Do You Do OC's? For Example, What If I Were To Request A Yandere Bully Stalker? (Not A Request) Is It

Do you do OC's? For example, what if I were to request a yandere bully stalker? (Not a request) Is it alright?

honestly it really depends. i like writing for characters with a lot of depth and not really characters just formed out of the blue. if the OC in question has a lot of depth i can work off of, sure. otherwise i feel like it would be hard to write. the same for AUs.

(also please don’t think of yan OCs as being healthy. they aren’t. if you think that please don’t request things like that. finding the concept interesting is fine though. just don’t think unhealthy relationships are healthy. that’s all i ask lol.)

hope this helps!

writers when they’re proofreading their works for the 34th time *find zero mistakes, there’s no typo, no grammatical error. everything looks good. hit the post button*

writers when they’re reading said works after they’ve been published like proud parents *find 52 mistakes at first glance, 38 typos and 14 grammatical errors with a bunch of inconsistencies and plot holes*

i promise i’m working on requests… </3

requests should be at least halfway done by the end of the week, and inbox questions/comments will also be mostly answered by then too…

thanks for the patience, everyone, it’s just research papers are kicking me in the ass rn…

F A Q.

masterlist: it's in the works but not at the moment!

posting days: i'm trying to work on a more stable posting schedule for stories but i will most likely be answering inbox messages on tuesdays, fridays, saturdays, and sundays! mostly saturdays though.

tagging: feel free to tag me in anything! as long as the post in question does not do harm to me or others, of course.

writing history: ever since i was little, i've pretty much always had a love for making up stories and saving them on my laptop. i got into x reader works when i was in middle school i think... still am just as much into them now as i was back then.

art history: i've always loved to draw/sculpt too! i may not be the best at making art myself, but i have always loved looking at other people's works, especially paintings. my current pfp is actually a painting of ophelia from shakespeare's hamlet, done by alexandre cabanel.

music taste: i really only listen to classical and k-pop/j-pop, along with game osts. though my queen mitski breaks her way into my on repeat playlist multiple times a day. my favorite songs from her are buffalo replaced, i bet on losing dogs, i will, francis forever, my love mine all mine, i want you, stay soft, class of 2013, townie and last words of a shooting star. non-mitski songs are often either by red velvet, twice, king gnu, or kenshi yonezu.

book recommendations: i read a lot on days i'm not so busy, mostly reading thriller/horror stories. my main recommendations are notes from the underground by fyodor dostoevsky, i have no mouth, and i must scream by harlan elison, the cask of amontillado by edgar allan poe, the stranger by albert camus, the metamorphosis by franz kafka, uzumaki by junji ito, the talented mr. ripley by patricia highsmith, the collector by john fowles, misery by stephen king, coraline by neil gaiman.

favorite tropes: lovers to enemies, enemies to lovers, the reluctant hero, paying the price for victory, the mysterious neighbor next door, a deal with the devil, the unhappy ending, cults and religious extremists, mysterious things are happening, seducing an archenemy for an opportunity.

other fun facts:

-> i'm a criminology major.

-> i played a lot of instruments and sang a lot when i was younger. i'm trying to get back into it now. my favorite instrument to play was the electric violin and my favorite type of music to sing was choir-like osts like mourning from nier automata, lacrimosa from the one and only mozart, and song of the ancients from nier replicant.

-> i'm a huge animal lover. i often watch streams of horror movies, listen to video essays, or write while snuggling up with one of my dogs. i also often volunteer in community service, with most of it being either being at a shelter/adoption event or some sort of event involving a fundraiser in schools. i once happened to do an adoption event that happened to be fundraising more resources for schoolchildren, and it was one of the best moments of my life. got to pet a lot of animals too, and that made the time like ten times better.

CURRENT ANONS -> childe anon

this post will be edited/added to as life goes on.

The Chauffeur.

Yan Aventurine x F Reader.

Synopsis: Life has always made losers out of people like you. You dream even now that that could be changed. But can it really?

Warnings: Yandere themes, manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, drugging, misogyny, abuse of power, and mentions of violence.

Word Count: 3.2k.

*~*~*~*

When thrust into a world filled with illusions of chance, one can only hope that change will soon arise.

The company, the appearances, the losers, the winners; nothing ever changes, not even the dreams that things will.

How you are treated is a gamble all on its own too, despite you wishing it were not so. Lady Luck has yet to smile upon you, but instead of gifting you with snake eyes, she gives you the utmost displeasure of being slapped, being threatened, or having your salary lowered. You sometimes wish she would just give you the lowest score on a physical die instead of an invisible one.

