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@toogoatedforyou
Welcome to my blog!! This is mainly for yapping about yandere x reader characters but I’ll write for any idea or character you have!
PLEASE ask me more information about my ocs, I have backstories and everything all written out 🤗
Rules:
- The only thing I won’t write is anything NSFW, aka dubcon, or any sex scenes. I’ll write suggestively if you ask.
Hi I just read thru ur blog after sending the popular yandere ask and OH MY JOD SUB YAN!. I would move mountains for that man if he asked. I need to know how the relationship is going between him and us. We know to a degree abt his yan tendencies but how does that translate to an actual relationship like this? Is he the kind of partner to always borrow like hoodies and shit without returning them? How often do they go on dates? Sweet things of that nature. Ur writing is so goates please never have ur shampoo replaced with Nair. 😽🫶
(Ps. Can I be 💬 Anon?)
- 💬 Anon?
OH MY GOODNESS MY FIRSR ANON!!! 🤗🤗
I’m so excited because I LITERALLY can yap about Ren all day, he’s so adorable 🥹 I’d let him manipulate me dare I say
• He wants to be touching you almost constantly: holding your hand, hooked onto your arm, pressed against your side, or sitting between your legs if you’ll let him.
• He follows your schedule as much as possible, “coincidentally” showing up when you do - same halls, same lunch spot, same route home.
• He texts you the second he wakes up and before he sleeps, and if you don’t reply for a while, he just keeps staring at your chat, rereading old messages to calm down.
• His mood is entirely tied to you: one compliment and he’s glowing all day, one cold look and he’s spiraling, convinced you hate him.
• He constantly asks for reassurance: “You still love me, right?”, “You’re not getting tired of me?”, “You’re not gonna leave, are you?”
• When he’s stressed or overwhelmed, he comes straight to you - curling into you, hiding his face, letting you pet his hair or scold him, whichever you choose.
• He melts when you give direct orders: “Sit,” “Stay,” “Come here,” “Be quiet,” instantly obeying with this shaky little “okay…” that gives him away.
• When you get rough - yanking his wrist, pinning him to a wall/bed, gripping his jaw - he flinches, then leans into it, breathing unsteady but clearly loving the intensity.
• He treats your anger like a twisted form of affection; being yelled at by you is still being seen by you, which he prefers over being ignored.
• He uses the height difference constantly - tucking under your chin in hugs, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, pressing his face into your chest.
• If you stand up, he instinctively reaches out: for your sleeve, your hand, your shirt - anything to keep you from walking away too fast.
• He is a serial cuddler; even when you’re annoyed, he asks, “Can I still lay on you?” and looks shattered if you say no.
• When someone gets too close, he goes quiet and stiff, his smile forced while his eyes track every move that person makes around you.
• He’ll step slightly in front of you, answer questions directed at you, or slide an arm around your waist to remind everyone that you’re taken.
• After a jealous moment, he gets extra clingy and pathetic - hugging you tighter, voice small as he asks you to reassure him that you won’t replace him.
• He remembers every small detail: your favorite snacks, songs, shows, the way you like your hair touched, how you take your drinks.
• He’s weirdly good at doing little acts of service - carrying your bag, saving you a seat, sending you reminders, organizing things for you - because it makes him feel useful.
• In his head, his future is just “wherever you are”; any plan he makes quietly assumes you’ll still be there, because the idea of a life without you doesn’t feel real.
Holy FUKC that was peak. never stop writing twin (/silly /nf)
- 💬 Anon
AHH THANK YOU SMM MY GOAT
I have to say that yandere beast man was genuinely one of the best things I’ve ever read. I loved the characterization of both your characters and it seems so natural with the complicated feelings of both people in the story. Like I fully understand the beastman’s reasoning for doing what he did because there is no way to enact change without action, and I believe reader knows that deep down but it’s almost like she’s separated herself from what has to be done to get to her end goal of freeing the other beast men. I loved their dialogue and genuinely hope you continue the story but I understand if not, you’re doing such a wonderful job I I hope you know that! Have a great day!
v. Me reading your story
OH MY GOODNESS THANK YOU SMMMM 🥹
I’m wondering if I should leave it open ended and do AUS based on your asks and how you want it to end… cuz I have TOOOOO many ideas 😓
Idk guys what are we thinking 🧐
Hiiiii! I decided to sort by new instead of top on my search today and found this gem of a blog. So far I've only read yan!popular kid but I wanted to ask how he would react to a reader who's either okay with the stalking or just a yandere too! Yandere/Willing reader is by far my favorite trope and I don't see nearly enough of it. If you don't like writing yandere reader feel free to ignore this ask but I just love ur writing sm so far. Have a lovely day!
OMG you know ball 🥹 I love that trope sm, I was actually planning to make a yandere x yandere reader but this works too!!
You and the class president were the school’s golden pair.
The kind one and the sweet one. Teachers adored you both, saying you were “the future,” “responsible,” “trustworthy.”
No one ever saw the blood that pulsed under the perfection.
He believed he was hiding his obsessions well - the way his eyes lingered too long when you smiled, the way he eliminated anything that might compete for your attention. But he never suspected that somewhere, in the corner of the room, you were thinking the same things about him.
Fake smiles. Perfect posture. Calculated warmth.
You’d learned long before that love meant devotion so sharp it cut. And when you saw him… you recognized the same glint behind his polite facade.
That day he “saved” you from a group of classmates, stepping in with an effortlessly charming grin, you knew it wasn’t kindness. It was territorial. He dismissed them as if he were clearing insects off your arm. You met his eyes and smiled - approval disguised as gratitude.
After that, it became a silent duel wrapped in affection.
He brought you coffee every morning, “because you always forget to eat breakfast.” You laced it with just enough sugar to make him suspicious - a tiny reminder that you noticed everything he did.
He walked you home, always just one step behind - you started locking your window every night just to hear him pick it open.
