Eschaton.

Eschaton.

Yan Aventurine x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, Aventurine's self-critical thinking, implied not SFW. Word count: 2.5k.

Aventurine stares down the final barrier separating him from his long-sought prize; a measly door.  

There’s no outward indication of its significance. Everything about it is unassuming and ordinary, emphasizing practicality over design. The way it contradicts his ostentatious nature has him wondering if this was an intentional choice, some silent slight. It’s unlikely — a testament to his ego, more than anything — but he’s just sane enough to know that he isn’t. 

Despite his outward veneer of calm, he’s ravished by anxiety; the same anxiety that haunts him throughout any high-stakes gamble. He’s intimately familiar with this hypersensitive state. Everything becomes heightened, from his senses to his emotions. The click of a revolver loaded with one round, the spin of a roulette wheel crawling to a stop. In each instance, he secretly dreads the worst, a final laugh for the universe to have at his expense. 

The end of his uncanny luck would make for quite the knee-slapper, he reckons. 

Well, he always told himself, it hasn’t happened yet. 

That final word echoes like the screams of a soul mistakenly sealed inside their tomb.

Aventurine shakes his head, his lips twisting into a sardonic smile. Why is he prolonging his torture when he possesses the means to end it? The master keycard obtained by the building’s landlord glides between his fingers. The ease with which it was relinquished proves the IPC’s reputation demands universal respect, even on a planet like Yiivern. This planet is one of the precious few using a currency other than credits. However, this illusion of independence relies on the IPC’s indifference. If the corporation ever wanted something from Yiivern, they’d bend the knee, as thousands had before them.

This unspoken acknowledgment guaranteed they’d turn a blind eye to his endeavors. 

He raises the card. It hovers mere inches from the door’s terminal, where, ostensibly, he’d be granted easy access. 

Instead, an inexplicable urge to investigate further freezes him in place. 

It’s faint. So imperceptible, that even the most keen eye would struggle to notice. A light flicker distorts the terminal’s rightmost edge. It could be a trick of the light, or his visual cortex misinterpreting stimuli, but the discovery instills caution. There’s too much on the line here. He pulls away and hums, contemplating. Upon further inspection, he identifies the anomaly as a dead pixel. The level of depth around the terminal rules out the use of a screen. No monitor could portray three dimensions with this degree of accuracy.

A hologram, then? 

In his experience, holograms are a multipurpose tool. Cosmetics, backdrops, advertisements with embellished products; though the specifics differ, the main intent doesn’t. 

Holograms hide what another wishes to remain unseen. 

He taps the end piece of his glasses, activating a scan. 

His lenses go from displaying what the naked eye sees to depicting wavelengths outside the visible light spectrum. Sure enough, there’s a thin sheen atop the terminal, denoting an active hologram. Beneath this sheen sits a simple biometric lock. If he had to guess, anyone who tried accessing the apartment via the terminal would trigger an alarm. Whoever set up this contraption could then have adequate time to flee or confront the intruder. 

Fondness flutters about like butterflies in his stomach. 

That’s my girl, he thinks, positively smitten. You wouldn’t make it easy, would you?

Fortunately for him, he’s not one to play nice either. 

The newly revealed lock is an easy fix. A rectangular device inside his coat recreates your fingerprint and iris, applying the falsehoods to immediate success. 

The door obediently sweeps aside. 

Aventurine conducts a quick sweep for any other surprises you might’ve hidden. He isn’t disappointed — red warnings accompanied by the software’s disabling procedure rush before him. Among the list of disabled products, most malicious, he spots a random cosmetic hologram. As nothing’s visibly changed in the living quarters, he assumes it must’ve been on in the bedroom. 

What a paranoid thing you are, he muses. For good reason, I guess. 

Content in knowing no silenced bullet will be piercing through his skull anytime soon, he turns the program off. 

Aventurine examines the little home you’ve made for yourself. It’s a one-bedroom one-bathroom apartment, just as the reports claimed. It doesn’t feel very lived in. The walls are a sterile silver, devoid of any pictures or personal memorabilia. Curtains cover a window overlooking Yiivern’s third most populated city. He runs his gloved fingers along your kitchen countertop. Atop the granite sits a coffee machine, a frog mug, and a deactivated cooking companion. He makes a mental note to update the one in your shared starship above Pier Point. It’s been gathering dust in your absence. 

While considering this, he finds an item that steals his breath. 

Baby bottles. 

He lifts one, eyeing it like an alien species. 

So it’s true, he observes, drawing his lips into a thin line. 

His grip tightens and the material warps. 

“...” 

A shaky breath escapes him. 

He’s aware the next few hours won’t be very pleasant for you. And, if finding you dried up the remainder of his luck, they won’t be enjoyable for him either. It all comes down to probability. like most vital instances in his life tend to. Few individuals in this universe weigh probability as often as he does. From the fifty-fifty of a coin toss to the odds of drawing an ace in blackjack, it’s a constant, an unhealthy fixation. Certain variables raise or lower the desirable outcome’s entry into reality. While he can’t always make exact calculations on the spot, this was different. He had ample preparation for this decisive moment.

A trusted team, equipped with knowledge ranging from your cycle to the brand of birth control you were on, ran the numbers. 

“One in a million,” a visibly nervous man had reported. “I-If the baby your fiancée was spotted with is indeed hers—” 

Aventurine interrupted him before he’d be subjected to any further sycophancy.

A one in a million chance that the child resting soundly in your room is his. 

Or, alternatively, a far more realistic chance that he’ll have to make some difficult decisions. 

His footsteps remain inaudible as he creeps closer. By disabling your alarms, he’s deprived you of any recourse. Finally, he’ll be putting an end to this. You’ve made a valiant effort — the resources he’d poured into tracking you surpassed the wealth of entire star systems. For months, it’d been a high-risk investment that netted him underwhelming returns. An infinite universe offers infinite places to hide. You were frustratingly clever at playing this to your advantage. 

