobie. The first thing was that he was Spider-Man (but you kind of figured after all those patch-up sessions at your place.) Second, was that he lived on a boat — not the most outrageous thing; somewhat non-conformist, somewhat Hobie-like — he wasn't the only boater in Camden. The third thing you didn't expect, however, was that this “hero”, non-conformist, punk, anarchist and whatever other label he'd projected, would have so many… plants.

“You're lookin’ at me funny.”

The “hero”, non-conformist, punk, anarchist and now plant dad in question sat with his feet propped up against one of the many windows of his canal boat, an unassuming eyebrow raised.

“…Nah, don't worry about it,” you muttered, shifting awkwardly on your feet as you tried not to knock anything over, taking in the overflowing greenery of the room.

There was pretty much every plant you could think of: regular household plants under the windows, a tomato stalk in the corner, small cacti in odd places — he even had a pretty well-maintained chilli plant, bathing more gloriously in a patch of sunlight than you ever could. The boat felt more like a disorganised plant shop than a home, if it weren't for the rowdy radical posters and punk collages peeking in-between. Maybe these plants were as much like your friend as all the anarchy-themed decoration he’d made himself — or Hobie had just stolen a boat with a lot of plants in it.

Squeezing past some more foliage, you sat beside Hobie on his tiny canvas couch. He gave you a glance of acknowledgement before reaching for his guitar, setting it between his kicked-up legs as you tried to get more comfortable. The red coating of the instrument had almost entirely peeled off, instead covered by loud stickers and scratchy writing. You weren’t sure what any of it really meant, or why his guitar wasn’t tuned in the first place (it never seemed to be when you two were hanging out) — but right now, you were wondering why he was being so quiet. The silence was nice, though, so you didn’t let yourself think of anything else to ask.

Swaying gently from time to time, the canal boat hummed with the splashing of water and faint strumming of Hobie’s guitar. These quiet, almost tranquil moments were unexpected for someone as spontaneous as Hobie, but they were also welcome, you decided. The world was falling apart, but it was nice to be away from that in the middle of a canal with your best friend — even with his many plants.

You felt a tug behind your back, realising Hobie was trying to get something. Mumbling a quick sorry, you moved to let him get the thing you were sitting on. It was a pink jumper — much too small to be his. After carefully draping it over the backrest, he cracked a smile at you.

“Gotta give that to Gwendy,” he told himself, nails tapping on the back of the guitar neck.

Gwendy (Gwen? Wendy?) was a friend he'd made recently, and you’d never seen a trace of her despite the fact that they supposedly lived together. That was until now; the sweater looked nice, soft, high-quality — nothing like anything you could afford here. Maybe she was well-off. How old even was she? Did Gwendy like plants too?

“Yeah? Is she your roommate?” you inquired, leaning forward to look at him. “Boatmate?”

“You sayin’ this isn’t a room?” Hobie set his guitar against the wall as if the conversation was suddenly more important.

“More like a garden.”

He tilted his head to the side at your response, finally meeting your eyes with his own glinting with amusement.

“You want a tour, then? Private — totally elitist.”

“Have you got more plants or something?”

He crossed his arms at you. “You’re actin’ like it’s a problem.”

It wasn’t a problem, per se, you just couldn’t imagine living with so many plants. Maybe it was his superhuman reflexes that kept him from slipping and smashing his face into a plant pot; you almost tripped on some dead roots earlier.

“Nah nah, it’s not. You got uh… free oxygen.” Clearly there wasn’t enough oxygen going to your brain at that moment if that's the only thing you could come up with. You held back a sigh; you’d never be as fast as Hobie. He just snickered.

“They privatise oxygen too?” Not his most clever quip, you thought.

“Maybe. Is that why you have so many plants? To breathe better?”

Hobie gave you a frown. If you didn't know better, you might've felt bad. “You don’t want the tour?”

“Go on,” you beckoned, dryly.

“Get up, then.”

“Can’t be bothered.” The sofa creaked as you leaned back on it, folding your arms as if you were going to sleep. If it was still quiet, maybe you could’ve actually fallen asleep to the gentle rocking motion of the boat.

“You come over to have a snooze?” he teased, leaning over until you pushed him away — one of his usual ways of driving you mad; you wouldn’t have it. “Want to be my boatmate too?”

“Wouldn’t mind.” The words came out by themselves, but you figured they might be true.

“Gwendy’s only here sometimes — you could.”

“I’d miss my place,” you objected, feeling slightly uncertain at the idea now. It was probably better if that weird feeling in your chest whenever you saw Hobie wasn’t a constant in your life anyway.

“Your place is only good for the pub down the road.” Maybe so — you two certainly weren’t good for the pub, though. All you did was shrug in response.

Hobie tapped his foot for a moment, appearing to muse about something. Before you knew it, he slid his hand between your back and the sofa and you were suddenly your feet in one swift motion.

“Hey—” The floor creaked as he started walking you out to the front of the boat, arm slung around your shoulder. You sighed reluctantly at him, but his grin just widened.

“You starting the tour from here?” Despite the cool wind now rushing past the two of you, your tone came out less energetic than you’d like.

Your heart dropped for a moment as Hobie let go of you, suddenly jumping up backwards onto the barriers. He crouched easily on the edge as you let out a small breath of relief. Even if there was no chance he’d fall into the water, you’d never get used to that.

“Nah, no tour,” he replied, hands on his knees as he looked down at you with squinted eyes. “I ain't no elitist.”

The lingering fear in your chest from Hobie’s stunt died down, and the way the late-day sun was hitting his face replaced it with that weird swishing sensation you could never get used to.

Honey-gold sunlight reflected off of his skin, his face shimmering where there were angles and glowing softly where there weren’t. His eyes glistened like copper, your own face in the reflection like the rich people on coins as you searched for any trace of amusement in his expression. You couldn’t find anything; he was just looking at you. The swishing became more like a crashing tide, your chest growing tighter. Maybe you should’ve feigned interest in the plants when you could.

“…Okay,” you managed, after realising that you’d been staring for a while. Tearing your eyes away from the tall, glistening silhouette of your best friend who was sitting like the figurehead of a sailing ship, you looked back into the boat house before another little plant caught your attention. It was the only plant sitting outside — a young rosemary with a paper tag attached to it.

You squatted down to look at it, figuring that Hobie had nothing to say right now. Taking the tag in your hands, you read “Helen”, written in lovely cursive writing.

“Helen… you name your plants?” It was too nice to be Hobie’s handwriting, but you decided to joke a bit anyway.

“Yeah,” he answered, deadpan, and you tried not to let him catch your eyeroll. “Some lady comin’ through Regent’s gave it to me.”

“People give you plants?”

“All the time, actually.”

Huh… It made enough sense. You did see your fair share of plants in other boats; maybe people wanted to give Spider-Man a thanks or something, or just get rid of some plants they get lying around. You recalled aloe plant you saw earlier, having almost slipped on the pile of dead roots beside it — interesting to gift a rotting plant. It looked like it needed a lot of care; you wondered who could get an aloe to that point.

Deciding to sit by the much nicer rosemary plant with your back against the doors, you caught the faint aroma of the leaves. If Hobie already had vegetable plants, he’d probably make good use out of this one once it got a little more mature. Maybe as a seasoning, or make it into an oil somehow, or just leave it as decoration. There was a lot you could do, you realised, and having plants was starting to look just a little cool. Everything Hobie did was cool — as much as you didn’t like to admit it.

“…What’s up with you?”

Hobie’s voice caught you off guard. You looked back to see that the figurehead was now sitting opposite you on the floor of the little outdoor cockpit, hands loose between his bent knees.

“What do you mean?” He couldn’t just tell like that, could he? Nothing was different… until recently. Until you realised you had that feeling.

“You're quiet,” he stated, though his tone wasn't all that serious. “Y’don’t come over, or come see old Hobie.”

“Old Hobie,” you repeated, half of a laugh coming out of your mouth. “Like Old Tom?”

Tom was the bar owner of the pub you frequented — if your antics could be considered “frequenting”. The two of you were probably the reason why he was “Old” Tom.

“Need to see that geezer,” Hobie mused, leaning back against the wood with a creak.

“A lot of people you’ve gotta see.” It came out far too sardonic, and you held your breath like you’d just placed a bet.

Hobie stuck his bottom lip out, lip ring catching the light. “Like you.”

The sun had faded by now, but that feeling hadn’t, you realised.

“I'm right here,” you replied.

“I brought you.”

“It’s not like I knew which out of the hundred boats was yours. Half of them’ve got plants anyway.”

“You do now.”

“I guess.”

Stretching a little, you shifted to sit more like Hobie, leg brushing against the rosemary leaves for a moment. Hobie cracked his knuckles in the meantime, and you realised you hadn’t really seen him in a while. It wasn’t all your fault, he just kept disappearing. Maybe you should stop waiting for him to come to you all the time.

“I’ll see you again before you have to go to the care home, Old Hobie,” you muttered, getting a snicker out of him.

“They’ll never get me in one of those.”

“You don’t wanna be an elder punk?”

“Not in them institutions — I’ll bail you out as well.”

You never imagined the thought of growing old with someone would go in this direction. Well, it was Hobie.

“I appreciate it, Old Hobie” you replied, though not too enthusiastically. Hobie smirked.

“Come pub with me, then. Don’t need ID if I’m retired.” Despite your best efforts, you smiled just a little.

It wasn’t like you gave Tom ID anyway, but you found it amusing regardless. Maybe it was the idea of being like those old people at the pub: loud, obnoxious, opiniated… Nothing much would change, actually.

“Don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“How come?” Hobie leaning forward on his knees, as if to taunt you. “Scared you’ll get pissed like last time?”

