asundries

[asundries]

rip asundries

rip asundries. 💔

[asundries]

hello everyone!! i’ve decided to move blogs, since this is a main blog and i’m not having fun logging in and out every time i want to check something on here lol.

i’ll be over at @inkaged from now on !

[asundries]

VISARA. PLEASE. aventurine + YELLOW HYACINTH + evanesce + metanoia AND MY LIFE IS YOURS.

thank you for this request. it’s so apropos. brought to you by the gender envy lamenting i have daily over aventurine.

LIKE BLOOD IN THE SAND, A KISS IS A BRUISE IS ENDURANCE. ⏜⠀ . ⠀⟡

STARRING… ─ aventurine & gn reader. ✁ ... ❝ Aventurine is such a gorgeous, glittering spectacle, it pains you to look at him. He makes you sick with something that can only be akin to desire. ❞ CONTAINS… ─ 1.8k words. angst. not a healthy dynamic. cannibalism as a metaphor for envy? (not graphic, just symbolism). aventurine and reader are both aroacespec coded (by my own experience). crossposted on ao3 (i have some clarification and thoughts in the notes there).

Aventurine captures your attention the moment you lay your eyes on him. 

You’re not special for that, of course. Aventurine captures everyone’s attention—how could he avoid it, with his flaunting, his peacocking. He’s the focal point of any room he walks into, effortlessly; he’s the clean-cut gem catching the light in the center of a museum, boxed in by glass, look, don’t touch. 

But the thing inside is so breakable, and so is its shield; it’s more of a warning than any true protective measure. You will bleed, it cries. I will make you bleed, with my unpolished edges and my broken glass. You will have me, if you escape, but it will hurt.

And you want to. Some strange part of you wants to shatter the case, scrape off your skin, set off the alarms, and run. You want to bleed for him. You want to expose bone. You want to possess what he is, even if it hurts. You think he realizes this every time you hold him, the way you sink your nails a little too deep, but, truthfully, you’re not sure. You can never be sure with him.

You can bite, but I taste bitter.

He’s beautiful, and expensive, in the way only faux things are; aventurine masquerading as jade, pyrite fooling people into thinking it is gold, et cetera. You think that’s the point. You think you love him anyway. 

Bitter, like a toxic plant.

You want to dig your fingers into him the way you would the mud of a gold-filled riverbed. You’re impatient, and go in with your hands instead of a sifter. It’s less lucrative this way, little flecks slipping through your grasp and washing away down the current, but you can feel the weight of the gold, and the mud, and the frigid river water on your palms, and that’s enough of a trade-off. 

Bitter, like rat poison, like vitriol.

Every time he undresses in front of you, you can’t help but think of the space between each bone of his as something to excavate; the honeycomb holes spanning the gaps between each of his ribs and the rain-catcher dips of his collarbone. He tastes like sweet rot when you kiss him pliant, and you can hear something thudding behind the cover-up of those ragged breaths, something to prove he’s still alive beyond his half-hearted grasp on your clothing. 

It makes you nauseous. 

You’re sick at the sound, and you’re sick at the feel. You hate the pressure of his lungs as they expand, and you hate the mellifluous tone that accompanies each breath he takes, like he can’t possibly breathe without saying something. Something important. Loud and clear.

Bitter, like brightness, like a poison label, like the skin of a frog. Don’t touch me, it’ll kill. Neon is nature’s warning.

Your face is tucked into the crook of his neck, buried like a head in the sand. Your hands dig into the fabric of his shirt. You can feel his heart pounding beneath it.

“Is something wrong?” he breathes, taking pause. “If you want, we can—”

“No,” you say, cutting him off. You pull back to look at him for a second. Half of one. His gaze catches on yours. Bright, dead eyes. He’s so disheveled, yet still so effortlessly perfect. 

Something about it makes you feel strange. Hurried. Feverish. You drop your head back against him and close your eyes, trying to erase the image from your mind before it makes you feel even worse.

Bitter, bright, like his gaze on you. 

Your own heart is rapid in your chest, horrible and frantic like a prey animal, but betraying you like a bad dog. He could kill you, right now—his hands could close around your throat, he could flip you over, he could. But you’re the one with yours clenched into fists in his shirt, resting on him, above his most vulnerable places. You should feel powerful, but you feel sick.

Sweet. 

Aventurine is fool’s gold, all unpolished edges and dead fish eyes, and if you did pry that chest open, you would find nothing but a stone heart. You know that much. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say. You decide it’s best to stay where you are, face tucked into the crook of his neck, the closest you can be without truly feeling his heartbeat. You don’t want to look at him. 

His hands run up your back, skittish. “Are you sure?”

Aventurine is such a gorgeous, glittering spectacle, it pains you to look at him. He makes you sick with something that can only be akin to desire.

“Yes,” you say, lips meeting his throat again. “I’m sure.”

You love him. And this is what love is. Enduring. Wanting. Aching. 

Aventurine had captured your heart the moment you laid your hands on him. 

—

Aventurine is used to being seen as an object. 

Truthfully, he can’t do anything about it. An object is an object, and objects can’t just become people, so he takes it into his own hands. If he’s going to be seen as meat, a pretty gem to ogle and leer at and price and buy, that might as well be the point. 

They bet on you because you look good. 

They bet on him because his odds looked good, and his body looked better. 

They bet on him despite the fact his odds were abysmal. One in thirty-five. So it was only his—

You look good.