Ultimately, it wasn’t the massive manhunt or his connections that gave you away. 

It’d been a stroke of luck — pure happenstance. Being at the right place at the right time.

At a VIP exclusive section of a casino, he noticed an opponent’s date wearing a brilliant necklace. The centerpiece was a teardrop-shaped pink diamond. The light refracted by its multiple surfaces had been sharp enough to almost slice through any onlooker’s iris. He mulled over the stone, as if it’d left a strange impression, like when a word’s just on the tip of your tongue.

This sentiment remained a thorn in his side the remainder of the night. Perturbed, he retired to his room, and ran the stone against photos in the IPC’s database. A few minutes later, there was a match. That pink diamond was a fragment taken from a larger stone. He had good reason to find it familiar. This gem served as your engagement ring’s crowning jewel. A gorgeous, one of a kind cut that set him back fifty million credits. 

The implications hit him in waves. 

Your disappearing act couldn’t have been carried out unaided. It required money — lots of money. However, you wisely refrained from accessing his accounts, since it’d give your location away. You hadn’t stolen any valuables either, you left with the clothes on your back and nothing else. Interstellar travel wasn’t cheap. Knowing this, Aventurine was confident you’d be returned to him soon enough. Then the days turned to weeks, which bled into months, finally capping out at almost a year since you’d fled. 

That night, everything finally made sense. You must’ve shattered the gem and pawned it off in pieces, to avoid unwanted attention. This lowered the risk of anyone recognizing the one-of-a-kind ring and alerting him. By selling it in different locations, you’d have enough money to live comfortably. The plan had its merits, although it wasn’t foolproof. If a shard came to his attention, he could follow the trail back to back to you. 

Which is exactly what he did. 

Aventurine approaches your bedside with the same reverence an acolyte holds toward their divine. 

Found you, he thinks. My little escape artist. 

This initial swell in his chest plummets, as a maelstrom of emotions churns his intestines. His shadow engulfs your slumbering form, staining your face in dark hues. Where your breathing is deep and gentle, his is shallow; painfully so. The burns left behind from your scorching rejection have yet to heal. The remaining ash sits heavy on his tongue, turning his mouth dry and scratching his throat. 

Hah! How serene you are! He longs to grab you by the shoulders and shake, demanding your attention, your nonexistent remorse. His hands twitch by his side as he wrestles with his base impulses. You’ve made a madman of him, trimming away his rationality until nothing but withering stems remain. 

You’re beautiful, he muses, his knuckles brushing against your cheek in a soft caress. Beautiful, cruel, and worth every cent. 

Aventurine exhales from his nose, parting from you with visible hesitation. 

It wouldn’t do to rouse you now. 

No, not when there’s a crib to investigate next. 

The crux of his concerns — a noose ready to be secured around his neck. 

One look confirms that the babe dozing within is unquestionably your offspring. What little hair they have is identical to yours in color and texture. Other than that, there isn’t much to go off of. The infant’s features are what anyone would expect. Chubby arms, full cheeks, and little balled-up hands. He frowns. Confirming their lineage will require more. Namely, a DNA sample. 

His heart slams violently against his ribcage as he reaches for the child. 

Ever since he learned of their existence, he languished over this moment. Questions swarmed in his mind. Did you let another man touch you? Place their vile seed inside you? Had you knowingly nurtured a life that never should’ve been? And if so, what would he do? The father was one thing. He’d hunt down the man responsible, see to it that the miscreant’s agony be prolonged by the latest developments in life support. Such was his right. 

The child, however… presented another issue entirely. 

Should it be leveraged for your continued compliance? Shipped off to some private school lightyears away? He wasn’t so callous as to off it, but letting you raise another man’s child was inconceivable. This decision would surely deepen the resentment you harbor toward him. Then, the depths of your loathing would be rendered untraversable. Eventually, he’d drown in the muck and mire. 

Rapid test at the ready, Aventurine braces himself. 

And then he sees two achingly familiar eyes, glazed over with drowsiness. 

Baby blue plunged inside a pool of pink. The colors of a soft sunset contrasted by the ocean, of a people he thought long extinguished. Time flows in a backward current, washing relics from the past ashore. He remembers pain and destitution, but he remembers warmth too. The crooning of his mother, who thought him the paragon of luck. His sister’s kind guidance. Sand dancing in the wind, reflecting the sun like glitter sprinkled from the heavens. A childhood steeped in blood with no rain to wash it away. 

These are the eyes of an Avgin. 

The eyes of his and your child.

The babe deliberates over Aventurine’s sentence. The wariness written over their soft features hints at their encroaching judgment — after all, to them, he’s a stranger. They knit their eyebrows together and inhale sharply, ready to flaunt their vocal chord’s full potential. A foreign parental instinct spurs Aventurine to soothe the many complaints they intend to raise. 

He slides his glasses off and tucks them away. 

In an instant, his child reconsiders their onslaught. They stare up at their father, their doe-like eyes perfectly mirroring his. This faint familiarity must be enough to content them for now. He breathes a sigh of relief. Little hands reach out, demanding he satiate their curiosity. He happily acquiesces, noting his offspring’s innate negotiation abilities with pride. His child latches onto his finger. The leather texture perplexes them at first, but after a few seconds, they accept the cool and smooth surface. 

Aventurine notices an interesting symbol interwoven into the crib’s safety rails. It denotes a hologram company that specializes in cosmetics. He recalls the unknown cosmetic hologram that was deactivated earlier. Curious, he turns it on. A white sheen envelops his child’s iris’ and an adjustable dial appears, a color wheel at the ready. 

He blinks. 

Shaking his head, he turns it off, allowing their eyes to revert to their usual presentation. 

What lengths you’ve gone to! You scrubbed away any hint of his existence, even in the child you created together. From experience, he knows the most effective tools of deceit are the simplest. Parlor tricks, when wielded correctly, outdo their flashier counterparts. All this time, you’ve been learning from the best. 