Neither of you said a word about it. You didn’t need to.
Once, during a class council meeting, the air between you turned electric - everyone else discussing mundane details while your eyes locked. His perfect composure faltered for the briefest moment, and you saw it: the hungry, unfeeling thing that mirrored your own. You grinned. He froze. Then he smiled back, slow and sharp, as if to say I know.
From that day on, you weren’t prey and predator anymore. You were partners in obsession, orbiting each other in a delicate, poisonous balance.
The school saw glitter and sunlight; the two of you saw only each other, two masks pressed together, waiting to see who would break first.
Love had never looked so symmetrical.
holy peak writing twin. no request this time i alr sent in 1 too many. just requesting that you keep it up! motivational speec about how much i love your fics goes here. im anon so i cant send images but imaging that crudely drawn guy holding up a hand heart and winking image. ur writing is like drug. if drugs were cool. #peakfiction Cool and conclusive ending goes here
- 💬 Anon
OH MY GOD YOU’RE SO AWESOME!!! THANK YOU SM 🥹🥹🫰 It’s literally a dream that people are actually interested in my writing and my ocs 😓😓
Hi!! This is crooquette! Really loved your beastman oneshot and want to request for more! Can I either get a part 2 continuation from the first entry to explore their relationship after he becomes king, OR his perspective on the events in the original oneshot? I think it would be fun to explore his thoughts while Reader was busy doing her best. Thank you!!
OH MY GOODNESS YES!!! PLEASE drop another ask for perspective I’d LOVE to write in his perspective!!
Anywho here’s a part 2 😋
The room was too quiet for a palace.
No servants moved outside the doors, no guards paced the corridor, no attendants hovered with trays of fruit and watered wine. The silence pressed in, thick as wool, forcing you to hear things you’d never noticed before: the crackle of the hearth, the rustle of your own breathing, the soft swish of a tail moving back and forth in measured arcs.
You stared at Lirion.
No - at the man who now wore the crown that should have been your father’s.
The circlet did not sit right on him. It was fashioned for human brows, too narrow for the subtle lift of his ears, so it tilted slightly, catching on a tuft of dark fur at his temple. Gold clashed with him. He was not made for ornament. He was made for chains or claws, never something as delicate as filigree.
Yet the crown did not look wrong. It looked inevitable.
You swallowed. “How many died?”
He regarded you for a long moment, golden eyes unreadable. “Enough that no one will contest my claim.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He sighed, the sound carrying that same careful restraint you’d always heard when he poured your tea or folded your cloaks - as if every breath had to be measured, weighed, made small enough to be allowed. The difference was that now, he chose it.
“Your father’s elite guard,” he said at last. “Most of his council. Some nobles. Few servants. The beastmen were told to run, and they did.”
You flinched. “You told them?”
A flicker of something like amusement touched his mouth. “Who else would they listen to?”
He stepped closer. Instinct made you shift back on the bed until your shoulders met the carved headboard. His ears twitched, catching the sound, and his gaze softened with a strange, unsettling warmth.
“You’re shaking.”
“I woke up in a different world,” you snapped. “Forgive me if my composure isn’t perfect.”
For a heartbeat, his expression cracked - not with guilt, but with something more dangerous: hurt. Then it smoothed over again. He sat on the edge of the mattress, careful not to touch you, though every line of his body screamed that he wanted to.
“This world was always here,” he murmured. “You just watched it through a curtain.”
You lifted your chin. “I tried to change it.”
“And I,” he said, voice quiet and sharp, “succeeded.”
The words hung between you, heavy. You remembered long debates in the council chamber, your father’s laughter when you argued for beastmen to be allowed into guilds and militias, the way nobles glanced at Lirion as if he were a piece of furniture that had somehow learned to stand upright.
“Is this what you call freedom?” you asked. “A throne built on corpses?”
He finally looked away, gaze drifting to the window where smoke curled in the distant sky - the last remnants of the fighting, or perhaps just chimney fires struggling against the winter air.
“Freedom is never given,” he said. “It is taken. Clawed. Torn. I learned that from your father.”
Your voice came out raw. “He trusted you.”
Lirion’s tail stilled. “No. He possessed me. There is a difference.”
He turned back to you, and the hunger in his eyes was no longer masked. It was not the wild, unfocused hunger of a beast; it was precise, human, sharpened by years of watching you from the shadows of your own life.
“You were the only one who forgot,” he continued softly. “You spoke to me. Asked my opinions when you thought no one heard. Shared your speeches, your hopes, your fears.”
Heat prickled at your cheeks. You remembered late nights in the library, his quiet suggestions about phrasing, the way he’d tilt his head when you practiced. You’d thought he was grateful to be treated as… if not equal, then something close.
“You wanted to remake the kingdom,” he said. “So did I.”
“Not like this.”
He smiled, and it did not reach his eyes. “You wanted the beastmen free. You did not specify how gentle the path should be.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. There was an argument there, something about morality and lines that should not be crossed, but it shriveled under the weight of his gaze. He believed every word he said. In his mind, this was not betrayal. It was fulfillment.
“Why keep me alive?” you asked quietly. “If you hate my blood so much - my father’s line - why not end it completely?”
His reaction was immediate, visceral. His ears flattened, his tail lashed once against the mattress, and his fingers closed around your wrist before you could pull back.
“Do not say such things,” he hissed.
You stared at his hand on your skin. His claws were blunt by law - filed down, always kept short - to make him less dangerous. You remembered the routine: once a week, the royal handler would call him, inspect his nails, force them against the whetstone if they’d grown too long. Your father had watched that once, smiling.
Now those same dulled claws dug into your flesh, not enough to break the skin, but enough to promise they could if he wished.
“You’re hurting me,” you whispered.
He blinked, looking down as if he’d forgotten he was touching you at all. Slowly, reluctantly, he loosened his grip, though his thumb stroked your pulse point once, feeling the frantic beat beneath.
