Y/N who ends up getting infected by a zombie virus and her Mark refuses to kill her.
He's unaffected by the virus no matter how many times you scratch and bite him.
He keeps you safe and secured in isolation, away from those pesky humans who will kill an infected on sight. You're free to roam inside your room. He refuses to chain you up.
He promises he will not stop until he figures out a cure, kidnapping scientists all over the universe and getting as many test subjects as possible. Running out of infected to experiment on? Very well, he will infect another continent if that's what it takes.
A Mark who will even build a human baby factory just so the doctors have a fresh batch of samples.
Alternatively, imagine Mark getting infected by a unique Viltrumite-targetting strain that turns him into a mindless, destructive beast, except when it comes to you.
Even in the grasp of madness his brain guards his love for you and he will instinctively stop his aggression when you are present.
Zombie Mark who lets you ruffle his hair and embrace him, who never bites you even when he sees your bare flesh.
You swear to him that you will find a cure and use your own technology to dominate the other Viltrumites, capturing every single infected to be dissected and used.
And so what if you run out of Viltrumites? You can always produce more. Thraxans are only good for propagation, anyway.
(Two yanderes going yandere for each other is one of my favorite things. It's so grotesque, I love it so much. Also, for the anons who messaged me via ask box, the inbox isn't loading properly due to wifi issues so I won't be able to discuss/answer what you sent me at the moment. Anyway, good night!!)
Hello! First time requesting! Can I please request Aventurine, Anaxa, and Dr. Ratio with a Mobius inspired reader? Mobius is a scientist from HI3, obsessed with immortality and evolution. Heavy snake imagery, like Jade just less domineering and more Eldritch Horror. But! My main interest is how Mobius/Reader acts sweet and seductive in order to fulfill their ambitions(getting volunteers, funding, and such for experiments), despite hating every second of it. Also how they're willing to experiment on their own body for the sake of longevity. Though under this they do genuinely care for the people close to them, but just can't(or won't) give up their ambitions for anything. And only go fully mad scientist if those people end up dying. Sorry if this got really long! Mobius is my favorite character ever and HSR is quickly approaching favorite game territory. Have a nice day!
“Darling, You’ll Decay Before I Do”
Synopsis: In a universe where brilliance borders madness, an alluring researcher obsessed with immortality weaves through politics, passion, and peril—ensnaring the minds of a strategist, a scholar, and a logician. Seduction becomes a tool, affection a liability, and ambition an ever-consuming flame. But when bonds are tested and mortality intrudes, the question remains: how far will one go to defy the end?
Tags: Ratio x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Anaxa x Reader, Mobius based Reader, Mad Scientist Reader, Slow Burn, Morally Grey Characters, Seduction As Manipulation, Emotional Repression, Psychological Tension, Eldritch Themes, Found Family, Obsession With Immortality, Mutual Manipulation, Tragic Romance, Experiment-Driven Plot, Light Body Horror, Philosophical Conflict.
Warnings: Emotional Manipulation, Scientific Experimentation On Self And Others, Existential Themes, Body Modification, Survivor’s Guilt, References To Trauma, Mild Gore, Loss And Grief, Obsessive Behavior, Intense Psychological Tension, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
A/N: Forgive me if this isn't written well—I based the Reader's personality solely on the information provided (I was too lazy to read Mobius’ backstory and other details).
Aventurine had seen charm weaponized before.
But never like this.
You weren’t just persuasive—you were designed for temptation. Your words were nectar, your presence slithered like silk over flesh, and your smile made gamblers forget they were already bankrupt. To others, you were a seduction. To him, you were a mirror.
"You're looking for funding," Aventurine drawled one evening, swirling a glass of amber liquor. "Or a donor?"
You tilted your head, eyes gleaming. “Same thing, really.”
He laughed, teeth flashing. "And what will I get in return? A patent? A serum? Immortality with side effects?"
"An opportunity." You leaned closer, and the scent of sterile steel and crushed jasmine laced the air between you. “To bet on something bigger than stock markets. Evolution. Ascension.”
Aventurine’s pulse thrilled at the danger in your voice, the madness humming under your skin. You were chaos in a lab coat, elegant and terrifying. And yet, he couldn’t look away.