He smiles thinly. 

Although he’s won this gamble, he can’t picture himself as a father. He’s barely a proper lover — you’d told him as much. Screamed it, to be precise. He accepted your criticism, lied about doing better, and hoped you’d find the act believable enough to keep the pantomime going a while longer. By ignoring the script he dutifully laid out, you’d broken character. He couldn’t blame you, but that doesn’t mean he’ll forgive you. 

He’s a selfish man, asking for a selfless love no one could give, much less you. 

His child writhes about, seemingly as uncertain as he is on what comes next. 

The aftermath of a victorious gamble is like coming down from a high. The adrenaline subsides, his senses relax, and an ennui settles in. The relief (or, occasionally, disappointment) that he gets to live another day leaves him hollow. Winning you over satisfied this hunger, until he lost you. This interim taught him that the individual presenting him as Aventurine is nothing more than a specter.

Kakavasha is dead and the walking corpse he left behind drags you into the afterlife, piece by piece. 

He hears the faint rustling of bedsheets behind him. Sickening anxiety floods his system at the confrontation to come. He’ll be burying any remnants of care you once regarded him with into the soil, where it’ll draw its final, pitiful breath. 

A gasp resounds throughout the room. Before he turns to face you, the sight of his eyes staring back at him inspires a thought. 

I hope she raises you to be nothing like me, little one. 

The Grand Design.

Yan Arlecchino x F Reader.

Synopsis: Spring is soon to arrive in Fontaine, thawing out the waters and making the land greener. After weeks of being held within the walls of Hotel Bouffes d'ete, The Knave has promised you that you may go to the Florence Festival together as a reward for your good behavior. Though you are now here, you soon are reminded of how Arlecchino’s definition of a reward is quite different from yours. Still, it is best to remain on her good side. The man you two are following should have known that well too.

Warnings: Yandere themes, manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, spoilers for Arlecchino's story quest, and minor character death/violence.

Word Count: 4.1k.

*~*~*~*

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Brutus (Instrumental) by The Buttress

I WANNA BE YOUR SLAVE by Måneskin

Bernadette by IAMX

Who Is She ? by I Monster

Bang Bang Bang Bang - Remastered 2021 by Sohodolls

Deutschland by Rammstein

Sex with a Ghost by Teddy Hyde

Beautiful Is Boring by BONES UK

Teeth by 5 Seconds of Summer

Swimming Pool by Marie Madeleine

*~*~*~*

“Something wicked this way comes, and as I set to face it, I'm unsure, should I embrace it, should I run? What motivates me? Hatred? Is it love?” – The Buttress, Brutus

*~*~*~*

The room that The Knave put you in when you first arrived here never fails to seem smaller than it is. Your designated bed is placed in the middle of the wall farthest from the locked doors. There is a large window on each side made of up pink and white stained glass, but no matter how much you attempt to punch them, they never shatter. The floor has carpet on top of it, just soft enough for your bare feet to feel comfortable.

Arlecchino never lets you out of your room even for meals, and thus had a wooden table installed in front of the right window. There are two chairs too; one for you and one for whomever is put up to the task of watching you while you eat. Only to make sure you’re getting enough nutrients, she said after you gained enough courage to ask. I don’t want you to get ill. You had attempted to skip meals before, but as soon as the children who had cleaned up your plates and trash after every meal had found out, “Father” was soon notified. She was not completely furious, but she was most definitely not pleased. She scolded you for what felt like hours. All you are doing is lowering your strength… surely you’ll understand eventually.

You don’t throw away your food anymore, after she was the one that oversaw you eating every day for around three weeks, her eyes seemingly staring into your soul.

At first, you ate your food because you wanted the children in charge of watching you to not suffer punishments if they were not up to the task.

But after having enough conversations with Arlecchino, your motivations changed. Once an agent of the House of the Hearth used the vacant room beside your own to sneak out and run away. From the sounds you heard from the other side of the wall, it seems they were found out immediately. Arlecchino didn’t seem distraught when she visited you a few minutes later. Her appearance was not unusual, but from the crashing noises, you knew that the agent must have tried to fight The Knave herself.

They were not successful, that much was clear. Arlecchino hadn’t even broken a sweat, while they were fighting for their life.

There was a gift for you in one of her hands. A small black box with a red ribbon. You soon connected the dots. The escapee had the worst luck. Arlecchino was already on her way to your room, and just so happened to witness them opening the unlocked window. They didn’t scream though, despite all the other loud sounds of throwing vases and such, which also showed Arlecchino finished off her target quicker than they could beg for mercy or help.

Here at the House of the Hearth, everyone is responsible for their own actions. Loyalty shall not go unrewarded. Obedience shall not go unsupported. But… Foolishness shall not be without a hefty price to pay. Lies shall not be without precious items being taken as due compensation.

So, now your top priority is to be on your best behavior solely for yourself.

Every child here looks up to you. They have treated you as such ever since you woke up behind locked doors. But they also ensure that Arlecchino’s lessons are as drilled into your skull as her lessons are drilled into theirs. They ensure that you remain compliant.

All in all, they have taught you more about the House of the Hearth than “Father” ever could. The children scold you whenever you don’t follow the House’s long list of rules as if they are your caretakers. In a way perhaps they are, in Arlecchino’s point of view, but you would never admit to that. They reward you whenever you remember to water the few plants they had placed beside your bedroom window and cheer whenever you greet their savior with a bow and a good afternoon, Madam. They take away the few books Arlecchino has given you whenever you refuse to eat and yell at you whenever you refuse to even look at her.

Why are you so ungrateful?

We only want what’s best for you!

Do you wish to break Father’s heart?

