Work Text:
Pairing: Yandere!Choso x F!Reader [Modern Au]
Genre: Pure Horror, Psychological Horror, Dark Fiction, Thriller, Yandere undertones
Word count: 9.5k
Warnings:
Extreme psychological horror, stalking, invasion of privacy, identity manipulation, obsession, yandere behavior, gaslighting, paranoia, home intrusion, implied violence, death (non-graphic), isolation, fear-inducing themes, emotional distress, loss of safety, disturbing scenarios.
Please DO NOT read if you're sensitive to intense psychological horror or themes involving stalking, manipulation, and loss of control.
AN: This piece is pure horror, not romance. It explores the consequences of blurred boundaries, obsession, and the danger of being too seen by the wrong person. If you’re expecting comfort, this is not that story. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
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The room was a chaotic testament to neglect, the floor littered with crumpled clothes—discarded shirts, tangled jeans, and rumpled socks—strewn haphazardly across the worn carpet like the aftermath of a storm that had raged for days without respite.
Empty takeout containers teetered precariously on side tables, their greasy remnants congealing in the dim light filtering through half-drawn blinds, while stacks of unopened mail and forgotten gadgets cluttered every available surface, dust motes dancing lazily in the stale air. It hadn't been cleaned in what felt like an eternity, the faint musty scent of disuse mingling with the sharper tang of sweat and arousal that now dominated the space.
And there you were, seated with your legs spread wide on the sagging couch, the cushions dipping under your weight as your bare thighs trembled from the relentless onslaught between them. Your panties lay discarded somewhere in the mess—tossed aside in a haze of urgency, perhaps tangled with a stray sock or kicked under the coffee table—leaving your most intimate folds exposed and glistening.
In your hand, you'd been handed a phone earlier, its screen glowing softly as your fingers scrolled through the pages of a steamy novel, the words blurring slightly at the edges of your vision from the building haze of ecstasy.
Between your legs knelt the man, his broad shoulders wedged firmly against your inner thighs, holding you open with unyielding strength as his mouth devoured your pussy with insatiable hunger.
He'd been at it for hours now, his tongue working you over in a merciless rhythm that had you soaking the sheets beneath your ass, wet spots blooming from the multiple messes you'd made—your juices spilling out in waves, slick and abundant, as orgasm after teasing near-orgasm ripped through you.
Your brain swam in a fog of pure, overwhelming pleasure, every coherent thought dissolving into the electric pulses firing from your core, your hips bucking involuntarily against his face despite the exhaustion settling into your limbs.
He teased his tongue deep into your hole, plunging it in with slow, deliberate thrusts that mimicked a cock's invasion, curling and twisting inside your clenching walls to lap at the sensitive ridges, drawing out your arousal in thick, creamy rivulets that he slurped greedily.
The wet, obscene sounds of his sucking filled the room—schlick, slurp, smack—as he hollowed his cheeks and sealed his lips around your entrance, creating a vacuum that pulled at your folds, intensifying the suction until your pussy fluttered wildly, threatening to gush again.
Then, just as your body tensed on the brink, he'd withdraw, only to flatten his tongue broad and firm against your entire slit, licking upward in long, languid strokes that coated his chin and your thighs anew, savoring every drop as he traced the swollen contours of your labia, flicking briefly over your throbbing clit before diving back in.
It was so intensely good, the dual assault of his voracious mouth and the filthy scenes unfolding on your phone screen amplifying each sensation tenfold—the novel's descriptions of raw, pounding fucks mirroring the way his tongue fucked into you now, stretching and probing without mercy.
“Ngh~.. enough already…!" you moaned, yet tangling your fingers in his hair and pushing his face harder against your throbbing core.
He responded with a low growl of hunger, doubling his efforts as he savored the taste of your arousal. His nose brushed against your clit with each thrust of his tongue, sending jolts of electric pleasure shooting through your body.
You could feel another orgasm building rapidly, your thighs trembling and your toes curling as the intensity mounted. The man between your legs showed no signs of letting up, determined to bring you to the pinnacle of ecstasy with his skilled oral ministrations.
“aAhh-! I.. I'm gonna-!" you cried out, your hips bucking against his face as the pleasure reached a fever pitch. "I'm going to-cum! I'm cumming again…!"
Your body convulsed as the powerful orgasm crashed over you, your pussy clenching and unclenching around his probing tongue. The man lapped up your juices eagerly, prolonging your climax with his relentless stimulation. By the time you finally collapsed back onto the couch, completely spent and satisfied, your sheets were damp with the evidence of your pleasure.
But…
Even as your body trembled with the aftershocks of your intense orgasm, the man between your legs showed no signs of stopping. He gently spread your sensitive lips wider with his fingers, exposing your swollen, throbbing clit to his hungry gaze.
Before you could react, he dove back in, flicking the tip of his tongue against your sensitive nub in quick, feather-light strokes. The sensation was almost too much to bear, your overstimulated nerves screaming in protest at the relentless assault.
“No stop…!! it's too much-!" you gasped, instinctively trying to close your thighs and push him away. But he was having none of it, his strong hands gripping your hips to keep you in place as he continued his relentless onslaught.
Your phone slipped from your trembling fingers, clattering to the floor and forgotten as you struggled to process the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body. Just when you thought you couldn't take anymore, you felt his thumb pressing against your entrance, slowly pushing inside your dripping channel.
"Ahhhh…!?" you cried out, your back arching off the couch as a jolt of pleasure mixed with pain shot through you. Your pussy clenched around his invading digit, drawing him deeper as he began to thrust in time with the flicks of his tongue against your clit.
He growled against your flesh, the vibrations adding another layer of intense sensation as he worked you towards yet another climax. Your brain felt fuzzy, your thoughts scattering as all you could focus on was the incredible pleasure building inside you once more.
"Pleaseee… I can't...I can't take anymore…!" you whimpered, tears of overwhelming stimulation pricking at the corners of your eyes. But even as you pleaded, you knew it was a lie.
You watch him hungrily worshipping you, eyes closed, mouth working like an animal—too desperate... too much—Aggressive—as if you're going to disappear if he stops—Just like you've read in those adult books.
And this man... is one of those who writes such works that you've been enjoying so much.
