I have a request for Aventutine, if you don't mind. It's pretty silly but it popped into my head so I couldn't resist lol.
Can I request Aventutine with a s/o who's really sensitive to temperature? Like they get hot Or cold pretty easily? Imagine he's just trying to cuddle at night cuz he's had a long day and the Reader is just shifting away every single time in their sleep because they feel too warm because of the body heat lol. It's silly but I just wanted to ask :)
Thank you and have a lovely day!
Too Hot to Handle
Summary: After a long, exhausting day of high-stakes strategy and political maneuvering, Aventurine returns home seeking solace in your arms. There’s just one problem: your body temperature sensitivity turns his attempts at nighttime cuddles into a one-sided battle against warmth and wriggling discomfort. As he tries (and fails) to get close, the two of you navigate the fine line between comfort, vulnerability, and intimacy—proving that even the coldest nights have room for a little heat, if you know how to hold it.
Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Established Relationship, Fluff, Post-Mission Comfort, Temperature Sensitivity, Domestic Moments, Humor & Banter, Light Angst, Emotional Vulnerability, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Aventurine, Subtle Body Language, Symbolism.
Warnings: Light physical contact/Intimacy (non-explicit), Temperature/Body discomfort (mildly sensory, not distressing), Subtle references to past abuse or religious trauma (very light, not detailed).
A/N: This sounds like something I'd do ngl 😭🙏
The room was quiet save for the hum of the temperature regulator—a machine that clearly had its work cut out for it.
Aventurine sighed, long and slow, shoulders slack as he shrugged off his coat with theatrical exhaustion. The soft thump of the fur-lined garment hitting the floor was followed by a less glamorous grunt as he sat on the edge of the bed, fingers loosening the collar of his shirt.
“Another day, another gamble,” he muttered, lips curling into a tired smile. “Only this time, the house was rigged and on fire.”
His eyes scanned the room, landing on you: curled up under a pile of sheets, already halfway asleep, your brow furrowed in discomfort. Again.
“Oh, love…” he chuckled softly, tugging off his rings one by one with deliberate care. “Don’t tell me you’re overheating again. It’s barely 22 degrees.”
You didn’t respond, at least not verbally. But you did shift an inch farther away the moment he crawled into bed behind you—on cue, as though sensing the mere idea of body heat.
Aventurine froze mid-cuddle, his hand hovering just shy of your hip.
“Really?” he whispered, not offended so much as dramatically betrayed. “You’re doing this again?”
You hummed groggily in response, voice muffled under the blankets. “’S too warm… you radiate like a small sun…”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he replied, voice thick with feigned heartbreak. “Darling, you wound me.”
You mumbled something incoherent. It might’ve been “Sorry” or “Move” or “Don’t care.” Aventurine couldn’t tell. What he could tell was that you were now inching away by another few centimeters, tugging the covers with you.
“Unbelievable,” he whispered to the dark, laying flat on his back like a man contemplating the betrayal of the cosmos. “I survive boardroom backstabbing, orbital sabotage, a budget meeting with the IPC's Vice Treasurer, and I come home to this.”
You shifted again.
This time, he moved with you—carefully, slyly, like a card sharp sneaking a joker into the deck. A gentle arm slid around your waist, and—
“Too warm!” you whined, kicking at the sheets like a grumpy child.
“Alright, alright,” he murmured, letting go but not without a pout you couldn’t see.
A moment passed. Then two. And then—
A dramatic sigh.
“Do you want me to sleep on the floor?” he asked, as if he were moments from throwing himself onto the rug in despair. “Is this the height of romance? Denied physical contact by a thermostat with legs?”
You rolled onto your back and cracked one eye open. “You can cuddle me when I’m cold. Right now, you’re like a sentient heat lamp with a superiority complex.”
He blinked. Then burst out laughing.
“Well, you’re not wrong,” he said, fingers lacing together behind his head. “But what if I told you I adjusted the room temp before I got in? Dropped it to 18 degrees. That’s commitment.”
You blinked, then slowly reached down and tugged the sheet off your legs.
“…I do feel a little chilly now.”
Aventurine’s smirk widened. “Ah-ha! You see? Never bet against the Aventurine of Stratagems.”
“Don’t say your full title while trying to get me to spoon you.”
He grinned.
You hesitated. Then, finally, you scooted toward him. A bit. Enough for your leg to brush his. He didn’t press his luck—yet. Just let the moment breathe.
It was quiet again, save for the low hum of the temperature regulator and the faint rustling of bedsheets.
“…Rough day?” you asked, voice softer now.
Aventurine exhaled, long and slow. “Mm. You could say that.”
