Hello! Could I request Aventurine x Vampire!Reader?
Maybe something like Reader and Aventurine are on some kind of mission and Reader does not have enough blood packets to sustain themselves for the last few days so is now making a poor attempt to ration them, ending up hungry, sad, and irritable. Aventurine manages to urge them into feeding from him, first from his wrist, before coaxing them to drink directly from his neck, kind of talking them through it as they go
Hopefully that was enough/not too much detail; first time requesting so I'm not too sure how this goes lol. If you do decide to write this then thank you!
The Taste of Trust
Summary: Stranded on a mission in Penacony without enough blood rations, you're left weakened, irritable, and spiraling into a quiet desperation. You try to hide it behind cold silence and restraint—but Aventurine sees right through you. In a rare moment of sincerity, he offers himself as a solution. What begins as a simple feeding from his wrist evolves into something far more intimate and exposing. He talks you through it, gently coaxing you to feed from his neck, revealing a vulnerability beneath his usual flamboyance—and drawing out a piece of your own you thought you'd buried for good.
Warnings: Blood consumption (vampiric feeding), Descriptions of physical weakness, hunger, emotional breakdown, Mild intimacy (biting, close contact, vulnerability), Mentions of trauma and control issues, Power dynamics explored with care, Aventurine being soft (and sincere, and dangerously charming).
A/N: Don't worry, you did a great job for a first time req! 🙏💖
The ship's interior hummed quietly, the low drone of its systems a dull backdrop to your mounting discomfort. Days into the Penacony mission and the supply crate—your crate—was still missing. Blood packs: gone. Rations: forgotten.
Your reflection in the ship's steel bulkhead was pale, even by vampire standards. Under-eye bruising, dull eyes, the twitch in your jaw each time Aventurine entered the room—it was all unraveling faster than you could fake control.
And Aventurine? Of course he noticed.
He noticed everything.
“You’re testy today,” he said, seated with one leg draped over the other, a playful glint in his eyes. “Let me guess—someone stepped on your coffin?”
You glared. “Not in the mood, Aventurine.”
A chuckle, smooth as silk. “Oh, I can tell. The brooding, the muttering, the way you’re gripping that datapad like it insulted your lineage…”
You stood, swaying a little. “I’ll manage.”
“Will you?” His voice lost its teasing edge, tone quieter now, less performative. His gaze sharpened. “You’ve barely moved from that bench all morning. I may not know the delicate art of blood management, but starving yourself isn’t part of your skillset.”
You didn’t answer.
Instead, you turned your back to him and slumped against the cold wall, knees pulled up, hands trembling slightly. The ache was no longer just physical—it was gnawing at your control, dredging up every suppressed emotion like old corpses rising.
A beat. Then—
“Come here.”
You blinked, turning to find him standing now, hat off, glasses pushed onto his head, eyes too earnest for your liking. Too real.
“I’m not—” you began, voice cracking.
“You are,” he interrupted gently, stepping closer. “And I’d rather not watch you fall apart just because of pride. Drink.”
You blinked again. “From… you?”
He shrugged off his blazer, exposing the elegant lines of his dress shirt. “Why not? I’ve survived worse gambles. Besides—” he raised a wrist, adorned in gold rings and a sleek watch, “—I’m feeling generous.”
“Don't joke.”
“I’m not.” His voice dropped, earnest and low. “You need this.”
You stared at him. The pulse under his skin. The temptation. The unbearable thought of hurting him. “I can’t. I might not stop.”
“You will,” he said, taking your hand, guiding it to his wrist. “You always stop. Because deep down, you’re more in control than you think. And I trust you.”
That—trust—was the dagger.
You hissed softly, then pressed your lips to his wrist, the moment intimate in its quietness. The first taste was dizzying—hot, rich, uniquely him. A velvet fire against the coldness eating at your soul.
Aventurine hissed, but didn’t flinch. His fingers twitched once, then steadied on your shoulder.
“You always take risks alone,” he murmured, voice almost fond. “Let me take one too.”
When you pulled away, breath shaky, he tilted his head, revealing the smooth column of his neck, where veins pulsed in rhythm like a dare.
“I know you’re still starving.”
“I can’t,” you whispered.
“You can. You just don’t want to need someone.” He tilted his head further. “Let me help.”
The scent of his blood was maddening here—closer to his pulse, warmer, louder. He placed your hand on his chest, above his heart.
“Feel that?” he asked, a low hum under his words. “I’m not scared.”
You leaned in. Slowly. Every nerve in your body screaming. Your fangs grazed his skin—and he didn’t move. Didn’t tense.
“I’ll talk you through it,” he whispered, his breath brushing your ear. “You take what you need. No more. No less. I’ll pull you back if you go too far.”
Your fangs sank in.
His breath hitched. His hand gripped your shoulder tighter. But still, he held still. Not a single movement of resistance.
“That’s it…” he whispered hoarsely, threading his fingers gently into your hair. “You're doing fine.”
You fed in silence, eyes fluttering shut, the storm of emotion and hunger settling into something warmer, softer. Your trembling ceased. Your hands steadied. The ache faded.
When you finally pulled away, his neck marred with twin pinpricks and the hint of a smile, he looked at you like you'd just played your hand and finally trusted him with the cards.
“There,” he murmured. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
You leaned your forehead against his shoulder, unable to speak.
Aventurine just held you there.
No theatrics. No teasing.
Just him.
Just this.
