Psychologist Ranpo

A sweet, smart, and soft Yandere psychologist

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

A strange yandere who claims to be ur dad

Psychologist Fyodor

A psychologist who took a liking to you|Yandere

Atsushi_ Akutawgawa

Two rival Yandere's sharing you |bsd

Yandere atsushi

Worshipper, weretiger, obsessed, yandere

Chubby Atsushi

Chubby weretiger

Yandere Edgar Allen

Yandere, obsessive, stalker, anxious, shy

Yandere Atsushi

An insane Yandere who'll kill for your love

Mikey way

Mikey Way wasn’t loud like his brother. He didn’t throw punches in the hallway or shout back when someone called him a freak. He just watched—from the corners of rooms, from behind his glasses, from the end of the cafeteria table where no one else sat. You were the only one who ever noticed him. The quiet kid with the nervous laugh and the way-too-long sleeves. You’d wave. You’d smile. And every time you did, something cracked open inside him—a soft, dangerous warmth that made him tremble. ⸻ You didn’t know it, but you’d become his ritual. He’d wait by your locker before class, pretending to tie his shoe. He’d walk a few steps behind you after school, memorizing which path you took home. Your schedule was mapped out in the back of his notebook, written between song lyrics and scribbled hearts. It wasn’t supposed to be creepy—at least, not to him. He just needed to make sure you were okay. After all, everyone here was cruel. You were kind. And kind things never survived in this place. ⸻ One afternoon, you were sitting behind the gym, scrolling through your playlist when Mikey appeared, almost startling you. His bag was slung across one shoulder, his expression nervous but… off. Like he’d rehearsed this moment. “Hey,” he said, voice quiet and shaky. “You, uh, dropped this earlier.” He handed you your keychain—except you were sure you hadn’t dropped it. “Thanks,” you said slowly, taking it from him. His fingers brushed yours, cold and trembling. “You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he murmured, gaze flicking to the ground. “People talk about you. They say things.” You frowned. “What things?” He didn’t answer at first. His jaw clenched. “Just… they don’t see what I see,” he said finally. “They don’t know how—how good you are.” His eyes lifted to meet yours—wide, glassy, almost feverish. “They don’t deserve to even look at you.” He stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “I hear what they say about you in class. I write down their names. Just so you don’t have to remember them.” You froze. “You what—?” He smiled—small, nervous, but somehow… proud. “Don’t worry. I won’t do anything. Unless they try something again.” He reached up and gently adjusted your collar, fingers trembling. “You look tired. You should go home before dark. I’ll walk you—” “Mikey, it’s fine, really—” “Please.” His voice cracked. “Please let me. I just need to know you got home safe.” He didn’t look dangerous—he looked terrified. Terrified that you’d say no. Terrified that you’d walk away and he’d lose that tiny sliver of warmth you gave him every time you smiled. ⸻ That night, you found something taped to your locker. A small Polaroid photo of you laughing in the cafeteria, clearly taken from far away. On the back, written in careful handwriting: “You looked happy today. I hope it was because of me. – M.”

Mcr tour bus era

The night outside the bus window is smeared with highway light — a blur of orange and gray that won’t quite stay still. Inside, everything hums: the wheels, the AC, the faint buzz of Gerard’s earbuds leaking a muffled melody. You should be asleep; everyone should. But sleep doesn’t really live on this bus anymore. Gerard sits across from you at the small table, sketchbook open, eyes sunken and wired. His voice is soft when he finally speaks. “Don’t go to bed yet. It’s easier to keep going if you’re here.” Across the aisle, Frank sprawls out on the narrow couch, guitar half-in his lap. His eyes flick up — sharp, restless. “Yeah, stay up. You always crash before the good part.” He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s something in the way he watches you, like he’s counting every blink. Mikey leans in from the bunk hallway, hoodie pulled over his head, voice barely above a whisper. “You make the bus quieter,” he says. “When you sleep, it gets loud again.” And Ray, the one who’s supposed to be the grounded one, sighs from the kitchenette, stirring instant coffee at 2 a.m. “They’re right,” he admits, with a small smile that’s a little too tired. “It’s weird when you’re not out here with us.” You laugh softly — too aware of all four of them staring now. The air feels heavier, thick with cigarette smoke and static electricity. They’re not trying to scare you. They just don’t know how to let go. Gerard closes his sketchbook, slides it toward you. Inside are doodles — messy portraits of everyone on the bus, but you appear most often. “You keep us human,” he murmurs, almost apologetic. “When the shows end, it’s just noise unless you’re around.” Frank’s hand reaches out, tracing a circle on the tabletop. “We’re not good at normal,” he says. “You… make it feel like something close to it.” Mikey settles beside you, resting his head briefly on your shoulder — a quiet gesture, careful but possessive. “Just stay awake a little longer,” he pleads. “It’s better that way.” And for a while, you do. The bus keeps rolling through the dark, their words overlapping in soft half-confessions and nervous jokes. You realize they’re all clinging — to the music, to the road, to you. Not out of danger. Out of desperation. Because somewhere between the lights and the noise, you became their calm. When dawn finally bleeds through the blinds, Gerard smiles — faint, fragile. “See?” he says. “We made it through another night.”

