yandere-to-express

[yandere-to-express]

The bottom picture is actually my old drawing from my old tumblir account l actually deactivated that account cause l didn’t like how fuboo fucked up peter personality and what she’s done so got rid that blog like a bad brake up 

Thank you male Yandere https://maleyanderecafe.tumblr.com/

For keeping them

My old blog was something undead zombie or something

If you want to follow my main blog and not my guilty pleasure blog here my one slumber-lexifer

[yandere-to-express]

GOTH PETER JUMP SCARE

[yandere-to-express]

https://spicychat.ai/chat/8984104f-d401-455e-8d9b-4c7c6c3cfd92

[yandere-to-express]

Sarah Dunbar if she was realistic l don’t know why she came out better than her brother

[yandere-to-express]

This bottom one a gorgeous work of a real life artist l just put here for realistic human yb chocoline_art

This is one down here is neizvestny-nz

[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 ̸̡n̶͉o̴̡̞t̶̢̖h̵̥̝i̵̗n̸͍g̵̣̹n̸̫e̸͈͇s̴̯s̶̟̲,̴̼ ̶̲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 ̧͓̩S̲̗̟͎͎Ǫ͇̲̲͖A̦͕͕͇P̗͜�� ̘̝͖͇̞f̧͚̥̹o̖͔͈r̙͉̤̪ ͍G̟̺͖R̨͉̤̠̫͓E̲͚E̲̥E̟̯̹E͕̻͙̼̟ḚA̰̮̘͉͈̼S͙̞̳E̬̻ ̢̬͚̼̗̱01101111 01101100 01100100 00100000 01101110 01100101 01110111 01110011r͎̬̭ͅo̼̘̩̯ͅụn̗̱̹̝͈d̩,̨̪̦̭̝͕ ̧̤̜̱ͅw̡͈͖̬̙͕i̱͇d̨̠̯̙͍e̙-̰̳ọ̺̩͍͕̝p̦̦̘̙ȩ͍̹̳n̩͎ ̤͓͍m̢̡͚̣̫͍o̫̰u͙͚̞t̢̜͎̮ḩ̡̜ ͓̝̥̲F̙̘͇̠E̥̪̳͕E̤̲̫̗̯D̫͜ ͍̣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.

[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.”

[yandere-to-express]

The wrong cranium

Part 2

Gender neutral

The space in between is not empty. The non-euclidean fluid time churns around the non-matter vessel we have curated from a list of volunteers. While the transition is delayed, we are simultaneously weaving the strings together and pumping the thing-that-makes through them. It is an eternal work, but the time dilation has handled it. Can-will-did handle it. It is done in two moderate infinites, which is a frame the fluid in our capacity can work with. The non-matter vessel is absorbed by the strings and bent, folded, broken into its many subatomic particles, then utilized as base material to pump through the strings again. The song of creation screams so beautifully.

 

The work is done. More precisely, ‘done enough’. We strip out of our self and twine around the strings to hide. Lovely abomination. The guide that hears and cares, that hears and leaves, that cannot hear but cares, and does neither. So close, yet so far away. We caress the string that pumps you through them, therefore, we caress all the strings, all the you.

 

I love you.

 

LOAD…

 

loading coda: 1111001 1101111 1110101// end // repeat seg.

 

ʜ̴̹͋ɘ̷̠͌l̸͖͗l̷̘͐ò̵̜ ̵̳̎γ̴̲̑ô̸̤υ̸̥̌.

 

You’re in a dark room. You’re on the floor, smelling the aged wooden floor and the dusty rug beneath you. Where are you? Or better yet, where were you? Slowly, the memories come, and to your surprise, they are clear and painless. However, they still make the veins tremble inside you.

 

You did crack your skull on the floor. All the disgusting stuff ended up spilling all over the linoleum, and you grieved for the person who would have to clean it. The force that had busted you open like a watermelon— you willingly let go of that memory. You don’t want it.

 

And then you were—

 

Dark. You weren’t you anymore, not in the sense you were used to. You were something between real and not real. You were like a shadow, the negative of something that had existed, but not anymore, so you weren’t you but even so, you couldn’t be anything else.

 

Your hands creeped below your ribcage and around your arms, thin as branches. Somehow thinner than the last time you held them. But the contact brought you comfort, and an old, warm feeling echoed through you: I love you. You whimper in relief. As long as you have yourself, nothing could be too heavy to weather.

 

Revitalized by this certainty, you regain the feeling of your body, the dead nerves of your limbs. They cramp back to life, muscles and bone obeying your command. They right you up, then lift you up, like ghostly hands holding a newborn fawn.

 

And finally, you remember your last memory. Peter, touching you, bringing you close. Your heart gave a strange, nauseating lurch in response. Looking around, you can see that this is not your apartment, but you don’t remember this setting; this can’t be Peter’s place.

 

Instead of relief, fear fills your blood, and what is delivered to the tips of your extremities pushes you forward to the door knob standing at your waist height. Swollen with the cocktail of your emotions, your hand turns it, opening the door. Outside there is even more darkness, but despite it, you can see everything you need: a couch, a TV, a dinner table, and a corridor to your right.

 

You don’t know where to go. Should you even leave? What if your host is even more violent, their moods more tempestuous?