“I would never harm you,” he said, each word deliberate. “Not truly.”
“Truly?” you echoed, bitter. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he answered, “that if your bones break, it will be because you ran into the bars I put there. Not because I raised my hand first.”
It was such an absurd sentence you almost laughed. Your voice trembled instead. “Bars?”
His gaze softened again, shifting into something almost reverent.
“You will be safe here,” he said. “No daggers in the council hall, no poison in your cup, no nobles whispering about ‘the girl who loves animals more than people.’ You will not have to beg for scraps of kindness from men who measured your worth in heirs and treaties.”
He lifted your captured hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of it. His mouth was warm, his breath fanning your skin. The gesture might have been courtly, romantic, even, if not for the collar-shaped ghost you could still see on his neck where the metal had rubbed his fur raw.
“You asked them to see us as people,” he murmured against your skin. “I will build a world where they have no choice.”
“And if I refuse to stand beside you?” you forced out. “If I denounce you in front of the entire court?”
He smiled against your hand. It did not feel kind.
“Then I will break the court,” he said simply. “And ask you again.”
Your heart stuttered. “You can’t rule without them.”
“I can,” he replied. “I will make new lords. Beastmen generals. Freed slaves turned ministers. Men and women who owe me their lives, not their titles.”
“And me?”
His eyes met yours, and you saw the answer before he spoke it: saw the shape of his obsession, the way it wrapped around you like a second skin.
“You are not owed,” he said. “You are… chosen.”
The word sat heavy in your chest. You thought of how your father had framed Lirion’s presence at your side: a gift, a symbol of your status. You had learned, over the years, that anything called a gift in this palace was usually a chain in prettier metal.
“Chosen for what?” you managed.
He leaned closer, bracing one hand on the headboard beside your head. The movement caged you without touching, his body heat seeping through the thin linen of your nightgown.
“To be the voice the humans will still listen to,” he said softly. “To temper me when I would go too far. To whisper in my ear as you did before.”
His breath brushed your cheek.
“To remind me that not all of your kind deserves to be crushed.”
You swallowed. “And if I fail at that?”
He tilted his head, considering. “Then I will forgive you,” he said. “Because you are also chosen for something else.”
Your throat was dry. “What?”
He smiled, and this time it did reach his eyes, though what glittered there was not tenderness, but something burning and absolute.
“To belong to me,” he said. “Not as a master. Not as a slave.”
His free hand moved, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, lingering against your neck.
“As my queen.”
The word should have tasted like power. It tasted like ash.
You forced yourself to ask, “Have you told anyone?”
He blinked. “Told them what?”
“About us.” The phrase felt wrong; there was no “us,” only you and the man who had torn your life apart and was now offering you a place in the ruins. “About your plan to… marry me.”
His tail resumed its slow, controlled sway. “There is no need yet. The court is occupied with survival. The beastmen are occupied with not being hunted. The priests are occupied with rewriting their scriptures.”
He shrugged slightly.
“Besides, if I announced it now, someone might be foolish enough to try to steal you to use against me.”
A chill ran down your spine. “And what would you do then?”
He did not hesitate.
“Kill them,” he said. “All of them. Their families. Their friends. Everyone who touched the idea of taking you away.”
Your fingers dug into the sheets. “You can’t rule like that.”
“I was not bred to rule,” he replied. “I was bred to obey. That did not work out for your people. Perhaps you should let me try it my way.”
Silence fell between you again, broken only by the distant tolling of a bell somewhere in the city. A death knell? A call to prayer? You couldn’t tell.
At length, you drew in a breath. “If I agree,” you said slowly, tasting the poison of each word, “what happens to the others?”
He stilled. “Others?”
“The beastmen,” you said. “All of them. The ones still in chains. The ones in noble houses and mines and arenas. What happens to them?”
His gaze sharpened. “You would bargain now?”
You met his eyes, steadying yourself. “I would know if I’m sharing a throne with a liberator or just another tyrant.”
A soft huff of laughter escaped him. “You think tyrants cannot free slaves?”
“Not without expecting chains in return.”
He watched you for a long time, something like pride warring with irritation in his expression. Finally, he spoke.
“I will break their collars,” he said. “All of them. I will outlaw the trade, dismantle the houses that profit from it, drag the nobles who resist into the square and show the city they bleed the same as anyone else.”
His fingers squeezed your hand, almost unconsciously.
“They will have rights. Land. Names they choose, not ones given. I swear it on the years I spent on your floor, waiting for you to call.”
Your chest tightened. It was everything you had wanted to hear in the council chamber, everything you had dreamed of putting into law… wrapped in blood and fire.
You whispered, “And the humans?”
He shrugged one shoulder.
“Those who accept it will live well. Those who do not will learn.”
“How?”
His smile returned, thin and sharp.
“Slowly,” he said. “Painfully.”
You exhaled, a tremor you couldn’t quite swallow.
There it was: the shape of the future he offered. A kingdom where beastmen walked unchained, where the slave markets were ash - and where mercy was a luxury he might remember only because you whispered it to him at night.
“You can stop me,” he said suddenly.
You blinked. “What?”
“If you stay,” he continued, eyes burning into yours, “if you stand beside me and say no when I would say yes to cruelty, if you look at me the way you are now - like I have disappointed you - then I will listen.”
He leaned in, and your backs pressed fully against the headboard.
“You have no idea how much power you have over me,” he murmured. “You never did.”
Your heart clenched. You thought of all the times you had thanked him quietly, the times you’d defended him before your father, the nights you’d fallen asleep at your desk and woken covered with a blanket you did not remember fetching.
You thought you’d been kind to a servant. He had been memorizing a god.
“I won’t be your conscience,” you whispered. “I won’t be a leash you pretend is a halo.”
He laughed softly.
“You already are,” he said. “I am only changing the collar.”
You closed your eyes, desperate for something solid to hold onto.
