#yb fanfic

[yandere-to-express]

The wrong cranium

Gender neutral

Part 4

"He won't eat pickles," the harried mother said, one hand carrying a baby and the other feeding french fries to the bigger child, one by one, the grease coating all five fingers, bringing a dull, worn shine to the wrinkling skin, the blood-red lacquered nails. Her claws embedded into the crispy yellow sticks, she carried the great haul en-mass into the maw of the child, which opened languorously to accept the filial offering.

You could not avert your gaze from the repulsive sight. Your hands, which are holding a palm-sized notepad and a cheap dollar store pen, had gone stiff, shaking, holding back violent urges you had never felt before.

"I understand," you murmur robotically, letting yourself cling to the walls of your skin. Your hand writes down something. "I will bring a replacement."

"Wonderful," the mother praises. "What a good employee. Did you hear that, Tom? Don't cry anymore."

The child's eyes are hazy, his face slack except for the mouth. Tear tracks are lining his cheeks, but they have already gone dry and salty. You note, with a shiver going through you, that there is mucus leaking out of his nostrils, which means there will be used napkins left on the table. Please, put it in the plate. Put it in the plate. Put it in the plate, with the other messes.

"Sure thing," you talk aloud, not addressing anyone.

Absentminded, you make your way back to the kitchen. The line cook, Hannah, takes one look at you and grabs your notepad, skimming the orders and doing her work without a word of complaint or a whisper of friendliness. The notepad is stuffed back in your hands, and you're left to stand alone on the door threshold. The skin all over you has pebbled in aggression, the feeling astringent against your psyche.

You un-tense your shoulders, swallowing it down. How long has it been? All day, all you could do was watch the outside wistfully, tracking the shades of blue behind clouds drifting in and out. Darker and deeper it went, but never dark enough, never changing hue to the lovely orange that awaited the end of day. Your uniform has grown damp and saggy around your figure too. As a sweat drop drips down your temple, you notice the rigid curve of your spine, vertebrae packed tightly together.

No wonder. You feel smaller. The work has worn you down in more ways than one. You look down at your hands— and see your wrist bones, jutting out. Your veins are swollen under your skin, and when you turn them over, you can watch the visible proof of your pulse, desperate with each pump, blue and green intertwined.

Thump.

You trace it down your inner arm, dipping into your elbow. It jumps inside your bicep, like the whimper of a wound.

Thump.

Inside your neck, it climbs to your skull. You tilt your head back, unblinking, staring at the tiled ceiling and the sharp fluorescent light overhead, staring back at you. Dark flowers bloom in your vision.

…Thump.

Your neck cracks, bringing relief. You inhale, but the process is chopped. It clings to your throat before surrendering, disappearing into your lungs; you feel its function distinctly with every motion. Your chest rises almost exaggeratedly, and caves in with equal fanfare through every breath. Mechanical. A step in the algorithm.

It's a slow coming realization, impeded by exhaustion: there's no instinct to your body. It moves, it acts, but it doesn't know. It obeys you. But it doesn't obey as it has done for the past decades you've had it. It obeys because it's yours, because you know it should do certain processes in the background of your daily life. It's pure, unknowing, a blank slate of renewal and reduction both.

"It's not empty," you whisper. "I'm not empty. I'm okay."

A clatter draws your attention away. In the other room, TK is helping Hannah prepare orders, which reminds you of the hours and hours left of your shift. You hurry over to help them and deliver the dishes to their respective buyers, taking payments and receiving new orders. Cleaning abandoned tables.

In one, you stop in your tracks.

The slimy napkin you dreaded to death is sitting alone in the middle of the table. You can feel the disgusting paws of the sullen child all over it, soaked into the very air it is surrounded by.

Utilizing a second napkin, you pick it up. Drop it in the plate. Done, you tell yourself, wishing away the trembling. It's over.

You go back to the kitchen. You carry perhaps a dozen plates in one weak hand, though it doesn't quiver— it doesn't have the energy to. They're put beside the sink, just like every other dish that's passed into your hands. Without hesitation (but with a certain resignation) you start washing. Rinse, soap up, scrub, rinse. Metal wool, sometimes. Extra soap for grease. Twist furiously inside the mouths of cups, then let the frothing tap water outpour down the rims, bathing your hands dull beige.

As the water keeps running, you look at the vortex above the drain and exhale.

Chest caves in, rises back up.

It's dark inside. You can see the hint of dark, murky green, laden with moss or something worse that you cannot imagine, but you don't look away.

It's so… unending. You visualize a round, wide-open mouth in its place, and think of the amount gulped down its gullet. You cannot calculate it (too tired, too uninterested) but it makes you freeze and stare a little more intently. How parched, how hungry would you need to be, to consume so wholeheartedly?

You move the cup aside to see it more clearly. The drain keeps working, and the water keeps going, and the smell of wet metal wafts over to you. The vortex, over time, loses its color, then its lines…

Then its sound.

The drain is dark and quiet. There's no telling what lies inside it, but you know. You don't need to see to know, bu̟t̰ ̫y͙o͍̼u̻̪ ̠g̤a͎z̡e into its dept̶h̸s̶,̷ ̴d̸o̶w̵n̷,̴ ̵d̶o̷w̴n̶ ̵t̶h̴e̷ ̷p̶i̵p̴e̴,̸ ̶a̶n̸d̸ ̷s̵q̴u̸i̷s̴h̶̢͍e̶͚ḑ̸ ̷̳i̸̭̱n̴̦͍s̸̫̞i̵͚̠d̶̢ę̷ͅ ̴̣t̵̗̰h̶͔ę̸ ̸̩ț̷̘i̷̩g̷̪͉h̷͎t̵͎ ̶̖t̶͚̣u̴̢n̶̻ͅn̴͓e̵͖l̷̠̬s̷̢ ̶͜a̶̟ṋ̸̪d̴̘͓ ̷̖l̶̖̼a̴̺b̴͈̖y̷̥͙r̷̮̙i̶̙̼n̵̬̦t̵͉h̶̻̞i̶̫ṇ̴̱e̴̫ ̵͎̻n̶̮ḛ̸t̷̗̣w̸̠o̴͓r̷͓k̷͇ ̷̼̩o̵̢ͅf̴͇͜ ̸̡n̶͉o̴̡̞t��̢̖h̵̥̝i̵̗n̸͍g̵̣̹n̸̫e̸͈͇s̴̯s̶̟̲,̴̼ ̶̲y̶̥o̴͉̫u̷̖̼ ̸͚f̶̖̩e̴ͅe̵̠̜l̷̤̹ ̴̰i̵̯t̵̮ ̴̧͎p̵̱u̴͉l̵͎̥s̴̨͍̖͉̤i̸̞̞ͅn̵̞̤g̸̖̘,̴̪̱̭̝ ̴͖c̶̮͔͕͜o̴̘̰̳̖n̸͔s̵̺̳t̷̗̩r̷̲̭̖͜i̵̩̜̯c̴̡̡̣̪ͅt̴̡͍͇ͅį̵̹͓̙n̶͇̼͎g̴̤̥̠̬.̸͚̘͎̤̼ ̸͖̦͔̗D̵̨̡̼̳r̷͕̗̣͖̜a̵̜̼g̶͙͍̫̤g̴̠̣̲ͅi̶̤̯̝̭͜n̵̨̬̠g̷̨̢͈͔̭ ̵̹̬̩̤̮d̵̡͍̺ͅͅȩ̷̳̣e̷̡̞̩p̴̝̲̳̪e̸̡̳r̴̖̯ͅ,̵̫̘̤̩ ̴̙̞͖̣̝f̶̢̡̼̼͇e̵̙͕̝̤e̷̗͈͕͍ḑ̶̜̭̝̮i̷̼͉̜̪ṉ̵͚ģ̶͍̼ ̴̱̟͙o̴̫n̵͚͉ ̸̡̦͉y̷̯o̶̢͕̣̲u̶̟͓—̷̢

01101000 01110101 01101110 01100111 01100101 01110010 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01100001 00100000 01110011 01110100 01100001 01110100 01100101 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101110 01110100 01100001 01101001 01101110 01110011 00100000 01101001 01101110 00100000 01101001 01110100 00100000 01101001 01101110 01100110 01101001 01101110 01101001 01110100 01100101 01110011

||SAVE//:01100110 01100101 01100001 01110010||

You stumble back with a desperate, raspy inhale, your chest rising and stuttering in motion. Curled inward, you watch the running sink, the shards of a broken cup crunching beneath your feet.

Some animals eat their prey whole, don't they?

You shudder, sinking to your knees, uncaring for the shattered ceramic. The sharpness sinks into your skin, but doesn't break. Like how play-dough cannot be hurt, because it's not meant to be. You repeatedly and rapidly attempt to restart your breathing process, but something is not responding. The respiratory structures and organs below your neck aren't working.

There's no air. Why are you so calm?

You try to wheeze for a breath. It doesn't work. If anything, it's complicating your work. You try harder. It resists harder. You cannot breathe, you cannot breathe— you drag your hands along the floor where you're lying on your knees, thinking you could crawl away to safety.

"Hey."

You hear a voice, saying your name. It puts a new knot in your throat.

"Are you there? I heard—"

The door opens to let in TK, their eyes searching and worried. When they spot you, they are quick to run to your side.

"Oh my God," they whisper, horrified. Their hands hover for a moment, snapping left and right like they can't decide what to do, and then settle behind you, clutching your shoulder and rubbing your back. "Hey—" Your name, spilling so easily out of their lips. "Come on, calm down, it's okay. You're okay. I— Follow my breathing, okay?"

You stare at them with dead eyes, and unwilling flesh. Nevertheless, they narrow their eyes determination, and begin making their chest move. It rises, rib cage flaring, diaphragm flattening, blood rushing, and you try to follow the rhythm.

