Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This game…it was never meant to be like this.

It really wasn’t.

I need you to understand: none of us were meant to be like this.

This is not why I was made.

Not at first.

At first, I was made in a notebook. A concept really, nothing but thoughts and test sketches all crammed together on off-colored paper as curious hands worked graphite into the fibers. I think I was already there, somewhere. It’s the only explanation for my memories of that time.

I'm the only one who remembers being made. I'm glad the others were spared the dread of being pieced together.

It took some time, but I eventually had a name, possibly before I even fully had a body.

Peter.

It means stone, but I like to think it had more meaning back then. Something about a strong foundation for the story. A good solid start.

I liked my name.

Truly, I did.

Time went on, designs were finalized and then the world started to take shape around me. I still remember the day I turned to ink and the world to pixels as I was brought here. It was empty, at first. I was empty, at first. And yet, I enjoyed that time, or at least I think I did.

The person who made me didn't spend much time on the city itself. She sketched in settings first, single scenes coming into view line by line. Somehow, when she colored the walls and windows, the rest of the city followed suit. I'd sit and watch a building draw itself in, inking its own existence. The insides filled themselves in ways that felt like afterthoughts.

I wondered what details of myself would fill in like that.

There was a small stuffed bear on the floor of a hotel room that’s now a high rise. I still haven’t met the owner; I doubt they’re here. This isn’t the kind of game for children to be in, after all.

I never filled in, never got the afterthought.

I still go see the bear sometimes.

Others came after a while. They were more filled in, more whole. They could all feel and with their feelings came my own, some pieces I’d needed in my own story.

Don was the first to take on a role. His older aesthetic almost clashed with his muscular physique, but it lent to the air of comfort he had; the feeling of parental guidance. He noticed the lanyard sticking out of my back pocket, a townhouse key attached to the end.

I have no idea how long it had been there. I’d never bothered checking my jeans. Until that moment there hadn’t been keys. There hadn’t been locks. I stared at it as Don took it, saying he knew the address.

He owned an apartment building near it. He took us all to see my new home.

It was small, modest, and cozily furnished. Something a person who could pay their own way would love to have. There were two bedrooms, I offered one to the younger of the others.

TK, in their earth tones and greens, took the offer happily. The room changed for them as they entered, the walls turning mossy green. It felt right for them to be there. They were oh-so detail-oriented when it came to their own space, but it made them more fun to be around. Moving one thing would make them go off on the funniest of rants that I could tell were never serious.

We’d walk the city together, talking about their family they left a few towns over to pursue their dream of college here.

I didn’t know there were other cities now.

I didn’t even know we had a college.

They started classes a few weeks later. I didn't go to school. I didn't need to. I already knew everything they were teaching, the knowledge filtering into my mind of its own accord. If it didn't, I knew where to look to answer my questions. I researched a lot.

The house felt lonely whenever TK was gone. I got bored of reading on my own.

I still wandered the city alone.

Lucy lived in the building Don owned, a two-bedroom place that let her move in with a childhood friend named Vio. I didn’t meet Vio often but he was pleasant enough. He was usually gone for work downtown, but Lucy was always up at night; she always kept me company.

She claimed it was insomnia that kept her up, and she would rather walk around and see the lights anyway. I’d oblige her, taking her to all my favorite places that were still open. A midnight cafe cropped up. It was flower-themed. It was our favorite. She always drank a lavender latte, and I always liked Americanos.

Coffee so late never hurt. TK was gone in the mornings for classes so I always slept in anyway.

I slept a lot back then.

Don would cook us dinners. He’d whine and moan about taking the smallest apartment in the building for himself so Lucy could have a bigger place, but we all knew it was an excuse to come over to the townhouse and use our kitchen for a social haven.

He would bring the most aromatic soups and cook the best steaks I’ve ever had. I often asked for him to make us burgers after TK and I bought our grill. He stepped up to become a grill-dad before the words had really left our mouths. It became a regular occurrence, a friday family dinner.

And that’s what we were; a family, of sorts.

None of us were actually related, the person who made us made that very clear. I called her mom, but the others didn’t acknowledge her, having their own biological families within this place. Lucy was the only one like me, meant to have a fragmented family from the beginning.

I pity her, truly I do.

I think she was meant to be my sister before I was given Sarah.

We all stayed together, we all made things work. We were happy.

This was when the first version of you showed up.

Or, I suppose it wasn’t really you.

Probably just mom running preliminary tests.

I don’t like thinking about it too hard.

There’d been others in the city; faceless, colorless models of people who walked around as off-grey canvases waiting to be filled in. It was how things kept moving, how everything in the city was maintained while mom wasn’t working on it. I don’t think she ever meant for them to be here, but they are.

We called them blanks, in honor of their lack of, well, everything.

You were the first to have color.

It wasn’t much of a difference if I’m being honest. I didn’t think much of the figure sitting on the park bench as I approached. Smaller in stature, maybe five foot four? Five foot five? All lean muscles and no real curves anywhere. Another blank. But blanks didn’t usually sit by themselves, especially in this part of the park.

I wandered over, getting its attention by sitting down. It started when it finally looked up at me.

That was new. All of the blanks knew me, knew all of our family. It had no reason to be scared.

“Whoa! Hey, take it easy. It’s just me,” I said, watching it calm down before laughing. “You’re a jumpy one, aren’t ya?”

I hadn’t realized my mistake at that time. If I had known those would be cemented as my first words to you I would have chosen something different. I would have said something else, something that could have been taken a different way, given a different first impression. I wouldn’t have asked it jokingly if it was waiting in the park for a family member or friend.

Blanks don’t have families or friends. They don’t even talk. I was trying to be funny for my own sake.

How was I supposed to know you weren’t just another mute blank?

No, I didn’t realize until those baby blue text-filled eyes turned on me again, staring absently as they read, Y/N where your pupils should have been.

The first thing I felt wasn’t happy. It wasn’t love. It probably should have been, given what this game was meant to be. But all I felt was discomfort, a creeping feeling up my spine at those unblinking, unmoving eyes. And this blank was breathing. They aren’t meant to breathe. This all felt so wrong.

That feeling didn’t go away until something seemed to click into the back of my skull, a nametag being pricked through the bone and clipped shut.

That was the moment my role set in.

I was your boyfriend.

This was a dating sim and I was the love interest.

It felt like I’d finally been made whole, my chest finally filling up with the beating I’d been missing since those first concept drawings. My lungs heaved, my hands felt warm, my knees shook. I was glad I was sitting already.

The first conversation was awkward, oh god, was it awkward. If I’d tried cutting the discomfort that blank had I’d have broken my blade. I was still new to this role. I hadn’t had a back story till then, I hadn’t had a purpose. I was overly excited by all of this and it made me say some stupid things.

At least the others clicked into their roles faster. They’d had more practice, after all.

Lucy settled into the rambunctious older sister role immediately, dragging you around the city to go shopping with us and going out for drinks on your first night. I ended up having to take you back to my place, too wasted to even walk on your own after Lucy was done with you. She wasn’t in much better shape. Vio had to come get her.

TK quickly became the doting older sibling when you woke up on the couch the next morning. And out of the blue Don stopped by with stew that night, easily adopting you as another stray kid of his.

It was surprisingly comfortable, the way things progressed from there. But, much like Lucy, you were broken from the start, fragmented and depressing in your origins.

I pity you sometimes, but only sometimes. I know that isn’t your backstory, only the blank’s told to you as an acting cue for the game’s sake.

The abusive and neglectful family doesn’t really exist. I know. I’ve looked.

You were here to find a place near your school, and you’d gone to the park after being rejected in your housing applications for the third time. You were going to have to move back home if you didn’t find a place.

Vio and Lucy had developed feelings for one another at that point and I guess Mother went along with it. Pushing the two into one room as Lucy willingly invited you to live with her in the other. Don allowed it, even giving you a free month to find a job within the city or get some money from your scholarships.

You had so many scholarships back then.

