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.”
Obviously, two or more minds can manipulate each other. The world does not always cleanly split into manipulator and victim. We all have puppet strings: most learn to grab and yank at least some of them, and it is very hard to keep all of ours out of view and out of reach.
I think a lot of relationships out there have some unhealthy mutual manipulation going on. Though I think most of those people usually only slip into a few manipulative habits learned for defending themselves in childhood, when they are upset or hurt. But of course the extreme is one or more people being thoroughly manipulative with full awareness and intention - some of them by choice, some maybe for survival.
But there's this other extreme I can conceive of: mutually beneficial, fully consensual, cooperative manipulation. Where we are fully comfortable with revealing our strings to each other, and going with the flow when we notice them being pulled, and not even worrying if they are. We have proven our intentions and competence enough to each other. We discuss this as any other part of our relationship or mind work.
heyy i LOOVEEE your aventurine fics sm omg!!!! 🤭🤭 can i request for uhh pirate!aventurine x siren!reader where uhm aventurine caught reader singing with her beautiful voice and decided to hold hostage reader for god knows how long,,, oh and reader tries to escapeeeee but she cant heh,,, pls,,,,, IM ON MY KNEES RN 🙏🙏
“Keep Trying to Escape. I’ll Keep Catching You”
Summary: When Aventurine catches you, an enchanting siren, singing alone at sea, he decides to claim you as his prize—holding you hostage aboard his lavish ship. Despite your desperate attempts to escape, you become entwined in a dangerous game of wit, charm, and high-stakes gambles. As your cat-and-mouse game unfolds amid treacherous seas and stormy battles, both of you are forced to confront your fears, desires, and the price of freedom.
Warnings: Non-consensual capture/hostage situation (initially), Implied emotional manipulation and power imbalance, Mentions of past trauma and violence, Mild violence and battle scenes, Themes of captivity and escape attempts, Some language and adult themes (mild).
The sea was unusually quiet that night—too quiet, almost reverent. The moon, a silver coin tossed into the sky, reflected across the still waters in shimmering streaks. And your voice, like a ribbon of light, danced atop every cresting wave.
Perched upon a jagged rock formation just beyond the reef, you sang—not for men, not for ships, not even for the thrill of luring, but for yourself. A soft, haunting melody that tasted like salt and sorrow, an echo of the deep.
And he heard you.
Aventurine.
A captain and a pirate, enigma, gambler of fates.
He stood at the bow of his gilded vessel, dressed like a dream carved from excess—his tricorn hat tipped, his long blond waves catching the wind, and an ornate eyepatch glinting with a teal gem that seemed to pulse with unspoken intent. His navy coat, a canvas of embroidery and decadence, fluttered with every gust. He looked every bit the man who had never lost a game—not even against the ocean herself.
But tonight, he saw something—or someone—he hadn’t wagered on.
You.
He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, leaning over the rail like he was admiring art… or calculating odds.
The moment your voice faltered, sensing a presence, it was already too late. The ship had drawn too close. Magic could only carry you so far. You dove, but netting wrapped around your form in the water like silk-gloved hands. Not coarse, not cruel—yet inescapable.
And then came his voice. Smooth, confident, taunting:
“Tell me, little melody… do you sing sweeter when you’re caged?”
You were pulled aboard like a stolen treasure, dripping and thrashing, eyes flashing fury. He crouched before you, boots polished and gold accessories chiming with every movement. His smile—ever-present and unreadable—cut through the moonlight like a blade.
“A siren,” he mused aloud, as if tasting the word. “I should’ve known something so exquisite couldn’t simply be coincidence.”
You hissed, refusing to speak. If he wanted your voice, he would get silence.
That only made him grin wider.
“Oh, this will be fun.”
Days turned into weeks.
He kept you on his ship, not in chains, but never free. The crew gave you space—some out of fear, some out of superstition, and the rest because their Captain had made it very clear: you were his gamble now.
Aventurine didn’t lock you up. No, he was far more twisted in his affections. You were given fine silks, warm food, and a lavish cabin beside his own. Golden combs for your hair, coral jewelry to tempt your vanity. But no matter how far you swam in the ship’s moonlit pool—crafted just for you—you could never leave. The ocean was always just out of reach.
You tried once. Twice. A dozen times.
Each time, the ship seemed to know.
Or perhaps it was him.
He’d always catch you just as the edge of the railing kissed your fingertips.
“Now, now. Bad form, darling. You never leave the table mid-game.”
He spoke to you like you were a partner, not a prisoner. Shared wine under the stars. Let you watch him gamble with nobles, pirates, mercenaries alike, treating each encounter like a show, a duel of wit and will. And always, always, he won.
You hated how fascinating he was.
How his laugh stirred something foreign in your chest. How you began to listen when he spoke of his past—never directly, of course, but hinted at in clever metaphors and half-told tales.
“Freedom’s just a prettier word for chance, love. Everyone thinks they want it. Few can handle the gamble.”
“And you?” you asked, one evening, finally breaking your silence.
He looked at you then—not the smirk, not the mask. Just him. Just Kakavasha, for a fleeting heartbeat.
The storm came without warning.
“I lost that bet a long time ago.”
A rival ship. A furious sea. Screams and steel and cannon-fire. You could’ve escaped then—in the chaos.
And yet… you didn’t.
You watched him fight—flamboyant, relentless, smiling even as blood streaked his cheek. He stood at the helm like a king waltzing with death, one gloved hand steering, the other resting near his heart.
When he was wounded, falling to one knee, you moved without thinking. A siren's voice could shatter bones. It could lull sailors to sleep. Or… it could call the sea to rise.
The water answered your cry.
The enemy vessel sank in moments, swallowed by the ocean like it had never existed. The deck of the Aventurine's ship was soaked, littered with broken wood and stunned men.
And in the silence, Aventurine looked up at you—rain in his eyes, or perhaps not—and smiled.
Not the usual smirk.
This one was softer. Real.
“You stayed,” he said, more surprised than grateful.
You touched his cheek, your palm glowing faintly with magic as the cut closed.
“Don’t misunderstand,” you whispered. “I only save things I plan to steal back.”
He laughed. Full, throaty, too honest for his own good.
“Then I’ll raise the stakes, my sweet songbird.”
He leaned in close, his lips grazing your ear like a secret wager.
“Keep trying to escape. I’ll keep catching you. Let’s see who wins first.”
Of course, good and healthy mutual manipulation is a very dangerous idea - I worry that in merely describing its potential I have romanticized it too much, created what some people would perceive as beautiful with starry-eyed rose-tinted naive optimism. Not that it can't be beautiful, but if you accept or pursue relationships like that without extreme care, you are more liable to end up with an abuser than in a partnership.
