#technically? just to be on the safe side

[blue-thief]

it's always "i love you" but never "our fate will not end in a place like this. because you and i are destined to-" *gets shot*

[gamerbeta]

I too would be verrrry angry if I didn’t get invited to a card game with my fellow coworkers! >:(

[vaguely-concerned]

the scene where you talk to davrin in his room while he whittles tiny models of monsters (while assan watches with rapt attention <3 there is nothing about this whole setup, man or griffon, that isn't adorable) when your rook IS one of the dainty little academic mage types he so besmirches and you consistently pick the purple options through the conversation -- I am SCREECHING the covert jock/nerd war rages on between clenched teeth and forced jollity, they are doing this on purpose, bioware really have given me this gift all nicely wrapped and lovingly crafted! rook is so fucking bitchy and passive aggressive in these purple options (and once or twice davrin doesn't seem to realize it/takes what they say at face value); it's not very nice of them but it is hilarious. also I must say that hearing these two just relentlessly neg each other with palpable tension of. SOME kind thick in the air* for five minutes straight and then walking away and seeing the 'davrin approves' pop up at the end gets close to the otherwise unapproachable gaming high that is having a tense standoff with sten in origins and seeing +7 affection as you leave. davrin clearly is going 'good talk man nice to see you stand up for yourself more, I respect the roast game' while my rook walks away with a forced smile and clenched fists like 'okay so that wasn't very mature of me I'll admit it but god why is this guy such an asshole'

I cannot imagine how this conversation must play out with a character more on davrin's wavelength because for my setup here this was *chef's kiss* perfect. ideal. I'm so glad this dynamic exists it's one of the funniest and most characterization-enriching things that could have happened to me

*there's some insanity going on here where like... I don't think either of them like want to fuck, they're not actually attracted to each other, but they both would fuck each other in a 'go fuck yourself'/'fuck me yourself you coward'/'fine I will see if I don't!!!!'/'oh yeah??? do it then!!!!!' kind of way. the vibes are indescribable and unhinged on both of their parts.

[everysongineverykey]

i love how unfatherly crowley and aziraphale both are when it comes down to it. sure aziraphale is more than willing to give the young people in his life help and advice and be their friend but he and crowley spent six years (eleven in the book) practically raising a kid (you just know his parents weren't around that often) and by the end they didn't even like him. crowley even suggested they just fucking kill him. he turned three kids into lizards for annoying him right after he destroyed their house. like it was that or kill them obviously but he did NOT hesitate with the newts. that's so funny to me. they're just inherently disinclined to parenthood. we need more characters like them actually

[sysig]

Somehow, the nurses always seem able to immediately rush in and break up any fight, no matter where one begins. The computer room up on the 3rd Floor has a live feed of the entire Institute at all times. How is this achieved?

👁️The Panopticon, the unmistakable, oppressive omnipresence of cameras that looms heavy day and night, and the threat of punishment if any retaliative action is taken against it, with the certainty that they'll be fully operational again the next day.

👁️‍🗨️The Invisible Eye, no matter how hard one searches there is no evidence of any camera to transmit, and yet the footage is sent regardless - the beguiling comfort of a false negative, with nothing to break, no way to stop it from sharing hidden secrets.

[mantisgodsdomain]

3,4,15 for any member of team snakemouth!

...how about all three?

(for this ask game)

3. Obscure headcanon

For Kabbu, though we may have noted this before, we think that the North is quite firmly considered a patch of Deadland - and its inhabitants, as a result, tend to be very, very strange from the perspective of the rest of the world. For Kabbu, specifically, this means a variety of things, both biologically and culturally - though Northern beetles are a lot more common in Bugaria, deadlands in general come with a very high rate of mutation and a very high rate of death, and that means a high rate of superstition both in things that actively impact survival and in things that do not - as well as the simple fact that a constantly-changing set of genetics means that what a northern beetle is like is often very, very open to change.

Kabbu is an example of a burrower - a subspecies of sorts primarily identified by claws designed, very specifically, for digging. His claws grow into a sort of broad shovel shape and tend to be much sturdier than an equivalent beetle's - getting underground in moments in soft ground isn't really an exaggeration! Though he can dig through harder ground, it takes time and effort, and he can't go at it with the sheer speed of softer soil - technically, he could burrow through solid rock given enough time, but it would be both hard and extremely painful. It's a trait that's heavily prized in the North for its ability to create shelter and safety - beetles dominate the North's underground, and there's nothing that can really pose a threat to them. Tunnels are safety, and it really surprises and disorients him when things underground attack him, because back home that just kind of doesn't happen unless it's Another Beetle specifically targeting you.

In terms of more social things, he has a lot of trouble getting used to the concept of mimics. This is mostly due to the fact that mimics as a whole don't really... exist in the north, at least not in the means of gaining benefit from mimicking anything else. If you can talk to them as any other awakened bug, they're usually exactly what they say they are, and species mimicking normal geological features and plants haven't found any success, unless you're willing to get extremely generous with describing the snow-bank camouflage of a Northern Silk Moth's topcoat.

Though sand wasps or "white bees" still exist, the thing they're mimicking no longer exists in the same area. Any Hive that once was in the North is long dead, overly-large groups of bugs tend to die out quickly thanks to the handful of large predators that may decide the benefits outweigh the consequences when enough tasty beetles gather in the same place, and when the enemy you're dealing with is both too heavily armoured to be really deterred by most weaponry and capable and intelligent enough to stalk your group through the snow until the cost outweighs the benefit of eating you... well, the sort of small groups generally sent to start a new colony of social bugs really don't stand a chance.

It is, occasionally, very hard to get used to the fact that southern silk moths only grow a few heads taller than him. He's used to them presenting a lot more of a threat.

For Leif... we think he's completely, 100% blind. His eyes are frozen over due to quirk of his biology - the thing about his integration that makes him a failure, specifically. With any of the Snakemouth cordyceps, they do not naturally transfer the immunity to their own magic that any other variety of mage would have, and so need to alter their hosts in order to get the appropriate biology across. With Leif, that protection is not sufficient to protect the host, much less to preserve valuable organs - eyes, especially, are fragile, after all. The cold he naturally generates exceeds the host adaptations he provides, resulting in, even beyond the blindness, unusually brittle chitin, extremely stiff and easy-to-damage tissue, organic food processing efficiency appropriate for a bug currently freezing to death...

Well, you get the idea. Functionally, if alive, a host body would be in a state of perpetual hypothermia, prone to breaking down over time and needing persistent repair that his strain of cordyceps cannot provide, as any repair he could offer that's not within his host's natural healing capabilities requires manually breaking down and reconstructing any parts, which... is inconvenient at best. As he is, he gets around most of these issues by simply replacing his host body's soft tissue with cordyceps, but that has its own issues, mainly in making him look and move incredibly uncanny. Injuries take a very long time to repair, relatively, though the less tissue damage is done the easier it is to fix - being cleanly sliced in two, for example, might be easier to handle than any sort of crushing damage. As far as his eyes go... eyes of any sort are delicate, and the slightest damage can permanently blind someone. Any of Snakemouth Den's cordyceps tend to go blind anyways as the fungus burrows into ocular nerves - if anything, this is better for hiding, since the frost over his eyeballs conceals any mycelium in the eyes themselves. In theory, it can be repaired... in practice, it would be far too much of a pain for work that will be undone the moment he overtaxes his ice magic again.

...also, he doesn't really care. Sight is not the most important sense a moth has and his scent and ability to sense pheromones is fine, along with a general sensitivity to things like vibrations in the air. More than fine, even, since he's now kind of hybridized with both Ant and Bee and the number of pheromones he's sensitive enough to sense has shot through the roof. This on top of the "magic sense" he has means he has absolutely no trouble getting around, though reading books requires more or less sticking an antenna or fungal tendril over them and parsing out where the ink is by scent and texture. He full-on didn't notice he was blind until after the cordyceps reveal.

For Vi, while this might be one we've mentioned before, we headcanon that she's got a bit of minor mutation throwing her antenna... maybe 2% more towards a non-social relative, which gears her just slightly more towards being able to detect "foreign" scents - predators, prey, and any pollen or nectar in the area. Unfortunately, this slight shift in what scents she's made to pick up comes with a reduced sensitivity to pheromones and pheromone communication within the hive, along with loss of the general innate understanding that an average bee would have of how she's meant to "fit in" to a structure that utterly cripples her communication and social life in the hive.

