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harmonysanreads · 6 hours
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Sunday, my guy, you're not even trying to escape the Yandere allegations. Living in an extravagant maze-like prison of a mansion? Having a miniature dreamscape-esque sandpit where a person can shrink in size? Your strange fixation with nightingales? Your weird voodoo powers that make you look more like a cult leader? People are calling you a control-obsessed maniac who lives off of manipulation to your face and you're just... standing there, blinking? Really, dude, are you just begging to be adopted by the fic writers?
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harmonysanreads · 7 hours
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On the bright side, my biggest win out of Penacony is getting to hear my favorite characters say my name 😇
Aventurine? More like ANGSTTURINE.
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harmonysanreads · 9 hours
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SPOILERS
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This is apparently Aventurine's true feelings about himself??? I am unwell.
Aventurine? More like ANGSTTURINE.
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harmonysanreads · 11 hours
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spoiler for 2.1 quest !!
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a lil yandere thought.... since this scale model thingy is owned by sunday.... contains objectification (kinda? aven calls you his doll)
i'm thinking of him baiting his darling to enter, reassuring them that it'll be safe and he can help you out, and once your body shrinks, sunday chuckles at your confused and panicked face, gently and slowly scooping you up like you're a little sparrow who lost their way.
"this way, it will be easier for me to keep you—sshhh, don't flail around like that, darling, or you might fall,"
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ah, this could work for aventurine too.... he'd use your tiny body as a personal doll—dressing you up in the fanciest of clothes and accessories, cooing at your pointless struggle as you try to hit his arm.
"look at you, my doll... so beautiful and adorable! hey, i could put you in my pocket and bring you to the casino as my lucky charm—what do you say, hm?"
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or veritas... he could use you as a model for his sculptures, maybe even create a little miniature house for you along the way to make sure you wouldn't try to escape.
"stay still, will you?" the doctor says, humming in satisfaction as he places a laurel wreath atop your smaller head, "there, now no one will mistake you as a simple figurine,"
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harmonysanreads · 13 hours
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im SICK about 2.1 im blowing up
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harmonysanreads · 13 hours
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Awsvyddhiwgsu I didn't even realize I typed Ayato instead of Arlecchino *face palms*
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*kneels down*
HAAH WHA??? HELLO? SOMEONE PLEASE PINCH ME AM I DREAMING????????
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Okay okay... I'm done screaming irl, this is?? I'm lost for words how beautiful it is???? I just woke up so I'm having a hard time processing reality (I legitimately screamed and now my mom is looking at me with a lot of concern) I wish I could be more eloquent but I'm just floored from how moved I am. Wdym "kneels down" I'd have you sit on a throne if I could :< RIP that friend who doesn't even have a name, you died a tragic death but at least it gave us exquisite content ✨
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harmonysanreads · 13 hours
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yan aventurine being able to immediately identify sparkle as imitating your likeness because not even she can replicate the contempt you regard him with.
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harmonysanreads · 15 hours
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Zuri's Declassified University Survival Guide
This is a post about survival tips in university (undergraduate), especially if you're an international student living alone in a different country in this circumstance. I will be adding onto this later on if there's something I want to add, so keep an eye out for update reblogs of this I guess.
General Tips:
it's okay to make mistakes. you are here to learn and grow. no one is perfect, especially in the first and second year of their studies. those are mandatory experimental years. you're not expected to get magically mature and perfect when you get to university (or college for you americans). be kind to yourself and analyse your mistakes instead of beating yourself over them.
don't bother too much about your wardrobe. just wear whatever's comfortable. you might think people care but no one does. more than half of the people at campus will be in sweats or pyjamas and if someone IS dressed up, they're probably arts kids or business majors and they're the ones with the least workload (yes i am dissing you guys I've seen your workloads stop lying).
put yourself in uncomfortable social situations. yes i said that. the only reason i somewhat learnt to make small talk and learnt to talk to strangers is because I go to every single social event that I can. it's not necessary to make friends in all of them. just talk to people, exchange contacts, laugh while the event lasts even if you never see them again. this is how you survive in the lonely dorm life. and if you make an actual good friend? amazing! it paid off. even if it didn't you'll probably network and build rapport and have acquaintances from different majors.
if you're an ethnic minority, don't be afraid. I cannot stress this enough. don't be afraid to be there and take up space. you are there because you deserve to be and qualified. sure, it sucks at times because a good amount of people won't interact with you because you're 'different' but the international students will and trust me they're the coolest bunch to be friends with (I have 0 such friends so far). most times you will have to take the initiative to talk and sometimes they won't respond or worse flat out ignore you but don't let that get you down. just don't interact with them again. the world is big. not everyone will like you and accept you. find the ones that will.
eggs and milk are your best friend. a glass of milk everyday and 2 eggs. make that a staple. eggs are also very versatile for recipes. more on that in the recipes section. also yoghurt. a smol cup of yoghurt everyday too and nuts whenever you can buy them.
always have a few pack of instant noodles at home. sometimes you have deadlines or you forgot to cook or need a quick dinner because there's so much to do and you didn't get groceries. always keep them in stock. they're a quick fix for food. I'm not promoting them for frequent dinner but it's better than starving. just eat the noodles man. there's already so much shit to keep track of just eat the damn noodles.
incorporate veggies into everything food. they're good for you. if you're like me and don't like veggies, experiment with different recipes and find the one you like best. one good way is fried rice or rice with mushrooms, veggies, and meat in the rice cooker (I don't own a rice cooker when I'm writing this). just eat your veggies and thank me later. if you don't wanna cut them up, get a pack of frozen veggies. it's better than nothing. baby steps.
meal plan. if I don't plan my entire week's food on sunday night, I do it the night before for the next day. eat out as less as you can. homemade is better even if you're a horrible cook. practice makes perfect and you'll be grateful for learning a few basic cooking skills along with your degree later on. cooking your own food also gives you the liberty to add more veggies or save money.
treat yourself to stuff sometimes. yes you deserve it even if you don't meet your goals. you're trying. be kind to yourself. get that boba.
study everything done the week by that week's weekend. do the day's content that same day and don't lag behind. utilise reading week and read. don't slack off please I'm begging you. I'll even get on my knees if I have to.
you're gonna miss home and it sucks. yes you will be having your fourth mental breakdown of the week on a wednesday night and you will be alone or hiding under the blanket as your roommate is asleep. you're gonna have to tough it out soldier. I see you and I feel you. it gets easier with time and when you're doing better, you'll feel relieved for toughing through. it's so lonely sometimes and it sucks but it's worth the pain. don't lose hope.
seniors are your friends. they will give you forbidden knowledge for free. from hidden places with good food or convenience things or just life advice exclusive to your institute, they have it all. they're also generally very friendly so don't be afraid to interact with them.
annoy the living hell out of your professor during office hours if need be and utilise the student help room for help. your tutors will be happy to help you so don't be shy to ask for help. they will appreciate you coming to them, trust me. as for your professor, they're lonely people. go to office hours if you need to, chat, ask them what you need. they'll appreciate your presence and happily help you.
the security guards and cleaning staff will be witnesses to your worst states (freshly out of bed or haven't showered in 2 days) but they don't care. they're just happy to be of service and have you around. be kind to them. greet them whenever you pass by.
sometimes coffee is bad.
if your classes start at noon or later, get an hour of exercise in the morning at around 8 or 9 am. the serotonin that will hit you will be unreal. trust me.
make local friends. they're cool people and friendly and very helpful and accommodating. I may be biased but it's true.
being a student helper, student tutor, or a research assistant looks good on your resume and helps you win more scholarships.
put headphones on when in public if you don't want to end up talking to someone you might bump into. it works.
your body also has rights. treat it with care. don't abuse it. nourish it. you should take care of your body like you would a loved one. feed it good things, clean it everyday, and so on. when you feel good by taking care of yourself, you still do better and feel more confident. wash your hair with a set schedule and use good products.
make your wardrobe easier. hang your usual shirts and maybe wear the one in front each day, the previous day's being hung in the back or in the laundry basket. it saves time.
there's no shame in not having stuff. I still don't own a proper laundry basket it all goes into an IKEA bag. you live in a dorm, not a house. sometimes not having every single kind of furniture or accessory isn't bad. don't compare your setup to others. if it's convenient, clean, and homey, it's good. you don't need those expensive lights or those expensive posters to make it seem cool. what you have and what you may collect among the way is enough.
notes on paper are better than laptop or ipad
take breaks. be kind to yourself. it is you for yourself. treat yourself with love.
manage your time by designating time blocks to a certain task. it might not always work but it will help create some discipline in the routine.
having a set everyday routine helps. you don't have to think what to do, thus saving you brain power.
use a semester planner for deadlines and important information. it's useful. I highly recommend. I also have a template if anyone wants.
write down your thoughts, what's bothering you, your feelings, everything on a piece of paper or journal at the end of the day. it'll help process your emotions and you won't have to let the thoughts and emotions fester inside you, slowly simmering and coming to a boil. remember, you are your best friend.