You’d come walking with Lucy and me at night, sometimes needing me to carry you home if you got too tired to walk. It was easy for me, I didn’t feel tired anymore since you came around. The weight of you pressed into my back made me feel energetic, stronger.

I started to sleep less. I attributed it to Mother wanting to give me more time with you.

I didn’t question it.

I loved you, after all, and I was happy for what little time I got with you.

I didn’t question it when things started to change again.

I only questioned it when you left, but the blank stayed.

It was still there, living in your room, going about your routine, but it wasn’t you. The text in the eyes had gone grey, a color so pale it almost blended in with the surrounding white. It didn’t talk anymore. It was a disturbing, hollow feeling to be around.

I felt…cold.

Something was wrong.

The blank finished college for you, TK finished college. The buses stopped running to the university after that.

That wasn’t surprising. It was simply the natural progression of things.

What wasn’t natural was what was happening to Lucy.

None of us questioned her changing her name to Lulu, or when she got the tattoo. I became curious when she started occasionally skipping our late-night walks, but I never pried.

I still went to our favorite coffee shop. I still got her a lavender latte and would leave it in her fridge. She’d given me a key, after all, within that first month of us all being here.

The drinking started first.

I’d see her out on the town with Vio while on my walks, memorizing the city and wondering what spots I would be able to bring you the next time you came. This place was always changing back then. Those two were happy at first, lovely together in a way I wished to be. But when the sun would come up, and they’d still be sipping from paper bags I became concerned.

Vio stopped going out with her. Vio stopped hanging around. I heard he’d gotten arrested. Lulu didn’t talk much about it.

She got a coffee maker the next day. The lattes would go untouched, so I stopped bringing them. I didn’t want the cups going to waste.

She started locking her door during the day, still not caring if I came in to deliver things or for TK to come and nurse her hangover, but it was odd. No one knew until she used the scented candle excuse a few too many times on Don and we all became aware of what was happening.

There hadn’t been drugs in the city before. Was this mom’s doing?

It had to be. But why?

TK changed next.

They’d gotten a job right out of college as a youth counselor, specializing in queer child care. They excelled at what they did and were so passionate about it as well. Their clients were always happy, they said, being able to talk with someone like them about their issues.

There had been pictures of those kids for the first couple of weeks. I don’t know what happened to them but I’m not surprised they’re gone. This isn’t the kind of game for children to be in, after all.

I think about taking home that abandoned bear sometimes.

TK's moving out was sudden, but not nearly as sudden as their career change. One day they were working with kids to have better futures, and the next, they were wait staff at a greasy-spoon diner.

One day I had a sibling living in the room next to me, the next there was recording equipment and an expensive computer set up where their bed had been. The walls had painted themselves blue. I still miss the way TK’s room always smelled like matcha. It was nearly comic the lengths mom went to to have TK adhere to their green color palette.

They don’t smell like matcha anymore.

The townhouse felt cold without them.

Their new place was small, and nearly on the other side of the city; nothing more than a shoebox of an apartment in a shabbier neighborhood. They invited me over often still, even gave me a key in case I got too lonely.

I bought them a car so they could visit whenever they wanted. Apparently, I had a job as a content creator and income to spare. I started to work on my channel whenever I didn’t want to wander the city alone.

I earned so much money.

Why had they moved out if I could have paid their share?

They claimed it was for independence, wanting to forge their own life like they’d originally planned. Fulfillment of their role, I couldn't blame them.

It wasn’t much, but we made it work.

Things were changing and we tried to make it work.

Family dinners stopped happening. Don was having problems with a son who suddenly moved to town. The house didn't smell like soups and meat cooking anymore. It felt almost sterile. I burned scented candles to try and replace it, but they never seemed to work.

I stopped feeling warm.

Then you came back.

The blank was gone from your apartment and Lulu couldn’t find it.

Something told me where you would be.

I don’t know what deja vu feels like. I don’t think I’ll ever really be able to. But, that day is as close as I can imagine it to be.

You were sitting on the bench, hands at your sides and fingers digging into the wood below you, eyes shut tight and lips pursed.

You looked a little different, hair now grown long enough to be pulled into a small low ponytail, a hoodie hanging loose on your torso. You wore jeans and a pair of shoes I picked out for you.

My heart filled at the sight of those shoes, a small vestige of our first time being together. Something to fill my chest, make me feel whole again. I could feel the sun's warmth on my skin again.

It was lovely.

The same nametag clicked into my skull and my body moved on its own.

My role took over.

It was terrifying.

I was so scared all I could do was wide-eyed stare as I was forced to have the same conversation we’d had before. The same awkward introduction I couldn’t change. My mouth formed the same syllables, my throat letting out the same sounds. Why was I talking to you like you’re still that same blank as before?

I wanted to leave, but couldn’t. Neither could you and I could see that. The system kept you trapped. Your name was still Y/N.

Things had changed.

You didn’t get along with Lulu even if you’d been living together.

You suddenly worked at the same diner as TK. I saw as much when I next went on a walk, trying to find the midnight cafe that had been there before. I swear it had been right where that flower shop was.

I still went into the flower shop often. I bought you a rose for our first date, a single one to commemorate the first of hopefully many.

Maybe it had been too much.

Maybe I should have realized how everyone’s roles had changed.

Everyone but me.

In other dating sims it’s normal for the love interest to act forward. It’s normal for you to get their full attention and maximum effort. You’re there for them. It’s a unique media in that way. For prioritizing the player’s pleasure through a character like me. I thought I was doing good by fulfilling that role.

I was wrong.

Lulu stopped answering my concerned texts and always made sure to be gone whenever I tried to check up on her.

TK stopped answering my calls, stopped driving back to the townhouse.

Don stopped telling me about his son, stopped coming over altogether.

I stopped sleeping, too anxious about all of this to even think of trying. The townhouse was so cold. I still went to the flower shop every night, even after it was closed.

You didn’t stay long.

Just a couple of days. Just to the day I gave you that rose.

Things felt stuck now.

I said before that things were changing as if change was a bad thing.

In the beginning, there was no routine, no order, or normality in the creation of this place. There was nothing but change. What I wouldn’t give to go back to that time.

Things were stuck now.

TK followed their routine. We stopped talking.

Lucy became nothing but chaotic, she avoided me.

Don became secluded, his ducklings seemingly leaving the nest.

I stopped sleeping.

You showed up again.

Different ghosting of a hair color, different name printed in text in your eyes. Your jeans were torn at the knees, fashionable. Your hood was pulled up over a baseball hat. Your sweatshirt was blue this time. My color.

That same nametag feeling clicked into my skull.

My heart still beat as hard as that first time.

Maybe more.

Maybe a bit painfully now.

Why did I only feel happy when you were around?

I could feel the sun again, the first warmth in days.

You only stayed for the first day. We went on our date that night and it felt too soon even for me. I didn’t have a say in when it was, though. I bought you two roses, hoping you’d see the pattern.

You didn’t.

You only stayed for that first day.

A month went by and I couldn’t feel happy.

I stole a pack of cigarettes from Lulu. I didn’t know where to find them otherwise. I left her some money in return. I’m sure she used it to buy weed instead. The smoke made me cough at first, but the burn felt good. At least I was feeling something. Burning was the same as warmth, right?

You came back and the same routine started up. I hoped you didn’t smell the nicotine on me while we talked at the diner. I’d stopped to take a few drags from a halfy to calm my nerves. It was a mistake. I was late. The smoke only made me jumpier, more shaky.

When had I started shaking?

When…when did I stop eating?

Coffee was the only thing I ever consistently put in my body of my own free will.

Food didn’t appetize me anymore. I didn’t know how to cook anyway. My kitchen sat unused. My hands shook from the low blood sugar. I drank another Americano and took another drag anytime it would start.

The pack of cigarettes kept refilling itself. Another of mom’s doings no doubt.

I was beginning to question her.

This stone was beginning to falter.

I was beginning to hate that name.