“I did not get pissed!” you retorted, face aching with an incriminating smile. Your stomach churned with the memory of that night — or lack thereof.

“Had to actually peel you off me. My Spider Powers didn’t even help.”

You groaned and laughed at the same time, trying to ease the embarrassment by putting a hand on the plant pot; it was cool, and you felt a chip near the rim.

“Don’t lie.”

“Never did.”

“Fine, yeah.” It sounded like a bit like an admission to a crime; maybe getting that drunk was a crime. “Don’t wanna get pissed like last time.”

Hobie’s smirk faded a bit, before he let out a sigh — those were rare for him, you thought.

“Seriously though, we gotta go again sometime — it’s on you, yeah?”

You frowned at that, but it got no reaction out of him. “You’re the worst.”

“Like I don’t know.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” You weren’t exactly sure what you meant by that, but Hobie didn’t seem to question it.

Maybe he did actually know what was going on with you, even if you never tried to make a move. It was possible — the observant prick. A prick with a green thumb and looked like he’d been kissed by the sun itself and that you couldn't get out of your head.

If he did know, you wished he'd say something, at least.

Your hand lingered on the pot, and the paper tag found its way into your hands again.

“Helen,” you stated, glimpsing at the nice handwriting.

“You gonna call it that now?”

“Got a better name?”

“Yours,” he replied, too easily.

You weren’t sure what a rosemary plant was like, but it sounded enough like a compliment. Did rosemary have a meaning? Hobie wasn’t thinking that deep, of course. Not about things like labels, no matter how many you had for him.

“Am I like a rosemary?”

“Dunno. If you were a plant, I’d keep you though.”

That made you laugh, albeit awkwardly.

“…What are you on about?” you muttered, shaking your head. “Random… You keep like, any plant anyway.”

“I keep the ones I like.”

“Your boat's a greenhouse. Maybe you just like every plant.”

“Maybe I just like you.”

A jolt of pain ran in your mouth, eyes almost squeezing shut — you’d bit your tongue. Hobie was silent, so you couldn’t be.

“Maybe,” you murmured through gritted teeth.

“Maybe,” he repeated, with his usual unbothered amusement that drove your feelings back into hiding. Hobie Brown — “hero”, non-conformist, punk, anarchist — your best friend.

You’d get over it, you told yourself — not for the first time.

Now with a weird attachment to the plant, you tried to seem interested in the tag again — you could say it’d… grown on you. Would he make a joke like that? You wanted to crumple the tag. It looked too nice to do that, so you turned it around to look at the back instead.

“ROSEMARY — remembrance, friendship, love.”

A dry laugh escaped your mouth; even this plant was mocking you. Maybe it felt sorry.

“What’s got you laughin’?” You almost forgot about Hobie; that would’ve been nice. No, you’d get over it soon.

“You better name this plant after me,” you joked, more so to yourself, and in a very much self-pitying way even though he wouldn’t get it. As Hobie’s gaze trailed to the tag, that feeling in your chest threatened you, so you ripped it off before he could see it.

Thwip! Mistake. In a second, the tag was in Hobie’s hand. His face was unreadable as he looked at the back, no longer gold with sunlight.

“Yeah,” he mused, folding over the edge with his nail as his eyes met yours. You tried not to bite your tongue again.

“Yeah…?” You couldn't even give him an awkward laugh.

He held up the tag to show you the folded bit. There was a single word, the rest cut off — “love.”

“Your name fits pretty well.”

Your mouth was so dry, not even a cactus could live in it.

“I’d rather you not be a plant, by the way,” he continued, despite how lost you must’ve looked. “Be yourself, at the pub, tomorrow — opening time. Dress how you want.”

No words were coming out of your mouth. Hobie didn’t need you to say anything, though.

“It’s on me.”

You couldn't leave him hanging. You also couldn’t shy away forever, not when it was right in front of your face. Not when he'd just asked you out.

”…Like a date?”

“Better than a date.”

A smile formed on your lips. After that feeling had been buried under the soil for so long, it was starting to blossom, like the little blue flowers on a rosemary bush.

“Okay,” you replied, winning something that was neither a grin nor a smirk from him — a smile, warm like sunlight, and just like yours.

“Okay.” Hobie chucked the tag back to you, the edge still folded over as you took it in your hand.

“ROSEMARY — remembrance, friendship,”

“love.”

“I’ll let you keep it, if you want.”

Your smile turned into a grin as you brushed your fingertips over the leaves. “I’ll think about it.”

Spice, oil, decoration — this plant had one more use: getting you a date.

Maybe you liked plants more than you originally thought.

🕸️🔭🎸

thank you for reading !! honestly the friends to lovers thing was so not planned i just wrote this for fun (intended to be a drabble / imagine but it turned into this) less friends more lovers in the future hopefully?

thank you again to my friend chewy ^^ tom is actually his chr + the aloe plant detail

reblogs & feedback are super appreciated <3 catch the rest of my atsv stuff here!

[rel124c41]

GOT YOU (WHERE I WANT YOU) (AS HEARD IN THE MOVIE DISTURBING BEHAVIOR). jade leech

In Jade’s logical mind, there is only one concrete truth: You are getting bored of your boyfriend.

2/3

tags: no grim AU, established relationship, social criticism, piercings/tattoos, misunderstandings, hurt/comfort, punk!jade leech

word count: 9707

He does not see you for the next three days after the concert in Scarabia.

This is the longest you have been away. A full seventy-two hours. It is not good for Jade’s health. 

On the first day, it was an ordinary ordeal and Jade slept soundly, if not just bundling his sheets a bit tighter to his chest. On the second day, it was the equivalent to having a tiny splinter in his hand, something always pricking at the back of his subconscious. On the third day, he starts getting antsy — to the point where he seems to spend more time in class looking out windows than focusing on his cauldron or the lecture, to the point where he seems to have this ‘thing’ in his ribcage and under his palm’s fat that he must dig out, to the point where a sighing Azul lets him leave their little private Octavinelle meeting early so he can, “Go retrieve the tramp.”

Which is exactly Jade’s plan as he takes a brisk walk to his dormitory. It will be best to remove both his hat and scarf; he will gather his magic pen and that howlite stone. If you are locked inside Ramshackle again … he would rather not entertain such a notion.

When he conversed with Kalim Al-Asim yesterday, he should have had the foresight to press for more information about your whereabouts. 

Now, he is left grappling with piss-poor preparation. His mind is disorganized. He doubts that when he rushes into his dormitory that he will hang either scarf or hat, instead flinging them on the bed. Mental anarchy is an extending splinter, growing longer and longer. If everything is not perfectly straightened out – his books, his shoes, his bedsheets, his mind, his life – how can Jade Leech possibly go on?

As he briskly walks, he remembers the last visage he saw of you. Fires had been scuffed out to only a sparse few, magic-powered lanterns all dead, and the faintest hint of light burn like embers in your tried yet energized eyes. You are stretching out your neck, hand over your pulse point, as the bassist and guitarist click and secure their instruments in their cases. 

In his memory, you push down hard on the right side and jerk your chin, creating a loud kernel-pop. Sweat glistens on you like rain, even your eyeliner is smudged with the precipitation. Then, neck snapping again, you turn towards Jade who is making his way over the stage from the back. 

Eyes bright, you squint at him mirthfully and make your way over the edge of the stage. For an illustrious moment, he sees an image of the high, guiding northern star, so sharp that it will pierce him like a closed iron maiden, an old torture device that the Queen of Hearts used to punish rule-breakers. You break that illusion by saying. I’m sleeping over here (in Scarabia) tonight, boo.

Since then, it is like you have just vanished from the earth. No matter where he checks, you are not there. Pop Music Club does not have any set-up days to meet or scheduled activities; everyone simply conjures when they ‘feel like it’ and they head home when they’ve ‘enjoyed themselves thoroughly’, so it is fruitless to find you during club hours. You do not attend classes so there is no luck there either.

Jade likes unpredictability but this is just vexing. I’ll check Ramshackle first. After that, I will once more try Night Raven’s technician room. Or, the breakroom for staff members. Her proclivity to rest wherever pleases her is piquing (in both definitions). Jade reaches for his bedroom door and reaches for his hat with opposing hands at the same time.

His door usually sounds like a mouse squeaking, rather than a human strumming. Hat in hand, Jade raises an eyebrow in curiosity when he hears a man singing low on the right side of the room. In his nose, the spicy scent of the Scarabia dormitory flows. His skin prickles up like an agitated cat’s bristling tail.

The factors do not add up though, because it is you and you alone who perches on the edge of Jade’s bed, guitar nestled close and dearly to your chest like a lover.

Your eyes flicker up upon hearing the door opening. A metaphorical glass shard cuts Jade’s veins as you two stare at each other in mild surprise. Then, breaking eye contact first like always, you reach over to Jade’s desk and drink a mysterious liquid that is a sickly olive-orange shade. Excelling at potionology, he knows by color alone that it is a voice-swapping potion. It alters vocal cords to sound like the opposite gender with each sip.

You cough around the foul-tasting elixir and say with a larynx that is slowly morphing back to your own, “Hi baby. Mornin’~”

“It is 8 P.M.”

You grin slyly, eyes squinting like squeezed lemons, “Huh, I guess so~.”

Jade goes huff with a closed mouth smile. So it goes.

You two are used to each other’s presence like a birthmark. Jade frequented Ramshackle and you frequented Mostro Lounge. Though there had always been other presences, the malevolent wisps of screeching souls and the uproarious laughter of your fellow band members, you know each other intimately. Which is why, it takes little effort and time to get settled.

(He fails to notice that when he places his shoes down upon his stool for them that the white tips of the toes do not touch. They are crooked.)

