#jade leech x reader

Sometimes, looking at him felt like looking at a challenger to Poseidon’s throne. Other times, it felt as though Poseidon had simply grown bored of godhood and decided to walk among mortals instead.

But none of that mattered now.

Because he was dead.

Gone.

Dead and gone.

Dead and gone.

Dead and gone.

The ocean would continue without him. The tides would rise and fall, indifferent as ever. Croaking gouramis would sing in distant waters. Clownfish would dart through coral reefs he would never see.

And he would never feel again.

Never taste, never laugh, never press his face against the glass of an aquarium and ramble endlessly about creatures no one else cared about. Never stand on a beach staring at the horizon as if it were calling his name. Never again torment you, never again press you down under the weight of him until you forgot where you ended and he began.

Because he was dead.

The funny part was that you suspected his death was almost a blessing.

His burial was held at sea. His coffin, black and polished, would eventually be surrendered to the ocean he loved so much. If there was anyone who deserved to have the sea as both a throne and a tomb, it was Jade.

Flowers covered the casket. Dozens of them. White. Yellow. Pink. Purple. You stared at them with growing irritation. He would’ve hated them. Not because they were ugly, but because they were flowers.

Jade would’ve wanted seashells. Rocks he found himself. Maybe some strange piece of driftwood he insisted was special. He would’ve absolutely demanded one of those ridiculous sea cucumbers he adored so much. A stupid fucking sea pickle sitting proudly on top of his coffin.

The image almost made you laugh. Almost.

Everyone else brought bouquets. Everyone else seemed determined to mourn him correctly. You didn’t. Instead, you carried one of his fish tanks. It sat awkwardly in your arms, heavy with water and life.

Years ago, Jade had declared-completely serious-that if he ever died, his fish should die too.

"They can’t live without me," he’d said. "And honestly, they owe me that much. I feed them. clean their tanks. I dedicate my life to them."

At the time, you’d called him an idiot.

He hadn’t even flinched. Instead, he’d looked at you like you were the one being unreasonable and said, very calmly, that you too should be buried with him.

At that time, you’d been disgusted-by him, by the way he spoke, by the strange certainty he wore like it made him right. Now, that he was truly gone, you weren’t sure. Maybe being buried with him wasn’t a bad thing.

Now, standing before his coffin, you realized he had been wrong about many things. The fish didn’t owe him their deaths. If anything, he owed them his life. Every creature swimming inside that tank existed because Jade had obsessed over them to keep them alive. To keep himself sane enough to be alive.

So while everyone else laid flowers at his grave, you placed the aquarium beside him instead. A final gift for the boy who loved the sea more than he ever loved people.

His mother sang a prayer. His father whispered a final goodbye. His brother didn’t show up at all.

Then Jade was sent toward the horizon, toward the place where the sea swallowed the sun every evening. Soon, his coffin would sink beneath the waves, descending slowly into the dark. Lower and lower, until it finally came to rest upon the ocean bed, where he would sleep for eternity.

You watched the water and thought that maybe death suited him. Maybe, if stories were real, you could be his knight in shining armor. You could dive after him. Down through the freezing black water. Down past the schools of fish and the drifting shadows. Down until your lungs screamed and your heart burst and your fingers finally brushed against the lid of his coffin. You would wrench it open.

Inside, Jade would be exactly as he always was. Annoying. You would lean down and kiss him on the lips. Then his eyes would snap open..

"Where am I?" he’d probably ask.

You’d tell him you’d explain later and to help you swim up. Then the two of you would kick toward the surface together, fighting through the darkness and the pressure and the cold.

Only to be immediately eaten by sharks.

A fitting death, really. For both of you. Unfortunately, fairy tales weren’t real. The coffin continued drifting away. Jade continued sinking. And no matter how long you stared at the sea, his coffin stayed shut.

Then a few hours of food, mourning, and a kind of hollow silence would pass. You never knew how something so loud could end up so quiet. You caught yourself remembering things you didn’t want to remember, the way he’d kicked the back of your knees when he was annoyed, half-playful and half-cruel, the way you’d somehow become dependent on him anyway, like it had happened without your permission.