 

That settles it. You’re going. You steel yourself for anything unexpected and step through the threshold, only to freeze at the sound of a door unlocking, the creak of hinges, and footsteps approaching.

 

You can feel yourself melting, cold sweat dripping off of you. You hurry your gangly limbs and ungainly torso over to the wall beside the living room door, awaiting movement in your peripheral vision. Distantly, you can hear this person’s vibrations traveling through the floorboards, feel their heartbeat hopping in your marrow fluid. They’re so close.

 

One step away. You ready yourself and pump tension into your arm, like a gun loading a bullet. If you surprise them, you may have a chance. Stepping inside. You see their shoe, then their wrist, and you swing your arm.

 

“Ow!” He stumbles into the doorframe. Your hit landed on his shoulder, though you had been aiming for something closer to his neck. Just like your plan, you almost run, but then… you recognize the voice.

 

“Pe—” Not Peter. He doesn’t know you know him. “Aren’t you…”

 

“Ha ha, you got me good! Wow, now that’s some arm strength, I definitely wouldn’t wanna be at the end of that.”

 

Yup. It’s him. There’s no one else who would treat an almost punch as lightly as this, even in the current circumstances. You try to clear your mind as he turns to face you properly, and wow, he’s actually really tall. You knew he was, but experiencing it in real life is something else. While you gather your thoughts, he just keeps serenely smiling at you, as though he’s got nothing else to do.

 

“Why am I here?” you ask. “We were at the park.”

 

“Well, yes. But you fainted, and I thought it would be irresponsible to leave you like that? I tried to wake up but you just wouldn’t, so I brought you here. To my house.”

 

“...I see.”

 

You blinked slowly, watching him for ill intentions. He seemed to have none, and even you with your meta knowledge of him, couldn’t parse what else his explanation could mean. It was in character, wasn’t it? Peter wanted to be close, so of course he would take the first chance to bring you home.

 

“And why didn’t you bring me to my place?”

 

“You didn’t tell me where you live. I couldn’t.”

 

You stared, baffled. He stared back at you, his expression still stuck with that peppy smile. Was he pulling your leg? He knew your address. You knew he knew— oh.

 

He’s pretending to be normal. Of course. That’s why he brazenly brought you here. If he did know your address, he would have to abide by your wishes and bring you there, but if he didn’t, then there was nothing holding him back from performing this “kind” act. 

 

When you review what he just said, you actually notice that he wasn’t exactly lying. He didn’t say that he didn’t know your address— he just said that you hadn’t told him, which is the truth. When he said he couldn’t bring you home, he wasn’t lying, because how would a stranger know your address? This was, quite frankly, his only reasonable option… even though you’re sure that he could have found another very easily.

 

Unable to make peace with all these thoughts, you sigh. “Alright. Thank you?”

 

His smile widens, his eyes creasing with happiness. “You’re welcome! It’s really late right now, so would you like to stay over? I could make dinner for the both of us, then you could go back in the morning?”

 

Not gonna lie, that’s really tempting.

 

Still, you had your own hang-ups about that. “I’d be imposing—”

 

“Of course not. I wouldn’t have brought you here if I thought that.”

 

“I don’t want… um… to make you tired?”

 

He looked at you without understanding, tilting his head.

 

“You know,” you said, “if you made food for two, that would be more effort? And you’d have twice the dishes to clean? I’d feel guilty.”

 

“Ah.” Peter looked away, but you could see the rapid fluttering of his eye-lashes, as well as the slight flush on his cheeks. “It’s alright. I’d love to cook for you! I mean, you’re so nice and— ha ha, what am I saying?” He lightly slapped his face, then faced you once more. “Then… how about you help me cook? And when we’re done, we can wash the dishes together.”

 

There’s no use arguing against that, is there?

 

“Alright. Just a heads-up though— I like cooking.”

 

“Really? Even better! Let’s switch on the lights and we can start…”

 

He flicked on the lamp on the ceiling.

 

NO, something screams inside you, then clams up. In the infinitely small time frame between darkness and illumination, the heaviness in your body retreats upwards, soaking around your skull, then disappearing as though it never appeared. When the light touches your skin, there’s nothing strange to be seen.

 

But it was there. Around you, inside you. It had been criss crossing your whole skeletal system.

 

(Not anymore, it’s not.)

 

“I’ll show you to the kitchen, okay?” Peter asks.

 

You nod. You need to forget what just happened. You drag your feet, following him into the hallway, busying your ears with the sounds of the carpet.

[yandere-to-express]

The wrong cranium

Gender neutral

Part 1

You know, when you were trying to reach the highest shelf on three stacked footstools, you were actually kind of dizzy. Sleep deprivation does that, of course, but you had been ignoring it for so long that even the dizziness blended into the normalcy of your routine. So when your hopeless Jenga tower wobbled, you had no idea that your failure to balance would lead to instant death by— possibly, because you don’t remember your dying moment— cracking your skull open on the floor, your brains spilling like stew in a fallen pot.