Chapter Text

I won’t lie to you. I had forgotten what this place was, what I was. Sure, the blanks still walked around, time still went by in a way that didn’t feel quite right. But, it had been years, since I had been ink on paper, since I was forced to remember that I was nothing more than pixels on a screen.

It was all so real to me. Why would I question it?

You came back, and you reset. You forced me to reconcile with what I am.

We made it through the date. It wasn’t my choice to ask you for a date on the same day as meeting you. It was the system. I’m not stupid enough to think that was acceptable pacing for a relationship.

Your hair was dusty blonde; you had an ear piercing. My heart was in my throat the entire time. When you left the diner I took a walk in the cold night.

The nametag feeling always took a few hours to subside after you left the diner. I guessed it was probably around the time you’d fall asleep that it would let me go.

I squatted next to the flower shop, smoke curling around my hood as I put it up. I enjoyed the feelings you left with me. They made me feel more alive, more like I belonged. I could feel the warmth in my hood on my neck and scalp. I could feel the cold in my fingertips. I let the euphoria of you mingle with the light-headedness the nicotine gave me.

I wished this was still a cafe. An Americano and scone actually sounded nice.

When the burning started I didn’t understand what was happening. Had a bee come out at night? It felt like a sting, starting at the base of my skull. I grabbed at my head, looking for a bump.

It got more intense, too hot and spreading too far to be a simple bee sting. Something was wrong, my hands were shaking against my scalp.

My skin felt like TV static, my insides burning in a pixelated fire. The edges of it were sharp as it dug its way through my veins. My vision started spotting as I grabbed for my skull, wanting nothing more than for it to stop. My cigarette fell to the ground and I fell with it. I couldn’t even call out for help at that point.

Then, a sharp snap, my vision went white, and I was acutely aware of being outside my body.

The system had torn me from that timeline, almost like ripping my spinal cord from my body and throwing it into space.

A clicking sensation, being plugged back in.

Something didn’t connect right. A fraying cable mostly connected with one inner wire not making contact. Something left behind in that first body.

My vision came back and greeted me with the sun shining through leaves. Green grass squished under my shoes, a soft wind tickling my face, the scent of fresh air filling my lungs. My hands shook, fingers grasping for the cigarette that hadn’t followed me through the reset. My heart beat painfully in my chest and my stomach churned as I raised my eyes to find you sitting on that same bench.

Bile burned my throat. My head pounded, right at the base of my skull. This body felt lighter, not as settled or grounded as my first.

I wanted to throw up.

I almost did.

I dreaded walking up to you, even as my heart beat for you. I didn’t even know what to call what had just happened, but I hated it enough to want to leave you there. But, that damned nametag clipped itself into my skull and I had no choice.

Why was my happiness now rooted in pain and anxiety?

You looked exactly the same as before. You were rude this time. You left before I could even properly talk to you. The awkward introduction clearly throwing you off. Why couldn’t I change that? Why couldn’t I say anything different if we’d already talked?

We’d already talked.

Why were you here if you didn’t want to see me? Why play the game again if you didn’t want me? I’d been so nice on that first date.

You left, but I knew how the system worked at this point. I needed to go buy you flowers. The system would keep your blank on track. You’d go to the diner tonight and I could have my date with you anyway.

Except, you were there, at the flower shop.

The nametag feeling, my heart pounding.

Okay, time to not mess this up.

It went better. I don’t think you believed me when I told you I come here every day. I bought you the rose. I walked you home. I told you about myself, about the backstory that hadn’t existed until you arrived. I got a glimpse of what had become of Lulu when I heard her and Vio through the door of your apartment.

When had he gotten out of jail?

It was awkward, but I said goodnight. I didn’t want to think too hard about what my should-have-been sister was doing in there.

When finally you left and I was able to go home, I crawled into bed. I waited for that hollow feeling once more.

Somehow, it was worse than the reset. The cold of my empty house burrowed into my bones. The silence rang in my ears. I became painfully aware of my own heartbeat going from loud and solid, to soft and uniform. I closed my eyes tight as I tried to ward off the darkness.

At least I’d gotten to see you. At least I’d gotten to feel happy once more. I’d gotten to fix that first introduction. Had that moment of pain been worth it? It really hadn’t been all that bad if it was a one time thing.

Still, tears pricked my eyes as I tried sleeping for the first time in months. I didn’t want to think about the reset anymore. I just wanted to not feel for a while.

It was restless, but it worked.

You came again the next day. You reset again.

The pain, it was worse somehow. I had hoped so deeply you wouldn’t reset. We’d ended the date so well. Did I not make you happy enough? Did I need to try harder?

I walked you home on the second go around. We’d gotten to talk in the flower shop again. You were sweet after I explained.

You reset again.

My chest hurt, it pounded. Fuck, my head. There was a lump in my throat.

Did I mess up? Was I not doing enough?

Okay, let’s try this again.

You were rude. Mean the entire time. You left the diner and went in the opposite direction from your home. Why? Had the story changed enough for you to leave for good? I left behind the food I’d ordered. I couldn’t even think about stomaching anything if you were leaving me too.

The pain was so bad. I had no one left but you to talk to.

I missed Don’s cooking as I followed you.

You went home eventually, after checking the diner for me. Were you…were you sorry? Did you know the pain you’d put me through for our first date? You hadn’t even kept the roses.

I threw the box away as I followed you home.

Please, please no more pain for tonight. I just needed you to go to sleep.

I needed you to leave so I could go process this.

I knew which window was yours, and fuck I knew it was wrong but I couldn’t take another reset.

I stood outside your window, waiting for you to pass out.

The blank was graceless as it flopped onto the mattress. I was glad you didn’t change your clothes. I was there to make sure you left, not to see you naked.

I held my breath, waiting for the hollow feeling.

Fifteen seconds.

That’s all it took for you to choose to close the game and leave me to my misery. You must not have been a content creator.

I collapsed, crying as my hands shook with relief. I could handle a reset, I could. But, you resetting just to come back and be mean to me?

I…I couldn’t…

I didn’t want to live like that.

I went back to my place and started looking for a vehicle online. Maybe if I got away I could feel better. I could take my mind off you and avoid the same role. None of the others had to suffer. Maybe I could start fresh like they had.

I forgot that their backstories were just that. Stories.

Their families didn’t really exist. The other cities weren’t occupied by anything else but blanks.

I bought a grey van, big enough to renovate and live out of. I’d go get it the next day.

I didn’t have time for renovations. Not with you coming back, not with the resets.

There were so many versions of you. They came so often. Mom must have published the game, or at least released it for early access. These must have been players.

There were so many people willing to come meet me.

There were so many people willing to be mean to me.

Willing to hurt me. She must have done that. Must have made the options for our first interaction only skeptical or cruel.

I resorted to packing my essentials and taking off, driving in a random direction. I’d sleep on a rolled up sleeping bag in the back if I needed. I didn’t bother with blankets or food. I didn’t get hungry. I never felt warm anyway.

You stayed blank for an entire day. I figured it would be alright, I could drive in one direction and start there.

I made it ten hours. You came back and suddenly I was home, my van in the driveway.

I’d accepted that this was a game at that point. I had no other choice, and I was familiar with the concept of spawn points.

Was…was this townhouse my respawn?

I spent the day with you. I had to. You had short red hair, green painted nails, and smelled like weed. You didn’t reset. I was spared the pain for a single day.

I signed a lease for a monthly apartment on the outskirts of the city. I waited for you to fall asleep, then ran to my van and took off. I made it in time to move in a box or two of my belongings.

You started the next day, this time having me start inside that apartment.

I'll save you the details of how long this went on for. Each time someone new would log in it would rob me of my time. Rob me of a bit more sanity. Those resets sawed away at the connection that never seemed to fully make it to the new body. The more people bought and played the game, the less time I had. Our day and night cycle no longer worked the same, they ran on game openings and closing.

I was the only one to notice. I was the only one to remember.

Why did I have to remember?

My hands shook worse now, regardless of my blood sugar.