Your thoughts would snap as he made you hold the phone again that you dropped accidentally, making you focus back on it once more.
—
You were a book girl.
Obsessed with your fictional men. The kind that lived between pages and ink, in half-finished sentences and quiet confessions. The kind that weren’t real—but felt more real than anything you could reach. You got lost in your imagination often, and not in a way that pulled you away from life, but in a way that softened it. Made it easier to breathe through long, tiring days. Even after everything—work, responsibilities, conversations that drained more than they gave—you still found time. Always. A few stolen minutes, an hour past midnight, eyes heavy but unwilling to close. Just one more chapter, you’d tell yourself. Just one more scene.
And lately… there was one writer.
Your current obsession.
Their username sat at the top of your notifications more often than you’d like to admit, their stories bookmarked, reread, memorized in fragments. The way they wrote your favorite characters—it wasn’t just good. It was breathtaking. Intense in a quiet, consuming way. Twisted, dark, in the way emotions were unraveled and stitched back together. And the reader in those stories… it was unsettling how familiar it felt. Not identical, not obvious—but close enough to make your chest tighten at certain lines, like you’d been understood without ever speaking.
No one really knew who they were. No face. No name. Just words.
And somehow, everyone had come to the same conclusion—you included.
They had to be a woman.
Because the way they wrote for the female gaze… the way they captured longing, hesitation, the softness of affection and the sharp edge of vulnerability—it didn’t feel like something a man could replicate so effortlessly. So naturally. So you believed it, without questioning. It made sense. It felt easier that way.
Either way… you loved their work. That was the only thing that mattered.
You had been following them for a while now. Quietly at first. Reading everything they posted, going back to older pieces, liking, saving, rereading. Then slowly, you started engaging more. A comment here and there—nothing too long, nothing too personal. Just simple things.
“This was so good.”
“I loved this part.”
“You write them perfectly.”
Sometimes, when the feeling lingered longer than usual, you’d send a direct message. Just a small one.
“Your writing is really comforting. Thank you for this.”
“I don’t know how you do it, but this was amazing again.”
Normal things. Safe things. The kind of messages you never really expected a reply to.
And you didn’t, at first.
Until one day—
You had stared at your screen longer than necessary, rereading the notification as if it might disappear.
A reply. From them.
“Thank you. i’m really glad you liked it.”
It was simple. Lowercase. Almost shy.
Your fingers had hovered over your keyboard for a moment before you typed back, a small smile already forming without you realizing.
“liked it? i loved it 😭 you write them so well, it’s actually unfair.”
There was a pause. You watched the typing bubble appear… disappear… then appear again.
“umm i’m not very good at replying to messages like this… but thank you. really.”
You blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. It was endearing. Unexpectedly so.
“that’s okay. you don’t have to be 😭 your writing does all the talking anyway.”
Another pause. Longer this time. Something about that stayed with you.
Because it made sense.
Here was someone who struggled with simple conversations, who hesitated over replies, who admitted—so plainly—that they weren’t good at this. And yet… when they wrote, it was like none of that existed. Every word deliberate. Every emotion precise. As if they could say everything they couldn’t out loud, but only through stories.
And you liked that. You liked that a lot.
—
After that, you kept messaging them. Not constantly, not enough to be overwhelming—just occasionally. When a story hit harder than usual. When a line stayed with you longer than it should have.
Nothing deep. Nothing intrusive. Just—
“this one got me!”
“i think this is my favorite so far.”
“the way you wrote this scene?? insane.”
And every now and then, they replied.
Short messages. Slightly awkward. But honest.
It wasn’t much. But it was enough.
Because somehow, between their quiet replies and the way they wrote entire worlds with ease—
You found yourself liking them not just as a writer… But as a person you barely knew.
Nothing really serious though…
—
The idea had come to you more than once. You had pushed it away every time.
Because requesting something like that—it felt… too personal. Too indulgent. Asking your favorite writer to take you, your thoughts, your habits, your little pieces of identity, and turn it into a story? It sounded like crossing a line you weren’t sure you were allowed to cross.
What if they found it weird?
What if they refused?
What if it made things awkward?
You had stared at your chat with them longer than you’d like to admit, fingers hovering over the keyboard, typing something and deleting it again. The blinking cursor felt louder than usual.
It was just a message. Just a request. And yet—Your heart still beat a little faster when you finally started typing.
‘hey… can i ask something a bit different?’
You almost put your phone down right after sending it, already preparing yourself for no reply. Or a delayed one. That was normal. That was expected.
But the reply came quicker than usual. Too quick.
‘yeah, of course. what is it?’
You blinked, sitting up a little straighter without realizing.
Right. Okay. Now you actually had to say it.
Your fingers moved slower this time.
‘i was thinking… would you ever write something like a personalized fic?—like… using someone’s name and personality?’ You paused, then quickly added—
‘it’s okay if not! i was just curious 😭’
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
Stayed. Disappeared. Came back again. Longer this time.
‘well… I’ve thought about it before, actually.’
‘what did you have in mind?’
Your breath caught slightly. They didn’t reject it. They were… interested.
You sat up properly now, pulling your knees closer as you typed, a small, nervous smile forming.
‘um… something like my favorite character x me… but like—based on my actual personality, not just a random reader insert!!
you could use my name and everything… but maybe change it if you post it publicly?’
A second later—
’only if you’re comfortable ofc!!’
This time, the reply took a little longer. But when it came—It wasn’t short. Not at all.
‘that actually sounds really interesting.’
‘i’d want to do it properly though, if i’m writing you as you…not just surface-level traits.’
‘if you’re okay with that, i’d need to ask you a few things first.’
A pause. Then another message followed.
‘also, yes—i wouldn’t post anything with your real name or identifying details. i can change that version.’
You didn’t even realize how wide your smile had gotten until your cheeks started to hurt.
‘yes yes that’s completely fine!! thank you so much, seriously 😭’’
There was a brief pause before they continued. And then the questions started. Not rushed. Not overwhelming. But deliberate.
---
‘what’s your name?’
‘and your age?’
‘what do you do right now—study, work?’
‘your location—do you want it to be accurate in the story, or different?’
You answered each one, one by one, a little more easily than you expected.
Then came more.