Rearranging sheets of music, you make a place so Jade can sit. Stubborn cowlicks point up like horns from his teal hair when he takes off his hat, so he brushes them down with a hand. Taking his seat beside you, Jade watches you pen the remaining notes you were practicing on the stave, your body leaning close to read them.

Pajamas can wait. Calmed by the sight of you — here in my room and safe — Jade decides to soak in the moment. He watches the familiar elegance of your fingers, bending and hooking as you test the riffs you wrote down on your guitar. There is truly an innate dexterity in those nimble fingers, like you were born and breed for this. Despite acknowledging and making a spot for him, you seem pretty pulled in by your task, by the music. 

Your guitar pick (your lucky guitar pick, you would correct Jade upon hearing his inner monologue) oscillates between the strings. It is one of the three items that was transported with you from your old world upon arriving. Well, that wasn’t all you brought. Those three items being a pocket-sized Animal Farm book, guitar pick, and two-way messenger device, all under your ceremony robe pockets, along with the endless flow of new music from an alien universe. 

They say in the Coral Sea that: to breathe is to sing. One’s own voice should always be treasured as an irreplaceable power. Music is an irrevocable part of merfolk culture. It creates an atmosphere. For those to enjoy the sea, profess their love, or enjoy celebrations, everyone likes to sing whenever they get the chance. 

Jade rarely indulged. He kept himself out of the spotlight and adopted reticent mannerisms. Singing, as you have proven over and over, attracts attention, like a honeybee drawn to pollen’s scent.  

You are mumbling lyrics under your breath before you stop. Jade draws his gaze up from your fingers to observe your frustrated expression. Down goes your lucky pick onto the sheet. The guitar nestled to your chest is pushed down flat, chords on your knees. There is this prickling tenor that radiates off you, before you say aloud with defeat in each syllable:  

“I can’t do this anymore.”

And for a horrible moment, Jade truthfully does think that the this you are talking about is your relationship.

It would not be an irrational leap. Jade never makes those. With the way you have been so avoidant, disinterested in a majority of what he has to say, and always looking to escape conversations with him, it would make sense that you would want this relationship to cease if it is boring to you. Time has run out on the three month honeymoon. December is sneaking up right around the corner.

Just a handful of days ago, you sat on his bed for almost an hour without saying a single word or humming a single chord. It is uncanny for you to be silent for that long unless you are sleeping. Yet, you were fully awake, staring off into space, keeping all your complicated thoughts to yourself, as he worked at his desk with his terrariums and mushroom encyclopedias.  

Jade had almost expected it then. For you to turn on your side, hands and loose mechanic gloves sandwiched between the bony knobs of your knees, and say with a hardened expression of self-confidence, ‘Jade, let’s never see each other again.’ He does not know how he would deal with such a unique surprise.

So, he refuses to deal with such a notion, and instead asks, gently because you have started to grip the front of your hair harshly in mental anguish, “Can’t do what anymore?”

“I can’t keep trying to remember this song,” you sob out without any tears. Dry eyes glance at him. “I keep trying to remember the chords of this song from my favorite childhood movie! But, I never played it before so it’s like piecing together a puzzle without the picture on the box! I don’t know any of the chords! Ugh, why is this so hard!”

For a moment, his imaginative and grand mind goes blank. Jade doesn’t really know to think with such a burden shared to him. Both of you are in strife now. Your problems morph into his problems and that is the zenith of being in a relationship.

However, Jade is a master of cold, calculative plotting. He advises, “If you keep pursuing prey, it travels further and further away each time you reach out towards it. It is better in the long run to hunt lying in wait and catch it by surprise.”

You stare at him. “What?”

Spoke too soon, he realizes. In his vision, your meek form hugs your guitar and caresses your guitar pick like it is the only teether to the physical realm. The instrument that you can rely on — unlike him — while you both move upward in age. “I think it is more advantageous to wait instead of struggling towards it.”

“Then, why wouldn't you just say that,” you question, releasing your harsh grip on your guitar. “I don’t need that kind of –.” You pause, guilty. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“It’s quite alrig –.”

“No, it isn’t. I shouldn’t speak so –.”

“Nonsense. I can’t fathom how –.”

“I’m stressed but that’s no ex –.”

“(Name), truly, no need for –.”

“Jade, I want –.”

All your combined words dissolve into bubbling laughter. Because, you smile crookedly at Jade which makes him fight against a creeping, fond smile which makes you beam a toothy grin which has Jade chuckling softly in reverence of your easygoingness. It concludes with both of you laughing into each other's shoulders, exhausted from interrupting. It tickles when your lips brush his neck and that has Jade seeping deeper into laughter.

I missed you, Jade admits without verbalization. He plants a fat kiss on your cheek. Still rooted on that field of flesh, he breathes in a cavernous breath that moves the non-visible strands of hair on your face like blown grass. Your scent crawls in kitten footsteps into his nostrils. Soft. You smell soft.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take this out on you. I went to rehearsal this afternoon and … ugh! I couldn’t get myself to remember a single chord progression and it’s like, c’mon, I should know this!”

“Not everything should fall onto you. You’re not the captain or boss after all,” Jade says, plucking the words another has used to describe your identity right out of your mind. 

“Doesn’t feel like that though. Not since — ugh! Bleh! Look at me talking about such depressing stuff! What a downer, amirite? Let’s talk about something different!”

And, in that innate way you have about you, you manage to steer the conversation to another realm or another universe with practiced ease. Animatedly, you string together stories from the three days you were gone. Hearing stories from you feels like living through them. Truly, your voice is one of your most preeminent aspects. You even continue on steady going as you two brush your teeth for the night. Your voice is addictive. Something that even pulls in the fickle attention of his twin — who comes into their dormitory just as Jade rests his chin on the top of your head and starts to drift off to that hypnotic voice.

The last thing he hears is “well, I wasn’t going to take that lying down. So when she went to the bathroom, I unscrewed the lid of her coffee cup and phew! Right into her drink!” and the next thing he hears is the sound of vomiting.

And what does Jade do? Well Jade – dreams he is swimming through a forest of underwater mushrooms that reach up to a nebulous sky, his body is a primitive eel with no hands or arms, simply snake, threading through ivory white stems of mushroom-tree as one opens up to reveal a pulsing eye – rubs his nose in his sleep.

Unbeknownst to him, he’s been asleep since 10:31 and has gotten a full two hours of sleep. He is positive nothing is amiss outside from his body. The blanket is warm and the sounds are growing louder.

Jade — sits under the spotlight coming from the mushroom-tree’s slit, that single pulsing eye glaring down with a skyscraper iris, before it closes itself like one discontent labia, his eel body squirming in desperation — wakes up, eyes shooting open, when he hears a horrid sound. He only has an elbow up as he watches you lean over and vomit into the wastebasket you are cradling. 

Floyd is by your side, ringlets of your hair squeezed in his hand. His twin wears a blank expression as he watches you (is this the first time you puked tonight or has it been more) puke, most likely, again. Their eyes met over the arch of your curling spine, backdropped by the sound of something heavy and wet hitting plastic. You gargle and burp up bile; it sounds painful. 

He has a hundred questions he wants to ask his twin, but instead, he seamlessly and silently takes your hair from Floyd’s grip. The action is very fluid like passing a baton in a race; Floyd lets go at the same time Jade grabs on.

Any strands that Floyd neglectfully missed, Jade scoops them up with a fingernail and leans his body over yours, alerting you in the heavy mist of incoherence that your trustful boyfriend has woken up and will take care of you. You simply twitch like someone shot. The pieces that Jade is gathering are wet at the tips and his heart fractures for you.

Sevens, what kind of boyfriend is he if he is inadequate in aiding you in times of need? He should have been awake as soon as you stirred.

You must have moved around a lot on your own too. You were curled next to the wall when falling asleep and now you are sitting on the edge of the bed. The wastebasket is also from the joint bathroom. All that noisy movement and Jade slept. He pushes down his own bile-ball of guilt as you resurface like someone coming up for air.

“I — I —.” You vomit so hard it sounds like something sloshed out of you, like you had just successfully puked your heart up and out.

“Shush, shush, it’s okay. You’re okay.” He repeats that mantra a few times around. It seems to work wonders. “I got you. I got you. I got you.” Finally, sixty seconds pass than a hundred-twenty more seconds; it is long enough where Jade feels comfortable to dig for the reason of this nightly strife. 

“Is it the nerves from your parents?”

You shake your head, no, refusing to look at him.

“The Dark Mirror?”

The same again.

“Ramshackle?”

You stiffen. A droplet of water peels off your eye like dew off a leaf. Jade believes he can hear it softly plop into the awaiting bile ocean below. He knows it is the most concrete answer he will get out of you. So, he says gently, not suggesting but telling, “A walk around campus would benefit me right now.”

“Yeah?” You murmur. Your haunted voice does not sound like your own; not due to a potion but rather your vocal cords twisting with fright. 

“Are you okay, Jade?” You play along well with his subtle, situational manipulation.

“No, I’m not. My mind is disorganized.”

You go huff with a closed lip smile. So it goes.

As Jade stands off to the side, watching diligently with his eyes glued to your form, you bundle up in a winter jacket and brush your teeth in their bathroom sink. Your toothbrush clinks in the cup with Floyd’s and Jade’s. A programmed, innate part of you reaches for the wastebasket to take care of your mess but Jade stifles it by pushing the object out of your reach. Sometimes, he loathes that you are so independent. 

You accept that with a look. What? Jade thinks, wanting to ask you what that look could possibly mean. He doesn’t. 

You accept his hand when he offers, interlocking. The heat is grounding. Both of you bid Floyd demure goodbyes, his twin raising a hand up from his bundle of covers in response. Then, you are off. 