He believes it now. Because that is now the point, his desire, his intent. He looks good, he thinks. Now, he really, truly does. Not good as in pyrite, and pathetic, and dirt-streaked, and bloodied. But good as in golden, and flashy, and adorned. Truly. 

And the main point of it all, what he goes back to, over and over again: they can’t have it.

Bright like pyrite. Bitter like honey.

—

“What, you don’t trust me?”

Aventurine says the words with such slimy confidence that you don’t want to trust him. He’s all contrivance and reddened, flaky fish scales, the way he smiles at you like he wants something. But you place your hand on his waist to brush past him in his sterile kitchen, and you feel him tense. Almost imperceptibly, but there nonetheless.

“No,” you say, grabbing a glass out of his cupboard, just to see what happens. “Not really.”

He laughs, swirling his own glass of water absentmindedly, staring into the whirlpool it makes like he wants something from it. Like he expects it to swallow him whole instead of vice versa.

He looks at you the same way, you realize. Dreading. You wonder, idly, if he hates it as much as you do.

“Aw, come on,” he drawls. He sounds like he’s jesting, but you knew if you looked back at him his bright eyes would be just like a warning label. “Do you truly have such little faith in my… luck?”

Look, don’t touch. 

He downs the water like it’s something stronger, and sets the empty glass on the marble counter with a loud clink. By the streaky look of the cup, you suspect the water had been sitting out a few days, collecting dust and left to taste like silt.

“I don’t. Your luck is… yours. It’s not mine.”

You get water straight from his fridge’s fancy system, cold enough to hurt without the need for ice. Reluctantly, after bracing yourself, you turn back to look at him. He smiles. Dead eyes. 

“You’re right.”

—

Aventurine thinks about love, and he thinks about playing dead. 

Sometimes, when you hold him, he does that; plays dead, limp in your hands. Pliant, like a softer stone than aventurine is, almost malleable. You always stop touching him; your hands fall away from his waist and your lips leave his neck (which you always kiss on the right side). You always seem relieved when he gives you this excuse. To stop touching him. To pull away, because you’ve held on to something rotting for far too long, and his perfume can no longer mask the smell of iron under his nails or the decomposition in his gut. 

He can’t help it but play dead when he’s afraid: in the bloody river, face down and nearly out of air, drifting away from his sister because any sort of grasp on her hand would give him away; at the poker tables, eyes like a dead fish, boring into the cards like he wants something from them (he does); in the cradle of the Nihility, wading through a river a bit colder than the ones he was used to. He plays dead because playing at being truly alive would be much harder to pull off. 

Your hands are always dry, and always freezing, and they always feel like the sand of Sigonia The desert was always terribly cold at night. 

The desert was Gaiathra Triclops’ body, and the rivers her blood, and the rainfall both a blessing and her tears, and the idea that anything like her is laying their hands upon him again—that golden touch, that good luck, blessings are curses are blessings—makes him feel sick every time. 

When Aventurine thinks about luck, he thinks about the warmth of blood streaking through frigid water. He thinks about heartbeats. The shock of hot and cold and the rush of adrenaline. He thinks about pyrite buried in riverbeds. He thinks about death. 

—

It’s not his luck you want.

Love isn’t feeling sick when you hold someone, and sicker when you kiss them, you know that now. The only thing you can think about when you finally have Aventurine’s fragile ribcage between your grasp, when you hold all that he is—from his leaden lungs to his stone heart—between your hands, is that you want it for yourself.

Not him.

It.

You think about Adam’s rib. You think about breaking it off. You soothe the bruises on Aventurine’s paper-thin skin with a gentle hand. He doesn’t deserve your ire, or your hunger. Or maybe he does, and maybe you’re just a coward. Either way, you can’t bear the idea of bringing that body pain. 

You want, so badly, for it to be yours, that you’re soft with him. Even as you want to bite, even as you want to tear, even as you want to consume and become—you’re as kind as you can be, with your nails sunk deep into the wet sand of him—

You think about Eve’s body, born from a single bone, and you think about what you could be if you had the strength of all of Adam’s extra marrow. You do nothing. Nothing but dig your fingertips into the riverbed; nothing but fish for the pyrite; nothing but stain your fingers with the blood from salmon upstream.

Sweet like honey. Sweet like something rotting. 

Aventurine captures you the moment you realize it isn’t him you want.

[asundries]

HI GERN !! could i request yellow rose, amaranthine + druxy + petrichor with aventurine? hunters evil deeds emoji

YELLOW ROSE:  though valentine’s day is usually centered around romance, there are many types of relationships that deserve to be highlighted and celebrated.

amaranthine  —  undying.

druxy  —  (of wood) having decayed spots or streaks of a whitish color; rotten, decayed.

petrichor  —  the smell of earth after rain.

aventurine backstory spoilers, depictions of fear and injury, angst and retrospection, possible lore inaccuracies, intended as platonic

Aventurine can’t quite remember when he started running. 

It could’ve been when he was only knee high to his older sister, her warm hand combing through his hair, praise and reassurance leaving her mouth in droves. He’d run, and she’d chase him, a cacophony of their shared laughter amidst a simple game of tag. 

Maybe it was when the shouting and panic started to penetrate the walls of childhood ignorance; he’d sneak off as far as he could without worrying anyone, desperate to escape the rising tensions of his homeland, all the while humming a long-forgotten lullaby to pass the time.