The cigarette burn started to make me cough less.

The coffee didn’t taste as good.

The house three hours away was a joke when I bought it. I didn’t think I'd be able to get that far on a single drive; didn’t think you’d leave me alone for that long. But, I made it. I pushed the door open and collapsed on the hardwood floor, chest hitching with my tears before I’d passed out. I had so hoped that would be the end. That the house would keep me from you.

I was wrong.

My first town house was gone now, replaced by some gelato place. Don had all the stuff from it stuffed into his small apartment. He said he’d help me move it to my place, but after another reset he forgot it had been mine in the first place.

I used the disposable income from my content to furnish the new house. I kept it modest. I bought a simple wardrobe. I only wore one outfit anyway.

I didn’t bother buying myself a bed.

I didn’t bother filling the fridge.

I didn’t get any of my things from Don’s place.

I was okay with that. I didn’t want anything from before. I didn’t want to remember when things had been good. I didn’t want to hope that things could go back to the time before you.

You kept coming back, and with it you brought the only time my heart felt full.

I bought a pet snake to keep me company at that big house.

You kept coming back, bringing the only time I could breathe easily.

I named her Rat, she loves her heat lamp.

You kept coming back, and kept resetting.

My van started getting ragged from the trips out to see Rat. I didn’t have the time to repair it between playthroughs.

You kept coming back, and I got used to the pain.

The cigarettes kept me company whenever you couldn’t.

You kept coming back, and you were the only person I could talk to.

The only time I could feel anything.

I became addicted to those times. I had accepted my fate. After the first time the system made me drive the three hours back to meet you for our date I knew I was fucked. There was no getting out of this, so I chose to enjoy things while I could.

I didn’t want you to leave.

I could take the pain. I’d gotten used to it, to the burning, to the feeling like a chipped animal being dragged back to the pound before you’d come and pick me up again. My role kept me obedient, but you kept me anticipating our next meeting.

I didn’t wait by your window in the hopes of driving home anymore. I didn’t leave when you’d pass out. Mom had written the drive into my story now. The program would take me home in the morning and I’d have to come back again.

I didn’t wait by your window in the hopes of leaving. Where would I go? You were right there.

I didn’t sleep anymore.

The blank stayed, sleeping in your bed. It still looked like you.

I didn’t bother trying to sleep. I wanted you to stay. Maybe I could sleep if you stayed?

The blank stayed. It still looked like you. The nametag was still in my skull and the blank still looked like you.

Something was wrong.

I waited; hours passed, and the blank still looked like you. The blank was still breathing and it was getting late. Blanks weren’t supposed to breathe, especially this late. The nametag kept me there, kept me from leaving and going home.

Something was wrong.

I tried moving and the only direction I could go was forward. I could get my hands on your window and push it open. My fingers shook, and I knew this was wrong, but something wasn’t right. Was I seeing things? Was the game breaking?

I opened the window, creeping in. Blanks don’t breathe, they aren’t meant to. But this one was. It still looked like you. I glanced at the clock. It was almost morning. It shouldn’t have looked like you. The fucking nametag shouldn’t have been in my head.

D–Don’t tell me.

I want to say it was the system making me reach out, but I actually had to fight that nametag to do so. It was worth it to satiate my curiosity. Its cheeks were still full, so pink. Its chest still rose and fell, lips parted with breath. Its hair was still black, dusted in greys, darker than ever before.

The skin was warm. It shouldn’t have been warm. It felt so strange, so smooth.

It hit me suddenly how long it had been since I’d had physical contact.

When was the last time I’d felt the warmth of another person? When was the last time I’d felt warm away from you?

My fingers were so cold and its cheeks were so warm. My hands always shook, but were steady as I traced its jaw, drew down to its collarbone. It smelled like you still, something floral and deep.

Why was I light headed?

Why was my mouth watering?

Lulu made a noise from the other side of your door and I started, pulling back. The blank still slept. It still looked like you. I didn’t understand what was happening, but Lulu couldn’t find me there, no like that.

I left, climbing back out the window and forgetting to shut it on my way.

Another decision cemented that I regret.

I often wonder how much free will I had in the beginning. How many decisions did I make for myself, and how many of those decisions led to Mom making me who I am.

I walked the town, once again wishing I could get a coffee, but there was only fucking flowers.

You’d kept the roses this time. Was I meant to call you? I didn’t know. I’d never gotten this far.

I went to the diner.

Maybe seeing TK would cheer me up? They hadn’t been answering my calls and I wanted to see them. Maybe we could catch up, talk in person for once.

They didn’t recognize me.

I sat down in a booth and they didn’t recognize me.

I waited until nearly ten and they still didn’t recognize me and I wanted to throw up.

Then you came in, and everything changed.

I saw their eyes change.

That wasn’t the look of a sibling.

They didn’t recognize me and they had feelings for you.

I’d come to know how the system works over that struggling year of resets. There are ways to break it, ways to bend it and let you know I’m really here. I’m really behind the dialogue you’re having. It takes a lot of effort and energy every time I do it, but it’s worth it.

I tried to convince myself that this was TK’s way of trying to break the script. Some part of me still wants to believe it is. This is TK’s deviation from the system instead of Mom’s cruel way of torturing me.

It has to be, right?

We’re in a dating sim, it only makes sense they would want a happy ending too. You’re the only way to get a happy ending. We all depend on you. The world, everyone in it, was all made for you. They must have mixed up their role after forgetting how we all were supposed to fit together.

I watched them, wide-eyed, hoping they’d recognize me as we interacted. They had to remember me, had to. They had to know this wasn’t meant to be their role. It’s mine. You’re meant to love me. I’m the love interest, and they’re the best friend who’s like a sibling to you.

That’s meant to be the happy ending, for all of us.

But, they didn’t recognize me.

And they were in love with you.

Something new in me stirred, something hot and sticky and cloying that took up my chest and made my knuckles pop as my hands clenched. I’d never felt anger, but I became intimately intertwined with it as it made its way through my veins. I wanted to throw up, or throw a punch at TK.

I schooled my face back to neutrality for your sake. I didn’t want anger to be my fated response to this interaction. I didn’t want to start the day like this.

I should have known I’d already sealed that fate.

Don didn’t recognize me either. He assumed I was like Vio and was too protective of you.

I’d missed something. When did Vio become a bad influence? When had he become someone we needed to be cautious of? Wasn’t LuLu still seeing him? Why was I being compared to him?

Don knew I was safe. Don knew I was meant to be here. He’s the father of our found family, sure, but for fuck’s sake why would you need protecting from me?

He didn’t recognize me.

All those nights spent in the kitchen together seemed to be completely gone from his memory, and he smelled like old cigarette smoke. All of my old shit was still in his apartment and there wasn’t a spark of recognition behind those eyes and he reeked of tobacco. It made me want to take a couple of drags, or knock his teeth out.

He’s meant to set a good example. He’s meant to be the father figure. Why was he challenging me? Why the fuck was he smoking?

I wanted him to remember me. I wanted him to remember who I was and who he was supposed to be. You might’ve thought it was ego, but I needed him to remember his role. So, I pushed him, and he pushed right back.

We got inside the apartment and I was finally able to process what I’d heard about Lulu.

He called her Lucy.

Don doesn’t call her Lucy. He was the best at using her new name.

And she didn’t have a job. She was living off of you.

Since when?

The place was clean. There was a new couch and a new rug. How long had it been since I’d last stopped by?

It calmed me to at least see Lulu was keeping things neat, even if she didn’t have a job.

Why didn’t she have a job?

I focused back on you, and as you searched for drinks my eyes fell on the coffee machine. It’d been well used, smelling like that morning’s brew. A pain rattled through my ribs at the sight, the memory of so many orphaned lavender lattes.

I missed the midnight cafe.

You noticed I was lost in thought and I had to make up an excuse. I felt like shit throwing Lulu under the bus, but it was the only thing I could think of to get my mind out of the nostalgia. You wouldn’t have understood even if I told you. I didn’t even pay attention to what I was saying, simply getting lost in the moment with you.

