Aventurine Fluff - Blog Posts

"ikaw na ang tahanan at mundo" ; aventurine

requested by anon — “Thinking about welcoming Aven back home after a long day of work. Thinking about telling him to sit down while preparing a bath for him.. (cont.)” premise — he crumbles underneath your gentle caresses and kind touch, of your kisses that soothes him of his burdens and pain, of your words that reassure him ; alternatively, you take care of your tired and exhausted lover after seeing his disheveled state as he comes home from work. content tags and warnings — pairing: aventurine w/ gender-neutral reader | established relationship, aventurine and reader lives together, fluff, domestic, not proofread | wc: 2.0k

note from me — my aven doc file is literally 74 pages long and has nearly 30k words in it jesus

The indistinct noise of the television dances to AVENTURINE’S ears as he pushes the door open and enters. Soft foot falls soon follow after before he finds you peering your head behind the wall, eventually coming to fully reveal yourself as you realize who was at the doorstep.

“Hey,” You greet him, a small smile on your face. Your eyes scan over his washed out form, his face bearing only fatigue as he forces a smile to greet you back—he doesn’t utter a word, just purses his lips into a small line that curves on the corners, but you don’t fret over it. 

It is not a rare occurrence for him to come home after work in quite a disheveled manner: his hair tousled over (probably due to combing through it in frustration), his tie loosened, his coat held in his arms, and his hat nowhere to be seen (you figured he most likely left it behind his car). Yet, the man with golden hair—putting sunlight to shame—still looks beautiful as ever despite the weary lines that are etched into his features.

Aventurine walks to you, dragging his feat, and collapses his form over yours. You easily catch him in your embrace, stumbling back for a little bit. The faint smell of his cologne fills your senses as he buries his face on the crook of your neck, the brush of his hair tickling your skin. 

You pat the back of his head, speaking softly, “Bad day at work?”

The man grumbles, heaving out a sigh, “Mhm, I’m tired,” His tense shoulders loosen underneath the comfort of your touch and he pulls you closer to him.

“Shall we move to the bed then?” He shakes his head as an answer, strands of his hair brushing against you and the feeling makes you laugh. You sense him visibly relax at the sound, letting himself be swallowed and consumed by the warmth of you.

“Do you want to bathe first? I’ll prepare it for you.”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

Soft laughter bubbles from your throat, escapes from your lips, and wraps around the fatigue lines that trace his form like a blanket that soothes him into the kindness of your own. “There’s no need to thank me, I’ll always do anything for you.”

Aventurine doesn’t have to say anything to let you know that he adores you and the way you are able to ease him into letting go of his burdens, to let it spill all over the floor beneath him, forgetting all of his problems behind as you guide him to sit down on the couch while you go and prepare a bath for him. The loss of your warmth, the absence of you in his arms, crashes a wave of dissatisfaction into him, but he doesn’t complain because he knows you’ll be back to him anyways—and so you did, moments later, with a small smile on your face and the lingering smell of lavender on you.

“Sorry for taking long,” you say, a gentle tone as you bent down and pressed your lips on his forehead, cupping his face in your hands. There are stars in his eyes, his cheeks painted in a light shade of red, as you begin to pour soft kisses all over, and he relishes underneath the light you shower him with—eyes fluttering close as he lets himself drown in the waters of your affection.

You don’t wait for a response from him, only letting your hands fall to tangle on his own and usher him to get up from his seat.You bring him to the bathroom where you slowly peel off every layer of his clothing, tossing it to the laundry basket in the corner along the weight of his worries. Your caress is soft, your touch lingering on his skin in a way that softens his edges, and Aventurine basks in this raw and naked moment of vulnerability; you look at him only with affection, with such form of adoration that simply does not need to be described nor be doubted.

(And there was a time when he had bared himself to you, a small voice composed by the songs of his fear and the melody of his anxiety would always echo inside his head: do you find him unsightly? Do you find him bitter and thorned, cold and flawed, boring and horrible? He thinks he is unworthy of your love, that he doesn’t deserve to carry, hold, and drown in the depths of your heart. But you kiss him, tracing the jagged lines, carving out pieces of yourself to satiate the hunger that runs deep beneath his flesh, running threads across his skin and yours.)

There are scented candles lit on the counter—lavender, like the scent that persists on you. The water is dyed in pink, tainted with a few streaks of red that is the same color of his love, and it is warm, gentle, seemingly melting away all of his thoughts. For a moment, he forgets the turmoil that persisted in his mind, wondering why he had come home in such a rumpled state.

“Do you want to talk about what happened at work today?” You gently part the curtain of silence that dawned in the space between you and him, as you begin to wash his hair while he relaxes in the tub. He doesn’t stay anything for a few moments, only watching the rubber duck in front of him as it sails across the calm current.

“Nothing much happened, just a long and exhausting day,” You could sense the hesitation in his tone and you decided not to probe any more; Aventurine doesn’t want to think about it, wants to forget about it, and you figured that it’s better to leave it than force him to hold on to the thorns. You’ve always known him like the back of your hand—it wasn’t hard to understand him, despite how harsh he thinks of himself. 