On the other hand, it might’ve been when everyone fell lifeless around him - his sister bid him to run, Kakavasha, he believes, and his mother and father’s pleas fell on deaf ears. Aventurine ran then, too. He narrowly avoided the wrath of pointy spears and the fate of his loved ones, weaving deftly between each obstacle before being forced to play dead when the time called for it. 

He finds he remembers those details better - the bad ones - rather than the good memories that continue to elude him, slipping through his fingers like sand.

But he knows for a fact that he can sprint, and that was almost enough to save him. 

And he sprints now, as rain falls from the sky in a torrential downpour. There is only one unshakable instinct carrying him forward: one foot in front of the other, run, Kakavasha. The trees around him are thin and generous enough to provide glimpses of where he’s actually going, flashes of forest floor and springy roots abound. 

He cannot feel if his feet hurt, but one of them feels confined; a dress shoe he was well-fitted for months back remains tightly enclosed about his ankle, stomping through puddles without regard. His other foot is free save for a tattered sock, its matching shoe likely abandoned amongst the elements somewhere behind him. 

Flaxen hair sticks to his forehead, too heavy to flutter in the harsh wind. A nauseous, saccharine taste floods his mouth. He wants to vomit, but just as he did back then, he presses on, leaning into his instincts. There is no burn of exertion because this is the high of adrenaline.

This is the same sensation he gets before taking a big risk, teetering on the precipice of whatever bad outcome is to befall him should he somehow lose. But he never does, and so he bids himself to keep going. 

Rain is lucky. It’s something the gambler intrinsically cherishes wherever his job may lead him, no matter the climate of the planet he’s skulking about. Maybe he’d jokingly call it a vice or a weakness, but that’s something he’d say at a party if he was caught gazing at the light drizzle just outside. The occurrence is lucky, to him, the person sick of fortune and what it leads to. 

That’s what triggered this flight response. The storm on this planet (one he cannot recall the name of now, and cares not to) was brewing long before his arrival.

Trip advisory remains a small part of debriefings, but he was told of the drought. 

“It’s really nothing to worry about, Mr. Aventurine. It hasn’t rained there in almost five weeks now, but it shouldn’t impede your directives; you have my assurance. The locals may be a bit… standoffish, but it’s not like you’re part of the Special Debts Picket Team, haha! Just be aware of the wilting vegetation and depleted resources. It must be quite a depressing sight. Your accommodations are still top notch, however!”

His lackeys certainly agreed, voicing their concerns about the darkening sky and the streets devoid of people. That didn’t matter to him. Why would it, when there is no risk he hasn’t taken?

But when it all came pouring down, it was different. Different how? Aventurine’s heart thundered in his chest - fear so raw that it was isolating and all-encompassing. It dredged up things deep within him, things that were buried so far down he’d be reluctant to call them human. Things so animalistic, so prey-driven, that he up and vanished from the task at hand like a wounded deer. 

The man (if he can even be called that), notices the landscape narrowing further. He’s getting close to something greater, someplace that will be safe from the maw of the past ready to swallow him whole. His shades, along with every other part of his signature wardrobe, have long since been stripped away along with his wayward shoe.

His fur boa that normally lounges across his shoulders is dirtied, yes, but also fraying after it snagged on a protruding branch. Cursing and gulping heaving breaths, Aventurine discards the accessory with haste. It will only slow him down.

He feels like Kakavasha, for the first time in a decade or so. 

When he reaches the illustrious clearing, he slips.

His body connects with a slope after his foray with the air ends. It’s a steep drop; there is still no pain, but a gasp of finality escapes his throat as he tumbles, mud and leaves embracing his form due to the harsh impact. Either way, it cannot and will not be heard. Cold, cold, cold. He lands knee-deep in frigid water, the surface of which being battered with the force of the rain. If his adrenaline is gone, it’s then replaced with shock.

Clumsily dispensed into the prone position, his chin digs into the rocky sediment lining the bottom of the creek while his arms flail outward. He swallows enough of the murky water to cough and hack a few times before his vision goes dark.

He can still hear the rhythmic sound of dripping.

Splat! Splat! Splat!

But this time, the repetitive symphony is deep and clanging, almost metallic. It’s loud, rousing him. When Aventurine opens his eyes, expecting to see that he’s still in the forest somewhere - that assumption is proved wrong. He’s now warm, surrounded by downy blankets boasting knitted patterns. If he stares at the swirls of indigo and black long enough, they dance. Just where is he, and why does it feel like he’s in more danger here than indisposed at the creek?

…is this a dream? It certainly feels like one.

The springy surface beneath him is no doubt a mattress, and when he blinks the remaining bleariness from his vision, his surroundings become even clearer.

A voice startles him.

“Oh. You’re awake, then.”

Aventurine wrenches his head to the side - the bedside - where someone he doesn’t know is perched on an old rocking chair. There’s an expectant but curious look on your face, and the gambler is disconcerted by the fact that he can’t get ahold of himself immediately. He doesn’t speak, mouth drawn open in terrible vulnerability.

“I’d be speechless too. How are you feeling?” you probe, tossing the book you were thumbing through aside. It lands with a thud near a pail that’s attempting to contain a leak plaguing the high, logged ceiling. Aventurine watches the source of the earlier clanging, enraptured. “Do you remember anything?”

Assess the situation and make a move.