No additional words are spoken. There is much to be said but neither of you dares to breach it. Steering, Jade guides you down the darkened hallways of Night Raven College. The shadow-blanketed portraits sleep and the shadow-curtained doors remain shut. Paces evenly matched, you share a walk. 

December air bites at Jade when he pushes open the double doors. That’s right. Today is December 1st; midnight has most certainly passed by now. He looks up at the night sky where it looks like someone has spilled oil and tried to scrub it up in certain places, only managing to reduce it to a dark, dark gray where all the clouds lie. He does not shiver.

Your grip tightens in his hand though, because some of the cold has invaded through your layers. A scarf. I should have been prepared with a scarf. My mind is untidy; how vexing. However, you give no complaint to the winter air. Perhaps it helps; you lick your lips in a way that makes Jade assume you are trying to sample a taste of the cold. 

Onward, you two continue. There are benches you two could sit upon and the fountain is also a nearby resting spot. Somewhere nice to sit and talk. It would be beneficial to discuss what happened tonight, and maybe beneficial for Jade to discuss how he is feeling recently. 

His face tightens. The image of gloved fingers savagely parting a clam’s glistening shell lips, crunching the hard body like a handful of saltine crackers, appears in his mind with the paramountcy of those mushroom-trees. Perhaps he will keep his mouth shut. Wouldn't it be selfish to talk about his worries? Yes. He latches onto that excuse. There is no reason to use his unique magic on himself.

However, before any of this can happen, you slip from Jade’s grip as he starts down the stairs. He feels the lost tingle up the arm of psilocybin and bulbophyllum phalaenopsis. He watches as you pull yourself onto that familiar brick wall, straightening up to your feet, and walking across the structure. 

There are skinny columns that make up the arches off the building. When you reach them, you grasp on and weave around them in a fashion that is fluid. Jade simply watches, walking around the border of the courtyard with you. It is just Jade, walking on the grass under your dancing feet, and you, shadowed.

A faint, raw-noise humming comes from the underbelly of your throat until you sing softly, “Heeeeey, what’s the point of this? Oh heeeey, what’s your favorite song; maybe we could hum along.” You weave past two columns, somber in the soft cadence. Your fingers look like little ghosts each time you release the thick, ebony metal.

“Well. I think you’re smart. You sweet thing.” Your eyes seem to look at someone Jade cannot see. “Tell me your name; I'm dying here!” You clench a hand to your chest, as you break through whispering-singing to real-singing. You throw your head back and sing coherently without any guitar or percussion, “Awooooouuuuuh! Got you where I want you … Again.”

Eccentric, Jade thinks fondly. Always interesting and unpredictable. He loves those factors about you as much as he is troubled by them. Why can’t things be linear?

After your musician outburst, you grow deathly quiet. Not even humming or murmuring the rest of the song, you continue weaving post by post as Jade follows, observing intently. He wants to crack open your head and dissect the yolk of your complicated, alien thoughts more than ever now. Too cowardly, he asks as you two come upon the first turn in the square formation of the brick wall, “How is your howlite ring fairing tonight?”

You glance down at the circular stone on your index finger. The mineral is white with gray lightning streaks, much like a marble countertop. “No cracks, I think.” You grab onto another post and slide your body around it. The stone glistens on your ghoulish finger. 

It is always wise to look out for a breakage among those jagged, flint-hued lines. Jade would hate to see it break again.

The breakage of your last howlite ring led to Jade confessing his love for you. The prologue though? It was a rather unfortunate turn of events. Though, he is not regretful of it in the slightest. He looks back upon the memory of your face – drenched in mascara-black tears, your hands clutching his shirt as they shook with horror, the pale lifelessness in your gaunt cheeks – with both worship and woe. 

Jade replays the words said just a few minutes ago: Ramshackle, A walk around campus would benefit me right now, Yeah? A Ramshackle nightmare is a volatile one but still mendable. 

Even though Ramshackle is littered with protective charms, it does not completely halt the activity of nightly ghouls. Lilia once suggested acquiring a dire-beast to tame them. But, dire-beasts are a rarity and even harder to train than ghouls. Thus, you worked with other means. Howlite minerals fashioned into jewelry works well for preventing possession, but under constant strain, they can break. No one could have guessed it would happen. Your radio silence was not unusual; your communication device is faulty and it is not entirely unusual for you to slip away for a day or two. 

It was merely awful luck that the last Saturday in September, in the morning while brushing your teeth, your howlite ring split down the middle and broke. After the weekend, on a Monday, Jade ventured into Ramshackle to find you with limbs contorted at inhuman angles, puke and piss on your clothes, eyes rolling in the back of your head until all he could see was glistening white like fresh snow, and on the verge of death. 

The thing about Jade is he is a bit of a worrier. Like ink chiseled into skin, it is ingrained in him. It comes packaged in his genetic alphabet, passed down from his mother and his father. 

It had not been good for his health to open up Ramshackle and find you in such a state. 

But, he made certain that the dead felt an even greater hit to their health. 

After evicting those three ghouls from your body, you spent a week out of Ramshackle and curled up tight in his bed. On Monday, it had been three days since your last bowel movement. The scene from then is still clear in his mind: 

Jade takes a peek through the mediocre crack of the bathroom door. There you are in all your glory, sitting on the toilet with gray sweats around your ankles. A wet compress is laid against your bowing neck and an apple juice box clenched in both hand and mouth. An empty, crunched apple juice rests in the wastebasket; you have been at this for five minutes or so.

With a far off look, you stare at the other end of the bathroom. Anxious, Jade surmises that you are perhaps not even comprehending the sight, too stricken with a fever that everything has blurred.

He has been checking up on your memory hourly. You know your name and you know his name. Yet, when he asks you where you are, you keep saying, almost insisting, your hometown. 

Those irises that seemed so straight and bright are lost now. The border of the lake has opened like broken beaver dams and the hue of your irises have slipped out into the white pool, spreading your vision thin and fragile. There is a thick fog that he cannot break. Even now when you turn your head towards him, asking what around your apple juice straw, it looks like you are seeing through him.

“I asked, would you like me to retrieve anything else? Your efforts have seemed to come to a constipated stop.” 

Perhaps that is mean of him to poke at but … the straw in your mouth flattens. “Shut up,” you berate him, meanly, yet with a faint smile all the same. Your head falls, matted ringlets of hair covering your face. Staring at the wet cloth of white on your neck, Jade listens as you murmur teasingly, “Eat my shorts.”

At least you are coherent enough to have an attitude with him. It causes a twitch of a smile to rise to his face. Leaning against the wall more but refusing to open the door wider for your sake, Jade notes, “You kept your apple juice down.” 

You only nod languidly at that. 

He had considered making slippery elm tea for you. However, teas can lead to slight dehydration and you have been unable to keep a majority of things down. The most has been a popsicle of electrolytes Floyd took from the lounge’s freezer. Water has unfortunately been a no-go. It makes Jade’s chest feel lighter to know you are on your second box of juice.

It feels like euphoria when he hears the sound of something hitting water. He smiles sweetly at you through the crack of the door, but you are less receptive to it.

“Shut the door!”

Jade fufu-s like a smug bastard.

“Privacy, dude! Privacy!” 

And, Jade went back to his bed, firmly closing the door behind him without another word. 

Certain ailments can be remedied in no time. A fever going down to lower temperatures and a wound closing up with blood clots. These are instant gratifications; worries that have both beginnings and ends. 

Such linear illnesses do not cause Jade as much strife as malaises that are difficult to identify or seem endless as a stretching horizon. The ones that seem to have no ends or starts. With those types of ailments, one always seems to find themselves in the middle of it. Those haunt him.

Another thing about Jade? Besides being a worrier, Jade thinks. He thinks deeply. 

This might be a symptom of having the family heirloom of worry passed down to him. A consequence of being born where he was and a consequence of being raised by whom he loves. Jade can think himself into the deepest, darkest pits. He can also use those very thoughts to build ladder rungs to escape those pits. It is all like a dog chasing its tail (more appropriately, an eel chasing its tail, growing dizzy in a mushroom-forest). 

He is chasing his own tail the entire time, thinking these thoughts as you two walk. Trying to see if from his memory, he can pull out some shortcut on healing you. Jade only stops chasing his tail when you both have completed one rotation around the courtyard’s square wall and you start to walk down cobblestones before shoving your shoulder into Jade’s sternum.

He looks down at you, curious. Your hand lifts up to rest on his pectoral muscle and the side of your face nuzzles into the same area. The buttons on his pajama top press uncomfortably into his skin like grinding pebbles. Cuddling standing up is not so uncommon but is it late, wouldn’t you rather sit on a bench; he should offer that alternative, shouldn’t he; would it not be rude of him to change your positions because it is likely you will recoil after that and not touch him again, couldn’t —

There he goes again, thinking and worrying. His automatic genetics are fully charged from a good night’s rest. Eyelids drooping softly, he breathes in the scent of your shampoo – a steady warmth that coats the scent of you onto the insides of his nostrils and heart like spray paint – and feels all that irrationality leave him.

“Mmm, you wanna talk about it?”

Jade blinks at your lazy drawl, words squished by his chest. He looks down and only sees the top of your head. “Talk about what?”

“Your disorganized head.”

You are so sweet, what did I possibly do to deserve someone … sweet? Jade’s body expands and deflates with a deep, content sigh. Your hand stirs on his pajama and falls limply to touch a button. You tap a melody on it that he does not recognize. “Ah, I assure you that was simply in jest. My health is quite strong.”

Jade looks at your howlite ring, watching it stir with each tap-tap you do. Sometimes, a person has to be on the verge of losing something to appreciate it in its full scope. It is a hard lesson to learn. Jade feels like he is learning it again. 

“Okay,” you easily concede. Your disposition rarely has you pressing for anything that will not easily break, not unless it is something you want really badly. You must not want to read his thoughts like he wants to read yours. What is your opinion of this situation, about what is happening between the two of you – is it good or bad?