 

And then you woke up. You were disoriented, and honestly not feeling very well, which is kinda homophobic of the afterlife. You know, for not giving you “eternal peace” and “salvation”, even though you’re sure you deserve them, but whatever, right? Life fucking sucks. So you woke up on a park bench, somewhere, around noon. And then, a few minutes into you trying to reload your brain like it’s the newest Windows update, someone sits by you, and then you fucking jolt, eyes wide and dry and blurry from not blinking.

 

“Whoa, hey, take it easy,” he said, hand aloft. “It’s just me.”

 

Okay, you think, thanks for the reassurance, random guy, but this isn’t exactly helping me, yanno?

 

He laughed lightly. The sound was sweet and soothing in your ear. “You’re a jumpy one, aren’t you?”

 

This is so like that boyfriend game, if I didn’t know any better I’d think I was isekai’d into the game like one of those fanfics, you think, and then you think again: wait.

 

“Ha ha,” you said, hysterical but trying hard not to show it. This might as well happen, right? You could feel a trickle of ticklish madness drip drip drip from a hole in your brain, like a dam holding you together slowly giving up the fight, but this wasn’t the time to fall apart. Right? Couldn’t you just freak out at a convenient time on an available weekday slot? Scheduling would be so good if you actually thought your subconscious understood you, but alas.

 

You didn’t say anything else, but your awkward and fake staccato laughter rejuvenated your companion, causing him to reply in kind. With a (genuine) smile and a (warm) laugh. They washed over you like a cat brushing against your skin.

 

“So…” Your companion dragged his gaze to the side, visibly with force, but it was probably because he didn’t want to look away, right? That was kind of cute, in a cute way and not a creepy way. “Are you waiting for your family? Or a friend? You’re kind of far from the jogging track.” His eyes return. Heat-seekers. They lock on your pupils.

 

“Ha ha,” you repeated, in the exact same irritating tone that grated in your ears. “No. Actually…” Were you, like, honorbound by the code of fanfic isekai or something to obey the scenario and be yourself? Because that would suck. You don’t think you can handle it all. It does sound nice, of course— you certainly wouldn’t say no, but the issue wasn’t that. The issue was you.

 

You’re pretty sure you broke something on your way “here”, and it certainly wasn’t a bone.

 

Silently, without warning, tears leak from your tear ducts, painting your cheeks shiny. “I’m kind of not up to— to— doing. Anything. You know? I don’t know why I’m here. It feels weird, in a bad way. Can I— Can I have—”

 

You, despite not behaving this way with strangers, held your arms to the sides, extended, limply crooked at the elbows in a silent plea. He had to understand. You couldn’t ask for it. The moment you asked for it, you would crumble to ashes.

 

His face blanked first, then it illuminated, then it fell. You didn’t know if he was happy or sad, but it didn’t matter, because he was reaching for you in return, cradling you against the cigarette-smelling front of his shirt. He was so tall, while embracing you he could bend by the neck and cast a shadow over your head, like the best hood ever— a breathing, loving one.

 

Twisting and shaking your neural pathways like pinatas, you finally found the turn-off button of your tear ducts. It took a while, but slowly the flow rate slowed, and then completely stopped. You felt like you had to give an explanation now, but the moment you opened your mouth, you hiccuped. Unable to make human sounds.

 

“There, there,” he said, rubbing your upper back. “You’re okay. You’ll be fine. I’m here.”

 

Okay, you thought. You accepted it. You were dead, weren’t you? Why should you have to do this all again? Life wasn’t forgiving to you, and you found that, deep within yourself, you didn’t want to be forgiving to it.

 

You wanted to be happy. Why couldn’t you? (You could. If only—)

 

“Thanks…” You tried to come up with some sort of address that didn’t break social norms, but your brain was fried. “Friend. Not that we’ve met, but—”

 

“It’s fine. We’ve met now. You can call me… friend.” His voice was such that it was obvious he didn’t like it. Of course he wouldn’t. He was a stalker, and if there was one thing stalkers didn’t like it was respecting boundaries. And if there was one thing friends did, it was that exact thing.

 

You squirm in the hug and let go, feeling greedy for keeping it going. He doesn’t show you the same courtesy, however, so you’re stuck with a man gently holding you hostage in his arms. Whatever, you think, and put your arms back in their place.

 

Why should you let go when you didn’t want to? He wants it. You want it. There isn’t even anyone around to judge you, being so far away from the jogging track, so what’s pushing you to get away?

 

“May I ask what’s wrong?”

 

You were startled. What were you going to say? Existential crisis? 

 

“Just… you know when you feel like nothing is real and even the things you thought were real weren’t ever that real?”

 

“...That’s definitely an emotion to hug a stranger over. Wanna talk about it? I might not look much, but I’ve had a lot of practice dealing with similar feelings, even if they weren’t the same as yours.”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Don’t know what?”

 

You try to think, but your brain is screaming at you to STOP IT PLEASE PLEASE STOP—

 

“I really don’t know. I can’t do this. Please… just keep hugging me. If it’s too awkward for you I can actually pay—”

 

“I don’t need money to hug you.”

 

So you both sat there. A constant embrace. He didn’t seem to get tired at all; anytime you started shifting, he would adjust his posture and shape your spine differently, change his breathing pace to provide a new pulse to listen, and move on to a different place to massage. He was tireless, and he was devoted to his task.

