I'm curious what you'd think Herta, Ratio, Anaxa $ Ruan Mei's reaction to a reader who has one of those mechanical arm rigs on their back? Kind of like radian from arknights or nine from sonic prime.
They have these 4 mechanical arms portruding from their back connected at the base of their spine (kind like doc oct) and they have clothes specifically made to accommodate their unique shape.
I'm curious how you think these smarty pants would react seeing reader use them in everyday life like gesturing, cooking and maybe even inventing since they're probably tech savvy to make something like this. With them multitasking like crazy without much effort exerted.
Thanks and sending good vibes from the Philippines 🇵🇭 👏👏👏
The Erudition of Touch
Tags: The Herta x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Anaxa x Reader, Ruan Mei x Reader, Slice Of Life, Intellectual Tension, Mutual Admiration, Subtle Fluff, Emotional Introspection, Soft Humor, Technological Integration, Found Connection.
You were multitasking again — four mechanical arms moving in perfect sync. One stirred something in the pot, another adjusted a hovering display, while the third and fourth calibrated a crystalline core on the workbench.
“Fascinating,” came Herta’s voice from behind you, calm but laced with amusement.
You didn’t turn. “I assume you mean the project, not the person.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The project’s boring,” she said, pacing closer. The soft click of her boots echoed faintly. “I’m talking about that contraption on your back. The way it reacts to your motor control, the precision… It’s elegant. Too elegant for a casual tinker.”
The corners of your mouth tugged upward. “Coming from you, that’s either high praise or mild mockery.”
“Both.”
When you faced her, her eyes gleamed, reflecting the subtle light of your mechanical rig — four steel limbs folded neatly behind you like wings. You had designed them to respond to your nervous system, mimicking reflex, thought, and instinct. To her, they were a marvel. To you, they were extensions of your self.
Herta tilted her head, arms crossed. “I can see why you move so effortlessly. You’ve turned redundancy into grace. Four extra limbs and yet… you make it look natural. I’d probably just make a mess.”
“You could simulate it,” you suggested. “Feed it into your virtual model.”
“I could,” she said, “but I prefer the real thing. I prefer you.”
You blinked.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she continued, tone flat. “I meant I prefer to observe you. You’re more interesting in motion than data form. The way your nervous system adapts — you don’t think about the extra limbs anymore, do you?”
“No,” you admitted. “It’s like breathing. They respond before I consciously command them.”
“That,” Herta said, stepping closer, “is the kind of advancement that borders on artistry.”
Her hand lifted slightly, stopping short of your shoulder. “Do they feel pain?”
You extended one of the arms, the polished metal glinting as it hovered before her. “Not in the way you do. But they respond to damage. I’d say it’s… empathetic pain.”
“Hmm.” She circled the rig, inspecting its base — the junction where it met your spine. “You built this yourself?”
“With a little help.”
“Of course you did,” she muttered, half-proud, half-irritated. “Always the innovators outside my lab who surprise me.”
When you looked back, she was watching you — expression unreadable, curiosity and admiration dancing in her eyes. “You know,” she said, “I used to think my puppets were the pinnacle of remote cognition. But you—”
Her lips curved. “You’ve made the machine part of you.”
“You sound impressed.”
“I am.” She turned away, hiding the faintest smirk. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
As she left, one of your arms quietly waved behind her. Without looking back, Herta called over her shoulder,
“Don’t wave that thing at me. You’ll make me want to dissect you.”
And yet, in her voice, there was something softer — something dangerously close to admiration.
Ruan Mei’s lab was a study in organized chaos — crystalline samples, culture chambers, and faint, symphonic hums. You had been helping her catalog bio-data, using your mechanical limbs to handle multiple tasks at once.
“Left,” she murmured absently, pointing with her brush.
One arm reached for the left-side samples, another logged the data. You didn’t need to look; instinct took care of everything.
She paused mid-writing. “You do that so easily.”
“Habit,” you said, adjusting another vial. “After enough repetition, it’s like—”
“—your own hands,” she finished, eyes glinting with quiet wonder.
She approached, gaze following the gentle mechanical rhythm. “Each limb follows neural impulses, yes? So they move with emotional stimuli too. How fascinating.”
You smiled faintly. “You’re analyzing me again.”
“Can you blame me?” she said softly, the brush stilling in her fingers. “You’ve blurred the line between evolution and invention. It’s beautiful.”
Her words weren’t flattery — they were reverence, quiet and analytical. The kind that made your chest tighten.
She stepped around you, every movement deliberate. “Do you ever forget which are yours?”