Relationships are labyrinthine roads. Driven and steered through with two people in the vehicles, they only have one person with their hand on the wheel though. Thoughts are private. Jade brushes an ungloved hand through your hair, feeling the curves of where your skull lies. 

All of Jade’s thoughts mellow and simmer out until all he thinks is about is the bones in his feet that balance him on the ground, the sensation of the cold nipping his neck and ears that remind him of his faraway home, and the simple fact that he loves you very much and he hopes that he can love you all through December. When New Years passes, he hopes you will allow him to love you all through the upcoming twelve months.

“Your heartbeat is so nice.” 

Hm?

Jade rouses awake slightly, frost coating the tips of his hair and his legs numb. How long have the two of you been here? The sky is still black, a closed lid on this moment where only pinpricks of light break through like superficial air-holes. Still midnight? He shivers when your cold fingers sneak through the seams of his pajama top, webbing through the space from button to button.

“Your heartbeat. It has such a nice melody. Sometimes, I get so caught up in listening to it that I wanna try to change my body to copy. Like we’re two instruments that could match up to each other if we try hard enough.” You really are so – “Brrr, I’m freezing! Let’s go back to bed, babe!” 

– sweet, Jade thinks with a smile. 

If there is one feature that sets Jade and Floyd’s father apart from the rest, it has always been his voice. 

Vocal cords are unique as fingerprints. However, not all of them are pleasant to listen to and a few of them you can even mistake for others in crowds. Not Don Leech’s voice. No, his voice is in a class of his own. A sui generis sound that captivates all who are blessed or cursed to hear it.

Unfortunate merfolk say it is the type of voice that sends a chill down one’s spine. A feeling so sinister that it can only be described as the eerie walk of pycnogonida, spindly sea spiders, traveling down the body’s bony ladder. It is also the voice that has their mother’s head whirling towards their home’s entrance wherever she hears it, love in her eyes. A voice so comforting as it narrated youthful bedtime stories of ancient history and great battles.

The twins are unsure if their father is part-siren. It is a speculation not out of the realm of possibility. Even for all of Jade’s prowess when it comes to information collecting, he doubts he will ever in his life be able to find a crumb of his father’s past before the age of twenty-three. 

The available information concerning his origin (familial ties and beyond): 1. Don Leech never speaks of his mother or his father. No reminiscing on how his mother cooked a certain way nor any life lessons his own father taught him fall from his mouth. 2. Don Leech has no siblings. There are no nieces and nephews on that side of the family to grow up with. 3. Lastly, Don Leech appeared in the specific hometown that he raised Floyd and Jade in at twenty-three. Like a sudden storm, without any forewarning weather, manifested almost.

Frankly, it is impossible to track down any family history on their secretive, recondite father. Anyone that tries is foolish.

If Don Leech is part-siren, the gene in the blood is too diluted for either Floyd or Jade to possess any natural talent towards singing. Besides, they could never match the expectations set by their father’s strong baritone … which Jade is aware of as he stares at his double bass on stage at La Grotta with a … hole in his stomach, he believes.

Yes, he reassures himself after a moment. It is accurate to call it a hole. Somehow, it feels like a bottomless pupil of black and suckles at him like a parasite. It is quite unpleasant. He wishes he knew a spell or potion to dispel it from himself. Demure, Jade leans away from the curtain he was peeking from.

It is his, Floyd’s, and Azul’s first time playing at La Grotta. This will inevitably lead to Jade finding himself in the spotlight. Even when split amongst his brother and their plaything, it is a bit much for the young, freshly thirteen eel-mer. The diameter of that gaping crater grows and grows in his intestines.

As always, Jade is thoroughly prepared for any outcomes but he would loathe to accidentally do something foolish on stage. He even took precautions to change the bass strings with new ones, even though the replacement time did not call for it. If only … “Jade.”

Recognizing him right away without seeing him – “Father.” – Jade turns around to greet the sight of his father. Amber brown eyes gaze down at him like duel suns on the horizon. It is a surprise to be under their harsh, amber scrutiny because the young teen was told Don Leech was too preoccupied to come to their show. Stricken, he does not really know what else to say.

His father narrows his eyes and his ear-fins lower in … an unreadable emotion. Jade hopes it is not a sign of displeasure. So, he quickly adds, “I hope that today’s affairs have been luh-lucrative.” Damnit, Jade seethes with his head bowed. Foolish tongue.

Slowly, the ear-fins on the side of his father’s teal face lift up, the deformed, asymmetrical one on the left following along with the intact one on the right. His features do not soften because there is no probable way to soften such a face. The jagged nose scar will not grow tinier and the angular cut of his face will not round out. But still, it seems there is sympathy because in that sui generis voice, he inquires, “Are you afraid, Jade?”

“No, Father.”

Clip. Self-assured. Curt.

“Ah, so you are terrified.”

But it works poorly on his observant father. 

The capo-mandamento of their side of the Coral Sea gives his son a hard, pushing stare. There is something dreadful in your opponent knowing exactly what you are thinking while you are left clueless over their own thoughts. That hole of black, Jade remembers it as he watches his father peel back the curtain to look onstage.

The jazz trio instruments are all there: drums, double bass, and piano. All neatly placed in anticipation, even though the drummer said he is too bored to wait onstage and to call him when they are ready to start immediately, and even though the pianist has become thoroughly distracted with helping his mother serve orders, numerous tentacles carrying numerous trays. It is only Jade who is left, taskless and anxious.

But terrified? He would like to think not. After living in the Coral Sea for thirteen years, this is a mere bump in the torrential whirlpool of frightening experiences he has grown up with. His desensitization is healthy and strong. Jade means to go tell his father this but is stopped when …

“I used to sing here. Did you know that?” The words leak down over his father’s shoulder like snail mucus, dragging along the tattoo of the magnificent Sea Witch crushing the princess’s boat in her grasp. Hypnotic and powerful, even though he only says softly, “I sang no more than an hour and no more than once a week.” 

Still, the very action of Don Leech just revealing a smidgen of his past – nothing past his mysterious appearance at twenty-three but something beyond the time Floyd and Jade were born – has that hole closing up. Anxiety is sealed shut and awe bandages itself over. Jade tries not to show it as he leans in, intrigued. 

Those amber-brown eyes cut diamonds in the water as Don Leech turns back to look at his son, “Music. Perspective and personal emotions are shaped by the music we indulge in. It holds greater influence than any words you and I could use.”

Jade wants to soak these paramount, influential words in, but he cannot because something shocks him deeply in the heart. His touch-adverse father gently runs a taloned hand through Jade’s hair. Not ruffling it because the mafioso head knows it took his son effort to tame. Instead, he simply combs through it once until he reaches the other side. 

And, while he slips away, Don Leech murmurs in that distinguishable baritone, “When us merfolk hear music, we cannot help but be swayed to wayward influences.”

As both father and memory drop away into that black hole, Jade reaches out to hold a tip of teal hair in his gloved finger as if remembering that far-off touch. He rubs back and forth on the strand while thinking, Was that a cautionary tale or simply my Father’s eccentric type of humor? Is it something to keep in consideration after all these years?

Of course it is. What a foolish doubt. His father’s words always held a leash of influence over his sons, a guiding light in the dark. His influence is a key factor in why Floyd always polished his shoes every morning. For a very carefree, nonchalant individual, Floyd takes extreme care in maintaining his footwear. One of the reasons he does this? Because his father told him to.

Still, swayed by wayward influences? I am not so easily swayed. And what an odd turn of phrase too, Father. Perverse behavior is a tiny indulgence in Jade’s essence and not a shackle on his soul. In the Coral Sea, he learned how to get exactly what he wanted and when he wanted it. Nothing can steer Jade but himself.

He wants you. Yet more importantly, he wants you to want him in matching intensity, and he loathes the slight indication that he wants you more than you want him instead of the other way around. It bothers him on a deep, deep, underground level of his body, simmering in his stomach acid, and reminds him of the first time he experienced getting a splinter on a hike.

What a truly horrid sensation to have something under the skin. Jade thinks that he should – “I know Riddle collared (Name) yesterday, but can your vengeful plotting wait until after the meeting?”

Jade flicks his eyes off from where he was focusing. Which he realizes now as he gains coherency and sheds off his spiraling thoughts, it was directly towards Riddle Rosehearts. It was a pretty harsh look too. Curious, the eel-met glances down at Jamil and asks amused, “He collared her again?”

A grimace forms on Jamil’s face. The expression reminds Jade of a turn of phrase that expresses regret; it is called ‘spoke too soon’. He delights in that. When people realize they have slipped up when talking to Jade, it warms the eel-mer’s heart to know others are so, so comfortable around him.  

Jamil taps his ballpoint pen on his notes. His passages are exceptionally shorter than Kalim, who has been making great strides at actually actively being a housewarden. It seems Jamil has gotten over his inner turmoil when he informs, “Iago and her both returned to Scarabia with collars. Something about how the type of music they played was banned in Heartslabyul.”

Fondness lifts up Jade’s lips. Though he doesn’t get to experience all of it, your mischievous charms are something that have always been congenial to him. This wouldn’t have been the first time Riddle has collared you and it certainly won’t be the last. “Would you happen to know what they played?”

His expanse of knowledge on the Queendom of Roses is still limited. Which is why it’s nice Jamil answers without hassle, “Something a band of Queendom of Roses students played during V.D.C; she wouldn’t stop talking about them for a week. Apparently, the guitarist took his instrument and maimmed his fellow band member’s drum-kit.”