Recipes to help you stay afloat (they're all quick and easy dw):
right off the bat I want to say boiled jasmine rice with sunny side up eggs. you drizzle a pinch of salt onto the yolk, break it over the rice, mix it with the rice and eat it and it's just *chef's kiss*. definitely a comfort food and a very easy quick dinner.
a lot of these I found while scrolling through instagram and some are from when I was trying to lose weight. hope they're helpful!
oyakodon
one pot rice cooker rice with veggies
veggie and meat single serve in one pot
chicken wrap (primarily for weight loss I think)
chicken gyros (this guy makes amazing food)
minced meat weight loss meal prep
chickpeas (chana masala. this shit is bussin i swear)
something tomato + onion + egg
one pot veggie rice (recommended)
chicken shawarma (not dorm friendly cooking but looks delicious)
egg sandwich in one pan
potato marraka (THIS IS SO GOOD)
one pot rice cooker with meat and veggies
daal
chicken and rice
pizza style chicken wrap
five different chicken marinades for meal prep
one pot biryani
takeout style egg fried rice
rice cooker carbonara
one pot yoghurt curry chicken rice
weight loss chicken shawarma
healthier mac and cheese
chicken fajita
chicken tikka masala crunch tacos
one pan braised eggs
air fryer garlic bread pizza
another veggie and rice in rice cooker
fried rice recipe
hainanese inspired chicken rice in rice cooker
tomato orzo(?)
creamy tomato pasta
tomato and egg rice
mushroom sauce (can be eaten with rice)
creamy tomato tortellini
grilled cheese sandwich
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harmonysanreads · 19 hours
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*kneels down*
HAAH WHA??? HELLO? SOMEONE PLEASE PINCH ME AM I DREAMING????????
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Okay okay... I'm done screaming irl, this is?? I'm lost for words how beautiful it is???? I just woke up so I'm having a hard time processing reality (I legitimately screamed and now my mom is looking at me with a lot of concern) I wish I could be more eloquent but I'm just floored from how moved I am. Wdym "kneels down" I'd have you sit on a throne if I could :< RIP that friend who doesn't even have a name, you died a tragic death but at least it gave us exquisite content ✨
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harmonysanreads · 1 day
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Aventurine? More like ANGSTTURINE.
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harmonysanreads · 2 days
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Sunrise, Sunset, My Destroyed Body in the Onset [Yan!Aventurine x GN!Reader]
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The cotton in your mind protects you.
Ao3
TW: Stockholm syndrome, implied/referenced noncon, suicidal thoughts (not detailed but reader does mention having them and thinking about the act), mild gore (little actual gore but the prose uses gory language), reader goes through it and let’s just say aventurine is a terrible influence, tonal whiplash for my own sanity, wow aventurine are you really this emotionally constipated
Note: My first ever yan work! This is a bit of a mess, but I’ll bet five dollars and janitorial duty at Taco Bell that it’s a good mess 👍
(Written before 2.1)
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The sun sets as you both bask in the afterglow. Clouds streak the baby blue sky, hued in soft yellows, calm oranges, and blushing pink. 
(And it reminds you of his eyes) 
Sights like these made nights spent in a casino a bit more bearable. You take a deep breath, sighing in contentment and exhaustion, and you wish you could shut your eyes and stretch this moment for an eternity. To remain in the setting eye of the sun, softly breathing as you hear the gentle beating of his heart. To have his hand lazily draped over your waist, the other caressing your head, fingers softly entangled with your locks. Your tears have dried, too. Yes, you’d like to live in this singular moment, divorced from everything else.
But as you’ve learned during your time with Aventurine, time is a rapid to move with.
You shiver a bit, and he pulls up a thin blanket. The difference is small. But still, the serenity of the moment is shattered. The soft silk is meant to cage you in for whatever happens next. You don’t mind, anymore. Or, when you’re more lucid, when you let the torrent that is your mind flow, that’s what you decide.
You’re not stupid, but you wish you were. If you were stupid, you wouldn’t ever be forced to trek away from your home. Wouldn’t grab the attention of anyone smart and shrewd (though you did hear about one ‘Dr. Ratio,’ committed to remedies of ignorance). Even if you somehow did and ended up where you were, maybe your mind would be filled with cotton rather than thoughts. That you could enjoy everything all the time. 
But you’re not stupid, nor are you a genius who could hope to outwit the man who holds the aventurine of stratagem. Knowing how normal you are compared to him only makes you more hopeless, so you do your best to fill your mind with cotton again. You feel your inner voice berate you for your willing ignorance but it also cries at its necessity. 
Cotton. You needed to fill your head with cotton, because if you didn’t in time (and that time was short when you were with Aventurine) you might just sob again then and there. You think too much. So you won’t think. At least around him. Because…you still don’t want to acknowledge it in your mind. You protect yourself from the brunt of it and effectively live a lie.
“You’re clenching your jaw,” Aventurine’s voice possesses a perpetual drawl, but in moments like this it softens a little. Almost like he’s talking to a person and not something to use. “Just what could it be you’re thinking about?” 
Could you even be called a thinking creature right now? Cotton absorbs color, and right now the sun, so big it could engulf you, is so beautiful. You tell him the truth. “The sunset’s beautiful. Really, really beautiful. A lot more beautiful than the others.”
He hums. He knows you’re not lying, but you haven’t answered his question. “You’ve made your affinity for the sight quite clear,” he says, and you only notice that odd edge in his voice from your sheer exposure to this man. Whatever Aventurine has against this sight, you’re not sure. He seems to like sunrises, though, if you can trust the times you’ve woken up and see him watching it. And whenever there is no sun, you wake up to him gone or kissing you awake. Though lately, you’ve been steadily receding from your habit of oversleeping. The hand in your hair tightens, and there’s a small tug, firm but not painful, at your roots. He still wants his answer.
Your mind, chosen to be wrecked with cotton, doesn’t know what to think. You say the only other thing in your absent mind. “This one looks like your eyes.” 
You think he likes that because you feel him shift to look at it. You can’t see his face, but you assume he’s taken off his usual smile. Smiling all the time sounded torturous, and you rub your cheek at the phantom pain of your own imagination. 
“Hmm…” and you feel him shift again, and you really have no idea what he wants. From the intonation, he’s about to do something either mischievous or ‘flirtatious.’ “You know, sweetheart,” that word is heavy on his tongue. He shifts, dropping you on the bed and if this were earlier in your relationship you’d fantasize about ripping his throat for robbing you of the sunset. His hair is messed up, his smile soft but still unreadable. The sun shines on the mark on his neck, and something about the sight makes you a bit…happy. And angry. He takes your face in his hands and locks your eyes and you tense a bit out of instinct—you make a note to yourself to do more work on hammering it away—Aventurine’s full attention on you was intense and overwhelming; the bit of dried blood on his lips is proof of it. Your heart feels like it will burst. From apprehension or anticipation, you’re not sure. “If that’s the case,” one of his hands trails down your jaw, the ghost of his touch fluttering against the marks he’s painted on your neck. He’d have no issue finding more all around your body. He softly, lovingly holds your neck like he’s prepared to snap it and equally prepared to drown you in his affection, “Why not take in the real thing, hm?” His thumb finds and lightly presses on a mark. He drew blood when making it, and you blink back a wince at the pain. He notices, eyes softening before moving his thumb and kissing the irritated skin. “Sorry,” he says, but it’s said the same way a cat licks a mouse’s carcass. An empty apology made after the fact. But you don’t mind. You’ve made sure you don’t mind a lot of things, and it’s made you equally content and miserable. Though, maybe you hold onto that latter feeling in stubborn defiance, because losing that shred of yourself would turn you into something that You wouldn’t necessarily hate if it were anyone else, but it’s You becoming that; and that, that, You hate.
You hum because you do enjoy being close like this. But Aventurine is perceptive, and though his head is below you, you feel as if you’ve been chained up when you once again lock eyes. “I can hear your thoughts, darling,” He returns to his former position, “I hate seeing you all stressed out,” he says, as if his veins weren’t running with anticipation when you were saddled with debt and when your parents got hit with unfortunate ‘accidents’ that insurance couldn’t cover and he didn’t love the day you became his. “Didn’t you say that open and honest communication was important in a healthy relationship? I’m rather fond of our little romance, and I’d hate for it to crumble.” He nearly pouts—doesn’t surprise you much anymore, but there’ll always be a little bit of whiplash that doesn’t quite go away. Though, You feel a slight hint of bitterness—crumble? Some cotton burns away. Did he mean that for himself? …Or might it have been a vague threat to you…? You think, but you’re quick to fill your head back up with cotton. The process isn’t immediate, however.
“Our relationship is the furthest thing from healthy,” you point out. You don’t add in that you never sought out romance in the first place, “and it hasn’t exactly been built on a sturdy foundation.”
“You’ve got me there,” He chuckles. “Well, let’s put it like this,” he brushes a lock of hair from your face, “I see that my lover’s been saddled with all these thoughts, and it’s gotten them so awfully quiet,” Lover? No, that’s hyperbole. He tucks his fingers underneath your chin, stroking the soft, unmarked skin; the only area spared from his assault. “Makes a guy worry, you know? The last time you were this quiet was when you first moved in.” 
Yes. It was mostly because You spent the majority of your free time sobbing, leaving your voice all but spent by the time he got back. And it wasn’t like you could be the goofy and sometimes witty and sometimes not buffoonish person You were when You were so miserable. When you wanted to do everything you could to retreat into your own skin—but Aventurine simply ripped you out, exposed, bloody, and sniffling. After that thought, the cotton has completely grown back.
“…And…?” Through the cotton, you can only wonder what he’s talking about.