So you don’t disobey them anymore. You had realized that they were not disciplining you to have The Knave not be mad at them. No. If only it were that simple. They discipline you because they want you to be a part of their family. That is why the younger ones slip drawings of you underneath your doors. That is why the older ones joke around with you during mealtimes.

You don’t throw out any drawings given to you.

You attempt to laugh at unfunny jokes. To get access to more freedoms, you must be on your best behavior.

You have to get the children’s blessings to even be considered good enough to step into the House’s flower garden.

It has a glass ceiling with all sorts of carved plant designs on top. Rainbow Roses. Romaritime Flowers. Lumidouce Bells. Lakelight Lilies. There is a path right down the middle to see each of them in all their glory. At the end of it, there is a small tree just big enough to shadow one or two sitting people. That place has become your sacred spot. You read and even take naps there, when your unbendable schedule allows it.

That place is also where Arlecchino first proposed an award for behaving well for the children.

Lyney tells me you are adjusting well. You noticed that her tone was the smallest bit higher, but you didn’t pay attention to the way the corners of her mouth pointed upwards just slightly.

You didn’t answer her, instead nodding your head.

I trust his judgment, and therefore you can choose a reward from the two I have selected for us.

As soon as she says the first option, your hearing gives out. Your mind is focused on it and it alone. The Florence Festival. An opportunity to finally sweep your hands on blades of grass and feel the wind flow into and out of your hair. It’s paradise, plain and simple.

*~*~*~*

The small circular table’s wood is light in color, and its iron framework leaves little to be desired. The chairs possess a similar appearance due to the use of the same materials, but the top rounded rail has a fake red rose attached. It was likely formed from melted ore that was poured into molds instead of being carved by hand, but you don’t dare ask about it to the one sitting across from you, sipping her hot beverage and looking at the flower fields in the distance.

You don’t want to see anyone get in trouble for your pickiness. 

Right?

You observe in silence as a single petal drops from the vase of flowers between your two dishes, almost as if the universe is conspiring to vex Arlecchino much at the expense of the fates of those who cross her.

You are unsure as to whether or not you count.

The food on your side compared to the food on her side could not be more different; rainbow macarons and a latte and steak tartare and a cup of black tea. But they still have a common similarity despite their appearance and ingredients; they are outrageously overpriced.

The main dishes you can understand. After all, they are this cafe’s specialties along with the top two bestsellers. But the drinks are another matter entirely. You cannot possibly comprehend in what world would a cup of tea with no sugar or cream amount to ten thousand hundred Mora and that being a reasonable price. The same thing with your latte, but you figure that the added sugar and cream had understandably raised the price. 

Though twenty thousand Mora for something that took less than ten minutes to prepare when you lived by yourself is evil. Some guilt stirs within you when you think about the total amount of Mora Arlecchino has spent on you thus far on this little outing. You two have not even made it to the Florence Festival’s famous entrance arch yet. In addition, surely there will be other things she will get you, either by your request or by hers.

The Knave raises her hand like a corpse arising from its slumber.

“From what my information sources have told me, this… ‘Florence Festival’ is about the arrival of spring. It sounds rather wholesome, in my opinion… and it sounds like something the children would like to partake in, next time.” She looks down at your still full plate. “Is the cuisine not up to your expectations? We can go somewhere else if you would like.”

You shake your head, and pick up the pink macaron in an attempt for Arlecchino to not call over a rather unfortunate waiter. “No, no… It’s fine. I promise… Peruere.”

You spoke her true name with a softness akin to a dove’s plucked feathers. She does not smile, but instead leans over and grabs the red macaron off your plate. You do not stop her. Her teeth sink into it right up to the center where the raspberry jam is. The filling leaks out onto her lips, but soon blends in as they share a similarly saccharine hue.

“It is unkind to lie to me.”

Between her fingers, the macaron is crushed to near dust within a single motion. Arlecchino does not scowl, but there is a small frown on her face. A tsk sound. Disappointment.

“They’re… rather stale, aren’t they [First]?”

“I shall call over the foolish owner of this establishment, and then we shall go see the rest of this festival.”

You pray not for the owner, but for you. Arlecchino's vigilant gaze is constantly fixed on you, making selfishness seem like a mere reflex.

*~*~*~*

“I must admit I have other plans relating to this festival.” Arlecchino sighs, slowly her walking speed until she comes to a stop.

You copy her movements like you are her reflection, but unlike what she sees in pools of blood, you don’t speak when she does.

She puts one of her clawed hands near her chin as she continues. “Consider it to be an immovable obstacle, if that is how you wish to see it. But I still need your help regardless.”

You suppress all feelings of wanting something else than taking orders day in and day out, not wanting your metaphorical leash to be pulled. Arlecchino looks to her right, past the stalls of event sellers, and to the back of a young man.

“If it also makes you feel better, you shall be rewarded for assisting me.” She offers. “After our task is done, I shall buy you anything and everything you want here. The cafe was just a little sample of all the wonders I can give you if you earn them.”

Your focus is not on her words but on the stalls. It is unintentional, she knows that. But she has never been one to tolerate disrespect from anyone, and so she snaps her fingers to bring your gaze back to her. You look up at her like you are one of her apostles. She has attained your attention, your fear, and your eyes once more, all without harming a single Crystalfly. Who knows how long this will last before you regress back to old habits? She hopes for your sake, that the day you divert from her love is the day this world falls down. Even then, she will catch up to you no matter how many people she has to bury, or even if she has to bury herself.

You two will never be apart, because she won’t let anyone do so, even if it was the Tsaritsa herself.

“Yes, Arlecchino?” 

Your voice is not nearly as trembling as it used to be, but to her, that is a great thing. It means that you have the strength to carry yourself properly, but you still depend on following the rules to not be scolded. Newer children who did not ask to be in the Fatui have acted similarly once she has given them a stern talking to. Their heads are tilted upwards, and they have their one hand on their chests. The other is always behind their back with two of their fingers crossed. While you possess the former, you do not possess the latter anymore. Arlecchino is proud of you, for that. You must have learned plenty from the children. While she is not your father, she is still the head of the House of the Hearth, and all other body parts follow suit. 