‘what do you like?’
‘things that comfort you?’
‘things you dislike?’
‘what kind of behavior makes you shut down?’
‘what kind of affection do you prefer?’
You paused at some of them. Thinking. Actually thinking. But you still answered. Because somehow, it felt like they would use it carefully.
And then—The last question.
‘how would you like the male character to be?’
You smiled a little at that, leaning back slightly as you typed, the answer coming easier than all the others.
‘honestly? the way you usually write them 😭like… a little twisted? yandere vibes?’
‘i really love that kind of intensity!!’
You hesitated for half a second, then added— ‘’i mean—irl no one’s really loyal like that, you know?’
‘so it’s fun to imagine someone being completely obsessed… like fully devoted, down bad, yearner type😩’
‘but yeah, only in fiction obviously lol’
There was a pause after that. A slightly longer one. Then—
‘i understand.’
‘i’ll keep that in mind.’
‘i’ll start working on it soon.’
‘i might ask you more questions later, if needed.’
Something about the way they said it—Simple. Certain. It made your chest feel a little lighter.
‘okay!! thank you so much, really 😭 i’m already excited about this lol’
You paused, then added, half-joking— ‘manifesting my own story fr’
There was a small delay before their final reply came.
‘…i’ll try to make it worth it.’
You stared at that message for a moment longer than necessary. Then smiled to yourself, locking your phone and pulling your blanket a little closer.
Already imagining how it would feel—To read a story where, for once—
You weren’t just the reader. But the one being written.
—
And when it finally came—It was more than you expected.
More than you had imagined, even on the nights you let your thoughts wander a little too far.
You had opened the document the same way you always did—quietly, almost casually, as if it were just another story. It wasn’t.
From the very first line, something felt… different. Too familiar. Too precise.
You read slowly at first. Then slower.
Then you stopped altogether at certain parts, just staring at the screen, your breath catching without warning.
Because the details— They weren’t just accurate. They were you.
The way you reacted to things. The way you hesitated before saying something honest. The small habits you never thought anyone would notice, let alone remember. Even the things you had mentioned only once, briefly, without thinking much of it—they were there.
Woven so seamlessly into the story that it didn’t feel like fiction anymore. It felt like memory.
And the way he wrote the character opposite you—It made your chest tighten.
That intensity you had joked about? The “yandere vibes,” the obsessive, unwavering devotion you claimed to like?
He understood it.
Twisted it just enough to make it thrilling—but grounded it in a way that made it feel… real. Dangerous, almost. The kind of attention that lingered too long, the kind of affection that felt suffocating and comforting at the same time.
It should have been too much. But it wasn’t. Because somehow—It fit.
You didn’t even realize when you started holding your breath while reading. Or when your fingers tightened slightly around your phone.
There were moments where you had to pause, your heart beating a little too fast, a chill running down your spine for no clear reason.
As if you weren’t just reading it—But living it.
By the time you reached the end, you just sat there for a moment. Silent. Staring at the last line.
Then, almost immediately, you opened your messages.
“that was…” You paused, deleting it. Typed again.
“that was actually insane.”
“like—i don’t even know what to say??”
“it was so good. way better than i imagined”
You sent another before you could stop yourself—
“how did you even do that?? it felt so real it’s actually scary!!!”
The reply came after a short while.
“i’m glad you liked it.”
There was a pause. Then—
“i paid attention.”
That made you smile. Soft. Genuine.
“clearly 😭 thank you so much for this, really”
Another pause.
“you’re welcome.”
It was a short conversation. Simple. Familiar. But something about it lingered longer than usual.
---
After that day, things… shifted. Not in a dramatic way. Just life.
You got busy. Actually busy.
Not the kind where you still found time to scroll, to read, to respond—but the kind where your days blurred into each other. Responsibilities piling up, things to finish, things to attend to. By the time you got a moment to yourself, you were too tired to do anything with it.
You noticed their updates. Of course you did.
Their posts still appeared on your feed—new stories, new uploads, the same quiet captions.
You’d pause for a second. Consider opening them. Then tell yourself—later.
But later kept getting pushed further away.
Days passed like that.
You’d still see their name occasionally. Still feel that small, familiar pull. But you didn’t read. Didn’t message. Didn’t engage the way you used to.
And somehow—That felt more exhausting than everything else.
And crazily… It was almost the end of the year.
Somewhere between everything that had happened—the small highs, the quiet disappointments, the days that blurred into each other—you had settled. Not perfectly. Not completely. But enough to tell yourself that things were… okay now. Manageable.
Outside, the rain poured endlessly, soft at first, then heavier, tapping insistently against your window like it had something to say. The air felt cooler, calmer. The kind of evening that made staying in feel right.
You were in your room, sitting on the floor with your bookshelf half emptied, surrounded by scattered paperbacks and dust-coated corners you hadn’t bothered cleaning in months. It was one of those random bursts of productivity—I should probably clean this—that came out of nowhere.
You hummed quietly to yourself, brushing your fingers along the spines, pulling some out, rearranging others. Old bookmarks slipped out. Folded pages. Little reminders of versions of you that had read these stories at different times.
And then—You paused.
“…wait.” Your hand stilled mid-motion. A thought, sudden and sharp.
You quickly reached for your phone, unlocking it almost instinctively, opening that app—the one you used to spend hours on without realizing. The one that had once been a part of your daily routine.
Your thumb hovered for a second before you tapped into your saved works. Scrolling.
Familiar titles passed by. Authors you remembered. Stories that still carried that quiet sense of comfort, of nostalgia. You smiled faintly at a few of them, memories flickering softly in the back of your mind.
But then—Your movement slowed. A slight frown forming. “…where is it?”
You scrolled back up. Then down again. More carefully this time.
That username. It wasn’t there.
Your brows furrowed as you sat up straighter, your thumb moving faster now, checking your following list.
Scrolling. Scrolling again.
“…no, that’s not right.” A small, uneasy feeling settled in your chest.
You knew you were following them. You remembered talking to them. That wasn’t something you’d forget so easily. So then—
Where was the account? Where did all their works go?
It wasn’t just any random writer. It was them. One of your favorites. The one you kept going back to. The one that—
You swallowed slightly, unlocking your phone again and immediately opening another app. Reddit.
