look-a-yandere-fandom-blog

[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

Haha! Oh my gosh, I’m flattered to hear that!

I’m seriously glad to hear that you’ve enjoyed it this much - even going so far as to save the link for later, I hope it’ll be just as fun on re-read!!! <333

[ first encounter ]

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guess who's getting a part 3 tomorrow!!!

(hopefully... assuming I don't suddenly decide to rewrite half of it hahah!!!)

[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

blog redesign :)))

I loved the old one, but felt that it wasn't in keeping with the more horror-y stuff i've been writing

[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

Dr. Lymer & Dr. Greavesly | Yandere Headcanons

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Gender Neutral Reader

Fandom: The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls.

No Spoilers.

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Content Warning: Bloodletting, blood drinking, surgeries, sadism, marking, obsessive/possessive behaviour, plenty of leeches, these two are proper yikes so brace yourself.

(If there’s anything else I need to add to these warnings, please let me know.)

Giving myself a bit of a challenge here - as so far asylum-wise I've only written for Stockill, and he already kinda fits into the yandere archetype within canon (obsessive towards those who intrigue him, extreme/murderous jealousy, etc).

But, I needed to try something out of my comfort zone, and sadistic yans can be interesting to write soo... have these two, I suppose???

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- To catch the eye of the asylum's staff spells misfortune for any soul.

- To catch the eye of its bleeder? Or its butcher? That is more than mere misfortune: it is a tragedy.

- Well… Let's start with Lymer, shall we?

- A lecherous and leech-loving man; if one were to spark this doctor’s curiosity, it would likely be through his infamous bloodletting.

- Lymer has bled many before, evidenced by rows upon rows of bottled blood that surround unfortunate visitors to his ward.

- Blood is not simply a career to Lymer, it is a sickening passion. And such is his passion for the creatures that deliver it to him.

- Then, isn't it fitting that they are what trigger his obsession?

- It was a bloodletting, just like every other. Lymer thought it would be no different. But, as the procedure drags on, he watches his dear leeches. Bloodthirsty little buggers, yet somehow thirstier today than usual.

- Yes, with this one, this inmate, they seem as though they cannot get enough!

- Perhaps it were an imagining of the doctor's, or perhaps a genuine strangeness in the creatures' behaviour.

- Regardless, Lymer decides on the best practice to follow. His go-to practice.

- More bleeding.

- Much, much, more.

- Soon, the dozens of filled bottles are replaced. The labels torn off and the jars cleaned out.

- Replaced by more blood. All from a single 'donor': the unfortunate patient who took his fancy.

- But it was never enough.

- No matter how many samples he gathers. No matter how many times he watches his leeches feed and feed and feed and feed.

- It is never enough for the leeches.

- It is never enough for him.

- A moment of curiosity was all it took, alone in the ward, as he held a bottle between his fingers.

- What was it that his beloved leeches adored so much?

- In an instant, blood rushed past his lips, the tang of metal coating his tongue as he tipped the glass back. Intoxicating.

- An older sample, however. Cold and half-clotted. It could be better.

- So, the next bloodletting… this one is different.

- Ushering his assistants out of the room, Lymer's mind whirrs, a filthy grin set into his unkempt features.

- In this place, a smile cannot be a good thing.

- The inmate lies down, nervous, yet incapable of resisting. It would be worse for them if they did.

- Soon, the prick of tiny teeth piercing their skin, uncomfortably familiar.

- But once a wound is made, the leech is yanked away, squirming restlessly as Lymer tosses it into a jar.

- The doctor impatiently eyes the wound, pressing himself to the side of the medical bed.

- Warm. Fresh.

- Then, he undoes the leather straps around their bleeding arm. Fumbling with the buckles while his mouth begins to water.

- Vampiric and depraved. The poor soul can do nothing but stare with horror as his teeth latch around their wrist. His eager hands press into their arm, greedily squeezing flesh, ensuring that the flow continues.

- Drinking and drinking and drinking. Engraining the taste in his memory.

- They try to yank their arm away, but the doctor does not budge. Sinking his teeth in deeper. Not wanting the meal to end.

- It's raw. It's disgusting. It should disgust him: ingesting the impure blood that may very well be the reason they landed here in the first place.

- But, the only word that comes to his bleary, buzzing, mind is 'divine'.

- After an age, Lymer is dragged to reality by the patient, their body starting to fall limp (a side-effect of blood loss, and a rather entertaining one in his eyes).

- Finally, he is satisfied. Full and content like his leeches.

- He looks up to the patient's face. A repulsive red fills the gaps between his teeth, his eyes half-lidded as he leers at them, soaking in their bewildered gaze.

- How do they not understand? Do they not know disgustingly good they taste?

- Lymer runs his gaze over them, his drunken mind groping for more places to drain. The other arm, maybe. Or perhaps a leg. Or their neck?

- He saves those thoughts for another time, having satiated his thirst for now.

- But, he does not move to undo the patient's bindings and send them on their way, as usual. Instead, he restrains their arm once again.

- He knows, like every craving, he will not remain satisfied forever.

- And so here they will stay, bound and weak in the bloodletting wing, until Lymer's hunger arises once again.

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- Dr. Greavesly is no better. An agitated, barbaric, beast; finding pleasure only in getting under others' skin. Both metaphorically and literally.

- In his case, the reactions of an inmate are what catch the butcher’s attention.

- Specifically, their lack of reaction.

- The patient is resilient. Barely batting an eye to the preserved organs and entrails proudly decorating the surgical theatre. Hardly wincing at the dig of his blades against their flesh.

- A challenge.

- So, naturally, things become much, much worse for them. Dragged out to the operating theatre more and more frequently as Greavesly's determination grows.

- The procedures are just as wild as him. Everything is on the table: slicing their skin open, carving deep into their muscles, perhaps even amputating a few small things... maybe a couple of fingers. Any 'trinkets' are then displayed alongside the other jars, mocking the inmate every visit after.

- Although, he does imagine much worse. Tearing out their organs, holding their insides with his rough hands, watching the spite and life leave from their eyes...

- He is more restrained than he would like to be. Only as he knows how fine the line between life and death is. A bit too much pain and he could kill them before they crack.

- Greavesly doesn't want that. He doesn't want them to die yet. He wants their strength to splinter, to split, to shatter beyond salvation.

- And he wants to revel in it.

- Even the asylum's wards are not a sanctuary, as the surgeon stalks out from his operating theatre. Restless hands twitching as he hunts for the inmate, tormenting them in every free moment he gets.

- He would spend every waking moment, if he could. Alas, he has to perform the operations he was hired for, lest Stockill get on his case.

- It is clear that this inmate is Greavesly's alone to torment. And in most cases, a single glare from the butcher is enough to drive the other staff away. However, some just can't seem to get the message.

- Any chasers who push their luck? Well, they don't tend to return.

- At least, not all in one piece. After all, Greavesly wouldn't want someone else to break his challenge first. That would be no fun.

- Speaking of…

- As his obsession draws on, fun is what Greavesly starts to value more and more.

- There is little strategy or decorum in his actions to begin with. But as time ticks on, he becomes more creative.

- More self-indulgent.

- After all, pain isn't the only way in which one can be broken.

- Forcing them to watch the procedures he performs on other patients is a favourite of his. Even in this cursed building, the inmates cannot help their sympathy for each other. And he cannot help the urge to take advantage of that.

- Meanwhile, in his downtime, Greavesly will lay back in a chair and yank them into his lap, overgrown red hair falling over them.

- As he inhales those damned opium cigarettes, he blows smoke into their face, laughing at their irritated splutters. And if they try to pull away? Well, those cigs are good for giving burn marks too.

- The question is, if they break, when they break, what will become of them?

- Would he finally leave them alone? Would he put them out of their misery?

- Or would it only make his obsession worse?

- That is for the future to reveal.

- For now, this 'challenge' is keeping him occupied, keeping his technique sharp with new methods of torture and maiming.

- Greavesly has discovered that breaking a body is easy, but breaking a mind is so much more fun...

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[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

Loved the second part for Ratak, The Obssessed/Reader—though I am curious—what will eventually happen now that reader has been captured and taken to that makeshift ‘home’? Will reader become willing to Ratak’s ‘love’? Maybe some Stockholm Syndrome will come into play? 👀

Acceptance | Oneshot Continued

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The Obsessed / Gender Neutral Reader

Fandom: Middle Earth: Shadow of War 

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Romantic Yandere.

PT 1 | PT 2

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Content Warning: Blood, injury, stockholm syndrome, imprisonment, delusional/obsessive/possessive behaviour, brief mentions of stalking/paranoia.

(If there’s anything else I need to add to these warnings, please let me know.)

Hi again, anon (I assume you're the same one who requested part 2, but if not then it's nice to meet ya)!

So *claps hands* this maybe might have just maybe ended up being longer than both of the previous parts put together???? No clue how that happened, but it sure was fun XD

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It was never the right time.

Irregularly, seconds dripped on. So slow and yet so fast. The moment only a little ahead, and then barely missed.

It was never the right time to leave.

You promised yourself that you would escape this place. Swore yourself to it. And, as time trailed by, you clung to the thought as though it were salvation.

Weeks, you believe it has been. You cannot quite be sure; as the room's limited light and your own inconsistent sleep pattern has left your sense of time blurred.

Day was marked by thin streams of light, sneaking through cracks in the stone walls. On your first morning here, you awoke to find yourself alone. Ratak had taken his leave while you slept. So, you were left to make sense of your surroundings.

The drip of water caught your ears, collecting in a corner of the room, far from the bed. A steady echo which grounded your thoughts. Something familiar in the unfamiliar environment.