His smile becomes sharper, and you wonder if he might feel insulted. Does he think you want to leave him, see him get what he deserved and some actual help like You used to? “C’mon don’t you…” you blink a little vacantly, and he seems to realize something. “Or, maybe you’re…” but his voice suggests something knowing. Suggests experience. And the gears in his mind click. “Oh, I know that look!” He laughs, delightedly or derangedly, you don’t bother to differentiate. Either way it makes you shiver. 
“Huh? What look?” You asked, filtered through cotton. He doesn’t answer and cuts to the chase.
He playfully flicks your forehead, and you imagine a bullet going through it, “Riddle me this: what do you want, sweetheart?”
You blink. What do you want? When you first got here, it was security and his or your death. After some time had passed, it was peace. But now…you want whatever storm that’s inside of you to stop. But he doesn’t need to know what you want deep in your soul. So you tell him the truth, filtered through cotton. 
You do something that would’ve been unthinkable to You, and worse, it’s subconsciously without a second thought. You push him down on the bed by laying on him—flopping on him like a fish, You think, for your mind is such a silly little thing—lay your head over his heart, and take in the sunset. The sun’s nearly below the ground. “…If it’s fine, and only if you want…” you ask, because You detest the idea of being controlling, “I’d like you to…” you flush, “…h-hold me, um, like you are right now, until the sun’s down and, um…” your heart is going to burst and there’ll be a hole of viscera through your chest and maybe Aventurine will admire your pathetic, desperate corpse before burning it, “we can take a bath. And,” you look up at him, “I’ll look into your eyes, as much as you want…” You tell yourself its because you need to appease him, and easy on the eyes to boot. But you know of the primal thing that lives in your chest. 
It’s true. But Aventurine puts it perfectly.
His smile speaks of years of clawing his way up with honeyed words and masked expressions. “You’re not lying. Thank you. That’s such a sweet wish,” he says kindly (you’re no longer scared of his kind voice), stroking your head like you are an obedient dog, one that he adores and veers on despising, and then wraps his other arm beneath your thighs, “but you know I’d like the truth.” He then says, primally, ready to carve out a space in your body to inhabit, “To know what storm’s brewing in that little head of yours,” he takes in a shuddering breath, and his eyes light with perverse excitement, “if it’s begun to…crack and burn up.” He sits up and carries you away. You’re slightly disappointed you won’t be seeing the sunset in its entirety, but you’ve gotten good at forgetting. Aventurine sighs wistfully. “But…” he grasps your chin, forcing you to look at him, “I don’t mind that second proposition of yours,” his voice is husky, and he kisses you. You flush, and the cotton is the only thing that prevents you from tearing into him with your canines.
As the sun moves further and further away, You think yourself a fool for thinking it would engulf you. Aventurine wouldn’t leave anything left of you, whenever he decided he was done with you.
This is your only choice, and it was everything you could do to not shut down the instant you realized. 
You were in denial, at first. It was all just a coincidence, right? You’d always feared this sort of thing—financial struggle—and so getting hit with it should be something you take in stride, and come out of it either in a wreck or just barely getting by. And, if you wanted to get a little nerdy, capitalist economies have to crash into recession eventually, so maybe now was just that time of the era. No place was hiring you, and your parents were getting buried in bills they couldn’t pay. 
But, if anyone with half a brain took a step back, they’d call out the bullshit excuse you concocted in your mind, to deny the ridiculous truth. Because whatever recession was happening, it seemed to only affect you. The truth that you, you, were the apple of someone’s eye (for lack of a better term—you aren’t delusional—you’re just as disposable as the next person, as much as you wish for the universe to cease operating like it). 
Preposterous! Scandalous! You, a complete idiot, catching someone’s fancy? How the fuck did that happen?! Were pigs flying now? …You take that back, there are indeed flying species of the hog persuasion gallivanting about. But this does not detract from your point. One might say “bimbo vibes,” but you know for a fact, even taking into account your own bias and self-perpetuation of your self-esteem issues (which makes you still having them even worse, but you’ve already gone down that spiral more than you could count), that you do not have anywhere near enough bimbo energy to attract anyone with that kink. Or the looks. This was your knee-jerk reaction to when this crossed your mind. And to an extent, still is, because thinking about it like that gives the situation a bit of levity you desperately need. You can’t wrap your head around it in the slightest. But you can’t dispute fact. And the fact is that you are wanted by someone else, and you can’t even begin to understand why. Least of all the person who wants you.
The man who hides behind the name ‘Aventurine.’ That fact alone already makes you not want to be so closely associated, and it makes everything more insane and stupid. An IPC executive has no use for you. If he wants to extort you for unpaid or cheap labor, he’s already got a vast selection of underpaid grunts to do his bidding. If there’s one thing the IPC knows how to do, it’s keeping those desperate enough or arrogant enough trapped. You’re not either of those things; though you admit you’ve adapted the former trait in light of recent bullshittery, but you digress. 
Most of what you come up with is met with an easy counter. Aventurine, a sleazy businessman obsessed with sex? He has money—he can just hire someone actually knowledgeable in it AND hot. Aventurine, a man with insatiable greed? Again, he’s already rich as fuck, and the only way he’s getting any more money is if he looks up the pecking order. Aventurine, a gambler who loved seeing his opponents fall into ruin? That was actually plausible to some extent, but you’ve made it very clear you’re no gambler (not in tangible matters at least, but you keep your card close to your heart). Then maybe he wants to try and push you over the edge? Try to make you take a risk bigger than yourself? 
So, you’ve settled for this: Aventurine, a man who cannot stand to be sober from the drink called “power.” Desiring complete domination over someone. A personal matter, and briefly you hear the echo of a quote: “We desire that which we do not have.” What doesn’t Aventurine have? 
…A relationship? Well, you shoot that down easily. Whatever kind of relationship this leads to ends with you ruined and him hunting after his next prey. 
He’s a bit like a serial killer, you muse, and you just so happen to meet his criteria for victimhood. But unlike a killer, he’s merely going to make you wish you were dead. If you wanted death, it’d have to be at your own hands. If he gave you that option at all. Another thought you have is that he might use you for snuff. That’s…you haven’t pursued the thought any further.
You’ve been robbed of much of your control, but you still control the hand that knocks at the door. If you’re going down, it’ll be on your own terms. This is your last, desperate attempt to pretend you have any control at all. You make sure your bangs cover your eyes. 
You just wish your heart didn’t feel like it would explode. You wish that you weren’t actively holding back going on a complete breakdown. You wish you were made of the same steel heroes were, but you cannot be what you are doomed to not be. 
Aventurine opens the door, giving you a grin that makes you retch. He’s still dressed in his usual peacock-esque finery, and something about it makes you frown. Maybe it’s because he’s dressed in the colors you love, and it feels so wrong for something that wants to destroy you to be clad in them. “Sweetheart!” he coos out the wretched (and cringe-worthy) pet name with faux surprise; it propels you to roll your eyes even now. He knew you were coming; otherwise, you’d be detained by hotel staff. It didn’t quite help that you didn’t really bother to dress up either. It made you stick out like a sore thumb, and you’re glad that this is the only time you’ll be at a gaudy hotel. “You’ve come to visit little ol’ me! I’m charmed.  Aren’t I a lucky man?” 
You fantasize about his guts strewn about on the floor, accompanied by your maniacal laughter and sobs of elated despair. “...You could say that, Mr. Aventurine,” you aren’t foolish enough to be curt, so you settle for polite and cordial. Professional and businesslike, and you know that gives him a slight advantage. “There’s something I wish to discuss with you. I think that’s best accomplished behind closed doors.” 
He clicks his tongue playfully. “No need to be so cold. We’re friends here, aren’t we?” 
“I suggest you drop the ‘sweetheart,’ then. Friends don’t call each other that, Mr. Aventurine.” 
He raises his hand in mock surrender, and you want him to get to the fucking point before you lost your nerve. “Oh, fine. Then,” he gestures to the lion’s den. If only he were the gentleman he was pretending to be, “Walk on in, darling.” You cannot suppress the groan that comes out of you. His smile widens; you're sure he gets some kick at riling you up.
You don’t have the energy to deal with him, and you certainly don’t have enough to suppress the sigh of irritation you let out. He seems to look like…some sort of positive emotion that you don’t know what to name. You’re not sure if you want to name it.  
The sunlight catches his predatory yet enrapturing eyes. His eye twitches, clearly trying not to shut. Maybe, you muse, the sun hates him as much as you do. It brings a weak smile to your face. You make sure to take your sweet time to enter. You won’t take off your shoes, either. He can deal with a bit of tracked dirt, you think, but then you remember that he’s wearing his shoes. And you thought he was monstrous enough.
But when the door shuts, any semblance of levity you could summon dissipates, and you’re reminded of what you’re here to do. Aventurine’s hand snakes up on your shoulder, and you want to rip it off and feed it to the birds. Thankfully, he just leads you to the living room. The sun is cast overhead. 
“So,” he circles till he’s in front of you, “What could be so important that you’ve come to see me this time of day?” He’s playing with his food. It makes you abandon courtesy for curtness. 
“Don’t act like you didn’t cancel some business meeting to make this happen.”
“Oh! You’ve got me!” he chuckles, “My, you’ve already gotten to know me so well. Don’t you think we’re like two peas in a pod?” He teases, and you know he specifically means for it to piss you off. To his credit, it works.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you spit, and his hand lets you back away from him. “I was thinking about…” you take a breath—you can’t lose your nerve now, “...the ‘deal,’ you gave me a little while ago. The gamble, to be more precise.”