 

Unable to withstand his perseverance, you started to relax and calm down. This was new. You don’t remember ever relaxing to this degree before, though you must have at some point. How else would you have gotten enough sleep to survive for twenty two years?

 

But the memories are slippery. They play around and evade your mental fingers, buttery little snakes they are. Maybe you just aren’t meant to reach them. So you let go and surrender to the fingers in your hair, around your waist, holding you in place even when you wiggle. You cannot get out of his grip— that’s what makes it so appealing.

 

Unfortunately, you’re a talkative little shit. “Have you… ever thought about—” About what, huh? Of course he wouldn’t sell hugs to strangers on the streets. This is PETER we’re talking about! A vaguely sociopathic and unstable stalker who’s an asshole to everyone but you!

 

But he’d be good at it. Look at him: he’s so tall. Who wouldn’t wanna rest in the gentle embrace of this giant?

 

Your mind kept working, like a ceaseless little capitalism machine was programmed to do, but your body was weakened. Too many shifts, too much exertion, too much stress on what was already a ticking bomb. With the chance to slow down and catch your breath offered to you on a silver platter, you had no choice but to take it.

 

You, dumbass, fell unconscious.

(by dark-cookies (Snowy_Rain)

[yandere-to-express]

Sorry l thought it was deleted

[yandere-to-express]

Goth and the thembo

Chapter 2


cw for obsessive behaviour and stalking, but, well, you guys knew that was coming, right? maybe the cw should just say "peter",,
(there's also some misgendering, but i promise it's very brief and non-hostile/unintentional!)

Dog barking. Microwave beeping. Smell of the instant meal they just pulled out. Big stretch...  

Breathe.  

“Be quiet, Blossom,” they sighed half-heartedly, already drained only 10 minutes after getting home. The little chihuahua sneezed confrontationally, staring out into the hallway, alert. It was probably the neighbour’s kids getting home from whatever sports club they usually attended. That, or their brothers were coming home after visiting whatever new friends they’d made at their own schools.  

They decided they were too tired to care.  

Legs weaving through the suddenly interested cats and dog now they were holding a plate of food with careful practise, Y/n carried it upstairs to their unfinished room, the blank walls staring at them almost accusingly with boxes of things that still had yet to be unpacked as they clicked the light-switch on.  

Speaking of unpacking...  

Y/n sighed as they sunk into their mattress, spoon in hand as they half-heartedly ate the curry on their plate, the events of the day almost dulling their usual favourite flavour down considerably, cheap chicken tikka masala not covering their taste buds in a comforting embrace the way it used to. Maybe it’s just the way it was made over here.  

Anyway.  

Yeah, they made a new friend in the least likely place, but that was nerve-wracking enough. They thought...They thought that because they got detention something terrible would happen. And when it didn’t...They didn’t know, the impending sense of doom still hadn’t left entirely, so it was exhausting enough just processing it from the comfort of their home. It was a miracle they hadn’t devolved into tears at school, especially with how loud it was in the cafeteria today.  

They couldn’t let that happen. They wouldn’t , this was a new start. They weren’t going to blow it like they did back in Year 7.  

...No, they weren’t thinking about that right now. They’d unpack that memory when they had the mental capacity to do so.  

...What were they thinking about again? Oh, right, school today.  

So yeah, double-period History was boring until Peter showed up, French 2 was a wash (seriously, they were thankful they took it as a GCSE before they left England, they were further ahead than they thought they’d ever be), Graphic Design just went over the same old stuff they already learned back home, and Algebra 2 was even easier like, c’mon! Algebra wasn’t supposed to be easy! At least move them up a few classes if it was like that! They were so worried about the past two years of GCSEs (as well as the three months of Sixth Form that they promptly – and gladly – abandoned when the family moved overseas around Christmas) being earned would be useless now they were here, but it just meant they were too far ahead! And they weren’t allowed to join the Seniors so late into the year either! Back in England they’d been so worried about having enough intelligence, but now they apparently had too much of the stuff, and it was irritating! They’d rather keep being a “gifted” student back in Years 1 to 6, thank you very much. At least AP Physics was more of a challenge, but, well, it was AP Physics . It didn’t get much harder than that, in their opinion.  

Why was all this a problem? Because without work that would take more than 25 minutes to complete on average, Y/n was terrible at focusing. Worksheet finished? You’d think that they would ask for more, right? Wrong , they just stared out the window absently, maybe doodling in a book that they brought for that purpose if they remembered, trying their best to keep their cool when the class got rowdy and the teacher had to shout over the noise to call the class to attention again. It was worse than back home, honestly. The classes were bigger, for one thing, so that immediately meant more noise.  

Man, maybe they should have just gone straight to college. Oh well, too late now.  

They licked their spoon clean as they finished their meal, just opting to leave the cutlery and plate on one of the piles of boxes to take down in the morning, closing their curtains (their parents insisted that they at least hang those up) as they shrugged off their zip-up hoodie, tiredly undressing ungracefully and throwing on some pyjamas. After leaving the room for a few minutes to brush their teeth (hey, they were an idiot who ate unhealthily and kept dirty dishes in their room, but oral hygiene was still one of their top priorities! ...thanks for scaring that into them, Mum), they reached into a small box by their bed, pulling out an old pink DS, checking the cartridge and settling on the game inside, ignoring Blossom’s barking as they heard their brothers return.  