You emerged from ineptly-stitched blankets, pushing them back to reveal your full form. Nothing was different. All of your attire, features, and limbs were still in place. Thankfully. There were no restraints either. Not even something as simple as a rope, or a chain. Which meant either that he trusted you already (doubtful) or that he had taken other precautions.

One step at a time, you chose to proceed. Gingerly reaching for the floor, your first move was reluctant, as though afraid that Ratak would snatch you up again. Each inch grew the expectation of grasping hands and greedy clutches. But, when your feet collided with the cold cobble, your hesitation faded. If only slightly.

Your shoeless steps padded softly across the room. Shuffling past uneven furniture and an empty hearth, you treaded straight to the door. The latches on this side, secured excessively the previous night, were now unlocked. For a second you let yourself hope. You tried to open it.

The door rattled, but did not waver. That flicker of anticipation died as quickly as it was born. More locks must be on the other side, you reasoned. Though, if it were Ratak's intent to keep you in or keep others out, you were unsure.

With a final frustrated bash on the door, you abandoned it. Drifting aimlessly, you wandered to the room's other features.

The decor was a paradox. An unsetting attempt at domesticity which cannot hide its origin: a table and couple of chairs carved of blood-stained wood; the hearth's mantlepiece lined with various chipped bones, most animal, while the rest seem far too humanoid for your liking. You wondered, what saved you from being another set upon this mantle?

Trailing your fingertips along the walls, you felt for another exit. A weakness. A weapon. A hidden key. Anything to free you from this stone box.

The bricks were solid, old, this building stood long before Ratak inhabited it, and it will stand long after you both are gone. Yet, the wall had cracks, imperfections, defiant sunlight exposing its flaws. With enough time, maybe you could loosen them?

But time… that was what you needed. A thorough knowledge of when your captor would return, as you did not want to be caught. Ratak was unstable enough already. The indents of his clawed nails, remnants of his wild paranoia, had only just vanished from your skin.

However, to learn his routine, you would have to play the long game.

Grumbling under your breath, you continued your patrol of the walls. Hours passed in their company, but, as darkness rolled in, you were forced to fumble in nothingness.

Hands outstretched, you managed to reach the sparse hearth. You lowered yourself to the floor and attempted to light a fire. But the wood was miserably damp, while the small lump of flint you found was blade-less and dull. Typical.

Accepting defeat, you stumbled back to the bed. Its blankets and furs were chilly. Yet, they welcomed you, beckoning you to rest in their embrace. And, with nothing else to do, you gave in.

When your lonely dark was broken, your eyes had begun to adjust. Blurry outlines were accompanied by the clink of locks and latches. The door drifted open as a figure strode in, returning home.

Your enemy. Your captor. Your self-proclaimed 'lover'. He had returned to you, and not empty-handed.

Ratak's features, tired and bitter after hours apart, calmed as he stepped inside. The creases in his forehead smoothed out at the click of the door shutting behind him.

His arms were full, a collection of logs and dead animals held to his chest. Food to cook and fuel for a fire; things to keep his human happy, or alive at least.

"Love?" Ratak called, expecting an answer which you were not willing to give.

You remained still, watching carefully, analysing his behaviour. How would his behaviour match to the previous night? Would he be more lenient? More cruel? His shadow of a face smiled as he bolted the door.

"Missed ya." Ratak spoke. "Wanted to stay, but 'ad to get some things… I wasn't all that ready to bring ya home…"

His tone was… pleasant, for now. Light and conversational, albeit a little sheepish at his lack of preparation. Though that word, home, made you flinch. You were lucky he did not notice.

Treading to the hearth, Ratak let the logs fall from the bundle gathered in his arms. They collapsed into a pile, unruly and disorganised, while he felt for the flint you had misplaced earlier.

"Where's that bloody… ah, here." Ratak murmured, inspecting the blunt edge. Summoning a small blade from his hip, he struck it against the rock. A few sparks flew before…

"Ha!" He exclaimed, a dim glow silhouetting his frame. The glow steadily grew brighter and brighter, flooding the fireplace with its warmth.

Ratak collected the dead animals he hauled in, of which had fallen alongside the wood. Dropping them, similarly haphazard, onto the table, he plucked something out from amongst them. A shape that you had not been able to determine. A leather satchel, expertly crafted, and certainly not by his hands. You did not want to know where he got it from.

Sauntering to the bed, he unveils what lay within it. Food. Bread, more specifically, and a bottle of some ale or other. Ratak holds the bag out to you, waiting for a response, like a child showing off a bug that they had found.

"You human-folk eat this kinda stuff, right?" He questions with searching eyes, noting your every twitch.

Running your sword through terrifying foes took less determination, less focus, less will than simply reaching out and taking that bag. Your body sought to defend you, but your mind knew that cowering would not help.

So, you reached out, fingertips wrapping around the sling.

"We… we do. Thank you, Ratak." Choking out words, you make yourself mimic his pleasant tone.

Ratak's smile tugged wider as he sat opposite you. His head was held high, made proud by your forced praise.

The fire rumbled, consuming log after log, while you turned the roll of bread over in your hands. You attempted to hide the the suspicion in your face while you investigated the new food. You distrusted it, naturally, but Ratak did not need to know that.

After a few turns, you found nothing. It appeared safe.

Blocking out Ratak's gaze, you broke off a piece, cautiously placing it between your teeth. The bite down was slow, head racing with all the horrible tastes that may corrupt your senses. A flavour soon struck your tastebuds.

Bread. Simple, muted, bread.

Your shoulders loosened as you swallowed. Having one less thing to fear, you took another bite. There was no promise that the next selection of food would be safe, and so you indulged your hunger.

Once you finished the roll, you let yourself pay attention to Ratak again.

Even the brilliant lovers of myths and legends did not watch each other as Ratak did you. He refused to look away, not for a second, as though you would disappear were he not observing.

Ratak was staring so intently, but not registering what he saw. Then, he blinked, a delayed realisation in his eyes. He peered down at your hands and noticed that they were empty.

"Done already?" Croaky laughter resounded in the hollow room, Ratak taking the opportunity to shuffle closer. As his legs pressed to yours, your nails sunk deep into your palms.

"I'll get'cha more next time," He promised, a python curling himself around you. The bed's fabrics and furs rustled, crinkling under his weight. He pricked the edge of your sleeve with his claws, absentmindedly. Tiny holes laid in their wake, the fabric parted at his whim.

"Don't have much to say, huh?" Ratak mumbled, bemused. "No need to be shy, love."

You were not shy. You were wary.

You were more than eager to voice every curse, every insult, every awful word that entered your mind. However, what good would that do? Prideful, you were. But you were not an idiot.

"I am just… tired. That is all." You answered. It was not exactly a lie. Besides, it gave a decent excuse for the glare you could not find it in yourself to mask.

"Awh, poor thing." He cooed, placing a hand to your face and petting your cheek. "Must've been workin' you to the bone, those filthy tarks…"

Trailing off before he resorted to more violent expletives, Ratak nudged your head to his chest.

"No point in thinking 'bout them anymore, hm? 's only us…"

So often, he repeated that sentiment: only you two. The idea seemed to comfort him, bring him down from whatever anger or anxiety had swept him up.

You let him hold you, trying to focus on the crackle of the fire, rather than the rhythm of his heartbeat and the heaviness of his arms.

Days passed like this. The hours alone, you spent scouring the room, learning its duplicity. While in the hours together you swallowed your honour and kept him happy. You praised when he provided for you, consoled when paranoia overtook him, responded when he questioned you.

There was no need for him to defang you, as you seemed quite capable of filing your own teeth down. No bark and no bite.

You had wondered if he would lose interest in you over time. Perhaps the infatuation would wear off, perhaps he would find you less fascinating than he initially did. Would that be the better outcome for you? Would he let you go, or would it speed you towards an earlier grave?

These wonderings proved to be useless, as Ratak's feelings never swayed. Devout as any follower could be, as loyal as any lover.

And it was starting to affect you.

Humans do not deal well with isolation. You were no exception to that. Hard as you tried to resist, you knew it was breaking you down.

Ratak was the only company you had. The only person you could talk to, could see, could touch. His presence gave a structure to your isolation, a rhyme to this disordered life.

Yet, even with your waning resolve, you held onto hope of escape.

Finally, you found it. There was a weakness in the brick. A fraction of the stone that you could loosen. Golden sunlight shone through that crack in the wall as though a taunting spirit. It would not be easy, and it would not be quick, but it would give way.

Weeks passed like this, as you picked and dug at that fracture. All the while hiding your calloused hands and split nails from your doting captor.

You were almost free!

Almost.

Now, you chip at the crack in the wall again, berating and reprimanding yourself. You are making excuses, giving yourself reasons to remain when you know that you should not.

This place is eating you alive, wearing you down to nothing. And you are letting it. Letting him.

For what? The companionship of a brutal uruk? You know what he could do. The bones on the mantle and the bloodstains on his armour whisper, confessing to all the terror, the agony, all of the misery he has caused.

Still, here is insular. Here is quiet. No commanders to report back to and no wars to wage.

Stone screeches as you pry aged bricks apart. The ancient building creaks in anguish while you near closer and closer to that blessed light.

Relief is what you caught yourself feeling yesterday, when he returned. You smiled as you saw him, pleased that he was safe and unharmed. Soon, it was overtaken by a disgusting sensation, a pit in your stomach that settled within you, persisting for the rest of the night like a dreadful storm.

You had thought it anger, or revulsion. But it was something much more primal, much more ancient and rooted.