His smile stretches so wide it seems to crack his face, and you feel phantom pain radiating along your own mouth. His eyes, those alluring and dangerous rims of pink and electric blue, spiked with adrenaline. You wonder if his eyes are dilating, but you don’t want to look at his eyes any longer than you have to. “I knew you would come around. But I see it in your eyes—you want to discuss the terms, right?” 
He’s right. “Yes.” 
“Admirable,” he says lazily, “but before you start, you should know that I’m not budging on my reward.”
“I know,” you bitterly say, “this is about my reward.”
Interest ignites, the blue of his eye burning hot with intrigue.
“If I win, then I want you to reimburse my family, and then some, for all of the shit you’re making them go through. And then I want you to leave them the hell alone and not harm them.”
You can’t tell if he looks more interested or disappointed. “That’s hardly different from our original deal. The only difference is that you’re not getting any compensation.” At least he doesn’t deny that he’s the one the source of your family woes this time. Likely because you two already jumped through that point. You may not be sharp, but there are things even you can’t be gaslit on, and you think Aventurine realized this and decided not to bother. “Do you really hate the idea of getting money from me? You do remember that I told you that you can use me however you want, right?”
You hate how he wants to use you, and you equally hate using anybody. “Yes. You made that very clear. I know what I’m doing. Now, come on.”
“Don’t be so hasty. I’ll have to modify my will so—”
“No need. Get the gun already.” You aren’t too worried anyway. Businessmen like him know to honor their deals anyway. He’ll probably dismiss it easily and assume you’ll either donate it to charity or give it to your family.
He laughs, not so dissimilar from nails digging into a chalkboard, “You’re that eager to kill me? And you were so against it too! I wouldn’t have expected your morals to shift so quickly.”
You bite your lip. “You don’t seem to be all too worried about dying,” you point out, “You were the one who proposed this in the first place.” Another reason you don’t want to associate with this man. He treats his own life far too callously, and it doesn’t take a genius to know that the package to unpack is bursting at the seams. Normally you would’ve been sympathetic, but this is the manner of man that wants to seize you. You don’t want to know what would happen to you, under his dominion. 
Still, at least you know that he prizes adrenaline above all else. Why else would he risk his life for a hit of it? It’s useful info and also the only wrinkle in your plan…but you’re not banking on this entirely.
Aventurine doesn’t respond, but his eyes accentuate his mirthful grin. It reminds you of yourself, when you tell a joke to yourself. You do like inside jokes, but you cannot say the same for the ones you’re left out of. No matter how demented this man’s humor is, knowing what he finds funny would at least give you more to glean on him. A part of you does enjoy piecing together puzzles, even ones you can’t solve.
He produces a simple revolver from his jacket. Sleek and as dark as a moonless night, even you can tell that its craftsmanship is more than deserving of admiration. But your anxiety has spiked, and you want to dig a hole and suffocate, to feel your lungs burn like lava and to have your fingers raw when you have second thoughts and desperately try to claw your way out. You blink back tears, but you know what you must do.
He takes his sweet time with the gun, but you don’t pay attention. Your eyes are trained on the ground as you try and fail to psych yourself up. You know what you're doing. Your parents would tell you this was a bad choice, and you agree, but you weren’t given very many good choices.
A shot rings out. Glass shatters from behind you. The coffee table. You do not breathe, and something searing and hard digs into your chin, forcing you to look up. Your gaze is misty from the pain, and you’re more resilient to the cold, not the heat. 
“Sweetheart,” he smiles kindly, “I don’t like being ignored.” Despite your best efforts, a tear has rolled down your cheek. You need to get this over with before your mouth starts to uncontrollably twitch into a frown. “Aw…” he coos, and begins to lean in, “there’s no need to cry, dear.” 
You can’t stop it. You let out something that sounds like a growl, and shove him off of you. “You don’t get to touch me,” you hiss, a sound you didn’t know you were capable of, “Hands to yourself,” For some indiscernible reason, another tear falls, “you haven’t won anything yet.”
He’s not fazed. “Ah, I suppose I’ll have to concede there,” for now, “Here you go then, friend,” the gun is lodged away from your chin, and despite his claim of concession he yanks your arm up and forces it in your grip, “Let’s see who luck favors.”
You shake, a little, but you’re not shaken enough to lose all your rationality. “Is there still a bullet in here?” 
“Yep,” he pops the p, like you two were old pals, “though I suppose I should roll the chamber again. Give me a second.” He takes the gun away and gets to work. You’re both thankful and sobbing on the inside. At this rate, your ribs will be dust from how your heart hammers into them.
It’s back in your hand after what feels like an eternity and a microsecond. “Now there shouldn’t be any problems. Feel free to start shooting,” he purrs, adjusting it to point toward his chest. He begins to grip it, and you must act now. You’re shaking and you want to die—
Ah. 
Good. 
You won’t lose your nerve then. 
“Actually,” your words shake with imminent tears and ramping fears, “there’s another term I wanted to discuss.” Your words aren’t threatening, but it’s ominous enough that Aventurine pauses. He’s given you the inch, and you’re taking the mile. You take a deep breath. It could be one of your last.
You’ve forced the gun against your forehead. You’ve either gasped or Aventurine’s breath has hitched. You feel tears welling up, but you’ve made it too far for things to end here. You will yourself through your terror. “If I get shot, I win. If I don’t, you win.”
A tense silence whistles about. The air is almost electric from shock. But you know what you’re doing. You know it’s stupid, but you’re hopeless and this is the closest thing to a shred of hope you can grasp. See, you did a bit of research (on a library computer; you weren’t taking your chances). You found out that there are a few stories about Aventurine doing this—and even more about how he’s made numerous casino goers lose everything. In other words, he’s a lucky bitch. 
And you’re not that lucky. You doubt your luck is good enough for a regular gamble, but for your life? You treasure it, and sealing the gun to your head leaves you on the cusp of a breakdown. This is what you’re banking on: you’re not lucky enough to win a gamble, but you’re unfortunate enough to lose your life over something so inconsequential. Your parents would murder you if they saw you. Say you owe them nothing, and you do agree—but you can’t shake your habit of overpaying them. You’ve left a note at home for them to dig up, but it wouldn’t be an apology. If there’s an afterlife, you’ll apologize for eternity. You think the only way you can apologize is by searing your soul in the hells till nothing is left of you. 
You do have a more selfish reason for taking this approach, but it’s also incorrigible and unreasonable. So obviously it doesn’t need to be dissected. 
You think he’ll take it up. Sure, maybe the adrenaline he’ll get won’t be as great if he were the target, but so far he’s been the type to take pleasure in pushing others down a peg. He smiles at your distress, you’re sure. Surely your quivering, sniveling form is giving him a kick? Surely, he’ll want to see your eyes glassy, your expression forever contorted in a fearful, desperate sob?
But Aventurine’s voice is missing its usual lilt. It’s hard, no longer deceptively light. Not playfully pushy but demanding. Maybe this is how he speaks to his enemies, and you want to crawl into yourself. “…What?” A shard of ice is lodged in your back and makes your heart skip a beat from the surprise. But you can deal with the cold. 
“I said what I said,” you push the terrifying thing harder into your skull, “these are my terms.” You’re more adamant than ever to not look into his eyes. You fixate on your shoes. You won’t speak more than necessary.
He seemingly contemplates for a moment. You’re about to push it when he finally speaks. “Do you remember what I said when I first proposed this gamble?”
Your mind is too fear-stricken for recollection. “You say a lot of things. C-can’t remember all of them.” Shit, your mouth has twitched a bit.
Shockingly Aventurine doesn’t poke fun at that, and is unusually focused. “I don’t take deals where I’m on the losing end. You’ve skewed this far too much in your favor.”
No. Oh, no. You were wrong about something. Lava starts to sting at your eyes. If you were wrong about this, then what else were you wrong about?!
“W-what? You’re not the one risking your life!” You exclaim, and it makes you look up at him, “How are you on the losing end?!” You shriek, because you aren’t a composed person at heart.
His eyes, lifeless and intense, widen as they bore into your own, pinning you down. If you squirm, you think he would stab knives in them to keep you down. He isn’t smiling and your knees want to shake. “Let’s go through this one by one, so you understand. One: what do I want?”
“W-wha?”
He repeats himself, harsher. “What. Do. I. Want?”
You settle for the safest answer. Your heart feels dead. You’re sure it will wither to dust. “M-me?” 
“Bingo.” It scares you that he’s not saying that with a lilt. It scares you that he’s not trying to manipulate you. It scares you how there’s only a thread between him ripping you in half. “And here’s something very, very important to know about me,” his hand caresses your cheekbone, positioned to catch any tears that fall, or to crush your skull, “I do whatever it takes to get what I want.”
“Then how is this different?! You’re still taking the risk of not getting what you want no matter how you slice it!”