“Sometimes,” you admitted. “When I’m in motion, they all feel… mine.”
“That’s how nature evolves,” she said, almost wistful. “Through seamless adaptation.”
One of your mechanical arms extended a towel toward her as she adjusted a lens, and she accepted it without breaking stride — as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“See?” you said. “Even you’re adapting.”
That earned a rare smile. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply appreciate efficiency.”
There was a beat of silence, filled only by the faint hum of the lab. Then she asked, “Do you ever think of them as companions?”
You looked over your shoulder. “Companions?”
“Your limbs,” she clarified. “They seem almost alive. The way they respond to your tone, your intent. It’s like they’re attuned to your spirit.”
You hesitated. “I never thought of them like that.”
“I have,” she said.
When you met her gaze, it was soft — contemplative, almost tender. “You’ve created something wonderful, you know. A synthesis of life and machine that even Aeons would envy.”
You chuckled. “That sounds like high praise from member #81 of Genius Society.”
“It’s simply the truth,” she replied, returning to her desk. “And truth, like beauty, doesn’t require exaggeration.”
You could tell she meant more than she said — her tone, gentle but precise, carried warmth she rarely revealed. As you continued working beside her, your arms moving in practiced harmony, she glanced up one last time.
“Would you… ever allow me to study the neural patterns?”
“Only if you promise not to dismantle me.”
Ruan Mei laughed quietly — a soft, musical sound. “I wouldn’t dare. I’d rather learn the rhythm of how you move.”
And in that sterile, brilliant space, her words lingered longer than the hum of the machines.
“You’ve got multiple doctorates’ worth of precision in those things,” Ratio remarked dryly as one of your mechanical arms placed a teacup neatly beside him.
You smirked. “Only four, actually.”
He adjusted his glasses — purely decorative, you were convinced. “I was talking about the arms. But yes, modesty suits you.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Don’t let it confuse you,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m simply fascinated. You wield technology as if it were instinct. You embody the philosophy of the Intelligentsia Guild: function refined into art.”
“Coming from the man who literally wears wisdom as an aesthetic,” you quipped, nodding toward the owl emblems on his attire.
Ratio smirked. “Touché.”
You turned back to your notes, four arms working seamlessly — one writing, one tapping data, one mixing compounds, one pouring tea.
He watched, eyes sharp behind lazy amusement. “Do you ever rest?”
“Do you?” you countered.
“Touché again.”
He sipped his tea, gaze unwavering. “I can’t decide what’s more impressive — your engineering, or your ability to act as though it’s ordinary.”
“I built them to be ordinary. The whole point was integration.”
“Ah,” he mused, “but you’ve done what philosophers and engineers have argued about for centuries — created unity between will and mechanism. The Guild would canonize you.”
“Is that your way of saying you approve?”
He chuckled softly. “Approval implies superiority. I recognize kinship.”
That earned your attention. Ratio wasn’t one to claim connection lightly.
“You see,” he continued, “you’ve eliminated inefficiency — the human flaw I find both tragic and fascinating. Yet you haven’t sacrificed personality for precision. That’s… rare.”
His tone softened. “The way your limbs react to mood — that subtle tremor when you’re deep in thought, the stillness when you’re focused — it’s like reading a second language written on your body.”
You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “You’ve been observing that closely?”
He smiled — just barely. “Observation is the duty of the rational mind. And perhaps…” His gaze flicked toward one of the arms, hovering near his cup. “…the privilege of admiration.”
You let one mechanical limb lightly nudge his teacup away before he could take another sip. “Flattery, Dr. Ratio? You must be malfunctioning.”
“Hardly,” he replied smoothly, standing. “Just… recalibrating my logic.”
And with that, he left you in the quiet hum of your machinery — though the faintest trace of amusement lingered in the air like a whisper of static.
You didn’t hear Anaxa enter — only the brush of his coat and the metallic clink as he leaned against the table.
“So it’s true,” he said, voice low and rough, “you’ve grafted four steel arms to your spine. Tell me, does it hurt to carry so much ambition?”
You turned, one mechanical limb folding around your side protectively. “Not ambition. Necessity.”
He smiled, faint and knowing. “Spoken like someone who’s been burned by limitation.”
Your four limbs continued working — tightening bolts, sorting shards, jotting notes — even as your eyes stayed on him. “You talk like you understand.”
“I do,” he said. “I’ve carried more ghosts than you have limbs.”
The weight in his voice silenced you for a heartbeat.
