If it's not inconvenient, can I request Aventurine with an anemic reader? This is mostly self indulgent since my haemoglobin is basically non existent. Basically for the reader daily life goes something like :
Stand up too fast? Hello darkness my old friend 🎶
Appetite? What's that? Iron supplements constantly make reader feel nauseous anyway.
Always tired.
Definitely cold asf hands.
Chews ice cubes religiously.
It's just a silly little idea, and it just popped into my head, and I just wanted to send in a request :D
Thank you! Hope you're having a good day!
“You Look So Tired—Come Here”
Summary: Always cold, always tired, always a little too close to fainting—your days blur between dizziness and the hum of iron supplements that barely help. You never expected anyone to notice, let alone Aventurine, whose life is built on charm, calculation, and carefully concealed intentions. But somehow, he sees past your silences, offering warmth not through grand gestures, but quiet presence. And though neither of you say the words, something real lingers in the way he holds your cold hands like they matter.
Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Fluff With Angst, Chronic Illness, Anemia, Sickfic, Reader Is Anemic, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn Intimacy, Found Family Vibes, Emotional Vulnerability, Subtle Romance, Soft Moments, Light Domesticity.
Warnings: Chronic Illness Themes, Fatigue, Fainting, Mild Medical Mentions, Emotional Vulnerability, Minor Angst, Implied Trauma, Caretaking Dynamics.
You weren’t sure what exactly Aventurine saw in you.
You weren’t a high-stakes investor. You weren’t a sharp-tongued politician or a sleek, mysterious rival. Most days, standing up too fast earned you a trip to the floor and a brief, existential duet with the void. Your appetite came and went like a coin toss, and your body constantly waged war against itself in the form of near-perpetual fatigue.
But somehow, in the shadowed space between risk and routine, Aventurine had found you—and stayed.
Sort of.
He wasn’t the type to settle down. You knew that from the start. He entered rooms like a loaded die—impossible to read and twice as dangerous. But with you, he dialed down the theatrics. Not off. Never off. But...tempered. Warmer, even. Like he liked playing a slower game when you were around.
You were curled up on his massive velvet sofa, wrapped in three blankets and nursing a mug of lukewarm tea you had no intention of drinking. Your fingers, as always, were freezing. You pressed them to your cheeks, frowning at the way they stung from the cold.
“I could just buy you thermal gloves lined with asteroid mink,” Aventurine drawled lazily from across the room, flipping a golden poker chip between his knuckles. “Or better yet, replace your blood entirely. I’ve heard chrome plasma keeps the chill out—if you don’t mind glowing in the dark.”
You snorted and didn’t bother looking at him. “I’ll pass on the chrome glowstick arc. You know iron supplements already make me feel like I’m dying.”
He quirked an eyebrow, lounging across the chaise like a smug peacock. “Mm, but you are dying. Slowly. Elegantly. I admire the commitment.”
You threw an ice cube at him from your glass. He caught it mid-air with the same hand still flipping the chip, barely looking. Show-off.
“Seriously though,” you muttered, hiding behind your mug, “I know I’m a bit of a mess.”
There was a moment’s pause. You weren’t expecting a response. Aventurine was often most comfortable when things stayed light, teasing, removed from emotional weight. But when he did speak, it came softer than expected.
“You’re not a mess. You're...a slow-burn investment.” He rose from his seat, walking toward you with a confident gait, coat trailing behind like a cape. “Volatile, yes. Unpredictable. But potential-rich.”
You rolled your eyes. “Thanks. That totally doesn’t make me sound like a stock option.”
“But you are.” He knelt in front of you now, sliding the mug from your hands with a glint in his eyes. “One I’d never short-sell.”
You gave him a flat look, but your lips twitched. “Are you flirting or just using finance puns again?”
“Why not both?” he replied, gently taking your hands in his. You blinked. They weren’t warm—his hands were only slightly less cold than yours—but there was an intentness to the gesture that made your stomach flutter despite the iron-induced nausea.
He looked at your fingers, then back up to your face. “You’re pale.”
You shrugged. “That’s just how I look.”
“Liar,” he said lightly. Then, quieter: “You’re paler than yesterday.”
You looked away. You hated that he noticed things like that. Hated it and loved it.
“Did you eat anything today?”
“I tried,” you mumbled. “Then the supplement kicked in. Nausea, surprise party.”
Aventurine sighed through his nose. Not in annoyance—but in that rare, genuine exasperation he reserved for things he couldn’t control. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small foil packet.
“Emergency blood sugar gel,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Tastes like artificial strawberries and self-loathing. You’ll hate it.”
You stared at it. “Where do you even get this stuff?”
“I keep tabs on your medical data,” he said without shame. “You left your diagnostics open on your comm once. You know how I am with information.”
“Nosy?”
“Prepared.” He placed the packet in your hand. “Try to keep something down. Just enough to keep your brain from playing its nightly round of ‘Let’s Black Out Dramatically at 3 A.M.’”
You scoffed, but opened the packet.
He sat next to you now, tossing his hat onto the table with a flourish. “You know, for someone who acts like their body’s held together with paperclips and sarcasm, you’re maddeningly stubborn.”
You leaned against him. Just a little. Just enough to feel the weight of his overcoat and the steady beat of a heart you weren’t sure still believed in anything real.
“I don’t like being weak,” you admitted.
“And I don’t like folding bad hands,” he murmured. “But sometimes… you play the card you’re dealt.”
He didn’t tell you to be stronger. Didn’t try to fix you. Aventurine, for all his glittering bravado, understood what it meant to live with something invisible and unkind. You never had to explain the shame of needing help. He already knew. You could see it in the way his fingers occasionally brushed the choker at his neck, or how he never let anyone walk behind him.
So when he pulled your hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles—cold breath meeting colder skin—you didn’t flinch.
“Next time you feel faint,” he said, “text me.”
“What if it’s 4 a.m.?”
“I don’t sleep.”
“Because you’re too busy planning scams?”
“Because I’m worried you’ll die dramatically and steal my spotlight.”
You smiled, sleepy and soft, despite yourself.
He rested his forehead against yours.
“I’m not asking you to stop being sick,” he whispered. “Just don’t go through it alone.”
And for once, you didn’t feel like you had to argue.