The smile he gives you is all at once angelic and biting. “I don’t like it when I don’t get what I want.” His pupils dilate. Your eyes well up looking at malice and…something that plunges you in ice. “If I can’t get what I want…hm, how do I describe it?” his voice begins to regain its lilt, fueled by your increasing distress. He smiles like he’s teaching a child a lesson, but you swear his eyes are growing duller. “Well, it’s like being trapped in a land without dawn,” his other hand softly holds your shoulder and it feels so wrong because you swear he’s holding back from brutalizing you, “there are chains around your neck, ankles, wrists, waist, eyes…” he chuckles sardonically, and a vindictive grin spreads as he leans in, till you can feel the ghost of his breath, “your life is a living hell, but the cold of the metal seeps down to your very bone.” You yelp; his grip has tightened. “Something stirs in your chest,” the hand caressing your face comes to rest over your heart, “begging to destroy everything and everyone that’s made you suffer.” His fingers dig into your chest, as if he’ll rip out your heart. “Tell me, my friend, do you want a man like that alive?”
You want to close your eyes so badly. Your mind is an inky landscape, blackening every single thought you hold. A soft flutter to your cheek knocks you out of your stupor. You register expensive perfume, something tickling your skin, and soft lips kissing away your tears. Immediately you shove away the opportunistic beast and stumble in your escape.
You’re in too deep. You need to make this work, because as much as you're terrified, something deep within you purrs at the weakness he’s given you.
But it’s good to know how spiteful he is. You already feel much better about your own plan. Both parts of you purr in delight: one knows you must twist the knife, and the other has been waiting for the opportunity.
“Coward,” your mouth is faster than your mind, “you coward!” Your meager wit and anguish over the past few months begin to tumble out uncontrollably, “I don’t care about your shit—you’ve hardly given me any say about anything. You’ve had the upper hand this entire time, and now you want to backpedal? This is too much risk for you?!” You heave, and you’re too enraged to care about how disgusting you must look, “You said to me there’s nothing you like more than a good gamble. Well, I’ve got a GREAT gamble for you, and if you’re upset you’ve got no one but yourself to blame! You wormed your way into my life, you orchestrated its steady decline, and you pushed me right here! You don’t get to back out of this like a coward!” You’re breathing heavily, and your vision is watery red, and you throw the gun in what you think is his general direction, and your vitriol spills out of you, “Take it and take whatever fucking risk exists! Languish for a month or a day or an hour because you didn’t get what you want like a little baby! If I’m going down, you’re coming down with me!” You’re heaving at this point, and you absently lean on the couch so you don’t collapse. Your composure is in shambles, but you’ll try to save a complete breakdown for when your choices catch up to you and you’re choking on your own blood. 
You hear a slow, rhythmic clap, and it shocks you that your ears aren’t flooding with blood at it. You hesitantly look up to see Aventurine grinning like a beast. 
“You, dragging me down…” the lilt has come back, and you realize that he likes something about this; that he’s schemed a part of it, “...so I see.” He drawls. He tilts his head, regarding you with the interest one has in a zoo. “I’ll admit,” each slow step he takes toward you makes you sink further into the couch, “I was expecting you to cave with that. Yet you still insist…sweetheart,” should you be glad he’s calling you that again? “Let me be the first to tell you that it’s a great honor to push people like you into a corner. You were correct to fear me to try and avoid this.” So you were right on one thing, but it’s only a single thing. He’s inching ever so closely, and before you can start getting away he’s pounced on you. 
You yelp in surprise and begin to thrash, “You—get, get off of me!” You attempt to be intimidating, but your intense terror makes you seem like nothing more than a child scared to get a shot. Perfume burns your nostrils. More tears are shed, but he’s merciful enough to not lap them up just yet. He still lets you look away.
He giggles and just pins you down. He waits until you're humiliated and exhausted before continuing. Your mouth twitches, and against your better judgment a sob brews in your chest. Your mind floods with ink, now. You try to tell yourself to keep it together, but the more you repeat it the more terrified you become. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d change the terms like this,” you squirm and look away—you don’t have the bravery to look at him directly right now. He lets you. “I was sort of expecting you to try and stand up for yourself, or maybe even demand I put in two bullets…but, you’ve run counter to my expectations. For one, I didn’t have you pinned to be this spiteful, nor this willing to give up your life.” You flinch and make a hateful sound as he starts to pat your head, continuing on as if this was the most normal conversation in the world, like he was the most normal person in the room, as he smiles so warmly—you’re a frog being boiled, but you’re too tired and afraid to retort, “Heh, this must’ve taken all of your guts to do, right?” The affection in his voice forms a lump in your throat. “I’m proud of you. Take pride in that,” he wipes away a tear, “and you’re right.” Suddenly, all warmness is gone and you’re blasted with heat. His grin shows his teeth, and for a moment you think you’ve really died. “I’ve always loved the thrill of going all in.” He laughs, a depraved sound of hedonism and complete despair, “If I win, it’s the jackpot. I get you, and you get me.” Get him? “And if I lose,” your head is tipped up by the barrel of the gun to look into his eyes—
You whimper. The only thing that registers in your mind is that you’ve found yourself in a fox’s jaw about ready to clamp down.
“I live with my loss at the hands of a nobody. And it’ll gnaw at me from the inside…” he says breathlessly, “Yes, that’s a risk I can see myself getting behind,” Ink has made your soul quiver further. “And only taking deals on the winning end…I do that enough for business. That's to say…” he suddenly pulls you up, causing you to stumble and lean into him. He chuckles as your addled mind and body reorient, but the arm slung around your waist prevents you from straying too far. It’s the pillar you must rely on, but one wrong step and it will crumble to dust.
It scares you. 
But.
There’s another side to your fear. What sort of things do we fear? These months have taught you that people hate that which they fear. When the fear amps up, so does the hate. You aren’t blind to how he looks at you. He’d vivisect you if it got him what he wanted. Your teeth grind. Oh, you hate him, you hate him so much. But your hate doesn’t burn, nor does it freeze. It’s a part of you, hums through your veins, thrums with the beat of your heart. There is nothing special about what is merely a fact of life. You are its vessel, and for that it sustains you.
You won’t see the fallout of your victory, but the mere idea sends a wave of ecstasy through you. 
The barrel of the revolver presses against your heart. 
“I accept your terms.” His voice edges with adrenaline and delight, but, and rather exquisitely, your instincts think, an edge that he must be the one to win this gamble—that in this moment, for him to live with loss is completely undesirable. But unfortunately for him, you’re not lucky enough to avoid a stupid death. You quiver, but not with fear. Though a part of you wonders if he’s just been testing you with his easy agreement. Should you be glad if you get full marks? Or should you hope you’ve failed?
Still, a brief feeling of levity blooms in your chest, and you seize it immediately. 
You did it. And unexpectedly, rather than further terror, relief washes over the heat and ink, because now that you’ve felt dead so often in such short time, death is salvation. But just as quickly as the water came, a blizzard freezes the sea. 
Click. His lips are against yours. 
Of course. He wouldn’t let your final moments be pleasant. 
He takes advantage of your inexperience to entangle your tongues, and his hand pushes you deeper and deeper as he tries to devour you. You gasp and tear up when he bites and bruises your lips. You’d like to fight back, but you want to get this over with. Even if it means being taken advantage of in your last moments, mother death’s repentance is merely a chamber or two away.
But still, no matter how demented you are in the moment, you are human, and the instinctual desire to survive makes you recoil.  The eye contact exacerbates it. His eyes hold a sea. On the surface, you can freely see the coral and starfish, difficult to understand but beautiful. But deeper, where the sunlight does not shine, the predators have taken to hunting one another, having wiped out the prey. And when only one is left, then it can only move up and up, until it’s the only thing left standing. And now it looks to consume you to satiate its unending appetite. Your lungs burn. 
You’d love to shut your eyes, but doing so feels like losing. At least when you do so, you can see yourself be devoured. Your awareness of yourself is the only agency you have right now. 
Click. He pulls away, and you take in a greedy breath. Your heart beats and a tear trickles; you’re not dead yet. That’s ok. You’ll be dead in a moment. 
“You look so certain you’ll win,” he observes, “it’s a good look on you.” 
You scrunch your nose. “Pull the trigger. I’m getting sick of looking at you.” 
“But, if I do, then you might breathe your last,” his eyes narrow, though you’re not sure if it’s predatory or softening, “can’t I take the sight of you in?” 
“Ha!” You cough it out. “For a man who dresses to the nines, you sure have bad taste.” 
“Aw, don’t demean yourself like that,” he mockingly reassures, “I’ll have you know you’re perfectly enchanting.” 
You decide to play along, because banter is banter and no matter how spiteful you are, you’ll take comfort and levity where you can find it. “And you’re a Knight of Beauty.” Absently, you wonder how terrible you must look. You feel your eyes still well with tears, and you’re still sniffling back bits of snot every now and then. 
You’re not sure if everything’s just catching up to you, or if the thought has propelled you to the realization, but you’re so, so, so tired. It does make your tears dry, a little, and your muscles relax. 
You see he’s starting to lean in again, and you immediately put a hand between you and his lips. “Don’t.” You growl. “Just…just shoot,” you sigh in exhaustion, “I’m tired. Just shoot. If you’re not satisfied, then you’ll have my corpse.” The implication is disgusting but he’s disgusting, and you really just want to sleep. You’re pretty sure he would’ve done it even without you saying. 
“Can’t say the image is pleasant.” Is his voice colder? Or are you finally losing it? 
“I’m already a teary mess. It’ll just be colder and a little stiff.”
He scoffs, “If I wanted someone steely, you wouldn’t be here.” 
You bite your cheek and look at your feet. “Shoot.” 