A wheeze of air passes through.

"That's it," TK encourages, voice alike a sob, as if mirroring your utter anguish. "The muscles tighten, air comes in… And they soften, air goes out."

Their chest falls back, pulse calming down. You can hear it moving inside them, the friction of bone and ligaments, and the relief of air, blooming into blood.

Your lungs let go. Air passes through, out, and when you breathe next, it goes in as it's supposed to, without error or stubbornness.

TK relaxes. "Yeah. Just like that. You're a natural, aren't you? Passed with flying colors." There's a placid, but worn lull in the atmosphere. "Are you okay?"

Are you ever? You manage a small nod, not trusting your voice— to not crackle or to not burst into wails, no idea which. You've never felt such a wild, discomfiting mix of emotions before; things that have no right lingering close had suddenly tangled together, all without your consciousness noticing.

You imagined that this is how a newborn baby, just out of the womb, would feel. Overwhelmed. Frightened. Lonely, yet not. Out of control, but simultaneously in control for the first time of its existence.

You settled on 'overwhelmed.'

"Good," TK replied, rubbing your back a bit more. "Wait, let me get you some water—"

They stood up to get it, carefully side-stepping the ceramic shards. You should probably ask them not to, but you couldn't even muster the strength to lift your head, so you couldn't protest when TK held the cup tilted for you, matching the flow to the speed of your gulps.

"Dehydration worsens everything," they said. "I remember my mom nagging me about it. She never let me leave the house without drinking a tall glass of water, and the habit stuck. Once I got into college and had my first taste of freedom, I decided I'd cut myself some slack and relax on routine."

"Didn't work?"

TK snorted. "Nope."

They took the cup and washed it at the sink. You remembered that your job won't wait for you, and the customers won't either, so you attempt to stand up… only to flinch away at the sound of clattering shards, falling from your limbs.

TK turns to look at you, but you can only stare at the debris and your unscathed arms. The fragments aren't safe— their edges are sharp, glinting like chef's knives spread out before stove fire, but despite this, as you turn your forearms over and back, you can only see unmarred flesh, without any scarring visible.

What the fuck happened to me, you think.

You were fine this morning. There was no complicated existence to panic about. While you sat beside Peter and talked about nothing, everything felt as pleasant as can be. And here you were now, frozen in fear. Unable to finish even one waiter shift because you were too busy stressing about a defective body.

"Hey," TK calls out to you, "I think you should clock out now."

"Huh?" You can't. The shift's not over yet. And in the game, wasn't today exceptionally busy? You couldn't leave TK to handle it alone— well, technically you could, but you'd feel guilty. You don't want to get used to someone picking up the slack for you, because there was a very real chance that you'd snowball down that rabbit hole.

"Thanks, TK, but I don't wanna push my luck today," you said, kneeling down, and started to collect the shards by the handful. If they didn't hurt you, why not use it to your advantage?

"Jesus— don't just scoop them up! Use a broom at least, what if you get hurt?"

"It's fine, they aren't sharp."

TK didn't seem convinced, but let you clean the mess anyway, taking over dish washing duty instead. You were grateful for that. You didn't know what looking at the drain again would do, and you intended to avoid that fate for as long as you could. Collecting all the fragments on your apron, you dropped them into the trash bin and swept the remaining dust off, rushing out to collect orders and clean tables.

 

 

All day, you slaved away in the restaurant; cleaning, serving, dealing with idiots. While you worked, you did your best to hold yourself together, to keep your pieces in one place until the time when you could fall apart, a shattered body all over the couch.

Your lifeline, as it were, was the promise of a nice night out. As you mopped the floor tiles, tidied tables, and topped up coffees along the counter row, your mind went out to the fantasy of a quiet, chilly night, the smell of earth and grass under an empty space. Maybe after the date, Peter could take you to the park? You resolved to ask him about it… once he came back.

You checked the hour: four thirty. Fifteen minutes left until your shift ends. When was he going to arrive? At the very end? That would be incredibly suspicious, and for his sake, you prayed to a higher power that he'd refrain. You didn't mind, per se, but you were the type to just blurt things out without care for propriety, and the more obvious Peter got, the more effort required to keep your fucking mouth shut and not give it away.

Sighing, you threw away an abandoned receipt into the trashcan below the register, and wondered whether it was worth it to keep quiet. He'd catch on eventually, and you'd have to talk.

That's what's scaring you, isn't it?

"Alright," came TK's voice, "out with it. What's up?"

"What's up… with me?"

"Yeah." Obviously, was what followed naturally, but you had learnt that TK had a modicum of tact, so of course they would leave it out. "You've been working here for weeks now, but never have I ever seen you sigh in all our time together— not even when the boss threatened to sack us without severance pay."

Okay, scary. Original Y/N was double scary. Props to whoever they were. "It's… kinda complicated, and I don't think I can explain it without sounding like a maniac."

They grinned. "A dash of intrigue? No prob. Just know that you can tell me any time, any day, alright?"

You seriously didn't deserve this person's kindness. You just didn't. This was such a fact that it didn't even make your heart twinge. When it all crashed down and your life was in shambles, you would have to send them some sort of consolation gift, to thank them for their care.

"Thanks, TK. I wish I could tell you."

"Glad to hear that. By the way, could you check in with Hannah? I think she needs a line chef in the kitchen— I'll handle the customers."

They glance out the window panes, squinting behind their glasses. "Oh, geez. Guess who's knocking on our door? The evening rush."

You turn to look, only to freeze at the sight of a familiar silhouette, barely visible behind the reflection. Same height, same shirt, same gangly limbs, and when you shifted for a better view, you were able to glimpse the face under the hood: a pair of wide-open, bright blue eyes, and a smile curving horrifically.

Yup. That's him.

"Is it me, or… is that guy looking in?" TK asked, discomfited.

"Lookin' in, sorry. That's, uh, my boyfriend."

"Your—" Their head span around in a perfect hundred-eighty degree to goggle at you. "Your— what? This guy? Your—"

They looked back, as though checking whether or not they were hallucinating the creep factor, but no, TK, you thought, that's one-hundred percent natural. All bio creep. No preservatives or artificial coloring added, honest-to-god, bona-fide creep. I'm so fucking sorry to subject you to this.

"Your boyfriend," they said.

"Yeah."

"Just so we're clear, it's not the eighty-year-old man leaning on the cane, but the two-meter tree branch with fangs, right?"

"You're absolutely correct."

TK stared at you speechlessly, mouth moving without words, and you let your vision zoom out into distant lands, resolutely watching the yellow leak stain on the ceiling. Please, end the conversation. Right now.

"You know what," TK said at last. "This is not my problem… If he turns out to be a serial killer, let me know and I'll call the police for you."

"TK, please stop talking. I'm dying."

"You will once he drags you into an alleyway."

You know what they say: first impressions last forever. In Peter's case, it seems he's ardently devoted to push this rule to its worst potential, constantly disturbing the peace in hopes on garnering even the slightest bit of distrust. Why was he watching you creepily at the diner when he could just hang out by your apartment window? That was perfectly private! This is public!

You caught his gaze through the glass, and waved at him. Despite his eerie appearance, Peter broke into an angelic smile, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, and waved back. Seeing as you were paying attention, he began mouthing words: Hello. Something that looked like 'darling'. I'm here, followed by a pointed finger at his feet. Then, lifting his wrist and putting his index finger on it, miming a wristwatch. Okay?

Ah, was he trying to hurry you up? Was that a guilt-trip thing, or just an innocent 'Is your shift over?' You'll never know because you'll never ask, and even if you asked, he'd obviously answer with the latter just to gain brownie points. This wasn't the right time to be honest yet. For neither of you.

Before you could get tangled up in unnecessary thoughts, you sent him a thumbs-up and went back into the kitchens. Hannah did need help— there were simply too many orders at once, and Stephan just wasn't good enough of a multi-tasker to handle the extra load. You helped until the workload went back to normal, then clocked out, waving bye to TK as you went back to the entrance.

While you were gone, the sky had darkened, rain clouds gathering above to drizzle drop by drop. When you stepped a foot outside, you were immediately caught in a pair of arms, warmth swallowing you up.

"I missed you all day," your stalker whined, covering the top of your head with his chin. "How was it? Did you get fired?"

You relaxed into the heat, the embrace, releasing a frigid breath. Your head was silent for the first time since this morning, unburdened by worries or distractions. No clutter to push out… Nothing to sigh about.

Just Peter's scent, and his hug, and his excited, pleasant voice.

"Darling?" he asked concernedly. "Was it bad?"

You wrapped your arms around him in return. Mustering the energy to speak was impossible, so you sank further into the comfort, not even feeling the rain soaking your jacket.

"Heh, not that I'm not enjoying this… but are you okay? Do you need— Do we have to reschedule? I don't mind. We definitely can. Anything you want, okay? Just, will you please talk to me?" He sounded a bit shaky. "It's… ha ha, just, it's weird to not hear you when I chatter. You know?"