Your fingers moved quickly, typing, searching, scrolling through threads. And you weren’t the only one. There were others. People asking the same question.
“What happened to them?”
“Did they delete their account?”
“Does anyone know if they’re coming back?”
You opened one thread. Then another. Reading through the replies.
“maybe they just got busy with life”
“some writers lose interest, it happens”
“i think they mentioned something in their last post?”
Your eyes paused on that. Scrolling further.
“yeah, they wrote a note… said they weren’t feeling well.”
“i hope they’re okay tbh”
Your chest tightened slightly. You stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary. A strange, uncomfortable feeling settling deep inside you. Guilt. Uninvited. Unpleasant.
You hadn’t been there. You hadn’t read that last post. You hadn’t noticed anything was wrong.
While they were writing… while they were still there—You were busy. Living your life. Moving on without realizing something was ending.
“…I hope they’re okay…”
You murmured it quietly, almost under your breath, your voice barely audible over the sound of rain hitting the windows.
With a small exhale, you locked your phone, placing it beside you. Trying not to think about it. Trying to let it go.
---
Later that night—The rain hadn’t stopped.
If anything, it had grown heavier. Louder. Relentless against the quiet of your room.
You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
2:33 AM blinking faintly on your clock. Sleep wouldn’t come.
You shifted slightly. Then again. Turning to one side. Then the other. Pulling the blanket closer, then pushing it away.
Nothing felt right. Your body wasn’t tired. Your mind wasn’t exactly restless either. Just—Awake.
For no reason you could understand.
“…what's going on…” You muttered softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
You turned again. Closing your eyes. Opening them. The room felt quieter than it should have been. And then—
The lights went out. Darkness swallowed the room instantly.
You let out an annoyed scoff, pulling the blanket over yourself, covering from head to toe like it would somehow make it less irritating.
The rain filled the silence. Loud. Constant.
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying again. And then—drip.
Something cold landed on your nose.
Your eyes snapped open instantly. “...Huh?”
You froze for a second under the blanket, your breath catching slightly. Then slowly, you pulled it down, pushing the fabric away from your face.
Your gaze moved upward. Toward the ceiling. And then—You saw it.
Through a thin crack in the ceiling—Barely noticeable at first glance—There was something there.
An eye.
Looking directly at you.
—
You weren’t even sure if you were seeing it right.
For a split second, your mind tried to deny it—tried to blur it into something else. A shadow. A trick of the dark. Anything but what it actually was.
But then—It moved.
And you realized—That was real.
A sharp, piercing scream should have torn out of your throat. It didn’t.
It was like your voice had died somewhere inside you, caught, strangled before it could exist. Your chest tightened painfully, your breath shallow and uneven, but no sound came out.
You threw the blanket off yourself so suddenly it tangled around your legs, nearly tripping you as you scrambled out of bed. Your heart was pounding violently against your ribs, loud enough that it felt like it might echo in the room.
You didn’t look up again. You couldn’t.
You ran.
Out of your bedroom, your footsteps uneven, almost slipping against the floor as your hands shook uncontrollably. Your breath came out in short, panicked bursts, your chest tightening with every second. And then—
BANG.
You flinched violently as a loud knock hit your front door.
Once. Then again. Harder this time.
Your entire body froze. At this hour?
Your heart hammered even faster, your thoughts spiraling, fear gripping tighter around your chest.
Who—Who could that be?
Another knock. Voices this time.
“Y/N!”
You recognized it. Your neighbor.
Your feet moved before your mind caught up, rushing toward the door, your hand trembling slightly as you unlocked it and pulled it open.
You stood there, panting, breath uneven, a thin layer of sweat clinging to your skin despite the cold.
They looked at you—And immediately, their expressions shifted. Concern. Confusion. Something else.
“Y/N, there was someone on your roof!” one of them said quickly, his voice urgent. “We saw him—he jumped down and ran away!”
Another nodded immediately, stepping forward slightly. “Yes! I kept hearing noises from my rooftop too—I thought it was just cats or something…”
“No,” the older man cut in sharply, shaking his head with certainty, his voice firm and edged with irritation. “That was no cat. That was a thief. Definitely trying to break in.” The word thief sat heavily in the air.
“I’ve seen a few weird people roaming around lately,” he continued, his tone growing more annoyed. “Especially behind your house.” He clicked his tongue. “It’s easy to hide there.”
Your stomach twisted slightly.
“It’s a good thing you’re not home most of the time,” he added with a slight scoff. “Tch… careless.”
Your fingers tightened slightly against the doorframe.
The nicer one stepped forward then, his expression softening as he looked at you more carefully..“He was on your roof, Y/N…” he said gently. “Did anything happen? Are you alright?”
Your lips parted..You tried to speak. Tried to explain. But your thoughts were still tangled, your heartbeat still too loud in your ears.
“There’s… there’s a hole in my roof,” your voice came out quieter than you expected, almost unsteady. “He was watching me… through there.”
Silence.
It fell suddenly. Heavily.
Their expressions changed. Not in fear. Not in understanding. But—Something else.
Uneasy. Skeptical.
“Watching you?” the older man repeated, his brows furrowing deeply, his tone shifting into something sharper. “Why would a thief watch you?”
Your chest tightened.
“You don’t have any… messy business going on, do you?” he added, his voice lowering slightly but carrying enough weight to make your stomach drop. “Our neighborhood has a reputation to maintain, mind you.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
“What are you saying?” you shot back, your voice finally finding some strength despite the tremor underneath. “I don’t even know him! I didn’t even see his face—”
He shrugged. Just shrugged. Like your words didn’t matter. Like he didn’t quite believe you.
“Move along,” he muttered, waving his hand dismissively. “No point standing here in the rain.”
And just like that, he turned and walked away, a quiet tch leaving his lips. The others hesitated for a second.
Then the nicer one looked back at you, concern still lingering in his eyes.
“Call me if anything happens, alright?” he said softly. “And I’ll contact someone to repair your roof.”
You nodded. Slowly.
They left. One by one. Their footsteps fading into the sound of the rain. And you stood there. Still. Your heart hadn’t calmed down. Not even a little. You closed the door quietly, your hand lingering on the handle for a second longer than necessary.
