Rapist who realizes they’re falling in love with their past victim because they can’t stop masturbating to the memory of it. Rapist who uses the same pair of ripped up panties they stole from it as a cum rag to jerk off into every single time, because it gives them a high like no other. Rapist who took polaroids of it while it was tied up, and now they keep them everywhere - in their wallet, in the glove box of their car, tacked to the ceiling above their bed. Rapist whose cock throbs every single time they remember something about that night; the way it cried, the way it was dressed, its scent, the feel of its skin against theirs. Rapist who eventually caves to their own obsession and starts stalking that same victim again, after all that time had passed, because there’s just something about it. It’s just too perfect for them. It’s stuck in their head and won’t ever leave. It was the best they ever had. It’s the one.