You wish she would have made you less appealing to unwanted stares, would have made you have a burned face that would scare off anyone as soon as they looked at you. Hell, even make you be an old woman begging for spare change. That would be a better existence than to live in this body, where you are forced to wave and smile and conceal the bruises and slap marks whenever they appear in a place not covered by your dress. Not that your dress covers anything.

You have three jobs in this casino. Your first one is to spin the wheel or make the letters visible after all the bets are placed and the speaker gives you the signal to do so. Your second one is to always look presentable, your boss’s definition of “best”. Appearances will bring in more onlookers, he said. Just get yourself all dolled up. Okay, toots?

You conform every time your clothes change in color, size, and pattern because after all, they could just replace you with someone more willing.

After all, you have your mouth to feed and your own back to clothe.

So, you endure not all of it, but most of it. You endure the times your assigned makeup artist has called you a whore for not letting him stay in your room during his breaks, the times the suited mascot of this place squeezed you a bit too tight when you were told to take a few photos with him. You pretend not to notice things like that, because if you start a conflict who knows what will happen?

The applause of onlookers is always paired up with lewd comments about your body instead of congratulations to the winner.

The heels you are paid to wear always manage to make you trip onto someone, or rely on some flirty stranger to help you walk to and fro. Your manager told you to grow your hair out when you first started working here, and when it finally reached the desired length he gave you very few options when it came to which hairstyle you wanted. If you remember correctly, it couldn’t have been more than four. All of them had curtain bangs and waves. There was even one, you think, that had something to do with bleaching.

You opted for the one that let you keep the most of your natural hair pattern, not that that was a lot. 

Your dresses always come with a slit to see one of your legs. Temptations bring in more dreams, and with dreams come people wanting to be big shots. That is what your boss said to you after you questioned your given work wardrobe. You did not want his glare and mocking laugh to be aimed at you any longer, so you nodded and went to change. He praised you for it later, but your brain protected itself by not remembering what he said.

All you can recall is the way you shuttered at him wrapping an arm around your bare shoulders,  a lit cigarette in his hand.

You don’t shutter as often anymore after he scowled and threatened to place it on your palm.

Your world is simpler than it was before when you were sleeping on the streets and given just barely enough to scrape by. You only have three jobs to do, but the third one holds the most importance. Sabotage the gamble. Never let them win unless they hold enough power that your boss permits you to stand back.

There have been very few instances of that happening, but they happen nonetheless. They are this casino’s equivalent of a blue moon. There are telltale signs before you are told of their status. Their clothes are always glittering like an invisible spotlight is on them. They always have guards, and people sticking to their arms like glue just itching for a taste. It is an even rarer sight to see one of them being chosen to be their partner for the night. You can tell when a person can buy you off with their proportion of pocket change. Not that anyone has, much to your gratitude.

This man is just like them. You can sense the ego dripping off of him, and can sense how much all those rings on his fingers cost.

This is the real deal. You can tell. That earring of his is probably worth twice that of all of your organs. That is being generous with the price you would most likely hold on the black market. In reality, perhaps thrice. That is not even going into his pink sunglasses, which have tiny gems stuck on the sides. 

He has a gun holster, you think, but the gun itself is nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps one of his men is holding it for him. Perhaps.

From the corner of your eye, you see your boss amongst the crowd, nodding slowly at you. He is sitting in a booth a bit more distanced from the others, three women on either side of him. Every time he sits there, it is your first signal that something is surely going to happen. Good or bad. This time it is good, and you will end the night with nothing less than a few thousand credits for playing your part well. Last time it was bad, and you ended up having so much more than a simple slap on the wrist.

He has three dice between his pointer and middle fingers. One green, one teal, and one dark blue. They are each twelve-sided from what you can see, but the sigils remain unseen by you. Maybe for the best, you think, you don’t want him to take up as much memory space as he already has.

All you want is for this shift to be over, but with this unplanned patron skipping the line of gamblers to gamble himself, who knows how long until the dice stops rolling?

Your fellow staff members look happier, displaying genuine smiles on their faces. Not that you can blame them though, most of them are new hires because your boss tends to fire people on the daily.

“Hold on a sec, please. Madam, I would like to use my lucky charms before you spin the wheel. If you don’t mind, that is.” The man requests. It is not a sincere question, you note, because he clasps onto the dice in his palm so lightly like they are gravity-resistant.

