ipc-shareholder

[ipc-shareholder]

No budget

Pairing: Aventurine x fem!reader

Tags: Mainly fluff, Sugestive, Sugardaddy!Aventurine, Flirting as Foreplay, Reader is a menace, Gift Giving (more like spoiling) as a Love Language

Summary: You didn’t expect much for your birthday — only a night with him. But when he calls to cancel last minute, duty-bound to IPC business, you brace yourself for disappointment.

Lucky for you, Aventurine never leaves a debt unpaid.

Hours later, a luxury gift box arrives with a handwritten note and his private credit line — unrestricted, untraceable, and entirely yours. The message is simple: "Anything you want. All day. No questions."

You stood in front of the mirror in his penthouse suite, the light casting a divine shadow on your figure, adjusting the clasp of your earrings with the kind of precision that came from years of learning how to look untouchable. The dress—black, backless, liquid silk—clung to your figure like it had been poured onto you.

You were glowing.

Nails done. Hair sleek. Skin perfumed with the faintest trace of something rich and spiced—just the way he liked it. You looked like a woman ready to conquer the world under her heel. And it was your birthday. You were going to own tonight. The mirror caught the edge of your satisfied smirk as you checked yourself over once more. Everything was perfect.

Everything except—

The moment your phone lit up, your stomach sank.

A call. From him.

You took it, expecting something flirty. A countdown. Maybe a reminder to wear that lipstick he liked—the shade that looked lethal on you and always made him late to meetings. “Aventurine,” you greeted, voice warm despite the chill creeping up your spine. “You’re calling to say you’re five minutes away, right?”

“Don’t do that,” he said, quiet and taut.

“Do what?”

“Make this harder than it already is.”

You froze.

His voice—smooth, low, familiar—cut through the speaker. But it wasn’t playful. Not tonight.

“I’m not going to make it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Emergency call with the board,” Aventurine said, words clipped but regret threaded between the syllables. “Final negotiations on the Solaris Belt merger. They moved it up. I have to leave tonight— can’t delay.”

Of course he couldn’t.

You sat down slowly on the velvet bench, one heel still off. “You said tonight was cleared.”

“It was,” he said, and you could hear the tension beneath the calm—tight, taut, the barely hidden strain of someone trying not to clench his jaw. “And I meant it.”

You stared at your reflection. At the way the city lights blinked against your bare shoulders. You looked like a woman heading to ruin something—in the best way. You didn’t look like someone spending her birthday alone.

You didn’t speak for a moment. Neither did he.

Then, softly: “You look beautiful, don’t you?”

Your throat tightened. “You don’t even know what I’m wearing.”

“I don’t have to,” Aventurine said. “You always look beautiful when you dress for yourself.”

That almost softened the blow. Almost.

You leaned forward, elbows on your thighs, voice lower now. “So what happens now? I blow out candles solo in some overpriced lounge while you charm a room full of old men with mineral rights?”

“I’m sorry.” And gods, he even sounded sincere. “This wasn’t how I planned it. Believe it or not, I was looking forward to tonight.”

“I understand,” you said after a beat. Your voice didn’t crack. You didn’t let it. “Duty calls.”

The quiet between you stretched like glass, thin and shining. “I’ll make it up to you,” he said. It wasn’t a promise. It was a declaration.

Guilt hit you immediately. It wasn’t his fault. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes,” he cut in, sharper now. “I do.” There was silence for a beat. Then the sound of movement on his end—papers shuffled, maybe a tie being adjusted. You could picture him, already halfway into another persona. The mask he wore when the IPC needed him. Poised, calm, collected, charming. The man the world called a Stoneheart. But before the call could end, his voice softened. “There’s something coming your way,” he said. “A gift. Open it. Use it. Enjoy it.”

“Aventurine…”

“Don’t argue. Not tonight.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately, but a reluctant smirk tugged at your mouth. “You really think money can fix everything?”

“No,” he said. “But it will have to suffice until I'm able to be there.”

Click.