“Give me time,” you said finally. “To grieve. To think. To decide if I can stand beside you and still recognize myself.”
Silence stretched. You opened your eyes, fearing his answer.
Lirion studied you, then nodded once, slow.
“Three days,” he said. “You will not leave this room without escorts. You will speak to no one without my knowledge. You will eat, sleep, and bathe safely. No harm will come to you.”
A beat.
“At the end of those three days, I will ask you again. And whatever you choose, I will not kill you.”
You swallowed. “That is… kind of you.”
His smile turned wistful, almost boyish, and for a fleeting instant you saw not a king or a killer, but the collared youth who had stood behind your chair, eyes downcast, heart already fixed.
“It is not kindness,” he said. “It is selfishness. I would rather live with your hatred than your absence.”
He rose then, releasing your hand at last. The air felt colder where his touch had been.
At the door, he paused.
“Rest, my princess,” he said, ears flicking forward in a gesture you’d come to recognize as something like affection. “Grieve your father, if you must. Curse me, if you need. But remember this.”
He glanced back over his shoulder, golden eyes gleaming in the low light.
“You wanted a better world. There is no path to it that will leave your hands clean.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click, the lock sliding into place like the last piece of a puzzle.
You were alone.
You were safe.
You were trapped.
And somewhere in the depths of the palace, the former slaves were being told that the new king wore their face.
More information on my beloved sub yandere who I named Ren 🥹
He was the kind of boy people almost looked past at first glance - short, slim, hoodie sleeves too long, shoulders curled in like he was used to making himself smaller for other people’s comfort. The only thing that really gave him away was his eyes. Big, dark, and always a little too focused on you, like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.
He’d trail half a step behind you in the hallway, hands stuffed in his pockets, pretending he just happened to be going the same way. But the way his gaze flicked to your face every few seconds, drinking in every micro-expression like it was a weather report for his entire day, told a different story. When you laughed, he relaxed. When you frowned, his whole body tensed, ready to bend himself into whatever shape you needed.
Around other people, he was quiet and hesitant, the type who stumbles over introductions and forgets his own drink order if the barista looks at him for too long. His voice was soft, almost apologetic, like he was used to being talked over. But around you, everything sharpened. His tone got whinier, more dramatic, more honest. He’d tug at your sleeve and mumble, “Pay attention to me,” with an almost embarrassing desperation, like he didn’t know how to exist in a world where your eyes weren’t on him.
He’s your boyfriend, technically, but “boyfriend” feels too small for what he’s turned you into. You’re his center of gravity. His axis. His world. Every decision he makes - what classes to take, where to sit, when to leave - branches out from the same root thought: will this bring me closer to you, or further away?
He’s shorter than you, and he leans into it shamelessly. He likes the way you can look down at him, likes the way your shadow sometimes falls over him when you stand too close. When you hug him, he folds into you with a shivery little exhale, face pressed against your chest or shoulder, fingers knotting into your clothes like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his hands if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. When you rest your chin on his head or ruffle his hair, he goes absolutely quiet for a moment, overwhelmed, soaking up the feeling of being covered, claimed, held.
He whines. A lot. If you’re busy, he’s texting you; if you don’t respond, he’s staring at his screen, refreshing your chat, chewing his lip raw while his brain spirals. When he finally sees your name pop up, his whole expression changes - relief, joy, need, all tangled together. He’ll spam you with “what are you doing” and “when can I see you” and “do you miss me?” like it’s his lifeline, and when you tease him for it, he only whines harder, half-hiding his face behind his hands.
There’s a pathetic edge to his devotion, and he doesn’t even try to hide it. If you tell him to sit, he sits. If you snap your fingers and point to a spot beside you, he’s there instantly, gaze upturned and expectant. You can hear the shiver in his breathing when you get a little rough with him - pushing him back onto the bed, pinning his wrists to the wall, fingers digging into his jaw to make him look at you. He flinches, yes, but he doesn’t pull away. His cheeks flush pink, eyes glossing over, body going pliant in that way that says: hurt me, hold me, just don’t leave.
He likes it when you’re mad at him in a way that’s almost disturbing. When your voice rises, when your face tightens with frustration, when you grab his wrist just a bit too hard in annoyance, his heart kicks into overdrive. The sting of your anger is proof, to him, that he still has you. That he’s still important enough to affect you. Indifference would kill him - fury makes him feel alive.
“Are you mad at me?” he’ll ask, eyes wide and wet, voice trembling on the edge of a smile. “You are, right? You’re mad.” There’s a sick kind of satisfaction in the way he breathes those words, like he’s savoring the taste.
Jealousy is where the sweetness burns away at the edges.
He’s easy to read when someone else gets too close to you. His fingers tighten around yours. His smile goes stiff. His eyes stop looking at you and start tracking the other person’s movements, every laugh they pull from you, every glance they steal. He goes quiet, almost eerily so, and the clinginess spikes - he’ll curl closer to your side, stand a bit in front of you, answer questions directed at you before you can.
When the threat is gone, he clings like he’s been starved for years. He buries his face into your shoulder, arms locked around your waist, mumbling into your clothes. “You’re not going anywhere, right? You’re not leaving me for someone like that. You wouldn’t do that to me. Say you wouldn’t.”
The “say” is not a request. It’s a plea. A demand. A prayer.
His phone is a graveyard of almost-confessions and unsent messages. Drafts where he panicked halfway through, rants about how much he needs you, disgusting little fantasies of you pinning him down with that irritated look on your face he loves so much. When you finally text him something as simple as “I love you,” he reads it over and over until the words blur. He locks his screen. Unlocks it again. Reads it one more time, like it might vanish if he doesn’t keep confirming it’s still there.
He’s not good at being a person on his own. He was anxious and lonely long before you, drifting through life with blurred edges. But with you, everything snapped into focus. His clinginess, his submissiveness, his masochistic streak, his jealousy - they all wrap around one simple, terrifying truth: you are the only thing that makes him feel real.
