stalkerau g!pmegan fem!reader toxic!yuri
the voice was sharp, cutting through the haze of her arousal like a blade. megan jumped so hard her chair scraped violently against the linoleum floor. she scrambled to close the tab, her fingers fumbling and clumsy, but she wasn't fast enough. the librarian, a woman with glasses perched on the tip of a nose that seemed permanently wrinkled in disgust, was already standing over her.
"what exactly do you think you're doing on this computer?" the woman asked, her voice carrying across the quiet room. megan could feel the heat flooding her cheeks, a burning shame that made her want to crawl under the desk and die.
"i-i was just-i wasn't " megan stammered, her voice cracking. she felt so small, so pathetic. she couldn't even form a coherent lie.
"this is a public facility for educational purposes, not for... this kind of filth" the librarian said, gesturing vaguely at the screen before megan could fully hide it. the whispers started almost immediately. she could feel the eyes of the other patrons on her, judging her, seeing right through her cheap hoodie and her messy hair to the sick girl underneath. "you're making everyone uncomfortable. you need to leave. now."
"please, i'm sorry, i'll just-ā
"you're banned, young lady. don't let me see you in this branch again."
the walk to the exit felt like a mile long parade of shame. megan kept her head down, her bangs falling over her eyes to shield her from the stares she knew were burning into her back. she felt exposed, raw, and utterly rejected by the world. she was a freak. she was a loser who couldn't even browse the internet without getting caught being disgusting.
she wandered aimlessly through the streets for hours, the humiliation simmering in her gut like acid. she needed a place to hide, somewhere where the rules felt less rigid, somewhere where she could disappear without being noticed. that was when she saw it the small, dimly lit sign for the community library two blocks over. it looked abandoned, almost forgotten, which was exactly what she needed.
she slipped inside, hoping to remain invisible, but then she saw you.
you were standing behind the desk, sunlight filtering through a stained glass window behind you, making you look like something from a dream. you were laughing at something a patron said, a soft, genuine sound that made megan's breath catch in her throat. you looked so kind, so untouched by the ugliness she carried inside herself. you were organizing a stack of books, your fingers moving with a gentle grace that seemed impossible.
megan froze. she felt like she had been struck by lightning. she wasn't thinking about the porn anymore, or the shame, or the librarian who had screamed at her. all she could think about was the way your hair tucked behind your ear when you leaned forward. she felt a new kind of hunger stirring in her something deeper and far more dangerous than what she had been looking at on that computer screen.
she found a seat in the furthest corner of the basement stacks, a place where the shadows were thick and the air smelled of decay. she opened a notebook, pretending to study, but her eyes never left you. she watched you for hours. she memorized the way you walked, the way you bit your lip when you were concentrating, the way you smiled when you thought no one was looking.
she was a loser, she knew that. she was a stalker in the making, a girl who couldn't function without the proximity of someone who didn't even know she existed. but as she watched you, megan realized she didn't care. she would become whatever she needed to be to get closer to you. she would learn everything about you. she would haunt your digital life and your physical one until you had no choice but to notice her.
it started with the search bar. she found your tumblr first, a private little corner of the internet where you posted blurry photos of sunsets, quotes from old movies, and occasional selfies that made megan's vision go hazy. you looked so soft in them, so unguarded. she would spend hours scrolling through years of your posts, memorizing every caption, every reblog, every tiny detail of your digital existence. she felt like she was getting to know your soul, even though she had never said a single word to you.
she became a ghost in your notifications, too. she never liked your posts that would be too obvious, too dangerous but she would reblog them to a burner account she'd created just for you, an account with no profile picture and no followers. she wanted to consume you without being seen. she wanted to hold your thoughts in her hands without you ever knowing she was there.
then she found your private story on instagram. she couldn't follow you, of course, but she had become an expert at finding the crumbs. she'd find the people who tagged you, the friends who posted you in the background of their stories. she'd zoom in until her phone screen was nothing but pixels, studying the way you laughed in a group photo, the way you looked when you were tired.
it was pathetic. she knew she was a loser. she would sit in her dark apartment at three in the morning, the only light coming from the blue glare of her phone, jerking off to photos of you that she'd saved to a hidden folder. she'd record herself doing it, too shaky, desperate videos where she whispered your name like it was a prayer. she'd watch them back over and over, a sick kind of feedback loop that made her feel both electrified and utterly disgusted with herself.
