Ah, to be loved, and held. To most, there would be nothing better. Aventurine couldn’t agree, not truly. He wasn’t sure if anything could move him anymore- save for his own schemes. With his every word masked by layers of deceit, such a fate seemed impossible to reach. Even when he intertwined his fingers with yours, when you would exchange sweet words- there was something off, the desire not quite fulfilled, or even there.

The two of you were lovers, yes, but at times it felt like it was only in name. Innuendo blocked the way to sincerity, the vulnerability that lovers ‘should’ share. Aventurine never wished for his life to be dictated by another. The shackles of affection were still shackles, after all. Perhaps dedication was a better sentence than death.

“Sweetheart,” he coos, moving in from behind to wrap his hands around your waist. His voice is like velvet as he speaks, the same suave tone he’d used with everyone else. Here, there was at least some privacy- he could try to act like a lover should. “Are you feeling well? You’ve been awfully quiet, you know.”