You’d promised yourself, once, that you would always hate him. That part had never changed. Not even now. Not at the coffin. Not with the flowers. Not with the weight of everyone else’s grief pressing down like weather.

You would still hate him. For the way he made your life feel like a trap you kept walking back into. For the way he died without warning. For the way he left behind a silence that didn’t feel like peace, just absence that still hurt when you breathed too deeply.

In the hollow silence of the following days, he became a ghost that refused to leave your side. You would dream of him: the bruising pressure of his lips, the rough scrape of his arms, the way his hands felt like iron shackles against your skin. They weren’t sweet dreams; they were vivid, suffocating nightmares of the days he used to corner you, touching you in ways that made you quiver and weep with a mixture of terror and shame.

But every morning, you woke up with a sick, twisted smile etched onto your face, a traitorous expression that felt entirely unearned. Because god, you missed the weight of him. You missed the way he looked at you like you were something he owned, something he could break at his leisure.

The realization was so nauseating that you had to lurch toward the sink, retching until your throat burned, your eyes watering from the sheer disgust of your own longing. It was grotesque, a sickness, but in those feverish dreams, at least he was yours. He was the only person who had ever looked at you and seen something worth holding onto, even if he only held you to hurt you.

Damn him. Damn his parents. Damn this world. Damn the mountains that took him. And damn you, for not following him that day.

You looked at your reflection in the mirror.

It didn’t look like anger anymore. Not even grief, really. Just something emptied out, like the person staring back had been left too long in the rain and forgotten how to return to shape.

The sink beneath you held the aftermath: spluttered breath, acid bitterness, the ugly proof of a body reacting to what the mind refused to hold cleanly. It lingered in the marble like a stain that didn’t care about being seen.

You turned on the faucet. Water rushed in. Bright, indifferent, continuous. It hit the basin and swallowed everything without hesitation, as if it had always been waiting for something to erase.

You bent forward and rinsed your mouth. Cold flooding through you, sharp enough to feel almost honest. It didn’t wash anything away so much as it rearranged it, pushing the pain into quieter corners where it could still exist without being spoken.

When you lifted your head again, the mirror caught you once more. Same face. Just quieter now.

You stayed there, hands resting against the marble, letting the sound of running water fill the space where thoughts were starting to gather too tightly. It was strange how quickly silence could become something heavy enough to press against your ribs.

Eventually, you understood you couldn’t stay here.

Not in this room. Not in this spiral. You needed air. People. Something that didn’t know his name. So you turned away from the mirror and stepped out before the grief could convince you otherwise.

You wore one of his fish hoodies, the fabric too familiar against your skin, like it remembered him better than you wanted to. It still carried the faint trace of him, not strong enough to be real. Something that made your chest tighten when you breathed too deeply.

You were still wearing the earrings he had given you that day, almost a year ago.

You walked.

And walked.

Long enough that time stopped behaving properly.

The streets were dimly lit, stretched thin under the weight of night. Windows were dark. Shops closed. No cars passed, no distant voices cut through the air. It felt like the world had quietly agreed to leave you alone with your thoughts.

Only the wind remained. And still, you kept moving.

You thought about Floyd.

Oh, poor Floyd.

You couldn’t even begin to imagine the kind of pain that came with losing your twin brother, the person who had shared your beginning, your breath, your shape in the world. The soul of your soul. The other half of you. The one constant that was supposed to remain when everything else eventually fell away.

The idea of it sat heavy in your chest, unshakable.

No one had really heard from him since. His mother and father were worried sick. Grief twisting into fear, fear into exhaustion, into the kind of helpless vigilance that never really let them rest. They had already lost one son. Now every unanswered moment felt like the possibility of losing the only one they had left. Their last living son.

Suddenly, as you were crossing the street, you heard the rattling of horses.

Horses? In this area-

You turned.

And there it was: a carriage, two large horses pulling it forward at full speed, closing the distance too quickly for your thoughts to properly catch up.

Your fight-or-flight instinct should have taken over. It should have pulled you back, forced your body into movement, into survival. But you were too exhausted for that. Too worn down to react in time. So instead, you simply closed your eyes. Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe it was a hallucination, your mind folding in on itself again, misplacing sound and motion into something dramatic just to fill the silence. Or maybe it was a car. Or maybe none of it mattered anymore.