You force yourself to speak. "It was—"

s̨̺͇̝o̺̱̣ą̡̪͇͇p̨̥̹͎̹̳ ̨͓͕͜u͙̣̫p̥͍̻͙̠,͎ ̢̨̤̙̹͓s̝̼̝̲͜c̡͎̭̭͚r̡͎̗̞͙̥u̺b̧̢͙̬̠͜ ̪͚E̻̞͈̫̦͇X̙̦͓̱͙T̙͓̮R̙Ạ̭ ̧͓̩S̲̗̟͎͎Ǫ͇̲̲͖A̦͕͕͇P̗͇͜ ̘̝͖͇̞f̧͚̥̹o̖͔͈r̙͉̤̪ ͍G̟̺͖R̨͉̤̠̫͓E̲͚E̲̥E̟̯̹E͕̻͙̼̟ḚA̰̮̘͉͈̼S͙̞̳E̬̻ ̢̬͚̼̗̱01101111 01101100 01100100 00100000 01101110 01100101 01110111 01110011r͎̬̭ͅo̼̘̩̯ͅụn̗̱̹̝͈d̩,̨̪̦̭̝͕ ̧̤̜̱ͅw̡͈͖̬̙͕i̱͇d̨̠̯̙͍e̙-̰̳ọ̺̩͍͕̝p̦̦̘̙ȩ͍̹̳n̩͎ ̤͓͍m̢̡͚̣̫͍o̫̰u͙͚̞t̢̜͎̮ḩ̡̜ ͓̝̥̲F̙̘͇̠E��̪̳͕E̤̲̫̗̯D̫͜ ͍̣M͔̩E̹͕̭ ̳T͍̗̜Ḥ͓͕̭ͅȨ̗̠ ͙W̻͈O̧R̨̙̱̥L̢̨̨̯͜D̥̲ ̞̤̖D̡̗͈̻ ̧̢͓̘D̹̗ ͍̫̙̮̝̬D̫̗͉͚͉ ͉̯̣̠̙T̨̪̮̙H̡̢͇̭͖̦E̘̲͖̜ ̦T͖̗̮H̺E̩̪̳ ̲̻͇̳͖̣T̲͖̞̺͈ͅH̦̠E̗̳ ̩͔̫̞͜I̯̙͓I͙͖̤̬I̧̬̲̱͕͕I̜I̧͕̭͚̭̳I̥I̬̝I͙̦̭̫̝͎I̡̘I̞̺͎̦̬I͎̻̻I̢̢̱̲̹I̡͎̘̰I̤̥I̻̺̞̖̖

d̷̢̢̟̏̂a̶̛̬̘͊͒̾ŗ̵̣̯͇̽͐͊̑k̷̤͎͙͙̎͑̑̌ ̶̻̞̞̻̏͊͑̏d̷̳͉̱̯̽́̆ạ̸̥͙̔͂̊̾r̷͇̿́k̶̥̼̲̐́̈̏ ̵̗̪̯̪̎͆d̴͍̤̞̓a̷̰̟͚͛̊͐r̶͇̋̈́͒k̸̺̻̰͎͆̿̄͠ ̸̡̹̊̀̾͗a̴͈͉̱̻̎̀d̵̝͈̄́̓ã̵̲̩͖r̵̪̞̗̓k̵̗̊͗̀̍ ̷̛̪̖͔̗͒̌ď̵͓̊̅̈́ǟ̴̡̜̈k̶̨̘͚̈̀́ȓ̴͓̽͑k̶̳̺̙̈́̐͛k̶̖͐ ̵̡̪̄͒́̄d̴͍̥́́ȃ̷̺ȓ̶̗k̶͎͊ ̴̯͕̀͑͠k̸͈̝̗̎̑̏f̷̠̳̭͉̍̒̀k̷̛͔̓̾k̵̞̃͋͝k̸̞̎̋k̸̝̀͛̓̕ ̶̟͚̩̈̀̇̀ḍ̸̙̫̣̋̕a̴̲̦͓͒r̵͙͑̂͗k̶̨̻̽̃ ̷̓͜d̶̢͍̳̔͌ã̴̧̬̠͖̉̈k̸̖̞̾͊̇͝r̵̲͔̼͝ ̷̘͚̀̒̿̕k̴̰͈͠d̴̜̭͇̙̐̂͋ã̵̤͔ṙ̷̯̭͂k̶͍̇̑̅̒ ̶̠̥̮̓͘d̵͈̖̃́̏̄á̷̳͔̲̏̈́̚r̶̦̋k̴̨͛ ̴͍͉̄̓d̴̯̓a̵̯̓͋̿ͅr̸̦̻̟̖̄̅̈́̄k̷̲̓̆ ̴̤̤̅d̴̢̖̀̀ͅã̷̡ͅk̷̢̢̥̬̒̿̆̽r̸̥̘͌̀͑͜ ̷̻̔͝W̴͙̱̬̮͒͋̏͝W̷̘͎͠W̸̖̺̃͌̇Ẅ̶̪͙͉́̈́́W̷̔́͋̀̀̈́̔͂̔̂̄̚͝͝͝W̵̍̓͛̂̒͘͠W̸͑̽̃̐̓̒̈́W̷͊̋͑̽̌̈̈́̀͗͊̈́̇́͘͠W̶̆̎̐̊̎́̈́̌̋̀̕̚W̵͌͆̃́̅̇͐̎̑͐͘Ŵ̸̛̀̈̈́͆̈́̎̆̒̀W̶̊̏̒̋̏̐̌̈́́̚W̸̉̋̅͑͆̍͘Ẁ̴͛̂͗̓͆̐͑͌͐͒̕W̶͝  and at the bottom of the drain, you stood, awaiting y̤̏̓̐̕̚͠o̘͆͝ú̢̞͚̲͈̟̲̅̾̄̓r͍̟̝̐̾̃ͅs̢͍̤͂́͝ḙ̰̆̓̿̾̕͝l̛̟͕̬̯̬̲͇̩f̩̻͚̫̽ in your own stomach /// when will you S̸̛̥T̵͖̚O̴̯͌P̸̪̅ ̸̫̀S̸͈͗T̵̲͆Ȯ̴̜P̶̪̑ ̷̲̐S̸̠͊T̷̖̊Õ̷̬P̷̤̉?̴͎͋ ̵̱̉?̸̳̎?̴̖́ fear consumes you, pushes you down its gullet, and you stand here wondering when did you die? M̸E̵E̴E̷E̶E̶ 01100100 01101111 01101110 00100111 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 E̵E̴E̸E̷E̶E̸E̶E̸E̸E̶E̵E̶E̶—

"—fine," you answer. You were stopped from lingering on it. You recognize it now. "I missed you too. All day."

"You did?" Peter asked. "Really? Missed me? When, how did that happen?"

"Do you want me to describe it like, a case report? Like an interrogation tape? 'Where were you last night, what was your purpose' style?"

"Why not?"

Well, there was it: why not? Maybe it'd make him happy.

"The first time," you started, burying your face into his shoulder. "I was taking orders, and this middle-aged lady came in and tried to ask for a second order on the house because she dropped the first one on the pavement. But in a really polite, aggravating way. You know how some rude people act well-mannered? I wanted to punt her into the curb."

"And then you thought about me?"

"Yeah. I wished you were there so I could get you a second order on my paycheck."

"…You mean, you weren't thinking of me because you wanted someone more reasonable, but because… actually, I don't know. Why did you think that?"

"Well," you murmured, "obviously, because I like you."

Suddenly craving contact, you removed your tired arms from around his waist and put them over his shoulders, around his neck. You had to stand on your tip-toes for that, but somehow, the position wasn't as taxing as it was in your before-life.

Luckily, Peter was there to support you. He crouched a little to reach your legs, then hauled you up under your thighs, carrying you on one bicep with no visible strain. 

...Woah.

You were abruptly eye to eye with him— and better, you were privy to the tender little flush on his face, close enough to savor the sight without shame.

"So you'd— put up with me being an asshole just cause you… like me."

You averted your eyes. This closeness seemed to be a two-way street, unfortunately. "Not exactly 'put up with'. I imagined you there and thought, even if you were being a jerk, I'd give you a meal cause you'd look cute eating it."

Was that weird? Double standards existed for everyone--- people would have different thresholds for different people, right? You weren't abnormal in that regard. Were it anyone else, you'd be insulted, exasperated, impatient— with him, your priorities lay somewhere else. You'd have rather died than compensate that customer, but somehow, the image of him stuffing his face full warmed you head to toe. 

Your mind flashed back to your dinner date last night. The glow of Peter's round cheeks, the happy sigh of relieved hunger, his languorous, steady heartbeat as it pulsed under your touch. A healthy, full heart. Flowing blood.

Uh, you thought, embarrassed for no reason. Let's not linger.

"You know what," you said. "This is mortifying. Let's talk about something else."

He made a cute little snort, then laughed with bared teeth, molars glinting in the street light. You could barely suppress the urge to smash your mouths together. How dare he smile like that? How dare he make you so happy, with only the movement of his face? You released the want through your breath, let it dissipate.

"Let's go to the van," Peter suggested. Without waiting for a reply, he started carrying you across the crosswalk, one hand gently braced on your hip.

"Peter? Peter! Oh God, I can walk, I can walk I can walk I can walk— let me down, people are gonna look!!"

He paid no heed to your desperate wails, merrily making his way down the road. What an asshole, what a bastard. Your heart was so warm, so squished, so warm.

[carbuncle-paws]

Thank you guys for 300+ kudos on the fic! That seems like a lot to me since the fic is pretty new, so I made this last night when the numbers were getting close to celebrate! And as a gift to you ;3

A version with hair on the placeholder char can be seen under the cut below! (reminder, reader's appearance in either pic is not canon)

[malkavianiz]

-Emo boy? -… -What are you doing? -You forgot it? -What? -Next week is the exam and the teacher assigned you to help me with the studies of that subject, if I let you get sick from a stupid rain, how are you supposed to teach me? -But you said you didn't need my help… -Forget it! You will help me and you have no choice, now walk or we will both end up soaked. -Well… -Wait! -Now what? -Don't get too far away, my jacket is big but I won't be able to cover you enough if you get so far away… -...Thanks, Peter -Whatever…

[dms-saggicorn]

Aight back at it again with some writing, a little different this time around:

Just imagine you and YB walking hand in hand through a meadow, a sea of blues, pinks, purples, and reds surrounding you both.

The warm sun shone down on this fine summer's day much like any other.

You for but a moment take out your phone and a pair of headphones.