"you're so pretty" she'd whisper to the empty room, her breath fogging up the screen. "you're so perfect. you don't even know how much i need you."
she started imagining conversations with you. she'd practice what she would say if she ever worked up the courage to approach the desk. she'd rehearse the way she'd ask for help finding a book, hoping your fingers would brush against hers. she'd imagine the way you'd look at her if you knew if you truly knew what she was doing, what she was thinking, what she was recording.
she knew you'd be horrified. she knew you'd call the police, that you'd see her as the freak she was. but the thought didn't deter her; it only made the yearning more intense. she wanted to be seen by you, even if it was with disgust. she wanted to be part of your world, even if she had to be the monster under your bed.
one rainy tuesday, she saw something new. a post from a friend of yours, a photo of a party you'd been at. you were wearing a dress that clung to your curves, your hair loose and wavy, a drink in your hand. you looked radiant, alive, and so painfully far away from the girl rotting in the basement stacks.
megan felt a surge of something dark and possessive twist in her gut. she wanted to reach through the screen and pull you into her darkness. she wanted to take that brightness and smother it until the only thing you could see was her.
she opened her camera app, her fingers trembling as she set up the phone against a stack of books. she needed to record this. she needed to capture the feeling of this hunger, this desperate, aching need that was consuming her whole. she wanted to watch herself lose her mind over you, over and over again, until there was nothing left of her but the obsession.
she pressed record, the small red light blinking like a heartbeat in the darkness.
the red light of the camera was the only thing keeping her grounded as the darkness of the basement stacks pressed in on her. megan's breathing was shallow and ragged, echoing off the old book spines like something broken. she positioned the phone carefully between two heavy encyclopedias, angling it so it caught the way her face looked pale, flushed, and completely undone and the way her hand moved.
she didn't even bother changing out of her oversized hoodie. she just needed to feel you. she opened the photo of you from the party the one where you looked so untouchable in that dress and propped it up on her laptop screen right behind where the camera could see her. she wanted the video to show them together: her pathetic reality and your perfect, distant light.
"please... please look at meā she whimpered, though she knew you couldn't hear her. she knew you'd never hear her.
she started stroking herself, her movements clumsy and frantic. she wasn't graceful like the girls in the videos she used to watch; she was desperate, like she was trying to claw her way out of her own skin. every time she closed her eyes, she didn't see darkness she saw your smile, the way your lips parted when you laughed, the way you looked when you were focused on a book at the library desk. she imagined those hands, those gentle, volunteering hands, touching her instead. she imagined you seeing her like this, not as the quiet girl in the corner, but as this starving, needy thing that existed only because you did.
she let out a choked, wet sound as she picked up the pace, her hips jerking up. the camera captured everything the sweat beading on her forehead, the way her eyes rolled back in shame, the way her fingers trembled against herself. she felt like a loser. she felt like the smallest, most disgusting person on earth, but the disgust only made the arousal sharper, more dangerous. she wanted to be ruined by you. she wanted to be seen in her worst state and still be wanted.
as she neared the edge, she leaned closer to the lens, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper. "m-mine.. ah.. mine..ā
when she finally came it was messy and uncoordinated, leaving her shaking and gasping for air in the silence of the stacks. she stayed like that for a long time, slumped against the cold metal shelf, her chest heaving while the camera continued to record her unraveling. the white liquid all over her tummy just sitting there waiting to be taken care of. she felt hollowed out, drained of everything except the single, burning point of her obsession.
slowly, she reached out and stopped the recording. she didn't delete it. she never deleted them. she transferred the file to her hidden folder, a digital trophy of her own degradation.
she sat there in the dark for another hour, staring at the frozen image of you on her laptop. the hunger hadn't gone away; it had just settled into something deeper, something more patient. she couldn't just watch anymore. she couldn't just be a ghost in your notifications. she needed to hear your voice. she needed to see your eyes lock onto hers in real life.
the next day, she didn't go straight to the basement. she waited until she heard the bell chime at the front entrance, the sound that signaled your arrival. she stood near the circulation desk, pretending to browse a magazine, but her heart was hammering so hard she thought it might bruise her ribs.
when you finally walked up to the desk to check in a book, she saw the way your sweater sleeve slid up your arm as you reached for the scanner. she saw the small mole near your wrist. she saw everything.
