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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.