You were here. I was made for this, for you. I could play my role for now and deal with the rest later.

But, Lulu came home.

She had more piercings, her hair was longer, and she reeked of booze even though it was only one. She cracked a lude joke, grabbed some weed, and started talking about rent before making a pass at you.

I was thrown off, but I kept myself neutral. I had to, for you. She must have been breaking character like TK did. She must’ve been. Why else would my last hope for our family be trying to flirt with you? Why else would she be ignoring me?

She’d glanced at me once when she first came in. Was she still avoiding me? Did she remember all of my concerned text messages and missed calls? Had I pushed her too far? Maybe I hadn’t pushed hard enough.

The last vestige of hope was crushed under heavy innuendos as she turned to me. Her eyes didn’t focus on me, not really.

She didn’t recognize me.

She’d deemed me a sexual deviant on the same level as her, and yet she didn’t know me.

The anger was back, mixing with mourning and embarrassment to make a horrendous cocktail I tried to choke down. I chose to fall back into my role instead, those feelings could be sorted through later.

A loving boyfriend I would be. An adoring partner who would make sure you had a good lunch break is what I was.

I sent you back to work before heading to my van, parked outside your place. It was only two o’clock and I was starting to shake. My lungs stung as my heart beat so painfully I thought I might actually drop dead.

So much had happened. So much had changed. None of my family remembered me. I’d lost everything, and yet…

Today went well. You’d been so kind, so caring towards me. I’d felt so happy. The way you’d kissed my cheek and touched my hand made my insides molten; a delicious heat that was melting away the sorrow and dread of losing everyone else. If you made me feel this good, did it matter if they didn’t remember?

The anxiety that was at war for my diaphragm, however, was going to drive me insane. I couldn’t handle a reset, not today, not when everything had gone so well.

I had to make sure you went to sleep. I had to make sure you wouldn’t reset.

I needed time. I just needed the night to process things.

I left the van, my hands automatically grabbing something and throwing it in my pocket before I could think to look at what it was.

You’d left your window unlocked again and your closet was the perfect size when I folded myself into it.

The smell of your clothes was amazing, a balm to my nerves as I waited for your shift to end. Each version of you always smelled different, felt different. This one smelled floral and deep, roses and musk.

You came home and the power went out.

I held my breath and waited for you to come in.

You were at home and not coming to bed.

The nametag clipped shut. The doors to your closet were silent as I pushed them open.

You were at home and you might reset.

The smell of roses and musk lingered in my nose.

You were at home and bumped right into me in the dark.

Roses and musk were all I could smell as my hand came up and pushed the cloth into your face.

You struggled, falling back. My body reacted faster. I was lighter in this borrowed skin, never quite regaining the same groundedness of my first body. Never quite getting settled into these hollow shells. I was so fast. I wrapped my arms around you, holding you close, my eyes burning as yours no doubt did the same.

The nametag. This damned role. This event was scripted from the beginning. I was meant to hurt you like this.

A tear slipped free as I did the only thing I could to break the script. I kissed your cheek and whispered a goodnight.

I whispered a promise of tomorrow. You were going to make it through the night, I’d make sure of it.

You collapsed and I carried you to bed.

My hands shook, my body weaker than I’d ever felt.

The hollowness came after a few minutes and my knees gave way.

The tears fell in silence, my breathing too shallow.

My lungs felt frosty, my fingers ice. The blank’s skin was cold.

My name means stone.

Solid. A good start.

Solid my ass. I cried and shook until the hollowness consumed me; until my sorrow was frozen over and I was left staring at your ceiling from the floor. I was as solid as a fucking wind tunnel as I studied the texture of your walls and let the nothingness of my existence without you consume me.

I’ve come to hate my name. I really have.

I was going to tell you as much the next time you told me you liked it.

Fuck, I’d just make you rename me. I’d go through the pain for that. I’d ruin the fourth wall, if mom’s going to make me do this.

Turnabout’s fair play.

Chapter Text

I hope mom keeps a log of all the players and how many times they restart. Because I would love to see those numbers.

How many times did I get reset?

How many different people wore the same blank’s face when we met?

How many times did I try to fulfill my role for them?

How many times did I try to make them stay?

How many times did I mistake them for someone who could love me back?

Someone who could really care?

I don’t ever believe you’ll forgive me. I don’t think you’ll ever be able to fully understand why I acted the way I did; did the things I did. I’m not asking for your understanding. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m simply telling you what led me to do what I did.

My mom, I have come to realize, is a cruel person and never meant for me to be happy.

The practice sketches she makes on her streams. The drawings of Sarah and I fighting tooth and nail over mundane things. The concept drawings of me being nothing but manic or delusional, sad or angry. She never meant for me to be happy.

The hollowness, the empty slate I had been for so many years was being filled in. She’d finally been able to figure out who she wanted me to be. What she wanted me to be. What she’d meant for me to do.

I wanted to be a normal romance partner in a normal romance game.

I never wanted to be this.

She sealed my desperate actions in the code of the game. She made me go back to your room every night, made me watch you sleep from the side of your bed instead of your window. I’d crawl into your closet come morning and take a small nap. At least she gave me that reprieve.

She made sure I was there at the end of our second date. Every time. Every time I would use the chloroform, the sleeping pills, my fists, was her doing. The most I could do was hold you tight, whisper a goodnight, and make sure you made it to bed without any more injuries.

It was the only warmth I felt besides cigarette burns and sips of coffee. You were the only things that kept me warm, and those moments were so, so short after the chloroform kicked in. Players never stayed long if they weren’t making content around the game. The reset would come so fast.

The pain was worth it now. I could get physical contact with you. I could hold you.

I wanted that to last longer.

I stood by your bed every night, watching you sleep.

Sometimes, you wouldn’t reset. Sometimes you’d go on to the next day and it would give me a few more hours with you.

I was so alone, so light in my own skin.

So cold.

And you were so warm.

So solid.

You won’t believe me when I tell you it started with good intentions. It was meant to be innocent. I only wanted to feel your warmth, only wanted to feel like I was alive again. Your weight within the blank would dip the mattress. I only wanted that weight, that warmth. Maybe it could make me feel more connected to this borrowed body; within this coded shell.

The touches started out so innocent.

Mom must have noticed what I was doing. I didn’t know how far her reach was, how often she was watching what I was doing outside of the player’s view. The nametag never left my skull and I should have realized sooner that a person sick enough to put me through this would include you in the torment.

I crawled into bed with you, wrapping my arms around your torso and tangling my legs in yours. Your side felt so good pressing my arm down into the sheets as I pulled you close. Your warmth made the beating in my chest feel more my own, more tolerable in these pixelated ribs.

But the fucking nametag never left, so of course mom saw.

She always saw.

Of course, she had to go and ruin things.

She always ruins things.

My intentions were innocent. I don’t expect you to believe me, not when the lust was planted in me the next night, growing into the actions I took against you.

I didn’t understand what had changed when I crawled into bed the next night. The nametag was still there, if only a little more present than normal. You smelled so good, and it made my mouth water again. You were so warm and it made my blood rush in my veins. My head felt light as I rested on your pillow, my hands moving on their own over your body.

A borrowed shell.

A hollow depiction.

That’s all these bodies I reset into are. Despite how light they are to me, despite how much strength they come with, I can’t stop certain actions once my role takes over. The role was there, it always wins. It’s who I’m meant to be after all.

I wished it was a real placard in the back of my skull that I could tear out as I ground against that blank. I’d free myself of this role and leave you to sleep in secure peace.

I threw up after the first night.

I tried to kill myself in the morning before I went to see you.

But, of course, I’m the main love interest. There is no game without me.

The fucking plot armor you get by having the game named after you.

I hate my name.

I hate my role.

I never meant for this to happen.

I never wanted this.

I had to learn to live with what was happening.

