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[look-a-yandere-oc-blog]

Out, Damned Spot!

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Male Yandere (Micah) / Gender Neutral Reader

(Written in 2nd person.)

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CW: Implied murder (left vague as to whether it actually occurred), implied abuse, mentions of kidnapping/imprisonment.

(If there’s anything else I need to add to the CWs please let me know).

The title makes it really obvious that I studied Macbeth for English Lit… XD

Also, first post, hehe!

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The blood was still there.

Micah has washed this sweater a billion times.

It was still there. As though it was woven into the fabric itself, embedded among the threads. Intertwined, like it had always been there.

He should have thrown it away.

And he’s thought about it.

Countless times, he’d found himself in front of the fireplace and holding the sweater in his shaky hands. He extends his arms. The sweater is held out. A sacrifice to a dark god. The flames reach up from the ashes as though they were sinners desperately clawing up from hell. Snatching, slashing, singeing. Closer. Closer. Closer...

But, every time, he pulls back. He holds it close. He cradles it in his arms. The fabric is unbearably soft against his shirt, neck, and face. When it’s in his arms he wonders why he ever wanted to burn it.

He knows why. And it’s because of you.

This was yours.

Well, technically his, and you simply “borrowed” it.

He let you wear it on your first date. He couldn’t bear to steal it back. Besides, it looked better on you then on him.

Many days have gone by since that arcade date. Weeks and months, celebrations and get-togethers. Late night conversations and emotional heart-to-hearts.

But in one night, just one night, that happiness was swept out from under him.

Micah can’t remember what happened that night.

He remembers the moments before disaster: the shouting, the fury, the disgust.

He remembers how you tried to run. How you screamed at him; calling him a “fucking creep”.

He remembers the rope burn on your wrists, your eyes bloodshot, your face moulded into an expression of fear.

You saw something you weren't supposed to. He told you to never go down there. He had to do this. He had to keep you here.

In the moment, he swore that it was your fault, that you knew the consequences for venturing down onto the basement. But you didn't. You didn’t know how far he’s gone to keep you with him. You were oblivious to the blood on his hands. He knew, somewhere deep down, that you were unaware. You were just scared. Scared and angry, and so was he…

And...

And then he hurt you.

Micah blacked out. He couldn't recall a second beyond when you started crying. He felt nauseous and fidgety at the memory of tears in your eyes. He hated when you cried.

He only came to hours later, alone in his bed. All alone.

The bed was so cold.

It took even longer for him to get out of it. He forced himself onto his feet, forced himself to go downstairs. But only broken rope, a smashed window, and a sweater remained where you were once tied.

A white sweater. Pure and pristine. Well-kept and cared for. Tarnished and tainted by the specks of blood across its front.

Blood.

Your blood.

Micah soon re-emerged from the basement. He couldn’t stand it down there. It felt as though every floorboard, every cobweb, every nail and brick knew his crimes. Every creak and crack in the wood mocked him. Gaps in the violently disturbed dust were harsh reminders of his sins.

He hasn’t gone back down there.

Still, the unforgiving room left him with one question: where were you?

He’s churned over this question for weeks.

Were you safe in your bed, back at home with your family and friends?

Did someone else find you? Someone who treats you even worse than he did?

Or are you smothered under that patch of disturbed soil in the garden? Buried in a hasty and unmarked grave without so much as a goodbye.

He can’t remember, and he doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t want to drive down to your house. He doesn’t want to turn on the tv and see your face; be the news good or bad. He doesn’t want to unearth whatever’s waiting patiently beneath that patch of dirt.

Ignorance is bliss.

But...

That bliss is shattered whenever he catches himself in a mirror, or window, or the dark reflection of a screen.

Whenever he glances down at his body; down at the sweater he refuses to take off.

Whenever he notices those drops of crimson, still as vibrant as the night they were spattered onto the fabric.

Those stains that will never come out.

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#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #male yandere #tw yandere #x reader #gender neutral reader #ocs #original character

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Hello, and welcome to the blog!

Due to the trope this blog will be focused on, please proceed with caution, and be sure to check the warnings before reading any of my works.

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Rules for Requests / Blog Information:

- No smut (under penalty of death /lh).

- Suggestive themes may be used, and if included will be stated in warnings.

- Less of a rule and more of a recommendation: the more specifics in a request, the better.

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- Can be directed towards author (me!) or the character themselves.

- No NSFW questions.

- If you are unsure whether an ask will be considered NSFW, feel free to message me before submitting the ask.

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