It was fear.

Fear that you were happy to see him. Fear that you were losing your edge, like that point-less lump of flint which, in your hands, could not strike a single spark.

What would your comrades think of you? Your companions, your family?

Could they hate you for this; scorn you for not fighting back? Surrender was for the sake of your own survival, but you did not act as a prisoner anymore. You did not glare or argue, nor did you cower from him.

When you told your tale, would there be pity in their eyes? Or mocking in their sneers?

Would they even take you back?

More excuses, you scoff. How silly. Lamenting on 'what ifs' when you are so close to freedom. The gentle sunlight ghosting kisses across your deprived skin.

Why, it is almost as though you are trying to convince yourself to…

To stay.

Your hands fall still, their work disturbed by the thought.

Staying.

Would you truly be content with that?

You grimace at the idea. But why is it so difficult to say 'no'?

Fighting the weakness in your soul, you will your hands to move. Clawing at the bricks, more determined than ever; you are fuelled by the knowledge that, if you do not leave now, you never will.

With a yank and a kick, like retreating soldiers the bricks give way, crumbling into a plume of dust and rubble. The room shudders, wounded. Crashing to the floor, the din is sudden, and even more sudden to stop. You cough, forcing particles from your lungs as the veil clears.

A gaping hole is left in the wall. You had seen the sun dwindle, believing it to be oncoming nightfall. Instead, it is a thick, unforgiving, fog. The world outside is suffocated, daylight swallowed by the hazy mass.

There is no way to hide it. A mound of debris covers the floor, tarnishing the worn-smooth cobble. Nothing in this room could cover the gap anyway.

Then, the clanging of locks. Muffled shouts of a voice you have come to know far too well. You have taken longer than you thought you would, and Ratak has returned. His speech is panicked, calling for you. And, for a split second, you want to call back.

But, you look to the fog. To the world outside. To your freedom.

With the chattering of the door behind you, threatening to swing open, you make your decision.

A step, a leap, and your feet hit the dirt. The prison of that black, sun-less room behind you.

The air is crisp, washing dust from your throat. You stagger forward, unsteady from the fall, venturing into the pale cold.

Spikes of pain shoot through your legs, as though pricked by a thousand tiny needles. They threaten to yield while you sway from side to side. Your time in the dark has made you weak. Your limbs are weary from lack of use. Adrenaline churns in your system, keeping you afloat as you blindly journey forth.

The grass glistens with frost. It crunches underfoot and tells on your location. Ice is a pitiless traitor, back-stabbing you with every step. You hope it will clear soon; frostbite will not be a kind ailment.

On and on you venture, thin trees appearing sporadically from the fog. Dozens of them, lanky and towering, creaking as you narrowly dodge them. Dents in their bark, sunken like eyes, observe your escape, while roots emerge from the ground to trip you.

You evade their clutches. Pushing through as they catch on your sleeves. Their leaves rustle, laughing as you stumble.

Again and again. Frost, leaves, bark, fog.

In this repetition, you make a mistake. It is not one of action, but one of thought.

You think that you are alone.

You think that you have lost him.

Then, cracks of torn wood. Their laughter is cut short. The dying cries of hacked trees surrounds you, echoed endlessly by this abyss.

Crackling of ice underfoot, louder than yours. Stronger than yours. More urgent than yours.

You are spurred onwards. Seeking shelter in the fog, in the light you had fought so hard and so long to reach.

But your hunter knows this place. He knows every tree and rock and dip in the dirt. With his vision gone, he is not impeded.

Closer. Closer.

Closer.

You inhale sharply. Air torn from your lungs.

Something is buried in your back.

It is freezing.

Then another slash. And another. And another.

The trees cease their groaning, clearing the air for a scream, but nothing escapes your lips. Only a strangled noise that snags on your ribs, caught before it could be released.

There is liquid trickling down your back. Like rain. Burning, oozing, agonising rain. A sensation you had almost forgotten.

Blood.

Pouring from the fresh gashes in your skin.

Warning slices. Not deep enough to kill. No, he would not let you off that easily. Although, it is beyond deep enough to hurt.

Tears flicker in your eyes, invoked by shock. In the corner of your vision, you can spot him. Perching above and watching ever so closely. Just as he always does.

There is no grin on his face. No manic words on his tongue. Only a cruel stare and the steady trickling of blood.

He had seen your blood before: during your first meeting. In his endless eyes, it was beautiful, a rich and crimson colour that settled perfectly under his nails.

The aftermath he was barred from, as you had ran from him then.

He is not barred from it now.

Your body shivers, immobile amidst the frost-coated grass. The back of your shirt torn asunder by his axe, exposing more of your flesh than he had ever seen before. And your skin, soft and human, is mangled with shallow wounds, trenches overflowing red and staining the shreds of fabric around them.

Ratak's axe is coated in your blood. That glorious red hems the weapon's silver steel. Blood invades cracks and scratches in the metal, mimicking your wounds.

Your nails and the dirt entwine.

You try to pull yourself away.

As your arms reach ahead in vain, your body cries in agony. A few inches is all you manage to crawl, before a foot presses down on your lower back.

It is over.

His axe hovers.

Eyes drifting closed, you wait for the inevitable.

You take solace in this fate. In the knowledge that you fought. In the knowledge that your last moments will be out here, rather than that cursed room.

That is not the fate you get.

Abruptly, a hand wraps around your wrist, and the pressure is gone from your back.

Ratak pulls you to your feet, dragging you in the direction from which you came. Your head bashes into his shoulder. Dizziness consumes your mind.

An arm is about your waist, concluding with a hand securing your wrist. Meanwhile, his other hand holds the axe to your neck. Threatening not an end, but further pain.

Some may see you as lucky to be alive. But you feel that death would be a greater mercy.

Alas, your 'lover' is not the merciful type.

Fog churns, hiding you both from the world. In your last moments of freedom, you have never felt more isolated.

_________________________________

The evening is still.

Adrenaline drained. His anger muted. Your pain dulled.

Silence was haunting the space between you. Unbroken, as neither wanted to speak first. It is not because you had nothing to say, because you both had plenty. Instead, it is the looming fear of response (or lack thereof) that keeps the two of you quiet.

You hold the tattered remains of your shirt over your chest. Ratak seems too distracted to ogle, but, even so, you want to save an ounce of your decency. You strive for control over something. You find that control in the tattered fabric.

Meanwhile, your back is exposed, ignited in the routine orange glow. This room does not have a hearth, like the previous one did. Ratak had simply tossed a load of flammable items in a heap and set them alight, tossing a pelt alongside it for you both to sit upon. There is no natural light here. A place in the centre of the ruins, with walls that lead to more walls. He has learned his lesson.

Your blood has clotted, and each wound has begun the lengthy process of healing. The stiffness of forming scabs stops you from moving. Every reach of your arms and shift of your shoulder blades tears at the clotting, shooting a blazing spark through your body. In a bid to lessen the discomfort, you resign to sitting, static.

Ratak, meanwhile, has assigned himself to treating your wounds. Well, 'treating' might be too generous of a word, though he has been tidying them. His pincer-like nails pick shards of grass from your dried blood, whirring with the impulse to stab his claws in and watch that perfect red flow and the shaking of your body and the tears in your eyes and-

And yet, he resists. Just barely. Because of a worry.

It is not irrational, like his bouts of paranoia. In fact, it is all too rational. That is why it gnaws at him.

It is founded in a simple fact: humans are fragile.

At least, they are fragile in comparison to Uruks, which most things are. Ratak has heard of orcs having their heads lopped off and popping up the next day, bloodthirsty as ever. Their will to fight is what keeps them alive. That, or their fear of returning to the vats.

However, you are no Uruk, and humans are not renowned for withstanding beheadings (besides that Gravewalker fellow). Wounds like yours should not kill. Regardless, that worry wriggles in his mind like a maggot in a corpse.

Ratak does not want to take any chances.

So, for now, he stifles the urge. Maybe once you have healed a bit, he can indulge again. Maybe you will even let him, someday?

His breathing drapes over your neck, steady as a stride. Ratak was never a steady figure. Manic seemed his usual state, and you had expected it to be worsened by your escape attempt. But instead, he was quiet. Focused. Almost reasonable, for a change. A state you had never seen before, and may never see again. With that in mind, defeated and exhausted, you spoke.

"Why me?"

Ratak seizes up, his focus interrupted by your voice. Although you cannot see his face, you can tell he is unsure of how to answer.

How does one explain a feeling irrational as love? And a love as irrational as his?

His hands surround your shoulders. His gaze traces along your skin, as though he were trying to read your very flesh, praying that it would tell him what to say. These prayers fall upon deaf ears.

"I… I don't know." He admits.

Yet, he persists, crooked teeth and splintered lips parting uncertainly.

"That first time I saw ya, it felt right… havin' you near, even if we'd just met."

"I was fine with watchin' ya… for a bit… thought you were a funny-lookin' tark. Didn't know that Gondor had scouts." Ratak exhales, a half-wheeze half-laugh punctuating the end of his sentence.

Then the sound fizzles out. Retreating like an injured animal, his tone recedes to a whisper.

"But it got… worse…"

"I didn't like when I couldn't see ya… didn't like when there were other Uruks around ya. Hated when there were other tarks, I…"

He groans, frustrated by his own inability to explain. His forehead bumps into your scalp, fingers curling into your shoulders.

Ratak knows pain, the scars lining his skin attest to that. He is accustomed to aches and cuts and stings. One would believe him capable of describing it, and in detail.