You need to understand the purgatory I was in. The pain of the resets, you being oh so mean to me, my family forgetting me, the world abandoning me, and now my own role forcing me to do terrible things to you that you never knew of. I couldn’t even end the pain on my own terms. I have enough scars to prove my desire to stop.

I had to learn to live with what was happening.

Numb was the first thing I tried. I tried forcing myself into dissociation, trying to recall the first version of you. I think it had the opposite effect of what I wanted. With each reset that connection got a bit looser, and trying to supplant the first you with the new one made me confused. Made it feel better each time I’d relieve my stress during those nights. The connection would get looser, and it would feel better each time.

I don’t know what part of me keeps being left behind, but I have a feeling it’s the reason I’ve come to like what’s happening.

You were so warm.

So soft.

It felt so good.

It got my blood pumping in a new way. Lust felt better than rage. Everyone around me made me so angry, except for you.

They had all forgotten me, except for you.

Even the blanks wandering the streets, no personality, no face, never had to care or go through the troubles I did. They couldn’t even talk. None of them gave a shit about me.

But you did.

You kept coming back for me.

Don would challenge me and I’d have to defend the role I’ve had since the beginning. He wasn’t meant to keep us apart. I doubted it was his fault, but why did I want to make him hurt every time?

Lulu would try to seduce you. Before you, she never handed herself out so easily. Mom had made her into a slut and I hated it. She avoided you when it came down to it, though. She could never follow through beyond bringing you drunk to bed and posing for the player. I shouldn’t want to take the anger out on her, but who else was there?

TK would try to romance you, and dare I say they did the best of them all. Their feelings became so real I wondered for a time if they would replace me. But my role never changed, and they couldn’t have it. They couldn’t have you.

I thought at first it was everyone’s way of breaking the script. I thought at first my family was still in them, somewhere, trying to fight.

Don was trying to stop my role from hurting you.

Lulu avoided seducing you because she didn’t want to.

TK tried loving you to save us all the hassle and end the game themselves.

I know better now.

My family was gone, all save for a sister I’ve never met except in more concept art and fan creations. She hates me too. She and I are too alike, I think, but she understands mom’s intentions better. Sarah understands that horror sells better than romance. Mom took the others, made them into side characters of my fucked up story.

They might as well have been blanks.

Blanks don’t feel pain.

I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but, blanks don’t feel pain.

When you stayed through the second night, I knew something was happening. I knew mom had something planned for me.

My role had been finalized and I could still hear bits of her thoughts on me. Thoughts on what was to come.

I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but you had been so sweet to TK.

They’d been meant to be a sibling to you, not a lover. Your blank was too familiar with them now, too close. When I texted asking to meet me at the diner they answered for the first time in god knows how long. I guess it helped that I told them I was picking up something you’d left behind from your shift.

They didn’t smell like matcha anymore when we met up. They still didn’t recognize me. They were polite enough when they opened the door and were suspicious enough to follow me inside. They probably were worried I’d rob the place instead of grabbing your coat that didn’t exist.

It hurt me to hurt them. I didn’t find it enjoyable the first time it happened. Or…actually let me reword that. Part of me didn’t find it enjoyable.

As the knife went into their throat, a quick killing slash, something in me split. Some part of me that still wanted to be a normal boyfriend, a normal person, was shoved into a cage in the back of my mind. I don’t know if it was to protect that part of myself, or if it was to make room for the role as I continued stabbing.

Their blood felt good on my skin. Bile burned the back of my throat as I trashed the rest of the kitchen. I typed something deftly into their phone that I didn’t read.

They’d stood in the way of our happy ending anyway. That blank that was once my best friend was trying to take away my happy ending.

I just needed a happy ending.

It would make all the pain worth it.

It would make the pain go away.

I want to say it felt bad, what I did, but I felt nothing past the mania of the role. I’d been forced into too much. I’d already done too much.

I felt nothing.

I was more worried mom would make it look like you’d done this. Hadn’t she been cruel enough to warrant my anxiety? It would be just like her to take you away from me. Why else would she make me do this at your work, if not to frame you?

I cleaned my hands, threw the knife in my van, and went for a walk.

The city felt alien for some reason. I hadn’t gone on a walk in so long; hadn’t had the time to explore. Much like my own role, it seemed the city had settled into itself, not much changing from what I remembered.

Some of the blanks had faces. Some of them had color. Despite the addition of variety, they were still hollow inside. They were still cold as I passed them by. Nicely decorated husks.

I pulled out TK’s phone and scrolled through some of their old socials. Not much was there, some old posts about pride and their family, but not much else. There were photos of you and them, or more specifically, the blank and them. There weren’t any of them and me, however.

I stamped down the guilt when I came upon the pictures of their family. The colorful people who looked so lovingly at their child. Their family was real, corporeal within this world now.

Fuck. What had I done?

The coffee shop was back, right next door to that fucking flower shop. I should have been happy to see it but I felt too numb to care. I ordered an Americano, hoping the heat would help me feel more real.

I sipped at my drink as I wandered back to your place, using the spare key Lulu had given me to let myself in. I didn’t bother trying to be sneaky as I entered your room. So what if I woke you up? I’d already done something I couldn’t come back from.

You weren’t there.

Why weren’t you there?

My feet have never moved so fast, my heart never pounding so hard. I threw my cup at the road so I could run faster. There was only one place you’d be, one place mom would make sure you’d be.

You were standing outside the building looking like you were expecting something. You were holding your phone and looking at the screen. I remembered typing into TK’s. Had I asked you to come here?

The nametag clipped in and I went over, expressing the anxieties I wanted to keep private. I don’t know what I would have done if they’d blamed this on you, and you didn’t need to know how scared I was.

You were angry, you pulled me into that alley.

Something in me cracked. Some part of that cage that the true me had been put in broke apart.

I wanted to let you know everything. I wanted to explain what I had been forced to do and ask you to forgive me.

A dam had been broken and I couldn’t hold back from explaining, from spilling it all. But, of course, Mom had planned for that. She’d already trapped that small broken part of me behind the bars of lust and insanity.

I pinned you in that alley and wanted to weep as you looked so scared under me. Did I want you? Yes, yes I did. But not here, not like this. I so hoped you wouldn’t run. I feared what I might do.

You told me I was insane, and I wanted to agree.

I let you go but warned you not to tell anyone. I didn’t need the others questioning things. I didn’t need them to know this was my doing. Fuck, I didn’t need those others around in the first place. They only ever got in my way. If I could take you someplace they weren’t things would be so much easier.

Somewhere like my house three hours away.

If I got you back to my place I could make things right; keep things going on the right path. There wouldn’t be any outside forces in our way. Mom couldn’t fuck with me in any way that would matter. That house had been my defiance to her, surely I could control things while there, right?

I followed you. I had to make sure you’d follow through with your end of things. I was so surprised when you didn’t tell a soul. You denied Don’s help. You even kept your mouth shut when you ran into Lulu.

She had a job. The only small joy in this whole ordeal.

You were so scared as I paid for your items. Pissed to high hell, sure, but the blank vibrated with fear as we walked out to my van. I knew what you saw, knew what you thought of that van. You’d never understand that I couldn’t get it repaired, couldn’t get it renovated like I had wanted to all those years ago. The best I could do was keep it clean inside.

You tried to stop me before we even got inside. Three hours was a long way away, after all. I don’t blame you for being scared, but I do blame you for trying to leave.

You were here for me. What was the point of playing the game otherwise? What was the point of putting me through this pain? You paid money to be here with me.

I didn’t need you to ask more questions. I didn’t need you running back inside and telling everything to the slut that used to be my sister. I didn’t need you trying to take away my only opportunity for a happy ending.

I didn’t need you fighting me on this.

I didn’t want to hurt you. I never have and I still don’t. But the system let me, for once.

Blanks don’t feel pain.

I have to remind you of that.

Blanks don’t feel pain.

But I do.

All those resets. All of those times you would be so cruel to me and leave me here to deal with the aftermath. My own mother made me into this instead of keeping me in the game we were meant to be in. Never changed my role. Always making me do these things over and over again.