Like the spider she so loved growing up though, if the head is cut off in any way, the legs will still be able to flourish. She learned that from observing specifically jumping spiders. When a much larger spider came, it bit off her chosen jumping spider’s head and left the rest of the corpse. The legs scurried away. 

The legs still lived their life even without the head in place. The children will follow suit eventually, once Arlecchino eventually perishes. Though you will follow her. She expects nothing less. Thus, she already has preparations for what is to come on that fateful day.

It will be painless though. She guarantees that.

“Follow him,” She orders. “Befriend him, if you would like. Just please don’t get too attached, now.”

*~*~*~*

When you’re off to do your task, Arlecchino reminisces of better times. She sighs, sits down on one of the nearby benches, crosses one leg over the other, and looks down at her black hands. The same ones that hold others that are brimming with purity. Though she has never touched your hands, she can tell they are warm and soft, and everything else hers are not, from how much hand lotion you use each week and how often you manicure your nails. She doesn’t want to ask you, but the reason for this is unknown to her. Is she afraid of rejection? No. That cannot be it. 

You wouldn’t dare reject her, after all, that you learned never to do at Hotel Bouffes d'ete. Lyney and Lynette were your main teachers if she remembers properly. Though, now that she thinks about it, Foltz must have had some lessons for you as well. He is not a cruel boy to those who have earned Arlecchino’s trust, but at the same time, he has no mercy for those who break Father’s rules. Lynette must have stopped him on multiple counts every time you acted out of line.

Foltz is too impulsive, while Lynette is frankly too calculating.

That is why she chose Lyney to teach you most of the ropes she set out.

Lyney is good at that sort of thing.

He has the power to get everyone to listen to his beck and call with a simple smile and a few words. She also trusted he would help you feel more comfortable, as Lyney always gives gifts and speaks more gently to newcomers. With his help, Arlecchino knows very specific things about you, details that outsider Fatui spies would never be able to grasp. Whether or not you told him those things is insignificant. Lyney may not be as observant as Lynette, but he still has a knack for seeing finer habits and actions. Arlecchino also knows though that because of the twins’ bleeding hearts, they often bury anything Foltz will tell on before he sees them. After all, Foltz still has yet to grasp certain aspects of your body language and speech patterns because he doesn’t see you as often as he wants to, but Lyney and Lynette know much more because they spend the most time with you.

She doesn't mind it at all, because they treat you like family. That is all Arlecchino wants when it comes to you, to make you see their way and for everyone to get along.

…

If only the faces of the Hearth stayed the same, that they only grew and never lessened. It disappoints her, whenever she has to deal with people that are ordered to be erased.

But even after they are erased by her, sometimes the dead come back in surprising ways. Like the man you are following. It pains her, somewhere deep down. She knows that it is for the best of the House, but emotions cannot be suppressed forever.

She almost weeps when she thinks of a familiar face but closes her eyes before tears can fall.

“Pierre Snezhevich,” she says. “You had the chance to be reborn, took it… and now, for what? This time you are destined to die for good, I’m afraid.”

She takes the bundle of dried daffodils from her pocket and lays them beside her.

*~*~*~*

“I… daffodils are my favorite flower.”

The man takes but a few steps closer as he says those words, smiling. But the moment you attempt to bridge the gap yourself, he stops and looks around. His pointer finger adjusted his glasses as he looked more in peril than happy. The other hand drops the bundle of daffodils near his feet, and you see them both retreat into his leather jacket’s pockets.

You don’t move any closer, afraid that you may scare him off with any sort of movement. You don’t move any closer, afraid of scaring him away and invoking Arlecchino’s wrath. If you fail this mission, who knows how long it will take before you’re allowed to go outside again?

You simply wait in place with your hands in front of you, and attempt to give him the most comforting smile you can muster. But your acting skills are still subpar when compared to The Knave and her children. So because of that, the man doesn’t move from his position either, scowling.

“Need something?” He asks, making it glaringly obvious he doesn't trust you in the slightest. “If you have something to say… say it already. Please.”

“Uh… I just complimented the bouquet in your hand. I… don’t really have anything else to say in particular, I just wanted to strike up a conversation.”

The man looks past you, and you don’t hear a verbal response. 

Instead what you hear is the clattering of high heels touching the path’s bricks.

“Ah, dearest, here you are.”

A familiar clawed hand rests just above your collarbone, the arm just above the opposing shoulder. You don’t speak and only watch as the man’s expression delves little by little into complete terror. His eyes widen and his knees crumble. 

“Eric Draftler… What a surprise. We haven’t seen each other in a long time.” 

“You… two know each other? I was just asking about the daffodils,” You play into the lie, this little image Arlecchino told you to sketch with hardly any directions on whatever to do. The wind leads the daffodil petals on the ground into the air, and soon some of them are gone. Only the leaves remain. “This… is my fiancée. Arlecchino.” 

“Didn’t I just tell you we know each other?”

“Yes but still,” You don’t look into her eyes, instead staring at Eric’s shadow from across the path. For you know what is lurking within their depths, somewhere deep down in there. Disappointment, and a scolding waiting to happen. You can practically hear it now, her voice edging on anger with no ounce of any other emotion in her tone. “I just wanted him to remember if he… forgot. That’s all.”

Gradually, as you both proceed, Eric begins to move further and further away from you, walking backward. Eventually, you manage to guide him to a less crowded section of the festival, almost as if you pushed him there.

“Tell me, why did you kill Ginelle?”

Arlecchino’s voice is no longer friendly, and her grasp on your neck area is tighter. But you still don’t dare to ask her to stop, because that will make your injuries far worse. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Fatui scum.” Eric hisses, his arms now covering his stomach as he turns paler. “I have never met you.”