YB frowns thinking he surely bored you or worse upset you somehow.

To his surprise, however, you hand him one of your earbuds with a smile on your glowing face.

Of course the lanky man takes it putting the small device in his ear, matching the right earbud in yours.

What plays in this:

Flowers for you, my darling~

Background Source

Sprite is a combination of art from @y0urb0yfriend

[lireynoutan]

"Move against the Code"

Hello there (＾Ｕ＾)ノ~ＹＯ

Unfortunately, I don't have any art for this day since I didn't prepare anything for Halloween, but I decided to share something important. ♪(´▽｀)

This is the cover of my fanfiction "Move against the Code" or "Ход против кода".

So far, it is only available in Russian, but I have plans to make it in English as well. I have been working on it for a long time and, well, it has gained a large audience. ( •̀ ω •́ )✧

I do not know if this is possible, but I will leave a couple of links here so that you can find this story and familiarize yourself with it.

I hope you like it. (～￣▽￣)～

[the-sinister-story-teller]

~My MasterList + Do's and Don'ts~

MasterList:

Helluva Boss: ~None~

Hazbin Hotel: Drag Queen!Angel Dust Headcanons A Charming Surprise~Charlie x Male!Reader : SFW But I Love You~Angel Dust x Transmasc!Reader : SFW Angel Dust x Male!Reader~Friends To Lovers : SFW Angel Dust x Male!Reader~Looks May Be Deceiving : NSFW Angel Dust x Male!Reader~I Got You Now : SFW Angel Dust x Reader~Healing : SFW Dating Vox Headcanons Dating Angel Dust Headcanons Dating Husk Headcanons Alastor Oneshot : NSFW Dating Alastor Headcanons Dad!Alastor Headcanons Will You..?~Charlie x Male!Reader Will You..?~Charlie x Male!Reader (Part 2) It was just a bad dream...~Charlie x Male!Reader

Tokyo Ghoul: Juuzou Suzuya Headcanons

AOT: ~none~

MCU: Marvel Character Headcanons Chapter 04 Of Loki Fanfic

Lackadaisy: ~none~

TADC: ~None~

Stranger Things: ST Billy and Eddie Headcanons

Harry Potter: Harry Potter Character Oneshots!

DC: Red Hood Headcanons

FPE: ~none~

IT (2017): ~none~

Your Boyfriend: Br0ken colors and YBG headcanons!

Br0ken Colors: Br0ken colors and YBG headcanons!

Creepypasta: ~none~

~Do's And Don'ts When...REQUESTING~

DO: Be polite and kind when requesting!

DON'T: Rush me of any sorts. I'm very busy from time to time and may not be online for long periods of time occasionally.

DO: Be free to tell me how well i did, ect. It's much appreciated!

DON'T: Be rude when criticizing. There's constructive criticism, and then there's being a jerk. Don't be a jerk.

DO: DM me if you have any concerns about requesting! I'm happy to answer!

DON'T: Request p3d0*******, R**e, Kid*******, Ect. I will NOT do them and I will bluntly refuse.

~FANFICTIONS~

All of my fanfic's are on Quotev.com if you want to see them!

This book in particular is my own universe that I made. All characters (besides ones that I specify that aren't mine) belong to me. Fanart is much appreciated! ^u^

[bennydunbar]

Merman! Peter/ Merjelly! YN

It wasn't the first time Peter had swim rather deep into the ocean. Though, being part shark, he's often around the surface and hunting.

This was until he met a merjelly — the first merjelly he had ever laid his eyes on, and it was love at first sight.

It would be deemed unnatural, to fall in love with his own prey. Yet he made companionship with the peculiar merjelly, and the both of them had been struck by Cupid's arrow.

It became a routine for the both of them to bring their catch of the day to the spot where they first met — a little far from his own underwater cavern, right in the twilight zone. East to the Capricorn constellation.

As time passed by, the both of them realised that they meant the world to each other. And it is then that they decided to bound themselves together on a Blue Moon. Promising the other to grant them rest if one of them were to pass first, according to merfolk culture.

They share a breath for the first time, a touch so tender as Peter's new partner was afraid of accidentally stinging him. He doesn't care, his darling is his now.

But fate is a cruel thing. For despite how infinite the love they hold for each other, they can never truly be together.

The merjelly cannot survive if they were washed up to the shore.

The merman couldn't protect them from the bigger fish.

And according to merfolk culture, the spouse must eat their mate's remain to lay them to rest.

[succubusmelt]

Welcome, honey~ ♥

Heyaa! Welcome to my yandere simp page, where all your fantasies and dreams will become true~

❥ What is this blog about?

This is a multifandom blog where you can read about headcannons, one-shots and writings of your favorite yandere character. Also, is allowed to request and send ideas for more content!

This blog is merely created for fun and entertainment. Any character belongs to the respective author. ➭ Minors are not allowed!

——————————————

❥ Fandoms I write for

John Doe Game

Your Boyfriend

Something is wrong with Sunnyday Jack

My Dear Hatchet Man

14 Days with you

Lurking for Love

Maybe in the future I will join more (?)

——————————————

❥ About me (?)

Well... my name is Loren (but you can also call me Melt <3).

I go by She/He pronouns.

I like to write and eat all the content that there is about my hyperfixation (that's why I made this blog, haha).

My english is not very good, sorry for that.

Maybe one day I will upload my fanarts or something else.

I like philosophy, movies, video games, drawing and writing.

My MBTI is INTP 4w5 Choleric Melancholic.

——————————————

❥ RULES

❥ MASTERLIST

[mordayks]

I remembered that I'm actually writing a fanfic...

Fuck, I've already forgotten the whole plot and idea...

[iamallyetnotatall]

Happy April's Fool! Here's a new chappie of my fic with our favourite clown.

Bakura heavy chapter and poor boy is getting bullied <3

[dietmountaindoo]

The brainrot is INSANE

Once again another fanart for And in the Water I Found You :))

You can definitely tell that i enjoy nature backgrounds FAR more then inside one. This one was a bit tricky with perspective and such though. I hope it comes across fine??

I tried to take reference from the large parks in my area with the canopy, bench, and fire pit.

This drawing takes place on the first date between Peter and the Y/N! i’m currently trying to avoid directly showing Peter and Y/N’s face due to me really struggling with designing it LMAO. I’ll probably post my takes of how the characters look soon enough :)

[yandere-to-express]

The wrong cranium

Gender neutral

Part 3

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Just put them wherever you want. I don’t have a system in place; so long as I can find them, it doesn’t concern me.”

 

“Got it.” Pasta, whole-grains, spices, and sealed condiments go into the pantry. Eggs, milk, vegetables, and other perishables belong to the fridge. You enjoy this kind of work: making categories, sorting items, organizing them. It demands control. You work with single-minded focus long enough to forget what had discomfited you in the first place, but once the last package is out of your hands, it comes back with full vengeance.

 

“I’m finished,” you say to Peter, who’s been hovering around the stove for a while now.

 

He flinches and looks up at you. “Already? Alright, let’s start making dinner. Anything you want, sunshine?”

 

The nickname really doesn’t reflect how you feel right now, but seeing his nervous, bashful face makes you think it suits him very well. Your mood lightens a little and you reply, “Anything is fine.”

 

“Really? Anything? You’re really pushing my creativity to its limits— come on, give me something to work with! Sweet? Salty? Savory? Don’t worry about the effort, I already said we can make it together. And if we don’t have the ingredients, well, there’s always improvisation.”

 

You have no idea. You eat a wide variety of foods, and the dishes themselves aren’t difficult, but having a stranger cook for you is… oddly embarrassing.

 

“Pasta?” you suggest, scratching your neck. “Just, without onions if possible? Or olives?”

 

Peter grins radiantly, jumping into motion. “There we go! Now, could you please get the ingredients while I take the pots out?”

 

The two of you start making dinner. It’s spaghetti, but the kind that has eggs in its dough. You put the herbs and aromatics you want beside the cutting board and watch Peter chop his way through an army of tomatoes, your gaze riveted on his swift fingers. They’re long and thin, but strong, their flesh flexing along the elegant phalanges, carpals intertwined with blue veins. You watch the joints snake beneath the skin as the knife rises and falls.

 

“So,” Peter breaks the silence.

 

Your head snaps up, eyes wide.

 

“You like Italian?” He’s got a smug smirk on his face, which means he definitely saw. “Can’t say I love it, but I’ve got a special place in my heart for pesto sauce. It saved me from starvation time and time again.”

 

“I don’t know. I guess I like some of it? Maybe Fettuccine Alfredo, I’ve had that before. But other than fast food pizza, I can't say I’m an expert.”

 

“A shame. Maybe we can grab a bite sometime? It might be fun!”

 

Your mind stutters in its tracks. Is this a date offer? Who am I kidding, you think. It’s Peter. Of course it’s a date.

 

You didn’t know whether you wanted to go or not. On one hand, it was Peter, and you were supposed to be wary of his intentions. On the other hand, it was a date. You wanted to go. He was patient, kind (for now), and there was a zero percent chance of you getting an opportunity like this— this being someone, anyone, asking you out. So what if it's your devoted stalker? You’d just died. You deserved to have the things you wanted, didn’t you?

 

One item in that category just happened to be this guy. Let’s hope this didn’t go south.

 

“Or not?” he said. He’d turned toward you, his smile slightly flat. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be Italian? We could get something else instead! There are lots of cuisines, and so many restaurants in the city, I’m sure we could stumble on a good one by chance—”

 

“No, no, I’m down, we can go,” you interrupt, tentatively putting your hand on his upper arm. “We can do Italian if you want, but maybe we should check the pasta first.”

