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chrissssssmut · 2 months ago

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You can make one of a handsome and funny boy, even charming, who was doing Omegle with some people, while playing on the computer, until he stops at a very famous Kpoper, Jang Wonyoung who was on a break from rehearsal, he didn't know she was an Idol and more or less that she was extremely famous and the It girl of the fourth generation of Kpop, they have a conversation with some flirting, She asks for his Instagram and before she can tell him hers, she switches to someone else, to another conversation. Well, at least she had her profile now.

Yandere Wonyoung

YOU ARE NOW CHATTING WITH A RANDOM STRANGER

Yandere Wonyoung x Male Reader

AN: Do you guys want a part 2 for this? Let me know!🫶🏻

You’re doing absolutely nothing productive.

Your left hand is buried in a bag of sour cream chips while the right toggles between your game and the mouse. You’re not even really playing anymore—just idling in some fantasy MMO you downloaded on a dare. The kind of game that still has pixelated rabbits dropping gold coins. The screen blinks. You hear the familiar chime.

Another stranger pops up on your Omegle screen. You’ve been on here for like… thirty minutes now. Seen a couple of dudes vaping, someone cosplaying as Spider-Man, a grandma knitting silently while glaring into the camera. Nothing worth sticking around for. You’re about to skip again when—

“Hi.”

It’s a girl this time. Pretty. No—insanely pretty.

She’s got long, dark hair cascading down over a loose rehearsal hoodie. Her skin glows even under the shitty lighting, and her eyes sparkle like she’s got a secret she won’t tell you until the third date. She’s sipping bubble tea with a red straw and leaning casually on her hand.

You blink. “Oh. Wow. You’re, like… real?”

She lets out a soft laugh. “I hope so. Otherwise you’re flirting with a ghost.”

You grin, half-charmed, half-dazed. “You’d be the prettiest ghost I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Smooth. Is that line number twelve or fifteen for the night?”

You chuckle. “Twenty-three. I recycle the good ones.”

She giggles again, and something about it makes your stomach flip just a little.

“Name?” you ask, tilting your head.

She hesitates. Not in a suspicious way—more like she’s used to being cautious. But then she smiles softly and says, “Wonyoung.”

You nod, repeating it under your breath. “Wonyoung… Pretty name. Sounds like royalty.”

“You think?”

“Well, you look like the type who’d have a private island and a perfume line.”

That makes her laugh harder than you expect. She tucks some hair behind her ear and smirks. “You’re not too bad at this.”

“At what? Talking to gorgeous strangers online?”

“Exactly.”

You lean back, smirking. “What about you? Are you just casually being hot on Omegle or is this, like, a break from world domination?”

She pauses again.

You don't know it, but somewhere behind her screen, a manager is calling her back to practice in a few minutes. Her stylists are off camera, scrolling through their phones. She’s surrounded by fame, pressure, and a never-ending demand for perfection.

But for some reason, right now? She wants to stay.

“I was just on break. Rehearsals are insane lately.”

“Rehearsals for what? Dance team?”

Her eyes twinkle. “Something like that.”

You nod like you get it—oblivious.

“You never said your name,” she says.

“Right. (Y/N).”

“Hmm. Cute name. It suits you.”

You feel warmth creep up your neck. This girl’s good. Like really good. But there’s something genuine in her tone. She’s not just tossing compliments for fun.

"Well, Wonyoung," you say with a cocky little smile, "I think you're the most fun I've had on this site in a while."

She rests her chin on her hand. “You should give me your Instagram.”

“Only if you give me yours.”

She leans closer, as if she’s about to say it. Her lips part—

Click.

Your screen blinks.

“You’re now chatting with a random stranger.”

You blink. “Wait—what the hell?!”

Gone.

Just like that.

You stare at the screen in disbelief. No way. No way she didn’t do that on purpose. Was it a glitch? Did she skip? Was it her connection?

But then—hope.

She asked for your Instagram first.

You scramble into your app. Check your notifications.

@for_wonyoung followed you.

Your jaw drops. She didn’t tell you her handle—but she found you.

You click her profile—

…and freeze.

Over 12 million followers. A sea of magazine shoots, red carpet photos, dance videos with millions of likes.

The comment section? Exploding.

“WONYOUNG UNNIE I LOVE YOU!”