A quiet, almost absurd thought drifted through you: Maybe you’d see him in hell. And maybe, when you did, he’d be there waiting with that same smug little expression, like he’d been expecting you the whole time. Against your better judgment, you smiled at that.

.

.

.

Darkness followed.

And when you opened your eyes, more darkness followed. Dense, suffocating, wrong in a way that made your body feel suddenly, strangely alive.

For a moment, you couldn’t tell if you were awake or simply continuing the fall.

Then you moved. Or tried to. Your body hit something confined, tight space, enclosed, too small to be anything natural. Panic didn’t arrive properly. It was delayed, dulled, like even fear had grown tired of keeping up with you.

So you kicked. Once. Twice. Harder. Again and again.

SMACK.

Wood splintered. Something gave way. The pressure released all at once, and light rushed in like an accusation.

You gasped, dragging air into your lungs as if you were remembering how.

And when your vision finally adjusted-you were somewhere else entirely.

A vast interior. Tall windows stretching upward into impossible heights. Cold light spilling across stone floors. Dozens-no, hundreds-of figures in layered robes, still and watching. The air felt ceremonial. Heavy. Like the world was holding its breath.

At the center stood a man in a bird-like mask. He turned sharply toward you. His presence alone felt like judgment. “This-this is outrageous!” he shouted.

Silence cracked through the room. You blinked.

Haha.

What the fuck.

Is this what hell actually looked like?

Not fire. Not torment. Just… cultists and architecture.

Your gaze drifted down.

You were standing inside what you now realized was a floating tomb, its structure broken open where you had forced your way out, splinters hanging like exposed bone.

“To leave the tombs before I allow it!” the masked man shouted again, voice rising with fury. “Simply outrageous!”

You wiped your mouth, still trying to catch up to reality. You needed answers. Fast. If this was hell, fine. Weird aesthetic choice, but fine. You straightened slightly, squinting at him with exhausted seriousness.

“Oh, Lord Demon!” you called out, attempting what you assumed was the appropriate tone for the situation. “Can you direct me to the person I lost?”

The man froze. “…What?”

we all know jade is a sadist. i feel like that fact is best expressed during sexual intimacy

he’ll edge you for hours, as he loves seeing you squirm as you try to reach your peak, which he holds just out of reach from you

he’ll bite all over your body, some of them being hard enough to bleed and leave incredibly obvious marks

idk about you guys, but i think this guy is into sensory play. specifically sensory deprivation—he’ll have your hands tied above you, a blindfold on, and a gag in your mouth

he’ll tease all along your body, his fingers barely grazing over your skin. enough for you to feel, but nowhere near enough for it to be sustainable

i think he’d also be into breath play. his hand lightly pressing on your neck, making it even harder to breathe than it already is, due to his relentless stimulation on your abused pussy

you want his cock? beg for it. you want his mouth? beg for it. you want his fingers? beg for it. hell, you simply want his thigh to grind on? you guessed it—beg for it

he’s definitely not above slapping your ass while he’s plowing you from behind

he’ll have you bent over the nearest surface, or face down ass up on the bed, his cock mercilessly hitting deep inside you. all of a sudden, you feel the harsh impact of his hand on your ass, the slight sting turning you on more

he’ll use mushrooms with aphrodisiac effects on you. he’ll secretly slip them into your food as he cooks, then acts as if you’re a slight nuisance filled with need. little do you know, it’s his fault!

praise and degradation at the same time. “look at you, taking my cock so well.. you’re like my own personal slut.”

i won’t say he wants to have a threesome with you and floyd, but…. he wouldn’t be against it if it were ever brought up

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not very cleanly. Not cleverly. Just desperately. She waited for the right moment, used whatever small advantage she had, and ran—not just from the tweels, but from Night Raven entirely. The kind of escape born from the abuse finally becoming too much to endure.

She would get away…

For a while.