Instead of looking at him, you look at your boss first. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention to you any longer with what looks like one of the women being straddled on his left thigh. Hmm. It’s your call then, you suppose. 

“Sure,” You answer, trying to put on your best polite grin. “Who am I to deny such an… experienced gambler?”

“Thank you for the praise,” He replies, his free arm bending as he scratches the back of his head. “But you… misunderstand, I am just a simple bettor, nothing more.”

The positioned desk with a microphone attached has just become this casino’s newest playing ground. Faster than you can blink, the dice are let out of his hand and roll. When they stop, you can hear cheers and praises, as if they are all meant for him. 

A spotlight is focused on him too, a color more dazzling than the brightest glittering gold.

“I’m going to choose the peach.”

You nod and spin the wheel, all of the colors blurring together, slowly but surely soon coming to a stop.

The pink area with the same peach is on the pointer, and the crowd all clap their hands and dance.

*~*~*~*

During your breaks, you are allowed to go to your recovery room to do whatever limited array of activities your bookshelf and dusty boxes under your bed had in store for you. The breaks are always nothing more than half an hour, but you earned the right to have your breaks’ minimal times be nothing less than ten minutes.

“I just… noticed you never play the games you so often assist, that’s all.” The blond stranger continues to follow as you speedily walk down the hallway to the backrooms. Little by little, the golden paint that coats the walls turns into a dull beige, a sure sign that your treasured little hiding place is near.

“I wish I could but right now I have my lunch break, sir.”

His speed is nowhere near diminishing, no, if anything it is getting more profound.

If you did not have unwanted company, if you did not have to worry about the security cameras in every corner of this part of the casino, if you did not have this job you hate to your very core, you would have torn the high heels off of your blistered feet.

But you cannot because you do have unwanted company, you do have to worry about the security cameras in every corner of this part of the casino, you do have this job you hate to your very core. So, the high heels stay on and make sounds with every step you take.

“Come on, Miss [First]. I know you want to.” You have been unable to get him off your back for the past ten minutes. Even when you attempted to walk around the less crowded parts of this casino in circles, he was there. “[First]. A lovely name, if I say so myself. [First], [First], [First].”

It takes everything in you not to frown or cross your arms. That could be considered rude, especially to someone as high standing as this man. “Utmost sincere apologies, sir, but I really-”

“Aventurine.” He interrupts. “It’s Aventurine, Miss. You don’t have to call me sir, you know. We’re alone here in this stank hallway. Without my money, I’m just like you, and I’m sure we can become great friends.”

“In my opinion, I believe that there are better people than me to form connections with, Mister Aventurine.” You try not to huff in frustration, but you could have sworn that one was let out.

In the distance, you see your recovery room, the number two on it turning off and on every few seconds.

It has always been that way. The only one who often gets renovations to their living quarters is your boss. The rest of you are nothing more than cow fodder to him, even his assistants.

“You should head back, Mister Aventurine.” You say, the smile on your face trying its hardest not to fade as you turn to look at him. “I don’t want your seat at the pinball machine to be taken from you.”

“And who do you think would have the guts to steal from me?” Aventurine smirks, one of his hands lowering his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose. “No one is that suicidal, that’s the hard truth.”

He winks at you faster than you can get a grip on your door’s handle. 

“Just think about it, m’kay?”

In a flash, he starts walking off, leaving you all alone.

*~*~*~*

“Ah, you’re back!”

Aventurine is at the start of the hallway, the part where the gold paint is the most pronounced.

“My break ended.” You say your answer quickly and simply as you walk past him. Instead of your high heels, you are wearing black flats.

Your feet were bleeding much more than usual when you finally made it to your room. Yeah. That is the excuse you will give to your boss if he asks. He seems drunk and is still at his little booth, not to mention it is dark in the casino at the moment, so there is quite a low chance he will.

“You don’t look so good.” Aventurine nearly shouts, causing you to walk even faster to make it to the wheel of fortune. “Did something happen?”

His voice is soon drowned out by the crowds of people talking. Just a few more seconds. A few more seconds, and he won’t be able to bother you much longer and he will head back to that pinball machine he has been hoarding for the past hour. 

You move past the ogling eyes of drunk consumers and move past the guards, who always let you behind the stage without a hassle. Your flats don’t make nearly as much noise as the heels as you walk up the five steps.

You only have three minutes before the curtains withdraw from their positions, so you pull on your bun to make it tighter and put the stray baby hairs behind your ears. You brush any dust off your dress and then brush off any dust that is on the gambling wheel. The cleaners only work after all the shows are done and all the guests go home, so it is up to you to make sure the show is always looking its best.

