#because for the past [censored] years reader has nothing but time to hone cake skills | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stickyspeckledlight · 14 days

Text

Happy Birthday; I’ve Made an Appleseed Cake [Yan!Aventurine x GN!Reader]

It’s his birthday; a very happy day.

Ao3

Word count: 2.2k

TW: Stockholm syndrome, toxic relationships, codependency, the gore is very mild this time around but there’s still just a little bit poking out its head, emotional manipulation, hazmat suits needed to navigate this relationship, tooth rotting fluff (haha see what I did there), there isn’t much cake in this story sorry for the misleading title 😔

Note: I’m two hours late but happy birthday to Aventurine! I wrote this over the course of yesterday and stuff and solely on my phone so. If there’s something glaring that’s why. My phone isn’t really what I prefer to write with, but life’s life.

(Written before 2.2)

When he comes back from work, the last thing he expected was for you to lunge at him.

It was sudden. You froze in surprise, looking at him with a dull, decomposing gaze, frowning in contrast to his smile at the sight of you. A picturesque deer in headlights, seconds away from the afterlife, from its body getting skinned and devoured. It spends its existence solely eating and raising fawn; perhaps not an unfulfilling existence, but not one with much meaning, much else to it besides a single minded pursuit to survival. If it’s lucky, it’ll rot into the ground, infested with maggots feasting on delicious rot. If they’re not, parts of them are stuffed into plastic, the rest placed on a dinner table. In a way, it reminds him of home.

He was planning to pepper you with burning kisses in his arms, but then he was on the ground. Granted, he did let it happen, but could you blame him? He just had to see what you were planning, especially this out of the blue!

You do not smile or frown. You wear a pretty porcelain mask, even if it’s cracking. Strangely, he can’t quite get a read on you. Interesting. It’s a little silly, however, given that you’re wearing your pajamas. You must’ve woken up recently.

“This is a weird way to say ‘welcome back,’ isn’t it?”

You blink. He can tell you stifle a yawn.

He clicks his tongue. Are you stunned, perhaps? Your instincts have always been to freeze rather than run, so either your mind has gone blank or you’re currently engaged with a feverish inner monologue. He knows you’ll get where you need to go eventually, but he’s always been a little impatient. He decides to give you a bit of encouragement. “What’s with that face?” He pinches your cheeks and shapes them into an unamused smile, “Mmn, much better. Now, repeat after me: ‘Welcome home, Aventurine!’ Don’t you think it’s what I’m owed after such a long day of work?”

You begin to shake. Your chest expands, your breathing quickens. A deer, pushed to the brink, pawing at the ground in order to charge straight into the predator’s jaws. He trails his hand to your pulse to find it beats wildly. Good. You’ve gotten a little closer to your destination. Just a little farther, alright? He’ll keep pace, of course. It’s not like he can let you think you can get away with these things forever. Bits and pieces of cracking porcelain fall onto his face.

His eyes narrow, “Sweetheart,” the endearment slithers off his tongue, “any plans you’d like to tell me about?” He moves to sit up, that way he looks down at you, sweet, kind, pathetic thing you are. “You know how much I hate it,” He decides to have his ascent be slow and steady, “when you keep secrets from me.” His hand ghosts your chest, prepared rip them out if need be. “Of course, you can keep them, but all I ask is to make sure you don’t disappoint me, with whatever you’re thinking about,” he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, “In fac—”

A snort. He pauses, raising an eyebrow with intrigue. Your mouth begins to wobble.

“haaapeburffdei.” You quickly exhale, the shaking of your body increasing.

“Huh?” He blinks and fully sits up. He secures you by the shoulders as you duck your head. “Mind repeating that?”

You take in a sharp breath, shaking your head. “Ha…” you breathe, “happ…” and you shake again. At this point, he’s a little concerned.

“Sweetheart? Did you sniff glue or something?” You tend to cling to levity, so he gives it. It makes you drop your guard for a brief moment, and from there he can unravel y—

“Happy birthday, Aventurine!” You wheeze, before laughing and giving him a tight, desperate hug.