It's minor enough of a mutation that she's never been flagged - she's a mutation of a social bee, not a normal variant of a solitary - but she smells weird, and she doesn't pick up on pheromones quite enough, and the variation in signals she puts off means that she both fails the communication to get across what she might need and fumbles the communication conveyed back to her about what she should do. Subtle things build up over time, and within the Hive, the negatives far outweigh the benefits - the Hive is only built with bees that fit to a standard in mind, and even minor deviations can get you dragged far, far behind.

This is getting very long so, uhh. Here's a cut. Everything else is below it. We enjoy getting very long-winded. There's a lot in here.

15. Worst thing they’ve ever done

Well, this one will depend on if it's "in general" or "by their standards". Putting any sort of objective moral judgement on just about anything is ridiculously difficult, especially with how values vary by culture or individual.

There is no such thing as objective worst, and we absolutely don't guarantee these would line up with your idea of worse, and so we'll offer two options here - what we believe they would think of first if posed with the question, and an alternative answer that would likely crop up.

For Kabbu, his own response would be easy - abandoning his teammates to The Beast. It haunts him to this day - really, what sort of beetle abandons their swarm to a fate like that? If he was a little faster, a little braver, a little less of a coward - but no. He abandoned those he was meant to care most for, and they died because of it.

For the other...

There are some things that are necessary, to survive somewhere as harsh as the Deadlands. Not everyone can be saved. Not everything can be helped. Not everyone can be taken in. Tradition and law is the heart and soul of the North - rules that everyone must comply to, if not for the sake of themselves, than for the sake of those they may interact with. To break a law, for any reason, is to be shunned by the community, most likely to your eventual death.

She broke a law. It could have been for understandable reasons, or not - it doesn't matter. She put the community at risk, and for that, she couldn't stay. She was put out in the cold, despite her pleading to the contrary. She was allowed to beg and plead and bang on the door, and yet, it meant nothing. The beast she would have lead to them caught up, eventually. He would still believe it was justified.

For Leif, his first response would be... exactly what you expect of him, really. The body he took without a care. The life he stole. He might vary on whether it's the action of stealing it or the lies he's told with that body, but the answer would be the same.

For the one he wouldn't think of... He could have spoken up. He didn't. He met their eye, slated for execution on crimes that he could parlay them on if he implicated himself, and he said nothing.

The look on their face still haunts him sometimes. It hurts more now that he's two, rather than one. It's what was needed to protect his family.

For Vi... a fault in a machine. The instructions were boring, and confusing, and hard to read. She tried to do whatever she thought might work, instead of following the manual. There was an injury. Then another one. It was her fault, really, for rigging it wrong, but she was tired and angry and she argued instead of just sucking it up and fixing it when confronted on it, and it went unfixed for days more. A minor fault can very well lead to deaths, and though this one didn't, it came close - one more inch, a slightly looser bolt, and it would have cracked a bug's shell clean open. It's a miracle it turned out as well as it did. It's a miracle that no one connected it to her enough, even when it was fixed. Someone else was punished, and she was old enough to know not to step forward - she's not stupid, after all.

The guilt still haunts her. The "what-if". The possibility of it. If someone died of her own stupid negligence, if she made someone else take the fall - she would let them, really, her sense of self-preservation isn't that bad, but she's not sure she could live with it after.

With the one she wouldn't think of personally... considering the background she's got, the journey to the Ant Kingdom, and the fact that it's already stated she took jobs before canon? We think there's a fairly good chance that Vi's off jobs got... shady. It's not like she has much in the way of morals when it comes to money, and "will do just about anything for enough cash" is a decent market. If you're willing to forsake your morals, you can get more money than your heart desires - at the cost of just a bit of risk, at that!

She doesn't think about it, really. It wasn't something she needed to think about. They were threatening her, they were a risk to her team, they were the price she had to pay to eat, the specifics of what happened don't matter much at this point. Put in the position again, would she choose their life, or hers? It doesn't matter. They're dead, anyways. She should know. She was the one to take the payment for it.

4. Favorite line?

We're copy-pasting these straight from the game! These Direct Quotes are all sourced from @aquilamage's Bug Fables Transcript project, which we highly recommend checking out! It's an excellent resource for double-checking dialogue without having to replay the game first, and a repository for just about all the dialogue in the game (provided it wasn't taken out by previous patches, of course).

We will be honest: there's a lot of dialogue in this game. This might not be our absolute favorites, as a result of a general poor memory as well as Too Much Game. Also, we have blatant favoritism towards Vi in all ways. Most of these are favorite interactions, rather than anything else, so...

For Leif:

Kabbu: Leif. If you need to take a break, let us know. Vi will carry you. Vi: That is not happening. Leif: Oh, the fatigue, it kicks in... Vi: I said it's not happening!

...and for Vi, we're fond of this dialogue, specifically because the first time we encountered it we misread "exploring" as "exploding".

Leif: Science looks like a lot of hard work. Vi: It's like uh...the thinking version of exploring!

But of course, our favorite Vi Dialogue as well as our personal favorite dialogue in the game in general would be the Bee Guard overworld spy.

Leif: Vi, you're the only Bee explorer, right? Vi: Huh? Uh, yeah! That I know of... Leif: We've been thinking it's a bit weird, to see so many Bee guards, but only one explorer... Vi: Look, they're not guards because they want to or anything, okay? Vi: They were born to be guards, so they guard. That's it. Kabbu: That's a bit somber... Vi: ...That's just how the Hive is sometimes.

"I'm allergic to bouncers" is a close second, of course. In terms of story implications, we pull on her Jaune interactions and especially the point just after getting kicked out of the studio for the first time during Jaune's request, but that's... it's less we "like" it, per se, and more that the implications are fun to toy with. In terms of the actual dialogue, it just... makes us feel sad. Sad, [], and maybe a bit angry on her behalf. We've been there more than we care to admit, after all.

We... wouldn't wish something similar on anyone. And no matter how good the good gets with Jaune, it still can't really outweigh the fact that the bad starts ticking boxes about emotional abuse in a way that makes relationships like Mothiva & Zasp that more people are willing to try and call out pale in comparison. We probably need to finish that essay some time...

Anyways, we like it when Kabbu gets mad enough to yell at people.

Kabbu: This is ridiculous! You realize you could be dooming us all!? Kabbu: What if the Termite King loses trust in the Queen!? Kabbu: What if you lose to the Wasp King without our help!? Kabbu: Have you gone completely, utterly insane!? Have you lost all intelligence! Mothiva: Yikes. You're overthinking this WAY too much. Mothiva: The Ant Kingdom's way better in our hands than with you LOSERS. Kabbu: We have SAVED YOUR LIFE BEFORE, you WITCH!

[simantopia]

and it's wild to think there is no sims game set after TS2. 'cos sometimes i'd think "and then in S4, crispin would--" and i'm like... oh wait. ts4 is an alternate universe, not a sequel. and TS3 was a prequel. so... we just never rly know what happens beyond TS2 and i guess it's that way forever because TS4 is the new Eternal Game. and tbh, i don't even wanna THINK about S4 crispin. i just KNOW he's less of a cynical cunt and that's no fun.

[swordsonnet]

gotta say though, as a german i can't really take the name "augustus" seriously, because the english pronunciation sounds kinda like the german word "orgasmus" (which means exactly what you think)

[allisonreader]

-37 lads, with a windchill of -49, needless to say, my car didn’t start.

[izzy-b-hands]

Rewatching OFMD yet again while I attempt to get some, any, writing or art done (begging my brain to do either. Please. Because it also doesn't want to be just sitting here watching anything either, even a favourite show)

And I just. Ep 1 Stede has me by the throat; I wanna reach through the screen and hug him and tell him he's gonna come so far. The physical metaphor of a well-dressed but still repressed and unknowing Stede vs S2 dressing pirate like but in things that are clearly at least comfortable to him and his personal style (not that I'm not for him dressing up fancy again here and there, I very much am) and having learned so much and come so far Stede is !!!!!!!

[monstersholygrail]

Yandere!Grim Reaper

Male Yandere x Bimbo Fem!Reader || possible light dub/noncon, jerking off, fingering, sex toys, stalking, voyeurism.

A Grim Reaper has been following you around since childhood, bringing you back to life every time you die. But one foolish mistake has him finally revealing himself to you

Yandere!Grim Reaper first met you when the two of you were young. He was only a fledgling Reaper and you were actually his first job. He had been watching you all day, watching you float through life so utterly clueless about everything around you. It was cute… and it would be your demise.

While playing out in the yard you accidentally throw your ball too hard and it rolls onto the road. Like a brainless little pup you go prancing right off the sidewalk, completely unaware of the car zooming down the street.