“My queen omg you’re perfect!!”

“When’s the comeback?!”

Wait.

Wait wait wait.

You scroll up to her username. Official blue check.

“Jang Wonyoung.”

You stare at it. At her face. Her profile banner is the same girl who was sipping bubble tea and laughing at your stupid lines just minutes ago.

You had no idea.

“Holy shit.”

You drop your phone onto your chest and stare at the ceiling.

And far away—behind another screen, in a quiet rehearsal room that smells of sweat and stardom—

Wonyoung is watching you.

Scrolling back through your feed.

Reading every caption.

Zooming in on the faces of girls you’ve taken selfies with.

Smiling a little too long at one in particular.

“So you didn’t know me…” she murmurs, licking the tip of her straw. “Good. I like that.”

She taps the screen. Screenshot. Screenshot. Screenshot.

“(Y/N)… You’re kind of perfect.”

And her thumb hovers over the screen for a second longer.

Save.

The first DM is simple.

@for_wonyoung: "Hey stranger :)"

You stare at it for a solid ten minutes before replying. It feels surreal. Like chatting with a celebrity is something normal people just… do.

You answer with a lame, "Hey lol, can't believe you're real."

And she replies immediately.

@for_wonyoung: "You were funny. I liked talking to you. Do you Omegle often?"

You talk for hours. DMs turn into late-night voice notes. She sends you memes. You send her cursed TikToks. She's surprisingly normal—but still mysterious. She never talks about work. Never confirms who she really is.

And you… don't push it. Maybe you like that mystery.

What you don’t know is that every time you open her messages, she's tracking the timestamp.

Every time you take more than ten minutes to reply, she refreshes your profile. Checks if you're online. Wonders what you're doing. Who you're with.

She starts liking your old posts. Comments subtly.

@for_wonyoung: "This one's cute :)" on a photo from three years ago.

Weeks pass like half-remembered dreams. You and Wonyoung talk every day now. Mostly at night. Sometimes it’s just emojis or pictures of her lunch. Other times it’s long, rambling voice notes where she talks about the stars outside her window, or how rehearsals are killing her knees. But always, always, she replies.

She never confirms her schedule, but somehow, she knows yours. She's always available when you're free. Online the second you post a story. Reacting within minutes. Once, you joked about craving chocolate milk at 2AM—and the next day, there was a delivery bag on your doorstep. No note. Just chocolate milk.

You’d asked her about it.

@for_wonyoung: "Lol are you stalking me or something?"

@for_wonyoung: "Maybe I’m just good at guessing :3"

It was cute. Harmless. Probably just a fan of coincidences.

And then, one weekend, you're at a cafe with your friends. Some indie corner spot you always go to after work. You’d even mentioned it in passing once in a voice note.

You step outside to take a call, and when you turn around—

She's there.

Wonyoung.

No sunglasses. No mask. Just her, standing across the street in a beige hoodie and jeans, like she didn’t just step off the cover of every fashion mag in Korea.

She smiles softly. "Hey."

Your voice catches. "W-Wonyoung? What—how did you—?"

"I was just nearby," she lies easily, brushing hair behind her ear. "Funny, right?"

You stare at her.

And somewhere, deep inside your chest—something tugs.

A strange kind of thrill.

You want to believe it’s a coincidence.

You need to.

Because the way she looks at you?

Like she already knows you belong to her.

Like she's been waiting for this moment.

And she'll make sure you never walk away from her again.

You invite her to sit.

Not because you aren’t freaked out—but because… well, it’s her. And she smiles like you’ve known each other for years.

You try to play it cool. She says she’s just “taking a break from everything.” That she needed to feel “normal” again. That bumping into you was “a sign.”

She orders a tea and sits across from you, her fingers brushing yours a little too long.

But the strangest thing?

She knows things.

Little things you know you never told her.

Like the name of your dog when you were nine. Or that your ex had a thing for succulents. Or that you always check your left pocket for your wallet three times before leaving the house.

"Lucky guess," she says when you ask.

You laugh nervously. But it sticks with you.

That night, she texts you first.

@for_wonyoung: “Today was nice. I missed you. Even though it was the first time.”

You don't know what to say to that. So you send a heart emoji. It feels safe.