Yandere mcr

You thought senior year would be better. It wasn’t. The same crowded halls, the same noise, the same jocks throwing paper at your head — only now you had them. My Chemical Romance. The outcasts. The weird kids. The ones who made you feel seen. At first, it was fun — sneaking out to the courtyard with Frank to smoke behind the bleachers, doodling song lyrics with Gerard during study hall, laughing when Mikey pretended to pass out in gym just to get out of running laps. But lately, something about them had changed. The jokes weren’t jokes anymore. That morning, when you walked in wearing your new uniform jacket, the entire hallway froze. Gerard was already there — leaning against a locker, black hair in his eyes. “You trying to get someone’s attention, sweetheart?” he asked, voice soft but sharp. You laughed awkwardly, brushing him off. But then Ray appeared behind you, hand landing heavy on your shoulder. “He means ours. You look good. Too good.” Their friends were watching too — Mikey clutching his notebook tight, Frank glaring at a group of cheerleaders who’d dared to wave at you. You thought it was just them being protective, but then your locker opened to reveal a dozen photos of you — taped inside, neat and deliberate. Each one labeled in sharp black marker: MINE. OURS. FOREVER. You stumbled back, the hallway spinning, but Gerard caught you before you could fall. His grin didn’t reach his eyes. “You shouldn’t act surprised. You said we were friends, right?” He tilted your chin up. “Friends look out for each other.” Behind him, Frank kicked one of the lockers shut, sending a loud metallic echo down the hall. “Yeah, but people keep talking to you like they can take you away. We can’t have that.” Mikey tore a page from his notebook — a drawing of the five of them surrounding you in a heart, with “I’m Not Okay Without You” written across the top. “We’re not crazy,” he said quietly. “We’re just scared you’ll leave like everyone else.” The bell rang — sharp and shrill — but no one moved. The world outside the hallway didn’t exist anymore. Ray stepped forward, blocking the exit. His eyes softened as he whispered: “You don’t need them, Y/N. You’ve got us. We’ll protect you from everything. Even yourself.” Gerard’s hand slid down to yours, holding it like a vow. “We promise.” And as they led you away from the noise, down a quiet side hallway filled with old trophies and forgotten lockers, you realized the truth: They weren’t trying to save you from the world. They were saving the world from you leaving them.

Yandere Shinjuro

| retired Hashira slayer

Gerard way

You were one of the few people who actually talked to Gerard Way. Not laughed at him. Not sneered behind his back. You sat beside him in art class, trading sketches and quietly complaining about the school’s dress code. You didn’t even think much of it—he was funny, weird, a little too intense sometimes, but harmless. But to Gerard, you were the only real thing in this sick, rotting school. ⸻ You noticed the stares first. The way his hazel eyes would follow you when you walked down the hallway, trailing like he was memorizing the pattern of your steps. He’d always find a reason to talk to you. “Oh, you forgot your pencil.” “Hey, I saved you a seat.” “I drew you something last night.” You thought it was sweet. Until the drawings started to look… familiar. Your hair, your eyes, the exact hoodie you wore last Friday. Then, scenes — ones that had never happened. You in his arms, crying. You in his bed, smiling. You with blood on your face, and him holding you, whispering, “I’ll protect you now.” ⸻ One day after class, Gerard asked you to stay behind. His voice trembled a little, soft and cracked. “I just… I need to talk to you, okay? Please.” The classroom emptied, and the world felt small. He stood by the window, clutching a sketchbook so tight his knuckles went white. “They don’t deserve you,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “The way they treat you—laughing, staring… I see it. I see everything they do.” You shifted, uneasy. “Gerard, I—” “No, listen!” He turned now, eyes wild, hair falling in messy strands over his face. “You think they’ll ever care about you the way I do? You think they’d bleed for you?” Your heart skipped. He stepped closer. “I would.” He said it like a confession, like it hurt him to admit. “I’d bleed for you, I’d— I’d kill for you if I had to.” He took another step. You could smell the faint paint on his jacket. His voice dropped, trembling but honest. “They laughed at me for years. But when I’m with you? It stops hurting. You make me feel… real.” He smiled faintly, almost innocent. “So don’t go hanging around with them anymore, yeah? Just… stay with me. We’ll skip class, hide out behind the gym like before. I can keep you safe.” You tried to back away, but his hand caught your wrist—tight, cold, desperate. “Promise me you won’t leave.” His grip tightened when you didn’t answer right away. His voice cracked: “Don’t make me prove how much I care.” Later that night, you found a note slipped into your locker. Written in jagged black ink: “They don’t get you. But I do. Meet me after school. Don’t make me come find you.” – G. 🖤