Usually, he would be. But for this all-consuming feeling, he could not scavenge more than two words:

"It hurt…" He breathes.

"I just… I knew you were suppos'd to be with me but you… you just didn't get it."

Aggravation threads through his voice. Partly at you. Partly at himself.

"You kept resisting, kept arguing and… I thought we were gettin' close… close to you actually meanin' it when ya said you loved me and then…"

Ratak trails off, sighing.

His thumbs rub against your skin, a little above your shoulder blades. They slink down to your injuries and run along the scabbed edges. Not taunting, but tender, admiring them.

"Don't regret it." He comments, remorseless. "It'll look prettier when it scars…"

A hand leaves your shoulder, adjusting to lay on his chest. Claws tap on his sternum, where a mark of his own resides. Raised and pale, he touches it reverentially.

"And I've got one from you, so we'll match." Ratak giggles, his voice reverting to its uncanny, chipper default; the brief glimmer of clarity vanishes from his slitted pupils.

A new target in mind, Ratak's hand trails down to your leg. Down. Down. Until a high-pitched clinking cuts through the shared breaths and humid air.

Ratak twirls a chain in his hand. Sturdy, heavy, cuffed unwaveringly to your ankle. The metal coils up his arm like a noose. A consequence of your escape, and a promise that it will never happen again.

Metal is reliable, secure, not swayed or deceived by words as he may be. He fiddles with the chain, finding trust in it that he could not find in you.

You turn, looking at him from over your shoulder.

He creeps in. Testing the waters. Waiting for if you will back away.

Ratak's face blocks out all else. You see him how he sees you: as everything.

And when his lips press to yours, grinning, victorious? You close your eyes, and take solace in this fate.

_________________________________

[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

[ first encounter ]

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guess who's getting a part 3 tomorrow!!!

(hopefully... assuming I don't suddenly decide to rewrite half of it hahah!!!)

[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

Ahhh, would love a part 2 for reader/The Obsessed in the near future! There’s not enough yandere Shadow of War fics on this app or on any other platform! ❤️

Lingering Denial | Oneshot Continued

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The Obsessed / Gender Neutral Reader

Fandom: Middle Earth: Shadow of War 

_________________________________

Romantic Yandere.

PT 1 | PT 3

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Content Warning: Delusional/obsessive/possessive behaviour, violence, threats, blood, paranoia, mentions of stalking.

(If there’s anything else I need to add to these warnings, please let me know.)

Thanks for the request, anon! Totally agree on the lack of yandere SOW stuffs (though I have seen some great headcanons here on tumblr). That was what drove me to write the original oneshot, alongside a hefty dose of favouritism for the obsessed-

Speaking of the obsessed, I had a bit of fun with him in this one, specifically with putting him in a less-stabby-than-usual situation, something he doesn't get in the game as every time you run into an obsessed he's trying to kill you, or you to him...

Also because I couldn't deal with him being stabby all the time, as our reader is much more mortal than Talion, haha.

The idea of how he would act once he got what he wanted was an interesting one, so I hope that you enjoy reading as much as I did writing! :D

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Finally, he has fallen asleep.

Head nestled into your shoulder, arms enveloping you like a cage. His expression calm, but his hold tight and selfish.

You refused to fall under before him. Even though your eyelids were heavy with exhaustion, drained by stress, you dared not make yourself more vulnerable than you already were.

Ratak had been staring for hours. Wide eyes locked to your form. Memorising every detail, every dot, every scar. Mesmerised. A spell broken only by the orc's occasional mutterings.

Murmurs of glee, pent-up questions he had no opportunity to ask before, and comments about how different your human features were to his.

The latter left a bitter taste in your mouth. Those comments accompanied by a wandering gaze. Imagining what lay where his hungry eyes could not see, hidden beneath layers of clothing. Dreaming of the day he would be allowed to explore it.

But tonight, he is happy. Tonight, he is content with this. Side by side. Just you and him.

You can hardly believe your own predicament, as you consider what has led you here.

Back to the ground, sword to his chest, his forehead against yours.

It feels as though an age has passed since then.

The two of you trapped in a stand-off. Your motives so different, and his was unfathomable.

You could not understand how this orc had fallen for you, as he claimed, so suddenly. There was no logic behind it, no strategy, no benefit he could possibly gain by making you believe this.

Which led you to the truth: that he meant it. That he had built up this bonfire of obsession, allowed it to flicker and flame since you had first met. Until it was all-consuming, and impossible to stamp out.

But, even with that, you did not trust the hand around your neck. The glint in his eyes. The maddened longing that afflicted his every movement, his every lovingly vicious word.

And quickly you realised: despite his infatuation, he could kill you.

If pushed too far. If fought against. If he believed slicing your neck with his own claws was a better fate than letting you go, he would do it.

You knew he would.

So, you lowered your sword. The point removed from Ratak's chest.

Was it fear that caused your surrender? Or curiosity? You could not decipher it, breath caught in your throat, mind focused entirely on the blade in your hand.

You exhaled only when it was flat on the ground, sheathed by moss and grass.

"Hah... I knew you'd understand." Ratak spoke, disjointed teeth morphing into a pleased smile.

His hand left your neck, trailing down to the hilt of your sword.

"You'll be mine, and I'll be yours..."

You winced, cursing the world itself as he pried your hand from it, forcing you to let go of the blade. Betraying your instincts, you let the hilt fall from your fingertips.

The faint clink of its landing was nearly inaudible. To you, it was deafening.

Then, you were jostled.

Before you could come to terms with your decision, Ratak got to his feet, lifting you up into his arms with frightening ease. Held to the bloodstain adorning his chest, shallow and slowly drying.

"Right, my love?" He posited.

You did not answer. Luckily, he did not seem to care.

With a press of his cracked lips to your temple, he began to walk.

Emboldened by your surrender, the orc was more than eager to leave your sword, the symbol of your human allegiances, forgotten. Left behind with his helmet. Embraced by naught but dirt and worms.

You have no clue how long he walked for. The trees and grass and branches and rocks seeming to repeat endlessly. But Ratak's steps were sure. He knew where he was going.

And eventually, he wound up here. Where you now lay.

The room is one of dark, chipped, stone; it is hidden within the walls of a deserted fortress. Perhaps ransacked and half torn down, or perhaps half-built and abandoned. Regardless, a place that Ratak has made his own.

Laying in a makeshift bed of fur pelts and loosely-stitched fabric, the rest of the room aligns with the salvaged comforts. Furniture made of cobbled-together wood, bones, and leather are scattered about. The scene an echo of a home, but without the wear of being lived-in.

As your eyes trail over the same items for the hundredth time, you wonder if they were made specifically for your capture. The thought of him preparing this all, while you had been blissfully unaware of his stalking, sticks like a parasite.

How much had he seen while watching you? Was he always planning to bring you back here, willingly or not? Had he hoped, when alone here, that you would feel the same towards him?

You look to Ratak. A being made for violence, for battle, for bloodshed. To be a pawn of Lords and leaders greater than himself.

Yet he speaks of love so freely. His affection, albeit clumsy and abrasive, is affection nonetheless. Able to be dealt only by the violent hands he was moulded with. There is authentic emotion at its core, filtered through the brutal, bloody lens of obsession.

He is an enigma. A contradiction you cannot rationalise.

Of course, you consider the chance of simply asking him. Questioning what his infatuation spawned from or how he had made up this room seemed rather safe topics. Likely ones he would take pride in answering.

But, in spite of your wonderings, you do not wish to ask. Aversion overpowering intrigue. Nervous that, should you entertain him, Ratak would take it as an opportunity. An excuse. His lovesickness persuading him that your questions were signs of something deeper.

As you examine him, you notice that his arms have slackened. Sleep traitorously loosening his hold.

With a cautious shuffle, you attempt to drag yourself from his grip. Gradually, carefully. Cold air pricks your skin as the fur and fabric covers are shed. Ratak remains still.

You look to the door. It is bolted, rather excessively; metal rods and latches are attached to the wood, clear despite the poor light. There is risk in approaching it, but there is just as much in lingering here.

With another shuffle, you reach the edge of the bed. Your legs dangling off, unable to reach the floor from this height.

Then, about to descend, there is a sound from behind you. A groan, accompanied by the shifting of fabric.

You freeze like a startled animal.

Ratak is awake.

"Love?" He coos, eyes blinking open. Centring where you had been beside him. Now an empty spot.

Panic mars Ratak's expression as he shoots up. With frantic, half-focused, eyes he glances to and fro. Locking onto your figure as he spots you.

You are not where you should be, with your feet ever-so close to the floor. Too close.

He lunges, a snare set on its target, the action innate and impulsive. Arms snake around you, before yanking you to him.

A sigh echoes from above, the orc relieved, his human returned to his clutches. Where you should be.

All you feel, however, is on edge. This close, you are reminded of his size, his strength, how he looms over you like the sturdiest of mountains. Certain, powerful, and terribly stubborn.

"What were you doin' there, hm?" Ratak muses drowsily.

"I..." Your voice trails, caught unprepared. You try to keep your eyes on him, but you cannot help yourself.

A look is spared to the locked door. Only for a second. He follows it.

Ratak's brows furrow, creases forming in his skin as he reaches a conclusion. Unfortunately for you, it is the correct one.

"You want to leave..."

The adoring notes in his voice vanish. Swiftly replaced by snarls.

"You're trying to leave me, aren'tcha, love? You're tryin' to run away from me again."

Anxiety constricts in your stomach. Lying through your teeth, your voice is detached and firm.

"I am not trying to lea-"

"Don't you lie!" Ratak shrieks, shutting you up as he shakes with rage.