Pokémon Platinum would help them out for now...  

Y/n woke up with a start, eyes snapping open as they heard movement outside. They wiped their bleary eyes as they looked around. They’d fallen asleep with their DS, it seemed, the melody of Jubilife City at night out of place as their anxiety rocketed. Was this the beginning of a robbery?! Were they being robbed?! They scrambled to pick up their DS, tapping the Pokétch a few times to get a sense of how late it was and-  

Oh. 11pm. That was when their dad got home from work, which was confirmed by the door creaking open downstairs, his mumbles of greeting to what Y/n assumed was their Mum or a brother muffled by the floorboards beneath them.  

Man, were they dumb, huh? They let out a shaky chuckle at their own stupidity, shutting their DS and putting it on the makeshift nightstand (you know, just a stack of boxes, like what anyone else has in their bedroom) next to their bed. They lay back down, screwing their eyes shut in an attempt to sleep.  

Surprisingly, it actually worked!  

...Unsurprisingly, they missed the way the moonlight cast a shadow on the figure sitting in the tree just outside their window...  

Ok, that was way too close for comfort.  

That old dude who went inside almost saw him, apparently there was a family dog that hated people walking by, and poor Y/n looked terrified! They looked as though they were about to die (no, not them, they’d never die, he’d make sure of it)! But, fuck, if the streetlight was just a few inches closer to the house...  

Peter shivered as he looked back into his darling’s darkened room with his huge, almost luminous, cerulean eyes, safe in the knowledge that not many other people would be out at this time, and none of them would see them from the sidewalk. He waited for what felt like an eternity, watching as the rest of the lights shut off before making his next move.  

His mother and sister picked on him for looking scrawny, but he hardly felt it as he lifted himself up on the branch above and hoisted himself onto the balcony and into the doors that they must have left open by mistake (honestly, it was February! Never mind the dangers of the world outside, what about the cold?! Oh, he’d have to take care of them, help them stay safe and healthy)…  

Unless they were expecting him...?  

He felt a shiver race through him, caused by the excitement and the chill (it was 23 degrees out there, ok?!) as he tip-toed into the room cautiously, praying to whatever deity out there that he didn’t step on some old, creaky floorboard. Thankfully, his darling’s room didn’t seem to have any (good, they deserved the best room in the world, he couldn’t bear to let someone as adorable as them to live uncomfortably, and they were so small! He was actually a little worried some of the piles of boxes would topple over and crush them!), and he was right by their side in a flash.  

He stood, watching over Raine with a little uncertainty of what to do now, looking at the rise and fall of their chest. They were wearing some pyjamas with some yellow fantasy animal thing on it (Pikachu, right? So adorable ...), and they gave a little snort as they slept, a little bit of drool escaping their mouth.  

If Y/n knew they looked like that while they slept? They would’ve been mortified.  

But, to Peter?  

They looked like an angel sent from the heavens. His darling angel. Fuck, how could anyone look so adorable and beautiful?  

...Well, the cold was no longer an issue for him, it seemed.  

Peter knelt down, placing his chin onto the mattress as he continued watching them breathe. Watching as their face scrunched up a few times, muttering nonsensical things out loud as they dreamed (he had no idea what a cookie cat was, but fuck, they were just so cute!) . He stayed there for hours, ignoring the plea for rest from his eyes as they drooped more and more. After the first half-hour, he’d gotten bolder and moved his face closer to theirs, able to smell their wavy brown hair (they must have used coconut scented shampoo before school, he realised, but God , it was addicting, he’d have to get some of his own just to be reminded of the scent of them ) and gently wipe away the line of drool leaking from their barely parted lips.  

...Deep within him he knew it was gross, but he licked the liquid away in a flash and, stars above , that was even better than their smell!  

He whispered praise to them as the night dragged on, petting their hair and caressing their cheek tenderly. He even got a little absent, sleepy nuzzle on the hand back (he was never washing that hand again)! His darling kept mumbling stuff about ice cream from outer space, and choosing something called a Bidoof (whatever it was, they giggled in their sleep about it being God, and, in case you hadn’t guessed yet, he did another mental bluescreen at how adorable they were being) to fight something called an Arceus?  

But then, they said something that made his heart (and, ok, maybe his pants) swell and his face turn bright red.  

“Mmph, Peter...Bite me...Sharp teeth...”  

Oh.  

Oh boy.  

The goth kind of just...sat there, staring at Y/n in bewilderment.  

Yesyesyesyesyes darling, he could do that!  

He cursed under his breath, averting his gaze out of bashfulness (somehow, he had some shame still left inside!), and pausing as he noticed the sky outside was brightening.  

Fuck , he’d been there all night!  

Peter hesitantly got up, looking back at Y/n as he made his way back to the balcony. The sun was only just peeking up behind the horizon, but it was enough for some golden rays to hit his darling’s body.  

Yeah. He was right. They had to be an angel, they looked so fucking beautiful and peaceful like that.  

He wouldn’t mind waking up next to them like that in the bed, some day.  