Seeing you so sweet and happy one minute and now seeing your soul slowly float out of your body causes something to churn in his stomach, his frown deepening. This wasn’t right, you were only his age. There was so much life to live.

So before your soul can completely detach from your form he rushes over and just kinda… pushes it back in. His head jerking from side-to-side as if someone was around to catch him.

Of course, the minute you pop back up, completely ignoring the frantic shouts of the driver, you get up and grab your ball like nothing even happened. Assuring the driver and heading back into the yard to play. He stares after you with his mouth agape.

What was he going to do now? He had broken the rules for you. Did the unthinkable. Now he had other jobs to do, but you were kinda… dumb. He couldn’t just leave you, you’d surely stumble onto another accident soon with how you were going about. No, he had to stay with you. Watch over you and keep you safe. That was his new job.

It had nothing to do with the fact that he may have felt physically unable to leave your side. The thought of not seeing you so joyful and full of life every day creating an unbearable ache in his chest. He needed you as much as you needed him.

And it’s a good thing he stayed too, his previous statement coming true as over the years, now well into your college career, you stumble upon accident after accident. Where he’d have to come over and slam your soul back into your body before you went on without a care. That’s how he liked you after all.

He’d lost track of how many times you’ve technically died. You were a regular at your closest hospital, friends with all the staff. A medical marvel they called you. None of them knowing it was because of him— because of how much he loved you even from the very first day you met. But you have seemed to take the nickname seriously, somehow growing more reckless with your life.

You thought yourself invincible. And perhaps in someway you were. He would not allow you to die and in fact, he may never.

But even he has a limit.

He stands in the corner of your bathroom, his arms crossed over his chest. Watching you intently as he always does while you prepare yourself for a nice soothing bath. He had to watch you. Danger could be lurking behind every corner, especially when it came to you.

So he didn’t exactly have a choice but to watch you in your dorm every day. It not being his fault his cock gets so hard every time, never able to resist fucking himself to the sight of you changing. Or keeping watch of you overnight as you sink your toys deep into your dripping cunt and he finds himself rutting against your bed in time with your thrusts, hovering over you. So close yet so far.

And even something like this now, watching you take a hot bath, was not uncommon for him. Hey, if he could slip in to take a shower with you every morning then watching you bathe was nothin’. It didn’t matter if you never have a clue he’s there, he’s just doing it to protect you after all. A silent observer.

You walk back into the bathroom and he perks up, spine straightening against the wall as you’re already shucking off your clothes. Throwing them carelessly across the tiled floor. Saliva pools in his mouth as you reveal your soft curvy body to him, yes, to him, with a painful slowness. Almost like you’re trying to tease him, torture him with what he desires most.

He pushes off the wall, hovering close to you as you throw your shirt off and reveal your drool-worthy breasts to him. And he has drooled. He’ll probably do it again. Maybe right now. Fuck, he wants to suck on your tits so bad. He shifts uncomfortably, his cock straining against its confines even in his loose-fitting robes.

It’s so easy to get lost in you and that sexy ass body, but when a smile that promises trouble lights up your face, it quickly snaps him out of his trance. He knows that look. He’s seen it every time just before you do something stupid and he has to bring you back to life.

You spin around and rush back into your room. He groans at the way your ass jiggles as you run, a shiver rolling through his body and making his cock twitch. Though he swears it instantly begins to deflate as you come waltzing back in with your electronic vibrator wand and its charger.

You’re not serious, are you? You not actually going to do this.

Though you quickly prove him wrong as you take a step into the tub, an excited giggle leaving you that nearly distracts him. Shaking his head to refocus, his brows furrow and his hands clench at their sides. This may just be a new low, even for you. No, he can’t let this happen, this is where he draws the line.

An idea so wicked forms in his head he almost banishes it. A smirk spreads across his lips and he knows it’s not going away. It’s time, he deserves this. And it’s the best way to protect you, he’s sure of it. This way he can keep you even more closely by his side. You won’t be able to get away from him for a minute. That thought is all the motivation he needs.

So as you bend over, oh so erotically, to plug in your vibrator wand, his hand snaps out to catch your wrist in his grip. Touching you, really touching you, for the first time. His cold dead heart flutters. You try and jerk back on instinct, a gasp pulling from deep within your chest. Your wide eyes snap up to meet his as he finally reveals himself to you. His smirk only widens at your reaction as if so utterly pleased with himself.

“Why don’t you let me take care of ya this time ‘round, yeah, little pup?”

[tsuyalovebot]

make him lose his cool.

suggestive and sexual content. mdni, ageless blogs dni.

xia yi zhou / caleb x reader.

cw. drabble (~1k wc, written in one sitting. ignore any typos.) no sex, but caleb popping a boner like a victorian man. afab reader (that also wears bras). mc=reader.

"caleb is an ass man!" "no, he likes tits!"

personally, i think caleb would have a near panic attack upon seeing your shoulder, elbow, or ankle.

he just does a really good job of pretending he doesn't mind it. after all, the two of you grew up together. he's had to put his hands on you many times — carrying, tending to scrapes and cuts, tickling you, ruffling your hair, squeezing your face. skinship was a language that the two of you were plenty fluent in.

but the year spent apart failed to maintain this, like some half-assed video streaming subscription, and caleb's the newborn fawn learning how to walk.

so what happens when he knocks on the room to his bedroom — it belongs to you now, technically — with a plate of breakfast before coming in, and he witnesses you sitting up, all sleepy and the neckline of his shirt slightly sliding down your shoulder?

he's going to throw himself off a cliffside. maybe even off skyhaven itself.

the plate hits the bedside table on your side with a loud clatter. none of the food spilled over, luckily. he has half a mind to garble some lame excuse about being busy and a quick good morning before trying to bolt.

but, caleb nearly snaps into two when you tug at the hem of his shirt, slumber still slurred in your words as you ask where he's going. there'd been no strength in that tug. yet, he stopped in his tracks all the same. he ends up listening to your grumbles, ones reminding him that it's his day off, remember? you promised you'd spend it with me.

"i gotta take a shower first," he chuckles, hoping his voice wasn't too shaky. please don't notice. please don't notice.

"but caleb," you keen.

god, it's like when he'd take leave from the academy for a few days just to go back to you and gran. always coming home to you, thoroughly acquainted with you not being a morning person but still making the effort to cling to him and savor every second you two spent together.

he assumed it would be the same now, but clearly, that was a mistake. because the coiling tension of warmth threatening to boil over in his stomach was nothing short of treacherous.

caleb does manage to escape; albeit pained by the half-awake whines behind him and the sound of you falling back into bed. god, how badly he wanted to cave into your demands. you don't even know the half of it.

he wonders if you've ever curled into his side of that bed he once slept on, seeking his cologne, his body, his warmth the same way he looks for your silhouette in every corner of this home. a melody he knows, but a name he can't quite place in this shell of a house that transformed in your presence.

regardless, it's really difficult to let this relationship rebuild organically when he was popping a boner over the slightest sliver of skin. the shower's streams are icy on his skin, the impromptu bath having thrown a wrench into his morning routine. he refuses to even touch himself. letting the proof of his sin soften under the biting cold of the water, despite the discomfort.

because nothing was more horrific than having his body react to you like a prepubescent teen discovering porn online for the first time.

caleb thinks he's safe after spending an hour in the bathroom, fingertips pruned and mind cooler than the iciest of planets. but as he's changed back into his clothes, he discovers you beside the door, a blanket around your sitting form and those eyelids droopy.

"pipsqueak? what're you doin' here?" he's crouching down — mortifying boner forgotten as he gathers you into his arms before he realizes it.

then, you stir. a whine muffled into the crook of his neck as you wrap your arms around him, the vibration seeming to ripple down his spinal column. the blanket falls from your body in the motions, and you're so soft compared to the firmness of his body.

his arms tighten around you on instinct and you let out a pleased sound and—

he stiffens. you weren't wearing a bra.

"caleb, you're done." you yawn, like the spoiled, pampered figurehead of royalty you are. you arch up into him, and he swears he feels several of his neurons die, dropping like flies in the empty cavity of his head.

"take me back to bed." he feels the air shift as you seem to inhale his scent. your voice softer, more content when you say, "i wanna sleep some more."

he's so fucking doomed.

[kingkaisen]

suggestion for your dad gojo series?idk if it’s too heavy so feel free to skip!!reader is chronically ill and/OR the kids worry that she has a terminal disease because she’s been very sick and weak lately, so they call gojo (who’s away on a mission) with over exaggerated claims on reader’s health and practically beg him to come back home. This could be either an actual illness or maybe something more lighthearted, like reader just has the flu etc and the kids are just being dramatic

“IS SHE GONNA DIE?!”