And in his mind, that means he has to keep you. No matter how pathetic he looks hanging off your arm, no matter how much he whines, no matter how dark his gaze gets when someone else dares to steal a second of your attention.
You chose him - and that single fact is enough to justify every desperate, obsessive corner of him.
Popular Yandere x reader
The first thing everyone noticed about him was his smile.
Polished, practiced, flawlessly balanced between sincerity and warmth - a smile that could melt away tension and make teachers sing his praises. He had a calm voice too, smooth and steady when he addressed the class during morning announcements. Every girl leaned forward a little, every guy respected him. Everyone liked him.
Everyone except you - not because you disliked him, but because something about that smile always felt too perfect.
He’d stop you in the hall sometimes. “You forgot your notebook again,” he’d say with a light chuckle, holding it out as if he hadn’t gone through three classrooms to find it. “You should be more careful, you know. Someone could take advantage of you.”
You never questioned how he always seemed to know when you left something behind. Or how he always found it before anyone else did.
When he called your name in class, his tone softened just slightly - a fraction of warmth meant only for you. You didn’t notice how his gaze sharpened behind the soft expression, how his pupils dilated ever so faintly. To everyone else, he was the picture of compassion: the model student, the trusted leader.
But if you watched closely, you might have seen how his smile dropped the instant he turned away. His eyes chilled into glass as he passed by his adoring classmates, nodding at their greetings but looking through them, not at them.
They were nothing. Background noise. Empty chatter echoing around the only person who mattered.
You.
He’d listen when you talked, every word memorized. When you once mentioned how cute the previous class president was - the one who had mysteriously transferred schools without warning - he had merely tilted his head and said, “Yeah, he was a nice guy.”
You didn’t see the flicker of disdain that passed across his expression. You didn’t know the lengths he’d gone to make sure that boy wasn’t around anymore.
Because you deserved better. Because you deserved him.
When you looked at him now - that flawless smile, that patient, kind demeanor - you told yourself you were imagining things, that maybe he really was kind. You tried not to notice how he always walked you to your next class, or how you’d occasionally see his reflection in the window across the street at night, standing just outside the light, smiling faintly as if he were making sure you got home safe.
If you looked close enough, you might see that smile twitch - not from nerves, but from restraint.
Because if you ever noticed what he really was beneath that charm, you might try to run.
And he couldn’t let that happen.
After all, you once said you liked attentive people. And he always listened.
Yandere Beastman x reader
The great hall always smelled faintly of iron and incense - the scent of conquest and piety. You sat beside your father, the king, attending yet another council where nobles debated laws about crop taxes and the “beastfolk problem.”
They always called them that. Not beastmen, not citizens - problems.
Your gaze drifted to the silent figure behind your throne.
He stood as still as the banners, a collar of silver at his throat glinting in the candlelight. Gray fur brushed the edges of his jaw, his ears twitching only when someone’s voice rose too sharply. His name - Lirion - had been given to you when you came of age. A “personal servant,” your father said. A mark of adulthood.
He was not supposed to meet your eyes. Yet he did, often.
And every time he did, your pulse betrayed you - quick, nervous, not quite fear. You’d told yourself it was guilt.
You’d been trying to change the laws. Whispering to sympathetic nobles, gathering petitions, asking the church to see the beastfolk as children of the same god. But reform crawled slower than winter thaw, and every day you still saw the chains on Lirion’s wrists.
Tonight, he knelt beside your bed as you worked through scrolls and speeches. His voice came out low, smooth, and too careful.
“You shouldn’t fight for us.”
You set your quill down. “If I don’t, who will?”
“You think your kindness is justice,” he murmured, head bowed. “But mercy is worth nothing without power. Do you have that, my liege?”
You frowned, hearing not defiance but something darker - resignation painted over longing. “Power isn’t something I use over others.”
His tail flicked once, brushing the rug, then stilled. “You will soon learn everyone uses power. Even love.”
When he lifted his gaze, his eyes glowed - golden, hungry, the kind of hunger that wasn’t for flesh but for something deeper: possession.
Days bled into nights. Whispers followed your reforms - rumors of assassination plots, traitorous advisors, war stirring in the north. You trusted no one, except him.
Which was foolish.
Because when the northern gates fell and your father’s blood stained the marble steps, it was Lirion who carried you away from the burning hall. You remembered his arms around you, his heartbeat against your ear - steady, inhumanly calm.
When you awoke, you lay in a bed draped with foreign silks. The collar was gone from his neck.
“It’s over,” he said softly, standing before the window. “The king is dead. The throne is mine now.”
You stared, numb. “You… planned this.”
He turned, smiling - a smile made for someone who had always believed he was less, and had finally proven otherwise.
“You wanted equality. I gave it to myself.”
Your voice trembled. “And me?”
He crossed the distance in two strides, sinking to his knees before you, his hands tracing your jaw with reverence that felt like a brand.
“You freed me,” he whispered, “so you are mine. Not as a master - as mine.”
“You can’t-”
“I already did.”
His breath brushed your throat, and the crown that once symbolized mercy felt like a chain of its own.
You didn’t know if you loved him or feared him - only that he would destroy the world before letting you go.
And from the way his tail swayed behind him, you knew he’d never dream of doing otherwise.
Hello! I really liked your yandere vampire, can we get more information about him?
Of course!!! I’m so happy people are actually interested in my ocs 🥹🥹🫶
Lord Aurelian Dravencourt, often called The Crimson Sovereign or The Immortal Marquis.
He rules from Castle Vareth, a sprawling citadel built atop a cliff perpetually shrouded in mist. His dominion links dozens of bleak human villages that pay meager tribute in livestock, gold… and blood.
Aurelian is the kind of beauty forged in decay - eerily perfect, too still to be human.
His hair is long, silvery-black, often tied loosely at the nape with a ribbon of crimson thread.