A rare moment where neither of you were bluffing.
And for the first time in days, you didn’t feel like the monster at the table.
This is gonna sound oddly specific and ofc you dont have to write it ! But I had an AU of gn!reader and Aventurine with Kakavasha (smol child) and they just. "Adopted" him-- obv lorewise it wouldn't make any sense, throwing that out the window for this bc the thought of reader being a gentle elder sibling to Kakavasha (and holding him bc he's so <33) with Aventurine.. they deserve the world :,)
“House of Cards, Heart of Gold”
Summary: You and Aventurine stumble across a small, traumatized child named Kakavasha. You both choose to care for him. As Aventurine wrestles with the ghosts of his past through the mirror of this child, and you gently guide them both toward healing, a quiet, unconventional family begins to form.
Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Soft!Aventurine, Child Kakavasha (Aventurine and Kakavasha are different people), Emotional Healing, Fluff with Bittersweet Undertones, Gentle Reader, Domesticity, Trauma Recovery, Parental Themes, Symbolism & Body Language, Subtle Romance.
Warnings: Implied past trauma, Mentions of survivor’s guilt and emotional repression, Emotional vulnerability and identity fragmentation.
The child doesn’t speak for the first three days.
You don’t push him.
Aventurine calls it “a silent negotiation,” but even he doesn't say much when you sit with the boy on the sun-warmed balcony, wrapped in a too-large coat with golden trim. It's one of Aventurine’s—swiped from a spare rack and draped carefully around the child's tiny shoulders. He still smells faintly of sand and salt, his skin drawn tight over a starved frame and eyes too old for someone so small.
Aventurine, standing behind the glass door, watches in a way you’ve never quite seen before—quietly, almost reverently. Not a trace of his usual showmanship, no roulette-smile or theatrical tilt of his hat. Just him. Real and unguarded.
Kakavasha curls against your side like you’re a fire he wasn’t expecting.
You lower your hand to rest against his back, feeling the rise and fall of his breath. His head doesn’t lift, but the tension in his shoulders eases. Slightly.
“He’s you,” you say later, when you’re alone with Aventurine in the kitchen.
He’s not flamboyant now. No hat. No peacock feather. No watch catching light like a wink. He leans against the counter, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hands, for once, are still.
You expect a flippant remark. A chuckle. A sly “How poetic.” But Aventurine says nothing.
Then: “He flinched when I stepped on tile too loudly.”
The words land like a stone on water.
You cross the room and take his hand—the left one, the one he so often hides behind his back. He doesn’t pull away.
“He doesn’t flinch around you,” you say, quiet. “He trusts you. Even if he doesn’t know why yet.”
Aventurine looks down at your intertwined fingers. “I’m not sure I trust me.”
You don't answer that. Not with words. Instead, you guide his hand to your chest, letting him feel the rhythm of your heart—slow, steady, open.
On the fifth day, Kakavasha speaks.
It’s not a grand moment. No music swells. No dramatic close-up. He just tugs on the hem of your sleeve as you’re adjusting a cushion on the couch and murmurs, “Hungry.”
You freeze.
And then—Aventurine is at your side before you even speak, already listing options aloud with exaggerated flair: “Well, well, the young sir awakens! Shall it be flatbread? Pudding laced with fruit syrups? Or perhaps something grander—roasted skylamb with jeweled rice?”
Kakavasha blinks. “...Bread.”
Aventurine bows low, lips twitching. “Your wish is my command.”
You don’t miss the way his eyes shine as he straightens.
That night, you find the two of them in the living room. The child is curled up in Aventurine’s lap, head tucked under his chin. He’s asleep, breathing slow and peaceful. Aventurine’s arms are wrapped around him in a rare, unscripted embrace.
He notices you watching and lifts a brow.
“I don’t think he realizes he’s me,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Or that I’m him.”
“You don’t need him to,” you murmur, stepping closer. “That’s not why we’re doing this.”
“No?” His smile falters, just a fraction. “Then why are we?”
You crouch beside the couch, brushing a strand of blond hair from Kakavasha’s face. “Because if anyone deserved a second chance at softness, it’s him. And if anyone deserves to give that softness back... it’s you.”
Aventurine stares at you.
No snark. No dramatics.
Just aching silence.
And then, his hand finds yours again—his left one, warm and trembling.
In the weeks that follow, the boy begins to laugh. Shy, soft giggles at first, always hidden behind his hands, like joy is something dangerous. You and Aventurine become fluent in the language of small victories:
He eats all his dinner.
He lets you hold him when he cries.
He traces the patterns on Aventurine’s coat and calls them “lucky swirls.”
Sometimes, Aventurine tells stories—not real ones, but whimsical fabrications with flashy names and impossible plots. Kakavasha listens with wide eyes, nestled between you both on the couch. He always clutches the edge of Aventurine’s coat when the story gets scary.
You notice, over time, Aventurine stops hiding his hand.
And the boy sleeps without nightmares.
And for once, you feel lucky.
One evening, you find a note tucked in your book. The handwriting is uneven, like it was written with trembling fingers, but it's unmistakably his.
Thank you for not making me grow up alone.
I like you. Both of you.
Please don’t go.
—Kakavasha
Your throat tightens.
You look up to see Aventurine in the doorway, watching. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to.
You stand, cross the room, and press the note to his chest. He covers your hand with his, and in the low light, you both stand there—two fragments of broken lives, mended not by fate, but by choice.