♡ —𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: This fic is part of my dad!gojo series, but reading the other parts isn’t necessary. All you need to know is that you & Satoru recently adopted two of Satoru’s students: Megumi & Yuji, and you also have young biological daughter.

♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Satoru gave your son, Yuji, one job: keep everyone safe while he was gone. So why, just why, were you practically on your death bed?

♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: Tiny bit of angst but this is overall lighthearted, suicide joke, general descriptions of being unwell, your family loves you much they assume the worst when you sneeze to be honest!

♡ — 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4K

When Satoru Gojo wasn’t around, Yuji considered himself to be the man of the house, thank you very much.

Did anyone officially bestow such a title upon him? No, not technically. But Satoru was parting on a month-long mission to a different continent, and before he walked out of the front door — and after he showered your face with kisses, playfully tossed your daughter in the air, and ruffled Megumi’s hair — he, too, ruffled his other student-turned-adopted son’s head of pinkish hair and said, “keep everyone safe, Yuji.”

Yuji’s brown eyes widened but then closed as he smiled brightly.

“You got it!” He gave Satoru a thumbs up, and that was that.

Therefore, when it came to day eight of Keeping Everyone Safe, Yuji found himself pacing back and forth outside of the bathroom door, gripping strands of his messy hair with his trembling hands.

He heard a few faint coughs from the other side of the door. He halted his footsteps. Knocking gently, he waited for a response, but one never came.

“Mom? Are you okay?” He called out. “You’ve been in there a while.”

No response.

Yuji pressed his ear against the door, listening for any sign of life, and yet again, only silence acknowledged him.

He took several steps back, preparing to launch himself at the door to break it down. If you got upset with him for doing so, so be it — at least your lecture would mean that you were alright.

“Three . . . Two . . . One . . .” Yuji thought, but before he could break out into a sprint full-speed ahead, Megumi suddenly turned the corner of the hallway, giving Yuji a puzzled look.

“What are you doing now?” Megumi scratched the side of his head.

“Stand back, I’m about to bust the door down.”

“Why?”

“Mom’s been in the bathroom for a long time,” Yuji turned his head to look at Megumi’s expressionless face. “I don’t know if she’s throwing up or bleeding out or unconscious . . . and she won’t answer me, so I’m gonna break in.”

Yuji looked the door up and down as if sizing up an opponent.

“What if she’s leaning against the door? She’ll get hurt,” Megumi said.

“Got a better idea?”

“Yeah. It’s called respecting her privacy. If she’s not feeling well, just give her a little time.”

“But she’s not answering me.” Yuji frowned. His face resembled that of a kicked puppy. Turning around, he leaned his back against the bathroom door. “She’s fine, right? She probably just ate something bad for dinner last night, right?”

Megumi glanced down at the floor, his brows furrowed — a telltale sign that he was thinking. “If that was the case, I think we’d all be sick, considering we all ate the same thing.”

“No, no, remember a couple months ago when we ordered pizza and-”

“And you got sick, and I didn’t. I remember. I’m pretty sure that was because I had one slice, and you ate the majority of the box without pacing yourself. But, putting all that aside, if she is sick, it can’t be from something she ate. She’s been coming down with something for four days now, at least.”

“Huh?” Yuji raised his eyebrows. “How do you know?”

Megumi sighed. “It’s been taking her a long time to do simple tasks. Her eyes are sunken in, and she’s been pretty quiet lately as well. She also-”

“Oh my god, she’s gonna die.” Yuji found himself sitting on the floor, his fingers, yet again, pulling at the strands of his hair. “She’s been dying for four days and you didn’t tell me?”

“I’m sure she’s not going to die-”

“Megumi, If she dies, I’m just gonna end it all, ‘cause I won’t be the one to tell dad that his wife died. No way. I had one job, to keep everyone safe! She could already be dead, you know, just lying on the bathroom floor, dead. Our mom. Deceased. How do we explain this to Maya? To Dad? Remember how he reacted when she caught a cold? This is bad, this is really-”

Suddenly, the door opened. Yuji nearly fell backward onto the bathroom floor but quickly caught himself before turning around to stare up at you.

“I can hear you,” you mumbled.

Oh, how pitiful you looked. Your eyes were sunken, your voice barely above a whisper.

Megumi gathered that, perhaps, you were replying to Yuji earlier, but if your current volume was as loud as your voice could get right now, it was no wonder he couldn’t hear you through the door.

“Mom! Are you okay? What’s going on?” Yuji sprung to his feet.

“I think you should see a doctor,” Megumi added.

“I’m fine, boys,” you whispered, slowly walking past them, and making your way down the hallway. “I’m just . . . I need to lay down.”

Yuji and Megumi exchanged a look. A slew of dangerous missions carried out alongside one another had gifted the two brothers the ability to tell an entire tale with just their facial expressions. One twitch of the brow and flicker of the eye, and Megumi knew just what Yuji wanted to ask him: Should we call the doctor anyway?

Yuji however, often struggled to read Megumi’s expressions, as the black-haired boy’s face was as blank as a fresh canvas more often than not. And right now, as Megumi did nothing more than glance back and forth between a worried Yuji and your slow-walking figure, disappearing into the depths of the house.

He didn’t know what to do.

Three hours later, Yuji ran his knife through the prepared sandwich sitting on the wooden cutting board on top of the kitchen island, slicing what would become his little sister’s dinner into two triangles.

“I’m not a chef, you know, but I made you the best sandwich ever, trust me.” Yuji put the halved sandwich on a plate. He then passed it to the young girl standing beside him, or at least, he tried to.

Though Maya had tugged on his pants leg ten minutes prior, pouting because she was hungry and you were still asleep, she folded her arms and poked her bottom lip out, refusing to take the plate.

“No,” she mumbled.

“What’s wrong?” Yuji frowned, tilting his head a tad. “Didn’t the best girl on the planet just tell me she wanted a super-duper-awesome sandwich?”

“I don’t want that! I miss mommy, and I miss daddy too. Can you get them?”

Oh, he understood.

Of course, Satoru was away, and poor Maya missed her dear dad even when he was gone for a couple of hours, let alone eight days.

He was the person she ran to when she came home from a playdate or preschool. He was the person she ran to when she woke up from a nap. When she wanted to share her snacks. When Barbie did something super-duper-awesome in her favorite movie.

And never, not once, had he greeted his little muffin with anything less than a big smile, no matter how he was feeling. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to run up to Dad and be lifted into the air and spun around and around as he talked to her sweetly and she giggled wildly.

However, you were still home, but in a lot of ways, you weren’t around either, hardly any different from an introverted ghost, haunting the hallways but not truly engaging with the residents who occupied it.

For Maya to turn down food because she missed you, must have meant she had grown tired of sandwiches and whatever else Yuji and Megumi tried to give her today. She wanted your cooking — for her mother to hand her a warm plate of yummy and nutritious food with a heartwarming smile and a forehead kiss.

“Mom’s sick right now, remember?” Yuji said gently. “So we need to do what we can to make things easier for her. And Dad will be back before you know it, you’ll see.”

The young girl still refused to take the sandwich.

Yuji got down on his knees. He, once again, tried to hand her the plate.

“C’mon, Maya Papaya. Don’t you wanna grow up to be big and strong? Only way to do that is to eat your sandwich.”

“Nuh-uh,” she shook her head.

Yuji sighed, rising to his feet. Perhaps, Megumi could coax her into taking a few bites, at least.

However, just as Yuji was about to shout his name, he heard slow-moving, shuffling footsteps approaching the kitchen.

“Mommy!” Maya squealed excitedly at the sight of you.

She ran for you, the gentle pitter-patter of her feet was yet loud enough to snap you out of the daze-like state you were in, almost as if you were sleepwalking. Introverted ghost.

Your daughter wrapped her small arms around you.

“Hi, sweetheart,” you mumbled, reaching down to ruffle her hair.

“Forget about the sandwich, Yuji. I can cook,” you gave your worried son a tired smile.

“Are you sure?” He asked, frowning.

You nodded, making your way to the kitchen sink once Maya released you. It was filled with dishes unsuitable for the dishwasher, such as precious mugs.

“You don’t have to do that, I was gonna wash ‘em,” Yuji said. Cleaning wasn’t his favorite activity, but he loved the idea of chores. It was domestic. Loving. Parents gave their children chores, and therefore, having them was his reminder that he was, indeed, someone’s child now.

He always helped fold laundry or took out the garbage with a smile on his face.