"Of course you're tryin' to leave! Can't bear being in my arms, is that it?"

Ratak's accusations continue. Nonsensical ramblings, as tangled and unintelligible as his proclamations of love.

"You're gonna run away from me... run back to bloody Gondor... let some filthy tark have you 'nstead of me!"

You wrack your mind, aware of just how dangerous he is right now. The last time he acted like this, you had your sword. But now, you cannot rely on its sharpened safety.

"I'll kill the bastard… lop his hands off for darin’ to touch you… make sure you can never leave me again...”

His hands twist and teem with threat. Yellow irises fogged over as he turns desperate.

Your time is running out. All he would need to do is fetch his axe from it's spot on the wall and...

An idea squirms into your mind. A horribly demeaning idea. It makes you feel sick. But nothing else would work. You have no weapon to threaten him with. Anger would not reach him, and neither would indifference.

"Never again… never ever again…”

In the end, there is nothing to lose.

You rest a reluctant hand on his forearm. Fingertips brushing along collections of aged scars. His accusations pause, puzzled.

Choking down the last shreds of your pride, you put on a softer voice. The voice of a lover.

"Please, Ratak..." The orc's name tastes like thorns on your tongue. "I did not intend to scare you... I am sorry."

"I am not leaving you, and I will not. I swear it."

Ratak's expression flickers, picking you apart.

He knows you are lying. Deep in the burrows of his mind, he knows. But as his chest flutters with the sensation of your palm against his flesh, he can hardly bring himself to care.

Your words are measured and gentle. Without animosity. Without distance. Speaking his name so tenderly. Reciprocating his affections. The hand that once held a blade to him is now comforting him.

Even if it is only an act, it is an act he wishes to drown himself in.

The orc's claws remain around you, burying into your skin like ticks, but his voice dims.

"No. You won't. You're meant for me..."

He sinks, no longer towering over you. Instead, he starts to slouch, head drooping as the night's exhaustion catches up with him.

"You wouldn't be happy with anyone else... Let alone some lousy tark..."

With a half-hearted chuckle, he lays down. You are dragged alongside him, caged once again.

"You love me. Not them." Ratak utters. Yet there is an uncertainty hidden within. An inflection you had not heard from him before.

"You love me..."

He whispers, and still, his uncertainty is not quite stifled. Searching for reassurance in the lines and dips of your face.

"Don't you, sweetness?"

With how closely he is watching, you cannot get away with silence. Your dignity burns before you as fatigue tugs at your resistance, begging you to give in.

Averting your gaze, ultimately, you answer.

"Yes. I... I love you."

He chuckles, genuinely this time. Euphoric to hear those words from you. Even if not a syllable is true.

As you yield to the sanctuary of sleep, you assure yourself. Someday you would escape here.

Someday.

But it would not be tonight.

Tonight, you and him lay together. Entangled in false vows and each other's arms. Sleeping dreamlessly.

_________________________________

[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

Denial | Oneshot

_________________________________

The Obsessed / Gender Neutral Reader

Fandom: Middle Earth: Shadow of War 

_________________________________

Romantic Yandere.

PT 2 | PT 3

_________________________________

Content Warning: Violence, stalking, delusional/obsessive/possessive behaviour, blood.

(If there’s anything else I need to add to these warnings, please let me know.)

I once told myself that I'd never write anything LOTR-adjacent because of the huge amount of lore surrounding it and fear of messing something up...

Apparently, I lied XD

I'll admit, this one's kinda OC-ish, as the obsessed are randomly generated rather than fully fledged characters, but I tried to keep it close to their in-game personalities/dialog.

How well did that go? No idea. Enjoy anyways!

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Watch.

That is all you are here to do.

To survey. To observe. To gather intel.

To listen in on grumbled conversations and examine strongholds for weaknesses.

To keep your distance, and stay out of sight.

Travelling in the lands of Mordor is a perilous task. The dangers of which you are well aware of. It's terrain harsh and unforgiving. It's inhabitants even more so. You know the risks of getting caught.

Which is why your heart stops at the glint of a weapon overhead.

"A scout, eh? You pinkskins can't help sneakin' around where ya don't belong."

Your hand lunges for the sword at your hip, conjuring it just in time to block the downward swing. An axe meets your blade, the cold clatter echoing in the dark.

You look up, and a pair of beady eyes meet yours. Vivid yellow, almost aglow in the dying light of a nearby fire, set behind a worn helmet, its once-shining gleam reduced to a dull grey.

With a sidestep, you pull your blade back. The orc's weapon charging to the floor, but hitting nothing in its journey.

You glance around, searching for the safest escape route, your peripheral vision impaired by your cloak's hood. Your best chance is to get away from this outpost. Staying to fight means that others may become involved. Already at a disadvantage here, you are in no hurry to worsen your predicament.

However, the orc is blocking your path. You have to make it past him first.

A grumble sounds from the orc as he works to dislodge his axe from the ground. Curses are hissed under his breath, before it is yanked up in a flurry of dirt and dust. Focused on regaining his footing, he is distracted.

Holding your sword firmly, you sprint as an opening is given. The wind whistles in your ears as your soles hit the earth.

Mid-stride, his claws snatch your cloak.

You yelp, suddenly jerked back. As the fabric tears, he grabs for your forearm instead.

Sharp nails dig into your flesh. Indents left in their wake. Your wrist is kept in place, to stop you from ramming your sword into him.

He raises his weapon but...

It does not fall.

He stares. Baring his teeth as his eyes waver. Chest rising and falling steadily.

In your terror, you cannot make sense of it. He should have struck by now. He should have buried that blood-stained steel into your skull. Why does he not? Why does he wait?

The axe moves down slowly, agonisingly. Only centimetres from your face. A few specks of dirt land on your skin. The point is hooked under the hem of your hood.

He nudges the axe forward, bit by bit, until your hood falls back, collapsing around your neck. The fire's light glazes your features, illuminating your bewilderment.

There is a quiet noise from beneath his helm, a hum, while his head tilts to the side. His eyes flicker back and forth, scanning what they have found. An animal analysing its catch.

Then, he leans in. With his weapon still so close, you do not dare to retaliate, should he be spurred to attack.

The orc's helmet bumps against your forehead; an icy contrast to the warmth of your skin. Nose to nose.

Seconds tick by in silence. He seems to be settling, nearly dazed in demeanour. A million thoughts hovering behind his distant gaze which you do not know. And you hope you never will.

A single word is mumbled, almost subconsciously, barely heard over your own panic.

"Mine..."

His axe lowers, hanging loosely by his side...

You take your opportunity.

A kick to the leg and his balance is shaken. You wrench your arm from his hold, drawing blood as his nails scrape across your flesh.

Without looking back, you run.

You run until you cannot breathe. Until you are far from that outpost. Until you are far from him.

In the days after, you shove the encounter out of your mind. Nothing new can be discovered by wondering. Recalling the experience over and over will not reveal any unknown truths.

Yet, as you set yourself back to work, something feels... different.

Wherever you venture, there is the sensation of something watching you. Hiding in the bushes, perching atop a tower, lurking in the dark.

Never free of it. Never a moment without it.

You chalk it up to nerves. Merely the weight of your post getting to you. Besides, if you were found, it would be more efficient to bluntly attempt to kill you. There is no need for an enemy to spy on a scout.

You tell yourself that it is naught but fear. Pathetic fear. Again and again. Till you almost believe it.

Thankfully, you soon need to report to your superiors. Leaving this place should give you a few days of freedom from the poisoning paranoia of Mordor's lands.

The world is quiet as you take cautious steps across the night, approaching the border into Gondor; staying far from every fortress and outpost you know.

It is not entirely silent. The sounds of unseen creatures and distant altercations resound in the shadows. Leaves rustle upon trees. Rocks crunch and clink under foot. Your torn cloak flutters like a bird's wings behind you.

There is an odd security in the isolation. A comfort in the solitude. You feel alone. For the first time in days, you feel completely and entirely alone.

Until you spot them...

Eyes. Yellow eyes. Watching you.

A shaky breath of disbelief leaves your lungs. The chance of encountering him again, all the way out here, is too small to be coincidence. He followed you. No doubt in your mind. But for what purpose, you have no clue.

The figure emerges as his lips curve up into a crinkled grin. Armour outlined by a dull sheen in the moonlight.

The confusion that filled his expression during your previous encounter has been replaced. His eyes flicker instead with an unnerving resolution. A determination that you cannot place the source of.

In a moment of déjà vu, you reach for your sword.

"Identify yourself, orc." Clutching your blade tightly, as though a lifeline, you demand an explanation, a name to the spectre that has haunted your every step.

"Ratak." The figure responds simply. No statement of purpose, nor who he serves. Only a name.

"And what do you seek?" You urge, refusing to let your guard down.

He giggles, as though you were silly for even asking.

"You o'course, love."

His voice is different. No longer the threatening sneer heard when you first met. Now, it is horrifyingly casual. As though what he speaks were common knowledge.

Your eyes narrow, angered.

"Do you think me a fool?" A hiss snaps from you, now glowering at him. "What are you here for? Why do you follow me?"

"I've told ya already, I'm here for you..."

He is insistent. Unchanging in his conviction. You refuse to believe it. You cannot. You do not want to.

Starting to feel uneasy, your words become sharper.

"Enough with the games, orc-!"

"Games? You're the one that's been toying with me, love... Makin' me chase you about... always runnin' off before I can get close..."

The orc treads forward, and you swiftly put more space between you and him. A growl-like noise seeps from his pointed teeth.