The call ended. You sat in silence, one heel dangling from your fingers, the low hum of the city buzzing against the windows. Disappointment curled low in your chest—not just at the change of plans, but at how easily you’d let yourself hope. The room around you was too quiet. The hem of your dress whispered against your thigh as you moved, just enough to reach for your glass of champagne—untouched, still cold.

You raised it toward the empty space in front of you. “To me,” you muttered, dry. The bubbles burned down your throat.

..........

You didn’t expect anything the next morning. You hadn’t even taken the dress off—just slipped the heels aside and curled up on the chaise, champagne bottle half-finished, the cityscape stretching bright and glittering beyond your windows. Sleep had been shallow, your thoughts looping the same question over and over: Why did it still hurt, even when you understood?

You knew better than to take it personally. IPC emergencies were IPC emergencies. Aventurine didn’t answer to anyone except the board and the gold-gloved tyrants on the other side of a galactic comm line. You’d told yourself it was fine. But it wasn’t. Not entirely.

So when the suite’s private delivery unit pinged first thing in the morning, you were shocked. You blinked blearily, rising with the weight of silk still draped around you, and padded barefoot toward the small intake port by the door. The package was small. Slim. Wrapped in a midnight envelope sealed with a gold wax emblem you knew far too well.

IPC executive-issue. Aventurine.

You opened it slowly, expecting something ridiculous. You were not disappointed.

Inside was just a card. His private finance card. The one tied directly to his private account. Matte black, weightless, executive tier. The one coded to bypass most purchase limits. Not a courtesy card. Not a gesture. Not symbolic.

His.

And beneath it, a folded note. Handwritten.

To make up for last night.

No budget. No questions. You have full access until midnight. Happy birthday, sweetheart.

—A

You stared at it for a long moment, lost for words. On a list of things you expected him to do, this wasn’t even in the back of your mind. It was one thing to say he’d make it up to you. Another to send you this. You laughed—short, incredulous, and then you did what anyone with a moral compass and the barest sliver of dignity would do.

You called him to take it back.

He picked up on the second ring.

“A bit early for luxury shopping, isn’t it?” he said by way of greeting, voice low and velvet-smooth. You could hear the tired edge beneath it. He hadn’t slept.

“You sent your private card to my door.” You didn’t bother with hello.

“I did.” No trace of remorse in his voice.

“Aventurine.”

You could hear the smile through the call. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“This is too much. Take it back.”

“But mailing is such a hustle. I guess it just has to stay with you today.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” A pause. Then, softer: “I know I missed your birthday. I know what that meant. So I’m trying to make it right.”

You swallowed. Your tone softened, despite yourself. “You didn’t have to—”

“But I wanted to.” His voice lowered, rougher now, velvet with something else threading beneath it. “Let me have this. Let me spoil you. If I can't be there in person… let me be the reason you feel wanted today.”

You went quiet.

“You deserve more than some forgotten evening and an apology,” he said. “And I don’t do half-measures.”

You exhaled slowly, sinking into the chair by your window, the card turning between your fingers. “You know I’m not the kind of girl who spends half a million credits on shoes. You could’ve just sent a bottle of wine and called me beautiful over a voicemail. That would’ve done it.”

“Oh, I plan to do that too,” he said. “Multiple times. But I’ve also sent your name to three boutiques, five jewelers, and a spa suite that owes me too many favors.”

You tried one last protest. “I can't just spend your money—.”

“You can.” His voice dipped, heat curling around the edges of it. “Just for a day. Spend what you want. Try everything twice. Ruin me if it helps. You have until midnight.”

You could feel your heart flutter—just a bit too fast. He always did this. Spoke like it was a game, a gamble, a dare. But you knew the truth behind it. This wasn’t about the credits. It never was. It was about everything unspoken between you two.

It was about you.

You looked at the card again, gleaming dark in your hand. You thought of the way his voice changed when he got sincere—dangerously close to vulnerable. You thought of the half-finished bottle of champagne on your table and the aching weight in your chest. And suddenly, you missed him so much it actually hurt. “I’m starting with shoes,” you said, finally. “Since you’re apparently so eager to foot the bill.”