He’d seen people fake passion. He’d faked it himself. But the way your hands shook after injecting yourself with your latest serum—the tremor you tried to hide behind a flirtatious smile—that was real.
And when he caught you alone, vomiting blood into a sink lined with snake-scale etchings, he didn’t say a word.
He just stepped behind you, placed a steady hand on your shoulder, and said, “Let me guess. This version didn’t work either?”
You laughed softly. Hollow. Haunted.
“Still worth the gamble,” you whispered.
In you, he saw something more dangerous than deceit: conviction. You’d sacrifice everything—even your body—for evolution’s altar. And if he were honest, that terrified and thrilled him in equal measure.
So he stayed close. Not to stop you. Not even to save you.
But to witness you.
Because some bets? You take for the sheer thrill of the risk.
He knew what you were the moment you slithered into his office.
Not literally, of course. But in the way your eyes gleamed like distant galaxies, the way your voice wrapped around syllables with reverence and venom. You didn’t knock. You didn’t wait. You simply arrived, as though you’d always been meant to.
"You're the one experimenting with soul coils and regenerative genetics," Anaxa said, voice slow, curious.
"And you're the one who dissected a dying god for 'truth'," you purred.
He chuckled, brushing a stray hair behind his ear. "Touché."
The two of you danced in dialogue like dueling philosophers. He spoke of forbidden knowledge, and you offered him blood-soaked notes in return. You craved evolution—no, transcendence. You stitched together truths the universe tried to hide, wore perfume to mask the formaldehyde, and smiled with lips painted in venom.
You were beautiful in the way stars were—distant, deadly, inevitable.
He found you once in your lab, sobbing silently as you held a failing graft in your hands. One that had once been human. One you hadn’t meant to lose.
"You said you didn’t care," he whispered.
“I don’t,” you snapped. But your voice cracked like breaking bone.
He didn’t press. Just sat beside you, his gloved hand finding yours—blackened with ink, blood, and promise.
"You remind me of who I could have become," he murmured.
"Better or worse?"
"Neither. Just... inevitable."
From then on, he visited you often—not to restrain your madness, but to temper it. And when your eyes burned with divine hunger, he matched you stride for stride.
In the end, it wasn’t about love.
It was about understanding.
And that was rarer than either of you cared to admit.
Dr. Ratio admired ambition.
But your ambition unsettled even him.
Your lab was a cathedral of horrors and hypotheses. Tubes of unnatural serum lined the walls like stained glass; the stench of formalin danced with lavender oil to fool weaker stomachs. But Ratio wasn’t weak.
He stepped over your failed clones. He listened to your proposals with arms crossed and eyes narrowing.
"You altered your own neural framework to accommodate an artificial limbic inhibitor," he said flatly. "Is that… wise?"
"It stopped me from crying," you replied sweetly. "Or from screaming, depending on the day."
He exhaled slowly.
You didn’t manipulate him. Not successfully. But you tried. With every tilt of your head, every seductive breath laced in careful cadence. And Ratio let you—because he wanted to see what you’d do when it failed.
And yet…
When you fell unconscious after a particularly aggressive auto-experiment, he stayed.
Read your logs.
Held your hand through seizures.
And whispered, just once, “You fool. You absolute genius.”
You awoke hours later, blinking past synthetic retinas. You saw his expression soften—a fraction.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmured. “I chose this.”
“I know,” he replied coldly. “I just wish you hadn’t.”
He offered you funding. Mentorship. A place among the Intelligentsia.
But never affection. That was yours to steal, if you could.
And when he finally touched your face—one gentle, gloved thumb tracing the grafted seam of your cheek—it wasn’t as a lover.
It was as an equal.
“Promise me something,” he said.
“What?”
“If you must become immortal… don’t forget how to feel.”
warnings | nsfw, artificial cyborg guts, suggestive, body horror, love bug (literally via data transfer), mentions of giving boothill a womb, boothill bluescreens
note | my piece as part of the autumn festival collab hosted by @owlespresso ^^ I’ll probably make a part two to this to squeeze in more banter and get some actual freaky stuff in
“You’re back at my lab… A little soon, no?” The question is thrown at Boothill without a spared glance as you are engrossed in several tasks at once. The Galaxy Ranger makes his way over to your mess of screens and tools by your main work desk, his strides reminiscent of someone a little too comfortable in your bubble.
