The warmth of the wine hummed between you, a pleasant haze in the quiet evening. You were settled on Aventurine's lap on the sofa, the scent of your perfume mingling with the expensive alcohol on his breath. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, your fingers tracing idle patterns over the exposed skin of his chest.

After a deep, lingering kiss, still with the taste of him still on your lips, you moved to Aventurine's neck, your mouth tracing a path along his jaw and down the column of his throat. He sighed, a low, contented sound escaped him. Then you found the raised, roughened skin, and pressed your lips to the old brand on the neck, the slave mark he usually tried just to ignore.

The moment your mouth touched the scar, the memory struck him with the force of a physical blow. Not your kiss, but the searing, soul-scorching heat of the iron. The smell of his own burning flesh, the sound of sizzling, the white-hot agony branding him as property, the weight of the chains, the utter powerlessness. The phantom pain lanced through him, a ghost from a past Aventurine could never truly unlive.

His body went rigid. Gently, he turned his face away, his throat working as he swallowed hard against the sudden, violent tide of memory and nausea. When he looked back, he’d painted a familiar, lazy smirk onto his face, though it didn't quite reach his eyes, which were wide with a flicker of something raw and hunted.

“Hey now, love,” Aventurine murmured, his voice a strained whisper that trembled despite his best efforts. He tapped a finger playfully against your shoulder. "Ah… such enthusiasm. But perhaps… kiss me somewhere else?"