What was happening?
You had been living here for years. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Not once. Your relationships with the neighbors were normal. Neutral. Peaceful. There had never been any trouble. No incidents. No fear.
So then—Why now?
—
Till dawn, you couldn’t rest your eyes. Not even for a second.
You stayed curled near the door, back pressed against it as if it were the only thing separating you from something you didn’t dare name. The floor felt cold beneath you, your body stiff from the same position for hours, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t.
Going back to your bedroom—That thought alone made your chest tighten. The image wouldn’t leave your mind. That crack in the ceiling. That eye. Watching.
You had thought about calling the police. More than once.
Your phone had been in your hand, the number almost dialed, your thumb hovering over the screen. But then—What would you say? What proof did you have? A hole in the roof?
That wasn’t enough. Not without something solid. Not without someone backing you up. And your neighbors—
Your grip on the phone tightened slightly. After what the old man had said…
You already knew. They wouldn’t involve themselves any further. Not if it meant questioning things. Not if it meant risking that “reputation” he cared so much about.
You exhaled slowly, your head falling back against the door. Maybe… you could stay at a friend’s place for a while. Just until things felt normal again. But then—
Would their family agree? Would they be comfortable?
And worse—Would you be dragging them into something they didn’t understand?
Your fingers curled slightly against your sleeve. You didn’t want to bother anyone. Not now. Not when people were already looking at you… differently.
—
The hours passed like that. Slow. Heavy. Unforgiving.
The atmosphere shifted with the faint light of morning creeping in, grey and dull behind thick clouds.
You hadn’t moved much. At some point, you had locked your bedroom door without stepping inside—just enough to put distance between you and it. As if that helped.
Your phone buzzed suddenly in your hand, making you flinch. You looked down quickly. It was him. The nicer neighbor.
You answered almost immediately.
“I contacted someone to fix your roof,” he said, his voice still gentle, though slightly strained over the sound of the rain. “But… they won’t be able to come unless it stops.”
You glanced toward the window. The rain hadn’t slowed. If anything, it sounded heavier.
“…yeah,” you murmured quietly.
“It’s been more than a day now,” he added. “The roads are probably a mess. It might take some time.”
You swallowed slightly. “Okay… thank you.”
“Just stay careful, alright?”
“I will.”
The call ended.
You stared at your phone for a moment before lowering it slowly.
Thirty-three hours. And the rain still hadn’t stopped.
---
The house felt… wrong.
Too quiet in some places. Too loud in others. Every sound felt sharper than it should have been.
With a quiet sigh, you pushed yourself up from the floor, your body aching slightly from the stiffness.
You needed to move. To feel normal. To do something. You made your way to the bathroom, your steps slow but steady.
Maybe a shower would help. Clear your head a little. Wash away the lingering unease clinging to your skin.
You stepped inside, closing the door behind you. The familiar space should have felt comforting. It didn’t.
You turned the tap on, the sound of running water filling the room, steam beginning to rise faintly as warmth spread. Your fingers moved automatically, reaching for your things, your mind drifting slightly as you prepared.
And then—You paused.
Your gaze shifted downward.
Toward the floor. The drain.
Something was caught there. A small clump of hair.
You stared at it for a second. Then another.
It shouldn’t have been strange. It wasn’t unusual. Your hair got stuck there all the time. You should’ve ignored it. Washed it away. Moved on.
But something—Something didn’t feel right. Because you remembered. Clearly.
You had cleaned it. Yesterday. After your shower. You always did.
“…then…” Your breath slowed—Eyes didn’t leave the drain.
“…whose is that?”
—
Ding dong.
Your head snapped toward the front door. The sound cut through the quiet like something sharp, sudden enough to make your heart jolt painfully against your ribs.
For a second, you just stood there. Frozen.
Who could it be…? In this rain?
The sound of water pounding against the windows hadn’t stopped for hours. The streets were probably half-flooded by now, the sky still heavy and grey without a hint of letting up.
So then—Who would come here?
Ding dong.
You flinched again, your fingers instinctively tightening around the edge of the sink.
“…who—”
You grabbed your towel quickly, wrapping it around yourself without thinking much, your steps cautious as you moved out of the bathroom.
Your heartbeat hadn’t settled. If anything, it only grew louder with each step toward the door.
You stopped just before it. Breathing shallow. Then slowly leaned forward, peering through the peephole.
Someone was standing outside. Tall. Broad.
Wearing some kind of uniform… and a cap pulled low over their face, shadowing most of their features.
You couldn’t see clearly. Just the outline. Still.
Ding dong.
He rang again.
“Is anybody here?” a voice called out from the other side, slightly muffled by the door and the rain. “I’m here to repair—”
You blinked.
Oh.
The neighbor. He had said something about calling someone.
Relief didn’t come fully—but it softened the sharp edge of your fear just a little.
“Uh-please wait!” you called out from inside, your voice slightly unsteady despite your attempt to keep it normal.
You didn’t wait for a response.
Turning quickly, you hurried back to your room, grabbing your clothes and putting them on in a rush, fingers fumbling slightly as you fixed everything into place.
Your mind was still running. Still thinking. Still uneasy.
You made your way back to the door, taking a small breath before unlocking it and pulling it open.
The man stood there. Close now.
He was looking down, one hand adjusting the brim of his cap as if trying to keep his face hidden from the rain—or from you.
Water dripped steadily from the edges, darkening the fabric, trailing down along his shoulders.
You frowned slightly, about to say something—But he spoke first.
“Can I get a towel?”
You paused. Then noticed it. The dampness.
His clothes slightly clinging, the rain having soaked through more than you initially realized.
“Ah—yes,” you said quickly.
You stepped back, turning to grab one, your movements slightly hurried before returning and handing it to him.
He took it without a word. Then—Slowly—He removed his cap.
Dark hair fell slightly out of place, damp and sticking faintly to his forehead. And there—Across the bridge of his nose—A deep, faint line.
Your eyes lingered there for a second too long. A mark. Almost like a scar. Or… something else.
You blinked, realizing you were staring, quickly clearing your throat and looking away.
“It’s the roof,” you said, trying to steady your voice. “You have to repair it… but it’s raining so hard. How did you even get here?”