“I feel—” he winces at the hoarse quality of his voice, “—fine. Would you mind filling me in? I can’t say I have the best grasp on things at the moment, friend.”

He tries valiantly to save face, clearing his throat before pulling himself up to sit against the headboard. Mercilessly, he’s bombarded with pain. Hot, white needles stab at his lower extremities - the ones still obscured by the blankets. Agony circles and constricts his torso like a vice, the telltale aching of a few broken ribs.

The way you react to his answer is unfavorable. Your lips purse - Aventurine can easily place the look on your face as suspicion. He’s been regarded that way more often than not, and he can’t say it bothers him. He’s practically a living, breathing warning sign for any enemies of the IPC. But it’s not good, not good at all, to be on your bad side after you’ve presumably saved him; not while he’s in your care.

“We’re not friends,” you correct. “And I found you on my property, floating in the bank behind my cabin.” Hopping off your rocking chair and standing, you sweep your arms out as if to show him around.

Once you notice him adjusting again, you snap, “Hey! You’re lucky to be so unscathed, boy. Quit moving or else you’ll make it worse.”

“Sorry, sorry,” the blond chuckles, trying to disarm. There are bandages winding around the full length of his arms, the (most likely) mangled remnants of his clothes replaced with a plain undershirt. Aventurine suddenly mourns the loss of his gloves. His hands are on full display, having been bared to himself and to you.

Faded scars mar the skin around his knuckles, similar abrasions littering his palms. Calluses that will never smooth pool around his fingertips. 

Look how much you know about him already. 

Aventurine will not run again, even if Kakavasha is screaming at him to do so. He already has to deal with the fallout of his… uncharacteristic outburst. “I’m here on business, to put it plainly. Seems I got caught up in the downpour and got lost.”

It’s the best thing he can come up with to tell you, one of the “standoffish” locals. He stuffs his hands under the covers and quilts to hide them from view; when he does so, he also feels the scratchiness of gauze around his legs. Being indebted is never a good feeling, even though it’s something he experiences every waking moment. Aventurine knows you’ve saved him… and he knows you’ll, humanly, want something in return.

“Let’s just say I believe that,” you mutter. “I treated you the best I could, but it’s not much. Medical supplies have been scarce around here lately. Your torso’s pretty busted up, and you have a swollen ankle. I dunno how you were so fortunate, but you’ll need to see a doctor as soon as possible.” 

“Thank you. To whom do I owe the pleasure…?”

Silence. The tattoo on his neck burns.

You, with crossed arms, observe him again - this time from head to toe. Your scrutiny takes in his dull, multicolored eyes and his guarded posture. You’re a sharp one, for ostensibly nobody.

“It’s probably better if you don’t know my name. You’re not from around here, and you must’ve been running fast to end up face down in the rough like a corpse. I saw the tracks leading up to where you fell.” A strike of lightning and subsequent thunder punctuates your sentence, exacerbating the roof leak. The pail takes a beating trying to collect the new runoff, quickly filling. 

“But if I had to guess who you are,” you turn your back to him, making sure the thing doesn’t overflow. “You’re the rain-bringer. Hah!”

Aventurine understands you’re just joking, that you’re playfully chalking the termination of the drought up to the appearance of a bizarre stranger. The timing would get a laugh out of anyone. 

Well, anyone but him, that is. 

The man scorched by possibility finds it in himself to say nothing. He watches as you flit around the enclosed space - the cabin being about the size of a public restroom. You’re stoking the fireplace, then you’re up again to bring the wood-burning stove to life. 

“You’ve been out for a day at most, goldilocks. Once the storm lets up and the phones start to work, I’ll call the town doctor, and you can call your people. They must be worried, yeah? I made you something to eat earlier, but I…”

Aventurine tunes out after that. Despite the pressing concern that Diamond and his subordinates will be vexed by him going AWOL out of nowhere, he’s an asset for a reason. Even without taking his infernal blessing into account, he trusts his intuition. He’ll be okay in your hands - at least for the time being.

He doesn’t have a choice.

event post here. network members only!

[asundries]

⸻ LOOKS LIKE YOU’VE GOT MAIL… !

⸻ STELLARONHVNTERS PRESENTS: LOVE LETTERS !

The season of love is upon us—happy Valentine’s Day ! Love Letters is a themed prompt/request event. Send participating hunters a prompt & your selection of 1-3 inspiring words from our list, and they’ll write something short for you ! DURATION : feb 1st - feb 13th. On the 14th, all completed letters will be compiled in a single envelope and posted to the network blog !

HOW TO PARTICIPATE?

Reblog this post with the characters you’re willing to write for, send some requests to fellow rebloggers, and wait for the same—that’s it ! Please do NOT reblog if you aren’t going to participate. Reblogging this post is confirmation you’re open to requests for this event! Only members of STELLARONHVNTERS are allowed to send/write letters. We encourage you to use this opportunity to reach out to members you haven’t before! There’s no limit to how many requests you can send, but please be courteous, and remember they are not obligated to complete yours! Letters should be a minimum of 200 words and a maximum of 2000—keep it short and (maybe bitter…) sweet!

Remember to tag your letters with #hvntersloveletters !