You hear the countdown from the electric speakers and the onlookers.

“Five! Four!”

You take a few deep breaths.

“Three!”

You hear the confetti cannons turn on.

You close your eyes and think about the best possible future, one where you can be happy. Where you can be yourself. Where your smiles are real. Where your happiness is real. Reading for as much as your heart desires. Trying all the delicious-looking food no matter how strange it may look. 

“Two!”

Instead of hearing the number one, you just hear more cheers.

The curtains move to the designated sides of the stage, and the near-blinding spotlight shines at you. You smile, waving at the crowds of people, until you see something that nearly causes your facade to crumble down.

Aventurine stands there at the start of the line, holding his three dice just like before.

*~*~*~*

You avoid Aventurine just long enough for the casino to close for the night. It was not an easy task by any means, but somehow retreating to the bar on the job and making simple conversations with other patrons and fellow staff members was enough to repel him.

Since it is after hours, the bartender has gone back to his room to sleep after downing five shots of Spade. He will be hungover tomorrow, that much is certain.

Ah, to only work when it is far past dusk. A dream only for your boss’s most favored employees. Aside from the bartender, there is his guard, who has been seen for the past few months being so drunk that he cannot even stand; he has to sit on the floor.

There is no room for you in that little club. But your gut tells you that it is better this way, for no one unfavored can see what goes on inside.

It is only you in this bar now, spinning around on the stool closest to the gates that lead to the other side. It’s you. Despite this job, despite everything, you are still you. All you ever have to be is you. Only you.

The glass in front of you is half full. Half full with Melancholy. It is only slightly bitter, the rest of the flavor profile being floral and refreshing. This type of shot glass is only reserved for people as high standing as Aventurine due to the little scattering of gold at the rim. 

They are stuck there so they won’t choke whoever is drinking from the cup. For once, your boss put his resources into something partially useful. If only he would do the same with your salary and put some more credits into it.

The door’s chiming bell rings. You hear the front door then close. Did the bartender forget to lock the door?

Should you say something? You don’t want to get in trouble with your boss tomorrow, and his hangover will certainly make his wrath ten times worse than it already was.

The sound of footsteps doesn't fade, and another sound accompanies it soon enough; Aventurine’s voice.

“Hey. Just wanted to drop by. See what you’re doing this late all alone, you know?” 

Before you can turn around and politely ask him to leave, he sits on the stool beside you. Vibrant eyes make contact with yours.

A hand goes on your shoulder, squeezing with a purpose; to keep you quiet.

“Are you drunk? You smell like Blossom Dew and Soothing Soda. Heavily.” 

He's exaggerating, you know this. You've barely had a sip. It's not nearly enough to get you intoxicated. Not at this early into the after-hours. You still need to have a few more beverages before heading to your room for the night.

“Mister Aventurine, I am going to have to ask you to leave.” As he chuckles, your body instinctively reacts, possibly as a protective response. You wouldn’t blame it for acting this way, even under ordinary circumstances.

“I don’t think you’re in the right place to be making orders like that. Maybe if you worked for the IPC, but you’d have to work at the speed of light to get anything close to my ranking.” His hands slither from his sides to your glass, tilting it so he can see the dark yellow liquid within it. “Hmm. Do you not have a high alcohol tolerance, Miss [First]?”

“I do.” You rebuke. He shrugs his shoulders.

“I don’t think I should believe you, honestly.” With one of his hands, he takes off his pink sunglasses, putting them beside your cup. “Maybe if you drank the rest of it in one gulp.” With a slam, he puts a stack of credits on the table. “Go on, do it and I’ll give you enough credits to leave Penacony forever. I promise.”

Who are you to decline such an enticing proposition, despite your distaste for the man's company? This employment, with all its hardships, can vanish if you are simply granted the funds. Thus, you hastily consume the remainder of your beverage without deliberation.

You’re too focused on the bet at hand to notice the unusual saltiness.

With a wide grin, he applauds enthusiastically, his cheers echoing through the stillness. However, his clapping abruptly ceases, leaving behind an unexpected emptiness. In its place, a throbbing headache emerges, surpassing the intensity of any typical morning-after discomfort.

The fall into a state of unconsciousness is far from effortless; it feels more like a sudden, jarring blow to the face, sharp and agonizing. 

“I’ll keep my word, that is a gambler's responsibility after all."

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.