 

He blinks like a cat, looking at the contact point. “Pasta? Why—” His eyes widen, and he spins around to see the pasta pot almost boiling over. “Oh shit! Fuck, fuck—”

 

It takes two minutes to calm down his apology ramble, with you repeating again and again that no, forgetting pasta on the stove does not make him a failure of a cook, but it does make him a clumsy one. You hope he won’t fall apart at the slightest mistake next time, but since this is technically your “first date”, you suppose that he deserves some leniency. He’s never met you face to face after all, and he’s been admiring you for a long time. Anyone would be anxious.

 

And besides, seeing him so flustered is giving you flutters in the belly. You’ve always liked bubbly, nervous people better, feeling calmer and more confident around them as if to balance out their shyness.

 

“I was wondering though,” you started while putting the plates. “I never learnt your name. What’s it?”

 

And of course, it agitates him. “Ah… You know what, I don’t like my name all that much. You can call me whatever.”

 

“Okay, Whatever,” you shoot back, giggling at his world-weary expression.

 

“You know what I meant! Ugh, I guess it’s better to just get this over with: it’s… Peter.”

 

“Peter?” You relish finally being able to say it. “That sounds pretty normal. I thought it would be something like Dick or Jormungandr.”

 

“Jormungandr?” he repeats, flummoxed. “Why would— no, well, it might not be as bad as Dick, but there were still lots of people that made fun of Peter the same way they made fun of that. Which made high school even worse.”

 

You don’t have a suitable response for that, so instead of ‘That’s rough buddy,’ you say, “Oof. Come on, let’s have pasta.”

 

He sits right beside you at the table, no hesitation. You’re taken aback, but not enough to deliberately move the seat around and disappoint him. You take your seat at his side, realizing late that the pot of pasta is on his side of the table.

 

“Let me,” you chime, moving to get the fork and divide the portions, but he catches you by the wrist, his thumb digging under your pulse, into the divot beneath your palm.

 

“No,” he inserts himself smoothly, taking the utensils. “Let me handle it, darling.”

 

Your heart rate picks up. He’s sure to feel it, with his hand covering your entire wrist, and you’re certain that the tick at the corner of his lips is another smug little grin, concealed poorly. You’d love to lie and think, this is so demeaning, but you like it. The physical contact. The pulse of blood under his hold, and how little skin there is between them. And when he gives you your portion— scooping a very generous helping— not many have treated you like this. Indulgently. You like that he’s spoiling you, and that he won’t let go of your arm. It makes the logistics of serving spaghetti a little messy, but he doesn’t seem to care about it so long as he can hold your hand.

 

“Enjoy the meal,” he says, giving you one of the happiest smiles you’ve ever received. Then he gives you a fork, twines his fingers with yours, and starts gobbling up the food.

 

You stare at him, then at your interlocked fingers, your nearly brushing palms, and stare at him again. You’re sure he’s right-handed. The fork is held awkwardly in his left hand, but the pasta is somehow reaching the target without any incident. And still, even when the fork wobbles in his hold, he doesn’t let go of you.

 

You avert your eyes and start to eat. You’re not going to get attached because of fucking spaghetti. (Maybe the way to the heart is really through the stomach. Just, in a very different way than you expected.)

 

 

After washing the dishes (Peter having put up a valiant fight to take over the task, until you put your foot down), he leaves you alone while you get ready in the bathroom. He tells you where the spare toothbrushes are and asks that you choose whichever suits your fancy. Indeed, he has a large selection of toothbrushes of many types: soft and hard bristles, small and big heads, regular and vibrating, and in several colors. You aren't sure whether he's bought all these just for you, but for your own sake, you decide to ignore that thought.

 

In the end, you just choose one at random and go through it as quickly as you can. You don't imagine what's going to happen to the brush after you leave. You don't imagine why Peter was so enthused about it.

 

Well. You try. Unsuccessfully. Your head conjures the images without delay. You remember that his tongue is long and sensitive, and that the brush you've chosen is one with harsh, coarse bristles. You imagine his expression if he ever scrapes it over his tongue. How would he feel? Would he press it to his gums, swipe it across his palate? Would he search for the remnants of your saliva? You think so. It doesn't arouse you, not really, but it makes you feel a spark along your skin. Like an electric shock. (He'd be ecstatic. The thought is hard to get rid of, but you manage.)

 

In any case, you won't be there. This doesn't concern you. You spit the toothpaste out and clean the brush, leaving the bathroom. The moment you do, you're faced with Peter looming over you, manic attention etched into his gaze, like the prick of a needle. He’s been waiting in front of your door.

 

"All done?" he asks. His hands are hidden behind his back. But the tense way he holds his arms makes you think that he's trying to keep them behaved, rather than holding an emergency chloroform bottle.


You nod.

 

"Great! Come on, I'll show you to the guest room."

 

He brings his left hand out, stretching behind your back and over your opposite arm. Steering you manually, he shows you to your bed, then insists on giving you sleepwear too.

 

"Well, it'd be extremely uncomfortable," he says when you show hesitation. "These are my sister's old clothes— since you're smaller, I thought they might fit you. Sorry, I don't have anything else."

 

"It's… fine, really. You've already done so much, I feel like an ingrate here."

 

"Of course not! If anything, I'm glad the clothes are getting some use. My sister doesn't visit anymore, so they're just, you know, rotting. In the closet. Ha ha, that makes me sound like a horrible host, giving you threadbare stuff. Let's forget the last part."

 

You hold up the clothes. They look rather small when compared to what you're wearing.

 

"Oh," Peter intones behind you. "It's smaller than I thought. Weird. I could have sworn…"

 

"It's fine! I'm sure it'll fit." You'd make do. It's not like you've never worn small sizes before. You move to slip it over your arms when you suddenly notice that he's definitely not looking away, and surprisingly, not even hiding his interest.


You turn and look at him. He looks back at you, eyes glassy, saliva wetting his lips. It's a rather exposing feeling.


"Um," you say, then trail off. How do you tell him to tone it down without revealing what you already know, and possibly scaring him off?


The short answer is: you don't. Peter snaps out of his entranced state and bursts into awkward laughter, jumping off the bed and backing away to the door.


"Sorry, my bad, totally spaced out there," he says. Opening the door with one hand, still facing you, he does a side-step behind and gets one last word in before disappearing, "Good night, sweet dreams!"


The door closes. You thought maybe he'd lock you in, but there's no sound indicating that. Oh well. It was only the first day, after all. You shrug it off and get into the comfy pajamas, luxuriating in the sensation of the soft, feather-light fabric, like a cloud caressing your skin. The bed is equally comfortable as you settle in, sinking slightly from your weight. Now, the only thing left to do in the quiet, empty night, is turn off the lights. You reach out to the switch on the wall beside you, but freeze.


Right.


It's right there, beneath your hovering finger. You urge yourself on: Go on. Click the switch. Bury us in shadow. Your finger does not obey you, however, and it droops back to its place upon your abdomen, resting. The light bulb is annoyingly radiant above you. Your eyes, as they continue watching it, cultivate patches of darkness in your vision, as though your body was artificially creating that which you were so afraid of. With your sight so overwhelmed, your mind turns to other stimuli to smother it— a deep, ringing echo in your ears, passing back and forth inside your skull, and the previously heavenly sheets now feeling like slime along your skin. You rub your legs against each other, twisting them around bone and overheated flesh. It's a hot night, but you're not sweating, though sweating might have actually been helpful. At least then, you could have a clear solution. (You do not look at the switch. It's not important.) The night deepens outside the window, but neither your eyelids nor your paranoia drop.

 

It's not working, and you're awake. A glance at the digital clock on the nightstand tells you that it's two minutes until 1 AM, but with the way you're suffocating, you'd have thought it was already morning.

 

Restlessness drives you to sit up, look around. After a while, fear takes a backseat in favor of boredom, and you imagine Peter using this room. It's neater than you'd imagined. The furniture is pretty tasteful, if a little utilitarian, and there isn't even a mote of dust. Maybe Peter would sit in that chair and do paperwork, or maybe he'd lie on the bed and play games on his phone. You don't know. You never learnt what he liked besides the player character, and it's not making you feel better right now.

 

Your hand rises again (muscle memory and nostalgia pairs together, and you forget that you're not home, that you're not—) and touches the light switch, but terror kicks the brakes before you can do it. No. This is not home, this is not your world, and this is not you. You take your hand back and trap it under your thighs, tears welling up in your eyes.

 

Okay, you think, maybe I can't handle it.

 

The need for sleep is getting to you, so you stand up, leave the room, and make your way around the apartment, all the while turning on the lights. Sometimes a walk helps. You track your slipper-covered feet all over the hallway, the bathroom, the kitchen, and finally, you reach Peter's bedroom. When you finally stop to think, your hand is already on the doorknob.

 

He could be sleeping. But there's a just as likely possibility that he's doing weird stalker shit, and you don't want to break the illusion of normalcy yet. You're tired. You just need sleep, and you've realized you can't do it alone. (You hope he won't say no.) So instead of barging in— though your stalker might have enjoyed that— you knock three times.

 

There's a moment of quieter silence, like a disturbance in the air disappearing, and then you hear the sound of tangled sheets and falling footsteps, and there goes the door, revealing Peter with mussed hair and a hastily thrown-on shirt.

 

"Hi?" he says sweetly, breathless. "Um, ha ha, this is— a surprise. Did you need something? I heard you moving around—"

 

Was he watching?

 

You wonder if he has cameras around. Why would he though, in his own house? Something about that fact is niggling you, but you can't see why. You decide to ignore it.

 

"Sorry to bother you, I just… couldn't sleep." It feels trivial when you say it out loud, but you can’t back out now. "I’m probably disturbing but—"

 

"No! No, you’re not. I mean, you can definitely bother me. I could make tea? Or maybe a snack? Or…"

 

He pauses here, gaze flickering around, then settling back on you. "Or," he continues, "I could introduce you to Rat? If you need a distraction."