PROMPTS:

( 💌 ) — YELLOW ROSE: though valentine’s day is usually centered around romance, there are many types of relationships that deserve to be highlighted and celebrated. ( ❤️ ) — IRIS: promises are just words unless they can actually keep them. ( 🧺 ) — DAFFODIL: you’re not sure if they love you back or not, but either way, some part of you will always be theirs. ( 🦢 ) — PURPLE LILAC: they’re falling first, and falling hard. ( 🌹 ) — RED TULIP: they’ve been waiting to confess for a long time—now’s their chance. ( 💌 ) — BLUE HYACINTH: you may just be idealistic, but you’ll always hold out hope for a future with them, no matter how long it’s been. ( 💔 ) — BOUQUET: what could the bouquet in your hands possibly symbolize? ( 🧺 ) — DAHLIA: both of you are dressed to the nines, going out to celebrate valentine’s day and one another however you see fit. ( 🦢 ) — VOLKAMERIA: watching from the pews as they marry their soulmate, you wonder if fate has a cruel sense of humor. ( 🌹 ) — PINK HYACINTH: who can kiss the other the most today? ( 💌 ) — CHRYSANTHEMUM: saying your final goodbyes on the undisputed day of love is ironic. ironic… but fitting. ( ❤️ ) — CHICORY: who needs money to have a good time? ( 🧺 ) — PURPLE HYACINTH: seems that you accidentally ruined their romantic grand gesture! quick, make up for it! ( 🦢 ) — RUE: misunderstandings, misunderstandings… ( 🌹 ) — FORGET-ME-NOT: it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. ( 💌 ) — OLEANDER: you know your baking is mediocre at best, but they still endeavor to taste your creation, despite how their eyes may water or how ugly their face may scrunch up. ( 💔 ) — YELLOW HYACINTH: do you actually want them, or do you want to be them? ( 🧺 ) — WALLFLOWER: they planned on taking you on a picnic, but the rain started pouring as soon as you placed down the blanket. ( 🦢 ) — VENUS’ LOOKING GLASS: they don’t usually flirt with you quite this much… ( 🌹 ) — HONEYSUCKLE: they’re making it a point to show you just how much you mean to them.

WORDS:

(These are mostly here for vibe purposes! It’s more about the association of the words’ meanings together than the words themselves—have fun with it!)

accismus —  an ironic rhetorical device, in which one feigns indifference, or makes a pretense of refusing something one desires. aeipathy  —  an enduring and consuming passion. amaranthine  —  undying. anagapesis  —  loss of feelings for someone. apricity  —  the warmth of the sun in winter. cafune  —  running fingers through a loved one’s hair. catharsis  —  emotional release. charmolypi  —  the joy that emerges out of sadness, and (conversely) the sadness that merges out of joy: an integrated feeling that cannot exist without both sorrow and joy, dwelling together and giving rise to each other. cicatrize  —  heal by forming scar tissue. clement  —  mild, gentle, or merciful nature. clinquant  —  shiny and glittery; showy. cordiform  —  heart-shaped. coruscate  —  to give off light; to reflect in flashes; to sparkle.  druxy —  (of wood) having decayed spots or streaks of a whitish color; rotten, decayed. ebullience  —  a boiling or bubbling up; (figuratively) the quality of enthusiastic or lively expression of feelings and thoughts. eunoia  —  goodwill towards an audience, either perceived or real; the perception that the speaker has the audience's interest at heart. evanesce  —  disappear gradually; vanish; fade away. feuillemort  —  of the color of dead or dying leaves; dull yellowish or orangish brown. indelible  —  incapable of being lost or forgotten. iridescence  —  exhibition of colors like those of the rainbow; a prismatic play of color. kalon  —  the ideal of physical and moral beauty. kalopsia  —  the delusion of things being more beautiful than they are. laconic  —  using as few words as possible; pithy and concise. lacuna  —  a gap or absence in understanding.  litost  —  a state of torment created by the sudden sight of one’s own misery. lucent  —  emitting light; shining; luminous. mellifluous  —  flowing like honey; sweet, smooth and musical; pleasant to hear (generally used of a person's voice, tone or writing style). metanoia  —  a fundamental change of mind. niveous  —  snowy; resembling snow. paracosm  —  a detailed imaginary world. petrichor  —  the smell of earth after rain. redamancy  —  the act of loving in return. reverie  —  a state of dreaming while awake; a loose or irregular train of thought; musing or meditation; daydream. sanguine —  confident and helpful; a blood-red color. saudade —  an emotional state of melancholic or profoundly nostalgic longing for a beloved yet absent something or someone. selcouth —  strange, unusual, rare; unfamiliar; marvellous, wondrous. serein —  light rainfall from a cloudless sky after sunset. serendipity —  a combination of events which have come together by chance to make a surprisingly good or wonderful outcome. sonder —  the profound feeling of realizing that everyone, including strangers passing in the street, has a life as complex as one's own, which they are constantly living despite one's personal lack of awareness of it. taciturn —  silent; temperamentally untalkative; disinclined to speak.

EXAMPLE:

could i request (prompt) + (word), (word), (word) for (character)? thank you!!

[asundries]

i must admit, i am not used to writing for aventurine, so i really do hope my other ask is to your standards.

- 🕸️

what. WHAT!!! THAT’S CRAZY I THINK YOUR CHARACTERIZATION OF HIM IS SO GOOD???? of COURSE it is to my standards. i’m still losing my mind. your writing is so wonderful thank you so much

[asundries]

Superstition was a fool’s comfort. Of course, there were those who would swear by their rituals, insisting that the connection between their crossed fingers and the good news they were delivered was beyond coincidence, but Aventurine knew better.