Ah, so that’s what it was. He makes an educated guess of the events at hand:

His sudden arrival caught you off guard (since he usually came later in the day)

You were stunned and left processing his appearance, not at all helped by you having just woke up

But you could suppress your instinctual excitement and joy, which just so happened to manifest in your lunging toward him and pinning him to the ground

At some point, you realize that, oh, you really were in the presence of your awful, cruel, and amazing boyfriend!

However, you dug your grave with the straight face you started out with. Instead of clarifying things, you decided to maintain it to try and hide your embarrassment

You crack under no pressure and reveal your intentions. It tracks with your horrid poker face.

You are now very embarrassed but very, very humored and happy

Even he was sometimes a little dizzy going through your woeful mental gymnastics. But he nevertheless greatly enjoys the process. It makes him feel just a little bit full, for just a little bit.

But. Did, did he hear that right? Did he really hear—

A kiss, a cover for voracious fangs, presses against his cheek. “Happy, happy, happy birthday, to my favorite person in the entire room, corridor, starship, planet, world, universe, multiverse, reality…!” you giggle, drunk on joy due to perceived joy. You sigh contentedly, “Ah~. What a great day to be alive…A~ven~tu~rine~, the worst and best person I’ve ever known…mmm~” you nuzzle your cheek against his own, continuing your lovesick and nonsensical blabberings (he’s guilty of greatly enjoying them). Yes—you’re alive. Your chest is flush against his as if they are one, your legs straddle him as if they are nails pinning him to the ground, and your heart beats fast with simple happiness. Utterly full of life; life you struggle to muster without him. It’s not a good thing, but it makes him happy you feel the same way he does every single day.

His smile is multiple things: euphoria that the mere thought of him has you this excited and overjoyed, delighted confusion at your antics, and blood raining in his body as a conflict wages within.

He didn’t listen to his sister and came back. To see her, see his clan, (perhaps) blessed by Gaiathra Triclops with the help of the men in black, surely, surely, SURELY they had to have been alive…? Surely, the Katicans paid their blood debts…?

Surely, his fortune would extend to his family?

But Kakavasha was gifted lifeless eyes. Soon enough, the quicksand swallowed, and the rain washed everything away.

(He has never celebrated his birthday since)

“Aventurine?” He feels a small series of soft pats (lashes of a whip) to his cheeks, “What’s wrong?”

He blinks and lolls his head boyishly, the same way he does whenever someone asks too many questions, “So, who told you about my birthday? An owl? A jewel?”

You are not fooled, but decide to answer his question anyway, “You told me when we were still getting to know each other. Admittedly, I wouldn’t have remembered it if I didn’t keep record of every birthday I know.”

“You record the birthdays of everyone you know?”

You lift your cheek from his (he mourns the loss), and settle your head on his chest, looking up at him. “Yeah,” you say like it’s obvious, “how else do I remember? Besides, it was a good way to be polite to people around me, and also still let me have plausible deniability. I didn’t remember that thing by heart or anything,” you lid your eyes slightly unimpressedly, “I’m surprised you don’t know. I was convinced you scrubbed everything on my phone and computer.”

“I did,” he plays with a strand of your hair, mesmerized by the way it looks in cloudy light, “but as much as I love getting to know you, even I have my limits, dearest. I don’t have three sets of arms and eyes.”

“Mhm…” You slightly deflate; you truly want him to cradle you in his stomach, laughing as you melt into acid. Sigh, him too, him too, sweetheart. But life’s quite the cruel thing, isn’t it?

Then you lift your head from his chest, and slot your foreheads together. Or course. You know better than to drop something brimming with potential; especially when it could fill your stomach and give it a temporary fullness. “Really, Aventurine,” you soften your eyes, brimming with worry and insatiable love, “If you don’t tell me what’s bothering you,” you take his hand, your left hands, and intertwine your fingers, “then I won’t know what’s making you sad, and if I don’t know what’s making you sad, I might make you sad again. I really don’t wanna do that.”

How sweet. How very, very sweet. His hand snakes to your collar, to unveil your lucky charm. His mouth waters.