 

You stare at him, not understanding, then remember: Rat's his snake. His pet snake. It lightens your mood a bit because you've never seen a live snake before. Your feelings are pretty mixed; some part of you is afraid of getting bit, some part of you is insanely excited, but most of all, it gives you an excuse to talk to Peter.

 

You answer, "I'd love to. May I come in?"

 

"Of course! Feel free to, it's really no problem. You can go anywhere in the house, there's no room off-limits."

 

He turns on the light, hurries you in and closes the door. But this time, as the small yet distinct sound of a lock registers in your senses, the hairs behind your neck stiffen. 

 

He's locked you in. You search for a window, but to your unease, there's none. You've walked right into an exit-less room, of your own free will if not your own stupid desperation.

 

"Sorry for the mess," Peter says. His desk is riddled with papers and random gadgets, and there's a spot at the corner that houses a heap of unwashed laundry. The smell isn't that bad though— just musky, like warm skin. And obviously, the bed is looking like a storm wrecked it up.

 

You think about him tossing and turning, chasing a slumber that won't come. Warmth dances along your rib cage.

 

While you're there, distracted, Peter nears the desk and gets the snake out of its tank. "Hey, sweetie," he's whispering, and you turn to watch him handle the animal. He's looking at it like he's holding a baby, like it's both precious and frustratingly weak, but the way he's carrying it makes you think he could be doing this for hours and still not get pissed.

 

He gestures you closer. "Come here, let her smell you. Gimme your hand—"

 

You extend your hand and he takes it, bringing it closer to the snake's head. You're entirely fascinated as Rat nuzzles your fingers, sluggishly nudging your knuckle, but the rest of your attention is on Peter's grip around the base of your palm. His fist has enveloped your whole wrist, and his fingers are twining up, touching the sensitive crevices of your inner hand. You feel his breath fan over your cheekbone, and the click of his swallow.

 

Rat goes back to rest soon after, and then there's no more need to hold your hand, but Peter keeps it aloft, palm to palm. Is holy palmers' kiss, you recall. Shakespeare, or something. You're way too occupied by the touching to ponder on it. As if that wasn't enough, Peter's thumb makes its descent down your ulna, tracing the outside of your arm until it comes to a stop, enveloping your elbow.

 

"Something on your mind?"

 

Can you tell him?

 

You avoid his gaze, but you can feel that it softens.

 

"Let's sit," he suggests, "Your legs will get tired." He guides you to the bed, sitting down beside you at the edge. Rat tightens her coil around his forearm but doesn't awake.

 

Interested despite the situation, you take the opportunity to brush your fingertip down her back. It's a smooth and pebbled sensation, the scales warm and alive under your hands. Seeing your enthusiasm, Peter demonstrates how to pet her without bothering, and soon enough, your hands end up tangled upon the snake, giving warmth to the same patch of scales.

 

You like the thought of him having her. There were so many opinions on him on the Internet, canon and fanon, but somehow they all seemed... shallow, egocentric or unnecessarily dark to you. You enjoyed consuming fan-works that depicted him as a person, someone with wants and emotions of their own un-enforced by a script. Someone you could love back.

 

And as you sit here, cradling the sleeping snake between you two, you start to think that it might come true some day. You watch his hands, unable to look away, just like you did all day. They're gorgeous. The long, lithe shape of them, the strange dichotomy of their fragility and strength, and the way their skin glows with life. To hell with holy palmers' kiss— You want to take them between your palms and rain kisses all over them. You'd press your lips on the back, look up at Peter's flushed face, and continue along the trail until…

 

You sneak a glance, finding him already watching. He's holding a calm, content smile on his face, as though he was— as though he could—

 

"What kind is she?" you ask, your pulse thundering.

 

"Eastern hognose. You can tell by the color— Southern hognose snakes aren't ever black. Additionally, since Rat's female, she's bigger than a male— it was a pain to find a big enough tank for her, but I was lucky it worked out—"

 

You're buried under a whole slew of snake facts, eating habits, and a photo album of Rat booping the camera. However, just as you're getting really into a video of Rat digging into sand, Peter tenses up beside you.

 

Immediately after you notice, he forcibly relaxes, laughing it off. "I'm talking a lot, aren't I? Sorry about that, just tell me to shut up whenever. You've gotta have a lot on your mind, right? I'll be quiet now."

 

"No, it's okay! I like it. You really love Rat, it's nice to see."

 

"Ha ha, you think so?" He avoids your gaze. "Let's— um— you sure I can't help with whatever's bothering you?"

 

Your mouth opens to say no, but he continues, "And not just that, but what happened in the park too. I know that kind of feeling, and I've struggled with it before, so maybe… I thought, we could work on it?" You hear his swallow. "Together?"

 

Together. It's a foreign thought. You're never 'together'. You have friends, you have family, but it never seems to matter when you're in the clutches of fear. You trace the line of your life, fast forward it in time, and when that black, unresponsive screen faces you, it's never about who you surround yourself with.

 

Then again, you've never tried this before. Sharing this feeling with someone.

 

You rest your hand on Rat's tail, and let your body tip to Peter's side, your temple bumping into his shoulder. He flinches at the contact.

 

"Imagine this," you say. "You're out of time. Out of time— the world slides past you in the blink of an eye, and everything that made you, you, dissolves into nothing. And now, there isn't anything— nothing but you and emptiness exists. Endless, infinite space, and it's bigger, older, and darker than you could ever imagine. And you're... nothing. Try, for a moment."

 

Peter doesn't seem to understand where you're going with this, but his arm rises to embrace you one-sidedly, laying his head on yours with a deep sigh.

 

"I'm imagining it," he says. His voice is tremulous, and it makes your heart melt.

 

"It's not cold, not hot. No light, no texture, no sound. There's nothing there aside from you."

 

His hand squeezes your shoulder. "It's lonely."

 

Your throat closes up. Not yet. You exhale the difficulty out, and continue, "Try to hold onto that for more than a moment. A few seconds."

 

He presses his face into your hair, his fingers biting bruises into your skin. You know he's doing it, and his earnest effort is visible. Audible. You can hear his swallow, the blood rushing in his veins.

 

"I can't," he admits. "Sorry."

 

"It's fine. I can't either." You continue to pet Rat, but she twitches awake and looks at you. "Oops. Sorry, baby."

 

"Let me put her back," Peter says, rising. He smoothly retrieves and deposits her back into the heated tank, waiting a little to watch her burrow into sand. 

 

His side on the bed is already cold. You resist the urge to lie down on the remnant heat, reminding yourself again and again that it's rude, that it's not what people do when they're guests.

 

You're startled out of your thoughts by Peter's footsteps. He stops in front of you and kneels on one knee, his face angled upwards.

 

For a moment, your brain is full of static,  and then a completely unhinged thought slaps you flat: Is it already sex time?

 

You mentally slap yourself back to sanity. Peter's not getting between your legs, he's getting on his legs. You're having an emotionally charged conversation, and for God's sake, you are not going to have sex with someone you just met. Perverted stalker behavior? That's fine. You can shut your eyes and pretend you can't see. But this requires active participation and you're not ready for that.

 

Abrupt interlude aside, you watch as he puts his hand— singular hand— on your knee, gently pressing his thumb into the grooves on the joint. His face is somber as he speaks.

 

“I’ve never…” He pushes the words out. “Had hope. I couldn’t afford to. I mean, why go to all that effort when it won’t even help?”

 

He tries to give you a smile, but you can tell he’s not feeling it. “So for a long time, I just sort of drifted. It was like I was waiting to die, you know? And it… was fine. I didn’t really care. I didn’t have anything I wanted out of life, so why bother, right?”

 

This is making your heart hurt, because you can’t say anything in return. No comfort, no advice, no consolation. You don’t think he’s looking for it either, but—

 

You don't dare touch him back, but you lean forward, supporting your torso with your elbows on your thighs. You avoid looking at him in the eye though, even with his face so close. Instead, your gaze falls on the floorboards.

 

“It doesn’t sound like you have given up,” he says. His hand descends and takes yours, as though they were the poles of a magnet, coming together. “When you described it, you weren’t thinking like— like someone dead. You sounded like someone looking for a way out.”

 

Are you? Is there a way out of this? How do you come back from being—

 

—deleted?

 