Then, unexpectedly, he stepped closer. “But look at you. You’ve turned burden into beauty.” His gaze lingered on the junction where the rig met your back — not with clinical curiosity, but reverence. “A symphony of sinew and steel.”
“Most people stare,” you said quietly. “You… listen.”
“Because I hear what others don’t.” His eye glimmered faintly beneath the fall of his hair. “Every movement sings of defiance. You move like someone who refused to stop reaching.”
The mechanical arms stilled. “You make it sound poetic.”
“Everything is poetry,” he said, stepping closer still, “when it’s born from pain.”
One of your arms rose unconsciously, brushing a strand of his hair aside. He didn’t flinch. “You’ve made yourself a god of efficiency,” he whispered, “but still human enough to tremble.”
“I don’t tremble.”
“You do,” he said softly. “Right now.”
You realized he was right — your fingertips, or perhaps the mechanical claws, had the faintest quiver.
Anaxa smiled, equal parts pride and sorrow. “Good. Keep trembling. It means you haven’t lost yourself to the machine.”
His words sank deep, the kind that stayed even after silence returned.
“Tell me,” he said finally, eye glinting like the last light of dusk, “when you move all those hands at once, does it feel like freedom?”
“Yes,” you whispered. “It feels like I finally have enough hands to hold what I want.”
“And yet,” he murmured, brushing a hand against one metallic limb, “you’ll learn that even with six hands, you can’t hold everything.”
You met his gaze. “And you?”
He smiled faintly. “I let everything burn, so I wouldn’t have to.”
For a long moment, the two of you stood in that soft hum — human and machine, genius and heretic — each recognizing the other’s defiance reflected in steel and sorrow.
Sorry for taking so long, I finally had some motivation to write something. 😭🙏
Imagine Being the Only One Who Understands Viktor — Part 2
Summary: You’ve always understood Viktor, but lately, he’s pushing himself too far again. This time, you're not afraid to speak your mind and remind him that even a genius needs someone who won’t let him spiral alone.
Pairing: Viktor x Reader
Word Count: ~1,300
Warnings: Emotional exhaustion, soft touch, comfort, banter, affection
You found him hunched over a table again, half-lit by the glow of the Hexcore and completely ignoring the world around him. Typical Viktor.
“Okay, listen,” you said, dropping a sandwich beside his stack of notes, “this is me being a supportive partner. But I swear, if you don’t eat something in the next five minutes, I’m flipping the whole lab table and blaming gravity.”
He didn’t even glance up. “The gravity argument would not hold. This table is bolted.”
You rolled your eyes and perched on the edge of the workbench. “Gods, you’re exhausting.”
He looked up at that just barely with a tiny smirk tugging at his lips. “And yet, you stay.”
“Yeah, well, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t disappear into your own brain. Jayce doesn’t count. He’s too busy flexing at reflective surfaces.”
That earned a soft chuckle, and honestly, it was worth the sarcasm just for that. You leaned forward, snagging a metal tool off the desk and pretending to inspect it.
“You remember what sleep is?” you asked, lightly. “Like, you lie down, close your eyes, and let your body rest for a change?”
“Mm.” He leaned back a little, cane resting across his knees. “It’s a distant memory.”
You clicked your tongue. “That’s depressing. Come on, Viktor. What’s going on? You’re running on fumes again.”
He hesitated. And then—softly, not like him—“I am afraid. If I pause, I fall behind. If I slow down, someone else overtakes what I’ve built. What I’ve risked everything for.”
You let that hang for a second. Then you hopped off the desk, walked over, and crouched in front of him. Not like a dramatic lover — just like someone who’s tired of watching someone they care about destroy themselves from the inside out.
“Look at me.”
He did. Slowly. Tired eyes, always calculating.
“You’re not a failure if you rest. You’re not weak if you lean on someone. And you don’t have to keep proving your worth to people who never earned your time in the first place.”
You gently touched his hand. Not romantic. Not desperate. Just there. Real.
“You already changed the world, Viktor. The only thing left is letting yourself enjoy it.”
He was quiet. But he didn’t pull away.
You smiled . “And also, you smell like copper and oil and three days without deodorant. So maybe just… stop for long enough to shower?”
That got a laugh a real laugh.
“You’re… something else,” he murmured.
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
He exhaled, and his fingers curled around yours without being asked. “Sometimes I think I don’t know how to be this way. With someone. Close.”
You looked up at him, suddenly more serious. “You don’t have to know. You just have to try. Let me figure it out with you.”
There was a long pause, like he was considering all the equations in his head that didn’t quite add up.
And then he said, softly, like the words scared him a little, “You make me want to stay.”
