Pervert Dad that always sends his daughter videos of him jacking off. Doesn’t matter when or where he is sending her a video. He never mentions them after being sent and neither does she. It’s a little unspoken thing between them.

Until one random night as usual she receives a video. It’s extra long and she clicks on it only to be surprised. This isn’t his usual video it’s filmed in her room. She’s knocked out in at as he is stroking his cock in her face. It looks like it was filmed a couple nights ago after a family party. It doesn’t stop there though, he keeps filming as he stops stoking himself. The video shows how he moves her around, pulls her clothes, and starts to grope her.

She squirms in her bed not knowing how to feel about this big of a jump from her dad. He’s groping and getting off to her at night? That should be so wrong but she can’t help but squeeze her thighs together. The video keeps going until it shows him playing with her cunt. She’s so shocked watching as her dad touches her in her sleep as she has no idea. What did she drink or eat that night that has her knocked out so cold?

The video keeps going and eventually it shows him running his cock through her slits. She gasps when he pushes into her and moans. She remembers none of this, so that’s why she was sore in the morning? She watches how her dad fucks her in her sleep. How he so desperately is fucking her as if he’s not worried she’d wake. She is letting out sleepy moans in the video. She can’t help but squeeze her thighs together, she can’t help but keep watching, and she can’t help but wish her dad would walk in.

She whines not believing she’d want her dad to take her after that video. She shouldn’t want her dad to take her at all! She spreads her legs and runs her fingers over her wet panties. She can’t believe how quick she got soaked. She keeps watching as her dads cock goes in and out of her. How well he stretched her and how well her sleep body took it. She pushes past her panties and starts to rub her clit. Softly moaning when she watches him cum…in her.

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He’s been replaying the meet-and-greet for thirty-nine days straight.

Thirty-nine days of sitting in his dim room, curtains taped shut with black gaffer, the only light the soft glow of your signed photo propped up on an overturned cereal box. Thirty-nine days of whispering the exact words you said to him — “Thank you for coming today.” He mouths them like prayer, like sacrament, like oxygen.

Sometimes he doesn’t sleep. Sometimes he sleeps too long. Sometimes he forgets which is which.

But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the memory of your hand brushing his — no, not brushing, almost-brushing — the phantom warmth he’s built into a religion inside his skull.

And so he writes.

The gift starts as a thought. Then a sentence. Then a scribble on printer paper. Then page after page after page.

He doesn’t have the courage to leave the house again, not after the comedown that followed the meet-and-greet. His body felt wrong in the world. Too bright. Too exposed. Too seen. The outside air had made him nauseous. The sound of traffic had felt like screaming.

But this— This he can do from his room.

He digs through drawers for anything to write with. He finds an old gel pen, half-dried. A stack of mostly-blank school notebooks he failed to finish years ago. And then he begins.

“Places You’d Look Pretty In.”

He writes the title in shaky lettering on the cover of the booklet he staples together — forty pages. Hand-trimmed edges. Uneven. Smudged.

He spends hours agonising over every sentence, rewriting descriptions over and over until they feel “right.” Until they feel like you would understand, like you would read them and know what he meant. Know that they were meant for one person only.

He doesn’t write actual places — he’s never been anywhere. Instead, he writes moments. Settings. Vignettes shaped entirely from his mind, all twisted through the lens of longing that keeps him awake at night.

He writes about the way your eyes might look in dim light. The way your voice might echo in a quiet room. The way your hands might rest on a table, fingers tapping nervously.

He writes scenes where you stand, sit, kneel— He stops himself there. He’s afraid to write the details openly, so he wraps them in metaphor and imagery and implication, but the hunger beneath the ink is plain. Anyone reading would feel it.

He doesn’t notice how warped it is. How suffocating. How clearly wrong.

He only thinks: You will read this. You will know me.

On page twenty-eight, his pen runs out. He cries for ten minutes before finding a pencil stub.

When the booklet is finally done, he runs his fingers over the cover the way one might touch a loved one’s cheek. He tucks it into an envelope, shaky handwriting spelling out your name in letters so careful they look childlike.

He doesn’t sleep at all that night, terrified he’ll lose the courage to mail it if he closes his eyes.

The next morning, he forces himself to step outside. It feels like stepping into boiling water.

He drops the envelope into the shipping box, heart slamming so hard he thinks he might faint.

Then he goes home and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

You don’t know any of this.

You’re getting ready for a livestream — a casual “gift opening” stream your agency scheduled last minute. They think it’ll boost engagement. You think it’ll be cute. Easy. Lighthearted.