His eyes are a deep, luxurious red that glows faintly in torchlight. When blood-starved or enraged, the color sharpens to almost ultraviolet.
His skin is pallid and luminous, marbled faintly with veins of shadow when he hungers.
He favors black and wine-red attire, embroidered with motifs of roses, thorns, and serpents. His crowns and rings are made from melted gold taken from the offerings of fallen kingdoms.
He exudes effortless nobility - his posture perfect, his movements calculated, and his voice steady, low, and almost soothing in its threat.
Aurelian embodies controlled cruelty - he’s never impulsive in his violence but deliberate, turning pain into ritual.
• He treats mortals as living resources, their lives and deaths simply the gears of his kingdom’s machinery.
• He rarely raises his voice; he doesn’t need to. A smile from him is far more dangerous than a shout.
• He disdains sentimentality, claiming it’s “a disease of the young.”
• Toward you, his veneer of control cracks. He craves your presence as much as your blood. The addiction unravels him slowly - he grows jealous, paranoid, and desperate for your attention.
When you speak, he listens - not because he respects you as an equal, but because he’s haunted by the thrill of your defiance. You’re something he doesn’t fully control, and that violation of his order dazzles him.
Aurelian was born a prince of a mortal empire centuries ago. When war and plague consumed his homeland, he made a pact with an ancient night spirit in exchange for immortality. Over time, his humanity eroded - he killed his own court, rebuilt his kingdom under eternal darkness, and crowned himself ruler of a domain where night never truly ends.
He has watched generations rise and decay, each human face blending into the same forgettable blur. Empires crumble around him, and only his thirst endures. He feeds not out of need but ritual shame - a reminder that he will never be free from hunger.
Until you.
Your blood shifts something in him. It excites him, draws back a flicker of the passion and sorrow he buried centuries ago. You become proof that he can still feel - but in feeling, he becomes monstrous again.
Yandere Vampire x reader
The halls of his castle are built from stone older than time, cold and echoing - just like him. The Vampire Lord sits upon his throne every evening when the offerings arrive: trembling girls from nearby villages, gifted to appease his hunger. Some last a week. Others, a single night. None leave the castle alive.
But you… you’re different.
His eyes always find you across the room - crimson beneath the candlelight, gleaming with hunger and something far worse: affection. The other concubines know that look. It’s the reason they shrink away from you, whispering curses when they think you can’t hear.
You’re the favorite. The chosen one. The dangerous one.
When he comes to you, he doesn’t ask. His hand wraps around your throat with the same easy strength he uses to crush stone, and yet his thumb brushes your pulse like a lover’s caress before fangs sink into your skin. The bite burns, then melts into pleasure, and his sigh against your neck sounds almost human - almost.
“You taste like ruin,” he murmurs against your skin. “I could drown in you, little one… and never seek the surface again.”
The other women are fed scraps, forced to sleep in chambers far from his own - but you dine beside him, bathe in perfumed water, and wear the silks he chooses for you. He feeds only on you now, a slow starvation disguised as devotion. His court suspects it. You can feel the tension in the corridors, whispers beneath the sound of organ music.
Yet each night, when he returns from his conquests drenched in crimson and shadows, he finds you. And every time, the addiction deepens. His gaze grows hungrier. His touch, rougher. His whispers softer - almost pleading now.
“You are my sweetest sin,” he says one night, pulling you into his lap as though to claim you from the very world. “Even eternity feels short when I taste you. Do you understand, my darling? You’ve ruined me.”
You’re not sure whether to feel adored or doomed. Perhaps it’s the same thing here. After all - in a castle where love tastes like blood, and devotion looks like possession, the only mercy he offers is his obsession.
Yandere Assassin x reader
The call of cicadas was a cruel sound that night - relentless, like the whisper of blades unsheathed in the dark. Lanterns glowed faintly across the courtyard, their light trembling in the wind that swept through the snow-pale camellias.
He came without warning.
The guards didn’t even have the chance to scream before steel flashed through their throats - clean, efficient. The assassin’s movements were so fluid, so measured, it seemed less like battle and more like ritual. Every motion was an offering to the only gods he knew - Death and Discipline.
He was called Kiyomura. To those who whispered his name in the red-lit streets of Kyoto, he was a phantom, a shadow that obeyed only the highest bidder.
When he stepped into the great hall, your father’s retainers were already dead. Their blood painted the tatami mats in long, artful strokes. You had hidden behind a screen, clutching trembling fingers over your mouth. But he knew you were there.
“I can hear your heart,” he murmured. His voice was low, restrained, as though language itself was foreign to him. “Too loud. Fear gives you away.”
You stepped out, because hiding felt useless before a man like him. His eyes met yours - colder than winter, but something flickered there, something raw and unsettled. It was not mercy. It was curiosity, almost painful in its intensity.
“You were not in the contract,” he said after a long silence. “Only your father.”
You didn’t beg. You only asked one question. “Why do you serve men like him?”
For a moment, the assassin seemed to falter. Then he spoke - not to you, but to himself. “Because I was born without a choice.”
But when he raised his blade toward you, it did not fall.
Even he didn’t understand it. The sensation that clawed through his chest wasn’t pity. It was possession. Like finding something terribly fragile - and knowing that, somehow, if he destroyed it, it would destroy him too.
So he took you.
That night, Kyoto burned in the distance, and you became a ghost alongside him - a stolen daughter bound to an unwanted fate. Over the weeks that followed, he hid you deep in the mountains, in an abandoned shrine shrouded in mist.
He never spoke of his past unless provoked - the childhood spent begging for scraps in Edo’s slums, the nobleman who bought him and carved obedience into his bones, the countless names he had forgotten because each was washed away by blood.
Yet, there were moments - fleeting, terrifying moments - when his mask cracked. When his fingers brushed too close to your cheek as he handed you rice. When his voice dipped, hoarse, almost human, saying, “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”
Once, you asked, “What will you do when they find us?”