"hi, do you need help finding something today?" you asked, your voice soft and professional, tilting your head slightly.
megan froze. she had practiced this moment a thousand times in her head, but hearing your actual voice real, warm, and directed at *her* made her brain short circuit. she felt like she was drowning. she looked up at you, her eyes wide and glassy, looking every bit the pathetic, lost girl she truly was.
"i... i'm looking for..." she stammered, her voice barely audible. she couldn't finish the sentence. she couldn't tell you she was looking for a way to ruin you, or a way to make you love her. "i'm looking for something... quiet."
you gave her a small, confused smile, the kind you give to the strange patrons who don't quite make sense. "the reading rooms in the back are pretty quiet. would you like me to show you where they are?"
"yes," megan breathed, the word coming out like a sob. "please."
as you led the way through the stacks, megan followed close behind, close enough to smell the faint scent of vanilla and old paper that seemed to cling to you. she watched the sway of your hips as you walked, her mind already spiraling back to the videos, back to the dark apartment, back to the way she wanted to scream your name until her lungs gave out.
megan felt like she was walking through a dream that was slowly turning into a fever. the silence of the library felt oppressive now, amplified by the sound of her own pulse thundering in her ears. she watched your back, the way your shoulders moved under that soft sweater, and she felt that familiar, sick twist of need in her stomach. she couldn't let this moment end with just a polite smile and a direction to the reading rooms. she needed to plant something. she needed to make you remember her.
"wait," she blurted out, the word too loud, too sudden in the quiet space.
you stopped and turned around, looking at her with genuine concern. "did you forget something? or did you need help finding a specific section?"
megan felt her face burning. she looked down at her hands, which were shaking visibly. she forced herself to reach into her hoodie pocket and pull out a small, crumpled piece of paper. she had spent three hours last night writing this, her handwriting shaky and uneven, but she had tried to make it look casual. like something she'd just scribbled down.
"i... i found this.ā she lied, her voice cracking. she held out the paper like it was something sacred. "it fell out of a book earlier. i think it belongs to you?"
it was a complete fabrication, a pathetic little trap, but she needed to see your reaction. she needed to see if you would take something from her.
you took the paper, your fingers brushing against hers for a split second. the contact sent a jolt through her so violent she almost gasped aloud. you unfolded the paper, your brow furrowing in confusion. it wasn't a note it was a polaroid. she had taken it months ago, from a distance, when you were sitting on those concrete steps during your lunch break. it was blurry, slightly underexposed, but it was undeniably you. you were looking off to the side, caught in a moment of quiet contemplation, looking beautiful and utterly unaware of the lens that had captured you.
megan watched your expression shift in real time. first came the confusion, then the recognition of the setting, and then something else something colder. the way your features hardened, the way your smile vanished completely.
"where did you get this?" you asked, your voice dropping several octaves. it wasn't soft anymore. it was flat. dangerous.
megan felt the air leave her lungs. she knew she had fucked up. she knew she had pushed too far, too fast, but the pathetic part of her the part that lived for the crumbs of your attention couldn't stop herself from leaning in.
"i just... i saw it and thought it was pretty" she stammered, her eyes darting around the empty aisle. she tried to force a weak, watery laugh. "i didn't mean to scare you. i just thought you'd want it back. you look so nice in it."
you didn't laugh. you didn't soften. you stared at her with an expression of pure, unadulterated revulsion. it was the look you'd give a bug you were about to crush under your shoe.
"this isn't mine" you said, your voice trembling slightly now, but not with fear with anger. "and this isn't how you act in a library. you need to leave, miss. now."
the fact that you knew her name sent a fresh wave of terror through her. you had noticed her. you had finally noticed her, but it was exactly what she feared. you hadn't noticed her as a person; you'd noticed her as a threat.