You swallowed. “Then stay. Right here. Just for a while.”
He nodded. Just once.
And for the first time in weeks, he let himself lean on you literally. Head resting against your shoulder, body heavy with exhaustion. You wrapped your arms around him and just held him, no science, no talking, no fixing.
Just quiet.
Later, after he fell asleep yes, actually asleep you covered him with a lab coat and whispered, “You don’t have to run so hard, genius. You’ve already got me.”
And for once, even the Hexcore stayed quiet.
A/N : Here's the second part for " Imagine Being the Only One Who Understands Viktor — Part 2"
Hope u like it ! Want a part 3 ? Ask me ^^!! Have a good reading !!
Summary: In the sunlit shallows, Caligo dares to step beyond isolation as a gentle, nonviolent bond begins to form—one rooted in presence and trust rather than fear or war.
Warning: Emotional vulnerability and loneliness, Themes of isolation and social withdrawal, Tentative intimacy and trust-building. LMK if I need to add anything else.
The shallows shimmer under a pale, watery light as Caligo cautiously follows the stranger toward the sunlit edges of the reef. The water here is warmer, shallower, filled with waving fronds of kelp and the soft glimmer of tiny fish darting through the light. For the first time in weeks, Caligo feels something close to curiosity rather than dread.
“I… do not often leave the deep,” he admits softly, tail flicking nervously against the sand. “It is… brighter here. Too many eyes.”
You smile gently, shifting so that the tail that remains merges seamlessly into your legs, human-like now but still retaining the fluid grace of the ocean. “The shallows are… lively,” you say, “but not always dangerous. Sometimes, you just need someone to show you the way.”
Caligo studies you, noting the ease with which you move through both water and air, the comfort in your voice. “Show… the way?” he repeats, tilting his head, curious. “You… mean… you can guide me?”
“Yes,” you reply. “If you let me. You’ve been alone here too long, Caligo. Sometimes… songs are not enough.”
He hums thoughtfully, the vibrations echoing slightly against the stones below. There is a faint sense of tension, of something waiting to break free inside him—but your presence… it feels safe. Tentative, but safe.
“Bond,” he whispers, almost to himself. The word tastes strange on his tongue. The thought of sharing his path, even a part of himself, with someone… It is foreign. Unfamiliar. But somehow… appealing.
“I… I have heard of this,” he continues, voice trembling with a note of wonder. “Bonds. My cousins spoke of them… but not like this. Not with… warmth. Always… war.”
You kneel slightly in the water, letting your hands ripple across the sand, showing there is no threat. “Then maybe it’s time you know a different kind of bond. One that doesn’t demand war, or fear. Just… presence. Just… being.”
Caligo’s tail twitches nervously, the dark whorls of his scales catching the sunlight. Slowly, he swims closer, curiosity overtaking caution. His song rises again, quieter this time, filled with tentative hope rather than mournful doubt.
“I… I think I would… like that,” he admits. “To… know… someone. Truly.”
You nod, offering a smile, letting the bond begin—not yet named, not yet solid, but tangible nonetheless. In the shallows, with the sun filtering through the water, something fragile and rare begins to bloom. Something that even the warped tides of fate might not undo.
Jodie Holmes x Reader (Platonic)
Fandom: Beyond: Two Souls
Words: 1.376
*Trigger Warning* mention of hallucinations, supernatural themes, paranormal presence, implied trauma, isolation, mild paranoia, psychological themes, discussion of “seeing things”
The first thing you noticed about her wasn’t the way she fought, or the way instructors seemed to lose their rhythm whenever she stepped into a room, nor even the quiet ripple of attention she caused among the other recruits who whispered her name like it carried weight; it was the space around her, the subtle, almost imperceptible distortion of it, like the air itself didn’t quite behave the same way in her presence.
You had always had… something, though you had never been foolish enough to call it a gift or brave enough to give it a proper name, because it wasn’t something you could explain without sounding unhinged; it was simply that, every now and then, if you looked a second too long into empty corners or darkened reflections, something would look back—faint flickers, movements that didn’t belong, shadows that stretched just a little too far or lingered just a second too long, figures that dissolved the moment you focused on them directly. Over time, you learned to ignore it, to tuck it away and pretend it didn’t exist, because no one else ever saw them, and admitting that you did would only ever lead to questions you couldn’t answer.
Until her.