“I got it.” Your voice was weak. “Can you take Maya upstairs?”

Maya frowned, whining, “but mommy.”

“I promise I’ll . . .” you paused, resting your hands on the edge of the sink. Yuji watched the unsteady rise and fall of your shoulders. “I promise I’ll play with you later. We’ll sing, I’ll tuck you in, anything you could want. Just give me a minute. Please.”

“C’mon, Maya,” Yuji took the young girl’s hand, and though you couldn’t see your son’s face, he gave you a sympathetic, anxious look, silently praying that you were okay. “Let’s give mom some alone time, okay?”

They left the kitchen with much hesitation, but the alone time Yuji spoke of didn’t last long. Two minutes, to be exact.

You recognized the footsteps easily, a sound that blended in with the sink’s running water. The footsteps were soft, and they weren’t accompanied by a greeting, a sigh, a clearing of the throat, or any sort of noise that would unintentionally announce his presence.

Your quiet son joined you at the sink without a word, picking up a wet, clean dish with one hand and a drying rag with the other.

“I can do it myself, Megumi.”

“You always let me help,” Megumi paused. “You don’t have to overwork yourself. You shouldn’t be working at all if you want to feel better.”

It was true. You always let him help. Bonding with Megumi wasn’t the easiest task in the world. Unlike Yuji, who saw you and Satoru as parents and your house as his home even before you officially adopted him almost a year ago, Megumi struggled to fit in, to get used to parental love and family games and movie nights. But slowly, and quite slowly he was adjusting to being a son. Your son.

And washing dishes together was one activity you both did together regularly. It had gotten to a point where you left the dishwasher completely abandoned and void of dirty dishes that cluttered the sink all so you could prolong your time with your quiet boy.

It was a comfortable silence more often than not, but when he was in the mood to chat, he would tell you about his day. His plans for the week. How well he was recovering from his latest mission. And that little chatter? It made your day.

And he knew it.

Therefore, for you to attempt to dismiss him made him all the more worried about your health, as if he could get any more worried. After all, while Yuji was making their little sister a sandwich, he was surfing the web, googling endlessly about your symptoms.

It was pointless. All of his results ranged from a small cold to stage four cancer.

Megumi’s steady eyes trailed over your weakened frame. Your hands trembled around the dish they attempted to scrub. You blinked slowly. Along with that, your voice was so soft, he could barely hear you.

You suddenly dropped the dish into your hands. It hit the sink harder than you attended. You closed your eyes for a long period, long enough for Megumi to reach over and tap your arm.

“I’m not sick, honey. I’m going to . . .” you whispered. “I’m going to fold the laundry, cook the kitchen, and clean dinner. I mean . . . I’m gonna cook dinner and . . .”

Your words trailed off into nothing.

Megumi put down the glass plate in his hands.

Your head started to move back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Nonsensical mumblings fell from between your lips.

Your field of vision, which amounted to a blurry mess, suddenly became vast darkness. You went weak at the knees, and started to fall backwards.

“Mom!”

Your fainting spell lasted a couple of seconds in truth, but that was enough time for you to find yourself on the couch with a blanket draped over you, staring at the hazy living room ceiling with two things on your mind: the bizarre realization that you had, in fact, fainted, and the even more bizarre realization that Megumi had, in fact, — though in a panicked state — called you mom. For the very first time.

If you had the energy, you would have smiled.

But truth be told — and you tried shoving away the undeniable truth for quite a while — you barely had the energy to open your eyelids.

The only reason you fought to keep your eyes open was to show your boys that you were, indeed, conscious and alive, to hopefully, ease the muffled, panicked voices of your sons arguing right beside you, though you could hardly make out their words.

“I’m calling Dad.”

“Yuji-”

“No, no, no, I don’t care what you say-”

“If you’d let me speak for once, I was going to say that I should call Satoru, and you call an ambulance,” Megumi folded his arms across his chest, grateful that, according to Yuji, Maya was occupied with her dollhouse right now.

“This is bad. Is she gonna die? She can’t die, Megumi,” Yuji approached the couch, tears brewing in the reddened waterline of his light brown eyes. As he pulled the blanket higher until it practically touched your chin, he said, “I’m so tired of losing people. We can’t let her die.”

“Don’t call,” you mumbled.

“Mom,” Yuji sniffled.

“Don’t call.”

“You just fainted!” Yuji glanced back at Megumi who stood a little ways behind him. “Me and Megumi aren’t . . . we don’t know what to do.”

“We don’t want you to die,” Megumi brought his hand to his lips, fighting the strong urge to bite at the skin around his thumb. “I’ll make some tea.”

“Yeah, tea’s good, get her some tea! Hurry!” As Yuji spoke, he pulled out his phone and opened his dial screen.

“Yuji, please . . .” You weakly turned your head to face him.

Your boy’s hair was starting to grow longer. Time for a haircut. He also looked more pale than usual. Pale with worry, perhaps? Worry . . . worry . . . That’s right. You were worried about their school uniforms. They needed to be washed soon, by tomorrow, at least. You were worried about the groceries, or lack thereof. A run would need to be made soon. Megumi and Yuji’s favorite snacks and meals were predictable, but Maya, what would she want? Oh goodness, she was no longer a fan of sandwiches anymore. Maya . . . that’s right. You promised your sweet girl you would spend time with her, where was she? Did she truly want you, though, or were you nothing more than a substitute for her favorite person, Satoru? How was Satoru doing on his mission? He texted you earlier, but you forgot to respond. You needed to message him back. What else . . . what else was there to worry about? Oh.

No one had a proper dinner tonight. You needed to cook. And those dishes, they needed to be put away into their proper place . . . wait, just wait. You needed to wash Megumi and Yuji’s school uniforms tonight, because tomorrow, you would be too busy taking Maya to daycare. At least grocery shopping could be done afterward- damn it. No, it couldn’t. Tomorrow was Parent Day at Maya’s daycare, a day filled with bonding activities, and you’d show up, even if it killed you. You’d just have to grocery shop afterward, but those uniforms? They needed to be washed tonight . . . and dinner-

“What’re you mumbling about?” Yuji asked.

Only then did you realize your racing thoughts were trying to be vocalized. You shook your head and tried to get off of the couch, but Yuji gently gripped your shoulders and guided you back down.

“No, no, no. No moving. You need to go to the hospital. You’re so weak, and-and you can barely speak. I’m trying not to freak out.”

You didn’t have the strength to argue, but the look of despair on your face at the idea of being hospitalized was enough to make Yuji hesitate.

“I’m gonna call Dad, at least. Don’t try to stop me.”

Yuji kneeled beside the couch, watching you with worried eyes as he pressed his phone against his ear.

Satoru answered after a few rings.

“Dad? I’m pretty sure mom’s dying-” Yuji stopped speaking abruptly. “You’re already on the way home?”

—

When your eyes fluttered open again — only then did you realize they had closed — your blurry vision wasn’t attempting to focus in on the ceiling this time around. But at your husband’s black blindfold and pouty lips.

His concerned face was merely inches away from yours. His long fingers suddenly curled around his blindfold, and he pulled it down, revealing his worry-filled blue eyes and pinched brows.

Just how long had it been since Yuji called him? Did you blink, and he seemingly appeared in an instant? Or did you slip into a realm of unconsciousness for a couple of days?

What were the terms and conditions regarding his teleportation ability? Surely he couldn’t have done so all the way from . . . just where was he, again? Africa? Australia? How long had he been gone this time around, anyway? Wait a second . . . if Satoru didn’t teleport, and days have flown by, then you were falling behind! The laundry, the groceries, and Parent Day. Oh no, did you miss Parent Day? On top of breaking your promise to spend time with Maya? But no . . . it seemed like it was the same day, as if time hadn’t changed . . . and what day was that again? Sunday? Was it-

“Baby,” Satoru stroked your cheek softly as he leaned down to kiss your forehead. He knew you better than he knew himself, and that look in your exhausted eyes told him that your mind was wandering endlessly. It was no wonder you ended up in your current predicament. “Stop worrying. Try to relax that chaotic mind of yours.”

“She’s dying, right?” Yuji rubbed his face with his hand out of pure exhaustion. “Does she need to go to the hospital?”

Satoru couldn’t help but look back at Yuji and frown. When the teenager called him, his voice laced with sheer panic, Satoru’s entire world stopped. He thought he was going to lose you, the amazing woman who was his first crush, who made him blush and fumble over his words when he was a lovesick first-year, who later became his girlfriend, then his wife, and the mother of his children. Describing you as the love of his life wasn’t enough; you were his soulmate in every lifetime. He was certain of it.