There’s a pause in the air. You wonder if he’s contemplating on saying something to you, or just getting it over with. Both would make sense. You close your eyes. You will yourself to not think, because you know if you do that your life will just flash before your eyes. And if that happens, you’ll die completely miserable.
Click. 
You’re breathing. His hand is on your waist. The gun’s pressed to your chest. Nothing’s changed. Why aren’t you on the ground choking on blood? 
“I win.” You hear. You shut your eyes when sunlight gets into them.
Oh. Oh. Oh.
You’re still here. 
It didn’t work. It didn’t pay off. Your knees give out as you finally are no longer to keep your tears at bay. You feel fluttering around your eyes, and you dare not open them. Shhh, shhh, you hear, but you only cry more. Everything has come to impale you, and you cry as you feel your organs spill. You’re his. You’re his. You want to die. Everything is coated in ink. You process nothing but the terror and rage and fear and despair and laughter and anything and everything you’ve ever experienced. You try to curl in on yourself, but you’re stopped. 
“Shhh, it’s alright…” a hand strokes you to soothe, but it’s more akin to sandpaper rubbing on raw skin, “Let it all out…we have plenty of time. I don’t have to hold back and neither do you.” 
You heave and sob. All you can think about is the unknown future which awaits you. You barely register being placed on a plush surface.
When your sobs finally quiet, you’re forced to look into his eyes. There’s a flush on his cheek, a slight inconsistency in his breathing, and his eyes have dilated with adrenaline and…and…you’ve never seen that emotion before, whatever it is. 
You wonder what face you’re making, as he smiles ferally. “You were right. That was great,” he hisses with elation, and laughs. “Oh, you’re beautiful.” 
The world spins. You’re laying, and he’s on top of you. 
Oh…oh no…You begin to flinch and twitch uncontrollably. You aren’t thinking. You flail, kick, cry, but he doesn’t budge. You need to get away get away get away get away—
“One last thing, to really seal the deal,” he smiles, insidiously kind and horrifying, “to commemorate my victory and your defeat.” 
He bites into your neck, and you scream. 
The fox swallows you whole.
He lets you roam freely, whenever he’s gone. To say you were baffled about it was putting it lightly, and you refrained from taking advantage of it in fear he had something up his sleeve. In fact, when you found out his spaceship-apartment-thing was mounted with surveillance in every nook and cranny, you found a cramped closet to hide in for a few days. Curling into a ball all day wasn’t easy on the joints, but you were taking any semblance of privacy you could get. But Aventurine, petty and cruel, forced you to seal off your haven with your own hands before he tore into you. If he wants you in his sight or roaming about, he should just make up his mind already.
But, for this one occasion, you choose to abuse this privilege. You usually come back around the same time he does to appease him, but you finally decided you needed a vacation after he forced you into one of his stupid gambles and forced you to fulfill another of his especially perverted fantasies; on top of forcing you to help him get acquainted with a gacha you played—and then caused your cake to burn. Sure, there are those big moments where lava and ink converge, but it’s the little things which sting and nick that pile up. The real kicker was when he forced you two to share a plate of pasta and when, of course, you two landed on the same noodle, he had the brilliant idea to suck it up at the speed of light so you guys could kiss. How romantic, kissing someone with half-chewed food in their mouth, you truly could not commend this man’s genius enough. You couldn’t keep up, which was how you ended up with pasta sauce in your eye. And there were pepperoncinis in there.
Yeah, you’re no fan of how he fucks you mentally and literally. You gladly made this choice, and all the risk it came with.
“So, this is where you’ve been.” You think he’s still a little surprised, just as you are. You haven’t done much in the way of defiance, both because you wanted nothing more than to remain within yourself, and because you feared his retaliation. The few risks you have taken never pay off. And you didn’t even go to see your parents. You tried to tell them the horrible truth and because they deserved to know their child’s fate, but every time you approached their house, something stopped you. Shame, fear, embarrassment, sheepishness…you don’t know. You almost laughed. To think, a quarter of why you’re here is because of the danger they were placed in, yet you can’t even muster the courage to talk to them. You dismiss them from your mind because you have to deal with Aventurine. You wonder if you’ll forget them, if you cast them out of your mind enough. “I’m charmed. Our special place.” 
You scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself. This was mine before you ever came here, and it still is.” 
You met each other here on a moonlit night. You couldn’t see each others’ faces, but it didn’t stop you from conversing. You don’t bother to think about it more, because what started as a memory that made you feel warm now enshrouds you in a volcanic blizzard. You’ve already mulled over it plenty anyway—on how such a mundane conversation started all of…this. 
Now, the sun is setting. It calms you down.
“Darling, this is a national park. You don’t own it.”
You tsk. “Shut up. I don’t feel like dealing with you right now. And you literally called this place ‘ours,’ you conniving bastard.” 
“Unfortunate,” his arm slings across your shoulders, “because it’s been such a lonely week without you…” the other cages you by the waist. You imagine his body rupturing and exploding, and you’d dance in the blood shower. Or would you soak yourself in his organs, to savor his defeat? Maybe you’d open your mouth, let your mouth and throat be coated in his blood so you— 
Huh. Something’s off again. You are no stranger to violent thoughts, but lately, at rare times, your fantasies get accompanied by something strange you can’t quite put your finger on.
You make a face, as you look at him over your shoulder with a deadpan glare, “And you’ve let me parade about.”
He giggles. “What? I had no clue you were here till a few hours ago! Honest.”
“Says the surveillance freak.” You wave your phone, “And I’ve so conveniently kept this tracker with me.”
He drops the act. “You didn’t even try to cover up your tracks.” He sighs, “I must say, your defeatism is probably my least favorite part about you. Can’t say I really understand.”
Then why does he still keep you around? It’s already been nearly half a year.
“You and I have no illusions that I can escape you, and I lost a bet. I try not to be a sore loser.” 
“And yet you so often cry when you lose our games. Kick and scream sometimes.”
Your chest feels hollow, and you hate the feeling so much that you want to die right then and there. “What, should I be jumping for joy when you rape me?” 
Silence. You can almost think he’s a little remorseful. But then his fingers are snaking to pull at your collar. Peeling back your skin, to try and coax you out of it. More like tear you out, you scoff.
“Seriously?” Your voice carries a mix of disappointment, anger, fear, and despair. It cracks, “Hardly three minutes and right after I—”
“Relax,” he’s so soothing that your muscles tense up and your heart beats to the nines—he’s so good at this! He continues his ministrations until he has a good view of your neck, and hums in pleasure, “you haven’t been that bad.” He brushes a spot at your neck. It’s the spot he first bit you in, and thinking about it still makes you shake in pain. And he’s always sucking or biting at it to stake his stupid claim. You brace yourself. And right on cue he’s latched on, and your scream is muffled by your hand. You’d like to say you’ve gotten used to it, but you’ve never had a good tolerance for pain. And against your wishes, you’ve cried. Aventurine lunges on the opportunity, sensually licking them and leaving behind a disgusting trail of slime to dry. “You really are a crybaby…” his voice is like crawling spiders in your ear.
You desperately rub them away with your sleeves, mostly because you know shoving him away doesn’t work when he gets like this. And then your short lived adrenaline fades.
“Shit!” He’s drawn blood. Again. And you liked this shirt! But you can see why he doesn’t—it was a high collar and a long sleeve, able to cover the mural of bites and bruises he leaves on your body. He doesn’t want others to see, but in private he can’t keep his hands off.
“Sorry,” he kisses the spot, but each kiss burns you. You don’t understand why he bothers to say the word when you both know he’s not capable of feeling remorse, at least, not for you.
You groan, blinking back mist. “You’re making it worse.”
“Sorry,” he repeats, giving you a bloody peck on the cheek, “but can you blame me? You’re not wearing any of my gifts. Makes a guy a little jealous, see?” He kisses your cheek again, firmer to imprint his bloody kiss.
“Yes, I can blame you for making conscious decisions,” you coldly snap, but you’re already tired, “Once again, jewelry is overrated and I reaffirm that your taste is shit.”
“I recall my jewelry and clothes were some of the first things you complemented.”
“Aye,” it’s true, but you see an opportunity for levity and take it, “but I have since evolved from my follious self.”
He’s getting that feral look in his eye again. Why?! You didn’t even do anything! You snap. “What is it? Spit it.”
“You’re doing it again.” 
You can’t stand his touch any longer. “Doing what?” You hiss, shoving him away from you so you can face him. 
He whistles. It feeds your frustration. You assume that it’s what he usually wants from you. “If this is some weird sexual innuendo then it’s fallen flat on its ass, you affluent horndog.”
He blinks in brief shock, before laughing—his canines shine in the orange sunset, “No, no no, not this time around. Let’s put it this way, and I’ll be very clear, just for you,”
As he calms down, an angelic smile spreads in his face, and you know you’re looking straight at damnation. 
“I’ve learned that defeatists succumb to themselves. Pushing them past their limit helps, but it’s not necessary.”
…In the back of your mind, you make a horrific realization. 
You have tilled fields, so You may eventually sow them with cotton.
What does your face look like, right now? But for once, you think it might be bestial. You know your eyes are wide open and not flooding.
In an unexpected subversion, it is you who pins Aventurine to the ground. You don’t pay much mind to his expression: parted lips, breathless, glimmering interest and fulfilled desire in his eyes; it’s unusual and you would’ve drank it in if not for the tornado in your mind. It’s torn through some cotton, leaving the field barely alive.