He never bothered with such trivialities. There was the logical part of it, the fact that he didn’t need a four-leafed clover or a silver horseshoe to sweeten his odds. With a combination of shrewdness, quick wit, and good-old-fashioned luck on his side, lucky charms and trinkets became obsolete.

Beyond that though, their very existence grated on his nerves. How naive did one have to be, to hope that simple gestures and empty hope could turn their chances over? The thrill of triumph is plenty rewarding, without attributing the victory to something so inconsequential. He plays to win, and every win is his, and his alone.

When you sit at his table, with a coin tucked between your index finger and thumb, he already has a sneaking suspicion, but he asks the question anyway.

“A good-luck charm?” Aventurine lazily points to the coin. You nod, and he stops himself from rolling his eyes. Part of him is glad you stopped at his table, if only so he can earn the sharp satisfaction of watching your face fall when you realize you’ve lost. It’s petty, he knows, but he has to direct the bitterness somewhere.

Another round, another flash of cards, another clink of chips, another win. He collects his prize, looking over to you. Most of the table has left, but you remain, rubbing the metal of your coin like it is the most precious thing in the universe. To you, it probably is.

When you look up though, he is taken aback by the glint in your eye. It’s fiery, slightly manic, and far too familiar for comfort. You look at the cards like they’re gold, the chips like they’re your lifeline, and the coin like it’s the only thing you have left.

You unnerve him, through and through. But he can’t help himself from pushing forward.

“Shall we play one more round?”

There’s a hunger to his movements, that the refreshments at the bar won’t quell. Aventurine is a man starved, sat at a table piled high with food, and a stomach that will never feel full. He can fill his plate and devour it all, but the only taste left in his mouth will be ash and regret.

Looking back at him, you seem to be just as hungry, but not quite empty. There is no rush, no need to your actions. The want in your eyes is not desperation nor greed. Just simple, human desire.

You want the win, he can tell. Your teeth flash in a grin as you place down your cards, sharpened and ready to feast on your rewards. “I believe I win.”

It’s a good hand. A really good hand. In a normal game, against anyone else, you would have won without a doubt, but Aventurine doesn’t play games to lose. He smiles, and smiles, and his expression doesn’t waver; not even as he reveals his hand. “Not quite.”

He expects disappointment. He expects anger. He expects to see your face fall, and your fists clench, and your eyes to well with tears. He does not expect to watch as your face breaks out in a smile, and laughter to pour from your throat.

“Well, there’s always the next game, right?” You grin at him from across the table.

Aventurine observes you for a long time, before nodding. “Yes, of course.”

Interesting, indeed.

- 🕸️

OH MY GODDDDDD 🕸️ I’M ACTUALLY LOSING IT THIS IS SOSOSOSO GOOD WHAT IN THE WORLD. i read the first paragraph and then actually had to roll around in my bed for like five minutes before i could calm down enough to read the whole thing. I’M LOSING IT. 🕸️ i love you THANK YOUUUUU

when i first saw your ask on rainswept i dmed one of my friends because i was terrified & thought i was about to receive bad news. so upon logging in here and realizing it was Not Bad News and actually an Amazing Piece of Writing. i accidentally got my live reaction to reading the fic captured as well. my honest reaction (literally):

UGHHH THE DIRECT CONTRAST BETWEEN READER AND AVENTURINE TOOOO... they both have similar end goals of course and both believe they will Win……… but reader wants to and aventurine needs to. the way they’re portrayed as familiar and similar yet with such different wants backing them both, and and snd URTGHGHHHH i just. oh my gof im goijg insane i love this so much HELLO

“and every win is his, and his alone” I’M GOING TO DIE!!!!! I UUEHEUUGFUHUFHHAAAUUHHH YESSS BECAUSE he’s clawed his way up out of everything himself. he has fought and fought snd fought for Himself snd ohhh my god. the bitterness. It’s so good. of course he would be. he deserves it. as a treat. i’m going to lose my mind

the repetition of “he plays to win” and “aventurine doesn’t play games to lose.” MY GOD

AND THE HUNGER THING OH MY GOD. YOU GETTTT HIM. THAT’S SOSOSOSOSO REAL. a stomach that would never feel full ANON I’M CATAPULTING MYSELF INTO THE NIHILITY RN. ASH AND REGRET? like a burning planet/? haha. HAHA. HA AAAU8UGGHHHHH

the use of the word unnerve. the fact his ultimate in the game leaves a debuff called “unnerved”. i don’t know if that was intentional but that’s such a nice little detail.

i have so much to say. too much. i need to gather my brain’s pieces up off of the floor first and then i will probably say more. this is so good.

if you couldn’t tell i loved it. Thank you. I am in your debt.

[asundries]

WEATHERED, WHETHER WARMED OR SEARED. ⏜⠀ . ⠀⟡

STARRING… ─ firefly & gn reader. ✁ ... ❝ She knew you’d say that, too. You always do, as if it is a new, wondrous revelation each time, not a habit both of you have fallen into time and time again (just as that very sentence is as well—again and again. She hears you coming and then she can hear it in her mind, far sooner than you actually speak it. I thought I’d find you here. You knew you’d find her here). ❞ CONTAINS... ─ 2.1k words. bittersweet. intended as platonic. this is a secret santa fic for the wonderful @singularity-sam — i hope you have an amazing day filled with whimsy and cheer!! i haven’t written for firefly before, so i hope i did her justice. (i guess it’s a perfect time to start — merry christmas and happy rerun day to her as well!!)