But you weren’t lying on the side of the road, bleeding to death after a drunk driver swerved and slammed into you like he imagined, nor were you suffering from an incurable, terminal illness.

“She’s just dehydrated.”

Megumi and Yuji widened their eyes at Satoru’s words.

“What?” Megumi blinked.

“All this time, she’s just been thirsty?” Yuji paused. “That’s it?”

“You could put it that way, yeah. My overworked wife forgets to drink enough water to make up for the amount of work she does. This has happened before. Twice, actually. I’m not surprised her blood pressure dropped and she fainted. Poor thing’s exhausted.” Satoru rose to his feet, scooping you up in his arms. “I’m gonna take her to get some IV fluids. But don’t worry, she’ll be fine.”

Megumi sighed with relief. Yuji collapsed on the couch, tossing his arm over his eyes.

“She’ll be fine,” Yuji repeated Satoru’s words in his head. “She’ll be fine.”

“Get some rest, you two,” Satoru said to his sons, glancing back and forth between both of them. “Unless you wanna end up like your poor mom.”

And with that, Satoru left.

When a healthcare professional inserted an IV into your veins, slowly, but surely, you started to feel like yourself again, as if you were being revived. You looked at your dear husband’s face.

And it wasn’t the same look of calmness and reassurance he had around Megumi and Yuji. That brave face no longer existed. Instead, his rosy cheeks were wet with tears. Redness circled the blue of his eyes, and his white hair was a fluffy mess. He was a mess.

“Don’t scare me like that again.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled. “I wasn’t trying to die of thirst, I promise.”

With a trembling hand, he reached out and ran his thumb across your knuckles, releasing a shaky sigh. After all, this was the same man who could hardly pull himself together when you had a small cold.

“Not gonna lecture me?” You said with a tired, yet small grin.

“Can’t do that,” Satoru sniffled. “This is my fault at the end of the day. If I was home, I would’ve been able to help you out, and-”

“Your work is important, Satoru,” You paused, leaning your head back against your chair. Darting your eyes to the bag responsible for injecting fluids into your vein, you said, “Don’t let something as silly as me forgetting to chug enough water get in the way.”

“Excuse me?” Satoru looked at you, baffled. As if you had suddenly slapped him. “You’re my precious, amazing, beautiful wife? The best thing that’s ever happened to me? I will always prioritize you over anything. My world stops when I hear you cough two times in a row.”

“Seems like you passed that urge to panic over my health on to our kids as well,” You smiled, then suddenly your smile grew brighter. You didn’t know it, but the sight of your grin made Satoru’s heart skip a beat, just like it often did back when he was nothing more than an awkward teenager with a crush on you.

“Speaking of our kids, guess what Megumi did?” Your eyes glistened with excitement.

“What?” Satoru smiled.

“Guess.”

“Okay, umm,” Satoru leaned back in his seat, looking up at the ceiling. “He actually told you he needed something?”

“Nope.”

“He . . . Oh, I got it, you two did the dishes together again. That always makes you happy. That’s gotta be it, right?”

“Nope!” You shook your head. “Well, we did, but that’s not what I wanted you to guess.”

“Fineee, I give up,” Satoru said.

“He called me mom.” Your joyous words were accompanied by teary eyes. “He was worried, and it just slipped out, but he did it, Satoru. Should I bring it up and tell him how much it meant to me, or should I pretend it never happened? Probably the latter, right? I don’t want him to feel embarrassed. I think I’ll cook him something special to eat, kinda as a way of acknowledging what happened and letting him know I’m grateful without actually bringing up the fact he called me mom. Do you think it’ll happen again?”

Suddenly, Satoru rose from his seat, leaned over, and planted a soft kiss against your lips.

“What was that for?” You asked though you couldn’t help but grin.

“You’re just so . . .” The words were lost- no, not lost. Mere words simply weren’t strong enough to describe you, and his mind went blank as he leaned in, giving you yet another soft kiss. “God, and you have the nerve to wonder why everyone freaks out over the idea of something bad happening to you.”

Another kiss. Then another. Each one deeper and lasting longer than the one prior.

Your husband wasn’t one to shy away from public affection, and though you were in a private urgent care room, you couldn’t help but grow nervous over the idea of getting caught.

“Cut it out, we’re in public. Have some decorum,” you mumbled when he pulled away for a brief moment, strands of his white hair tickling your head.

“Yeah, yeah, something decor, I hear you,” Satoru kissed you yet again. “One more.”

One more turned into three, but eventually, he sat back down in his own seat. There, he stayed, holding your hand, using his thumb to toy with the wedding ring on your finger.

@marvel-girl3 @goldenglow149 @luaqsv @sstoru @pinkfemdolly @satorusgummies @therealmrsgojo @leehriie @iminlovewqr0w @odessa-is-my-queen @melodycelos @stoneaf

[ozzgin]

Yandere!Headless Biker x Reader content: gender neutral reader, violence, gore, dubious consent, inspired by Gakkou no Kaidan

"So you won't do anything about it?"

The officer looked up, unimpressed by your tone, then flipped another page from the book he was reading.

"There's nothing to be done, kid. It's always been a quiet neighborhood. No one else has ever complained, let alone brought up some 'biker gang' noise in the middle of the night. You're either having strange dreams, or you're off your meds."

You let the door slam on your way out. Bastard cops, you thought, stomping back to your apartment. For weeks now you'd been tormented by some asshole revving up his engine, driving up and down the road, right underneath your window. Were your dark circles not enough evidence to this perpetual misfortune?

Very well, then. If the authorities refused to help, you were going to take matters into your own hands. You glanced at the clock and focused your ears. It was around the time your troublemaker showed up. After a moment or two came a faint buzz in the distance, the mechanical rumble of a motorcycle approaching. You got up and rushed downstairs with a bat tucked under your jacket.

You quickly determined, however, that a bat might not have been the best defense against...whatever was standing before you. There was indeed a motorcycle, so you felt vindicated: your ears weren't deceiving you. On the downside, whoever sat upon the retro Kawasaki Vulcan wasn't entirely human.

The neck ended abruptly, violently, with a clean cut. There was dried blood on the old-fashioned uniform, yet the discoloration of the skin hinted at a very old wound; or, better said, cause of death.

"What the hell," you mumbled to yourself. "Bosozoku hasn't been a thing in decades."

More importantly, were you going to be killed? Historical technicalities aside, you were facing a tenebrously tall, muscular zombie of a gang member. His long coat folded with the wind, but you could read out the 'extreme violence' embroidered along it. You wondered if the sinewy arm extending towards you was about to bash your skull in. Instead, it pulled you closer. The mysterious ghoul patted the empty seat behind him.

Yandere!Headless Biker is not a man of many words. Not like he can speak to begin with, but you get the feeling he would've been just as silent and stoic with a working mouth. You guessed his intentions from the way he touched you: with a peculiar familiarity and affection, as if he was dealing with his most prized possession. His arm never leaves your side once you're off his bike. If he's not riding with you in the back, he'll hold you in his lap and trace every curve and every corner, committing them to memory.

Yandere!Headless Biker is just as stubborn as he is violent. Once he decides something, it becomes the law. "I'm sorry, do you think we're dating," you had asked once after a particularly intense fondling session. You found your answer soon enough when one of your coworkers offered to walk you home. It was late and he wanted you to be safe, most likely not anticipating that he would be the one struck down by your haunting suitor. Despite your pleas and terrified shouts, he didn't stop swinging the metal pipe until your poor colleague was an unrecognizable mess of broken bone and exposed flesh. His fingers then clawed around your throat, pressing you against the wall of your building. He couldn't talk, of course, but you felt it deeply within your soul. The words formed in your mind, mixing with the sounds of your desperate gasps for air: you belong to me. You nodded in agony until he finally released you from the unforgiving grip.

Yandere!Headless Biker has never treated you harshly ever since that incident. It was a lamentable lesson that needed to be taught - as much as it pained him to see you in those circumstances. It's other people that have to suffer, not you. You've no fault in it, especially now that you understand your place.

Yandere!Headless Biker doesn't really bring up his ghostly predicament. You have occasionally questioned him about his decapitated state, though he's indifferent to your curiosity. You suspect he lost a fight and has been holding a grudge ever since, and whenever you bring up your theory, he angrily ruffles your hair. Perhaps you're on the right track. While it may have been originally true, he has other reasons to stick around today. You. He'd crawl his way out of the depths of Hell just to be with you. You're all his, now and in whatever afterlife might follow.