There was a pause. You felt it before you saw it. His gaze. He was looking at you. Not hurried. Not confused. Just—Still.
Then he spoke.
“Your neighbor said it was urgent.” His voice was calm. Even. “Said I’d be paid well.”
You hesitated slightly at that.
“Ah… is that so…?” you murmured, unsure what else to say for a moment. “Okay… um, maybe we should wait a bit until the rain slows down.”
He nodded once. And then—He didn’t move. He just stood there. Quiet. Still. Like a statue placed too deliberately in the middle of your doorway.
You shifted slightly, an odd discomfort settling in your chest. “Uh…” you glanced toward the living room, then back at him. “You can sit there, if you want.”
You pointed toward the couch. His eyes followed your gesture. Then returned to you.
A brief pause. Before he stepped inside. Slow. Measured.
He walked toward the couch and sat down without a word, his movements controlled, almost too precise.
You stood there for a moment, watching him. Something about him felt—Off. You couldn’t explain it. The way he moved. The way he spoke. The way he didn’t speak.
After a few seconds, you shook the thought away, turning quickly.
You needed to call your neighbor. Just to let him know the repairman had arrived. Maybe… he could come over too. Just in case.
You reached for your phone. Only to pause.
“…where is it?”
You checked the table. The counter. Your pockets. Nothing.
Your movements grew quicker, more frantic as you searched around the room, your breath tightening slightly.
It should’ve been here. You had it. You remembered having it. You couldn’t find it. Anywhere.
—
“Ma’am?”
You flinched. Your head snapped back toward him almost immediately, your thoughts scattering as his voice cut through them.
He was still sitting there. Looking at you.
“Could you tell me the exact position the hole is in?”
You blinked once, then nodded quickly, forcing your thoughts to settle. “It’s… in the bedroom,” you said, your voice quieter than before. “On the ceiling.”
He hummed softly. A low, thoughtful sound.
“Could you let me see the room?”
You hesitated. Just for a second.
Your fingers curled slightly at your side. You hadn’t gone back in there since last night. Not once. You didn’t know what it looked like now. You didn’t know if—
“…okay,” you said finally.
You turned, your steps slower this time, more careful as you led him down the short hallway. You could feel him behind you. Not close enough to touch. But close enough to feel.
The bedroom door stood exactly where you had left it. Closed. Locked.
Your hand hovered over the handle for a moment. Then slowly, you unlocked it. A soft click.
You pushed the door open. And your eyes widened. The room looked—
Normal. Too normal.
Your gaze immediately moved to the bed. You had expected it to be soaked. The rain had been relentless. The hole had been right above—But the sheets—
They were dry. Perfectly dry. Not a single damp patch.
“Huh…?”
You stepped inside slowly, your brows knitting together as confusion began to replace the fear. This didn’t make sense. None of it did.
You moved closer to the bed, your heartbeat picking up again—but this time, not from panic. From something else.
You climbed onto it without thinking, your knees pressing into the mattress as you reached upward. Toward the ceiling. Your fingers stretched, brushing against it.
Your hand moved across the surface, searching, tracing every inch where you knew the crack had been. Where you had seen it.
But now—
It was gone. Completely gone.
“What the…” Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
This wasn’t possible. You had seen it. You knew you had seen it. Your mind scrambled for an explanation—any explanation—but nothing came. Nothing made sense.
And then—A sound.
A low chuckle. Right behind you.
“You’re so cute when you’re confused.”
——
Meanwhile—
“You should go check on her,” the woman said, her voice edged with worry as she stood near the window, peering out at the relentless rain. “She’s living there all alone… at least we could do this much.”
Her husband—your neighbor—let out a quiet sigh, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He looked tired. Not just from the weather, but from the weight of something he couldn’t quite name.
“I know,” he replied, his tone softer, conflicted. “But… we have to be careful too. For our own kids.”
He glanced toward the other room unconsciously, as if reminding himself of that fact.
“We don’t even know what’s going on,” he continued. “Everything just… happened so suddenly. And I’m doing what I can.” He paused briefly before adding, “I tried calling a repairman for her roof, but they refused. Said they won’t come out in this weather.”
The rain outside only seemed to emphasize his words, crashing harder against the glass.
The woman turned to him fully now, her brows drawn together. “Did you at least contact her?” she asked. “You should tell her that. And that we’ll go there once the rain stops.”
He hesitated for a second. Then nodded.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone, unlocking it with a practiced motion before dialing your number.
They both stood there in silence as the call rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
He frowned slightly. “She’s not picking up.”
The woman’s expression tightened instantly. “Is she okay…?” she asked, her voice dropping just a little, uncertainty creeping in.
He shook his head quickly, trying to dismiss the thought before it could settle.
“Don’t worry,” he said, a bit more firmly than before. “She’ll probably call back later. Maybe she’s busy.”
He lowered the phone slowly. “We’ll go there ourselves once the rain slows down. No need to panic.”
The woman didn’t look entirely convinced. But she nodded anyway.
“…okay.”
---
The rain continued to fall. Heavy. Unforgiving.
And then—
There you were. In your bedroom. Being manhandled by the very stranger.
Before you could bolt, he lunged, his strong arms wrapping around your waist, pinning you against the wall with surprising care—no bruising grips, just firm enough to hold you still. His lips crashed onto yours in a frenzy of teeth and tongue, devouring your mouth with unhinged hunger. He bit at your lower lip, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to sting, his tongue plunging deep, swirling and tasting every inch as if he were starving. "Mm~ Y/N..."
Saliva slicked your chin, the kiss messy and desperate, his body pressing flush against yours, the heat of his arousal evident through his pants. You gasped into his mouth, but he swallowed the sound, his hands roaming your sides with a sadistic precision that made your skin prickle.
He pulled back just enough to yank your shirt over your head, exposing your breasts to the cool air. "Uh.. boobies…” His gaze darkened, pupils blown wide with perversion, and he dropped to his knees, mouth latching onto one nipple with voracious suction. He sucked hard, teeth grazing the sensitive bud, pulling and tugging until it swelled, turning a deep, angry red under his assault.