You massage his scalp, golden threads weaved by sunlight tangled in a bubbly mess by your fingertips as you lather shampoo on his hair. Just as you were about to speak once more, he races you to it:

“And I just missed you.” Terribly, and horribly so. He leans against the porcelain tub, tilting his head back to meet your gaze, albeit your face seems to be upside-down in his view. Your hands pause from its movements and you stare at him for a moment, beaming a bright grin at him soon after.

“I know, and I missed you too. I was really lonely today.”

“Did you not go out and eat dinner with your friends earlier?”

“Well, yes,” your voice trails and you ask him to close his eyes, rinsing his hair with water from the showerhead. You pick up the words you have left off, “But I wasn’t with you.” You wished he was with you and that was the thing. He doesn’t exactly know how to respond without sounding like a complete fool that is utterly and stupidly in love with you, so he just sinks deeper, silently hoping to himself that you’ll see the words he desperately writes into the water.

Moments soon come to pass between you and him, just relishing in the silence. But the shrunken and creased skin on his hands, the once smooth skin shaped by the prolonged embrace of water, tells him that he must get out of the tub. Water cascades like rivulets down his body and you immediately hand him his bathrobe to dry himself and keep himself warm as you walk to the bedroom with him.

“Were you waiting for me to come home?” He asks with worry edging into his tone. It was already past 10 PM when you had greeted him by the doorstep, a time that is much later than the usual time he would arrive home. 

“I always do. Although this time, I really managed to stay awake.” There’s a look of pride drawn all across your face, a warm and bright smile on your lips, and he couldn’t help but to smile upon seeing it, like your happiness was something contagious itself and he’s a willing victim of the disease. Having you here with him right now is quite an unusual scene. After all, he has gotten used to finding you asleep on the couch or in the bed whenever he comes home late. He welcomes whatever you may call this, nonetheless, finding solace and relief in your presence.

“You could have just slept instead, you must be tired.” You don’t fail to notice his conflicted expression and the murky depths of his eyes, his mind becoming clouded by the mud of his thoughts, and you sigh—not out of disappointment or anything of the same cloth.

“I don’t mind,” you reply, picking up the silk pajamas neatly folded on top of the bed, “Besides, I get to take care of you now. Here, let me help.”

(And maybe it’s a selfish desire that claws at his chest; he wishes that you welcome him in your embrace every time, that you caress his weary bones and rid of his exhaustion, that you press kisses all over his face and make him forget of the world around him, that you take care of him always and forever.)

Aventurine watches you with a gaze that holds only the light of his affection within, adoring the way your eyebrows furrow and your hands fumble as you try to button his shirt; he nearly chuckles to himself, but he holds in the melody in between his teeth, afraid that you’ll think he’s making fun of you.

“We haven’t really spent that much time together these past few days.” You utter with a gentle tone, words delicate and soft as to not appear as if you were reprimanding him. Although you know he’s going to utter words of apologies so you immediately cover his mouth with your hand, your eyes seemingly glare at him but your gaze didn’t hold malice nor hatred in it (it never did).

“No.” Was the only thing you said.

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” He says, his voice muffled against your palm.

“You’re a terrible liar, Rine. I know you were going to say sorry.”

He traces his finger across your wrist before weaving his hand into yours, uncovering his mouth that you concealed. There’s a faint smirk dancing on his lips, a subtle shade of red that taints his cheeks; “Wrong, I was going to say ‘I love you.’”

“Cheeky.”

“You adore me, anyways.”

You gasp, acting as if your deepest and darkest secret had been found out by the man you revere the most. “How could you tell?”

The soft sound of his laughter fills the empty space, painting the walls with the hues of his eyes, the song of his heart a veil that envelops you like a cradle. He rubs his nose against yours, breaths mingling so close to each other, but he does not dare to kiss you—he does not have to.

(Forever doesn’t seem that bad with you. Aventurine wants to stay like this forever, he thinks he could stay like this forever. It feels like a sin to be able to hold you in his arms, to have the divinity of the sun and stars locked in his own embrace.)

Too consumed by the feeling of him, by the words of affection that hangs in the air, by the giggles and chuckles that escape from your lips and his, you don’t notice the mattress that bears your weight and the blanket that enfolds you. One moment, you were asking him to bend down so you could dry his still damp hair with a towel then the next, he’s looking for your ticklish spots, ending with your limbs and legs tangled together in a cuddled form on top of the bed.

You feel him nuzzle his face closer to your chest and you play with his hair, combing through the threads of lovely and soft ravels of daylight. 

You call to him in a tender cadence but you receive no response—the dull and relaxed rhythm of his dreams calms the currents of his consciousness as he lays with you. So you whisper, even if it’s only the silence that will hear, your words mingling with the dust in the corner of your room: 

“Welcome home, Rine.”

THIS GOT TOO LONG OH MY DAYSS

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