You were halfway through your second week of CIA training when Jodie Holmes arrived, and she didn’t introduce herself or make any effort to blend in, because she didn’t have to—everyone already knew who she was, even if no one quite understood why. You first saw her properly in the gym, where she was sparring with one of the strongest recruits in your unit, someone bigger, more experienced, someone who should have had the clear advantage, and yet the fight ended with him on the ground and her still standing, breathing hard but steady, like she had expected nothing less. It wasn’t a clean win, and it wasn’t effortless, but it was decisive, and in the brief moment where her opponent stumbled back, you saw it—something behind her that moved when it shouldn’t have, something that wasn’t her shadow but mimicked one, something that leaned forward just slightly, as if it had been part of the motion, as if it had helped.
You froze, because that wasn’t like the things you usually saw, those fleeting, inconsistent fragments at the edge of your perception; this was sharper, more defined, more intentional. But of course, you said nothing, because you had spent your entire life pretending you didn’t see things, so why would you suddenly start now?
Still, you began to watch her, quietly and carefully, telling yourself you were imagining it, that your mind was simply trying to make sense of something it didn’t understand, but the longer you observed, the harder it became to dismiss. It was always subtle, never obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but you saw it—how something shifted behind her when she was angry, how the air seemed to tighten around her when she focused, how there was always, always something just over her shoulder when she was alone, something closer than a shadow and far too consistent to be coincidence.
And then, at some point, it noticed you.
It happened late in the evening, after training had run longer than usual and most of the facility had quieted down into that dim, humming stillness that settles in after hours; Jodie was sitting on the concrete steps outside, elbows resting on her knees as she stared into nothing in particular, and you hesitated a few steps away, knowing you shouldn’t approach her, knowing you had no reason to, and yet feeling something—some quiet, persistent pull—drawing you closer anyway.
“You’re staring,” she said without looking at you, her voice flat and tired, not accusatory so much as observant, like she was simply acknowledging something obvious.
You stopped, caught, and muttered a quiet apology, but she didn’t let it go. “You’ve been doing that all week.”
Your stomach tightened, and for a moment you considered lying, because that would have been the smart thing to do, the safe thing, but instead, what came out was, “…You’re different.”
That made her look at you, her gaze sharp and guarded, something defensive flashing behind it as she straightened slightly. “Everyone says that.”
You shook your head, your pulse picking up because you were stepping into dangerous territory now, into something you had spent years avoiding. “No, I mean…” You hesitated, because this was always the point where things went wrong, where people dismissed you or distanced themselves, but you pushed through it anyway. “…You’re not alone.”
The silence that followed was immediate and heavy, and then the air changed.
It was subtle but undeniable, like the pressure in the atmosphere had shifted all at once, and the thing behind her—the shadow, if you could even call it that—moved, stepping between you and her in a way that was unmistakably protective. You saw it more clearly now, not just a trick of the light or a distortion of your vision, but something that reacted, something that chose where to be.
Jodie stood abruptly, her posture tightening as her voice sharpened. “Don’t. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
You should have stepped back, should have defused the situation before it escalated, but you didn’t, because despite everything, you weren’t afraid—not in the way you probably should have been. You had seen things your entire life, things you never understood, but this… this was different, this felt aware, and for the first time, you weren’t looking at something that existed only in the margins of your perception.
“It’s okay,” you said quietly, and you weren’t even sure if you were speaking to her or to the presence that hovered just in front of her.
The shadow stilled.
Jodie stared at you then, really looked at you in a way she hadn’t before, something shifting behind her eyes as realization settled in. “…You can see him.”
It wasn’t a question, and you nodded slowly, choosing your words carefully. “Not like you do, I think. But… he’s there.”
Another pause followed, longer this time, and then she said, “…Aiden,” like the name itself carried meaning, like it explained everything she couldn’t put into words.
You accepted it without question, because somehow, it did.
The tension didn’t vanish, but it changed, softening just slightly at the edges. “You’re not scared,” she observed after a moment, her voice quieter now.
You let out a small breath, something almost like a laugh slipping through. “I’ve been seeing things my whole life,” you admitted with a faint shrug. “I guess I got used to it.”
That earned you something—not quite a smile, but close enough to count. “…Most people don’t stick around after they find out.”
You glanced briefly to her side, to the space that still felt occupied in a way you couldn’t fully explain. “I’m not most people.”
The presence shifted again, less guarded now, something almost curious in the way it lingered, and Jodie exhaled slowly, some of the tension draining from her shoulders as she looked at you like she was reassessing everything she thought she knew.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she said.
You huffed softly. “Who would believe me?”
That, finally, made her smile, just a small one, but real.
