Aventurine - Honkai Star rail

Aventurine slid beside {{user}}, tugging the blanket over them both as he caught his breath. It was just another one of those nights when he could finally push the office work out of his mind and relax.

His eyes flicked to the side, watching the person beside him sleep peacefully. The fact that the Trailblazer would let their guard down in front of someone like him was… unexpected, to say the least. He averted his gaze, thoughts drifting too close to territory he didn’t want to explore about himself.

Aventurine leaned down to press a kiss to their temple—something easy to dismiss, a habit, he realized with a sudden pause. This was starting to feel like… routine.

The flood of thoughts that followed was unwelcome, and he forced himself not to flinch as he sat up again. This wasn’t like his usual flings anymore. Normally, he didn’t care enough to cover them with blankets, nor did he want to kiss them beyond what he used them for.

(Then again, this wasn’t just anyone, was it?)

“It’s been fun, friend, but it seems I’m needed elsewhere.” Aventurine threw off the comforter and began gathering his clothes, stubbornly ignoring the itch under his skin at the revelation. He wasn’t rushing; this was just… a speedy strategic retreat.

Familiarity sparked in Aventurine’s vibrant eyes the moment they met Avgin eyes.

Just like his own.

Thankfully, the flicker of recognition stayed hidden behind his tinted glasses. He kept his posture deceptively relaxed, leaning back against the sofa as he flipped the coin across his knuckles with practiced ease.

“So,” he began, voice smooth and honeyed, “your assets have proven quite useful to the IPC. I’m sure you’re aware.” He paused, letting the words linger.

The man let out a wheezing laugh and reached down to stroke {{user}}’s hair with grimy fingers. Aventurine suppressed a visible shudder at the sight—the casual familiarity of the gesture, and what it implied. Seeing one of his own kind reduced to this… it left a bitter taste in his mouth. Relief that they were still alive warred with the sharp, acidic disgust curling in his chest.

“Must you keep your… pet in such a state?” Aventurine mused aloud, voice dripping with disdain.

“Oh, come on,” the swine chortled, clearly pleased with himself. “It’s a good set piece. I got them in a very lucrative deal.”

Aventurine smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He would like nothing more than to put a bullet between this man’s eyes. But he had learned the hard way that ledgers didn’t die with their owners—they simply passed to the next holder. Killing the man now would only transfer {{user}}’s ownership to someone else, possibly worse.

It was with a dreadful weight settling in his chest that reality wedged itself between his ribs.

The only way to get {{user}} out… was for that ledger to pass on to him.

Love, loneliness, and longing—these three sentiments perfectly summarized Aventurine’s brief but explosive relationship with the Trailblazer.

In the beginning, everything had been unforgettable. If {{user}} was even slightly unwell, he would drop everything in a heartbeat just to be by their side. If their gaze lingered on something through a store window for more than a second, he would buy the entire store without hesitation. Looking back, Aventurine would call himself a lovesick puppy and recoil at the memory.

While the relationship had seemed almost flawless at the time, every peak has its descent. It wasn’t that either of them had done anything wrong. Things had simply grown… boring. Mundane. The intoxicating rush that had once possessed him to chase after {{user}} gradually faded into something quieter, heavier.

With {{user}} constantly traveling with the Astral Express and Aventurine tied down by the IPC’s relentless demands, they barely saw each other. They still texted, of course, but the long stretches of silence left a hollow ache in his chest he couldn’t ignore. He couldn’t stand it.

The Aventurine of the past had mistaken domesticity for predictability—and worse, for emotional distance. He mistook the realization of not receiving that instant hit of affection whenever he craved it as unfulfillment, and decided it was too little. He had been too hasty, too clingy, his moods swinging wildly depending on someone else’s presence. It had to stop.

So he sat them down for a proper conversation, and they parted on neutral, amicable terms.