“Kill them,” he answered, easily, as if it were air.
“And me?”
He looked at you then - really looked.
“If I could kill you,” he said slowly, “I would have done it that night.”
Silence lingered between you, heavy as snowfall. Then, quieter still, he added, “So perhaps that means I no longer can.”
Over time, you saw the truth of him: the assassin who no longer believed in gods, yet prayed them away each night by guarding your sleep - the man whose hands knew only killing, yet now trembled when they brushed against yours.
But obsession corrodes whatever it touches.
When the orders came again, when Kyoto’s elite sent new blades to finish what he could not, Kiyomura slaughtered them all. The shrine became a massacre of echoing steel, your screams swallowed by the storm outside.
And as the final body fell at his feet, he turned to you - covered in blood but steady, breathing as if he’d finally found peace.
“You see?” he whispered, stepping closer until his breath ghosted your neck. “The world made me this way. But you… you made me want to stay.”
That night, as snow buried the corpses of those who came for you, the camellias in the garden glowed red again - a color that would never fade.
Because love, in his hands, had always been another kind of weapon.
Sub Yandere x reader
He noticed you first as a disruption.
You were late to class that day, the door sliding open with a sharp sound that cut through the low murmur of the room. Heads turned, but he was the only one who didn’t look away. You were a little out of breath from running the halls, hair slightly messy, shirt a bit untucked from your rush. You apologized quickly, voice low but steady, and then walked right past the rows of desks as if you had every right to be there.
He remembered the irritating scrape of his pen on paper, the way his thoughts stalled the second your shoulder passed by his desk. The teacher said your name, and it was like someone had pressed it into the soft parts of his brain - a hot, stinging brand. You sat down in front of him, one row over, and suddenly it felt like his entire world had shifted a few inches to the left, aligning itself around your silhouette.
At first, he told himself it was just curiosity. You talked to people so easily, laughing in a way that sounded real, not like the forced noises he made when someone told a joke he knew he was supposed to find funny. You raised your hand in class without hesitating, even when you were wrong, and shrugged off the correction with a crooked smile that made him feel something ugly and aching in his chest. How could you be so unafraid? How could you exist so loudly in a world that always felt too sharp for him?
He started noticing little things.
The way you tilted your head when you were focused. The way you chewed your pen cap when you were stuck on a question. The way you always held the door open for the person behind you, even if they were far away, waiting there with your arm braced, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He timed his steps in the hallway so he could be a few paces behind you, just close enough to hear your voice when you talked to friends, just far enough that you wouldn’t feel his presence and turn around.
You were taller than him. The first time he realized it, properly, was when you stood next to the whiteboard after class to ask the teacher something. You were closer to the top of the board than he’d ever be without stretching. It should have made him self-conscious. Instead, it made his heart pound. You looked stable, grounded, like someone who wouldn’t crumble if the world pushed too hard.
He needed that. He needed you.
The fixation grew slowly at first, like ivy creeping up the side of a wall. He started arranging his entire day around your schedule. He learned what time you arrived in the morning, where you liked to sit at lunch, which stairwell you preferred when moving between floors. Whenever his friends tried to drag him somewhere else, he became irritable and short-tempered, snapping at them and leaving early, always drifting back to where he thought you might be.
He told himself he was just watching. Just observing. Just… making sure you were okay.
Then there was the day someone made you cry.
It was small - barely anything, by most standards. A group project went badly, and one of your classmates snapped at you, accusing you of not doing your part. You tried to brush it off, but he saw your shoulders tense, saw your eyes gleam a little too bright as you turned away. You excused yourself and slipped out of the room.
He followed.
He did it automatically, almost without thought, like his body had decided that wherever you went was where he belonged. He found you in the empty stairwell, sitting on the steps with your head tipped back, swallowing hard against the tears.
He froze at the corner, fingers digging into the wall. You were hurting. You were alone. The urge to go to you was so overwhelming it made his knees weak. But what could he possibly say? He wasn’t anyone to you. Just some quiet boy who always sat behind you, just within your peripheral vision.
He hated that. He hated being no one to you.
That night, he couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your expression in the stairwell. He replayed the moment over and over, rewriting it in his head so that, this time, he walked over. This time, he reached out. This time, you looked at him like he mattered.
The next day, he made a decision.
He started finding excuses to interact with you. “Hey, did you get the homework?” “You dropped this.” “Can I borrow your notes?” His voice shook at first, words coming out softer than he intended, but you always responded. You always looked at him. You smiled when you recognized him in the hall. Each tiny scrap of attention sank into him like hooks, pulling tighter and tighter until it hurt to imagine going a day without hearing your voice.
He began to tailor himself around what you seemed to like. If you mentioned a song, he listened to it on repeat until the lyrics were etched into his skull. If you talked about a show, he binge-watched it, memorizing your favorite characters so he could bring them up later. The more he learned, the more he felt like he was building a private shrine in his mind - everything you were, everything you liked, stored and polished until it gleamed.
You, unknowingly, made it worse by being kind.
You thanked him when he let you copy his notes. You laughed at his awkward jokes. You noticed when he cut his hair and said it looked good, and he nearly forgot how to breathe. When a teacher paired you two up for a project, he took it as a sign, eyes wide and shining in a way he tried to hide by staring at his desk.
Working with you was a kind of torture and bliss. You leaned over his notebook, your shoulder nudging his, and he had to fight not to cling. You praised him for his neat handwriting, and he felt heat rush to his face. When you got frustrated, you chewed your lip, and his fingers twitched with the urge to gently pull your bottom lip free with his thumb.
Then came the day that crystallized everything.
You were walking together after school, project notes clutched in your hands. The sky was dimming, the streetlights buzzing to life. You were ranting about something - homework, a teacher, life being exhausting. He listened intently, hanging on every word, nodding and humming little replies because anything more felt too risky.
