You know he’s using your soap, too. You smell it on him. Your lavender shampoo and body wash. You didn’t think much of it the first time around. If it were only a one-off thing, you wouldn’t mind. Men are allowed to be curious about a girl’s finer things, after all. You weren’t about to freak out over something so small. But then you notice it wasn’t a one-off. No, it’s every goddamn time he’s in there.

And you know what the creep’s up to—taking those long showers, coming out looking so smug and refreshed. You’re not an idiot. You know he’s jerking off in there, the fucking rat. With your soap, no less!

And so, you started bringing it back into your room with you, along with your other soaps and lotions. You don’t know what the freak might end up doing once robbed of his lube of choice—he might just use your sunscreen if you’re not careful.

You snicker to yourself, feeling clever, as you dry your hair with a towel in your room. Thinking he’s ball’s blue, moping in his room—and rightfully so!

But, looking at your naked body in the mirror, you can’t really say that you blame the poor bastard either. It must be hard for him, sleeping alone in his bed, knowing a girl like you’s just in the next room. But hell, you’re so out of his league—he should be thanking the stars to even be sleeping this close to you in the first place.

You laugh at the thought, fetching a fresh pair of panties from your drawer. That’s when your fingers brush against something odd. 

The colorful fabrics have always been silky and smooth to the touch, no doubt. But this type of velvety texture isn’t right… No, it’s sticky.

You bend over, peaking your head forth, inspecting the many lacy pairs up close.

The smell hits you in the same moment you understand what it is. And then the shock.

What the fuck?

You jump back. Appalled at first, but the feeling is quickly overrun by outrage. 

“Ew! That’s it!”

You march over to the other room, where the culprit sits—casually with a guilt-free look on his face in front of his computer screen—an anime girl dressed in a skimpy maid two-piece as his screen-saver—the shameless sicko. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you!?”

You’re done with the pleasantries. You could accept his stares, you could handle him taking a few liberties like using your body wash and all those small accidental touches he’d fake apologize for—but this? Jerking off onto your underwear!? That’s beyond reason—even for a fucking incel! 

“Listen here, slimeball, stay the fuck out of my room!” you warn, a long lacquered fingernail threatening to slice his face bloody and wipe that dumb expression off along with it.

And still, he has the audacity to act clueless. “What are you talking about?”

You nearly burst a vein. All but ready to jump him and strangle him to death if it weren’t for the disgusting prospect of touching him, and the fact that you were only wrapped in a towel. Besides, you’re sure he’d no doubt get off on it, the fucking freak. 

“You know very well what I'm talking about, you perv. Touch my stuff again, and I’ll—”

“Tell on me?” he interrupts calmly, a small crack between his lips—smiling at you, seeming excited almost, like some fucking psychopath, continuing to talk to you just so, “I mean, as cute as it would be to watch you try, I doubt anyone would take you seriously.”

His tone is nothing if not completely suave, utterly dismissive of your anger—reflecting none of it back at you as if the two of you were discussing something trivial, such as yesterday's lecture—fully ignoring the fact that you’d just called him out on being a disgusting deviant.

Acting instead like a seasoned serial killer, sitting there, all unbothered.

“Oh, and good luck changing dorms. I think you just missed the final date for complaints, but hey, maybe you’ll get lucky. The forms take time to process, but I’m sure they’ll have an answer for you in about a month or so,” he continues, just as laid-back. “Until then, though, I guess you' got nowhere else to go. Unless, of course, you find someone who’s willing to rent you a coach to sleep on—or, you know, you could always take your chances in a rooming house.” 

He shakes his head, then clicks his tongue, sucking a breath through his teeth. “Ooh, but I don’t really see you enjoying yourself there either. I mean, if you think I’m overstepping, you’re in for a rude awakening.”

Chuckling a bit, his smile curls up even more psychotically—unsettling enough it makes a sharp shiver run up your spine.

“But anyway, in the meantime, we might as well try to be nice to each other. Right, roomie?”

You blanch at that, looking at that incongruous smile on his face. You end up swallowing what’s left of your anger—the feeling replaced by a jarring sense of unease, like you’d just discovered you were sharing the flat with a snake over the common insect you’d seen him as.

“Just–” you start, voice now weak, finding yourself retreating.

This side of him wasn’t just creepy. No, if you were to be honest, such as the prickly goosebumps he’d given rise to, you’d have to say he was being downright menacing.

“Just… stay out of my room.” You almost even tack on a please at the end, but scurry away before it can leave your lips, feeling in desperate need to go lock yourself in your room, where you get started on that dorm request at once, despite him having made it seem like a dead and hopeless end.

You walk around feeling extra wary of him in the following days—no longer bothering with common decencies despite what he’d said about trying to get along. No, instead, you began showing him clear aversion. Taking more precautions than before, such as doing your laundry under supervision, locking your room both when you're in and out of it, and keeping all your belongings safely inside.

You’re not sure if you’re being paranoid or not, but after that last encounter, you don’t want to take any chances.