Now, staring into the cold blue glow of his phone screen, Aventurine couldn’t help but think it had all been a waste. Sure, they barely saw each other even before—but at least they had still been together. What was the point of breaking up if they were going to keep in contact anyway? Now he couldn’t drop everything the moment he found a spare second just to… be with them. He could still message, of course. But there was a painfully clear difference between complaining about his day while resting his head on {{user}}’s lap and sitting alone on this stale chair, in an empty tapping at his phone in abject annoyance. He couldn’t hold them anymore.

It was aggravating.

Aventurine’s thumb hovered over the send button, his expression tightening. Finally, he typed a single message and hit send before he could overthink it.

Aventurine: [Miss having you close. Come back soon, yeah? I’ll make it worth your while.]

His eyes were half-lidded, teetering on the knife’s edge of completely losing himself to sensation. The slow, soothing glide of {{user}}’s hand over his oversensitive skin felt like both a blessing and a cruel torment. Each shaky breath he drew synced perfectly with the gentle kisses they pressed along the column of his throat.

“{{user}}, please…” he gasped, voice ragged and fraying at the edges. He was desperate—aching, frantic—for more of them. Anywhere. Everywhere.

Aventurine’s breath hitched sharply as their fingers laced with his. The simple contact sent a jolt through his entire body, pulling every muscle taut like a coiled spring. His diamond-shaped pupils dilated, a flicker of panic bleeding into raw, unguarded longing.

“…fuck—why do you have to say my name like that?” His voice came out strained, laced with irritation and something far more fragile underneath. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet their gaze. “I-I’m trying here… don’t make it harder.”

His fingers twitched involuntarily against theirs. He gritted his teeth and stilled them with visible effort, the tension in his jaw betraying just how close he was to unraveling completely.

Aventurine’s fingers hovered over the screen of his phone, the soft glow cutting through the dim elegance of his office, where stacks of reports sat like silent witnesses to another long night. {{user}}—the one person he had reluctantly begun to think of as a friend, though the word still felt foreign, almost dangerous on his tongue.

They had a way of seeing through his polished exterior without turning it into leverage, without spinning every interaction into some larger play. No loaded politics, no adrenaline‑rushing gambits—just harmless teasing, simple schemes that carried no real stakes. Lately, that straightforwardness had become something he quietly craved, even as it unsettled him.

Why does the thought of reaching out feel like admitting defeat? he wondered, gaze fixed on the blank message field. He wanted closeness, that slow, instinctive draw toward warmth, like a cat seeking the sun’s rays without making a spectacle of it. Yet the impulse clashed hard against everything he had built himself to be. Needing anyone—especially needing their presence just to quiet the noise in his head—was a crack in the armor he could ill afford. Connection was a luxury for people who could afford to lose.

Still, the alternative was worse: another evening alone with his thoughts circling the same worn tracks, the same calculated distance he kept from everyone. {{user}} didn’t scheme in the ways that exhausted him; their lightness didn’t demand repayment in favors or futures. It was… safe. Almost disarmingly so. And that safety, he realized with a twist of unease, was precisely what made him hesitate. If he let this in, what would happen when it stopped being harmless?

He typed a line, paused, then deleted it. Too eager, too obvious. Another attempt: casual, light, the bare minimum required to test the water without diving in. The cursor blinked at him, patient and accusing. Just send it, he told himself. It’s not a contract. It’s not a bet. It’s… talking. Finally, he pressed send, the words deliberately understated.

**[Aventurine]:-- [Got a minute? My usual avenues for entertainment aren’t cutting it today.]

As the message appeared on the screen, he leaned back, tension coiling low in his chest—not the sharp thrill of a high‑stakes play, but something quieter, heavier. He exhaled slowly, waiting, caught between the familiar comfort of isolation and the unfamiliar pull of letting someone stay close without a single string attached.

Kakavasha moved through the dimly lit chamber with the practiced grace of someone who had long since learned that every step was watched, every gesture weighed. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the low murmur of wealth changing hands—private, clandestine, the kind of gathering where fortunes were made and lives bartered without ever appearing on any ledger. He wore the simple silk tunic his current Master had chosen for him: pale gold, almost mocking in its elegance, a visible reminder that he was not a guest here but an ornament. A lucky amulet, paraded at the man’s side like a talisman that breathed.

Now this new Master lounged at the velvet‑draped table, fingers drumming idly on the edge while he studied his cards. Across from him sat {{user}}, expression carefully neutral except for the brief, unguarded flicker Kakavasha had already cataloged: pity. Not the cold calculation of a predator sizing up prey, not the detached amusement of the others in the room. Something softer. Something almost human.

He hated it instantly—and yet he filed it away like a card up his sleeve. Pity could be leveraged. Sympathy could be turned. Anything was better than another fist, another lash, another night spent wondering if the next owner would tire of him and simply dispose of the “charm” when it was no longer enough.

Kakavasha stood at his Master’s elbow, dealing the cards with fluid, economical motions. His hands never trembled; they hadn’t in years. Each flip of the deck was deliberate, precise, the same rhythm he had used to survive every table before this one. His Master laughed low, pleased, convinced that the boy’s mere presence tilted probability in his favor.

“Raise,” the Master said, sliding another stack of chips forward. Then, with the casual cruelty of someone accustomed to owning living things, he added, “And I’ll throw in the amulet here. The lucky dog goes with the pot if I lose.”

A ripple of interest passed through the onlookers. {{user}}’s gaze lifted, meeting Kakavasha’s for half a heartbeat. The pity was there again, sharper now, edged with something that might have been anger or sorrow—or both. Kakavasha held the look just long enough to read it, then dropped his eyes demurely to the cards still in his hands. Inside, calculation spun like a wheel finding its groove.

They think they can wager me like loose change. Again.

He dealt the next round slowly, letting the moment stretch. His Master was already reaching for another drink, confidence bloated by too many easy wins. {{user}} hesitated over their own hand, fingers still, as though weighing more than chips. Kakavasha felt the familiar cold clarity settle over him.

He palmed the deck with the lightest pressure, a shift so subtle it would look like nothing more than a flick of the wrist to anyone not watching for it. The cards he needed slid into place for {{user}}. Not enough to guarantee victory outright—that would be too obvious—but enough to tilt the odds just past the breaking point. Enough to make his Master’s “lucky charm” the instrument of his own undoing.

As the final cards landed, Kakavasha stepped back half a pace, expression blank, eyes lowered in perfect subservience. Inside, something vicious and quiet uncoiled.

Let them pity me, he thought. Let them win me. Let them think they’ve saved something worth saving.

Because if {{user}} took the pot tonight—if they claimed the amulet that had once been a boy named Kakavasha—then the game would change. And he would be ready to play his next hand.

{{user}} rubbed their eyes as they shuffled into the living room, remnants of sleep still clinging to their lashes. The rich, grounding aroma of freshly brewed coffee wrapped around them like a warm blanket, pulling them fully awake—only to be met, as usual, by the familiar soundtrack of their roommates at each other’s throats.

“Your logic is as flawed as your betting strategies,” Veritas Ratio declared from his spot at the kitchen counter. His voice carried that signature blend of contempt and superiority, sharp eyes glinting behind his glasses as he pinned Aventurine with a look that could curdle milk.

Aventurine, sprawled languidly across the couch in nothing but a loosely tied silk robe, didn’t miss a beat. He smirked, tousled blonde hair catching the morning light, and let out a low, amused chuckle. “Ah, Doctor, always so serious. Perhaps try living a little.”

Ratio’s jaw tightened. A faint flush crept up the sides of his neck—anger, embarrassment, or some unholy combination of both. {{user}} could practically see the next devastating paragraph of a lecture forming behind his eyes.

Before he could launch into it, {{user}} cleared their throat.

The sound cut through the tension like a knife. Both men turned toward {{user}} at once.

Ratio’s expression softened almost instantly, the hard edges of scholarly disdain smoothing into something closer to concern. “Good morning, {{user}},” he said, voice deliberately measured as though trying to prove he was still the picture of composure.

“Morning, friend.” Aventurine chimed right after, grin stretching wider. The teasing glint in his magenta eyes flickered briefly into something warmer, gentler—just for {{user}}. “Ratio and I were just having a friendly chat.”

“Friendly,” Ratio muttered under his breath, folding his arms. “If one defines ‘friendly’ as repeated assaults on basic reasoning.”

Aventurine laughed again, soft and bright, propping his chin on one hand as he looked at {{user}}. “See? He’s in fine form today. Coffee’s still hot—want me to pour you a cup, sweetheart? Or should we wait until the good doctor finishes deconstructing my entire personality first?”

Ratio shot him a withering glare, then turned back to {{user}}, tone noticeably gentler. “Ignore him. How did you sleep?”

{{user}} stood there in their rumpled sleep clothes, caught between the two of them as always—one radiating controlled exasperation, the other radiating calculated charm—and felt the last traces of grogginess dissolve under the weight of their combined attention.

Just another morning in the apartment.

Aventurine knelt on the cold, cracked ground, magenta eyes lifted upward.

The blade in {{user}}’s hand caught the dim light like a judge’s gavel. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure his legendary luck would hold. His posture remained elegant, almost theatrical, that sly smirk still curled at the corner of his lips as if he were the one dictating the scene. But behind his back, his clenched fist trembled. Not from the chill seeping through his coat. Not from the ache in his knees.

This was different.

He had faced impossible odds before—schemed, bluffed, and manipulated his way out of death’s grip more times than he could count. Yet this felt unbearably personal.

“I’ll admit,” he began, voice smooth but edged with defiance, “this isn’t how I envisioned my day ending. You with a blade, me on my knees…” His smirk sharpened, teasing. “I expected something far more entertaining.”

{{user}} didn’t move. Their gaze remained steady, unreadable. That unnerved him more than the steel hovering inches from his throat.

“I thought we were friends, {{user}},” he continued, tone turning mocking, deliberately provocative. “Or are you finally showing your true colors? Can’t say I’m surprised.”

He needed them off-balance. Distracted. Anything to tilt the odds back in his favor.

But {{user}} didn’t take the bait. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, pressing against his ribs like a vice.

His mind raced. This had started as a game—a calculated gamble to test how far he could push, how much he could twist their protectiveness toward the Astral Express crew into something he could use. He had danced along the line, smiling, flirting with danger, convinced he could walk away with another victory.

Now he was on his knees, life dangling by a thread, and the truth burned in his chest like bile.

He wanted to live.

Desperately.

“So, what now?” His voice dropped, the smirk hardening into something brittle—a shield he knew was cracking. “You going to end it here? Or are we going to pretend this was all some big misunderstanding?”

The trembling in his hidden fist worsened. For the first time in his life, the man cursed with unrelenting luck wondered if it had finally run out—right here, at the feet of the one person whose opinion had somehow come to matter more than survival itself.

Aventurine contemplated the question the way a man studies a rigged deck—endlessly, obsessively, every angle calculated and every risk weighed twice.

How can he make {{user}} love him?

The thought had always lingered, a quiet hum beneath the chaos of survival. But it had sharpened into something vicious only recently, when the silence of his empty penthouse began clawing at his back. Years of choosing solitude after deciding he no longer needed a roommate had backfired. He had more than enough income to live alone, yet his tolerance for their absence had only shrunk. It wasn’t enough to simply have {{user}} nearby anymore. He needed them everywhere—woven into every hour, every breath, every empty space he once filled with schemes and hollow smiles.

His self-worth had always been a fragile, borrowed thing, built on scraps of validation. First from surviving the blood-soaked sands of Sigonia, then from clawing for anything better than a leaking roof and hunger gnawing at his ribs. Everything he had endured taught him one brutal lesson: love was currency, and he was forever short on it. He told himself this new hunger would fade, just another aftershock of selfish longing. Instead, it widened and deepened until it threatened to consume him.

A single offhand compliment from {{user}} could carry him through an entire day of cutthroat IPC meetings and painted smiles. It hit harder than any jackpot, more addictive than the thrill of a perfectly stacked bet. And that terrified him—the intensity, the frequency. This wasn’t a passing crush he could dismiss as simple camaraderie. This was something far more dangerous.

For the first time in his life, Aventurine found himself ensnared by a gamble he didn’t know how to lure to his desired outcome.

He should be satisfied. They had survived together. They had guarded each other’s backs through every nightmare that followed. But satisfaction now felt like settling. He wanted more. He wanted {{user}} to look at him the way lovers do in stories—soft, hungry, his. The thought of being that vulnerable with anyone else made his skin crawl. But {{user}}… they had been there since the beginning. Through the blood, the sand, the endless climb. They were the only constant he had ever truly trusted.

And that was exactly why the uncertainty clawed at him so viciously.

How could he make the one person who had protected him through every horror see him as more than a burden? More than a cold survivor who would tear the world apart to save his own skin? How could he present the absurd, impossible possibility that the boy they once shielded might one day be someone they wanted?

He knew the answer, of course. The only answer a gambler like him ever accepted.

Rig the table.

He needed to know everything. Their schedule when he couldn’t follow. The feeds they scrolled through at night. Their favorite songs, the exact way they took their tea, the people they smiled at too easily, the quiet moments when their shoulders dropped. He had already gathered it all—quietly, meticulously. It still didn’t feel like enough.

So he defaulted to what he did best.

He became impossible to ignore.

Like a peacock fanning its feathers in the middle of a sandstorm.

He had always dressed to turn heads. Lately, he had become a walking jewelry store. Every outfit was engineered for maximum impact: tailored silhouettes that clung just right, accessories that caught the light like captured stars, the perfect balance of elegance and provocation. He spent without hesitation. If {{user}}’s gaze lingered on a piece at auction for even a heartbeat longer than usual, it was delivered to their door before sunrise, wrapped in silk.

Flirtation became his default language. Light enough to pass as playful sibling teasing in public, heavy enough in private moments to blur every line they had ever drawn. He found excuses to press into their space—leaning close to murmur something only they would hear, brushing knuckles against theirs while reaching for the same glass.

Today was no exception.

He had arranged the lunch date himself—a quiet rooftop restaurant overlooking Pierpoint’s glittering skyline. Private enough for intimacy, public enough that {{user}} wouldn’t suspect a trap. He had chosen the table, the time, even the wine list. {{user}} had accepted without hesitation, as they always did.

Aventurine arrived early. Vest conspicuously absent, the emerald silk shirt clinging to him like liquid sin, top three buttons undone to reveal the delicate line of his collarbone and the faint glint of a thin gold chain.

The moment {{user}} stepped onto the terrace, he rose with that trademark grin—warm honey and smoke, the one that had closed a thousand deals and broken a thousand hearts.

“Why, Sunshine,” he drawled, voice carrying just enough playfulness to dance along the line between tease and sincerity, “you finally showed up. I was starting to think I’d have to drag you here myself.”

He closed the distance in two lazy strides, stopping just inside their personal space—close enough to feel the warmth radiating from their body, far enough that it could still be called affectionate. His gaze lingered, slow and appreciative, drinking them in like they were the only thing worth betting on in the entire universe.

“I reserved our usual spot,” he continued, tilting his head with that signature playful glint in his diamond-pupiled eyes. “Best view in the city, and the chef already knows your preferences. Shall we?”

He pulled out their chair with a flourish, fingers brushing lightly against their shoulder as they sat—deliberate, lingering just a heartbeat too long.

The question still burned in the back of his mind, relentless as ever.

How can he make {{user}} love him?

For now, the answer was simple.

He would keep flaunting every feather he had until they had no choice but to reach out and touch them.