A beat of silence.

Then his voice, infinitely amused and tinted with something darker akin to want. “You’ll let me know if I need to send a transport? Or to have something delivered?”

You smiled, finally. “Relax, Aven. I won't try to bankrupt you.”

"You should,” he said, and ended the call.

You stared down at the card in your palm. And for the first time in years, you felt what it might feel like to be wanted without conditions.

................

The boutique was ridiculous.

Crystal lighting overhead. Scented air tuned to the frequency of indulgence. Velvet lounges arranged like altars. You’d wandered in with the intent of “just browsing,” maybe trying on one or two things—something ridiculous, something Aventurine would hate not seeing you in.

You hadn’t expected them to roll out the crimson carpet. Or the clerk to whisper into her earpiece the moment you gave Aventurine’s name. Or for the entire staff to straighten like soldiers at attention.

“Miss,” said one of the associates—hair slicked back, dress pressed like protocol—“Mr. Aventurine has already informed us of everything. You need only choose.”

You blinked. “Already informed … what?”

He smiled with practiced polish. “He said to give the full experience.”

Of course he had. Immediately, you picked up your phone and dialed him with a sigh, ignoring the tingle of amusement curling beneath your ribs. It only rang once before he answered.

“Enjoying yourself yet?” His voice was rich as ever, all charm and velvet.

“Aventurine,” you said sweetly, “I just walked into a boutique and they’re acting like I own the place.”

A pause. “Technically, you do. For today.”

Feeling unusually embarrassed, you turned away from the clerk who was practically ready to crawl at your every want, lowering your voice. “You’re seriously doing this?”

“I told you,” he said. “Make it worth my absence.”

“You sent them a platinum clearance chip.”

An amused scoff. “I’m aware.”

“I don’t need any of this.”

“I didn’t ask if you needed it,” he said, voice dipping just slightly—dangerous. “I want you to have it. There’s a difference.”

You swallowed the smile threatening your lips. “What if I max your limit?”

His laugh was low and indulgent. “Try me.”

You hung up before he could say anything more outrageous. But your pulse was elevated now. Flushed. Unsettled in the best kind of way.

By the time you reached the dressing suite—private, of course—there were already racks being wheeled in. Dresses in every cut, silk in every shade. Shoes, accessories, even perfume. The kind of experience reserved for top-tier IPC executives, and you were just… you. Or so you thought.

Until today.

Until you saw the way Aventurine’s name carried weight like gravity around here. The way even high-ranking clerks softened their tone when they mentioned “the Director.” How they looked at you not with dismissal—but calculation. It followed you like a shadow through glass doors and perfume-drenched corridors. Private fitting rooms. Complimentary champagne. A stylist who looked like she walked off a fashion editorial. Shopping assistants offered rare, unreleased pieces. Security guards nodded as you passed. One merchant nearly tripped over himself to explain which imported perfumes "Sir Aventurine" had personally purchased before—along with a whispered, breathless: “He has exceptional taste. You're very lucky.”

He didn’t just send you shopping.

He sent you into a world where you could see what power actually looked like. And it looked like this: access. Silence. Deference. It looked like standing in a thousand-credit gown in front of a mirror while a stylist adjusted your hem and murmured that “Mr. Aventurine would very much approve.” It looked like being able to say “I’m done here” and watch six people leap to accommodate you.

He hadn't just gifted you luxury.

He had—very quietly—let you into his world.

And you weren’t sure if that terrified you… or thrilled you.

You had never seen a saleswoman so determined to match a scent to someone's taste as the moment you mentioned Aventurine. They pulled down bottles from locked shelves. Poured samples into black crystal. Described them in absurd metaphors—wealth, moonlight, blood, silk.

You chose something dark and golden. Sharp on the first breath, then lingering—warm, sensual, unmistakable. You let it linger on your skin and imagined his reaction. He’d lean in too close. Pretend not to notice at first. And then, just before pulling away, he’d whisper something like: “What is that? You smell like temptation.”

You laughed aloud at the thought.