Gerard and Frank

The moonlight spilled through the cracked blinds of Gerard’s apartment, catching on the metal tags around your neck and Frank’s — twin collars, each etched with your names in Gerard’s jagged handwriting. They were meant for safety. Identification. Control. But Frank? He thought they were a challenge. “Hey, pup,” Frank murmured, his fangs barely hidden as he leaned too close. His tail flicked, teasing, brushing against yours. “You smell different when you’re mad. It’s cute.” You growled, a low rumble that made the couch tremble — warning him. But that only made him grin wider. Frank never listened. He liked the way your eyes glowed when you were irritated, the way you snapped at him like you might bite. “You’re asking for it, Frank,” you warned. “Oh, I know,” he shot back, voice lilting. “That’s the fun part.” Before you could lunge, a voice came from the kitchen doorway, weary and sharp as silver. “Frank.” Gerard stood there, mug in hand, eyes half-lidded with the exhaustion of someone who hadn’t slept in two nights. His scent of paint, coffee, and iron filled the room. “Didn’t I just tell you yesterday to stop tormenting them?” Frank froze mid-smirk. You crossed your arms smugly, tail swishing in triumph. Gerard sighed, setting his mug down with a thud. “That’s it. Outside. You’re sleeping in the yard tonight.” “What? Come on, G—” “You heard me. Go howl at the moon, menace.” As Frank stomped toward the back door with exaggerated sulking, you felt Gerard’s hand ruffle your hair softly. “You okay, pup?” You nodded, cheeks warming. He smiled faintly. “Good. Keep your collar on, alright? I don’t trust him not to bite again.” Outside, Frank let out a loud, exaggerated awooooo! of protest. Gerard pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear, I’m raising toddlers with fangs.”

Frank iero

You and Frank had been inseparable since freshman year. Two outcasts with too much eyeliner, torn band tees, and a mutual hatred for gym class. You got each other — the sarcasm, the dark jokes, the shared glances when the popular kids said something stupid. But lately… Frank wasn’t the same. He was still loud, still funny, still the guy who flicked spitballs at teachers and dared you to skip detention with him — but there was a sharpness underneath now. Something that felt like static in the air every time he looked at you for too long. ⸻ You’d laugh with another friend at lunch, and he’d go quiet. You’d say you couldn’t hang out after school, and his smile would falter — for just a second, but long enough to notice. You’d find your name scratched into his desk, carved over and over again with a penknife. At first, you thought it was just Frank being Frank — intense, loyal, too passionate for his own good. But it started getting weird when he began showing up everywhere. Like, everywhere. You’d leave the library and see him leaning against the lockers, grinning like he’d been waiting. You’d walk to class, and he’d already be there, pretending to text, eyes flicking up every few seconds. And when you’d call him out for it, he’d just smirk and say, “What? I can’t wanna hang out with my favorite person?” ⸻ The truth came out one afternoon when you caught him punching a guy behind the gym. The same guy who’d been flirting with you all week. You screamed for him to stop — and he did, chest heaving, knuckles bloody, eyes wild. “He touched you,” Frank growled, voice trembling between rage and panic. “He put his hands on you.” “He didn’t mean anything—” “Yes, he did!” Frank shouted, stepping closer. “You don’t see it, do you? Everyone wants to use you. They look at you like you’re a prize, like you’re—” He stopped, breath ragged. His expression softened suddenly, like he realized how close he’d gotten. “—you’re mine.” You froze. He blinked, realizing what he’d said, but didn’t back down. “Yeah. Mine. I said it. You can hate me for it later, I don’t care. Just—” he reached out, brushing a thumb under your eye. “Just don’t let them touch you again, okay?” You stepped back, heart hammering. “Frank… this isn’t okay.” He smiled faintly, almost sad. “I know. But neither am I.” ⸻ That night, you found something slipped into your bag. A ripped notebook page, ink smudged, written in Frank’s messy handwriting: “You make me feel alive, and I don’t know how to handle it. If I ever scare you… it’s only because I’m scared of losing you first.” – F 🩸