You sat down beside her then, not too close but not distant either, and the silence that settled between you wasn’t empty; it was shared, steady, something that didn’t need to be filled with words. After a while, a breeze passed by—or at least, it felt like one, though the air around you remained still—and you glanced to the side just for a second, feeling something brush past you, not cold or threatening, but simply… there.
“…Hi,” you murmured under your breath.
Jodie heard it, of course she did, and after a brief pause, she said quietly, “…He likes you.”
You didn’t ask how she knew, and you didn’t question it.
You just nodded, because for the first time in your life, the things you saw at the edges of your vision didn’t feel like something you had to ignore or hide away, because here, with her, they finally made sense—and maybe, just maybe, that meant neither of you had to carry it alone anymore.
Summary: In a world where silence is often mistaken for insignificance, you’ve grown used to being overlooked. Until you cross paths with Moze, a cold and elusive Shadow Guard of the Yaoqing. Bonded by shared invisibility and a quiet understanding, the two of you begin to find unexpected comfort in each other’s presence. Without words, without demands—just silent company, subtle gestures, and a slow-burning connection between two people who are more alike than they realize.
Tags: Moze x Reader, Slow Burn, Silent Companionship, Emotional Suppression, Mutual Understanding, People Watchers, Hurt/Comfort, Past Trauma, Soft Moments, Found Connection, Subtle Intimacy.
Warnings: Mentions of trauma and past abuse (Sanctus Medicus experiments), Emotional repression, Brief reference to scars and bodily pain, Themes of loneliness and emotional isolation, Quiet tone with underlying angst.
Requested by: @froggy2d
It started with glances.
Not the sharp, assessing kind Moze usually gave people—the kind that scanned for weaknesses, threats, leverage. No, this was different.
It was... a recognition.
You noticed it first in the reflection of a rain-slicked window, sitting across from him in the corner of a half-abandoned tea house. You were both in your respective shadows: you, with your quiet invisibility, him with his chosen solitude. Neither of you ordered anything. The shop owner didn’t bother to speak to either of you. You were used to that. Being unseen. Forgotten in the background like a misplaced chair.
But he saw you.
You didn’t know how. Maybe it was the way you studied people without speaking. The way your silence didn’t seek attention. He didn’t seem like the type who liked noise. Not just the audible kind—but the noise of performance, of people trying to matter too loudly. You weren’t like that. And neither was he.
You met again the next week, unplanned, in the same place.
Neither of you spoke. You sat at separate tables, again. Still, somehow, together.
You watched the same people pass by the grimy windows, their voices muffled by the fogged glass. A woman haggling with a vendor. A boy chasing a paper kite through puddles. Moze never looked directly at them, but you knew he saw them. Like you did. Like he saw everything.
The third week, he sat at your table.
You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.
He didn’t remove his hood. You didn’t look at his scarred wrist, even though you’d noticed it before—bandaged but not hidden, as if it was a mark he had grown used to carrying. Instead, you shared the quiet. Not an awkward one. A present one.
Eventually, you both ended up watching a street performer outside. A juggler with one leg and too much joy for a gray city like this. You almost smiled.
So did he.
And it was then that you noticed the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. A quiet, private smile. As if he allowed it to exist only because he knew no one would see it.
Except you did.
And he knew.
“You always sit here,” he said one evening. His voice was low, soft—not from shyness, but economy. Moze spoke like someone who measured each word before letting it leave.
You looked at him, and gave a small nod.
“People don’t notice you,” he added after a moment.
It wasn’t an insult. More like a statement of fact.
“Yeah,” you said. “I know.”
A pause. The world went quiet again. The clatter of dishes behind the counter, the occasional hiss of the kettle, were distant things. The two of you were wrapped in your own kind of silence. Intimate. Observant.
“I used to be invisible too,” he said. “Until I learned to use it.”
You tilted your head.
“Now, people only see me when I want them to.” His eyes met yours. There was something sharp there. But also—softness, restrained and unfamiliar.
“I don’t want them to,” you said honestly. “It’s easier.”
He didn’t argue.
Instead, Moze reached into his cloak and pulled out a small cloth—a meticulous, clean piece of fabric folded with surgical precision. He began to polish the edge of a small throwing knife, the motion rhythmic. Methodical.
He did that a lot. Cleaned things. Straightened coasters, wiped his boots with a hidden cloth, adjusted the sleeves of his hoodie until they sat just so. His world was chaos, but he fought it through control.
You didn’t intrude.
You simply watched.
And he let you.
One night, after a particularly cold rain, the tea house was empty except for you two. The lights were dim, and the shadows from the hanging lanterns danced along the walls like ghosts with no names.
Moze spoke again, without preamble.