"Cruel thing... lettin' me catch you, hold you next to me... and then scurrying away..." Accusatory notes seep into his voice as he continues to step closer and closer.

Envy swirls in his ribs. Aching. Ratak's mind enveloped by this feeling. A bleeding ache, festering in your time apart. Every backward step you take sends his thoughts spiralling.

"Why d'ya run, hm? Is there someone else keepin' you from me? Another uruk? A bloody human?" His tone distorts, laced with a jealousy you never imagined that you would see in the flesh.

Ratak would be ashamed of himself, humiliated by how desperate he is acting, could he only think clearly. If his every thought was not preoccupied with that flittering encounter from nights before. If his fingertips were not still stained with your blood. If that pain in his ribs could only stop.

"I am tired of this, orc." You cut off his jilted questions, stuck in your denial. More willing to dismiss his delusional words than ponder the sincerity behind them. "Leave me be. I would rather not have to fight you."

The orc falls still. Hands twitching as he processes your words.

Leave. You want to leave? To scamper away from him again? To make him want to keep you and then cause this suffering in his chest and then... then..!

In a storm of rage, you plummet to the forest floor. The air is knocked out of your lungs as he lands atop you.

"You just won't bloody listen!" He yells, spittle falling into your face. "Your stupid 'duty' and all that's keeping you from stayin' with me, isn't it?"

The point of your sword is aimed to his torso as he looms over you, his hands pinning your shoulders. Ratak does not pay the blade any attention, as though oblivious to it, consumed by his fury.

"You're givin' your loyalty to those weak, worthless, human scum, when it should be mine! You should be mine!"

His frustration is beginning to break through to you. To crack through your guard of denial. Every word feels genuine, feels weighted; the emotion behind it far too strong to be an act.

"Can you not hear yourself?! Your claims are ludicrous-"

"Ludicrous? Ludicrous!" He cuts you off, indignant. "I don't care if I'm bein' ludicrous! You're the one who's makin' me feel like this, you can bloody deal with it!"

Ratak's breaths are heavy, ragged, his face contorted. He pushes himself closer, the sword starting to pierce his skin.

But, despite the weapon pointed to it, the pain in his chest dissipates. Slowly but steadily. He leans closer, it fades a little more.

Nervousness builds as you look up at him. Stunned as he leans in, drops of dark blood trailing down the blade and onto your fingers, the edge slicing his flesh.

Until, finally, the metal of his helm reaches your forehead once again.

Not enough.

He reluctantly removes a hand from your shoulder, tugging his helmet off and tossing it aside.

Returning to your skin, his hand coils around your throat. The action reminiscent of distorted affection, yet also an unspoken threat.

Now, the orc lays his head over yours. His thin, wiry, hair falls to either side of your face, his anger fizzling to a quiet rumble of thunder rather than a blazing hurricane.

"Love..." he mutters the nickname. Despite the word's unfamiliarity, it feels right to him.

"My love, we... we both know you're s'posed to be mine... they don't matter anymore, no one else does... it's you and me..."

Ratak's claws against your neck, your sword pressed to his heart. His fingertips stained red, and yours stained black.

Both trapped, held at each other's mercy.

"Just you and me... for ever..."

_________________________________

[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

Reader tried to break into Moira's lab but ended up messing up something which led them to get injured and caught.

They thought they were ready for anything but turns to their surprise the doctor seems to have taken a sort of liking in them.

Reader is not sure if it's better or worse than simply being treated like a spy.

(Yes the Overwatch one. Sorry I wasn't aware that there were others with the same name among your fanchises as I'm only familiar with OW.)

Break-In | Oneshot

Moira O’Deorain / Gender Neutral Reader

Fandom: Overwatch 

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Ambiguous yan - can be read as platonic or romantic.

_________________________________

Content Warning: Injury detail, blood, implied obsession, Moira being condescending as hell (so pretty much how she usually acts).

(If there’s anything else I need to add to these warnings, please let me know.)

Thank you for the ask anon, and also thanks for the additional clarification! Moira’s always been a fave of mine, so this was super fun to write! (outside of tumblr glitching out and not letting me save to my drafts haha)

_________________________________

The job was simple.

Get in.

Steal the vial.

Get out.

What was in the vial?

To be honest, you had no idea.

The mission brief was the same as the previous two, so you didn't pay much attention.

You knew the drill, having worked alongside Overwatch for a few months now. You weren't exactly a member of the group, but your knack for infiltration led to you being roped into a few assignments here and there.

These missions allowed you to stretch your wings: they gave you a chance to hone your skills in the field, without being limited by the security of a simulation or training program. Every mistake would cost something, every slip-up would eat away precious time. This was the real deal; which made every victory that much sweeter.

And apparently, your actions helped prevent an array of nefarious plots from being carried out. That's a nice bonus. So, despite the little pay, it's not the worst gig you've had. 

You start to climb through the lab's window carefully. The alarm was easily disabled during your first mission here, and, after a quick check, you confirm that it's still inactive. 

The security here must be pretty lousy to not have fixed the alarm, you think. And even lousier to not have noticed it’s deactivation. It’s weird… as you remember the brief saying this was a pretty high-tech place. High budget. Higher-profile investors. Fancy gadgets and all that. 

But, if it saves you from having to find another way in, you’ll take advantage of their ignorance. 

You swing your legs over the window frame, setting yourself down on the tiled floor of the laboratory. The room was meticulous, as always. Its occupant must be the diligent type. 

Test tubes, chemicals, and strange-looking contraptions that you couldn’t even try to guess the purpose of are dotted about the room. They’re kept in organised groups, neatly distributed on the lab’s countertops. 

It’s spotless. Shiny. Blinking lights of green, blue, and red reflect off the countertops’ dull steel. The garish gleam of artificial colour bounces off the edge of every surface, lining corners and curves while the rest of their forms remain shrouded in darkness. 

You tread the room carefully, eyes trained in their search for any new cameras or alarms. It doesn’t matter if they catch you on film, as long as you can escape before they alert any guards. 

After a few moments, you see movement on the edge of your peripheral vision. A camera is lodged in the corner of the room, attached to the ceiling, panning back and forth blindly. The hunk of metal is indifferent to you, continuing its monotonous loop.  

So there have been changes since your last visit. And with it, a chance someone could be watching you. 

But you’re already in. It’d be a waste to back out now. 

Swiftly, you start to rifle through cabinets, through drawers, searching for that vial. Intel had given a vague description: it being rather small, glass, easy to miss, and containing a purple fluid. They couldn’t get much more on it, the lab’s owner intent on keeping most others out. 

The name of its owner continues to elude you. It was mentioned during the first mission’s brief. Upon hearing it, those attending alongside you gave each other concerned glances, but you didn’t pay much mind, focused instead on memorising the building’s layout. It didn’t much matter to you who worked here, only if you could get in. 

Then, finally, you spot it. Tucked away in a corner of a cabinet. Just a little too high for you to reach. 

Damnit. 

You shift to stand on the tips of your toes, leaning on the countertop to keep yourself steady, as you reach up. Your fingertips grasp at nothing, while your thoughts are occupied with prayers that you don’t knock the cursed thing further back. 

Almost, almost, then…

Pain. 

Sharpness tears into you. Air knocked out of your lungs. You look down. 

A trap digs into your leg. Rippling patterns upon it as it strives to blend into the floor. Cloaking technology. Near-invisible until activated. 

Your vision blurs. Adrenaline fogging up your sight. Like smoke filling an enclosed space. Choking. Inescapable. 

It does nothing to dispel the sting. Agony biting into your leg as you sink to the floor, trying to pry your limb from the trap. But every movement only makes the injury worse. 

Blood, your blood, glints with blaring colours. Green. Blue. Red. 

Red coats your hands, making the attempt to free yourself clumsy. Blood pools atop the pale-tiled floor. It gathers in the shallow channels between each tile. Flowing like rivers from their human source. 

Gritting your teeth, your heartbeat pounds in your ears.

You can’t hear the sound of a door opening, nor that of footsteps stepping closer. 

You can’t see the figure approaching. Assured. Confident. Striding close with an aura of victory. A hunter returning to their snare. 

Their outline shifts into focus. Faint colours saturated by the blinking lights of the lab. Red hair. Black shirt. Purple tie. The details fade in and out. It's all blots and blotches and assumptions. 

Then, the figure crouches down right in front of you. 

She is right in front of you.

“Awh…” She coos, condescension falling from her lips in waves.

"Aren't you just pathetic..?"

A hand emerges from the haze. It rests upon your face, thumb and forefinger along your cheekbone, ring finger against your jaw. 

"Did you really believe you could fool me thrice, little thief?”

Your hand fumbles to hers, trying to push it away. Blood smears across her pale skin as she chuckles. Words rise in your throat, but are smothered by your lung’s ragged breaths.

“Marvellous contraption, isn’t it?” She continues in her rhetorical speech, knowing that you’re in no state to reply. Her hand trails down to your injured leg, nails brushing against your punctured skin, captivated and cruel. You look down to the trap, its blurry outline barely visible. 

“One of Sombra’s works. Remotely activated, imperceptible, and immobilising.”

“While the disorientation-” She grabs your chin, suddenly yanking your head back up. Eye to eye. “That is thanks to something of mine.” 

“In fact, it’s what you came here for. Laced along the points. Distilled, of course. I wouldn’t want you to be… permanently afflicted by it.” Your vision swims, your surroundings fading in and out. Her face remains the only constant, the only thing your cloudy eyes can keep their focus on. 

Then, even that begins to fade… your eyelids feeling heavier by the second. Falling closed, despite your efforts to keep them open, prompting another laugh from her. 