Still, unfortunately, you can’t avoid him altogether either.

You’re sitting on the sofa reading a magazine when he decides to come out and put on some balding streamer, talking loudly about his personal political views on the smart TV.

At first, you don’t acknowledge him. You just sigh and continue with your magazine, trying your best to ignore his very presence, pretending to read while considering moving to your room—though not able to get over how doing something like that would feel too much like surrendering. And suffering from the defeat of last time, you don’t feel like you can afford it, and so you stay put.

Pretending like you're alone works out for a while… 

But then he decides to open his mouth.

“Reading any interesting world news over there, or just the usual tabloid trash?”

You pick your eyes up off the page enough to give him a narrow glare from over the top of it. Since your argument, you’d dropped all manners and started doing the opposite, making it beyond visible how repulsive you think he is. 

He hadn’t had much of a reaction to it at first, just kept up his freaky smiles as though he was winning the war being waged between the two of you. But lately, you could see it was getting to him.

Suppose this is his way of punishing you.

Too bad you don’t crack easily.

Scoffing, you shoot back a similar jab, “And you really think this guy’s got any valuable input on that front?” You nod your head towards the TV, gesturing to the loser giving a speech about the damage feminism causes.

“At least he’s got an opinion. ‘Only thing you’ care about is–” he cocks his head, squinting where he sits in the opposite end of the sofa, reading one of the highlights in your hands. “How to slim down and grow your tits at the same time.”

He raises his brow at you before letting his eyes drop down to your chest, pupil-fat and lazy. “I mean… Your parents must be real' proud.”

His leer, more than his sarcasm, makes you regret not wearing a bra. Covering your chest with the magazine quickly as you spring to your feet. Growling out a curt “Creep,” under your breath as you pass him, hurriedly stomping away towards your room.

You grab a bulky sweater and throw it on over the little crop top you’d been wearing. Pulling on a pair of sweats over your pajama shorts just for good measure, before heading out again. Deadset on standing your ground and not letting him think he can bully you into cowering in your room like some insecure little girl.

You sit down decidedly in the same spot you’d been sitting, the same magazine in hand. This time, determined not to engage even if he tests you.

Pissed off, you reach for your water while aggressively flipping to where you’d left off, putting your glass to your lips, taking a big mouthful, only to feel yourself swallowing something thicker than water.

It’s too late then. By the time you realize, it’s already slinking down your throat, settling in your stomach.

Slowly, you look down into your cup, watching the water swish around with the remnants of something sudsy floating on top.

You look up at him, and though he doesn’t return your stupefied glare, you swear you see his lip twitch up into an ugly little smirk. 

The realization makes you gag. 

Fucker spat in your cup…

That gross fucking shitstain just spat in your cup and let you drink it, then smiled as if celebrating some sick victory. 

You want to yell. You want to scream, cuss him out, and hold nothing back. Your breath picks up, getting riled, but before you're able to let it go, sickness beats you to it.

With a hand covering your mouth, you end up needing to rush off to the bathroom, convinced you're about to vomit.

On your way, you hear snickering behind you. But despite how the bundles of humiliation and frustration make your eyes sting, you refuse to allow the feeling to simmer—trying your best to calm down, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

Spitting in the sink, you grab for your toothbrush and paste, quickly popping the cap and squeezing, but before you can lay out a fat blob of mint to scrub and cover every square inch of your mouth, you fall still at the sight of something else caught on the bristles. 

Taking a closer look, you identify a thick, tiny, dark, curly hair.

You gape, tossing both the paste and the brush in the sink once you understand what it is, holding your breath with a hand covering your mouth, but this time, it does little in helping you hold back what’s begun climbing up your pipes.

Tears too go trickling down both sides of your face as you hunch over the toilet on both knees. Head spinning, asking yourself what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the actual fucking fuck is wrong with this guy?

“You okay in there, roomie?” comes a muffled voice from the other side of the door, tone soaked in mock sympathy. “You shouldn’t take bad advice from shitty tabloids. Bulimia is never a good look.”

You clutch the toilet seat in trembling fists, breath shivering, knuckles whitening, seething out a choked “Fuck off!” as you bang your foot back against the locked door, hoping to make him scurry away like the disgusting sewage rat he is.

But despite the effort, you don’t hear him leave.

You stay there for a moment, dry heaving once there’s nothing more to expel. Then simply hovering over the bowl, sniffling with drool slipping off your lips—calming yourself down.

By the time the shock had finally simmered down and the disgust was no longer so visceral that it was violently ricocheting through you, your tears had soaked into your skin, leaving salty streaks behind.

You drag yourself up off the floor after another moment, splashing your face with cold water and rinsing out the acid from your mouth. Catching a glimpse of yourself in the reflection, you instantly have to look away—not wanting to face the absolute wreck looking back at you.