"i'm sorry, i'm so sorry, i didn't mean to"
"leave." you repeated, stepping closer, forcing her to back up against the cold metal of the bookshelf. "before i call security. i don't want you here anymore."
megan stumbled backward, her heart breaking even as her arousal spiked from the confrontation. she felt exposed, humiliated, and utterly rejected. she turned and ran, not toward the exit, but deeper into the stacks, needing to hide, needing to disappear before the entire world saw what she really was.
she made it to the basement, to her dark little corner, and collapsed onto the floor. she pulled out her phone with trembling fingers, her vision blurred by tears of shame and frustration. she didn't open her notes. she didn't open her camera.
she opened her private folder. she opened the video of herself from last night, the one where she had whispered your name like a prayer. she pressed play, letting the sound of her own desperate begging fill the silence of the basement. she needed to drown out the memory of your disgust with the memory of her own obsession. she needed to remind herself that even if you hated her, you were still the only thing that mattered.
she curled into a ball, the blue light of the screen washing over her pale face as she watched herself unravel, over and over again, while the ghost of your rejection burned in her chest.
the weeks following the incident at the library felt like living inside a fever dream. you couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on you. every time you walked to your car after a late shift, every time you turned a corner on your way home, your skin prickled with the sensation of being watched. you had reported her, of course. you had told the head librarian, you had told security, you had even mentioned it to your parents. but the police said there wasn't enough evidence, that a single polaroid wasn't a crime, and now she was just a ghost haunting the periphery of your life.
you stopped taking the bus. you stopped walking alone at night. you started checking your locks three times before bed, the metallic click of the deadbolt offering only a pathetic sense of security against something you couldn't see. you felt hunted. you felt like prey.
and then, the messages started.
they didn't come from her direct account that would be too stupid. they came from new burner accounts, anonymous profiles with no pictures, sending you messages in the dead of night when you were most vulnerable.
> āi saw you today. you looked pretty in that blue coat.ā
> āwhy did you say those mean things to me? i only wanted you to know me.ā
> āplease princess one chance.ā
you deleted them all. you blocked them all. you cried yourself to sleep more times than you could count, the blue light of your phone feeling like a weapon aimed directly at your chest. you felt insane, but you knew you weren't. you knew she was out there, somewhere in the shadows, watching you unravel.
the breaking point came on a Tuesday. it was raining that cold, relentless autumn rain that turned the streets into mirrors of oil and gray. you were walking home from a late shift at the grocery store, your umbrella tilted against the wind, when you noticed the black sedan parked two blocks away from your apartment. it had been there before, you remembered, but tonight it felt different. it felt deliberate.
you quickened your pace, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. you kept your head down, focusing on the wet pavement, praying that if you didn't look, she wouldn't see you. but as you turned into the narrow alleyway that served as a shortcut to your building's entrance, you realized you had made a mistake.
the alley was too dark. the streetlights couldn't reach the bottom. and suddenly, the only sound was the steady drip of water from the rusted fire escape above.
the whisper came from behind you, so close you could almost feel the heat of her breath against the nape of your neck. you froze, your entire body locking up in terror. you couldn't breathe. you couldn't move.
"don't run." she said, her voice soft, almost tender. it was the most terrifying sound you had ever heard. "please don't run, baby."
you spun around, your umbrella slipping from your grasp and clattering to the ground. she was there. she was standing less than two feet away, pressed against the brick wall. she looked terrible her hair was matted and damp, her eyes sunken and bloodshot, her skin pale as a corpse. she looked like the definition of a loser, a broken, desperate thing that had been rotting in the dark for too long.
but her eyes... her eyes were terrifyingly bright. they burned with an intensity that made your knees weak.
"get away from me." you choked out, your voice cracking. you reached for your phone in your pocket, but before you could even touch it, she moved.
she didn't hit you. she didn't grab you violently. she simply stepped into your space, forcing you backward until your spine slammed against the cold, wet brick of the alley wall. she placed her hands on either side of your head, trapping you in the small space between her arms.
"i missed you so much." she whispered, leaning down until her forehead rested against your neck. she smelled like rain and something metallic, something sharp. "i missed you every second since you screamed at me. do you know how much it hurt? to see that look in your eyes?"
"you're drenched." you gasped, tears blurring your vision. "miss. get off me. get home"
"i don't want to." she said, and for the first time, you saw a flash of something else in those eyes not just desperation, but a twisted kind of conviction. "i just need you. and you're going to need me, too. you'll see."
she leaned closer, her lips brushing against your ear. "you can pretend to hate me all you want, y/n. you can scream and call the police and lock your doors. but we both know why you haven't called anyone tonight. we both know why you're still standing here."
you wanted to deny it. you wanted to scream that she was wrong, that you were terrified, that you loathed everything about her. but as she pressed closer, her body warm against your shivering frame, a terrifying, shameful thought flickered through your mind.
the adrenaline, the fear, the sheer intensity of being seen so completely by someone even someone as broken as her wasn't just terrifying. it was electrifying.
she felt it too. she pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her pale lips. it was the smile of someone who had finally won.