“There’s no point in fighting, little thief. You wouldn’t make it far regardless.” Amusement fills her voice. You both know that there’s no escape for you here. Not now. With this concoction in your system, and this metal jammed into your leg. 

No escape… no way out…

As you slip away… into the unknown of unconsciousness… the last thing you see is her face… mismatched eyes glinting in the blinking lights of the lab.  _________________________________

[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

hii I really enjoy reading your blogs and I'm just here for a fandom request since you mentioned that you wouldn't mind looking for new media

are you familiar with "The strange case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde?"

this is just a fandom request so it's your decision if you want to add it to the list or not

Hiya, thanks for sending in an ask!

Yep, I’m familiar with Jekyll and Hyde - fixated like hell on the musical adaptation last year. Never thought about writing yandere-related stuff for it though… until now!

It has just been added to the fandom list, thx for opening my eyes anon :D

[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

Hi! I would like to ask something that I've been thinking for a while. If dr. Stockill's darling was ever outside of the asylum (basically if they were not a patient) that he just sees outside often, how would it be like? (I'm just rlly curious, considering the fact that he doesn't leave the Asylum in the book.)

Outsider | Headcanons

Dr. Stockill / Gender Neutral Reader

Fandom: The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls.

Spoilers Present.

_________________________________

Content Warning: Kidnapping, mentions of murder, description of insect harm (metaphorical), obsessive/possessive behaviour.

(If there’s anything else I need to add to these warnings, please let me know.)

Thanks anon for this request! It was a fun one to fill out, considering the doctor’s status as a world-class shut-in XD

I hope that I’ve fulfilled it but if I’ve missed the mark, or if there’s anything you’d like me to elaborate on, feel free to shoot me another ask!

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- Well, it would certainly be less likely for Stockill to have a darling who is not a resident of the Asylum.

- As anon's noted; he doesn't leave the Asylum in the book. Too wrapped up in his experiments to bother associating with the world outside.

- However, just because its unlikely, doesn't mean it's impossible...

- If his darling was someone outside of the Asylum, there could be a few ways that he first encounters them.

- Maybe they attended they Ophelia Gallery, by their own choice or having been dragged along by somebody else?

- Maybe he encountered them at some kind of conference; something formal, to keep up appearances, that Stockill would clearly have rather skipped?

- Or maybe it was a chance meeting on the street? Perhaps while he was purchasing some new supplies for his experiments...

- Regardless, Stockill is left perplexed by the meeting.

- He had felt... something towards them.

- He can't figure out what it is, but it's something.

- That’s a major difference between a darling within the Asylum and one outside it.

- A darling within is close all the time, allowing an obsession to be slowly built over months of unavoidable proximity.

- But, due to Stockill’s reclusive nature, this build-up would not be applicable to a darling outside of the Asylum.

- So, any obsession with an outsider would have to hit hard and fast.

- And hit fast it did.

- Soon, he orchestrates more meetings with them. More run-ins, more formalities, whatever excuse he can give himself to see the person who made him feel more than nothing.

- But rather than satiating his curiosity, it only becomes worse.

- Stockill is careful to shield the Asylum’s true nature from them. Alongside hiding his own... murderous tendencies.

- This serves two purposes: to keep from stirring up controversy and to not scare them away.

- He remains polite during their meetings, almost courteous. A behaviour that later unsettles his darling when they see how cold he is towards others. How cold he is towards everyone...

- Except for Madam Mournington, and them.

- Speaking of Mournington, Stockill would be eager to introduce his darling to her.

- The doctor values her opinion highly. And, as he becomes more invested in this new person, he hopes that she will approve of them.

- Or at least tolerate them.

- But even if she doesn't, Stockill's obsession won't wane.

- Time goes on. The pair become closer.

- Stockill's obsession shifts as jealousy starts to creep in.

- He hasn't felt jealousy like this in decades. Not since Violet…

- But, he's not a child anymore, he reprimands himself. He swears that he can control his jealousy this time. And besides, those he feels jealous towards aren't as easily disposed as the unwanted inmates of the Asylum.

- They’re people from the outside world.

- Dirty, filthy, people.

- Flies. Buzzing pests that litter the city's disgusting streets.

- Flies who would surely raise alarm if one of their own met an untimely demise.

- No, no... he couldn't do that.

- Unless...

- Instead of picking off flies in the open air; he removes his darling from the situation altogether.

- Capture them. Like a butterfly in a jar. Keep them away of the world's cruel clutches.

- It'd be for their own good, he assures himself. He's seen firsthand how deplorable people can be. The terrible things that they’d do for a couple of coins or a fleeting moment of ‘fun’.

- Those people would steal his darling from him. Claw apart their wings. Leave them a twitching, writhing, mess of bleeding colours and torn chitin.

- He couldn’t have that. He simply couldn’t.

- So, in the end, it doesn’t matter where they start. Because his darling, his butterfly, will always wind up in the same place:

- Trapped within the crumbling walls of the Asylum. And entangled in Montmorency’s web.

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[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

Clarification has been recieved/read - thanks anon! I'll get to your request soon! :D

Reader tried to break into Moira's lab but ended up messing up something which led them to get injured and caught.

They thought they were ready for anything but turns to their surprise the doctor seems to have taken a sort of liking in them.

Reader is not sure if it's better or worse than simply being treated like a spy.

Hey, whoever sent in this ask - please can you send in another just clarifying which franchise this is for? I believe that you're referring to Overwatch's Moira, but I would appreciate some confirmation if that's not the case! <3

[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

Reader tried to break into Moira's lab but ended up messing up something which led them to get injured and caught.

They thought they were ready for anything but turns to their surprise the doctor seems to have taken a sort of liking in them.

Reader is not sure if it's better or worse than simply being treated like a spy.

Hey, whoever sent in this ask - please can you send in another just clarifying which franchise this is for? I believe that you're referring to Overwatch's Moira, but I would appreciate some confirmation if that's not the case! <3

[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

I would like something (hcs or else, whatever you can make out of it/feel like writing) for Dr. Stockill and a darling who is not eating.

Eiter because they decided to hunger strike as a form of protesting against him (totally terrible idea but not every darling is the sharpest tool in the shed heheh...) or because they are sick and that makes it hard for them/takes away apetite.

Hunger Pains | Headcanons

Dr. Stockill / Gender Neutral Reader

Fandom: The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls.

No Spoilers.

_________________________________

Ambiguous yan - can be read as platonic or romantic.

_________________________________

Content Warning: Hunger strikes, disordered eating, illness, brief mention of force feeding, brief mentions of animal/human death.

(If there’s anything else I need to add to these warnings, please let me know.)

Tysm for the ask anon! <3 I hope that this lives up to your request/expectations!!

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- It doesn’t take Stockill long to notice they’ve stopped eating.

- In the months, maybe years, that Stockill has known them, they have never displayed an avoidance of food to this degree.

- Despite his detachment, disgust, and apathy to almost everything around him, he is an observant man. Especially when it comes to his darling.

- Within a few days, the interrogations start.

- He begins questioning his darling; and the longer he goes without an answer, the more insistent he becomes...

- "Don't lie to me, I know something is wrong with you."

- Once he finally manages to get an explanation out of them, he's bewildered.

- This odd behaviour is out of spite? Some silly protest against him?

- Stockill believes that he treats his darling rather well, at least in comparison to the other inmates he oversees.

- His darling is given decent food and drink; dressed in clothes that keep out the asylum's chilling cold; and is kept close to the doctor whenever possible.

- Stockill even allows them to rest in the safety of his room, in his own bed (which is often unused due to his frequent neglect of sleep).

- And yet, they still fight him?

- They would prefer the bleak darkness of the asylum's wards, accompanied by nothing but filthy rats and those wretched whores, over staying with him?

- Even going so far as to starve themselves, just to prove a point?

- His darling begins to deteriorate... day by day. Their movements becoming slower, their thoughts foggier, their gaze more distant. All despite his attempts to reason with them.

- As he tries to rationalise it, his confusion gives way to anger.

- Convinced that his darling's behaviour must have been instigated by another, threats soon follow.

- "I swear, if you do not stop this idiotic demonstration... I will find whichever inmate placed the idea in your head, and I will make her suffer!"

- From here, there's only two ways that it can end:

- In one, his darling ceases their little hunger strike, giving into the doctor's demands. Whereupon things will return to how they were, and Stockill will limit their contact with others even more as a precaution.

- In the other ending, his darling continues. Until Stockill does something...

- Drastic.

- But, he would rather not resort to something as vile as force feeding, or harming their companions to threaten them into relenting...

- So, it would be wise for his darling to stop. After all, they don't want to have their friends' blood on their hands... do they?

_________________________________

- Alternatively, if his darling’s lack of appetite is a result of sickness or some other affliction, he’s more…

- Well, he's not exactly sympathetic, but perhaps more understanding.

- Now, this is a problem for him to solve, a condition to be alleviated.

- He quickly sets himself to work: to find a cure for whatever is ailing them.

- There's a sudden influx of dead rats (and eventually dead patients) scattered throughout his laboratory, all in his attempt to cure this illness.

- But, with the limitations of victorian medicine, there's a good chance that Stockill's ventures will remain fruitless.

- If the illness becomes long-term, or is in fact some incurable/chronic condition, then Stockill will continue to seek for ways to lessen it.

- All the while, he will focus on keeping his darling healthy; maybe even neglecting his plague research until he is confident that their condition is stable.

- They won't be leaving Stockill's room for a long while... As he will insist they remain bedbound to avoid the affliction worsening.