Firefly is no stranger to extremes. 

First, there is the cold. 

Her “birth”, unnatural. Her bones felt like metal buried, rain-worn, marrow soft and skin so fragile, barely fully formed by the time her face breached the world. The artificiality of the engineered amniotic fluid she was adrift in for her first many moments was cold, so too the walls of that false egg, and the floor beneath her feet, and the exoskeleton she is ill-fitted with, and the spindly long-nailed fingers of the Empress, the first living thing she ever touched.

Nothing alive should be that cold, really. And neither should any start of life be so frigid and impersonal. 

It stays cold for a while. Then, engulfing, all-encompassing, there is the hot laving of fire. 

The stars do not stand still, nor are they unyielding. Infinitely, they dance and sway behind the rippling of the hot air rising off her burning world. Fyreflies are vastly brighter, to her, yet they emit no warmth. The stars must be freezing, too. 

There is never anything between this hot and cold. There is no soothing cool, and no comforting warmth, and anything lukewarm is simply the manifestation of her sensation’s atrophy under the relentless pressure of frigidity or torrid heat. Only ever extremes.

— —

Firefly’s body always hurts a bit more when winter comes. There is little she can do to warm herself, really; there is the cold metal of her armor and the enveloping flames of activating it, but that is only painful in another way. 

Even so, it’s more bearable in the comfort of a home. There will forever be a lingering ache, but the heat from a fireplace, from the warmth of people she’s begun to—in her mind only—call family, is much better than the all-engulfing flames she knows otherwise. She sits back on the couch and stares holes into the smoldering wood. 

On the days where Firefly can’t do much, she reminisces. 

The Stellaron Hunters, namely you, were the first lukewarm thing that she had ever felt. It’s a strange comparison to make—happiness and safety with something so seemingly mediocre, but it works. The twists and turns of different people, like moods, like temperatures—Kafka’s welcoming, warm; Blade’s taciturnity, cool; Elio’s… kindness, in his offer, a bit of both; Silver Wolf’s playfulness (fun, if a little tiring), warm again, for the most part; your… well, she didn’t know what to make of you at first, so she couldn’t say for sure—without ever falling too far into extremes. 

It’s funny, really, how such a bland feeling brought her such comfort; the sensation of nothing at all, yet no sort of emptiness to be found. It was nothing like that constricting egg, or the hard armored body she typically resides in. There is a softness in the holding of hands, in the holding of people, so unlike the harsh conditions of her life as it has been. She’s content.

“How are you doing?” you ask, peeking your head in through the cracked-open door. 

Firefly turns to look at you. “I’m okay, thank you.”

Her eyes immediately fall from your face to the tray you’re carrying. It’s wooden, handles notched in the sides, filled with food and drink (namely, two mugs of what she assumes is hot cocoa, one with marshmallows and the other with whipped cream), and decorated with festive additions on every square inch of space that is not already occupied by some sort of snack. It’s overkill, but it’s sweet. She smiles, and wonders how you managed to bring it all the way here without spilling something.

You set the tray down on the coffee table. She glances at it briefly—she doesn’t need to eat or drink much, but the gesture is kind, and she appreciates the thought nonetheless.

“Do you feel any better?” you ask, gently nudging the blanket she’s using closer to her so you can sit. She pulls her legs back a bit to give you more room. The couch dips beneath your weight and pulls her a bit closer anyway.

“I’m still sort of tired,” she says, picking up her drink and blowing on it. “But I do, a little.”

You smile. “That’s good. You worked hard. You deserve the rest.”

When she brings it to her mouth to take a sip, it’s just as she suspected—hot chocolate, no bitterness at all, nearly even too sweet. But it’s not hot, really—the temperature is perfect. Warm. 

——

Firefly was surprised the day she learned stars burned. If fyreflies gave off no warmth, yet still shone brighter than the sun, then stars surely paled in comparison to their beauty—such gentle, giving light, without the need for any destruction at all. A living thing. Fleeting. 

She knows stars will burn out, too. But it’s much slower. And you cannot hold a star in your hand, cannot feel a star illuminating every proof-of-having-lived line of your open palm, cannot choose whether to crush it or hold it close. Some say the beauty of life lies in the ephemerality of it. Sometimes Firefly agrees. Other times she thinks about how horribly unfair that is, that beautiful things should be allowed to last forever, that fyreflies should not die three days after their creation, that flowers should not wilt the moment they are cut from the stem. But that is only two extremes. Human life is much more intricate. The line of thought is irrational regardless.

She tilts her head back and lets her sight be swallowed by the darkness of the light-polluted sky. She narrows her eyes, gaze a little blurry focused so far away, and thinks she would prefer the company of a fyrefly to the stars. But they don’t exist for her anymore, not where she is now; they are fleeting, just as she is, and most perished in that all-engulfing flame. Though she moves around so very much, she has never seen another anywhere else in recent years. 

So, in their absence, she sits on the roof every night and stares out—the city lights of wherever she’s staying often obscure them, render them hazy in the swirl of candied ink and over-used paper, but she swears something in their scattered, hand-written lines speak to her regardless. Like the purpose-filled existence of every short-lived fyrefly, burning brightly before its destined end. 