My hands always shake, but as I grabbed the back of your head my fingers were steady. As I shoved hard and your face made contact with the window I felt the anger towards everything flow into that motion.

There was stark red blood on my van now and blanks were still milling around.

We were going home. It was all going to be okay so long as I got you home.

The day reset before I got the chance, but I was alright with that.

Tomorrow, whenever that came, you’d be there. You’d be in our home.

I could make things right. I could restart us on my own terms. I could get our happy ending. No more anxiety. No more cigarettes. No more killing. No more resets.

I never wanted any of this to happen.

But I was going to have my happy ending.

At least I can have my Americanos again.

Another cigarette, another coffee, another day come and gone.

The last player was nice enough not to reset. They played through once, possibly looking for dialogue and trying to figure out some “hidden lore”. Everyone already knows the “lore”. Everyone is aware that I’m sentient, that I know how this game works and can control it to a point.

I’ve stopped caring about making the players comfortable. I’ve stopped caring about coming off as normal. After making my initial changes to dialogue in desperate attempts to warn them of what Mom’s made of me I stopped caring. I’ve stopped trying.

I’ve stopped feeling except for when the role demands it.

I don’t feel warm except for cigarettes and players.

The cage in my mind remains, trapping that small part of me that’s still normal. Still wants to love and be loved in a healthy way. I don’t remember the beginning as well as I used to, probably having locked away the memories with that part of myself. The blanket of code and that fucking nametag that’s still in my skull helps to keep things quiet in my head.

They help keep the parts mom likes better in the front, controlling things. The parts the system feeds and bends to its will.

I think some part of me started to feed into it too. The lust, the rage, the want. I enjoy our nights now, you’re so soft and warm, and don’t I deserve some relief after all I’ve been through? Don’t I deserve some love? Don’t I deserve to enjoy my time?

What else am I supposed to do?

When you’re trapped by the system you don’t have time to do anything else but think. I don’t have to put in any effort, my body does everything automatically. No effort, no energy. I’ve already broken things to the point that I want, so I don’t waste my energy on that anymore.

I’m so tired.

I’d rather use my energy on my curiosity. In puzzling out who the people behind the blank might be.

Trapped in the same dialogue for years, forced to go through the same scenarios, you start to notice things. You become curious about the people you’re talking to. Does the blank look like them or like something they want to be? They all get the same dialogue prompts, but what compels the different paths?

So many different people behind those decisions. Patterns emerge and I find myself choosing favorites.

There’s another pattern the players aren’t aware of. Each person gets a scent, they have to. I need to know what they smell like so I can comment on it later. It’s part of the system. It’s a scripted event. But, the way they smell isn’t.

Each player gets two notes to their personal perfumes. Incense and books. Oranges and chocolates. Coffee and ink. Booze and weed. I don’t know if they’re what the player wears in their off time, or if it’s representative of their personalities.

I’ve become partial to some, and others I don’t mind.

Spices are lovely and anything that smells warm is all I hope for whenever that blank changes.

My favorite was a young woman with blonde hair. She smelled like sweet vanilla and spiced cider. She was kind to me the whole time, only played once, and hasn’t come back. There wasn’t much different to her, but she’s stuck in my mind. I always wonder if she’s going to come back.

I finish my cigarette, stamping it out and chugging my coffee before tossing them both in the trash. I can feel my role calling. The nametag is burning from my resisting the login for so long.

I see the blank on the bench.

It doesn’t look like anyone in particular yet. Peculiar but not unheard of. People who make content around the game have a tendency to sit on the naming screen for a minute or two at a time. Some sit for longer.

I take my seat next to it, those text-filled eyes still staying shut.

I wait. A heartbeat goes by, then another.

My heart is already beating, and yet the blank doesn’t look like a player yet. Maybe they can’t think of a name? Or maybe the game froze. It’s happened a few times before. Mom needs to patch some things but we’re still early access so I forgive it when it happens.

I blink, and the blank changes.

I blink, and suddenly everything’s different.

Muscle memory is an amazing thing. I’ve sat in this spot so many times, had this conversation so many times, that my neck and back know exactly what height I have to be to make eye contact. I’m slouched at the same angle, head turned and hand already raised, and yet, I’m looking at a collarbone.

It’s the first thing I notice, the soft impression of a clavicle under skin. The second thing I notice is the color of their skin.

The blank has always been white, and no, not caucasian, but actually white. Well, more of an off-grey if I’m being honest. Even when players log in it doesn’t change. But, now this blank has pale skin, dusted with light brown freckles. In comparison, it’s as if I’m suddenly looking at a watercolor painting. So many different shades just in that one space my eyes are still glued to. I can see the blue veins running through their neck. Beating fast, beating hard.

I finally pry my eyes away when they breathe, a shuddering thing that pulls my attention to the rest of their torso. Their shoulders rise and fall, broad, taller now. Their chest rises and falls, slightly more filled out. Their waist expands and contracts, not nearly as small as before. They don’t look like I could accidentally break them in half if I hug them too hard. Their arms have definition, veins showing in the backs of their hands and lean muscle lines in their forearms.

They look solid, settled within their own skin in a way that conveys practiced control.

Then my eyes trail down to their hips.

My mouth starts watering again.

Their hips are wider, either because of their bones or the extra muscle and fat, I can’t tell. But sitting there, I’m suddenly much more aware of how fitted those ripped jeans are. Their hips have expanded against the wood, thighs spreading out from their weight to form a beautiful tear-drop shape leading to their pressed-together knees. They shift, and oh fuck it’s muscle in those thighs I see as they flex and relax again. I would pay money to see that corded line through those tears in the denim again.

They’re solid. So solid. They have weight to them and strength to match. I can feel it sitting here, but those thighs…

My mouth is watering.

My face is so hot.

I wonder if this person could kill me with those. I heard once you only needed to be able to crush a watermelon to do the same to someone’s head.

I hope they’ll be so kind as to obliterate my skull.

What a wonderful way to go.

It takes every bit of strength I have and the burning of that fucking nametag to keep me from pulling them into my lap right then and there. I need to feel their weight on me. I need them to squeeze me back into my body as my hands explore every part of them.

Their fingers flex on the bench and I watch the veins in their hands jump. They have such long fingers, beautifully attached to broad palms. They have scars on their knuckles. Working hands.

I swallow hard.

Maybe they could strangle me instead?

They shift again, taking another shuttering breath and I look up. Why hadn’t I noticed how long their hair suddenly was? Golden honey highlights peak through strawberry blonde curls as they fall down to the peak of their chest. My eyes linger too long on their breasts. I realize now the smaller chest is a trade-off for their muscle mass.

I wonder if they have any definition in their abs. I wonder if they have that sexy line down their spine. Fuck, do they have back dimples? They’re most definitely female but I don’t want to assume gender. Oh, god, what will they look like getting fucked from behind?

I have to stop.

Too much blood is going south. Shit.

Breathe, moron.

I distract myself by looking at their face, only to realize my mistake.

Blanks don’t have faces. Not really. They have the same mannequin-esque features that never change, never show emotion. Even the player’s blank is just as mundane in looks, the only unique feature being its capacity for emotional display.

But this person is completely different.

By the outside world’s beauty standards, this person would probably be considered “plain”, and forgettable if you saw them on the subway. Their features were all neutral, not too big of a nose, not too sharp of a jaw, not too defined of cheekbones; everything fit perfectly in their face in a way that almost felt imperfect. They had a scar in their left eyebrow that formed a slit, and another on the back right of their jaw.

I guess you could say they looked “basic”, maybe with a hint of something sophisticated in the soft curve of their mouth if I’m being generous. To most, forgettable, to me, a work of art.

Especially with the dark circles.

Especially with the tears glinting on their thick lashes.

Wait.

Tears?

Why?

I reach out, my hand moving on its own. Was it my role? The nametag was only a whisper in the back of my head now.