“What. Were. You. Thinking?” You do not recognize your own voice. You feel your body shaking and find that you’re breathing heavily. 
He smiles. “You watch me gamble all the time, dearest.” His head tips in faux questioning, “I don’t see how that’s gotten you so worked up—and you’ve been so sweet lately.”
You grind your teeth. He hasn’t answered you. “You played Russian Roulette.”
The body of his opponent is slumped on the table across from you two. Their blood continually drips, crying out in defeat. You couldn’t care less about that, because there’s a thought playing on repeat in your mind. 
That could’ve been his body.
His eyes twinkle as he smirks, “Are you jealous?” He cruelly teases, “Did you want to kill me, or were you hoping to take the bullet yourself?” 
“No.” You’re not being sensible. The cotton in your mind is shredding. You want to balk at the idea, and You want to jump at the opportunity. “Answer my question.”
“Mmm,” he hums, and his nonchalance makes you shake, “well, I suppose I’m in no position to refuse. It was a good gamble with a good thrill, of course! I thought you knew this.”
He’s right. You know just how much pleasure he takes in putting everything on the line. Your question is answered, but for some reason it’s still not satisfied. The few surviving patches of cotton are still in your way.
That depraved feral look in his eyes only grows at your internal battle, and his gloved hand cups your cheek. “What’s wrong?” He goads. “Or have you finally come around to just how irresistible I am?”
For a moment, cotton has come. But then the scent of blood wafts to your nose, and all of your senses have increased tenfold.
Hell hath flourished, and it burns the cotton to dust.
You begin to unravel. 
“I want to hollow out your chest.” You admit, maddeningly and you wonder how much your insanity bleeds out. “And burrow into it, so I can listen to your heartbeat and feel the expanse of your lungs pressing into me with your every breath,” you think your breath has grown more erratic, “I want to breathe in your blood, taste your heart, blood, sustain myself on nothing, on nothing but you!” You’ve leaned closer, your breaths fanning on each others’ faces. Small patches of water begin to drop onto Aventurine’s face—his face that is so breathtakingly and satanically beautiful without the cotton obstructing it—your breath hitches and your mouth twitches, as you take in a quivering breath. “If you die…I might just join you, because…there’s really nothing else for me…” and then something ugly sparks in your chest. “If you die…I’m pulling the trigger, not some random sap in a casino.”
The puddle of blood begins flowing toward you. 
It completely burns the cotton, and that is the moment You are no longer safe. But hell is beautiful, you find, and you so gladly drench yourself in its flames. You are still painfully aware of how wrong it all is…but, the storm within you is starting to calm, you don’t cry with your every free moment and you no longer agonize about your parents. You…you think this is peace. To harbor obsession for the man who trapped you in this hell and tortured you and then drowned you in affection.
You sob, a sound of euphoric despair, and you confess the terrible truth,
“I love you, Aventurine,” you take in a shuddering gasp, “I love you…” you cough, no longer able to hold back as you break down, “I love you, I love you,” you hiccup and sob, “I love you I love you I love you I love you.” You’ve collapsed, curling in on yourself but resting your head atop his heart. “Don’t throw me away…don’t l-leave me…I need you, and it’s your f-fault I’m like this…please, please Aventurine, tell me you love me and won’t ever let me go!” Oh, you feel so ugly and you feel so much lighter and, and—
His breath shudders, and then swiftly takes you in his arms. You stumble, but his grip doesn’t cease, like he wants your bodies to meld into each other. He sits up, shifting so you’re straddling him. Red dusts his cheeks, a similar shade to the crimson pooling beneath you two. His eyes hold a hunger satiated and a new voracity, gleaming with animalistic intent that makes you shiver. 
“Oh, sweetheart,” he shudders, holding back all he wants to do, “that was beautiful—you’re beautiful,” he’s panting, “how could I refuse such a heartfelt and adorable confession?” Your heart soars. “You’re so perfect. You’re the other side of my coin…yes,” he groans, “I’d love to bring you down with me, and to tear you apart if I’m back in that dawnless land.”
As the dawn shines on you both as he kisses you, it clicks.
He wanted someone just as desperate as him.
The whisper against your lips is almost reverent, “I knew you were the one,” His eyes are like a meadow, where you dance and sing and never leave, even as your feet howl in pain brushing against poison ivy and oak hidden amidst the grass and flowers. And now you recognize the emotion that drowns in them. That all consuming affection which threatens to erase your existence to everything but it. “Thank you, for destroying yourself for me. It’s truly an honor, sweetheart.” 
Your tears flow, but the corners of your mouth twitch upwards. Insanity has sunk its claws into you, your stress and limits explode in a desperate supernova, and your very being trembles with ecstasy. Aventurine joins you, standing up and spinning you around in his firm hold as you both laugh and laugh in the dawn’s sunlight, with red not trailing too far behind. This is a spectacle you burn and freeze and drown in, witnessed by your spectator in rot.
You're devoured, but you’ve grown your own claws and fangs.
Driven by nothing more than instinct, in the throes of your tryst, you bury your head in the crook of his neck,
And bite.
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harmonysanreads · 2 days
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Find me.
Your end...
...my origin.
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harmonysanreads · 2 days
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harmonysanreads · 2 days
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the fact that there hasn't been a single new official art of dainsleif, the NARRATOR and one of the most crucial characters in the entire game for more than 3 years is just...
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harmonysanreads · 3 days
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Hi Harmony! I just noticed that your requests are open and I decided to drop by with a small request I thought about for weeks.
I was thinking about Arlecchino for a while, and it made me ponder of the concept of Arlecchino with a darling on a reincarnation AU. Maybe Arlecchino has met her darling at such an inconvenient time, and every time that it has happened, only she remembers their past lives.
It probably goes to the point that Arlecchino starts devising ways to be able to keep her darling safe, because each time they would meet, her darling gets into an accident... And it would seem that each time she tried, then it would simply fail. And it would push to a point where she resorts to one of the more not so morally good methods.
I don't know if this counts as a req. or a brainrot, but I offer you this idea because I think it could be interesting to think about sometimes. You're free to deny it btw if its typical, hard, or overall you can't write it <3 I completely understand if that's the case.
(p.s.: this is the one running @yxstxrdrxxm BAHAHAHAHAHA I'm sorry if I haven't replied to your message during OLC, I dont know how to talk to you w/o sounding really awkward </3 also!! hydration check! Anyways thats all, have fun with the idea + I hope you have a great day Harmony :D)
Pantomime Of The Night
yandere!arlecchino x reader
cw(s) : yandere, vampire!arlecchino, mentions of blood, murder, slight gore, non-consensual touching, unbalanced power dynamics
wc : 2.1k
a/n: omg hiii! would you believe me if I said I was just thinking about you before getting this ask? also please don't worry about my message! i had a hunch that you might be in a situation of sorts. thank you so so much for requesting arlecchino because i've been itching to write for her for a long time! i decided to go with vampire!arlecchino for this because i thought it'd suit the reincarnation theme well. i hope you enjoy it<3
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At the deepest hours of the night, even the innocent crackles of hearthfire sound as clamorous as gun-shots.
You're dazed by the flame's continuous dance until the aroma of freshly brewed tea reaches your senses and the servants have left. A sharp clank from Arlecchino's glass and the weight of her gaze prompt you to meet her eyes. The light from the fireplace casts shadows on the other half of her fair face, she seemed to have foregone her usual taught posture in favor of a relaxed one. One of her hands supports her cheek while the other holds the wine glass, the beverage within sloshes as the claw-like accessories on her fingers curl around the object.
Your side of the table is far more decorated, desserts that you've never even seen in your impoverished mortal life and that tea you've grown fond of over the course of your stay in her mansion sit appetizingly. All beckon you to feast, all seek to fan the flames of voracity and you offer but a thoughtless stare in return.
The master of the house seems to have noticed your lack of appetite as she finally breaks the stretched out silence, “These are all confectioneries of the highest quality from the town and as I recall, all of your favorites. But you give them no more than a blank stare... you've also not taken a sip from the tea. May I inquire why?”
The raspy tone of her observation has your arms covered in gooseflesh, though, you note she does not sound as confused as her words suggest. You can feel her onyx eyes gloss over every part of your person, inspecting and dissecting each and every visible clue. You swallow dryly, “It’s just that it's way too late in the night,”
“Yet you look as ready as ever to head out. Tell me, have you been anticipating my return, dearest?”
Arlecchino stares pointedly at your attire, likely referring to the traveling clothes you have on instead of the silk nightwear that she had gifted. Your shoulders tense unconsciously, there's something about the way she speaks at this instance that has your heartbeat crescendoing. The silver haired woman gives you a few more beats of anxiety, her talons scrape against the dainty glass.
“I’ve been informed that you have not eaten anything since yesterday.”
The words escape her painted lips easily, but they don't fail to send a jolt through your system. Throughout your stay, she'd never spoken to you like this, like you were one of her children who did not know better and decided to cross a line. That realization renders you further puzzled, you did nothing wrong to begin with, but her tone made you feel as though you were on the verge of doing so. You clear your parched throat and gather yourself to meet her eyes. This time, you do not allow yourself to wilt at the force of her burning stare.
“Arlecchino, I have something to tell you.”