Music from V.D.C? Suddenly, a toothy grin overtakes Jade’s features. He remembers V.D.C very fondly. Your ineffable stress from not getting to play with Kalim and your ineffable supply of happy-go-lucky smiles when Jade and Azul agreed to browse the Foot Town with you before you all watched the performance together. The most interesting performance had to be when you puppeteered Malleus Draconia to fix the wrecked coliseum because you ‘had to see the other bands or you would just die!’

Grinning wide enough to split his face, Jade supplies the information he knows happily into the conversation, “Ah, that’s because there is a town in the Queendom of Roses that has the same type of music (Name) likes. They’re based around Alice’s disobedient nature and rule-breaking. She calls it punk music. They call it mad-hatter music.”

How quaint. He had not known that music was banned at Heartslabyul. It would make sense that mad-hatter music is banned in that dormitory; perhaps, he should let Floyd know this? He imagines both of you would be undeterred and try to play those rhythms together – you on vocals and guitar with his twin on drums.

“She might’ve been better off at RSA. Especially if they would have matched her rhythm and style.”

Jade’s grin drops as soon as the idea leaves Jamil’s mouth. “I believe she is perfectly suited for Night Raven College.” An entire other student-body knowing and adoring you, it stomps a foul taste in his mouth.

“I don’t know, but I’ve noticed an uptick of lilac cat hair in Scarabia.”

Ah, Alchemivich Pinka is caught in your web too? “Nothing more than a passing fancy. You’ll find yourself void of it in a week or two.”

“Her ability to make such quick acquaintances without overstepping is admirable. Not many here could copy such a feat.” 

“Oya, is that a dig into Kalim’s disposition that I hear?”

Jamil twirls his pen once, as if to absolve himself of any guilt. His face is stone, laser focused on the lecturing Headmage in front of him. But if one pays close enough attention, they would notice the slight curve of his mouth. Third year Jamil has been just, if not more, entertaining as closed off first year Jamil. 

“What earnest words. To think that day would come with you would be so honest with me. I’m glad that our friendship is advancing in so many lucrative ways.”

Jamil refutes dryly, “I spoke on (Name)’s habits and nothing more.”

Jade does not realize how enraptured he has been in this quaint conversation with Viper until something to his right leans against him, hard, almost slumping. For an inane second, he thinks his opposing seatmate has just made the bold move of resting on him. So, confused, Jade turns to clear up this misunderstanding that he is someone friendly enough to lean on. 

At least he would until droopy olive-brown and gold stare at him, half-lidded and presumably bored. “Hello, Floyd.” 

His twin barely responds, humming softly before he rests his head on Jade’s elbow. He’s homesick. Jade knows he has hit the nail on the head when he sees what Floyd is drawing. Especially since both mother and father neglected a phone call yesterday because of an uptick in business. 

The sketchbook Floyd bought is his own personal one. His twin has a natural talent for being able to visualize or hear something and replicating it. Musicology has always been in the frontier of his artistry, but he has a slight endearment towards art too. Besides, art above the surface has a wider variety than that underwater. 

It is almost impossible to create anything in his home. Ink or paint will float away unless an artist has a good magical hand, separating the liquid medium from their surroundings with wafer-thin, magical layers. A majority of paintings displayed in museums are found from shipwrecks or built by using colored stones, sculpting them into scenes. Longer wavelengths are also absorbed the deeper one travels in the Coral Sea. Red is unheard of. Such limiting yet comforting strifes. 

What Floyd is smooshing around with his thumb and darkening with a graphite pencil is the interior of La Grotta. Jade recognizes the stage almost immediately, having been stuck in daydreams about it. The booths made of large, arching backs of coral, the stage’s open oyster shell, and the hanging, bioluminescent seaweed – all so familiar. 

The only thing that disrupts it is the stark image of yourself. You have never been to the Coral Sea before. He hasn’t dared to suggest bringing you there. It is not a place you are familiar with yet at all. Yet, standing like an aphrodite in the oyster shell, mouth poised in song, you look right at home among the crowd of merfolk. 

They converse in soft mermish to not be overheard by an oblivious Headmage. 

“Is that supposed to be (Name)?”

“No, it’s grandma. Who else would it be, dumbass?”

“Well, if only you were an adequate artist, others could make a comprehensive image of what you are scribbling.” 

“Eat my shorts,” Floyd spits back, stealing your little phrase as he rubs a rubber eraser over your eyeballs. The part that makes you the most recognizable is not the microphone in your hand but the highlighted stars in your eyes, as white as the seaweed hanging above you.

Jade chuckles, going to turn to continue his conversation with Jamil, before Floyd asks unprompted, “When ya gonna invite Shrimpy over to meet Ma and Pops? Three months is way too long of a wait.”

Yes, he knows three months is quite a lengthy extent to go without meeting the parents, but not for you. For you, three months might just signal the end if Jade is not careful. Things are so volatile. You are reeling in displaced identity. Can he really afford to add more people selfishly into your inner circle?

“They’ll have to be a bit more patient. Nothing rewarding comes from grasping out too soon.” We hunt lying in wait.

“Yeah, well, ya tell Mama that because she’s all upset about not seeing or hearing Shrimpy. Can’t just mention to them that Shrimpy’s a singer then not bring her home. Idiot.”

“There are still things that need to be done, preparations before anything like that can happen.”

“Staller.”

“Call it what you will, but I don’t wish to spring a trap without checking all the nets are secured.”

“Oh?” Floyd finishes the last touches of light/white treading itself through your hair before he goes on to darken the shadows.

In fluent mermish, Jade replies, “Of course. I would not do all this without a clear end goal in mind. We will have to sabotage others who work towards gaining her favor. Her attention should not be spread so thin, so we will have to adopt the methodology of horse-blinders. Then, and only then, I would implement the design of capturing her.”

When the twins look at each other, they share a sharp, menacing grin. Needle-thin teeth smiling at wolfishly-thick teeth. It is a look that can be best measured in the satisfaction of a plan coming to fruition. Behind strands of teal, Floyd’s olive eye peeks out like a clownfish peeking out its anemone.

“She’s a tiny shrimp, so make sure ya don’t use too flimsy of a net. Pops taught us that. Make sure it's tight and cramped.” 

Ah, yes. That’s right. And, aren’t their father’s words always to be heeded to?

If Jade did not meticulously put together his appearance this morning, he might be a bit scornful that Azul is looking at him if he can’t recognize him. As if the two of them are strangers instead of familiarized predator and prey. Even his words are a bit hurtful (they aren’t really but Jade will still pout at them): “Am I dreaming or is that really you, Jade?”

“Relax, it’s me. Don’t cream your pants,” Jade punctually assures.

Subconsciously, his right leg lifts and crosses over his left. Just as quickly as he did it, he consciously moves it back. Firmly placing it down on the VIP’s carpet, he resumes his spread-out look. That one is going to be a hard habit to break.

Despite the given assurance, Azul still seems unconvinced. The dead giveaway is how his eyes flicker left and right to his brother and himself on the opposing couches, trying to pick up the details. His suspicion is not unwarranted. Jade and his brother have played games like this before, switching hair styles and voices, before having their unrespected, childhood plaything try to figure out who is who. 

Azul has a much more respectable air to him as he pushes his glasses snug to his face, articulating sharply, “I have no time to play this game today. 

“Final exams are approaching. Neglectful, procrastinating students are hard pressed for study materials.” His shoes and cane click hard like striked matches as he strides towards his desk. “I recently obtained from a Heartslabyul student – the one Jade so rudely walked out on if I might add.”

“You may not.”

“ – the magical prowess to memorize anything in exchange for a more athletic physique. A build ensured to capture the affection of that sweet Sage Island native he is pining over. Now, as for what we’ll do with such a zenith of intelligence –”

“What’s anyone gonna use that for?” Floyd protests. From his own spread out position on the couch, head upside down on the armrest, he glares at Azul. “I don’t wanna do the same thing as last year; that’s boooring.”

“If the both of you will quit interrupting, we might perhaps get to the actual idea.” Though it would cut another else to shreds, Azul’s glare is lackluster to the twins. Still, they allow him to drill on. “Nothing fires up students more than competition. Rudimentary sports, battle of bands, things like that. We’ll be hosting an ‘eating competition’ in the Longue. The prize? The ability to memorize anything without limitations.”

“An eating competition? Didn’t Shrimpy mention that a week back or something?” Floyd turns to Jade.

“She mentioned something like that; I believe it’s from a cartoon. Starts with a H … Hey … Hey something.”

“Hey Arnold!” Floyd snaps his fingers.

“It’s a custom we don’t have in Twisted Wonderland. If not for the prize, the experience of something new is bait and lure to bring in foot traffic. And, each loser will have to pay full price for all the meals they eat.”

“A food competition … eeh, doesn’t sound too bad.” His twin rolls his neck over the armrest, as if considering it. “I know a couple guys who’d be interested.”

“A competition where individuals gorge themselves until the verge of bursting with puke. Sounds delightful! What an intriguing custom.” The results will surely be sulfurous and show-stopping.

Yet, as typical, Jade’s fun is ruined before it even begins. Azul pushes up his glasses, levels him with a hard stare, and declares, “You’re not allowed to participate. Sevens knows I couldn’t financially recover from your appetite if you were permitted to take part.”

“A bold accusation. I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort.” The smile that crawls on his face suggests otherwise, gleaming silver with needle-point teeth and the smiley piercing hanging over those teeth like mistletoe.

Bloated with strife and anxiety like always, Azul sighs. He leans back into his chair, plush enough to relieve him of some of the burdens he carries. “If we are in conjunction, then you two can continue on with your shifts.” Like an unstoppable train, Azul is already grasping at documents and contacts that crowd his desk, ready to move onto the next big thing.

“Kaaay! Sounds fun.”

“I’ll be sure to spread the word.”