Switching to the other, he lavished it with the same brutal attention, his tongue flicking relentlessly while his hands cupped and squeezed your tits, kneading the flesh like dough. The pain mingled with unwelcome sparks of pleasure, your nipples puffing up, hypersensitive and throbbing as he alternated between them, leaving wet trails of spit that cooled and tightened your skin. He groaned against your chest, the vibration sending jolts straight to your core, his sadism tempered by the way he paused to blow cool air over the reddened peaks, watching them pebble further with a twisted smile.
From the pocket of his jacket, he produced a coil of rough rope, his fingers deft as he bound your wrists above your head, looping the fibers around the bedpost with knots that bit just enough to remind you of your captivity without cutting circulation. He worked methodically, almost tenderly, checking the tension with gentle tugs. "You know... I... I had thought of approaching you in different ways but tch.. it's so hard around these people..."
"Why won't they just leave you alone?" He whispered, his voice laced with panic yet excitement. He moved to your ankles next, tying them securely but leaving enough slack to maneuver you onto the bed. With a grunt, he hoisted your bound legs high, spreading them wide and lifting until your ass lifted off the mattress, fully exposed to his ravenous stare. The position left you vulnerable, your naked cheeks parted slightly, your pussy on blatant display, the cool air teasing your already damp folds.
"W-woah... real pussy..." His breath hitched, eyes glazing over as he drank in the sight, his face inches from your core. Then, like a man possessed, he leaned in, pressing soft, desperate kisses to your pussy lips—tender at first, almost reverent, his mouth molding to the outer folds with unhinged longing.
"Mmmh~" He kissed them over and over, lips parting to suckle gently, his tongue darting out to trace the edges with sloppy, fervent laps. Saliva poured from his mouth, drenching your skin, slicking every crease until it glistened obscenely, dripping down toward your ass. He slurped noisily at the outer lips, drawing them into his mouth one by one, sucking with a desperation that bordered on madness, his nose bumping your clit as he lost himself in the act. The wetness everywhere—his spit mixing with your growing arousal—made obscene squelching sounds with each pull of his lips.
Fingers trembling, he reached up, parting your pussy lips with his fingertips, spreading you open to reveal the pink, sensitive inner flesh. The sight hit him like a drug; his ears flushed a deep, burning red, veins standing out on his neck as he stared, transfixed. "s... so cute," he stammered, voice cracking with nervous excitement, a wide, ear-to-ear grin splitting his face, revealing teeth clenched in barely contained ecstasy. His eyes darted up to yours for a split second, wild and pleading, before dropping back to your exposed hole, clenching around nothing.
Unable to hold back, he fumbled with his belt, “ah- d.. don't worry.. i won't put it in…yet,” He'd shudder, unbuckling his pants with shaky hands and shoving them down just enough to free his massive cock. It sprang out, thick and veined, the bulbous tip already leaking pre-cum, swollen with need. He gripped the base, guiding it to your entrance, rubbing the fat head against your slick folds—not penetrating, just teasing, sliding it up and down your slit with agonizing slowness. The heat of him seared your skin, the tip nudging your clit before dipping to press at your hole, spreading your lips wider without breaching.
"Oh... ohh... I'm... I'm rubbing it... against you... your skin... pussy... so…so good..." he moaned, the words tumbling out in a breathless whine, his hips jerking as he stroked himself harder along your length. His free hand kept your folds parted, the cockhead hovering right at the entrance, smearing pre-cum into your wetness, the friction building an insane intensity that had his thighs quivering.
His strokes quickened, fist pumping furiously while the tip battered lightly against your hole, keeping it spread and ready. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his breaths coming in harsh pants, eyes locked on where his cock kissed your pussy. The pressure built rapidly, his massive shaft throbbing in his grip, and then he shattered—shuddering violently, eyes rolling back in his head as waves of unhinged pleasure crashed over him.
Thick ropes of cum erupted from his tip, shooting straight into your spread hole, flooding the entrance with hot, sticky spurts. He kept rubbing, milking every drop inside, the excess bubbling out slightly despite his efforts, his body convulsing with the force of his release, moans turning to guttural whimpers as he rode the edge of oblivion.
"Ahh~ ouh.. baby..." Panting, he slumped forward for a moment, then straightened with a dazed grin, reaching into his pocket for a strip of duct tape. Carefully, almost lovingly, he pressed it over your pussy, sealing the cum inside, the adhesive sticking firmly to your skin. "We... we'll use it as lube next... heh..." he rasped, his voice hoarse and satisfied, eyes gleaming with the promise of more twisted indulgences to come.
He straightened slowly, that dazed grin splitting his sweat-dampened face, his eyes—dark pools of obsession—finally lifting to meet yours. For the first time since he'd burst into your life like a fever dream, he truly looked at you, not as an object of his deranged fantasies, but as the woman he'd stolen away. The sight of your tear-streaked cheeks, the raw terror widening your eyes, hit him like a slap. His grin faltered, crumbling into a mask of dawning horror, as if the fog of his perversion was lifting just enough to reveal the monstrosity he'd become. His massive cock, still semi-hard and glistening with remnants of his spend, twitched against his thigh, but his hands shook violently now, no longer steady in their sadistic control.
With a whimper that bordered on pathetic, he reached up, cupping your face in his palms—rough from years of whatever shadowed life he'd led, yet careful, so achingly careful, as if you were fragile porcelain he might shatter. His thumbs, callused and warm, brushed away the hot trails of your tears, smearing them across your skin in gentle strokes that contrasted the brutality of moments before. "Why... why are you crying, love...?" he whispered, his voice cracking like thin ice, laced with genuine confusion and a creeping panic. His breath ghosted over your lips, ragged and uneven, as he leaned closer, his nose nudging your temple. "Am... am I doing it wrong...? Do I... do I have to be more scary...?"
He nuzzled against your soaked cheek, rubbing his stubbled jaw along the damp path of your tears, the coarse scrape of his skin sending involuntary shivers down your spine. The intimacy was suffocating, his body heat enveloping you like a cage, his scent—sweat, cum, and something darker, like ink and madness—filling your lungs. "Uhh... baby... you told me you wanted this... this kind of love you needed..."
