Eddie Munson is very good at pretending things don’t bother him.
He’s especially good at it when he’s sitting at the head of the Hellfire table, Dungeon Master screen propped up, dice lined like sacred objects, voice loud and confident as he launches into tonight’s campaign.
What he is not good at pretending doesn’t bother him is the fact that you’re sitting next to him.
Like, right next to him.
You’re new to Hellfire. Brand new. First night, borrowed dice, character sheet still half in pencil. Eddie told himself he was chill about it. Totally normal. Just another player.
Except you’re leaning in to read your notes, shoulder brushing his arm every few minutes, and Eddie is one bad roll away from losing the entire plot.
“Okay,” he says, clearing his throat. “So, uh—your character approaches the door.”
You look up at him. “Is it trapped?”
Eddie grins. “Oh, it’s definitely trapped.”
Dustin groans. “Why does everything we touch try to kill us?”
“Because,” Eddie says, eyes flicking briefly to you, “life is unfair.”
You laugh, rolling your dice.
Eddie watches the way your fingers move. Immediately regrets it.
Focus. Dungeon. Dragons.
You squint at the result. “Is… is a twelve good?”
“It’s… fine,” Eddie says. “Not great. Not terrible. Kind of a ‘survive but emotionally damaged’ roll.”
“That tracks,” you mutter.
The table laughs. Eddie laughs too, a little too loud.
He launches into description, hands moving animatedly, voice slipping into storyteller mode. The room fades. The campaign takes over. For a while, it works.
Until you lean closer again.
“So wait,” you whisper. “What does my spell do again?”
Eddie tilts his head toward you. Too close. Way too close.
He smells your shampoo. Something clean. Familiar. Completely distracting.
“It, uh,” he starts. Stops. “It immobilizes the enemy.”
“Perfect,” you say. “I wanna freeze him.”
Eddie swallows. “Yeah. That—uh. That’ll do it.”
He rolls behind the screen. Pretends not to be flustered. Fails quietly.
The game goes on. Dice clatter. Snacks disappear. At some point, your knee bumps his under the table and stays there.
Eddie does not move it.
He also does not breathe normally for the next several minutes.
“Munson,” Lucas says. “You good?”
“Never better,” Eddie says immediately. “Why?”
“You just described the same hallway three times.”
“Atmosphere,” Eddie snaps. “It’s called immersion.”
You grin at him. “I like the hallway.”
That does not help.
By the end of the session, your character lands the final blow. You throw your hands up in victory, laughing, and Eddie watches you like he’s just realized something very important.
When everyone starts packing up, you linger.
“So,” you say casually, “that was fun.”
Eddie nods. “Yeah. You’re, uh… good at this.”
You shrug. “Guess I had a good teacher.”
His ears burn.
“Anytime,” he says. “Hellfire’s… open enrollment.”
You stand, sling your bag over your shoulder. “Cool. I’ll come back next week.”
“Yeah?” Eddie asks, too quickly.
You smile. “Yeah.”
When you walk away, Eddie stares at the empty seat beside him.
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. 😭🙏
Hi everyone! I’ve finally decided to write a book. I’m hoping to turn it into a trilogy. It’s a dark horror with a soft romance in it. Like a f***ed up mixture of beauty and the beast and a chronically ill version of rapuzel.
This is my first book I’ll be writing and do plan to do more but I’d like to know if anyone would be interested in seeing this book on the market or kindle.
I haven’t seen a lot of books where the main character is ill/disabled and this is my way of advocating for people that are like me.
Sometimes Lance wonders if, in a past life, he was catnip.
No, seriously. How else is he supposed to explain the fact that he’s already had two cats, and pretty much all of his friends somehow ended up with cats too? Well. Except for Keith, of course.
Because that idiot once managed to bring a wolf home from the forest, fully convinced it was a puppy. But honestly, considering Lance and Keith first met because Keith had lost his cat — the same cat that had decided Lance’s place was a perfectly acceptable new home — Lance can kind of understand how that happened. And truthfully? He likes it. It just feels right, somehow.
What he finds especially funny is that all of them ended up naming their cats after colors. He has Blue and Red. (Red is actually Keith’s cat.) Pidge’s cat is Green, Hunk’s is Yellow. And then there’s Black — who also happens to be Red’s mother, and, conveniently, Shiro’s cat.
Shiro being Keith’s older brother, obviously. The only one in their friend group who doesn’t have a pet at all — let alone a cat — is their newest friend, Allura. Drop-dead gorgeous, if anyone asks Lance. As for the cat situation? Well. He did recently find the cutest little white kitten. And Lance is pretty sure that if Allura’s already his friend, she won’t mind taking in one fluffy little sweetheart — and continuing their tradition of naming pets after colors.
P.s. For more of this AU, check → #voltron reincarnation au