Jade opens the door for both of them to depart. But before he can close it fully, a sui generis voice slithers its way through the space between the door crack — “So they got my tooth on one end of the string and the doorknob at the other end!” — and it even influences smitten Azul to lift his head and look towards the noise. 

You are magnetic when you tell stories. Jade has seen people at other tables in the Lounge hush up so they can eavesdrop on your conversation. It is no wonder that through the slow, syrupy breakfast crowd that your voice pierces through all of them and is the first one all three of them hear together. Jade can even pinpoint your location based on the traveling vibrations of sound. 

“ … sweet summer child that I was, I put my full faith in them. I saw no reason not ta! So, my Mom’s got a surgeon grip on the doorknob. Steady; steady. And, my Dad starts the count: ooone, twooo, and right before we got to three … Bam! Just before three and my mouth’s gushing! I’m leaking red all over our dining room’s carpet. I swear, my Mom should’ve enlisted for the army! They need to start using her technique on P.O.Ws!”

Your eyeliner is smudged again; it is your typical ‘worn-in’ makeup look that you frequently do. It looks like you are fostering two black eyes. Grunge, he knows the style intimately. Your lipstick is a deep red. Might be more fitting to call it a dark red-violet; the hue closely resembles the skin of a plum. Uniquely picturesque like a model, you walk in narrating a story about your childhood with a sleazy grin and animated hands. Your guitarist and bassist are captivated, all three of you following after the waiter leading you to your seats.

Without any resistance, Floyd calls out, waving a hand, “Shrimpy! Look over here!” And, obviously that is what you do.

Witchcraft eyes turn towards the sound of his twin’s voice, mouth limp as you pause in narration, and look towards the VIP room’s entrance. Then, suddenly, you’re staring directly at Jade. Plum lips falling open in shock and eyeliner shifting as your eyes go round. 

Jade, satisfaction coursing through his veins, raises a stark white glove before demurely folding his hands in front of his belt. 

In the mere blink of an eye, you manage to weave through the servers and customers, completely forgetting about your entourage, to jump around Jade in circles. Giggling up a storm, you hop around your boyfriend in circles — “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, Jade; ah, I love the new look; babe; the piercings are so, so razer; oh my god; we match; we match; ah, Jade you pull it off so well; your eyebrow piercing is so razer!!” — and scrutinize all the changes that he made yesterday night. 

Finally, you stop circling him and stand in front him, almost vibrating in place with awe. The enthusiasm in your eyes causes them to shine in bright white highlights like diamonds. 

“They’re all authentic too. It took quite some practice to get this one.” Jade flashes you a grin, revealing all his teeth and the bull piercing metal that is impaling through the tissue connecting his upper lip and upper gum. 

Everything falls cleanly into place in Jade’s net. 

[talonabraxas]

“It is necessary for the mind to become free of the illusions of this world and become a fine and marvelous instrument of the Inner Being.” — Samael Aun Weor

Kabbalah: The Three Triads Talon Abraxas

The Kabbalistic Tree of Life

The Kabbalistic tree of life is an ancient and profound diagram that is intimately related with alchemy, tarot, numerology, Hebraic wisdom, and astrology. A basic understanding and orientation to the map of the tree of life is useful to guide us in our inner work.

The key to studying Kabbalah is in the development of intuition, imagination and inspiration, in order to work with these cosmic forces in a practical manner and not get lost in intellectualism.

Practical Kabbalah

To truly know Kabbalah, to practice it, is to walk the initiatic path.

To incarnate the fruits of the tree of life requires an esoteric and psychological work. To move beyond our selfish nature, to love and sacrifice for others, always remembering shekinah, the divine grace, the gift of God.

Each sephirah, each pathway, each dimension, each pillar, is a lifetime of study and reflection unto itself. The focus of this article is the three triads that divide the nine superior sephiroth into three basic levels.

Logoic Triangle

The topmost triad is the logic, or supernal, triangle. The holy trifecta of Father, Son, Holy Spirit, also known as Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, or Osiris, Isis and Horus.

This triad contains the mystery of the trimurti or the trifecta in Christianity. Chokmah, the Christ, is an unfoldment from Kether, the Father. Binah, the Divine Mother is an unfoldment of the Christ.

Ethical Triangle

The middle triad is the ethical triangle. Revolutionary ethics have nothing to do with right and wrong as we understand it, but always working to have the will of God prevail, to allow the divine influences to guide the lower.

In this triad contains the sephiroth called Chesed, Geburah and Tiphareth. Here is the mystery of the human soul united to the divine soul, something that happens at a certain stage of initiation, a wedding of the soul to the spirit.

Samael Aun Weor writes in his book, The Initiatic Path in the Arcana of Tarot and Kabbalah that while the human soul, which is masculine, works, the divine soul, which is feminine, plays. This is the union of love that everyone on earth is truly searching for.

The sephiroth Geburah and Chesed represent the balance of justice and mercy. Justice without mercy is tyranny; mercy without justice is anarchy.

Magical Triangle

The lowest triad is the magical triangle, consisting of the mental, astral and vital worlds.

The sephiroth called Netzach, Hod and Yesod.

We who have our center of gravity in the physical world can access these higher planes only by uniting our vital force, intention and mind toward the divine. Here is the bridge to access the will of our Being, and the wisdom and love of God. This is the realm of ritual which is an act that vibrates into other dimensions.

Malkuth

Malkuth is the physical plane. Malkuth is a fallen sephirah.

It is the “wilderness” where Adam and Eve (the Lemurian humanity) were cast after they had eaten the fruits of the tree of knowledge and broken the law of God.

There are 48 cosmic laws in Malkuth, 24 laws in Hod, 12 in Netzach, and only 1 law: law of love, in Kether.

In Malkuth we have a much greater struggle against materialism to find the spiritual, which is understood with a study of the tree of knowledge. We stand on the brink of heaven and hell.

Above us is Yesod, the 9th sphere, the vital sexual force, the way off of the tree. Below us is the Klipoth, the shadow realms, where there are more laws, more darkness, more conditioning.

[b0vidine]

CCCC instrumental anarchy album cover redraw based on one of Sly's sketches from Instagram

[that-one-birbie]

Hobie headcanons?

- either vegetarian or vegan (animal rights)(and yes, I am aware not all punks are vegetarian/vegan)

- makes own clothes and / or alterations from thrift clothes (fast fashion sucks) (also like the idea that Hobie knows how to sew)

- Gender Queer (like to orginal concept art)(any pronouns)

- probably knows how to play other instruments. (Drums?)

- ACAB

He doesn't have a drivers licence (he doesn't believe in a paper saying he can't or can not drive) /hj (although maybe he drives a motorcycle instead)

- despite his tough appearance, he has a heart of gold (he took in Gwen when she was homeless *Hobie himself was homeless, according to the comic's, so he knows what Gwen is going through*)( also the way he was looking out for Miles the moment he met Miles) (his friendship with pav) ect

- Always out to help the homeless (mask or no mask)

- would be friends with Spider-man noir (they are going to punch fascists together)

- don't think he would be one to use cellphones/ social media and all that)

He listens to other music genres, too (man does not have to listen to only one type of music)

- Pirates movies, music . Boycotting (but suports small business) (maybe that's why he's living on a boat. He is a pirate)

- participates in peaceful protests as spider punk to keep people safe and help giving people a voice

- Does graffiti tag with Miles sometimes, performing at pubs with Gwen, feeds stray animals with Pav

- Hobie has a pet cat, because i say so

- Ace Hobie (because I say so and because some of yall shippers scare me)

- also pan because he loves their partner regardless of gender identity

- Hobie is absolutely geniuses (I mean, he made his own watch). Although being smart enough in technical and all that, he absolutely had no interest in school ( im not sure if he really went to school? If i remember correctly, when he became homeless, he had a job as a window cleaner) *correct me if I'm wrong*

- I feel like he had a crush or a thing with Caption Anarchy (Karl morningdew)(in comics)

- knows how to use make-up and does it absolutely beautifully. He would do your makeup for you if you ask

- runway model? If say so, but he actually just crashes the runway events because, again, screw fast fashion

- loves looking after kids and helping them (yes, only because that one scene with mayday)

- doesn't buy flowers and rather gather them himself

- Does his own piercings

That's all I have for now :)

[moronkombat]

what are ur headcanons for havik, rain, shang tsung and quan chi? sfw and nsfw please :)

SFW

Love, or at least not the conventional definition of it, is not in his heart but chaotic obsession is. You need to keep this mind when becoming involved with him. If Havik becomes attached to you, he will not let you go

Chaos runs through him, it is him and he wants that for you too. How could you not want it when it is so freeing and vindicating? He doesn't want you chained down by doubts and hesitations. He will encourage you to indulge in impulsions and intrusive ideations

Order and Chaos are one in the same but Havik never sees it that way but he stills shows flavors of it. He longs for there to be a society of pure anarchy, yet for that to happen, he needs to take charge and order others. You are no exception. He expects loyalty to him completely and truly and he will ask you many times to prove it to him. They ways in which he does will vary but it matters very little because you will always do it. How can you not?

NSFW

Sex is wild and untamed, with constant switches of dominance between the two of you. Havik craves for telling a story when having sex and he wants the story to be different each time so he will frequently experiment in bedroom with different positions and instruments

Havik is quite fond of dragging his tongue over your body. He will taste all of you and bring blissful damnation to your body. He will lick and bite at everything and anything

Prepare to be overstimulated and edged repeatedly. The way in which you scream and cry for him is a wonderful symphony and he is keen on listening to it for hours on end

SFW

He loves completely and truly. He is a very devoted partner and thinks he has your best interest at heart. Whether that is actually true remains to be seen

Rain will verbalize his devotion to you often. Words of affirmation is his biggest love language. He wants you to know that he truly and deeply cares for you

In his darkest and toughest moments, he seeks out thoughts of you. If he can better himself, if he can become more than he is now, then he provide better for you and provide you a world you truly deserve

NSFW

Those words of affirmation are not limited to your public interactions. He very much so praises his partner during sex. "Can you feel me throbbing inside you? I was made to fuck you. You fit around me so perfectly."