Yandere!Headless Biker is one angry man. His jealousy knows no bounds, and you've learned to avert your gaze from anyone who could fall victim to his wrath. Except those who could use a little disciplinary ruffle, of course, such as the officer who so enthusiastically declined to deal with your complaints. You almost felt bad when you saw him pathetically begging on the ground, but you had warned him about a gang member on the loose.

"Someone needs head," you remarked humorously as you gawked at the bloodied knuckles of your undead boyfriend.

Why, yes, that is certainly one way to release frustrations. The tall delinquent turns to you expectantly.

[sooniebby]

The idea of a singer being a stalker instead of them being stalked is something that needs to explored more. Bonus, if the person being stalked isn’t particularly scared about it.

More specifically, the stalker being the reader. Bottom male reader.

A reader who’s always been watching his classmate since junior high school (middle school). The classmate wasn’t anyone special to others, average grades with average looks.

But you didn’t mind, him being average meant you didn’t have to fight for his attention. It was small things, just paying attention to his favorite foods and leaving them in his shoe locker.

Then slowly it blossomed. You made sure he got home safe. You found out what cram school he visited and made sure to leave snacks for him, can’t study on an empty stomach!

Increasingly, you noticed he began to get a bit paranoid, always looking behind himself. But he never made any effort to report you to the police or anything. Even when his friend suggested it at first, he practically shot it down fast.

However, after graduating to senior high school, you soon realized he wasn’t paranoid over you. He was getting bullied.

It didn’t take you long to handle it. Despite being a loner and a bit on the shorter side compared to the bully. There’s nothing a bully can do against castration. It’s quite easy to incapacitate someone who drinks a lot.

After, you expected him to act the same. And while he did—you noticed that he would look over at you in class. The first time it happened you practically had a panic attack and ran out of the classroom. He’s never looked at you at all despite the two of your being in the same class for four years straight.

You briefly wondered if he knew. Certainly acting like that would’ve confirmed his suspicions.

Luckily for you—he seemed to never look your way again. You’d know, you spend most of the day staring at him. When you finally graduated, you couldn’t be happy at all.

You’d failed to get into the university he applied to. Maybe you should’ve paid more attention to school. You were about to just come up with a back up plan when your sister said she wanted to go somewhere with you.

Just your luck, she tricked you in attending an audition at a music competition. You and her used to sing a lot as kids but you had stopped to focus on him. Of course, the devil was out to get you when you both managed to last until the final round.

Privacy wasn’t a thing for you after that. Your sister persuaded you to get signed at a company. Your parents as well since you technically had nothing else going for you—you did fail the exam for each college you tried at. (That was a lie, you had only applied to one)

Before you didn’t need to dress up to stalk him. You were pretty average as well—but now people recognized you. Especially because the company loved to advertise you as a “emo boy.” You took offense to that—just wearing black didn’t make you an emo.

But in any case, you had to start wearing clothes you wouldn’t be caught dead in. Watching him was harder this time… because he was surprising popular at his university. Everyone talked to him more often and invited him to hang out.

You didn’t understand, he didn’t change how he looked. In any case, you thought he was handsome first. You had dibs. It was getting increasingly difficult to just standby as men and women flirted with him.

Then your worst nightmare happened—he had a date. You stalked it, of course. Dressed in a bright pink shirt with white pants. Hair styled nicely compared to the mess you usually kept it. People really didn’t recognize you when you actually put effort into your looks.

You played with your knife as you watched them chat at the table across from you. The blade was too dull for your liking. Though you had only really used it to castrate that guy. And maybe… to scare off a few people in high school… but you’d never kill—seemed pointless.

As the date finally ended, you were pleased to see him turn down the girl’s offer to come to her place. You watched in satisfaction as she walked away dejectedly. She’s a pretty girl, she’ll find someone else.

You were too busy watching that you hadn’t even noticed someone behind you.

“I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Your body froze. You couldn’t move at all. A laugh left him as he tapped your shoulder.

“Are you going to run away again? I didn’t think you’d still stalk me after becoming a singer. You’re…”

You expected him to cuss you out but to your shock he said.

“Dedicated. Really dedicated. It’s cute.”

“A…what?” You whispered, slowly turning around to face him.

He was smiling at you. Smiling as if he was talking to a friend and not his stalker for over seven years. Was he insane?

Well you weren’t one to talk.

“Cute. I’m glad you didn’t run away this time. Here, gimme your LINE ID.” He said, pulling out his phone. You could only stare at him as he waved his phone. “C’mon, I’m speaking Japanese, yeah?”

“I… wait… are you—? Don’t you know I’ve been stalking you for almost eight years?”

“Mhm.”

“And that I almost followed you to your university? It wasn’t even a university I wanted to go, i don’t even know what I wanted, only if it had you.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you listening to me? I castrated a guy for you.”

“So that’s what you did… he wouldn’t tell me what happened at all,” he muttered, effectively ignoring everything else you did.

“….I followed you on a date, why aren’t you…” you couldn’t help yourself and grabbed his shirt, shaking him a bit. “This can’t be real. Why aren’t you scared?”

“You’re telling me things I already know.” He gazed down at you, his hand reached up and grasped the back of your head. “Why would I be scared if I liked it all?”

You blinked just as he kissed your cheek, a wide grin on his lips.

“You’ve watched me for this long,” he whispered, his hand slowly reaching down to grab your chin as he forced you to look up at him.

“But didn’t seem to notice that I was watching you too, (Name)-Chan.”

I’m bored so I made this longer than necessary. I always thought the idea of someone always having known they’re being stalked—making it easier for their stalker to learn stuff about them. That’s what he’s implying, btw. He didn’t stalk you, he just always noticed when you were watching him.

Reader isn’t a reliable narrator.

Tag list: @the-ultimate-librarian @tehyunnie @iwishtobeacrow @chill-guy-but-cooler @star-3214 @remdayz @mello-life25 @kiiyoooo @ofclyde @cherry-blossoms-187 @smellwell @euthymiko @rhetorical-conscience @tomoeroi @love-kha1 @secretivemessenger @mooncarvers-world @bensontrechic @yuzuukix @anchoredphoenix @roi-henri-xxii @m00n-b4b3 @ning1e

[satellite-evans]

his person

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: you are lando’s person <3

Word count: 2.3k+

Warnings: fluff

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

If you asked anyone — anyone who’d known Lando even half as well as the world thought it did — who his best friend was, the answer came easy, automatic, like muscle memory.

Max Fewtrell.

It was almost too obvious. They’d been inseparable since their karting days — the kind of friendship that was stitched together with inside jokes, shared playlists, matching scars from dumb teenage stunts, and years of standing side by side through wins and wipeouts. They were co-founders of Quadrant, partners in crime both on and off the track, the human embodiment of controlled chaos whenever a Twitch stream went live or an Instagram story popped up. If you ever bet on who knew Lando best — who could read him like a page out of his own life — your money was safe on Max.

But if you asked Lando — really asked him — his answer wouldn’t even take a breath.

“It’s her,” he’d say, soft but steady. Certain.

“It’s always her.”

You.

The girl who had known him before the podiums, before the fame, before the world chanted his name like a stadium-wide heartbeat. The one who saw through the swagger and the quick wit, the one who called him out when his ego got a little too comfortable, and who held him up when the weight of expectation became too much for one pair of shoulders to carry alone. His girlfriend, yes. But more than that. His person. His safe place. His best friend in every sense of the word.

And God, Lando could never seem to shut up about you.

It was an unspoken rule among his circle — one that started as eye-rolls and playful jabs but eventually softened into quiet acceptance. Your name had a habit of slipping into conversations without warning, as if his mind couldn't help but orbit around you even when you weren’t there. His engineers learned to expect it, Max would mock him with exaggerated groans, but none of it ever stopped him.

“Mate, we asked about tire strategy, not your girlfriend,” his race engineer would tease over the radio mid-practice, when his focus momentarily drifted.

And Lando, without missing a beat, would just laugh — the kind of laugh that sounded like pure ease, like home.

“Same thing, really,” he’d reply, grinning under the helmet. “She keeps me grounded. Technically part of the setup.”

On race weekends, it didn’t matter how chaotic the paddock got, how many fans called his name, or how tightly his schedule was packed. His eyes would always search the crowd — cutting through the noise, the flashing cameras, the blur of faces — until they landed on you. Like some unspoken radar tuned to a single frequency.

“There you are,” he’d mumble every single time, pulling you into his arms, cameras be damned. “Took me forever to find you.”

“You walked straight toward me, Lando,” you’d laugh against his chest, your voice the one sound that always, always managed to quiet his racing thoughts.