He continued, his words tumbling out in a feverish murmur, his lips brushing your earlobe as he clung to the delusion you'd somehow fed him in his twisted mind. "I'm... I'm giving it to you now... so why are you crying so much?" His tone dipped into desperation, a sadist's plea wrapped in vulnerability, his fingers tightening just a fraction on your jaw, holding you in place as if your gaze might vanish if he let go.
He pressed soft kisses along your jawline then, feather-light and reverent, trailing from your chin to the corner of your mouth—kisses that tasted of salt from your tears and the faint metallic tang of his earlier bites. Each one lingered, his lips parting slightly to suckle gently at your skin, as if savoring the evidence of your distress. But he paused abruptly, pulling back with a jolt, his eyes widening in shock as realization—or his warped version of it—dawned.
"Wait... is that one of your likings? Crying and wanting more?" he asked, his voice pitching higher with excited uncertainty, a manic gleam flickering back into his gaze. He searched your face hungrily, misreading the horror twisting your features as some secret signal of consent, his ears flushing that deep red again, betraying the unhinged thrill surging through him.
You stared at him in pure horror, your body thrashing against the ropes that bit into your wrists and ankles, the restraints holding you splayed and helpless. A muffled scream tore from your throat, desperate and raw, but it came out as garbled whimpers against the tape sealing your mouth—sounds of terror that only seemed to fuel his delusion. He didn't flinch; instead, he cupped your face again, firmer this time, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks to still your struggles, forcing you to meet his wild eyes.
"Shh, shh, my sweet little thing," he cooed, leaning in to kiss your cheek with sloppy, open-mouthed presses, his tongue darting out to lap at the fresh tears pooling there. He nibbled next, teeth grazing the soft flesh just below your eye, not breaking skin but leaving a tingling sting that bloomed into heat.
"You're so cute when crying..." he breathed against your skin, his voice dropping to a reverent hush, thick with perverse adoration. His nibbles turned insistent, teeth sinking in deeper along your cheekbone, marking you with a deliberate pressure that drew a sharp gasp from your muffled lips. "I... I love your tears... your cute snots... everything about you..."
He pulled back slightly to admire the red bite mark he'd left—a blooming oval of possession, stark against your flushed skin—before diving in again, kissing it soothingly, his tongue swirling over the tender spot in languid circles, as if apologizing with his mouth while his eyes burned with sadistic delight. The contrast was maddening: the careful laps of his tongue, the way he hummed contentedly against your face, even as his free hand trailed down to idly trace the edge of the tape over your pussy, pressing it firmer, ensuring his cum stayed locked inside your clenching hole.
But then his expression shifted, a shadow of hurt flickering across his features, his brows knitting together in feigned innocence. "But... you left me hanging so sudden... do you not like my stories anymore, baby?" he asked, his voice cracking with that unhinged vulnerability, the words hanging heavy in the air like a threat veiled as a question.
He tilted his head, studying you with the intensity of a writer dissecting his muse, his fingers now stroking your hair in soothing pets that belied the ropes and tape binding you. The bite mark throbbed under his renewed kisses, each press of his lips a mix of balm and brand, his breath hot and erratic as he whispered against the welt. "It's okay, baby... I'll make you love it again... make you love me... your favorite author… Choso~…"
——
The fragile cocoon of his twisted affection shattered in an instant as a sharp series of knocks echoed through the apartment, insistent and jarring against the heavy silence of your shared nightmare. His head snapped toward the sound like a predator sensing prey, the muscles in his neck corded tight, veins bulging along his temples and forearms in stark relief against his flushed skin. His eyes, once softened by delusional tenderness, widened into manic orbs, pupils blown black with a feral paranoia that twisted his features into the visage of a madman—lips peeled back in a snarl, breath hitching in ragged bursts that fogged the air between you.
He whipped his gaze back down to your bound form, the ropes creaking faintly under your subtle tremors, your body still splayed vulnerably on the bed with the tape clinging obscenely to your pussy, a barrier holding his seed deep inside your unwilling heat. The terror etched across your face mirrored his own frenzy, your chest heaving in shallow pants, tears carving fresh paths down your cheeks as the muffled whimpers behind the tape grew frantic. He loomed over you, his semi-hard cock swaying heavily between his thighs, slick with the evidence of his earlier release, as his hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening.
"Did you call someone?" he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper that slithered through the room, laced with accusation and betrayal, his face inches from yours now, hot breath fanning over your skin like a storm's warning. "Huh, baby... are you trying to betray me?" The words dripped with hurt, his brows furrowing in that unhinged mix of love and rage, his fingers twitching as if debating whether to stroke your cheek or crush your throat.
You shook your head vigorously, the motion jerky and desperate, your eyes pleading through the haze of fear, wide and glistening as you strained against the bindings that dug into your wrists and ankles, the rough fibers chafing your skin raw. No words could escape, only the pathetic vibrations of your denied screams, but the frantic denial in your gaze seemed to pierce his delusion just enough.
He exhaled sharply, a shaky laugh bubbling up from his chest—"Hah... I... I know you wouldn't do that..."—his tone wavering between relief and lingering doubt, his hand finally reaching out to cup your chin with a grip that was almost gentle, thumb tracing your lower lip over the tape in a possessive caress. His eyes darted back toward the door, the knocks resuming with a more urgent rhythm, pounding like your racing heart. "Wait... I gotta check..." he muttered, more to himself than to you, his voice dropping to a gravelly resolve as paranoia clawed its way fully to the surface.
Reluctantly, he peeled himself away from your side, his body uncoiling with predatory grace despite the tremor in his limbs, the mattress dipping as he rose. His gaze lingered on you for a beat longer, drinking in your helpless exposure—the way your breasts rose and fell with each terrified breath, nipples still pebbled from his earlier assaults, the taped seal between your thighs glistening faintly under the dim light. Then, with a low growl rumbling in his throat, he turned toward the nightstand, his fingers wrapping around the slender neck of a porcelain flower vase in a vise-like grip, the delicate thing creaking under the pressure as if it might shatter in his palm. He hefted it like a makeshift club, the water inside sloshing softly, petals from wilted blooms scattering across the floor in his wake.
Without another glance, he stalked out of the bedroom, his bare feet padding silently down the hallway, the door left ajar behind him.
“No one gets to disturb us… no one…”
ig: crazykinkiwi