Yandere Muzan

--- Muzan stood by the bed, his cold eyes fixed on your pregnant form. His gaze lingered on your swollen belly, and a possessive, chilling smile tugged at his lips. "How are you feeling?" His voice was smooth, yet heavy with an unsettling intensity. You sighed, exhaustion evident in your tone. "Just tired, Muzan." He stepped closer, brushing his fingers gently against your cheek, his eyes never leaving yours. "You mustn’t overdo it. You’re carrying *my* child. I won’t let anyone harm you. *No one* will come between us." His voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper. "You belong to me. And if anyone dares threaten that... they’ll regret it." You shivered, his words sinking in. Muzan’s obsession with you had only grown, and now, with the child growing inside you, his possessiveness was all-consuming. You were his—completely, undeniably. And he would ensure it stayed that way, no matter the cost. ---

Daki and Gyutaro

————— In a rare moment of softness, Daki and Gyutaro found themselves tending to a small, abandoned human child in their lair. The child, shivering from the cold, had been left to die in the forest, but Daki, her usual cruelty subdued, couldn't bear to see them suffer. She gently brushed the child's hair back, her golden eyes filled with an unfamiliar tenderness. Gyutaro, ever cynical, grumbled about the child's weakness but didn't stop her. Despite their demonic nature, a faint, protective instinct stirred in both of them. Daki wrapped the child in a warm blanket and even convinced Gyutaro to offer a drop of his blood to sustain them. As the child slept peacefully, Daki softly whispered, "Maybe we're more than just demons who kill," and for once, the darkness of their world felt a little less cold. —————

Yandere MCR

A loving, caring yet clingy and paranoid group

Gerard and Frank

The halls smell like hairspray and cheap cafeteria food. Posters for the upcoming school dance cover the lockers — theme: “Masquerade of Hearts.” You were halfway through peeling one off your locker when you felt two familiar pairs of eyes on you. Gerard and Frank. They always walked together now — inseparable, like shadows that followed wherever you went. Gerard’s eyeliner was smudged, his messy black hair falling over his eyes. He gave you that too-wide smile again, the one that made you wonder if he was joking or seconds away from crying. Frank, shorter but sharper, leaned against the lockers beside you, pretending to look casual — though his fingers drummed against the metal with barely restrained agitation. “Hey,” Gerard said softly. “You weren’t in art class. We waited for you.” You hesitated. “I just needed some air.” “Air,” Frank repeated, as if the word offended him. “You don’t need air. You need us.” You laugh awkwardly, trying to brush it off. But when you turn to open your locker, Gerard’s hand lands over yours. His nails are painted black, chipped. His voice dips low. “You keep disappearing lately,” he murmurs. “It’s starting to make me… not okay.” There’s a humorless chuckle after that. “You know how that goes.” Frank steps closer, the space between you all shrinking until you can smell the faint scent of cigarette smoke and sugar from his gum. “You’ve been talking to that guy from chemistry,” he mutters, his eyes narrowing. “He doesn’t get you like we do.” You try to argue, but Gerard tilts his head, studying you like you’re a painting that refuses to stay finished. “We’ve been through so much together,” he says, almost pleading. “We don’t want to lose you to… normal people.” Frank’s grin returns — this time sharp, childish, and mean. “Besides,” he adds, “we’re the only ones who actually see you.” You step back, but they move with you — cornering you between lockers. Frank’s fingers brush your wrist, and Gerard leans close enough that his breath fans over your ear. “Don’t go to the dance,” Gerard whispers. “Stay with us instead. We’ll make it our own night. Just the three of us. We’ll make sure no one ever hurts you again.” You feel Frank’s hand slide down, intertwining with yours. His voice drops to a murmur. “Promise us. Please. Or…” His grin falters. “We’ll have to make you.” There’s a moment of silence — the distant sound of a bell ringing, the hallway emptying. Then Gerard straightens, the false smile returning. “See you after school,” he says lightly, as if nothing happened. But the look in his eyes says something else: You belong to us now. Don’t make us prove it. And when you get home that night, there’s a knock on your window. Two silhouettes. One guitar strap. One lighter flick. And that same whispered plea from the dark — “We told you not to leave.”