Arlecchino lets go of you, crossing her arms as she gets closer. “Oh really?”

“Not in person at least!” Eric says, almost yelling. “You-”

As Arlecchino puts a finger to her lips though, Eric’s voice gets quieter.

The clattering of high heels also gets quieter as she gets the closest she can be to Eric without giving up the illusion of common courtesy. She shakes her head and looks down on him. Arlecchino never tolerates anything other than murmuring voices, gentle singing, or absolute silence. 

It’s something you have come to know quite well. This rule has no exceptions.

“Now, now, Mister Draftler.” She leans just slightly. But her head is still held high. “I just wanted a conversation. I promise you that this conflict can result in no physical fighting if you just listen to what I have to say.”

Eric does not move back anymore. While his mind is most likely forwarding the flight response, his body is stuck at a standstill. It’s a stance you have grown to know well when Arlecchino approaches someone; them being an enemy, a friend, or otherwise is of no significance to her. All she wants is control, and to appear above everyone else.

Whether to guide, defend, or crush depends on your perspective more than hers. She has the power to make dreams come true but often chooses to conjure nightmares instead. They teach better lessons that way in her opinion, regardless of whether they are the last lesson they will ever learn or one of the first in a long line of those to come. 

“You’re simply overreacting, I’m afraid.” A tsking sound emerges from her throat as she continues to look down into the eyes of her already-defeated foe. “I do not wish to detain you and bring you to Snezhnaya for further questioning. My dear [First] will be all alone with no one to care for her quite like I do if I have to go all the way to the Zapolyarny Palace to oversee your trial and due punishment. I am sure you don’t want that either, yes?”

Eric does not respond, putting his hands back in his pockets.

“You know your past life, don’t you?” Arlecchino asks, no, states. “You most likely don’t remember anything but key fragments, but that is more than enough to justify giving you the death sentence. When you attempted to sneak out via that room next to [First]’s, I gave you the benefit of the doubt. You repay me by killing your own sister?” 

While Arlecchino does not tolerate loud noises from other people, she has nothing against raising her own voice. So, she does just that.

“How dare you.” She steps just a bit closer, having her arms crossed once again. “You were my child once, Pierre. But no longer.” Arlecchino puts a hand out towards Eric and squeezes. The man begins to choke, clawing at his throat. 

You put your hands over your eyes, and wait until it is over.

…

You’re not sure how long it takes for Eric to die.

It couldn’t have been more than two minutes, you think. But time dragged on as you attempted to blur out the sounds of Eric’s gasps and scratching.

From the little bit you allowed yourself to see, you could have sworn Arlecchino was smiling.

“You didn’t do the best job, I’m afraid.” You hear The Knave say, and realize she is talking to you.

“I’m sorry.”

She sighs then, you think. The clattering of her high heels gets louder as she approaches you. Then a thump.

“It’s alright. You still managed to get the target distracted while I did the rest. In addition, this was not a terrible outcome for your first mission.” Arlecchino puts a hand on your head, and you uncover your eyes, looking up at her. “Be proud, [First].”

Her nails don’t poke into your scalp like you feared they would. You’re grateful for that.

“Well, a deal is a deal, yes? Let us enjoy this festival while it lasts.” She turns around to look at the body behind you two. “Oh, and don’t worry about that. It’ll stay here to teach a lesson to fools.”

You weren’t worried about that in the first place.

You’re worried about what will happen to you when your plans of escaping are executed.

“Is something the matter?”

You attempt to smile, but if anything you look exhausted. “No. I’m just… happy.”

“I’m glad.”

Dreams Come True.

Yan Giorno x F Reader.

Synopsis: Giorno likes to hold you close sometimes in his dreams… and in his dreams alone, because the real you doesn’t let him. It’s fine though, he tells himself.

Warnings: Yandere themes, manipulation, and kidnapping.

Word Count: 1.5k.

*~*~*~*

There is a small door hidden behind Giorno’s vanity.

He does not reside in the master bedroom anymore–as he willingly chose to accommodate you with the privileges he no longer possesses. You’d make better use of it than he ever did, he thought. The once bare walls now have bookshelves all around, antiques sitting prettily up high on unreachable shelves, and there are soft piano sounds coming from the radio he gave you. Though if you ever wanted to learn piano yourself he would gladly hire a tutor for you, albeit one who has sworn a blood oath and has been a trusted staff member of his for years.

Giorno’s new bedroom is as empty as the last, with only writing utensils and piles upon piles of paper stacked on his sole desk, the trash can underneath be full of torn letters Giorno will have someone burn later. He has only dared to send you perhaps two letters, both of which were instantly sent back to whence they came. One of the letters was sent when you had first arrived here, being placed underneath the tiny slit between the floor and the door. It was past dinner time then, and since the guards stationed outside your quarters had heard no movement from inside your room, they had told the nearest butler that you were most likely asleep and would not be reading the letter until the morning.

Giorno had some second thoughts once he had heard the news, and nearly instantly wanted the letter to be rewritten, seeing it as an opportunity to fix mistakes visible to only him. That very butler opened the door with his assigned key and then saw you huddled in the corner covered by a blanket. The butler had asked if you had seen the letter on the floor, and you said you did not want to read it.

Very well, Miss [First].

The butler locked the door when he was done with his task, escorting the letter gently in his gloved palms like it was an esteemed guest.

Giorno tore the paper to shreds, throwing it into the trash can like the many others that had come before it. Dozens of them all written within a week, even though you hadn’t been here for nearly a day. Some are more eloquent than others. Some are just mere scribbles, signs of Giorno’s frustration at himself. If he could, he would have torn himself to shreds too. However, something in the back of his mind said that that was the coward’s way out, and if he were not here who else would be able to protect you?

No one. You’ll be all alone. A baby bird waiting for its mother to come back with worms. You’d chirp and chirp, desperate, but no one would help you. He can hear it now.