Your dressing room is cluttered with small pastel boxes and bubble-wrapped packages. Staff has pre-scanned everything to check for anything dangerous, but they don’t open the gifts fully — they just make sure nothing explosive or toxic is inside.

Still, you’ve learned fans can be… odd.

The stream starts. The chat erupts in emojis and hearts and excited spam.

You smile into the camera. “Let’s open a few, okay?”

You start with the safe stuff — plushies, letters, drawings. They’re sweet. Comforting. Things you can praise without thinking too hard.

And then one of the staff hands you a plain white envelope. Unmarked. Uncute. No stickers. No washi tape. Just… blank.

“Uh… this one’s simple,” you say with a little laugh. “Let’s see.”

You open it, pulling out a small hand-bound booklet. Forty pages. Stapled crookedly. The cover reads, in trembling handwriting:

“Places You’d Look Pretty In.”

You blink.

“Oh… that’s—creative?” you say aloud, trying to breathe through the sudden unease creeping up your spine.

You flip it open.

The first page is filled with extremely detailed writing. Describing you. Your face. Your posture. Your body language. The way you stand during certain interviews.

There’s nothing graphic. Nothing that violates platform rules. But something is wrong with the tone — wrong in the way someone staring too long is wrong, wrong in the way someone memorising your breathing patterns is wrong.

You swallow.

Behind the camera, staff shift uncomfortably, but they stay silent. You’re trained to keep going.

You clear your throat and force a soft laugh. “Wow… very descriptive.”

You turn the page.

The next “place” is not a real place — it’s a room. A dark one. A quiet one. The description is so vivid you feel dirty reading it. It describes where you might sit, how the light might hit your skin, what your expression might be, the curve of your mouth when you’re “thinking too hard.”

It feels like someone watching you from inside your walls.

You flip another page, hoping for something normal, something benign. Instead: another scenario. Another room. Another intensely personal, voyeuristic description of you doing something ordinary — tying your hair, reaching for a glass of water, closing your eyes — written with such obsessive clarity you feel like you’re intruding on your own privacy.

You force a smile for the camera. Your voice shakes. “This is… very imag—very imaginative. Thank you for, um… taking the time to…”

You can’t finish the sentence.

Chat notices. Comments fly by:

“are u okay??” “that looks creepy ngl” “PLEASE put it down” “why does that look like a manifesto??”

You laugh it off, but the sound is thin.

Your fingers tremble as you skip to the back pages. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. But morbid curiosity wins.

The final pages are the worst.

Not explicitly — nothing you could report. Nothing that would get the sender banned. But the descriptions feel emotional in a way that makes your throat tighten. Pages and pages of how you might look when you’re tired, when you’re vulnerable, when you’re lonely. Thoughts no stranger should ever have access to.

And then:

“I hope you read this slowly.” “I hope you understand this is for you only.” “I hope next time you look at me longer.”

Your heart starts pounding. You close the booklet quickly.

You smile through your discomfort. “Okay—let’s put this one aside for now.”

You place it off-screen. Your hand lingers a second too long, fingers stiff.

You keep opening gifts, but you’re rattled. Your eyes wander back to that envelope more than once.

Meanwhile.

He’s watching the stream live.

He hasn’t blinked in a full minute.

Your voice fills his room, soft and sweet, the same voice that replayed in his head for weeks. And now — now you’re holding his gift. His booklet. His words.

When you touch it, he feels a shock travel down his spine.

When your brows furrow slightly at page three, he gasps quietly. You caught it. You understood it. You felt it.

When you skip pages too fast, he panics — but when you go back, even briefly, he feels dizzy with joy.

And when you smile nervously — When you clear your throat — When your laugh wavers—

He freezes the screen. Stares.

To him, your discomfort is not discomfort. It’s intimacy. It’s “communication.” It’s proof you read every line with care.

He leans forward, whispering to the paused image of you:

“You liked it… I know you did. You… you read all of it. You read me.”

He presses a hand to the screen, fingertips hovering over your face.

“I’ll write more,” he murmurs, shaking. “If you want more… I’ll write forever.”

He rewinds the moment you close the booklet and bite the inside of your cheek, replaying it over and over.

To anyone else, you looked uneasy. To him?

You looked shy. Flustered. Touched.

He curls into his blanket, trembling with ecstatic relief.

You got his gift. You read his words. You reacted.

He has never felt so close to another human being.