But Wonyoung? She doesn’t do safe.

The next few days, she ramps up. Calls you more often. Sends little gifts. A sweater you once said looked nice. A snack you mentioned craving in a joke. The exact brand of your shampoo.

And the weirdest thing?

It doesn't happen all at once.

At first, it's small. Missed calls. Unanswered texts. Plans that get canceled last-minute.

You shrug it off. Life happens. People get busy.

But then it snowballs. One friend starts ignoring your memes. Another doesn't show up to game night. The group chat—once buzzing with inside jokes—is suddenly... quiet.

And then it gets weirder. One friend removes you from their close friends list. Another unfollows you on Instagram. A third—you realize after checking twice—has blocked your number entirely.

Except for one—Jae.

He texts you late one night.

Jae: "Hey. You still talking to that girl? The one you met online?"

You blink at your phone.

You: "Yeah? Why?"

There’s a pause.

Jae: "Just... be careful. Something feels off, man. A couple of the guys tried reaching out and they said your DMs were acting weird. Like someone else was reading them. And... my cousin said he saw your profile messaging him stuff you never would."

You frown.

You: "I didn’t send anything weird. I swear."

Jae: "I believe you. Just... look, I don’t know what’s going on, but that girl? Wonyoung? She gives me a weird vibe. Like she knows too much. You sure she’s not messing with your accounts?"

You sit up in bed, heart thudding a little harder.

You want to brush it off. Say Jae’s being paranoid.

But after Jae’s message. Later that night, after you’ve talked to Jae and your head's still spinning, you walk into your room—and there it is. The Polaroid. Taped right on your monitor.

A photo of you. Asleep. On your couch. Taken from an angle that could only come from outside your window.

Your blanket is still bunched at your waist. Your mouth hangs slightly open.

At the bottom: a red smiley face.

And now… that smiley-face Polaroid isn’t as cute as it was a week ago.

You bring it up to Wonyoung, trying to sound casual, like it's not eating at you.

"Hey, have I done something? Everyone’s been acting kinda distant lately."

A voice note comes back within minutes. Her voice is soft, feather-light. Sweet, but unnervingly so.

"That’s weird," she says. "Maybe they’re just fake. People drift. But me? I’d never leave you

. I’m not going anywhere."

Your phone vibrates as you listen. The sound of her smile is almost too comforting.

And deep down, in the pit of your stomach, you start to wonder—just how much does she really know about you?

Because it feels less like coincidence now.

And more like fate.

The moment you send her a message, it feels like time freezes. The sound of your phone vibrating against the wooden table is the loudest thing you’ve heard all day. Your heart races as you wait for her reply.

You’ve been trying to shake off the unease that’s been gnawing at you. The missing friends. The subtle changes in how people interact with you. The Polaroids. But every time you try to distance yourself, her presence is there—always lurking just beyond the corners of your mind.

And that voice—soft, almost teasing—drifts into your ears like a sweet poison.

"Don’t worry, (Y/N). I told you I wouldn’t leave you. And I meant it."

It’s almost sweet enough to calm your nerves, but there's something off. Something about the way she says it. A finality in her words that sends a chill down your spine.

You sit there, frozen for a moment. Your thumb hovers over the phone, unable to reply. You should say something. You should tell her you're okay. Tell her everything's fine. But the words... they get stuck.

You take a deep breath and start typing.

You: "It’s just… I don’t know, I’ve been thinking a lot about everything. About us. You’re really different from how I expected, Wonyoung. Like, you’re... too good to be true."

You hesitate before sending the message, but then press ‘send’ with a slight wince.

The reply comes almost immediately.

@for_wonyoung: "I know, (Y/N). I am too good to be true. And you know what? That’s why you shouldn’t be afraid of me. I’m exactly what you’ve been looking for. All these years. Right? A little broken, a little lost, and now, I’m here to make everything better."

Her words seem to dig into your chest like a pair of invisible hands, squeezing tighter. You want to tell her that you’re not sure what she means, that this is all too much, but the longer you look at the screen, the more her presence fills up your room.

You hear her voice again. This time, you don’t even need to open the message.

You can feel her in the air around you.

@for_wonyoung: "I know you’re still not sure about me, but it’s okay. Because I know everything about you, (Y/N). I know what you like, what you fear, who you’ve hurt, and who’s hurt you."