- He would try to encourage his darling's appetite with more pleasant food than the asylum typically provides.

- "I recall you mentioning this dish. Something you enjoyed before you were sent... here."

- The costs for which are taken from the asylum's funds... but that is of no matter to him. His darling takes upmost priority.

- "Also, don't attempt to smuggle some to the other patients again. Yes, yes, I saw that. You are not nearly as sly as you think you are."

- He's almost considerate in this state.

- It's eerie.

- Incredibly eerie.

- But, all things considered, it's far from the worst situation his darling could be in.

- And as they fall asleep, curled up in Stockill's bed, the doctor watching them with a hawk-like gaze...

- They see the ever so faint, ever so unnatural, twist of his lips.

- A smile.

- "I will see you tomorrow, my dear..."

_________________________________

[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

Ophelia's Flowers.

Dr. Stockill / Gender Neutral Reader

Fandom: The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls.

No Spoilers.

_________________________________

Ambiguous yan - can be read as platonic or romantic.

_________________________________

Content Warning: Reader is gender neutral but is ‘feminine’ in appearance/attire; detailed as having long hair and wearing a dress.

Please proceed with caution if such descriptions may make you uncomfortable/dysphoric.

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

_________________________________

“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance.”

Thin herbal leaves speckled by soft purple flowers join the wreath that lies upon your head.

“Pray you, love, remember.”

The doctor’s thin lips echo the immortal words of Shakespeare, whispered under his breath. The office is eerily silent and it let you hear every syllable.

“And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts…”

Indigo and yellow petals are laid in your hair. Tucked amongst the braids woven with a tenderness unfound in this damned building.

“There’s fennel for you, and columbines.”

The Ophelia Gallery has returned. One of the asylum’s yearly ventures: a show for the masses, or perhaps a warning to all the women who are just one misstep away from being thrown in to it. Locked away for some pitifully small offence.

“There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me.”

The little yellow specks on thin green stalks are added to the adornment. Stockill’s fingertips are wrapped around the stem; placing it carefully behind your ear.

“We may call it 'herb of grace' o' Sundays.”

Dr Stockill’s spindly fingertips curl around another stem, snapping it with the swiftness of a guillotine. He slides it into his waistcoat pocket, beside the stem of wilting violets.

“- Oh, you must wear your rue with a difference.”

A pair of nails presses into the skin under your chin, while the fingers they belong to tilt your head slowly. Dark eyes scan over his work; an artist searching for a spot on his canvas to add another stroke of colour.

"There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets,"

At the mention of those flowers, your gaze darts down to the wilting purple flowers in his waistcoat.

"But they withered all when my siste-"

Your eyes flick up; meeting his abyssal stare.

He pauses, before calmly correcting himself. The alteration smooth enough for the mistake to be ignored. Yet, it did not escape your notice.

"But they withered all when my father died."

He concludes his speaking as The Mad Ophelia, the illusion of her visage shedding from his voice. In her place, the true persona of The Callous Doctor Stockill.

With the silence of the room restored, you stand from your chair, assuming that this is your cue to leave. To join your fellow inmates outside in the crude display of the Ophelia Gallery.

But you barely take a few strides before you hear-

"I did not grant you permission to leave." The doctor's stern voice cloaks the sound of your footsteps.

In an instant, you stop in your tracks. You do not have the courage to turn around; do not have the courage to meet his eyes again.

As your nervous hands twirl and twist the overgrown strands of hair on your head, one of the flowers falls to the floor. Despite its weightlessness, the thud of it hitting the wooden planks is agonising.

Internally, you curse yourself. The cursing turns to anxiety. Anxiety to panic.

Racing thoughts worsen with every step the doctor takes towards you. Until he is directly behind you. His shadow blanketing your form.

"You will not be going out there." Stockill states calmly, while his spider-like manoeuvres return the fallen flower to its rightful place.

"Why not..?" The question leaves your lips before you can think to stop it.

There is a second of stillness.

"You are in no position to ask." The doctor replies firmly. He is the superintendent of this Asylum. He does not need to justify himself to a mere patient.

But soon, he takes a breath, admission bubbling in his throat. He wishes to confess with the fervour of a sinner to a priest. The words like a river battering against a breaking dam.

"Those people out there... the weak, depraved, people of this city... they do not deserve to look upon this."

The doctor divulges, his voice is quieter than you have ever heard it. His hands place themselves upon your shoulders, slowly turning you to face him. He is puzzled by his own wish to admit this all... but he does not have the will to stop himself.

"The women would be disconcerted and disgusted by you, while the men would care only for what lay beneath your robes." He continues as the light of the room hits your skin and illuminates his work.

His expression twitches ever so slightly, in what seems to be anger. Or maybe disgust? You wonder whether that look is directed at you, the people he was describing, or himself.

"And so, you will stay here." The doctor announces, his normal volume flaring up like a violent breeze. It nearly makes you jump.

"Here?" you repeat.

"Here. In my office. Or perhaps my laboratory should I need to venture down there." Stockill clarifies, a touch of irritation is his typically vacuous tone.

"Am I understood?"

The man's question is hardly that: a question. Instead, it is an extension of his command. A rhetorical statement, demanding compliance.

And, with a small nod in response, you comply.

The doctor's hands loosen their hold on your shoulders. You hadn't realised how harshly his nails were biting into your skin; forming dents in the fabric of your dress.

"Good." Dr. Stockill comments coldly. Yet, somehow, there's a touch of approval laced within.

After taking a final glance over your features; the ghostly white dress that hangs over your figure; and the flowers laden in your hair; he lets go. The creaking noise of wooden floorboards resounds as he leaves your side.

"Now, I have to fetch some supplies from elsewhere. Necessities for my work. I will be back shortly." He informs as he straightens the cuffs on his shirt. Stockill's earlier anger and disgust are replaced by an eerie calm, like vines covering a building; hiding it away, as though it had never existed in the first place.

The hinges cry with a mouse-ish squeak as the door opens, the doctor disappearing into the asylum's labyrinth of corridors.

He leaves the door unlocked.

It lay ajar. The latch not clicked into place. A move too foolish to be made by the precise and meticulous physician.

It leaves you with one conclusion: this is a test.

The door taunts you. Tugs on your sleeves. Nags you to leave... Urges you to run from this room, to the company and sanctuary of the other inmates, far from the constricting grasp of the doctor's web...

But, despite your fear, you remain.

You sit back down upon your chair.

You adjust the petals he laid in your hair.

And you listen to the muffled sounds of the Ophelia Gallery outside.

As you wait for him to return.

Just as the doctor knew you would.

_________________________________

[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

Yandere! Slappy the Living Dummy Headcanons

Fandom: Goosebumps.

No Spoilers.

Character Version: Book!Slappy

_________________________________

Ambiguous yan - can be read as platonic or romantic.

_________________________________

Content Warning: Manipulation, isolation, possessive behaviour, kinda stalking?

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

Big apologies to anyone who is scrolling through the goosebumps tag and managed to come across this... I am cringe as hell, but I am free!

_________________________________

- Before we begin, let’s get a quick rundown on Slappy:

- He’s an evil, manipulative, and sadistic ventriloquist dummy, who’s near-impossible to defeat in the long term.

- So basically, an entity you’d never want to be obsessed with you.

- Let’s go with the typical Goosebumps narrative: you found him lying around, asleep, and (for some damn reason) you decided to bring him home!

- You pick the sheet of paper out of his pocket and read the words inscribed.

- “Karru Marri Odonna Loma Molonu Karrano”

- As the days pass by, strange things begin to happen around your home.

- It starts off small; things being out of place, items disappearing and reappearing, the sound of footsteps echoing through the house in the dead of night when you’re sure that nobody else is awake.

- And, even more strangely, that ventriloquist dummy you found keeps appearing on your bed: sitting beside your pillow and staring down at you. Creepy.

- At this stage, Slappy observes your daily life. He doesn’t make his sentience known just yet.

- He sees your routine, your hobbies, your family, and your friends…

- It’s those last two that really grind his gears.

- Slappy sees you and your loved ones. He sees you doing nice things for them: giving them gifts, doing favours, or offering to help them with tasks.

- His little wooden mind misinterprets this as you serving them. An odd leap to make, until you account his strange fixation on making people his ‘slaves’. In his head, that’s what you must be doing, that’s the only thing you could be doing, right?

- And so, Slappy starts getting antsy. Why are you serving those useless fleshbags when you should be serving him? He’s the only person (or dummy in this case) that you should be focusing on.

- Here is when his interruptions of your daily life start to become more extreme.

- He openly tries to get your attention. This is achieved by causing as many problems and messes as his 3-foot-something form allows. At this point he may reveal that he’s alive.

- Alongside this, he’ll start pushing away your friends and family.

- A few cruel pranks, a handful of exposed secrets, and a couple of damaged items is all it takes for him to leave you completely alone.

- Except for him of course.

- And, with no one else to turn to, you’ll finally give into his demands; willing to be his loyal servant for the rest of your life.

- At least, that’s what he hopes, what he imagines, as his glassy eyes stare unblinkingly.

- Staring down at your sleeping face, once again. Night after night.

- Until there's nothing left for you, but him.

[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

Sooo… I’ve got another blog now…

A bit of self-promotion never hurt anyone… XD

Out, Damned Spot!

_________________________________

Male Yandere (Micah) / Gender Neutral Reader

(Written in 2nd person.)

_________________________________

TW: 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 TWs please let me know).

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

Also, first post, hehe!

_________________________________

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.

_________________________________

[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

So, Who's your comfort Character? 🙂