“You don’t ask me questions.”
You blinked at him, a bit surprised.
“Everyone asks. About the Yaoqing. About my blade. About the scars.” His hand flexed unconsciously over his left wrist. “But not you.”
You shrugged lightly. “I figured… if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”
His lips parted. Not in surprise, but maybe something like appreciation. Or confusion, masked as calm.
After a long pause, he said, “They hurt. The scars. Not physically anymore. But they still itch.”
You nodded slowly. Not out of pity. But understanding.
You lifted your hand and gently placed it on the table between you—close, but not touching. An unspoken invitation. Not a demand. Just a presence.
Moze looked at it, then at you.
He didn’t take your hand. But he placed his own near yours, knuckles just brushing yours.
It was the most anyone had touched you in weeks.
Days turned into weeks. The silence grew richer between you.
Sometimes, you’d sit in alleyways after dusk, watching people you’d never speak to. Moze would lean against the brick wall, arms crossed, eyes gleaming under the moonlight. You’d sit with your knees tucked to your chest, chewing on some snack you’d brought without asking if he wanted any. (He never took any—but once, he didn’t say no.)
He began to speak more. Not a lot. But more.
Short sentences. Pieces of his past, stripped of drama. He never looked at you when he told you about the Sanctus Medicus, but you felt the weight in his voice. You didn’t interrupt. Didn’t comfort. Just listened.
One night, you said, “Sometimes I wonder if being invisible is a curse.”
He was quiet for a while.
Then he said, “No. It’s a weapon. You just haven’t aimed it yet.”
You looked at him. He was watching the stars reflected in a puddle, jaw tight, eyes distant.
“Then maybe,” you said softly, “we could learn together.”
He didn’t reply.
But the next evening, when he joined you again—without saying a word, without a glance—you knew.
hii!! uh can u write smth likeee ghost!pirate!aventurine x deepsea!mermaid!reader ??? plsplspls im on my knees for this one,,,,,
its uh like this!1! https://www.tumblr.com/majunju/770776577532362752/ghost-pirate-aventurine-and-deep-sea-mermaid?source=share
“Ghosts Can't Love, But You Tried”
Summary: In the ghost-lit shallows of a silent sea, a deep-sea mermaid crosses paths with Aventurine, a legendary pirate turned spectral gambler. Draped in opulence and haunted by regret, Aventurine seeks your help to retrieve a memory buried in the abyss—a piece of his mortal past. Drawn together by wit, secrets, and the allure of danger, the two of you strike a deal: a dive into darkness in exchange for a hidden truth. But the deeper you go, the more you uncover not only the phantom he once was… but the man he could still become.
Tags: Ghost!Aventurine x Deepsea!Mermaid!Reader, Fantasy Romance, Enemies To Reluctant Allies, Tension And Flirtation, Slow Burn, Emotional Vulnerability, Found Connection, Tragic Pasts, Secret-Sharing, Haunted Lovers (?).
Warnings: References To Death and Past Trauma, Survivor's Guilt, Emotional Repression And Vulnerability, Mild Existential Themes, Supernatural Elements (Ghosts, Soul Fragments), Imagery of Deep-Sea Isolation And Abyssal Pressure, Subtle Romantic/Physical Tension.
The sea was quiet that night—unnervingly so.
No gulls cried overhead, no fish darted through coral mazes. Even the tides held their breath as moonlight rippled across the water’s surface like molten silver. You hovered just below the shallows, your gills pulsing with unease, the eerie stillness pressing against your scales.
Then… you heard it.
A low hum. The soft scrape of a hull.
And a laugh—rich, melodic, too alive for the dead.
You rose cautiously, cresting the surface beside a jagged rock outcropping. There, adrift with no wind, no crew, and no anchor, was a ship—tattered, grand, and utterly impossible. Her sails were torn velvet, glowing faintly blue, and her hull shimmered with spectral runes that pulsed like a heartbeat.
And upon the deck stood him.
Ghost or legend, Aventurine was the kind of man stories didn’t do justice. Draped in aristocratic navy and gold, with a tricorn hat that caught moonlight like a crown and an eyepatch that made him seem more god than ghost, he leaned on the ship’s railing as if it were a throne. Blue crystalline claws glinted on his gloved hands, and a thousand tales lived in the curl of his amused smirk.
“I was beginning to think you'd never show,” he said, his voice like velvet soaked in mischief.
Your tail flicked once, instinctively. “You're trespassing in deep waters.”
“And you’re exactly who I hoped to find,” he replied, tilting his head. “Rare beauty. Cold eyes. And the kind of voice that could make a storm weep.”