“Still felt too long,” he’d whisper, pressing his lips to your hair like that simple touch could steady the adrenaline still roaring through his veins.

You weren’t just the girl he loved. You were his favorite adventure. His co-op player. His partner in every messy, beautiful, unfiltered part of his life. Nights were spent tangled together on the couch, feet tucked under each other, controllers in hand, or phones abandoned on the table as you scrolled through old memes, trading soft jokes and lazy kisses. But the best part was always the silence. The ease of it. The kind of quiet that didn’t need filling, because being with you — just being — felt like the world had finally clicked into place.

And when the world outside got too loud — when the weight of expectation grew heavier than a leaden race suit, and headlines tried to script his story before he even had a chance to live it — it was always you he turned to.

“Do you think I’m doing enough?” he asked one night, voice quieter than the hum of the television, exhaustion settling deep into his bones after another long, hard-fought weekend. His head rested on your lap, and your fingers moved through his curls with slow, absent strokes — the kind that said I’m here, without needing the words.

“You’ve always been enough,” you answered, not even hesitating. “Wins don’t make you, Lando. You do.”

And something in his chest softened — like your words had reached places even his own self-belief couldn’t always touch. He looked up at you then, eyes warm, like he was trying to memorize the exact way you said it, the exact way it felt to be loved by you.

“See, this is why you’re my best friend.”

You smirked, playful but sincere. “Oh, I thought it was because I make better toast than Max.”

“That too,” he grinned, and it was the kind of grin that reached his eyes — the real one, the one that didn’t need cameras or podiums. “But mostly because you’re the only person who makes this whole crazy life make sense.”

And you always would.

Because even on the days when the world felt like it was spinning too fast, when the pressure of living under a microscope crept too close, you were there. Not with solutions or speeches — just you. Existing. Holding space for him the way only you could.

You brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, your fingers slow and familiar. “You know,” you murmured, “I don’t think anyone will ever understand you the way I do.”

“I don’t want anyone else to,” Lando replied, quiet but sure. “They’d get it all wrong.”

There was a pause, but the comfortable kind — the kind that wrapped around you both like a blanket, no need for more words. His hand found yours, thumb absentmindedly tracing circles against your skin, the rhythm steady, grounding.

“You’re stuck with me, you know,” you teased, squeezing his fingers gently. “For life.”

His lips quirked, soft and lopsided. “Good,” he whispered. “That’s exactly the plan.”

Race weekends always had a way of making that feeling even stronger — like the noise and the speed and the stakes only sharpened the way Lando looked at you, like the world could be spinning at 300 kilometers an hour and still, his attention would only ever settle on you.

You stood by the garage, tucked slightly out of the way, half-hidden behind a stack of equipment cases as the paddock moved around you in its usual, barely controlled frenzy. Journalists darted between interviews, chasing headlines with mics stretched out like fishing rods. Cameras tracked every flicker of expression on every driver’s face, lenses hungry for a story in a single glance. Engineers, crew members, mechanics — they weaved through the maze of people like clockwork, hands full of telemetry sheets and radios, their minds a million miles away, deep in calculations and split-second decisions.

And then, there was Lando.

The second his eyes found you through the blur of it all — the sponsors, the fans, the pre-race nerves knotted beneath his skin — everything else seemed to fall away. His entire posture shifted, tension melting from his shoulders as that unmistakable, boyish grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. The smile that wasn’t for the cameras, or the sponsors, or the sea of people waiting for autographs — the one that was just for you.

Like clockwork, he jogged toward you, cutting through the paddock like gravity had decided to rewrite the rules, yanking him toward the only place he ever really wanted to be.

“There’s my good luck charm,” he greeted, voice bright but edged with exhaustion and adrenaline — the kind that no amount of coffee or sleep could fully shake before a race. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, the contact lingering longer than it probably should have given the dozens of eyes watching, but Lando had never cared much about timing when it came to you.

“You should probably be focusing on the race,” you teased, fingers finding the zipper of his suit, giving it the lightest of tugs, grounding him even as the rest of the world tried to pull him in a hundred different directions.

“I am,” he replied, tilting his head slightly, those warm eyes locking onto yours like they always did. “You’re the best part of it.”

And the way he said it — soft, steady, without even a hint of his usual playful sarcasm — left no room for superstition or charm. Just the truth, plain and simple.

You reached up, brushing your fingers along the edge of his balaclava, adjusting it slightly before your thumb traced the sharp line of his jaw, a familiar and quiet ritual between the two of you — like you were handing him the last piece of calm before the chaos.

“Go win,” you murmured, your voice low but sure. “I’ll be right here.”

“You better be,” he said, stepping backward, reluctant but smiling, his eyes still drinking you in like he could store the moment away for later. His race engineer’s voice crackled over the comms, pulling him back to reality, but even as he turned to go, he glanced back — once, twice — like the distance between you was the only thing that ever felt wrong.

And when he finally climbed into the car, helmet on, gloves tightened, visor down — the world might have narrowed to tire temperatures and corner speeds, but you were still there. A fixed point. The face he’d always find, whether he crossed the finish line first or not.

Later that night, long after the champagne had dried on his race suit and the headlines had already written their version of the day, you and Lando found yourselves right where you always seemed to end up — curled up on the hotel balcony, wrapped up in a blanket you’d stolen from the foot of the bed, legs tangled together like the world didn’t exist beyond that little pocket of quiet.

The city stretched out below you, lights blinking lazily in the distance, but neither of you paid them much attention. His hand rested on your knee, your feet propped comfortably in his lap, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your ankle — like his body hadn’t quite figured out how to sit still, even if his mind finally had.

For a while, you both just sat there, letting the silence settle. It wasn’t awkward or heavy — just easy. The kind of quiet that only ever existed between two people who didn’t need words to fill the gaps.

But of course, Lando couldn’t resist breaking it.

“You know,” he said eventually, voice light but thoughtful, “it’s kinda ridiculous, isn’t it?”

You turned your head slightly, raising an eyebrow. “What is?”

He let out a soft, amused huff, like the thought had been bouncing around his head for hours. “I spend all day surrounded by thousands of people — cameras, fans, the whole circus — but the second I step out of the car, the only face I ever want to find is yours. Like some lovesick golden retriever.”

You snorted, nudging him with your elbow. “You? A golden retriever? Please. More like a raccoon hyped up on energy drinks.”

He laughed, head tipping back slightly, the sound warm and genuine. “Fair, but still. You’re basically my human GPS at this point. Doesn’t matter how big the crowd is, somehow I always spot you first.”

You tilted your head, playful but sincere. “Maybe I’ve just trained you well.”

“Oh, definitely. Pavlov would be proud.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Guess that makes two of us, though. I could be anywhere — grandstands, the grid, the middle of a fan mob — and my brain’s only ever tuned into you.”

He grinned at that, the kind of grin that was all soft cheeks and crinkled eyes, and for a second the teasing dropped away, leaving only something honest and quiet between you.

“God, look at us,” he said, nudging your shoulder with his. “Disgustingly sappy.”

“Max would be physically ill if he heard this conversation.”

“Max would disown me,” Lando agreed, lips quirking. “But he already knows I’m screwed when it comes to you. No point in pretending.”

You stretched your legs out, nudging his thigh with your foot. “You’ve been screwed since the moment I stole your fries that one time, haven’t you?”

He chuckled, shaking his head like the memory was still fresh. “That was the moment. I knew I was done for. Anyone who can steal the last fry and not feel guilty? Dangerous.”

You grinned, leaning your head back against his shoulder, your voice soft but full of playful affection. “And you let me do it anyway.”

“Let you?” he scoffed. “I offered. You just didn’t hear me over the sound of your victory.”

You both sat there for a second, wrapped up in that perfect kind of comfort that came from knowing — truly knowing — you belonged exactly where you were.

Then, without looking away from the view, you murmured, “You’re my person, you know.”

He glanced down at you, his hand finding yours under the blanket, fingers lacing through yours with a quiet certainty. “You’re mine too. Always have been.”

You turned your head, catching the soft, lopsided smile on his face — the one that always gave him away no matter how hard he tried to act cool. “I hope you know I’m keeping that in writing. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Good,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple, his voice lower, softer now. “Because I wouldn’t know how to be me without you.”

You leaned into him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear, and let the moment stretch. No flashbulbs. No roaring engines. Just the two of you.

And it hit you all over again, the same simple truth that always seemed to sit quietly at the center of everything: You weren’t just his girlfriend. And he wasn’t just your boyfriend.

You were each other’s person. The constant in the chaos. The soft place to land. And the best part of every single day.

Always.