He shook his head, brushing his ebony hair out of his face, gazing over Y/n face and body one last time, before hopping out the balcony and back into the tree, scaling down it carefully and landing a little clumsily onto the wet grass. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and hesitantly walking away, back towards where the school and his own house was.  

He was going to be so exhausted today.  

...It was totally worth it, though.  

“Someone’s chipper today,” Lucy noted as Y/n skipped into the classroom, sitting next to her with a smile. “You’re even in on time! Did Detention really scare you so much that you didn’t wanna be late again?” 
“Good morning to you too,” they frowned teasingly, pulling out a little sketchbook and their pencil case. “Nope, I just...I dunno, I didn’t sleep in for once. I actually slept great for the first time in, what? Ever?” 
“You look it, your eye-bags are basically gone!” 
“Oh, no, that’s makeup. But! I actually had time to put some on for once!” 
“Aww, Y-Y growin’ up!” Lucy teased and wiping pretend tears away and, patting them on the back and jokingly wiping away a tear. “But, how was Detention by the way?” 
“Oh, great, actually. I got some work done and I made a new friend,” Y/n admitted, beginning to doodle. Lucy smiled widely, seeming to be genuinely happy. 
“Good for you! I’ve noticed that my crowd seems to put you off – don’t give me that look, I’ve seen your face, I’ve worn that face, I’m only still around those loud assholes because they’re Vio’s friends, so I know how you feel – but, seriously. I’m happy for you, now you’ll have someone less obnoxious than the soccer team!” 
“You’re talking to me as if I have no friends other than you,” Y/n raised an eyebrow at her, grinning. 
“You know what I mean! You only really hang out with me and Vio, as well as that nerd in your History and Physics classes. TJ?” 
“TK, and they’re a sweetheart, I’ll have you know.” 
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but, anyway! Who’s your friend?” 

Y/n glanced down at the doodle and realised that without thinking, they’d drawn the new friend himself.  

“Oh, take a look, I just finished a drawing of him,” they pointed. Lucy followed their finger, their smile dropping as her violet eyes widened, pupils contracting. 
“No,” she hissed quietly, whipping her head back to face the other, panicked. Y/n groaned at her expression. “Not him! You can’t be friends with him, he’s- well HE FUCKING CURVE STOMPED A JOCK AND TEEETH ARE ALL GONE!” 
“Trouble? Yeah, I know, TK told me, but he was nice enough to me!” Y/n whispered back, frowning. Lucy shook her head violently, ignoring how her earrings bashed against her cheeks as they swung on her ears. 
“You can’t! Peter King is- He's-” 
“If he ends up being horrible, I’ll just back off! I’ll be fine, Lulu!” 
“But!-” 

“Excuse me, girls,” came Mrs Stewart’s voice and, ew, there’s only one girl here, Y/n grimaced, Lucy frowning as she caught on too. “Could we have some silence whilst I do roll-call, please?” 
“Sorry Miss,” Y/n slumped, staring down at their paper. Lucy continued to look on with irritation at the teacher, absently squeezing their hand in comfort. 

Soon enough, registration passed, and the class continued with its noise before the first bell went off to signify the change in classes. Lucy looked at Y/n, eyes worried.  

“She’s a shit teach, huh?” 
“I’m used to it, it was worse back in the UK,” Y/n shrugged, packing their things away so they wouldn’t have to hurry when the time came. Lucy sighed. 
“I’m sorry, y/n, I- Fuck, not just that old bat, but about Peter. I’m just- I don’t want you getting hurt, ok? And, well, he makes others hurt a lot. But, if you wanna try, I won’t stop you. You’ll tell me if he does hurt you though, yeah? Vio and the boys’ll kick his ass for you, heck, I’ll join in! It’d put my brown belt to good use!” 
“Thanks, Lulu,” Y/n smiled, picking up their bag as the bell rang. “And, hey, I can beat him up too if I have to! I do swimming! I have the muscle!” 
“You’re a bit small compared to him, Y-Y.” 
“So’s everyone else!” 
“You’re 5’4!” 

They paused as they walked, before laughing loudly.  

“Ah, whatever, you probably won’t need to, anyway. See you at Break?” 
“See ya, good luck in the halls!” Lucy shouted over the noise, grinning as she made her way to her Business class. Y/n sighed, looking back at her momentarily before pushing on through the crowds. 
“I’ll fucking need it,” they grumbled getting pushed to-and-fro by all the taller students, pulling up their hood and tugging on the cord to block out the smell of deodorant and teenage sweat as they made their way to a hopefully quiet classroom. 

Media had better have some sort of challenge today.

[yandere-to-express]

The goth and thembo

Gn

“Detention?! Already?! You just got here a month ago!”

Y/n sighed, already expecting this reaction from their homeroom teacher. Granted, the punishment wasn’t for anything too bad; they just slept in a lot more than they meant to, and the “jet-lag” excuse after moving their whole life across the Atlantic for their parents’ careers must have worn off after the first few weeks. Honestly, with the lack of sleep and stress catching up to them? They thought they were lucky they were making it into school and managing homework at all.

They nodded along as the teacher droned on about responsibility – as if they hadn’t heard it a thousand times over at home already – pretending to listen as the hyperactivity in their brain buzzed and clouded over any form of caring enough.