“Annual checkup. Don’t tell me you forgot already, doc?” Boothill teases with feigned hurt, sharp teeth flashing with his playful grin.
“Not a doctor,” you correct him flatly.
A holo-screen appears before his face, stopping him from nearing your concentrated form. A flurry of data scrolls by and a pop-up appears with a few dates.
With a few final taps you swivel toward him and the screen. “According to your record in my data bank, you’re not due for your checkup for another nine weeks,” you state matter-of-factly. With a few taps and a swipe, the screen is gone and you meet Boothill’s gaze for the first time. “So, what’s the actual reason you’re here? Surely not just a friendly visit to the resident witch or whatever they’re calling me these days on this planet.”
“Recent scrap didn’t end too well. Leg’s been acting up.”
Your eyes scan him briefly, humming in thought as you enter new data and access his file.
“I definitely noticed a few new scratches to your outer shell armor,” you note, speaking more to yourself as you log the new data. “I’ll run some tests and analyze further.”
You roll back in your chair near him, gathering a few tools here and there and holding an emesis basin in front of him. Boothill squints at you in confusion, a frown pulling down his lips in a glimmer of dangerous, sharp teeth.
“Here. Spit them out—all the ammo you have. Now.”
His eyes sharpen, but he relents with a grunt. The metal of the bullets hitting the basin is all that fills the silence as you return to some screens and rummage through rows of drawers and drawers that line the walls.
It’s a chaotically organized yet unorganized lab, to say the least.
“There’s an empty box near you. Go ahead and remove all of your outerwear and any other weapons so we can get started,” you instruct as you prepare a table nearby.
Boothill begins to protest. “Doc, it’s just my leg. I don’t need–”
When he turns back to your desk you’re gone from sight. It unnerves him and you appear behind him seemingly from thin air.
“Hey–!”
You plug several chords into a few outlets on his hip. The feeling of the data processing through multiple base drives makes his entire body feel like numbing static courses through it.
Your face is close. Too close.
“Let's get a base-read on what’s going on here for now. I’ll leave the room so you can get undressed if you’re modest like that.” Your eyes flit down and you smirk. “Not like I haven’t seen your full model before.”
His face flushes a bright crimson and he sputters, shoving you away. You laugh out loud, unsettling and loose as you go back to your screens. It’s become more apparent with each visit that you aren’t entirely sound of mind.
“I still wonder why your face flushes red when your synthetic blood is blue. Perhaps I’ll find out today,” you grin, looking up and being met with a metallic click and the barrel of a gun between your eyes.
There’s a fierceness in Boothill’s glare, red cheeks betraying his threat. Though his hand is steady, your monitors signal increased levels of core maintenance and adrenaline. He doesn’t know how to handle your teasing— never will.
“I don’t have time to be yer forkin’ lab rat,” he sneers.
Your expression remains calm, unbothered as a lazy smile makes way to your lips. It’s an irksome sureness that makes the ranger’s eye twitch and teeth grit. Perhaps that’s simply your insanity creeping into him as well.
It draws him in like a moth to a flame. And he convinces himself that he hates it.
“You wouldn’t hurt me.”
“And what makes you think I wouldn’t put a bullet in yer head for crossing me?”
“Plenty of reasons. But really I only need one.”
“Yeah? And what’s that, sweets?” He scoffs, patience running thin.
You gently tap a knuckle over his heart core, the area making a soft metal clank as you do so. Boothill falls silent for a moment as you say nothing more. The mental gears turn a little harder than usual and suddenly his face is hot. Too hot.
“Wh– What– Who ever said I liked ya like that?! A ranger doesn’t get wrapped up in those feelings, ya hear?!”
And you fucking smirk.
“I’m not sure what you’re insinuating. All I meant was that you wouldn’t get rid of your one and only mechanic on this side of the galaxy, would you? Who else would be stupid enough to take all your last minute tuning appointments and repair jobs after reckless battles? You need me, ranger.” You pause and shift your gaze directly at him. “No reason to get so defensive. Unless… you have feelings for me?”
“Negative feelings,” he seethes.
But you’ve seen right through him. It’s an act of pity that you just chuckle and resume your work on diagnosing some of the sensors around his midriff. Still enough to keep the cowboy grumbling and red in the face.