At the crosswalk, a group of guys jokingly called your name from across the street. You waved, polite, but didn’t move to join them. One of them whistled. It was “playful,” the kind of teasing you’d probably brush off.
His vision went white at the edges.
He knew it was irrational, but jealousy surged through him so violently his hands shook. They said your name too casually. They looked at you like you were accessible, available - like you were something they could just decide to want and take. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He barely heard your next few sentences.
You noticed. “Are you okay?” you asked, tilting your head, eyes searching his face.
He forced a smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He walked you home that day, lingering a little too long at the gate, watching you disappear inside. He stood there until the porch light flicked off.
That night, the thought of those boys - anyone, really - seeing you the way he saw you made him nauseous. You weren’t just “pretty” or “nice” or “cool” to him. You were oxygen. Gravity. The only thing anchoring him to a world that otherwise felt unkind and indifferent.
The fixation hardened into something unshakable.
He began to cling more. He made sure to get to class early so he could save you a seat. He walked you between periods, bumping his shoulder against your arm, laughing weakly when you teased him for being “like a little shadow.” The joke should have embarrassed him. Instead, it thrilled him. Your shadow. Yours.
Whenever you were upset, he hovered closer. If you were stressed, he quietly handed you snacks or offered to help, willing to burn himself out if it meant you’d look at him with gratitude in your eyes. You started to rely on him in small ways - asking him to explain an assignment, to remind you of deadlines, to keep you company while you studied. Each new dependency was like a chain linking you together, and he cherished every single one.
The day you realized how much he’d wrapped himself around you came out of nowhere.
You were sitting together after school, the project long finished by then, just sharing a bench near the sports field. The sky was streaked pink and orange, the shouts from practice fading into background noise. You’d had a bad day, and without thinking, you’d leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder.
He went completely still.
You sighed, the sound exhausted and vulnerable. “You’re comfy,” you murmured, half joking, half sincere. “I feel like you’re always here when I need someone.”
His heart almost stopped. Always here. When I need someone.
He swallowed hard. “I… want to be,” he said quietly. His voice felt too small for what he meant. He wanted to be there when you laughed, when you cried, when you were furious, when you were bored. When you were happy. When you were not. Always.
You pulled back a little to look at him. His face was flushed, eyes wide and uncertain, like he was bracing for impact.
“Hey,” you said, softer. “You know you can lean on me too, right? It’s not just one-sided.”
Those words broke something open in him.
It wasn’t immediate, but that moment stayed lodged in your mind. You noticed how he was always a little too ready to drop everything for you. How his gaze followed you in crowded rooms. How your name sounded different in his mouth - reverent, desperate. You started seeing the way his hands trembled when you grabbed his wrist to tug him along, the way he leaned into your touch like a starving thing.
One afternoon, you joked, “You’re kind of obsessed with me, huh?”
He froze, then smiled - small, shaky, but honest. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
You were taken aback by how easily he admitted it. No denial, no deflection. Just this raw, unfiltered devotion staring back at you. It should have been unsettling. Maybe it was, a little. But it was also… comforting. Someone once told you that people always leave, that no one stays forever.
Looking at him, you didn’t believe that anymore.
You started testing the edges of it. Pulling away to see if he’d tug you back. Going quiet to see if he’d notice. Getting irritated just to watch the way his eyes darkened with something like relief when you snapped at him - because at least you were focused on him, even if it was with annoyance.
One evening, after a particularly rough day, you were annoyed at everything and everyone, including him. He’d clung a bit too much, asked a few too many, “Are you okay?”s, hovered too close when you wanted space.
You finally snapped. “You’re suffocating me,” you said, harsher than you meant. “You don’t have to be glued to me all the time.”
For a second, he looked shattered. Then, slowly, something else seeped into his expression. His lips parted, eyes glossing over with a mixture of hurt and… something disturbingly pleased. “Sorry,” he whispered, voice unsteady. “I just- I don’t like when you’re far away.”
You saw the way his fingers curled into his palms, the faint tremor in his shoulders. It hit you then - how much of himself he was wrapping around you, how much control you had over him without even trying. It was terrifying. It was intoxicating.
Later that week, you met up again, the tension still hanging in the air. He was quieter than usual, sticking close but not daring to touch you without permission. You realized you didn’t like that distance. You missed his clinginess, his warmth at your side, his anxious little glances to make sure you were really still there.
You tugged him closer by his sleeve. “Hey,” you said. “If I didn’t want you around… I wouldn’t have let it get this far.”
He looked at you, hope flickering back into his eyes. “This far?” he echoed.
You took a breath, heart thudding. “You’re my favorite person,” you said. “You know that, right?”
His cheeks flushed. “You’re- You’re mine too,” he blurted, almost panicked that you might not understand how deep it went. “You’re… everything.”
You let him see you roll your eyes, but you didn’t deny it. “Then maybe we should actually call this what it is,” you said. “Do you want to be my boyfriend?”
For a heartbeat, he just stared. Then all that pathetic, desperate need swelled up and filled his features - eyes wet, lips trembling into a grin so wide it almost hurt to look at. “Yes,” he said immediately, voice cracking. “Yes, yes- of course. Please.”
You laughed, soft and a little overwhelmed. “You don’t have to beg. I’m not going anywhere.”
That was the moment everything snapped into place.
From his side, it wasn’t new. He’d been yours from the moment you walked into that classroom, late and unapologetically yourself. The label just gave him permission to show it. To cling without hiding it. To whine openly for your attention. To lean into the masochistic ache of your anger, knowing that underneath it, you’d chosen him.
From your side, it was the realization that, somehow, in all his neediness and obsession, he made you feel… wanted in a way no one else ever had. Not casually, not conditionally, but with a feverish, all-consuming intensity that was both frightening and strangely comforting.
He had fixated on you from the first moment, yes.
But you were the one who decided to reach back, to close the distance, to let his world wrap itself around you and say, quietly but firmly, “Fine. If you’re going to be mine like this… then you’re mine.”