The air in your room suddenly feels dense, like you’re surrounded by something that isn’t quite tangible but there, pressing in on you. The room feels colder.

@for_wonyoung: "And now I’m here. And I’m not leaving. You can’t go back, (Y/N). Not anymore."

You swipe away the message, hoping it’ll disappear, but it lingers in the back of your mind. Her words aren’t comforting. They’re suffocating.

It happens when you least expect it. You’ve been home for hours, trying to distract yourself from the unsettling weight of Wonyoung’s words, and everything feels strangely... off. The air in your apartment feels thick, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

You’re sitting at your desk, scrolling through your phone, half-watching a TV show you’re not even really paying attention to, when you hear it.

A soft creak.

You freeze.

It’s faint, but it’s there—the unmistakable sound of a door opening. But you didn’t hear anything before. The apartment is silent, except for the sound of your own heartbeat drumming in your ears. You stand up and glance around. The windows are shut. Everything’s in its place, or so you think.

Your heart sinks.

The door to your bedroom. It’s cracked open, ever so slightly.

You rush toward it, a pit in your stomach. No way. You’ve locked everything. You checked.

And that’s when you see it.

Wonyoung.

Standing there, calm as can be, in the middle of your bedroom.

She’s sitting at the edge of your bed, legs crossed, as though she’s always been there—always belonged there. Her eyes look up at you with a quiet smile, one that doesn’t belong. Not here. Not now. It’s a smile that makes your blood run cold.

"Wonyoung…" Your voice is shaky, breath caught in your throat. "What the hell are you doing here?"

She doesn’t answer right away. She just watches you, her fingers running gently over the fabric of your bedsheet, as though it’s the most normal thing in the world.

"I wanted to see you, (Y/N)," she says softly, almost sweetly. "You’re always so distant lately. I thought I could make it better."

You feel anger bubbling up inside you. How dare she come into your space like this? You didn’t invite her in. You never gave her permission to cross this line.

"Get out. Now," you snap, stepping forward, hands clenched at your sides.

But Wonyoung just tilts her head, eyes still that soft, chilling gaze. "You don’t mean that. You want me here. I know you do." She stands up slowly, brushing her hair behind her ear. "I’ve been so patient, but it’s time for you to understand something."

Before you can respond, she’s already taken a step closer, her presence dominating the room. You step back instinctively, your body tense, heart racing.

"I don’t want to leave, (Y/N). Not anymore. You’re mine now. I’m not going anywhere." Her voice is low, like a promise. A threat.

You can feel your chest tighten with fear, but the anger inside you flares brighter. You have to get her out. You don’t know how she got in, but you need to make her leave.

"Leave my apartment!" You shout, taking another step toward her, trying to push her out.

But as soon as you reach the door, she’s faster than you—quicker than you expected. With a swift motion, she slams the door shut with a force that rattles the frame.

Your heart stops.

"You want me to leave?" she asks, her tone mocking. "But I’m the only one who really knows you, (Y/N). I’m the one who’s been here for you all this time. While everyone else abandoned you, I stayed. And now... now you want me to leave?" Her smile widens. "I don’t think so."

The door clicks.

You hear the unmistakable sound of the deadbolt sliding into place.

It takes a moment for it to register in your mind, but when it does, panic floods your veins. The door is locked. You’re trapped in here with her.

You turn to face her, only to find Wonyoung standing too close. Her body presses up against yours, her hand resting on your chest, feeling the erratic beats of your heart through your shirt.

"I’ve waited too long for this, (Y/N)," she whispers, her voice suddenly hushed, like she’s savoring the moment. "I won’t let you go. Not now. Not ever."

You push her away in a frantic attempt to break free, but her grip tightens, and you find yourself thrown against the wall, her body pressing you in place with an unsettling strength.

"I told you," she murmurs, voice almost a purr now, "you’re mine. You’ve always been mine." Her fingers trace your jawline slowly, deliberately, as though she’s claiming every inch of you. "Now, you’ll understand."

You gasp, trying to wriggle free, but it’s no use. Wonyoung doesn’t let go.

"I don’t want to hurt you, (Y/N). But if you keep pushing me away, I’ll have no choice," she says, her eyes darkening with a possessive, predatory gleam. "I know everything about you. I always have."