The world of opulence was dizzying to say the least. You hadn’t even heard of some of these designers before today, but the sales associates? They knew exactly what to bring out when you said his name. Every single one of them. “Oh, Aventurine,” the boutique manager at Maison Éclat had breathed when you dropped his card. “Of course. Right this way.”

And just like that, the boutique doors kept swinging wide open.

At one point, you stood in front of a mirror wearing a backless black gown so delicate it felt illegal. You tilted your head, arching a brow.

“He would like this one,” the stylist said, sharp-eyed. “Too much, perhaps.”

Your smile curved slowly. “Good.”

By midday, you’d already lost count of the bags. They multiplied like decadent little trophies—each one stamped with a brand that whispered old money and exclusivity. You tried on shoes that felt like sin, lingerie spun from what looked like lace and stardust, a velvet wrap that hugged your frame like it had been made for your skin alone. And you were laughing now—giddy with the surrealness of it all—as you stepped out of the spa, skin dewy and glowing, freshly massaged and wrapped in satin.

Since he insisted, you were going to have some fun with this.

............

Aventurine was in the middle of a boardroom debrief when his phone buzzed—discreetly, but persistently. He didn’t glance down. Not right away. The IPC directors were droning on about quarterly profit forecasts, contracts and trade deficits and for once, he was actually trying to look like he cared. But then it buzzed again.

Twice.

He tilted the screen toward him under the table. Your name jumped out at him from the display.

Message received. 1 image attachment.

Aventurine swiped the screen open without much thought—and nearly dropped the phone. The photo was tastefully framed. Cropped just enough to leave things to the imagination, but not so much that it spared him. You were in the dressing room of some boutique he probably owned a stake in, wearing something dangerously red and silk-thin. One hand held the phone. The other rested at your hip in a pose that said: I know exactly what I’m doing.

[you, 10:17 AM]

This one’s on clearance. Should I save you some credits?

Aventurine exhaled slowly through his nose. No smile. No reaction. Not even a twitch. Then the next message came in. Another picture. Different outfit. Lower neckline.

[you, 10:19 AM]

Or do you prefer black?

“Aventurine,” Jade prompted from across the table, not looking up. “You’re quiet. That’s never a good sign.”

“Just dividends paying off,” he said smoothly, palming his phone face-down before another buzz could betray him. His thumb pressed hard against the casing. “Go on.” All the while, each new vibration made his fist clench tighter.

The minute he was alone—elevator doors closed, boardroom behind him—he pulled up the messages again. There were more photos now. Some sent in rapid succession. Some with teasing little captions. Every single one designed to test him. You weren’t just shopping. You were playing a game. And worse—he was losing.

[you, 10:26 AM]

This one has a matching garter. But it feels a little too… generous.

[you, 10:27 AM]

Still want me to get whatever I want?

He leaned against the elevator wall, squeezing his eyes shut. God, he should’ve known. You didn’t just accept gifts. You turned them into games. You didn’t spend his money—you taunted him with it, made him feel every credit. He’d given you the entire weight of his wealth for the day, and instead of running wild, you were drawing him in with every photo, every message, every devilish little smile curled at the corner of your lips.

By the time the fifth image came through, Aventurine abandoned all sense of restraint and hit call.

You answered on the second ring, your voice pure mischief. “Miss me already?”

He didn’t dignify that with a yes. “When I gave you full access to my finances, I did not expect you to use it as targeted assassination.”

“Oh?” you lilted. “You’re sounding a little breathless.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, teeth gritted in the most elegant way possible. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“I thought you liked high-risk ventures.”

“I like calculated risk. What you’re doing is—” He exhaled sharply as you sent another photo mid-call. “—criminally effective.”

You giggled. “So I can keep the lingerie?”

“You can keep the whole damn store.”

Your laugh was a caress across his skin. “That’s not very financially sound of you.”

“I make exceptions.” He paused, letting his voice drop, velvet-dark. “For you.”

You went quiet for a second on the other end. He could hear the shift in your breath. And then you said, sly and sweet, “So what’s the limit again?”