"see?" she whispered, her thumb brushing almost gently against your lower lip. "you're not running."
the fear didn't disappear overnight, but it changed. it stopped being the sharp, stabbing panic of being hunted in an alley and became a dull, constant ache of unease that lived in the back of your throat. you had called the police after the alley incident, but they had found nothing no evidence of a struggle, no witnesses, just you standing in the rain looking terrified. they told you to file a restraining order, but how could you serve someone who seemed to know exactly how to stay just out of sight until you were alone?
it started small. you'd come home from work to find a single flower tucked into your doorframe. then a coffee from your favorite shop sitting on your doorstep, still warm. then a bag of groceries exactly what you needed for dinner that night left on your welcome mat with a note in that same shaky, uneven handwriting.
Ā« you looked tired today. eat something good, y/n. please. Ā»
you wanted to scream. you wanted to throw the food away and call the cops again. but there was something deeply wrong about the precision of it. she knew what you liked. she knew what you needed. she wasn't just watching you; she was studying your needs as if they were her own.
the first time she actually came inside, it didn't feel like an invasion. it felt like a haunting.
you came home late on a Thursday, exhausted and drained from a day of pretending everything was normal. when you turned your key in the lock, you noticed something immediately: your apartment smelled different. it didn't smell like your stale takeout and laundry detergent anymore. it smelled like lavender and something warm, like freshly baked bread.
your heart leapt into your throat as you stepped inside. the lights were dimmed, casting long, soft shadows across the living room. and there she was.
megan was sitting on your couch, wrapped in one of your spare blankets. she looked smaller than she had in the alley, less like a predator and more like a wounded animal seeking shelter. she was holding a mug between both hands, steam rising from it.
"you're late." she said softly, not looking up. her voice wasn't threatening this time; it was almost scolding, like a worried partner. "i was worried you'd gotten hurt."
"how did you get in here?" your voice was a strangled whisper, your hand already fumbling for the phone in your pocket.
"the window in the bathroom doesn't latch properly." she said simply, finally looking up at you. her eyes were red rimmed, dark circles beneath them making her look hollow. "don't be angry, y/n. i just wanted to make sure you were safe. the world is so dangerous for someone as precious as you."
she stood up, the blanket sliding off her shoulders. she didn't approach you aggressively. she moved slowly, deliberately, giving you every chance to run. but your legs felt like lead, rooted to the floor by a terrifying cocktail of fear and a perverse sense of being cared for.
"i made tea. chamomile, with two sugars, just how you like it when you're stressed." she said, stepping toward you. she held out the mug. "come sit. you look like you're about to collapse."
"get out," you managed to say, but the words lacked conviction. you were shaking so hard you could barely stand.
"you're shivering..ā she murmured, ignoring your command entirely. she reached out, and before you could flinch away, she pressed the warm mug into your hands. her fingers brushed yours again that same contact that had sent electricity through you in the library. "just sit for five minutes. then i'll go. i promise."
you sat. you didn't know why you sat. maybe it was because the warmth of the mug felt good against your frozen fingers. maybe it was because the exhaustion had finally won. maybe it was because, for the first time in weeks, the paranoia of being watched had been replaced by the strange, twisted comfort of knowing exactly where she was.
she sat beside you, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from her body. she started talking not about stalking or photos or the alley, but about mundane things. she talked about the weather, about a book she had read, about how quiet the library was today. she acted as if this was normal. as if she belonged here, sitting on your couch, sharing your space.
"you deserve to be taken care of, princess.ā she said suddenly, her voice dropping to that intimate whisper that made your skin crawl. "people don't appreciate you. they don't see how delicate you are. they don't see how much you need someone to watch over you."
she reached out then, her hand hovering near your face before she finally settled it against your cheek. her palm was warm, her touch impossibly gentle.
"i'm the only one who really sees you." she whispered. "and i'm never going to give up."
you should have pushed her away. you should have screamed for help. but as you sat there in the dim light, sipping the tea she had made for you, you felt a sickening sense of surrender beginning to take root. she was invading your home, your privacy, your very identity but she was doing it with kindness. she was replacing your fear with a dependency that felt like a trap lined with velvet.
and the worst part was, you were starting to stop fighting it.