Her lips brush your ear. "You’re not getting away. Not anymore."

The walls close in around you as her grip tightens, and for the first time, you realize—there’s no escaping her.

She’s turned the tables. You were the hunter. Now you’re the prey.

And Wonyoung?

She’s not going anywhere.

You struggle against her hold, heart racing as panic floods your body. Wonyoung’s presence is suffocating, like a weight pressing against your chest. You’re trapped, the walls of your apartment closing in around you as you desperately search for a way out.

Your mind races for a solution. You have to call the cops. You have to get help. You’re not safe. But your phone—your lifeline—is just out of reach on the counter.

With trembling hands, you break free from her grip for a moment, quickly darting toward the counter. Your fingers graze the phone as you reach for it, heart pounding in your ears. You barely make it.

But just as your hand wraps around the phone, you feel her presence behind you—too close, too fast.

“No,” Wonyoung hisses, her voice laced with fury. “You’re not calling anyone.”

Before you can even react, she snatches the phone out of your hand with an animalistic force. You don’t even see it coming. The next thing you know, she’s hurling it against the wall, the sound of it shattering against the surface like glass splintering.

The screen cracks, the device useless now.

Your mouth goes dry.

"Wonyoung—" you start, but she interrupts you, her eyes narrowing with fury.

“You really thought you could escape me?” she spits, her voice trembling with rage. “You think you can just throw me away, like I don’t mean anything to you?”

She steps closer, her body radiating tension, her eyes burning with a desperate need. There’s something darker in them now. Something that snaps inside of her, and you can feel it. This isn’t the Wonyoung you saw at the beginning. This is someone else entirely.

Wonyoung grabs your wrist in an unyielding grip, her fingers digging into your skin like claws, the pressure so intense that you wince in pain. You feel the sharp, unbearable sting as she squeezes harder, tightening her hold on you until the pain makes your breath catch.

“Stop!” you try to pull away, but it’s futile. The bruising pressure of her fingers against your skin only increases.

She pulls you closer, her eyes flashing with rage and something far more terrifying. “I’ve been patient, (Y/N). But you want to reject me? You think you can push me away like I’m nothing? I’ve given you everything—everything you could ever want. And this is how you repay me?”

You try to take a step back, your heart racing, but she’s not letting go. Instead, she drags you to the center of the room, her grip like iron around your wrist. You can feel the heat of her anger rolling off her in waves, suffocating, drowning you in her obsession.

“You’re mine,” she repeats, her voice low, almost guttural. “You will love me. I’ve given you no choice. You don’t get to hurt me like this anymore, (Y/N). You don’t get to run from me.”

With a sudden yank, she pulls your body forward, forcing you to look into her eyes. The intensity in her gaze is overwhelming—there’s no escape, no way out. You’re trapped.

“I’m the only one who sees you. I’m the only one who understands you,” she says through clenched teeth. Her voice wavers between fury and desperation. “I’ve been patient with you, but now you’ll love me. You will love me. Because if you don’t—”

Her words trail off, but the threat lingers in the air, heavy and suffocating.

She presses her body closer to yours, her chest rising and falling with every breath, and her lips are so close to your ear, you can feel the heat of them on your skin.

“You’ll regret it. If you don’t love me back, I’ll make you regret it, (Y/N).” Her voice is like silk, but there’s a venomous edge to it now. “I’ll make sure you never forget me. You won’t be able to look at anyone else without thinking of me. You won’t be able to breathe without hearing my voice in your head.”

Your heart pounds against your chest, and every instinct tells you to fight back, but the fear clawing at you makes it hard to move, to think clearly.

Her grip tightens even more, until the pain from your wrist is unbearable. The bruise is already forming beneath her fingers, the blood circulation cut off by her grip. You can feel the heat of her breath against your ear as she whispers, her voice dripping with madness.

“I’ll make you see, (Y/N). You won’t get away. You can’t run from me.” She pulls your face toward hers, her lips brushing against your cheek in a chilling kiss. “You’re fucking mine.”

You don’t know how to respond, how to react, because every word she says is dripping with a terrifying certainty. You don’t know how to make her stop. You don’t know if you even can.

But one thing is clear:

You’re not in control anymore.

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