Hmm, what would they have for dinner tonight? Pasta’s easy, and their parents weren’t going to be back until late in the evening, so they might as well try cooking whilst they could. Maybe clean up and do whatever bullshit homework they were given today so they don’t forget...They should play Animal Crossing, their town was probably itching for all the weeds to be pulled out, maybe a little bit of Pokémon after too, not Crystal though, the battery went all funky on the cartridge...

“...We can work out a way to prevent this from happening again,” came Mrs Stewart’s stern voice through the brain fog and, oh, no, why would she say that? Y/n nodded hesitantly in response, internalising all their complaints. ”Because this can’t happen again, Y/n. You’ve been an excellent student from what I’ve seen and heard so far, and it would be a real shame for this to drag you down.”

“It won’t happen again, I’ll work on it,” Y/n lied through their teeth, hazel eyes attempting to keep to one spot on the teacher’s face, but failing. Mrs Stewart nodded, features finally relaxing. Somehow, she believed them.

“Good, see to it you do. You may go, you’ll be late for second period otherwise.”

“Detention isn’t so bad,” Lucy reassured, making her voice loud enough to be heard over the din of the dining hall. “I had one for a late assignment last semester. It was actually kinda chill, you hear the weirdest stories in there, but it’s really fun.”

Y/n sipped from their drink with a frown, pushing their messy brown hair from their face as they tried to listen. They’d been buddied up with Lucy when they arrived back in January, meaning they were now stuck with all the loud kids at lunch. They weren’t complaining, mind you, the company was nice! It just gave them a headache at best, and at worst so far...Well, they didn’t understand what was wrong with them, but they’d rather not think about it. Anxiety was enough of a diagnosis for them right now.

“Look, I’m just saying, it’ll be fine! Try not to fall asleep in there, though, you might get into more trouble.”

“Thanks, Lucy, real great advice,” they rolled their eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm as they bit into their apple. Lucy just shrugged with a wink.

“Anytime, Y-Y.”

The lunch period continued as usual, and soon enough the bell ringed for the next round of classes to start. Great. Just what they needed right now, two hours sugar-coated history of a country they knew nothing about when they felt like falling asleep at any moment, right before detention. Still, they couldn’t just skip, that’d earn extra punishments. So, they dragged their feet through the halls, somehow staying upright through the hustle and bustle that was 10 times worse than the now seemingly very small Secondary School in England that they’d left behind for this. As much as they hated to admit it, Y/n would love to hear another British accent loudly proclaim someone had cheated on so-and-so in the middle of the corridor, but, alas, that was an experience they’d never burden again. Instead, they had to fight for their life with exhaustion as thousands of students streamed into their classes with the force of a burst pipe.

Somehow, they made it in, grunting at the greeting the person who sat next to them gave – their name was TK, right? They were too tired to remember or care – and flopping down in their chair with a sigh. Curse these huge American schools with huge American student, their poor feet felt like they were going to drop off!

Soon enough, the History teacher – Mr Russel – started his droning on about some time when alcohol was banned across the nation. Or, uh, something like that, Y/n wasn’t really paying attention, doodling on the corners of their pages instead. They did the work! They just didn’t soak in the information. Mr Russel said it was good work later on, so clearly they were doing something right regardless.

Suddenly though, in the middle of the lesson, the door slammed open and a pissed off, lanky ball of edge strode in. The teacher frowned at the intrusion.

“Well, good afternoon, Mr King! Would you mind explaining where you’ve been?”

The student just kept walking, grunting something about being dress-coded, which, uh, yeah that seems likely with that thin mesh shirt in the middle of February, Y/n thought, not realising they were staring by the time the kid sat in the vacant seat next to them. He caught their gaze as Mr Russel continued the lesson, narrowing his piercing, bright blue eyes.

“What?” he snarled, making Y/n flush with embarrassment at getting caught staring.

“S-Sorry,” they quickly whispered, trying their hardest not to look his way again, catching glimpses of him looking bored throughout the lesson.

Little did they know, that wouldn’t be the last they’d see of him.

“Who was that?!” they blurted to TK once the lesson ended, seeing as the goth kid had already left. TK looked up at them from their packing, startled.

“W-Who?”

“Goth kid with the attitude! How come I’ve never seen him before?!”

“Oh, him,” TK grimaced, turning their attention back to their bag. “Yeah, uh, that’s Peter King. Gets into fights and stuff a lot, and honestly that’s what he’s like on a good day. In fact, that’s gotta be the calmest I’ve ever seen him. You have detention, right? He’ll be in there because of the dress-code violation, try not to stare again.”

And so, once they both said goodbye, Y/n trudged along to their doom, knowing they couldn’t stop themself from staring again if the opportunity came about.

Because, honestly? As intimidating as he was, this “Peter” character was rather intriguing. They’d wanted to get into gothic dress themself recently, maybe if they miraculously befriended him, he’d say where he got his gear from. Maybe not the mesh tee...Maybe. At least, not until the Summer...And definitely not without a tank top or a binder...

Soon they reached the classroom detention was being held in, noticing that, well, no one was actually going inside. They spotted the goth from before, swallowing their anxiety down since he was the only one who they really knew of and recognised, and fumbled their way towards him nervously.