He is vexed to admit it but he is into having sex in semi-public places. There is a certain thrill he feels when his partner and him are in the shadows of an empty palace corridor. He's feels excitement when there are distance footsteps that threaten to expose your escapades. Sometimes he wishes the two of you would be caught. Would he stop driving himself into you? Not even he knows

Body worship is always present in the bedroom. He will spend countless hours worshipping every angle of your body and pampering them with kisses. You are simply divine to him and he will praise your divinity until his voice is hoarse and gone. This can often come across as teasing as he will engage in body worship but never touching you in the way that completely satisfies you. You are often left begging for him to touch you again and again. He does but he takes his time. Is he aware of what he's doing? Most definitely

SFW

One word. Manipulator. He knows what to say and how to say it to in order to get you going. He enjoys getting a rise out of you but it's alright though. He always makes up for it by lavishing his partner in lovely gifts

Speaking of those gifts, he expects you to wear them if they are something you can put on. He is quite fond of seeing you dressed in what he has gifted you. Fine jewels and garments? You best be wearing those so he can look upon you and know you are truly his

Jealousy isn't a word in his vocabulary, right? Wrong. Shang Tsung is a VERY envious man and this extends to you. If he could have it his way, you'd be the only person you'd talk to but he mustn't be so barbaric. No, no, instead if he sees you conversing with someone a little too much that person may just conveniently stop talking to you soon after. Why? No idea! Or at least that's what Shang Tsung says

NSFW

Bondage. Need I say more? No but I will. He loves using ropes and leather bindings in the bedroom. He uses them on you and himself. He is very fond of the feeling of leather on his skin and he is even more entranced by the marks it leaves on yours

Sex can vary from very fast and rough to very slow and taunting. Shang Tsung prefers to take his time with his partner. He wants them thoroughly used and satisfied. If you're going into the bedroom with him, expect to be there for awhile and to say your prayers because Shang Tsung loves to tease

He is anything but vanilla. He is always wanting to experiment with his partner. New positions, new kinks? He's up for them. He enjoys knowledge and knowledge includes bedroom practices. He's more than eager to try out all his finding on his partner. He makes sure they both have a grand time

SFW

He appreciates knowledge in a partner. He wants someone is who is wise and well read in various subjects. He wants to be able to hold deep conversations with his partner so if his partner is particularly gifted in a certain area, he wants to hear about it

Might not seem like it but he actually really enjoys walks under the stars and moonlight. There is something calming about it. When he worked in the mines, those stars and moon were his comfort and now he shares them with his partner

His love language is acts of service. Quan Chi had been so used to doing everything and slaving away in those mines. He appreciates when his partner does something for him. Not to say he wants them to slave over him but he likes when they do something for him. It is a nice change of pace

NSFW

Quan Chi does not often initiate sexual contact. He is almost aloof to it. His partner is almost always the one bringing up the idea of sex. When his partner does bring it up, Quan Chi, rather devilishly, is happy to indulge.

When with his partner, he particularly like laying his hands all over you. There is something about how your skin moves under his pressure that has him craving primal urges. It does not stop with touching he will grab. His favorite place? Your neck. The way you writhe and the way you gasp, there is no greater heaven

Another one of his favorites? Giving oral. He loves it. He loves how it makes you scream and shake. He watches you while his tongue pleasures you. He watches for the subtle and not so subtle changes to your expression. To see them is his greatest reward

[folk-punk-opossum]

[Trans flag blinkie that says "punk/punks + he/they"]

Intro Post! Updates Occasionally!

Howdy!! I’m an anthro draconic opossum that may or may not be some sort of fae, I’m rat-hearted and I also consider myself a opossum therian! I’m anarchogender + transmasc nonbinary, and an anarchist without adjectives.

I mostly post folk punk stuff, I’ll probably post my own personal DIY stuff and all that. I want to play so many instruments but alas we’re poor; one day I'll start posting shitty folk punk music. I’ll also post general punk stuff, anarchy stuff, trash critters, my personal art and OCs, TTRPG stuff, whatever tf I write, and I’ll probably reblog some fandoms I like every now and then.

Collective Main Blog: @wayward-tides-collective

Collective Spam (mostly fandom & memes) Blog: @wayward-tides-collective-spam

[unluckiestmember]

Hobie x male reader if that’s okay!! ^_^ like the reader is also into the same music and they have a bunch of things in common and then they just enjoy each others time ^^; SORRY IF TJIS IS TOO MUCH u can change anything to ur liking !!

Coming right up!

Hobie Brown X Male! Reader

Characters: Hobie Brown, Miles Morales, Gwen Stacy and Pavitr Prabhaker.

Tags: Established Relationship, alphabet mafia, Hobie being Hobie, anarchy, flirting, sharing, shenanigans, menaces to society and fluff (of course).

Warning: None. SFW.

A/N: I like to believe Hobie is Pansexual if not Bisexual. What do you guys think?

You are everything to Hobie.

Guy feels like he hit the jackpot when he started to date you.

You liked rock music? You enjoyed causing chaos? And you lived life to the fullest without regrets?

Oh he was so in love.

He will recklessly take you along with him as Spider-Punk while fighting some bad guys.

Between his punches, expect this man to dedicate attacks to you and ask if you saw them.

Definitely flirts without you, saying how handsome you are and how hot you can be.

If he catches you blushing? Good job. You just fueled him to keep the compliments coming.

If you play an instrument, he will push you to do gigs with him.

And he will kiss you at every concert, right in front of the crowd, with no regrets.

He will sneak day passes back home for you and him to spend some days on other Earths.

He also sneaks you onto Spider-Society to meet his friends.

Yes. Miles, Pavitr and Gwen always make fun of him when you’re around.

You can think of it as payback for all the times he’s made you flustered back home.

Share clothes with you and vice versa.

He will go out of his way to wear your shirts and jackets proudly so everyone knows who he belongs to.

Whenever he finds you in his clothes, he gets giddy and showers you with compliments.

Hobie has made out with you anywhere you can think of.

He can’t help if he can’t keep his lips off of you! You’re so cute!

He will push you into getting piercings and tattoos, but if you don’t want them, he understands.

Everyone can tell you mean so much to him.

Hopefully you do too.

Spider-Verse Requests are open!

Likes and retweets are always appreciated! I love you all, stay hydrated and have a good day! <3

[dailyanarchistposts]

8

What is subsistence? Subsistence means committing to a place and the people who live there. It means generally getting food from your region because that is the geographical area that you understand and are familiar with and therefore you know when and how much of each item or animal is acceptable to gather or hunt.

Subsistence means fishing with friends. It means preserving food with others in your group or village or clan or whatever. Subsistence is getting together, voluntarily, with folks that you have an affinity with, to provide yourself with food and shelter and musical instruments and friendship.

Subsistence means abundance and balance, it means wildness and harmony at once. Subsistence is not an impoverished, depleted existence.

Time spent repairing the fishing nets or pickling vegetables or building a communal smokehouse isn’t alienated time. It is meaningful and joyous. In some places likely characterized by songs and mead, in others by quiet satisfaction. It means providing for yourself where you live.

Subsistence is participatory. It involves understanding your habitat and finding a healthy place within it.

Subsistence could be the bedrock upon which an anarchic culture’s ways rest on. It is the foundation of a healthy, independent, autonomous set ofliving practices, based on the cycles of the place where you live. Sense of place. Sensual wisdom.

This doesn’t mean that primal people don’t make mistakes. But overall, they rely on directly lived experience complimented by generations old wisdom to make their decisions.

Life in nature isn’t nasty brutish and short. This is a lie of the fearful and the fear mongers, of ruling classes set on the conquest of land-based people.

Subsistence means no or very little material waste: no dumpsites, no burning piles of garbage, no necessity of a recycling industry, and no mountains of appliances, gadgets and plastic. It is based in the natural cycles of your group’s land base. It means respecting nature where you live and all of the life forms that you share your habitat with, even the ones that are threatening to you, because we are all interconnected.

Subsistence isn’t about dumpster diving, scams, food banks, stealing and welfare cheques. Subsistence is directly participating in a collectivity’s future and thus ensuring your own.

For now, a group of five or ten folks acquiring food and shelter together is a form of surviving or pioneering. Fifteen or twenty people providing food and shelter for themselves, communally rearing their children, and generally taking care of each other is perhaps the ember of a clan, but true kinship probably takes a few generations.

When fifty or more people spend their lives, within the context of a successful break from the current world of hierarchy and private property and ideology, making sure that everyone within their group is fed and sheltered and nurtured and have built an infrastructure of ways and tools to assist them, anarchy begins to take hold.

This speculative glimpse is just my notion of how an urban area might de-urbanize should the present social order get cast overboard. Today, inhabitants of rural communes and eco-villages can practice some subsistence skills, but these are generally projects of the fortunate, out of reach of the majority, and can’t be viewed as the primary tactic of a thrust toward autonomous, genuine communities embedded in nature. A rural intentional community based around principles of mutual aid, cooperation and ecology might be a qualitatively superior place to live than most others, but truly self-directed people embedded in a habitat requires secession from private property and a refusal to obey the laws of both the market and the nation-state.

Power abhors subsistence. Capitalism depends on obedient producers and consumers spending our lives shopping and at work, not friends and neighbors practicing communal self reliance within a shared habitat. But together we can say no, we can disobey, and in this negativity there will birth a positive and creative force.