Aventurine’s grin sharpened. “There isn’t one. I told you: whatever you want.”

“And if what I want…” you said, your voice suddenly soft and silken, “…isn’t in a store?”

His throat tightened. He closed his eyes for one dangerously long second. “Then I suggest,” he said lowly, “you put it on hold until I get there.”

You laughed, breathless. “Now who’s teasing?”

The line disconnected before he could answer. But Aventurine just smiled, slipping the phone back into his pocket. You could spend a fortune if you wanted. But right now, he was the one feeling expensive.

............

That night, he could not wait to get home. The lights in the suite were low when he entered—sensor-triggered but dimmed just enough to let the city glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows paint everything in hues of champagne and midnight.

He was tired. Bone-tired. Polite smiles, Diamond’s demands, executive ego-stroking—it was a miracle he hadn’t burned down the entire boardroom out of sheer boredom and urgency to go back to you. He wanted a drink, a silence no one could interrupt, and if the universe was kind enough, you saying you were forgiving him after a day with his card.

But the soft rustle he heard from the other room wasn’t the sound of quiet.

It was the sound of you.

And when he stepped into the bedroom, the sight that greeted him nearly made him forget how to breathe.

You didn’t hear him at first. You were too absorbed in your reflection—one heel slightly cocked, adjusting the strap of a slip so sheer it might’ve been made of smoke. Soft ivory lace. Bare skin. Something new— something you’d picked for him, whether you admitted it or not. On the bed behind you: a careless scatter of luxury bags, designer tags, and half-unwrapped boxes. Silk, perfume, heels, lingerie. The aftermath of indulgence. Your perfume— his perfume— hung in the air like a siren’s call.

He stopped in the doorway, chest tightening.

Aeons help him.

Your reflection met his, only the widening of your eyes betraying your surprise at his unexpected arrival, before you turned. “You’re early,” you said, but the hint of a smirk on your lips betrayed how little you minded.

“And you,” he said slowly, eyes raking over you with absolutely no shame, “are dangerous.”

You let your fingers trail over the hem of the slip. “Should I change?”

“Absolutely not.” His voice was hoarse, velvet wrapped around heat. “Tell me, this is what you spent my credits on?”

“This and a spa day. And three pairs of shoes I’ll probably only wear indoors. Some jewellery. And perfume. Want to guess which one I picked for you?”

He crossed the room like a man hypnotized, stopping just close enough to feel the warmth of your body. “I don’t have to guess.”

You leaned in, brushing your wrist under his nose, the barest hint of expensive, wood-laced sweetness catching the air. “Figured you’d like something with spice.”

“You figured right.” He gently nuzzled your wrist, leaving a featherlight kiss on the inside of it. His hand hovered at your waist, not quite touching. “Though if you keep looking like this, I might stop caring about the details.”

You tilted your head. “Even the heels?”

He glanced down—four-inch stilettos, red-bottomed, the kind of thing no one wears for walking. “Especially the heels.”

A slow smile spread across your lips. You turned on your heel—just enough to give him a better look. “Want a private haul?”

His laugh was low and sinful. “Darling, if this is what I come home to, you can take my card every week.”

“Dangerous promise.” You stepped closer, placing your palm against his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart beneath silk and precision stitching. “I tried to say no. You insisted.”

“And now I’m insisting you model everything.”

Your breath caught—just slightly. Just enough for him to notice. But you covered it with a tilt of your head and a wicked smile. “Everything?”

“Every. Single. Piece.” He said it like a dare. And aeons help you—you loved a dare.

You laughed, softer now. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he murmured, stepping closer, “are entirely too good at tempting me." His fingers found your waist. Skimmed beneath the slip. Warm and gentle and so achingly desperate against your skin, like he already knew how you’d feel before he ever touched you. He leaned in, slow and deliberate, his lips brushing just beneath your ear. "Am I forgiven, yet?"

You arched into his touch. “I might need to think about it some more.”

He pulled back just enough to let you see the look in his eyes—hungry, reverent, aching. “Good. I've only just started to apologize.”