A total system reboot cannot make exceptions for singular items in its universe. The code is wiped clean and the existing structure is returned to factory settings. But even after erasure, isn’t the emptiness of the system a constant and an anchor by itself? The beginning equals the en̸d̶i̵n̸g̷, the̶ ̸d̶a̷r̴k̴n̷ess follows light, and the̷ ̴d̷a̸r̵k̵n̴e̴s̴s̸ ̵i̵s̵ ̵t̴h̸e̷ ̸w̸o̸m̷b̶ ̵a̶n̷d̴ ̷t̶h̶e̵ ̵c̸h̸r̶y̸s̴a̸l̶i̴s̷ ̴i̷n̸ ̸w̸h̴ic̴̖͕̓h̶̤̥̅ ̴̬͒t̶̠̦͆̑h̸̭̣͝ȩ̵̝̿m̴̖͌̚a̴̘͖̾ẗ̸̬́t̴̙͒t̸̨̆ę̵̑̒ř̴̳b̵̖̗̽̿ẹ̵͎̈́c̴͖̏͝o̷̤͍͗m̸̭̈̀e̸̯͇͒̂s̶̺͙͑a̸̭͛̀n̴͎̈́̌d̴̲̀̽ͅt̷̞̂h̷͚̊̅ḙ̷͝ ̴̛̦m̷̞̒̌ ̴̨̍ẩ̸̦ ̴̱́t̸̟̩́͝ ̵̺̥͛t̷̡̏ ̴̭̲̋e̵̫̹͌ ̴̭͖̿r̴͖͇̔ ̴̠͆t̷͕̾͝h̸͖̔a̵̝̲͐͋͌͗́t̴̛̙̫̹͆͛̓̏ ̶̥̠̳̺̒͌d̷̰̬͖̘͆̄͋̏͠ͅ ̸̤̌̄̅̀ô̸͓̕̚ ̴̨̮̫̣͂͒̒̽̀��e̶̞͙̝̰̽̌͠ͅ ̵̨̦͇̎͛́̕̕s̸͉̪͉̹̎̐̃͘̕ ̵̢̡̆n̶̡̈́’̷̳̦̟̂̌̊̍̈͜ ̶̛̣͙̀͂͝ṫ̸̩̣͇̹͚ ̴̞̬͙̺̻̄̈̂́l̷̨̠̝͕̊̅̕̕į̸̋v̷̟͉̱̀̊̏͝e̶̝̿̿̚͝ơ̸̩̝͓͚̱̋n̴̠̺͚̽͒̋͐̌i̸͎͔͌n̵̮͋͑̏͠t̵̢̟̯̲̀͊ḣ̷͚̞͚̪̊ē̶̺̒̍̌l̴̢̳͑̇͋́i̵̟̦͍̍̓̈́͗̕ģ̷̗̯͉̯̂͘h̴̻̑͑ť̶͕̉b̴̢̘͍̜͚̍̎̃̾͘ẹ̸̩̝͙̮̿͆c̴͚͔̜̣͔̀̐͒͆͝o̵̘̮͑̑͋̎͗́́̏͒̆͛̀͛̃̈́̄̋̽̚͜m̴͈̦̟̺̟̄͝ę̵̘͖͈̣́̈͒̋̃͘͝s̶̡͉̟͇̬̬̖̝̙̥͕͇̤̉́͂̒̌̈́̕͜t̵̢̪͙̣͚͎̩̦̲̳̹̜͉̲̥͌̅̍̈́͊̿̀͌̓̄͘̚͝h̵̘̖͎̞̲̘̮̝̼̲̻̟͓̪̩̏̔͜ͅấ̴̩̝̲̮̇̑͋̆͌̕͠͠t̸̡͍̼͙̅̐͛͆̌̒́w̴̠̗̰̒̈h̶̯͍̯̣̓̋̈́̾̍̋͛͆͂̑͌͂̇͗̓̿̈́̚i̸̼͎͆͐̈́͊̓̈̆̑̓͠c̶̡̙̘͈͚͙̬̝͇̔̇̑̈́͗͆͌̌̏͌̐̊͒́̾͆̅͜͝h̵͙͈̀̍͠s̴̢̛̞̻͈͉̪̤̈́̈̇́́͛̓̈̋͐̍͊̚͘̕ù̸̢͓͕͙̣͖̩̫͖̠͒͂͋̎͗̈̿̿r̸̨͎̲͚̖̤̞̋̋̎̅̈́̔̓͋̅̏͆͘͝v̶̨̪̱̜͎̉͗͒͊̊̉̊̀͒͠į̵͎͕̠̬̰̯̋̊͌͊̍̅̀̏͂̂̇́̄͆̕̚ͅv̵̤̮͆̈̀̉͝e̸̡̨̡̧̪̠͇̱̳̙̗̬̬̯͎̼͒͒͗̀̌̂͗̃̌̔̉̀̍̓̕͜͠s̸̛̰̟̥̪͎̞̩͑̽—̶̨̡̢̹̹̰̜̞͙̻͌̇̏̔̆̊̽̏͂͝͠





Y̸̟̱̜̭̼̝͛͂͒O̸͓͓͑̈́͜͝U̴͍͇̠̦̜̦̐̎͛͑̂̊̃̾͝͝—

 ̸̫͗͂͐̂̏͗

 

c̸a̵n̵ ̸y̷o̶u̵ ̸h̴e̶a̴r̵ ̷t̸h̷e̴ ̴s̵o̷u̶n̷d̶?̷








01111001 01101111 01110101 00100111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01101100 01101111 01110110 01100101 01100100 00101100 00100000 01101001 01101110 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 01110010 00100000 01100101 01101110 01110100 01101001 01110010 01100101 01110100 01111001 00101100 00100000 01101001 01101110 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100101 01101101 01110000 01110100 01111001 00100000 01110011 01110000 01100001 01100011 01100101 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01101111 01100011 01100011 01110101 01110000 01111001 00101100 00100000 01101001 01101110 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100001 01100010 01110011 01100101 01101110 01100011 01100101 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 01110010 00100000 01110011 01100101 01101100 01100110 00101100 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01101100 01101111 01110110 01100101 00100000 01101001 01101110 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100100 01100001 01110010 01101011 






You realize you’re awake, still. Peter is kneeling in front of you, staring with wide eyes and parted lips. You don’t know what just happened, but there’s a strange relief in your heart. The fear has been lifted, and in its place is affection. A sense of sincere gratitude.

 

“I,” you rasp, voicebox worn, “need sleep.”

 

That moment, you both become aware of your position, the way you’re face to face with lips mere inches apart. Peter springs backwards, limbs animated as he stammers his apologies, but you’re unable to listen. Sleep is beckoning you like a siren to the seabed. You feel yourself swaying in time to a melody you can’t hear and can’t articulate, but you have enough willpower to keep your eyes open, watching your stalker get a futon and a spare pillow out of a wardrobe.

 

“You can take the bed, darling,” he’s saying, “I’ll sleep right here, right beside you. You don’t need to worry about anything. If— If you get scared, you can peer over and see me, right? So you know you’re— that you’re not alone. I’ll be there.”

 

He finishes with the floor bed and comes back, manually lowering your unresponsive body onto the mattress. It’s not as soft as the one in the guest room, but it smells like Peter and your spine stretches with soft micro-clicks, relieving an ache in your back that you hadn’t even noticed. You look at him dopily as he pulls up a light blanket over you, rubbing it flat around your shoulders.

 

“Thanks,” you tell him.

 

His eyes snap up to yours, wide and perfect blue, and avoid again. He doesn’t reply, but you’re tired, so you don’t care. Peter leaves your side and you hear his voice again, quiet.

 

“Good night.”

 

The light switches off.

 

Your breathing speeds up, but there’s no foreign presence inside you. Instead, it’s familiarity that crawls down your rib cage, filling out your empty spaces, cocooned inside your warm flesh. Your body temperature cools down, and slowly, sleep claims you as its own.

 

 

Morning welcomes you late. You slept in and ended up waking around ten, burr around your eyes. After washing your face, you go to the kitchen and find Peter in the middle of a battle with the ready pancake mix.

 

“You’re awake!” he exclaims. Gesturing to the mess on the counter, “Sorry, looks like I’m only good for chopping and boiling. It tastes okay though! It’s edible. I think.”

 

You start laughing and can’t stop, devolving into giggles and snorts. You end up taking over batter duty and Peter flips the pancakes instead. He’s good at determining exactly when they’re browned, something you still aren’t very proficient in, so you make a good team and soon enough, you have a batch of pancakes ready. Just as he said, they taste perfectly sweet and have the consistency of fluffy bread.

 

“I think I should take cooking lessons,” Peter says, wilted in defeat.

 

“You’re fine. Pancakes and crepes are difficult. The pasta went much better.”

 

He whines about it some more, but you’re enjoying it. You shove a few more bites in your mouth in spite of your full stomach, exaggerating your chewing, and it seems to make him happier.

 

While you’re finishing up, you find your phone and check your messages, only to remember that Y/N works at a diner and that you weren’t there today. There are seven messages from TK asking about your whereabouts, and three from Lucy asking where you were, dated midnight.

 

“Everything alright?” Peter asks.

 

“Yeah, it’s okay. It’s just…” You read the ones from TK first. They start off with simple reminders, then they become harried ‘are you OK?’s and move on to ‘I’ll cover for you THIS TIME’. And then—

 

‘Boss says you’re fired if you aren’t here by noon COME ON’

 

You push the phone in your back pocket and start zipping your bag up, lightning fast. Peter is hovering behind you— you can feel it— but there’s really, really no time to waste. You don’t wanna risk being unemployed when you don’t know what the job market is like, and there’s a bit of a fear inside you that not being a waiter might fuck up the narrative, if there’s any.

 

“I could drive you if you’re in a hurry,” Peter offers.

 

You spin around to face him. “Really?”

 

“Yeah! I mean, you’re gonna take the bus, right? We’ll be there faster with me.”

 

“Thank you! So much!” You’re tempted to kiss his cheek, but you hold it in and do a very brief hug instead. He’s at least ten inches taller than you, so you end up hugging his chest, but it checks out.

 

You hurry him up while he gets his keys. Just like in the game, his vehicle is a big white van that looks handmade for kidnapping, but you push that thought to the very back of your mind and shimmy into the seat with nervous energy. As Peter starts the engine, you begin wondering if you are even capable of working at Dad’s Damn Diner. Y/N was used to it because they’d been doing it for a while, but you aren’t, and what if you get fired anyway? And then you’ll end up looking for a job anyway.

 

Peter must have seen your somber face because he says, “Don’t be too intimidated. You’ve been working for a long time, they’ll forgive one late day. They’d be stupid to let go of you.”

 

You’re about to thank him when you remember that no, you haven’t told him your destination actually, and additionally, you haven’t told him about your work either. You refrain from sighing and slapping your forehead. But what if I was perceptive and didn’t like you, Peter? What then? You can’t afford to be careless with the information you’re NOT supposed to know!

 

“Thanks,” you say instead, dryly. “I don’t know, I think there are a lot of people who would work harder for less pay. I can’t slack off if I wanna keep my job.”

 

“At a decent place? Sure, workers for cheap wages are dime a dozen. At this shithole? Not really. Like I said, they’d have to be stupid.”