The first months would be pure survival. Looking over her shoulder. Sleeping lightly. Flinching at anyone with blue-ish hair or a too-sharp smile. The contract still exists, even if the other party isn’t currently enforcing it, and that knowledge alone would eat at her. Making ends meet would be difficult... Magicless, with no real connections in this new place she landed, Yuu/MC would most likely end up in the kind of unstable, low-paying work that leaves her exhausted and still barely scraping by.

The tweels, meanwhile, would not simply forget.

Floyd would be restless, irritable, oscillating between rage and a strange, almost mournful boredom… Jade-o would go very quiet and eerily… focused. Azul would be furious about the principle of it, but the tweels’ motivation would be far more personal… They would look for her. Not always loudly, not always obviously—but they would look.

Perhaps years later… when NRC is a distant, ugly memory and the island feels like another life. It happens. Completely unexpectedly. 

Maybe Yuu/MC is coming off a long shift, tired and worn down, mind already halfway checked out, when she hears a familiar voice… maybe she looks up in a crowded street and freezes, the world around her… stops. because two familiar tall figures with matching teal hair are standing across the way, staring at her like they’ve just found something they lost a long time ago.

The reunion would not be kind.

But there would be no dramatic chase through the streets either. No immediate violence. Just the crushing weight of being seen again by the two predators who once owned every part of your life. Floyd would have a wide grin plastered on his face—a little sleazy, and far too pleased. Jade’s reaction would be controlled, but somehow worse. The kind of calm that says he has already decided how this is going to go. Already calculating, as if the years of absence were only ever a temporary inconvenience.

She's struggling. It’s obvious. The tired eyes, the worn clothes, the way she holds herself like someone who has learned to take up as little space as possible. The twins see all of it. And instead of pity… something darker settles in.

Because now they don’t just have the old obsession.

They have proof that she couldn’t make it without them.

Floyd would be the first to close the distance with that same loose, easy gait, like this was nothing more than running into an old friend. Before she could step back, his arm would settle heavily around her shoulders, pulling her in against his side as if she had never left. The gesture would look casual—almost friendly… if not for the way his fingers dug in just a little too firmly, and the way his smile stretched too wide.

He’d laugh, low and delighted, and say something cruelly soft about how skinny their little shrimp had gotten. A nonchalant “Didja miss us?” that didn’t sound like a question at all.

Jade would follow a moment later, more deliberate. His gaze would move over her form slowly as he reminded her, voice even, that the contract never expired. That some debts don’t disappear just because you run. That they have been patient…

That patience has... limits.

The most devastating part is the painful, treacherous pull in Yuu’s/MC's own chest.

The part that still remembers the weight of their “attention”. The part that has been alone and tired and scared for so long that even the suffocating cage that she escaped starts to look like shelter. The part that already knows, with a sick kind of yearning and certainty, that there will be no second escape.

In that universe, some poor and unfortunate souls don’t get to leave for good…

□Jade　ｘ reader

Floyd had lost a game of rock-paper-scissors and grumbled a dissatisfied "Ehh..." as he reluctantly put on a bunny suit, though he continued acting like his usual rough-and-tumble self without missing a beat.

Jade, on the other hand, put on a bunny suit simply to see your reaction. He even sent you a selfie attached with a message: "Wouldn't you like to see this in person?"

You dashed all the way to Mostro Lounge and blurted out, "Is this some kind of aggressive sales tactic?!"

However, by the time you arrived, he was already back in his standard dorm uniform.

"Ah, what a relief," you sighed.

Jade gave you a serene smile and whispered, "We can take our time later, yes?"

His words struck you like a lightning bolt, leaving your mind momentarily dazed and swooning. But quickly pulling yourself together, you shouted, "I never said I wanted to see it!!"

Leaving your voice echoing behind him, Jade walked back to work in high spirits, looking like he couldn’t be happier.

Afterward, claiming he would walk you home, Jade escorted you back to Ramshackle Dorm after finishing his shift. He smoothly invited himself inside and aggressively pushed his hospitality on you, saying, "I'll brew us some tea."

Back in your room, you held your head in your hands, completely lost: I really have no idea what Jade-senpai is ever thinking...

At that very moment, Jade quietly slid into the room—wearing the bunny suit and carrying a tray of delightfully fragrant tea.

Terrified by the sheer absurdity, you burst into tears.

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