“U-Um...” they began, stuttering with uncertainty. Peter looked down with a frown.

“What do you want,” he growled, practically baring his teeth and oh goodness his teeth don’t be into him you don’t know him Y/n you weirdo.

“I-I, um, this is detention, r-right?” they carried on, shrinking under his stare. “I-I’m sorry for staring earlier b-by the way, um, you look c-cool...”

Peter stared a little longer, brows furrowing deeper.

“U-Um...I’m Y/n by the way.”

...That gaze was intense holy shit, Y/n couldn’t help but look away with heated cheeks, sweating nervously. Oh, man, they’d got off on the wrong foot and he wasn’t interested in fixing that, was he?! They didn’t want an enemy! TK said he fights people, God, they hoped he wouldn’t want to fight them ! They couldn’t knock out a butterfly!

“...Peter,” he finally said, making Y/ look back up in surprise. He was looking away from them...Was he blushing? No, no, maybe their eyes were just really tired. “You’re in the right place, teacher’s just late. Uh...Thanks. I guess. The teacher who dress-coded me certainly didn’t think so.”

“U-Uh huh, w-well, what do they know, huh,” Y/n laughed nervously, trying to ease whatever tension they could sense emanating off of the other in droves. “T-They’re teachers, they aren’t the best as, um, fashion, I guess?”

Peter scoffed, shoulders relaxing a little as he pushed some of the long, dark hair out of his face.

“You’re tellin’ me, first day back after suspension and they pull this shit.”

This drew a more earnest giggle from Y/n (really, Y/n, giggling ?!), making Peter chuckle a little too, tension fading away more with each passing second.

Soon enough the assigned teacher showed up, apologising profusely and letting the students in. They answered a brief roll-call, and soon enough there was a muted chatter among the kids, some choosing to work, others ignoring all school-related possibilities. Somehow, Y/n had already befriended the lanky goth enough for him to instantly sit at the desk next to theirs, and they found themselves being watched as they attempted the bullshit Math homework that had been assigned earlier in the day. Not that they minded, they figured the other didn’t have much to talk about, and that was fine with them. It gave them more of a chance to focus, after all.

After about 20 minutes, however, Peter finally spoke up.

“...So what’re you in for?” he asked, voice gravelly and interrupting Y/n concentration. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted. “You definitely didn’t get coded, and you look way too small to fight anything.”

Ouch, harsh, not everyone is over 6’ and can fight God. “Um, it’s not that special,” they shrugged, choosing to ignore the slight insult. “I, um, I just slept in a whole lot.”

“Huh,” he nodded, looking away absently for a moment, as if he were thinking of what to say next. “...Not a great sleeper, huh?”

“Nope, haven’t been since I was, what, 5?” Y/n sighed, trying to make sense of the equation on the page in front of them.

“Ah.”

The two were silent again, but y/n couldn’t help but feel it was much more awkward now. It felt like they both had things to say but didn’t know how to string the words together.

“...So, um...” they began, fumbling for a topic. “...Where’d you get your choker?”

“Oh. Uh, just Hot Topic,” he answered, looking away almost sheepishly. “It was on sale, so...”

“Cool, I’ll have to get one,” Y/n hummed, quickly writing it down on their hand.

The conversation came and went throughout the rest of the remaining 40 minutes, but soon enough the detention ended. The class of kids streamed out, Y/n and Peter being the last ones to leave as they trudged out of the school and into the crisp, late-Winter air, clunky shoes and warm boots crunching the powdering of snow on the ground beneath them. They reached the gate, Y/n pointing to where they were going, and the boy paused.

“Hey, uh, you have a cell?” he asked almost hopefully (almost). Y/n looked up at him in surprise; they hadn’t expected to befriend him so soon!

“O-Oh! Yeah, hang on, let me, um-” the fumbled in their coat pockets finally producing the little pink flip-phone, little rainbow and star charms attached and all, clicking through to their contact and holding it up to offer him a view. “Um, here!”

“Mhmm,” he nodded, quickly typing in the contact details on his own, clunky little phone. He looked back at them, almost pouting. “Uh...You were fun to talk to...I’ll talk to you later I guess?”

y/n smiled brightly up at him with a nod, waving cheerfully as they walked away.

...How did this happen to him?

There he was being pissed off at the world when suddenly... They got all fucking cute. How could this not happen to him?!

As he watched them walk away, clutching his phone desperately, he began to grin sinisterly.

He may as well make sure that...his new Darling got home safe, right? He’d get to see their home in the process, after all, and, oh, it was always so dark so early on February nights like these, he wouldn’t want anyone getting any bright ideas, would he?

And so, he stalked after them silently as the sun set, y/n blissfully unaware of the Hell they’d brought upon themself that day.

(I saved this story file that got deleted original from inkblot_skyz)

[yandere-to-express]

[yandere-to-express]

Peter: you listen to them sing l listen to them sleep we are not the same

Tk:what th_

[yandere-to-express]

YANDERE BOYFRIEND MADE FOR YOU NO SERIOUS HES THE DEFINITION OF YANDERE …sorry for shouting 0-0

[yandere-to-express]

I need a x reader for this character, whos writing it?

(( Allow me~. ))

Keep reading