“Feelings nonetheless,” you chuckle under your breath as you swivel back to the flurry of incoming data. “I’ll head to the back to grab a few things I’ll need and see if a few spare parts are lying around that are similar to some of your fractured hip joints. Do not touch anything.”
Once you’re out of sight, Boothill grumbles and removes his hat and jacket. The bright industrial lights only serve to irk him more— never was one to like hospital settings.
It’s a bit more of a predicament when the wires attached to his hip get in the way of removing his bottoms. He clicks his tongue and listens as your fumbling in the distance remains constant.
Whatever. Damn cables are in the way. What is he to do? He yanks them off and removes the last of his articles, shoving them in the box off to the side you left for him.
“Fork me,” he grumbles. There’s an unruly mess of cables on the floor, most of which look the same and range in color. Naturally, none are labeled.
Just his luck.
One of your monitors beeps and a few pop ups come up as the data flow abruptly ends. In a panic, Boothill grabs a red and a black cable and plugs them in. He clicks a few of the pop ups to make them go away and resume whatever they asked. He didn’t have time to read whatever jargon it said, not that he would have understood it anyway.
He’s seated and on the examination table by the time you walk back in with a few boxes stacked in your arms.
A warm hum settles in his core with his data processor kicking in. It’s pleasant, albeit an odd sensation.
You set down the boxes and glance at the screens, humming with thought. The pause is a beat too long and Boothill can only hope you don’t prod. You tap a few things on the screen and approach him with a smile.
“Alright. Pain receptors are off and your maintenance mode is on. Let’s get started.”
—
Only about forty minutes have passed but it’s becoming increasingly clear to Boothill that something is clearly wrong. He’s used to certain processes being shut off while you work on him— that part is normal.
Right now, he can’t seem to take his eyes off you. And you won’t spare him a glance as you work, much too engrossed in his guts— literally. He huffs and you don’t bother looking at him. It pisses him off.
“If you’re feeling discomfort use your words, ranger,” you mutter without missing a beat. “If your pain processors kicked in due to something that went wrong I need to know before you blow up on me.”
Your tug at a particular wire makes him gasp, his grip on the edge of the table warping the metal.
“Fork– Watch it!” His breath shakes with a gasp, face flushed.
“You didn’t exactly come with a manual.”
“Please don’t say that while yer hands are in my guts.”
You snicker, ignoring his glare as you continue to work methodically.
“I could always give you new insides if I mess these up,” you tease smoothly, fingers deeper still in his abdominal cavity. “Would you like it if I gave you a womb?”
Boothill huffs with a shiver as you tug at that same wire again, his back arching slightly off the cold, metal table. His mouth hangs open, unable to say a word. It’s overwhelming, an intense sensation that he feels in every artificial nerve end.
You call his name once more— so sweet and full of concern. The auditory hallucinations have begun from the wrong dataset he hooked himself up to earlier. Your voice in actuality is much more nonchalant than he processes.
“Booth? Ranger? Are you still with me?” You tap his cheek, his eyes darting shakily around the room. Red hearts for irises replace his usual programmed eye setup when he blinks to glance at you. You sigh. “I told you not to touch anything didn’t I?”
“Yer… my soulmate.”
“No,” you deadpan, flicking your wrist to bring up a holo-screen before you. Seems the neuro-processors couldn’t sort the wide range of the artificial emotion dataset and developed a love bug. “Boothill, if you can still understand me beyond the love bug, I’ll be turning on your standby function for a few minutes to finish.”
You’re not sure if he heard you at all, watching as whatever he heard in his bugged brain makes him red in the face and shiver.
Then, he blue-screens and all is quiet after his metal body clangs against the table.
You heave a sigh, a smile still on your lips. “Only your soulmate would put up with a ranger this obtuse.”
Mad scientist!reader and gamer girl!reader are my new comforts ☺️ idk if they’ll be related but gamer girl def hacked mad scientist’s computer and saw she was trying to buy uranium from aliexpress 😭😭😭 wanna make 80’s versions of them too
Imagine Steve or Eddie with a reader whose parents are like Sheldon and Amy 😭😭😭😭 there’d never be peace 😭😩 but imagine she’s like a next level mad!scientist plotting between classes, making lists of who goes first 👀