The addressed woman straightens up at your sudden serious tone, her hand abandons the wine glass on the table and you inhale involuntarily at the scratches that now decorate the object, “I’m all ears, dearest.”
Your brows crease, as usual, Arlecchino is courteous, too courteous for someone who makes it obvious she's informed of something that she wasn't supposed to know. She's been like this ever since you and your travel-partner stepped foot in her ambiguous estate. Initially, you were touched by the hospitality she and her adopted children had shown you. Your greed lulled any arising suspicions, you neither questioned why she'd been so generous to a commoner with nothing more than fifty mora to their name nor did you bother to think about how she was affording all those gifts. You naïvely wished to believe in her kindness and that nothing was wrong about this house. But of course, self-woven deceptions last so long.
“Before you mistake me for being ungrateful, I did plan to inform you before leaving. Me and my friend are extremely thankful for the care your house has shown us, but we cannot stay in one place forever.”
“Why not?” you halt at her abrupt question but she follows up before you could even part your lips, “Have we lacked in any area to provide you with the adequate comfort? Have any of my children said something? If it's the latter, I'll apologize in their stead, they can be quite playful at times, I'm sure you understand.”
You stare dumbfounded at the sudden turn this conversation has taken, she wasn't supposed to behave like this. Why is she searching for a reason to make you stay when she should've been happy that a burden was about to be lifted off of her shoulders? Are all nobles this pushy?
“I—” you cut yourself off as the silver-haired woman leans in without warning, her shadow envelopes the delicacies laid out on the small table.
“Or… have you seen something?” she drawled.
You cannot hold back a flinch this time. A curse echoes in your mind at your stupidity, this was no ‘conversation’ to begin with ; this was yet another trap and you'd willingly played right into the palm of Arlecchino's hand. If there's one thing you've learned about this mysterious noblewoman, it is that she enjoys the process of dragging answers out of everyone. From the very beginning, she was aware of your scheme but, she chose to wear that mask of courtesy one more time and lured you out in the open, unguarded. If only your friend arrived to fetch you from your room at the right time, you wouldn't be in this messy situation.
Your eyes dart from her unblinking expression to the sharp accessories that adorn her gloved fingers and something about them forces you to reply quickly.
“No! I mean, you know that I'm a traveler, do you not? It's already been six months since we came to your estate, me and my friend were starting to.. crave that adventurous thrill—yes! We were starting to miss being on the road and decided to depart in the early morning.”
Once upon a time, your late mother had told you that some people in this world are like spiders. They're always at the centerpiece of their lair, leaving intricate translucent webs for unassuming prey to get tangled upon. Although the croaked warnings of your bedridden mother did not make much sense to the younger you, you understood now exactly what she meant.
“Incorrect. You were planning to escape with that friend of yours, weren't you?”
The hearthfire burns bright, shrouding Arlecchino's expression in shadows. The chilling octave of her voice defeats the warmth of the fireplace and has every muscle in your body stiffened. Escape? Her word choice never ceased to baffle you throughout this faux tea-party. She speaks as though you were her prisoner instead of a guest. She tilts her head and has the audacity to look betrayed as though you were a possession she held dear, and not a random human she decided to take pity upon.
Arlecchino runs a hand through her silvery hair with a sigh that actually indicates ennui and you bite back a scowl, “Honestly, I do not understand why you even befriended that thing. He's an obnoxious blabbermouth with a nose bigger than his brain. And he's loud, too. You've always preferred to mingle with level headed people with a sufficient intellectual capacity in the past and here you are, glaring at me as though—”
“Don’t speak like you know me!”
You pant after the force of that outburst, your voice ricochets across the walls of her room and further beyond. You open your mouth to continue but stop when you notice a strange flicker in the silver-haired woman's eyes. It's gone in a blink and is replaced with irritation just as quickly however.
“Oh, but I do know you. I know you better than you know yourself, in fact. I know that there are exactly 11 moles throughout your body, I know all your preferences and fears. Don't believe me? Did you really never stop to question how I managed to give you things that catered to your tastes? How I knew what you desired even before you did? Or were you so mesmerized by the words of that friend of yours to pay minimum attention?”
If the tone of a person's voice could kill, you'd be rotting in a ditch by now. You would've never believed someone could sound this malicious while not even raising their voice. You want nothing more than to shrink away but the adrenaline accumulated through your anger pushes you to keep digging your grave.
“And so what if that's exactly how it is? You have no right to have a say in who I choose to be ‘mesmerized’ by!”
A ‘ha!’ laden with disbelief escapes Arlecchino's lips. Fine silvery strands bounce at the mocking tilt of her head, “So what will you do now? Walk out of the gates with that waste of space like nothing happened?”
“Oh, you bet I will!” you fume, rising from the chair and turning on your heels. You barely take one step away from the table until the full weight of Arlecchino's malice crashes down on you and you remember something important.
“Arlecchino, where is my friend?”
The silver haired woman leisurely raises her wine glass at your stilted words, “In my glass.”
You swivel towards her, blinking several times as if to confirm you didn't mishear.
“Well, here and… probably in the stomachs of my pet vultures, excluding the carcass, that is. I'll admit, the taste is subpar compared to the trouble I went through. That thing kept on screaming until one of the vultures tore its heart out. Ugh, my ears are still ringing.”
Your wide eyes tremble towards the glass in her hand, the deep red liquid within sloshes to the direction of Arlecchino's hand ; paired with her words, your friend’s destiny becomes a no-brainer. All your wits abandon you in that instance and in a moment of sheer panic, you take a step back. Arlecchino promptly interferes with your plans, the door and windows close with no little sound and the table and your chair disappear without a trace—all in the snap of her fingers.
“What are you?”
You would've screamed if you didn't forget how to use your lungs. But then again, you doubt anyone would come to save you from her clutches even if you did. Your eyes connect to her onyx ones and in that moment, she appeared far less human than she'd been this whole encounter. Her pupils flash as two red xs and you feel an invisible pull tugging you to her side. The temptation dominates any coherent thoughts until you find yourself an arms length away from her seated self. Her claws dig into the flesh of your arm and yank you to her lap.
Free from the haze of that strange sensation, the first thing that permeates your senses is how cold Arlecchino's proximity is. Your palm meets her chest in a feeble attempt to push her away but all it does is stun you when you notice the absence of a heartbeat. You feel the sting of something sharp on your chin and waist, your eyes glance back and forth between the sources—dread pools in your stomach. Because of your closeness and the light from the fireplace, you're able to see that the sharp objects you'd mistaken for accessories are actually her nails and the gloves, her real skin.
Perhaps your trembling was so pitiful that Arlecchino could not help but soften her gaze, “Do you truly not recall?”
You look up at her, thoroughly perplexed. There's that previous glint in her eyes again but you've already accepted that understanding this woman was beyond you. One moment she accuses you as though you've been unfaithful, then she vividly describes how she murdered an innocent man and the next she looks almost… hurt?
“Recall what?”
The silver-haired woman’s red lips part and you gulp as unnaturally sharp fangs sneer at you. Albeit, she does not answer you and you wonder if you should get accustomed to playing mental gymnastics with her just to get a simple answer. Her talons let go of your waist and drag their up to your collarbone, creating a deliberate and irrepairable tear on your clothes. Her nails drum against your skin for three seconds before they latch onto your throat.
“Although, that'll no longer be an issue.”
She forces you to make eye-contact with a sharp tug on your chin, the color drains from your face as her cool breath washes against your skin. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but are quickly shushed as you feel her fangs sink into your lower lip.
“Because, we'll have ample time to get acquainted with each other starting from today.”
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harmonysanreads · 3 days
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The "darling being able to see Sunday's high-Fe social mask and avoids it" is so funny.
Because Sunday probably ends up thinking that you will be someone who he doesn't have to pretend around, he can be more free around you because you can see through him. I can even see the attraction being platonic at first before turning into something darker.
But because you can see through him, you know that there's something dangerous about him under that ethereal, beautiful appearance. There's no way you're getting yourself involved with that. Sunday simply wants someone he can be real around :')
But you keep on running away from him :')
-💅
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harmonysanreads · 3 days
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You think there are three words that should never be put beside each other in this world : Aventurine, couch and you.
Not that you've never tried to save yourself from these occasions and you lament, when said couch was at least fitting to be put in Aventurine's extravagant abode — that is, spacious enough to even be called a couch — your attempts had been successful. But he, the shrewd man that he is, noticed the leeway he'd previously forsaken on the second time you dared to move away from his person.
Thus entered your jeweled prison the abomination that calls itself a couch, capable of fitting but one person and specifically curated for your captor's schemes. Aventurine likes to play many exciting games, one of them is called patience. You'd consider yourself to be under luck's shadow if it's your composure he's testing. At least, your ticks, when and how you'll wear down are no mystery to either one of you. Guessing Aventurine's mood on the other hand, is mental anguish.
So, in moments where he invites you beside him, legs spread in that manner that makes the nearby wall appealing enough to crush your head and leaving but an arm's space — your best course of action is to do as he says. You'd rather be intrepid than brazen in these scenarios, regardless of how inviting the prospect of defying Aventurine is, and swallow the itchy emotions that surface when his arm wraps around your waist.
Of course, he's selfish and trying to negotiate any extra inch of space will leave you enervated too quickly. If Aventurine wills, he could do much worse than hold you captive in his embrace and that reminder continues to be your solace in every instance where you wish that Aventurine, You and Couch should stay light-years away.
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