“Want to talk about it?”
He was silent for a beat. Then another. You felt the subtle tension in his body—the way his fingers twitched near his side, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly.
“…No,” he said eventually, voice quiet. “But I wouldn’t mind… this.”
You reached over, cautiously, and took his hand—the left one he always kept slightly hidden, always careful with. He didn’t stop you.
You rested your head on his shoulder.
“I’ll overheat in five minutes,” you warned gently.
“That’s fine,” he replied, closing his eyes. “Just give me four.”
Another beat of silence passed, and then—
“…You’re gonna make a joke about how you ‘heat up every room you walk into,’ aren’t you?” you mumbled.
He grinned, eyes still shut. “Darling, please. You know me so well.”
You rolled your eyes. “Go to sleep, drama king.”
He did.
Eventually.
But not before whispering, half-asleep and almost vulnerable:
“…Thanks for not kicking me away this time.”
And in that moment—held together not by heat, but something quieter—you let him stay.
Summary: On a quiet night in Jinzhou, you find Jiyan where he always is—keeping watch over the city from his balcony. He doesn’t speak much, but he doesn’t need to. In the hush between words, in the way his hand finds yours, in the subtle shifts of his stance when you draw near, something deeper takes shape. A love not declared aloud, but written in silence.
Characters: Jiyan x Gender Neutral Reader
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: No major warnings
Words: 729
The city was quiet, the lanterns casting soft, muted light across Jinzhou’s rooftops. The walls of the Rangers’ headquarters stood like silent guardians, and on the balcony above them, you spotted Jiyan.
He was standing perfectly still, robes snug across his broad shoulders, the dark fabric falling in neat folds. Every line of him radiated strength—the subtle tension in his elbows, the careful flexing of his fingers against the railing, the slight rotation of his torso as he shifted weight from one foot to the other. His gaze remained fixed over the rooftops, sharp and vigilant, shadowed with fatigue, scanning the city with measured precision.
You stepped onto the balcony. “You’ve been here since the patrols returned,” you said softly.
He didn’t turn immediately. “Their reports were thorough. No activity beyond the eastern ridge,” he said, voice level, measured—the tone of a commander assessing the safety of his city. Then, softer: “For tonight, Jinzhou rests.”
He adjusted the fold of his robe at the waist, smoothing a crease that wasn’t there, a small habitual movement masking the strain he carried. You moved closer, letting your sleeve brush his. He didn’t step away. Instead, the tiniest lean of his torso toward you, the subtle tilt of his shoulders, brought him fractionally closer, a gesture almost invisible to anyone else.
“You should rest too,” you murmured.
His gaze stayed on the horizon. “Rest will come later. I can’t ignore what waits beyond the walls.” Still, his stance shifted slightly toward you—a slight adjustment of weight, a faint tilt of his head, a careful alignment of his body—bringing him subtly nearer.
Your hand found the railing near his, and after a moment, his fingers shifted—calloused, precise—until they overlapped yours. The gesture wasn’t grand, wasn’t meant to be seen by anyone else, but it was steady. Anchoring.
A faint breeze stirred the balcony, rustling his hair and robes. He shifted subtly, tilting his torso to shield the space between you and the cold. Fingers still entwined, a subtle lift of his hand reinforced the connection, unspoken but deliberate.
You stepped along the balcony, letting your gaze wander to the distant torchlight along the gates. He followed your motion in almost imperceptible ways: a gentle rotation of his shoulders, a fraction of a lean forward, a shift of his weight to keep pace with you. When you brushed lightly against the railing or adjusted your stance, his fingers flexed, subtly tightening around yours without drawing attention.
“Everything alright?” you asked, voice low.
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he leaned fractionally closer, shoulders aligning ever so slightly with yours, a tilt of his head catching the corner of your gaze, eyes briefly meeting yours. The faint lift of his brow, the measured pressure of his hand, and the even rhythm of his breathing spoke everything his words did not.
A gust of wind swirled, tugging at robes and hair. He shifted, smoothing a fold of his sleeve across his wrist, adjusting stance and balance, keeping you sheltered without needing to draw attention to it. Every gesture—subtle, deliberate—spoke of care, attention, and strength.
You paused near the edge of the balcony. His torso followed, aligning with yours without breaking form, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours. The slight squeeze of his hand, the careful adjustment of his stance, the minute tilts and turns of his body—they communicated closeness, intimacy, and quiet trust.
You moved closer again, and he subtly mirrored the motion, a tilt of his shoulders, a gentle shift of weight, the slightest rotation of his wrist. His presence radiated calm vigilance and strength, yet every shift acknowledged your nearness, your shared space.