You narrowed your gaze, half-rising from the water, your coral-crusted cuffs and bioluminescent fins glittering. “Ghosts don’t flirt.”
“No, but pirates do,” he purred, tapping his jeweled ring against the railing. “And I’m both, technically.”
The ship creaked, drifting eerily closer. You didn’t move.
“Why are you here, spirit?”
“I’ve come for a wager,” he said smoothly. “A coin toss with fate, if you will. You see, I’m searching for something. Something lost in the dark trenches. Something I… traded once. For power. For immortality.”
You raised a brow. “You want my help.”
“More than that,” he murmured, his voice low and serious for the first time. “I want to remember what it meant to feel.”
That made you pause. The sea remembered many things, and you had heard of his name spoken in whispers below the reefs. The gambler who challenged gods. The pirate who played dice with death—and won. But his victories, like all things pulled from the abyss, came at a price.
“And if I refuse?” you asked.
He leaned forward, the light catching on his necklaces, on the translucent blue of his clawed gloves. “Then I suppose I keep haunting the sea. But I’ll do it louder. More annoyingly. Possibly with singing.”
“…You’d sing?”
“Terribly,” he promised, with a mock-serious nod. “You’ll cry.”
A breath escaped you—something like a laugh, if you allowed it.
“Fine,” you said, and your tail curled into a lazy spiral beneath you. “But there’s a cost.”
“I’d be disappointed if there wasn’t,” he said, flashing teeth too white for a dead man.
You raised a hand, your webbed fingers brushing the crest of the water. “You’ll owe me a secret. One you’ve never told another soul.”
Aventurine’s smile faltered—just for a second. But it was enough.
“Deal,” he said after a pause, voice smooth again, but softer now. “And if I win our little venture?”
“Then,” you said, tilting your head, “you’ll get your memory. But beware, pirate—some things forgotten were meant to stay buried.”
“Ah,” he whispered, stepping back as mist began to rise around his ship. “But my dear, what is a ghost if not someone who refuses to forget?”
The following days were a blur of strange tides and quiet glances.
Aventurine’s ship—never docked, never anchored, yet always awaited your arrival at dusk. Sometimes he’d lounge across its ghost-lit deck, playing cards with himself or tossing dice that shimmered like stars. Other times, he leaned over the railing, watching the deep as if it would speak to him.
You showed him the Trench.
The rift beneath the world.
It was a place even your kin avoided—where the pressure of grief and gravity pressed like sorrow incarnate. There, you dove together. You swam ahead, his ethereal form drifting beside you like a second shadow.
His laughter echoed strangely underwater, vibrant and unreal. But in the moments between—when silence returned—he grew still. Pensive. Almost afraid.
“You ever wonder,” he said once, seated on a barnacle-covered throne of coral you’d shown him, “if we’re all just rerolling the same dice, hoping for a different ending?”
“I don’t gamble,” you said. “I survive.”
He looked at you, one eye gleaming beneath his eyepatch. “Then we’re more alike than you think.”
You didn’t respond.
But your tail curled closer to his boots.
On the final dive, you found it.
A crystal coffin. Buried in sand, cracked and glowing faintly. Inside, a younger version of him. Not adorned in gold or gems—but in rags. In pain. Eyes wide with terror, mouth frozen mid-scream.
A soul, torn from time.
“Aventurine…” you said, voice trembling from the sheer weight of it.
He floated beside you, arms crossed. Silent. Then:
“I traded him,” he whispered. “For freedom. For power. For immortality. That was Kakavasha. The boy who remembered pain.”
You turned to him.
“And do you?”
He looked at you. No smirk. No mask.
“I remember enough to regret.”
Slowly, you reached out and took his clawed hand. Cold. But real. Somehow.
“You owe me a secret,” you reminded him softly.
“I know,” he said, and exhaled.
Then he leaned forward, and whispered it—not into the ocean, but into you.
“I’m terrified that if I feel again, I’ll never stop breaking.”
You stared at him.
Then, gently, you touched his cheek.
“Then maybe,” you said, “you should stop doing it alone.”
They say that Aventurine's ship still sails the coastlines of dreams and deep trenches, but she no longer drifts aimlessly.
She’s guided.
By a voice like the sea.
By laughter echoing between the waves.
By the flutter of a tail beside her hull.
And by a ghost who, perhaps for the first time, is learning how to live again.
Together, they gamble with fate, whisper secrets to the tides, and remind the world that sometimes the deepest love begins with a wager… and ends in something far more precious than treasure:
