Aventurine ฅ•̀∀•́ฅ Meow~

Dawn at Astropolis. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the luxury hotel, landing squarely on the marble coffee table.

Aventurine massaged his temples, which were throbbing with a mild hangover. Between his fingers, a single chip clicked with a sharp, rhythmic clack-clack. His short, pale-gold hair was a tousled mess, and the intricate three-strand braid on the left hung loosely against his ear. On the table, a holographic projector was looping a "draft exposé" from the local Furbo journalists. The footage was enough to instantly shatter the Strategic Investment Department manager's flawless public image.

In the video, a three-parts-drunk, seven-parts-cocky Aventurine was seen climbing over the yacht’s golden railing amidst the roaring sea breeze and blasting electronic music. Holding on with just one hand, he leaned his entire body back so far he was practically "clubbing" right against the water's surface, shouting something about the art of high-stakes gambling.

But what really made him press his temples in agony was the next clip. The drunken version of himself on screen was riding a surfboard, gliding with what he thought was peak charm right up to you. With glassy, unfocused eyes, he pulled you into a fiercely possessive bridal carry. Just when everyone expected a lingering, romantic moment—he let go, casually throwing you into the ocean like a sack of potatoes.

"Tch. Those Furbos might have trash photography skills, but they sure know how to use AI deepfakes," Aventurine scoffed, genuinely amused by the final, scandalous AI-generated ad.

On screen, the AI Aventurine was lounging in a steamy bathtub. Sunlight traced down the side of his neck, illuminating his necklace—a delicate metallic chain set with a golden ornament and shimmering blue-green peacock feathers. The AI had even maliciously taken the golden silk ribbon usually wrapped around his bicep and blindfolded him with it. In the video, he tilted his head back, his chest glistening with water droplets, as his slender fingers slid down his collarbone and over his toned pecs, finally smoothing over his wet, parted lips in a seductive caress.

"Not bad technique. Too bad... my actual taste is far more sophisticated than this."

With a cold chuckle, Aventurine counter-hacked the Furbo journalists' servers. After burning through millions of credits and pulling extensive strings, every last backup completely vanished from the network.

Crisis averted. Aventurine finally let out a sigh of relief. Changing into his fresh resort swimwear, he strolled over to a lounge chair on the private beach, flashing his trademark, entirely-in-control fox-like grin once more.

His light mint-blue shirt hung loosely open, flaunting his beautifully defined chest and abs. His sunglasses were perched casually up on his bangs, and a mix of gold and peacock-green ribbons tied loosely around his waist made his tailored swim shorts look even sharper. Several gold rings glinted in the sun on his right index finger, left middle finger, and pinky. On his right wrist, a rugged, deep-blue hemp bracelet rattled softly against another metallic chain adorned with clubs and hearts as he shifted his weight.

Right then, your feet crunching in the sand, you walked casually up to his lounge chair.

"Ah, look who it is." The manager’s eyes flickered away, though a telltale, faint blush crept up his ears. He cleared his throat, bouncing back with practiced ease. "Last night... was quite a costly, yet sweet burden. Thanks for putting up with me, my dear. But don't worry, no one else will ever see those ridiculous Furbo ads. I’ve handled the crisis flawlessly."

He leaned in slightly, winking at you with a playful challenge. Those captivating Avgin eyes were practically begging for a compliment.

"You certainly handled the public drama," *you smiled, settling onto the lounge chair right next to him. Then, you deliberately pulled out your phone, tapped the screen a few times, and suddenly flashed it right in front of his face. *"But what about the drama here?"

The screen lit up, revealing your custom phone wallpaper.

The background was last night's messy hotel bed. Aventurine was completely sunk into the plush pillows,his shirt thrown wide open, offering a tantalizing view of his sharply defined abs and V-line. His malachite eyes were totally glazed over from the alcohol. In the shot, you were sitting firmly astride his stomach, looking down at him as you snapped the photo.

The absolute best part was Aventurine’s pose. He looked nothing like the suave, elegant manager he usually was. His head was tilted slightly to the side, his hands curled into two soft little fists by his cheeks like cat paws. One eye was half-squinted while the other stared directly into the camera, a sly little pout on his lips.

He was even playfully sticking out the tip of his pink tongue.

He didn't look like a Strategic Investment Department director at all—he looked like a golden, fluffy cat intentionally acting cute for the camera. To top it off, you had edited the photo. You had photoshopped a pair of rounded, glowing golden cat ears onto his head, surrounded his cheeks with tiny floating hearts and stars, and added squiggly colored lines by his hands to simulate a **"meow" ** effect.

It was lethally adorable, oozing an effortless, innocent sensuality without a hint of tries-too-hard cringe.

Aventurine’s pupils shrank in utter shock. His gaze darted frantically back and forth between those photoshopped "cat ears" and your face.

"Quite the pose, Mr. Manager..."* You pulled the phone back, looking down at him with a teasing smirk.* "Name your price. Or, what kind of Strategic Investment Department resources are you willing to trade to buy out this 'exclusive collection' of mine?" Silence stretched over the sound of crashing waves for three long seconds.

Then, a low chuckle, thick with playful defeat, vibrated between the lounge chairs. The chip in Aventurine's fingers vanished into his palm in a flash. Instead of backing away, he leaned forward, closing the distance and bringing with him a warm, intoxicating rush of sea breeze and lingering hangover heat. Instantly, he trapped you between the armrest and his chest.

The blue-green peacock feathers of his necklace brushed lightly against the back of your hand, sending a ticklish shiver down your skin.

He reached out, his burning palm locking squarely around the wrist holding the phone. The cool touch of his gold rings contrasted sharply with the heat of his skin. Aventurine lowered his head, his voice dropping to a gravelly, post-hangover whisper:

"Ah... I really miscalculated this move. But then again, the Strategic Investment Department never takes something for nothing." His fingers slid slowly down your wrist, intertwining intimately with yours before pulling your hand up to his lips. "How about... we review this exact pose tonight? In person. As a fair trade, hm?"