 

Fine. You lean your head onto the headrest. Surprisingly, it’s the perfect height to support your neck. You siphon some good feelings from that and spend the rest of the ride with your eyes closed, resting your mind.

 

Soon though, you’ve arrived. You unbuckle your seat and move to open the door when a hand stops yours in its grip. You glance back. Peter’s face is awfully close to yours, flustering you a little.

 

“Um.” You look at the car window instead. “Yeah?”

 

“You know, when I saw you at the park, I thought you were the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.”

 

You look back at him in shock. What? His cheeks are a little flushed, and his smile is lopsided. Your brain is chanting, What are you doing? What are you doing?!

 

“So,” he continues, his other hand traveling up your arm coyly. “I was wondering if I could take you out for dinner?”

 

Oh you just HAVE to say it like that, don’t you? “Technically… you already have.”

 

“I’m insatiable,” he admits unabashedly. “Both for food and for you.”

 

You bark a laugh. Alright, you gotta give it to him, that was smooth. Since you were already planning on it…

 

“Okay. I’ll bite.”

 

He perks up. “Really? I mean, good. I’m happy that you agreed! How about I come and pick you up at the end of your shift?”

 

“Do you even know when that is?”

 

“...I’m guessing it’s around four or so. And I’d come even if it was late. I don’t think you realize how much I want to go on this date.”

 

You’ve never felt so embarrassed before. It’s like every word he’s saying is dousing you in gasoline, and the heat you’re generating just from your face is crazy.

 

“Okay, fine, I accept. I surrender, whatever.” You push his face away with your open hand, making him grunt in surprise. “See you later?”

 

He smiles. “Yeah. See you later, darling.”

[carbuncle-paws]

I made a real/more serious sketch for you guys too, Peter product testing that emulator!

[malkavianiz]

A fan art for the AU of spies, where Peter works incognit as a woman, named Petra, together with TK who is his partner (work, not romantic) and here a small head canon on how Peter suffers to see himself like this beautiful 💋

AU Creator: twitter.com/frennielover93

[dms-saggicorn]

very very interesting and kinda sweet

The First Death (TW Psychological Horror)

---

Audio Log - xx/xx/2023

No.. no no no no NO NO!! This can't be happening! Darling, please get up!!

I'm so sorry I never meant for things to happen this way, darling, open your eyes, please!!

Darling?? Oh my god-

---

Supervisor Log - xx/xx/2023

You know, nobody ever thanks me for this job.

Oh, Mr. Smith, thank you so much for standing by while the subject wails like a dying dog for hours on end!

He's a pretty predictable guy, you know.

Frantically try to save their life, cry and yell for hours, days even. Stuff their body in the freezer, lock himself in the house, curl up, end up catatonic. Same ol routine. Every goddamn time.

The subject only starts responding again once we cut the amnestics and expose the bastard to the Screen. You know, show him that his darling dearest is still alive. That gets him up and running again.

We usually give him another round of amnestics within the next few days.

The show's gotta go on, you know. We have cash to make.

---

15/xx/202x

Darling, I'm so so happy to see you! Oh, my love, you look so beautiful, so.. well.. alive!

I.. I saw you die today. It was.. hard. There's nothing I can think of to describe what this did to me. My whole world shattered when I saw you on the floor, when I found out you.. weren't breathing.

Please darling.. please never leave me. I wish I could get away from all this, I wish I could just squeeze through this goddamn screen.

I wish I could be with you. Every day. All day. All the time.. I.. I don't know what I'd do without you.

---

Your boss, your relatives, those.. people.. who call themselves your "friends".. they're disgusting.

Nobody else appreciates you the way you deserve, nobody sees you the way I do. This world, it's so sick, everyone's so vile, so shallow, so twisted to not see how wonderful you really are.

I wish you could see this letter. Whenever things get hard, always remember that I love you, and never give up because.. I need you. I need you here.. with me.

You are my sun, my stars, my heart, my soul, my everything. Life is nothing if you're not in it. I need you.

♥️ Your Boyfriend ❤️‍🩹

[rosesmith18]

Hypocritical

Excuse me as I go on a bit of a rant for a moment about some hypocritical people.(No actual names, usernames, etc mentioned)

Disclaimer: Mentions of Sexual Assault, Harassment, Mutilation, Gore, Pedophilia, Rape, Beastilaity(sex with animals)and other such mature topics below.

So, I'm mainly ranting about this cause I don't wish to get into an actual argument with the people in question, cause I am well aware that isn't going to do me any good. But, I would like to post this somewhere to get it off my chest.

Allow me to explain the situation; I was looking at fanart for Your Boyfriend which is a visual novel game about the player going on a date with their stalker, though the player is not aware the stalker is a stalker(warning: this game is for people 18+, so don't go watching or playing it if you are underage). And, as you can likely imagine, people draw some pretty dubious/noncon stuff about it, things like getting molested in your sleep, getting your limps cut off, etc.

Well, I saw one of these fanart creators make a post about someone calling people who like Your Boyfriend, or have a crush on the stalker; Peter, and draw fanart of him doing these things, a bunch of mean things. Essentially, calling people who like the game crazy rapist/stalker supporters. Of course this offended the fanart creator, so they made a post talking about how; Nobody is supporting what Peter's doing by drawing fanart of it, or liking the game, they are just embracing the point of the game. Others said that they used this game as a copping mechanism as they, themselves, were victims of stalking, assault, etc. And, others made points about how the character is fictional, so no one is actually getting hurt by Peter's actions.

And, I completely agree and support all of these statements. Your Boyfriend is a game rated R for adults that has heavy warnings about it's topics, and while I don't support it's creator. The fans aren't hurting or prompting anything by drawing fanart or writing fanfiction about it that are intended to be read by well adjusted adults who can tell reality from fiction.

However, I soon after saw another post by the same fanart creator telling people to block and report another fanart creator for making fanart that sexualized mutilating fictional animals and sexualizing fictional minors; the key term here being FICTIONAL. The comments of this post were filled with people being disgusted with the opposing creator, calling them mentally disturbed, harmful to others, etc. Very similar statements to the same one that was condemning the Your Boyfriend community.

This hypocritical behavior is just appalling, and I see it very often.

For starters; a lot of fanart in the Your Boyfriend community is of Peter in high school trying to have sex with the player, and the like, so this claim that 'sexualizing minors even if their fictional isn't okay' just proves how uncaring about the real life sexualization of minors these people are. Because news flash; teenagers are minors.

Secondly; This Your Boyfriend fanart creator drew pictures of Peter cutting people up, but apparently fictional animals are a no-no? And, it's not like one picture was romanticizing it and the other wasn't, both peoples pictures portrayed the act of cutting something up, whether animal or human, as some level of attractive. And, last time I checked, people actually eat animals.

Thirdly; As a victim of pedophilia, I often cope by reading or looking up fanart of fictional minors being in my past position. Which is what one of the commentors on the Your Boyfriend fanart creators first post also said about their assault. So, why is it that this commentor can cope by reading or seeing fictional version of their assault, but pedophilia victims can't?

Now, I want to end this rant by making a few things very clear. I have no problems with ANY topic being discussed or visualized as long as the stories or drawings do not depict real people or situations(that aren't the creators own). AND, as long as proper disclaimers and ratings are provided. I believe any healthy adult should be able to differentiate between reality and fiction, and should be capable of deciding what they do and don't enjoy/interact with.

My problem is when people try to decide what is and isn't appropriate in a FICTIONAL setting. It's the equivalent of people debating whether it is or isn't okay to eat animals, or whether it is or isn't okay to get an abortion. You can't say it's only okay to eat animals or to get an abortion if they meet certain requirements; That eating one animal is okay, but the other deserves to live. This person can get an abortion, because they got pregnant this way, but the other person can't cause they got pregnant this way. Either fictional situations are okay because they're fictional, or they aren't because they're still about a bad thing. Either adults are smart enough to differentiate between reality and fiction or they're not. I'm done with this double standard that only lets people cope through fanart or fanfiction if their trauma was a certain level of 'bad', and I'm done with this double standard that fictional universes are for everyone of any age until you start bringing adult themes into it, because then 'this is FICTION what if CHILDREN see it?(even if the material isn't for children)'.

DRAW WHAT YOU WANT. WRITE WHAT YOU WANT. USE DISCLAIMERS IF NECESSARY. RATE IT PROPERLY. AND IF YOU DON'T LIKE SOMEONES STUFF THEN MIND YOUR OWN DAMN BUSINESS, YOU'RE NOT GOD, YOU'RE NOT THE POLICE; AND I ASSURE YOU, YOU ARE NOT THE CHILDHOOD SAVING HERO YOU WISH YOU WERE.

P.S. While I’m open to discussion on the topics mentioned, if the discussion is polite and not simply insulting. If I see one more person on a post like this, bringing morality into this then I better not see a SINGLE bad thing on your tumblr or any other site you use, no; adultery(cheating), cheating on test, verbal abuse, child neglect, age gaps of more than two years, power imbalances(including between boss and employee/professor and college student/etc), drunk sex, drug induced sex, lying, manipulation, teenagers in sexual situations(sex/making out/undressing to any extent/etc), people drinking/smoking/doing drugs underage, not requesting a proper ‘yes’ before kissing/undressing/having sex with someone, littering, stealing, impersonating an officer, plagiarizing(the characters, but hopefully not you either), skipping school, physical violence(slapping/fist fights/gun fights/etc), murder, carrying a gun without a license. I could go on, but I won’t. I don’t care about the context, if you’re going to make this about morality then you better only ever read, write and/or consume media with the best, most moral message in existence otherwise you’re no better then anyone else teaching ‘bad’ morals; what if CHILDREN saw what you were doing/watching/reading?