The harsh scent of gasoline from the city is cloying, even from afar on the lone rooftop. The thickness of it is like stagnant smoke in her lungs, but the wintry night air flowing in from somewhere farther away—almost scentless, but damp with melted snow and crisp with re-forming frost—washes it away until it’s nothing but a distant memory. 

Snowfall is a lot like the cascade of ash. Hot enough and the heat feels frigid, freezing enough and the cold feels like fire—either way, what they have in common, hand-in-hand, face-to-face, is that they are extremes. Two sides of the same coin. The wind blows her hair away from her face, and as it carries in more snow-sodden clouds for the wintry sky to cry from, Firefly feels a snowflake alight upon her nose.

She brushes it away, and tears her gaze from the vastness of it all. She takes a deep breath and looks towards the small-in-comparison harbor instead. She watches the boats go by, the dancing light on their decks, the waving sky’s reflections in their wake, muted stars rippling like echoes in the hull-churned surface. It can be lonely, but it’s also peaceful, calming in a way nothing else is, from summer’s cloying night heat to winter’s biting cold, and back and forth, and again, and again. It’s become routine, no matter the city. You joining her has, too. (Which may, admittedly, be the reason it isn’t so lonely at all.)

Firefly wrings her fingers out, a bit cold by now, sighs, and cracks her knuckles one by one. She hears your footsteps along the rainswept roof long before she sees you.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

She knew you’d say that, too. You always do, as if it is a new, wondrous revelation each time, not a habit both of you have fallen into time and time again (just as that very sentence is as well—again and again. She hears you coming and then she can hear it in her mind, far sooner than you actually speak it. I thought I’d find you here. You knew you’d find her here).

She smiles. “You always do.”

There is no part of the script that says anything of this, implicit or explicit, but it happens over and over again regardless: Firefly steps out onto the roof to watch the stars, and you follow approximately fifteen minutes later, just in time for her to begin to feel the chill. (Though she could easily don her armor and chase the cold away herself, she finds that same familiar comfort in allowing you to do it for her.) You say “I knew I’d find you here”, and she says “You always do.” 

Or something similar, of course, as this was indeed not part of the script. Sometimes the same, sometimes with a roughness in your voice that comes only with the lingering disruption of sleep, sometimes a bit more exasperated if she promised to stay inside that night to rest. Either way, you are never upset for long, really.

“It’s windy,” you say, slowly sitting yourself down next to her, careful not to slip on the shingles. “And wet. You’re not cold?”

The unmistakable hint of disdain for the weather in your voice makes Firefly laugh. 

“Cold? A little.”

You take that as an excuse to inch closer. She doesn’t mind. Not at all.

You take her hand, fingers running over her cold ones, clutching them between your palms until you seem satisfied that they’re warmed. Even then, you continue to hold her.

“They’re pretty,” you murmur, gaze casted up at the little sliver of sky still visible through the encroaching clouds. “The stars.”

She nods. “They are. I wish you could see a Fyrefly—they’re sort of like little stars. They’re truly beautiful.”

You turn to her, a grin on your face. “…Aren’t you one?” 

“That’s… not what I meant.”

“I know. But you light up a room enough to be one, I’d say.”

She rolls her eyes, but that smile, that genuinely warm one that comes with the breaking off of a laugh, still tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Light up a room? What, with Sam’s flames?”

“Mhm. Yeah, totally.”

Your head falls against her shoulders, your arms encircling her side. She lets her cold cheek rest against your hair. It’s a strange feeling, no matter how many times it happens, no matter how many quiet nights you and her spend like this, so closely entwined, the same sky envisioned—it surprises her each time, the gentleness of it, the tenderness she feels in your arms. It’s soft, in contrast to tile floors and metal bodies and spindly fingers. The wind blows harder, and with it comes more snow in flurries, tangling in her hair and settling on her skin, melting upon it. You giggle softly, undeterred, and hug her tighter. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to go back inside?” she asks when you begin to shiver. “I don’t think the snow is going to stop anytime soon.”

“Not until you do.”

“You seem colder than me, though.”

“So?”

“So… why stay out here with me? I don’t want you to freeze.”

You sigh, eyes fluttering closed. A snowflake lands on your eyelash, and she resists the urge to brush it away. “You’ve asked that before.”

“I know,” she says. “You’ve never answered.”

You look up at her then.

“Because I want to, Firefly.”

And it has nothing to do with destiny. Nothing about these moments were ever scripted, nor would they ever be. It was your choice, and it was hers, time and time again. That’s what made it so wonderful.

She knows she should go back inside soon, that she should settle back into her armor and truly rest—she’s been out of it for a while, and it’s probably taking a toll, and she should allow her body to recuperate. But that should be on her terms, too. And, strangely, she’s in a lot less pain than normal, so, for now…

“Can we stay here a bit longer?”

“Of course.”

In your presence, the cold eases just a bit, and when you hold her… Even outside in the midst of winter, Firefly feels something akin to warmth. 

With you, it’s never in the extremes.

[asundries]

⠀⠀⠀⠀# 𝓐𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 ﹒⎯⎯ ⠀a⠀ clean ⠀YA ⠀short ⠀story ⠀collection ⠀written ⠀by ⠀RAINSWEPT, published ⠀by ⠀STELLARONHVNTERS.⠀⊹ ˖ ⠀

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♪ : i tried so hard to be good⠀⠀by the paper chase

[asundries]

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[asundries]

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[asundries]

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