Instead, you close the lid, flush, leaving the brush and paste in the sink as you unlock the door and storm out, pushing straight past him without a word. Only near-ripping the keys off the nail in the wall before slamming the outer door shut behind you, hoping it would hit him in the face as you go off to walk the busy streets by yourself. Needing the fresh air.

Still, though, even when free of his presence, it’s nerve-wracking.

You feel like an imposter, wishing to look normal, needing to make sure no one could somehow tell just by looking at you that you’ve been brushing your teeth with someone's pubes and only god knows what fucking else for an unknown period of time—you feel like you’re losing your mind.

You’re not sure how much more of this you can take. You don’t know what to do. You’ve already exhausted your stay at all your friends' places—you can’t expect them to house you forever. Nor do you feel like telling them what’s been really going on out of fear you’ll sound insane. 

Out in public, he acts like such a harmless little saint. No one would ever believe you if you told them of all the grotesque things he’s done. No good would come out of it—no, you’d just end up looking like a mean bitch bullying him.

There’s no other option. Shitty as it may be, you just need to hold out until your request to switch dorms comes back. It's already been a month, so you wouldn't have to wait much longer.

But when the time finally comes, it’s hardly a comfort.

Denied.

Everything is all maxed out.

You end up staring at the form even after reading it a dozen times over—computer lit in the darkness of your room. Fifteen minutes pass, maybe more—as though you’re waiting for the words to change into something more preferable, something less detrimental.

You’ve, of course, checked out other arrangements, but everything he’d said turned out to be true. Still, despite having checked for options every day, you scour every availability again, but come out of the search equally empty-handed as before.

There’s nowhere for you to go...

His door is open for you when you unlock yours and pad across the hall, out of options and out of luck and just about all out of strength as well.

“Oh, hey there, roomie, did you want something?” your roommate drawls. Sitting by his desk, toying with another pair of your stolen panties. 

He’s been taking both worn and unworn ones, using them like cum-socks and putting them back in your drawer unwashed. You don’t know when or how he’s been able to enter your room—your best guess is that he must have copied your key at some point or that he's just good at picking locks. You saw a video about it on YouTube one late night when you were losing your mind, unable to sleep, thinking he would come in and do worse things than panty-theft.

To no comfort, picking a common door lock had looked easy.

The ones currently in his hand used to be your favorite pair. Despite having known of his crimes for a while, the brazen sight still makes you shiver. That way, he just sits there—showing it off—smug and carefree, utterly devoid of concern, as if he knows you’ll never be able to prove any of it in your favor.

You sigh, knowing it too. “Ok, fine.”

His head tilts to the side, askingly.

“Let’s settle this. What do you want?”

Your question makes that same awful smile stretch across his face.

“What do I want?”

He eyes you for a moment—basking in it, you guess.

Leaning forward in his chair, he puts your panties up to his face, sinking his nose into the fabric with eyes closed.

You cringe from where you stand, acknowledging him the same way you would an alien.

“You know, it’s funny…” He takes a deep whiff, then exhales with a loud sigh, speaking in mutters, “I was just fine watching from a distance, borrowing the odd trinket or two—that's what roommates do, you know? They share. But you… You just couldn’t do that, could you?”

He leans back again, using his bare feet to swirl the seat, testing the stretch of the lace in his hands as he aims it at you like a slingshot.

“You see, you think you’re a princess, but you’re actually just… well, a bitch.” 

Letting it go, he would have shot it right at your face if you hadn’t caught it before it could.

“Calling me a pervert when you’re the one walking around half-naked like a fucking slut. Tch—how’s it my fault for looking when you’re practically begging for it?”

You ball the fabric in a tightened fist. Speaking with teeth grit, “And what? ‘You want me to apologize or something? Is that it?”

He spreads his thighs wider where he sits, hands on each armrest, appraising you sideways as though he's holding all the cards and waiting for you to slide over the winnings. “You know what, roomie? That’s exactly what I want.”

You honestly can’t believe it. Bitterness on your tongue, you spit out an insincere, “Fine then. Sorry for making you look–”

“No–” he interrupts, shaking his head, slumped in his chair with eyes deadset on you. “On your knees.”

Eye twitching, both of them squinting, before you scoff, “Yeah, I’m sorry…”

Sneering, you look down your nose, potent contempt in your voice, “Real’ sorry for bruising your poor incel pride and your tiny loser dick.”

The next events happen fast.

You don’t even know what happened—in one moment, you’re giving him the finger on both hands, and in another, you’re with your body and face against the floorboards and your arms painfully pulled behind your back. 

Something is on top of you, sitting on you, squeezing the air out of your chest with its weight.

“We’ll see what you have to say about my tiny loser dick when I'm stretching your slut pussy so good your eyes roll back into your skull,” the mass snarls from above, heated and wet, smeared against the shell of your ear along with teeth, followed by a breathy laugh.

“Y’know, I have this funny feeling you’ll love it.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Denki, Shigaraki, Dabi, Shinso ♡ JJK – Mahito, Yuuta, Ino ♡ HQ – Tsukishima ♡ CSM – Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Nagi

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