The second letter was sent just now, with the very same butler holding it gently in his hands. Giorno can hear the small heels of his shoes as he walks down the hall to the master bedroom. He looks at the vanity, choosing to ignore all of the clutter on it and instead pushing it toward the far right corner of the room. There the door was. It was dustier than when Giorno had seen it last, but he did not mind it in the slightest. 

The key to it was inside a copy of one of your favorite books. Chapter VIII, page 93. This part had one of your favorite quotes. Giorno knows it all too well, he spent day and night reading this novel again and again after all. 

“Oh yes,” said the other mother. “I put her in there myself. And when I found her trying to crawl out, I put her back.”

A rather grim quote you chose, but Giorno does not judge your interests.

The key is colder than the one used to open the door to your bedroom. It’s heavier and darker too. But it goes into the lock just as smoothly with a thunk.

The hallway beyond is dark. There is dust floating in the air, and a stinky, musty smell. 

Tucking his feet beneath him as he crawls, Giorno closes the door behind him. He doesn’t lock it, however. No one has ever seen where this corridor leads, and Giorno would rather die than have someone destroy his paradise.

Perhaps one day it will be yours too.

“I don’t want it.”

“Miss [First], while I do understand this situation has been less than acceptable for you, you must at least try to understand that the master has been attempting to be accommodating for you.” Giorno hears the butler say.

“I agree with Franz.” The head maid adds.

“I don’t care what you think,” You reply. Giorno can practically hear you gripping the skirt of your dress. “I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. All of you can just go to hell.”

When Giorno places his right ear on the other side of the tiny corridor, he hears a slight squeak. It seems your vanity was not placed correctly, something he will have a servant remedy soon. Its purpose is supposed to be the same as Giorno’s; to keep this sacred place hidden from you until it is time.

“That isn’t very kind. If you really cannot read this letter at the moment, it shall be placed on your writing desk, and you will read it by tomorrow night. Is this a fair arrangement?”

“Just what part of that is fair?”

Someone sighed then. Giorno is unsure as to who made the sound. The butler and you? You and the head maid? There are infinite possibilities for that very question. It lingers at the back of his mind, yearning to be scratched.

He hears your door close, and that is the very signal he needs. He crawls back through the tunnel to his bedroom and locks the entrance with the very same key. The key retreats to page 93 once again. Giorno then places it on the highest shelf. His mission is accomplished.

“Did you hear everything, Master?” The butler asks through Giorno’s bedroom door. “I can catch you up on details if that is not the case if that is alright with you.”

“Yes, I did. Grazie.”

He hears the butler’s shoes clacking as he leaves this part of the mansion.

He, in turn, sighs.

“Master,” A high-pitched voice calls, accompanied by a soft knock. “I brought you your dinner.”

Giorno does not respond. Instead, he sits on the chair beside his writing desk. His eyes meet the ceiling. There are images of clouds, rainbows, and most importantly cherubs, their bright red cheeks and happy smiles stirring something from within him. 

He wants what they have. Pure joy.

But because of that, Giorno considers hiring someone to repaint the ceiling.

“Master?”

Giorno closes his eyes, not wanting to see the bleak reality anymore.

“Master?” A male voice asks, knocking on the door louder than the woman. “Master? Are you alright? Clervie brought you your supper. It is your favorite. Spaghetti al nero di seppia.”

Giorno lets his imagination run free within the depths of his mind. He sees you kissing his cheek, and him kissing yours. He sees you two huddling by the fireplace during the winter months with hot cups of tea. He sees you looking outside the dining room’s largest window to see the stars and moon. He sees himself watching you, not willing to break the peaceful image.

He is truly unworthy of you, that much is true. But if he is unworthy of you, everyone else is just more unworthy than he is.

“Master? Are you alright? Do you want Clervie to come back later?”

Giorno speaks up, slouching forward in his seat. “I’m sorry, but I am just not hungry at the moment.”

The butler hums. “Alright… then have a good night, Master.”

“You too, Franz.” He answers. “And… you too, Clervie.”

When they leave, Giorno relaxes once more in his chair. Little by little, the surrounding sounds vanish. They are replaced with auras fading from black to blue to pink and then to teal. He starts snoring a few moments later. Absolute bliss for someone who has been stressed out for weeks on end.

“...[First]...”

The last thing he sensed from the real world was the candle on his desk, smelling like a warm day on the beach.

It isn’t an easy time going back into consciousness. Those same auras Giorno saw with his eyes closed are still there when he arises from his slumber. Black. Blue. Pink. Teal. If it had been a pleasant dream, perhaps Giorno would have even found it beautiful.

He rubs his eyes. “Ugh…”

The first thing he recognizes in his vision is the pictures of you on the vanity, still out of place from hours before. He remembers nothing of his dream, as always. That is, aside from one thing. Your voice, for once soft and focused on him.

I love you.

“Hm…” He grumbles. 

“Master?” The second thing he recognizes is Franz’s signature knock. “It’s urgent. [First] has–”

With the sound of your name, Giorno rises quicker than someone coming back from the dead.

Can you write for black swan as a yandre?

Lovers Forever, Until The World Falls Down.

Yan Black Swan x F Reader.

Synopsis: Her tarot cards are just as well used to predict the past as they are to predict the future.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, manipulation, major spoilers for Honkai: Star Rail 2.0 and 2.1 Updates, implied stalking, and mentions of violence/character deaths.

Word Count: 1.3k.

*~*~*~*

When Black Swan’s eyes first lay upon you, she has multiple impressions of you.

The Remembrance has caused her to have manifolds of judgments, some lapses and others more thorough. But never once did the Remembrance ever cause her to be so deeply enveloped in someone that she would proudly showcase what Fuli has blessed her with.

She knows what you are, all of you. Your past, present, and future… all of it is seen within the eyes of the Garden of Recollection.