You frown and put your hand over his own. “You’re zoning out again,” you mutter. That’s right. You can tell just how uncomposed he really is whenever he’s around you, so heart achingly sweet that he is driven to devour; so breathtakingly [pathetic] he is driven to lock you away from the sun so no one but him can put a bullet through your skull, can adore and take care of you, can leave you alone and longing, can wrap you in cold chains (made of silk and jewels and gold; you have never deserved shackles, and never will). “Please…” you plead, but knowingly or not, you still possess a potent arsenal. You strike him clean through the heart:

“You know I love you…I love you, Aventurine…so, please let me know, so I don’t ever make you sad again…”

What a dirty trick you’ve used. But who is he to discourage? He plays dirty plenty, so it’s only fair if he lets you, too. Besides, it actually would suit his own desires, right?

Because he too, would love to live a life in your stomach.

“Alright, alright,” he shrugs, “‘honest communication’ is vitally important to relationships, anyway. Not that I’d let you go over something so minor, but I suppose a bit of…etiquette doesn’t hurt every so often.”

Your eyes light up. “Tell me what I did wrong and I’ll fix it.”

Although he undeniably feels happy and light, as he nearly always does with you, he cannot escape the way rain drips into him like acid, like blood.

You two move to the couch, where he tells you. He’s confident about it, of course. He’s sure about it all. But still, no matter what he did, how wonderful he feels in your presence, with his stomach full of you, the cracked pieces rise.

He doesn’t tell you everything.

[Admit it, you want to.]

He’s not sure if he should, when it just feels so, so much better to just live with you.

[No, they’re the reason you talk in the first place! Whew, you must super out of it, if the ‘future’ barely grazes your mind.]

You kiss and lick his tears, a flavor of salty vulnerability spreading on your tongue. You leave a gentle trail of kisses; feathering on his eyelids, soft on his cheek, reassuring on his forehead, possessive on his neck. It’s warm and secure and hellish. The ecstasy from the joy he feels nearly makes him sob again.

“I’m here,” you reassure, “I’m here, in your arms with you and only ever you,” you chant. Your hand rubs soothing circles into his back, “Thank you for trusting me, Aventurine…thank you so much.” Revenant oaths spill from your lips, “I’ll protect it well. I’ll prove that you made the right choice. I’ll use it so I don’t make you sad again. I’ll be the best person you could’ve told. I’ll be the best person you can tell anything and everything to.”

His organs churn through a wellspring of emotions and memories: disgust, love, reverence, hate, anger, happiness—

“My lucky hound,” he master drawls, “I’ll find a space in my schedule to listen to you.” Kakavasha blinks, and his master’s face morphs into a snarl, “On your knees.” Kakavasha gasps as a boot falls on his head. “You should be worshiping the ground I walk, for being willing to listen to a murderer; a dog to boot. Who else’s going to listen? The cell mates you’ll inevitably kill? Don’t kid yourself, Sigonian scum.”

Love is blinding.

He smiles and nods. Only you, sweetheart. Only you, and only him. The two of you hold each other in an iron grip. But you’re both hungry.

After a bit of silence, as you two lay on the couch exhausted and spent, you finally speak.

“…I made a birthday cake. Do you just wanna burn it in a bonfire or something?” You ask. “Something like…’from its corpse, arises the flames which cook our s’mores.”

“Then…wouldn’t those just be birthday s’mores? The entire thing becomes pointless then, right?”

“Hm…good point…”

A light chuckle rumbles in his chest. He affectionately scratches your head, “It’s just cake at the end of the day, right? At the end of the day, it’s made just for me. So…it doesn’t have to be burned.” He grins. “At least…not the whole thing.”

“So…that’s what you want to do?”

“Yep.”

You blink, and a wide grin, practically cracking along your face, spreads across your face, “Then let’s do it.”

You two have a lovely, normal, and happy day. Even as rain pours.

#aventurine hsr #yandere #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere aventurine x reader #yandere aventurine #destroyed onset #the cake is very good #because for the past [censored] years reader has nothing but time to hone cake skills #it’s the equivalent to ppl getting super obsessed with making bread during the pandemic lol #anyway #this fic really was some good ol tooth rotting fluff huh #I was considering that title but after a while it didn’t quite fit this fic #so we got generic ass title number 36288393939303 #yippeeeee #happy birthday aventurine!#tw Stockholm syndrome

122 notes · View notes