Time stretched. The night held you both in a quiet rhythm: your movements, his small adjustments, the touch of hands, the alignment of shoulders, the subtle exchange of glances. Words were unnecessary. Every fraction of motion—the lean, the touch, the gaze, the steady grip of his hand—built a slow-burn intimacy that belonged only to this balcony, this quiet night, this space between you.
He didn’t smile, didn’t relax fully, but the subtlety of his gestures spoke volumes. Every tilt of his head, every measured shift of weight, every micro-adjustment of hand and arm carried care, attentiveness, and a quiet, unspoken love. He was here, fully present, steady, and deliberately close, and in the hush of the city below, that was enough.
I WANT MORE ANGST AVENTURINE💔💔, i actually hate angst because it makes me cry everytime but i somehow enjoyed it. maybe an aftermath of reader's death? like how would he mourns you? i have some ideas in mind like reader goes to a dangerous mission even after being warned that they will not make it alive but they still go anyway but they died and aventurine was not believing it at first but after a coworker shows the proof he finally like uh becomes sad and smth like that.. *srry for my bad grammar and how badly i describe everything english isn't my first language 💔
No One Left to Call
Summary: When you don’t return from a mission, Aventurine refuses to believe the news—until undeniable proof lands on his desk. In the quiet that follows, his carefully constructed mask begins to fracture, revealing the grief he’s kept hidden from the world.
Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Angst, Post-Death, Aftermath of Loss, Grief, Denial, Emotional Suppression, Survivor’s Guilt, Hurt/No Comfort, Subtle Body Language, Quiet Breakdown, Found Object Symbolism.
Warnings: Major Character Death, Mentions of death and destruction, Grief depiction, Emotional distress, Survivor’s guilt, References to past trauma, No comfort/resolution.
The news came as a whisper.
Not the kind carried by the wind, but the kind that slid across a desk in a manila envelope, pushed toward him without ceremony. No dramatic alarm bells, no trembling voice to soften the blow—just… paper.
Aventurine didn’t even glance at it at first. His smile was still in place, the same calculated curve he wore in meetings and at poker tables.
“You’re late,” he said lightly, voice a smooth drawl as he shuffled a deck of cards between his fingers. “If this is about Penacony’s projections, I already—”
“It’s about [Name],” the coworker interrupted. Their eyes didn’t meet his. “The mission to Xianzhou. They didn’t make it back.”
His fingers stilled mid-shuffle. A single card slipped, fell, and fluttered to the floor face-down.
He gave a soft laugh, too quiet, like he’d missed the punchline of his own joke. “Try again. You’re not a very convincing dealer.”
The coworker didn’t speak—just slid the envelope closer. It scraped faintly against the polished surface of his desk.
Inside, there were photographs.
Scorched terrain.
A shattered comms device with a fragment of a charm he’d once idly hooked onto their belt.
And—just enough to be cruel—a blurred shot of them in their final moments, back turned, running toward the blast zone.
His eyes didn’t flicker. Not once.
He picked up the photo by its corner, examined it with the same dispassionate precision he’d use to read an opponent’s tell.
“Could be anyone,” he said finally. His tone was flat, almost bored. “Bad lighting. Poor resolution. I’ll wager you’re wrong.”
But he didn’t set the photo down.
Didn’t shuffle the cards again.
Hours later, the office was empty.
The lights were low, the embroidery on the back of his blazer catching faint gold from a desk lamp.
The photographs sat scattered before him now, arranged like a losing hand. He hadn’t touched them, hadn’t even tried to stack them into something orderly.
His left hand was hidden behind his back, fingers digging into his own wrist hard enough to leave crescents in the skin. His right hand—always so steady—rested lightly on his shirt, as though keeping his own heart from making a sound.
“They knew,” he murmured to no one. The smile he wore earlier was gone, not even a ghost of it lingering. “They knew they wouldn’t make it, and they still…”
His voice cracked, and the sentence trailed off into silence.
When the first tear fell, he didn’t notice. It slid down past his glasses, darkening the photograph beneath it.
Aventurine didn’t cry loudly. He didn’t collapse into sobs or bury his face in his hands. His grief was quieter—slower—like a poison he’d willingly swallowed. Every breath was a calculated gamble against the weight in his chest, and every exhale felt like losing another round.
He reached forward finally, picking up the charm from the evidence bag. Turned it over in his palm once. Twice. Then, almost tenderly, he slipped it into the pocket over his heart.
The cards on the desk remained where they were. No more games tonight.
Not when the only player worth betting on had already left the table.