It is only natural for her to want you to know her as much as she knows you. With social creatures comes the need to connect. When it comes to Black Swan, her wants and her needs are equally important, and thus she has no need to separate them.

“What brings you to me, fair maiden? What ails you?”

The only sounds that arise from you are slight grumbles, and the only fresh sights she has of you are fading tear stains on your cheeks. As a response, she repeats her words softer this time, crosses one of her legs over the other, and rests her head on one of her gloved hands.

“I want…” You start, clenching your nails into your palms so deep they almost bleed. “To know the… thing that killed my friend, Memokeeper.”

In her other hand are a few of her beloved tarot cards, tucked so lovingly between her pointer and middle fingers. 

“Ah,” Black Swan lets out a sigh so gentle you do not hear it. “I presume you are speaking of Miss Robin?”

You nod, looking down at your lap as she lays out the cards in a simple, singular motion on the table.

“Who else would I be talking about?” Your tone is that of an angry hiss, but she knows it is not directed at her. For you, you two had only just met. But to her, with the powers that come with the followers of the Remembrance, it feels like she has known you your entire life.

Black Swan’s gaze is all-seeing, and nothing that is not in the dark can be unseen once she has seen it–even when she wishes it were otherwise, like that dance she had with that Galaxy Ranger.

She wishes now that perhaps she was dancing with you instead.

“Pick a card,” The Memokeeper requests, her now free hand gesturing towards the sight she had just made. “We’ll continue from there.”

“Why?”

She shakes her head slightly as she closes her eyes for a moment. From that expression on your face, she can tell that you have to stop yourself from scoffing at her. “Just trust me; I don’t mean any ill will towards you… and nor will I harbor any.”

“I’ve heard odd things like this about you, Miss Black Swan, but I didn’t think they would have been true.” She knows the comment is not an insult, but it is not a compliment either. “Do people blessed by the Remembrance always act like this? I’m… just curious is all.”

When you point to the card on the center’s right. “Are you planning to replace me already? I thought we were getting along quite well…” 

She turns over the card as her palm faces you, and that causes you to loudly gasp. 

“The Eternal Freeze… Jarillo-VI.”

She turns over the card on the center’s left without asking you to pick another. She stifled a chuckle.

 “Cocolia Rand. A Silvermane Guard trapped in what looks to be a block of ice…”

One after the other, things are revealed. It is faster than either of you could catch your breath. It is faster than what you wanted it to go. It is not faster than the realization that hits when Black Swan connects all your memories into a perfectly completed puzzle.

“Stop it-”

“You have lost someone before, haven’t you?” She can imagine… no, presume, the suffocating atmosphere surrounding you, as you appear on the verge of gasping for air. “You couldn’t save them either… Am I right, Miss [First]?”

You don’t answer, but you don’t look angry anymore. Despite the venomous nature of her words, her tone manages to grow even gentler as she utters them.

“Despite everything you tried to do, you couldn’t save them… Who were they, if you don’t mind me asking such a thing, oh dear citizen of Belobog?”

You avert your gaze from her, once again opting not to respond. Black Swan patiently waits, arranging the cards in her hand to create a semi-circle. As a Memokeeper, she has acquired numerous lessons from the Remembrance, but the most valuable one is knowing the significance of patience.

The fingers that wrap around your own are both warm and freezing cold.

“My… partner.”

She tilts her head to the side, her lips pursing up into a kind smile. “Ah… I see… I didn’t know.” She lies. “I’m sorry for your loss. But… my apologies for saying this… if you couldn’t even save your partner from the blizzard, I believe you cannot avenge Miss Robin’s death.”

Your eyebrows simply furrow like she expected them to.

“For Peniconians, death is a grand illusion, a state of falsehood, something that is not supposed to exist within the Dreamscape… thus, something much more powerful than you or I or even the Family had to break the rules of the Harmony and become… well… Death.”

When Black Swan’s eyes look at new tears as they start to fall, she has only two impressions of you, the others fading away like an amnesiac’s memories.

“I don’t mean any harm when I tell you this. It is the truth, plain and simple.”

Her hand squeezes slightly against yours. Once again, you do not respond.

“You do not have to fight something you cannot defeat.” She scoots her chair slightly closer to your side of the table.

She is met by a few more moments of quietness before you ultimately choose to break the silence. “Her death will be in vain then. Just like theirs. I do not want to be a coward anymore.”

Another sigh escapes her lips, and once again it is not out of exhaustion but rather curiosity.

Her grin remains unwavering, just as she had taught herself to. “You were never a coward in the first place, dear.”

Black Swan continues to move her chair quietly, but not at all subtly, until your thighs touch hers.

“I really won’t be able to… at least help the Family?” You ask. “I am really not… useful?”

“You’re useful in other ways to the people you love and trust, and those who reciprocate.” Her initial judgment is that you require safeguarding from the dangers of the world. It is in your best interest, her best interest, to remain inside a safe and small space, as there is a risk of you inadvertently harming yourself while attempting to assist others.

“Am I?” You mutter, clasping your hands together. “Am I… really? People… really like me?”

She affirms with a slight movement of her head.

Black Swan's second opinion of you is that you pose too great of a risk to be released, as it would result in her being left alone without any chance of ever seeing you again.

It is selfishness that prevents her from showing the two remaining cards, both hidden elsewhere. One of which has the depiction of you dead, and the other has you smiling proudly as she watches from afar in hiding.

The Remembrance has taught Black Swan how to be many things, but it is Black Swan who has taught herself how to be selfish.

I'm thrilled to reveal the cover for SCRIMSHAW, my new gothic horror novel and the next Deephaven Mystery!

Guinevere "Nev" Tallow and Danny Harper discover an old skull with prophecies of doom etched into its teeth. As the predictions start to come true, the friends must race against time to unravel the secret behind the sinister origins of the skull before it's too late.

The illustrated mystery lands on shelves this September, reserve your copy now at your local bookstore!

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