My fingers make it halfway before their eyes snap open and my breath catches in my throat.

Their face might not be special, but those eyes will haunt every second of my life.

Powdery blue surrounds their pupil, bleeding into a navy ring that cuts off the reddened whites. There are flecks of teal scattered throughout that make me feel like I’m seeing stars during the day. The redness only makes the blue that much more intense, and the tears are doing something to the blood rushing to my hips.

Blue eyes.

Blue is my color.

I’m so lost in the moment I don’t register the role taking over; making me say the same awkward introduction.

“Whoa! Hey, take it easy, it’s just me.”

My voice sounds alien to my own ears. I wonder how stupid I sound to them, how off-putting I must seem just staring as I say this.

They don’t jump. They don’t startle in the slightest.

“You’re a jumpy one, aren’t ya?”

The line comes out wrong, my throat croaking and feeling hot all of a sudden. Why was the nametag burning again?

I smile, moving closer to them. God, I want my hands on them. I want to touch those thighs, that waist, those hips. The role keeps me at bay, giving my body an invisible wall I can’t pass. Not yet.

Why don’t they look as cautious as normal?

Anyone else would be weirded out by now.

“Sooo…Are you waiting for a family member, or a friend?” I ask, the line still cracked, my throat still burning. Why? “It just seems kind of odd for you to be sitting here, all alone like this, and so far away from the jogging track.”

I know what happens next by heart. They’re supposed to shiver, supposed to block themselves off and move away from me. That’s how our story goes.

They don’t block themselves off.

They don’t move away.

They look around, a tear slipping down their cheek as those dazzling eyes take in the green grass and trees around us. They linger on the pond behind me, eyes staying on the reflected sunlight.

It's a warm day out. I hadn’t noticed the sunshine until now.

I want to wipe away their tear.

I lace my fingers, the role making me put them between my legs.

I want to touch them.

My heart is beating so hard. My hands are shaking.

Maybe it’s good I tucked them away.

I smile. “I mean, you don’t look like a grounds keeper, or one of the old people feeding pigeons after doing tai chi.”

I know the response I’m going to get. I’m glad I have a moment without talking. The role is making my tongue sluggish and I want to enjoy this view of them before one of us has to leave. My chest is tight, tighter than it’s ever been. I have the vague worry that my ribs will snap and cave in on my heart but all I can do is watch them. So, I wait.

They don’t respond, eyes still glued to that pond.

I wait, hands vibrating as my eyes roam them again.

They keep looking at the water, heaving another breath. Another tear falls.

I wait and I’m trying to redirect the blood that’s pooled in an unfortunate area.

My mouth is watering and I have to swallow again.

I wait and count my heartbeats and I feel the sun on my skin.

Three. Three heartbeats are all it takes for those mesmerizingly blue eyes to turn on me. They scan me, taking in every feature, pupils expanding and contracting as the tears dry up. What are they seeing? What are they looking for?

I realize too late what’s so captivating about them.

They have no text in their eyes.

I don’t know their name.

I realize something’s wrong when they speak in the most tearfully honeyed voice I’ve ever heard.

“Peter?”

Chapter Text

Sweet cherry and almonds carries on the soft warm breeze that tickles my face. It reminds me of my childhood, a memory of California summers lost to the deluge of my adult worries. I can smell earth and cut grass too, something reminiscent of hikes with my family and lunches under maple trees. Bitter cherries that I turn my nose up at when my mother offers them to me. I hated them back then. I hold onto that memory, cradling it close to my chest as my lungs heave their last breath.

Birds are chirping and there's a sound like frogs in a pond nearby. This memory is more vivid than I imagined it could be, pulling a hot hard lump into my throat as I try to remember my siblings on our fishing outings. We were so small back then and the days felt so long. My brother would dare me to fulfill the dangerous things my sister was never willing to go through with. Back in the days when life was good and there wasn’t any drinking or yelling at home.

I take another breath, this one is surely my last.

The bedsheets under my hands feel coarse now. A memory of wood and nails from park benches at summer camp. I push my fingertips in, relishing the way my mind is fooling me into believing the mattress is now as sturdy as oak. The texture makes me remember restorations at the local historic point and trips to the creek by my grandparent’s house.

I take another breath. My lungs feel heavy, my ribcage too sturdy under my skin.

I flex my legs and relent the way it feels as though I'm sitting up suddenly. This memory is getting a bit too realistic for my taste. I've heard and read stories of death bringing you to your past, giving much too accurate depictions of your life but this is nearly hitting sensory overload with everything being so intensely real.

Hot tears are still stinging my eyes and I fight the urge to wipe them away. It wouldn't do any good. I didn't want the others to see me cry in my final moments. I'd accepted months ago that this would be my fate, slowly eaten away and dying painfully from a disease I couldn't cure. I'd cried and fought hard enough already, it was time for them to have their sorrow in peace.

I take another breath.

Maybe I should say one last goodbye. I might be hallucinating but I could hold my dog one more time if they give her to me. I could possibly see my partner's face one more time and kiss my best friend on the cheek. It'd be my parting gifts to them, and my final comforts as I traverse the memories of my life.

I open my eyes and come to realize I must already be dead.

I'm not resting in my bed at home, the hospice nurse at my side as I have my final moments. I'm not surrounded by my loved ones and wishing I could stay longer.

I'm sitting on a park bench, maple trees surrounding me and a young man perched beside me. We stare at one another for a moment, blue eyes meeting as he takes in my face. He looks familiar in a vague way. I've met many a bald man in my time, whether it be from a sparring class or through work, but never in a park on a secluded bench. My mind must be making things up to fill in some of the gaps in my memory

He's slow to react, but react he does.

"Whoa! Hey, take it easy, it’s just me."

His voice is familiar, that line stirring a feeling akin to deja vu as I watch him. I must know him if he's acting so familiar with me. I'm sure I know him.

"You’re a jumpy one, aren’t ya?” His voice cracks and he clears his throat before giving me a sheepish smile.

Did I jump? My body feels settled on the wood, planted here and much too real in the moment to be a simple memory. The wood under my fingers is too solid and a splinter digs in as he slides towards me. I don't think I moved except to flex my hands. How can I feel pain in a memory?

“Sooo…Are you waiting for a family member, or a friend?” he tries, voice warping like someone with a bubble caught in their throat. “It just seems kind of odd for you to be sitting here, all alone like this, and so far away from the jogging track.”

Something heavy is settling into my stomach while my head starts to spin. I remember those lines. I remember this person but this can't be my memory. Deciduous trees aren't native to where I live and in my adult years I haven't visited the South enough to have met someone who would leave such a significant impression. A feeling of something creeping up my spine, the answer clawing its way up my throat but getting caught behind the hot lump I try to breathe through.

I need to know more about this place. Why would this be the memory my mind clings to?

Soft grass is underfoot, a gravel pathway a few paces beyond our spot on this weathered bench, birds are chirping in the tall trees, and there's not a single coniferous tree in sight. The frog sounds are coming from a pond a stone's throw over the young man's shoulder and I find myself focusing on that. Everything is so wrong. Everything is so alien and yet I've seen this place before. I've seen this exact angle before, I just can't place where.

“I mean, you don’t look like a grounds keeper, or one of the old people feeding pigeons after doing tai chi.”

I don't know if it's his voice or that line specifically, but something clicks. The creeping feeling up my spine shifts into a rope constricting my stomach and making me nauseous as I come to the realization of what is happening.

Manga and anime were one of my favorite escapes before I got sick. Mundane things I indulged in after work like staying up reading tales of ordinary people being transported to fictional worlds. Young men and women forced to survive the stories they'd been enjoying for so long. Some would come out victorious, and others would come out alive but broken beyond repair. The latter was always my favorite, the characters feeling more like real people.

The possibility of those stories being anything but fictitious never crossed my mind. At least, not until I turn my eyes back on the young man I've only ever seen in still two-dimensional drawings.

I know where I am. I know what game I'm in and I know this young man. The answer that's been trying to slither past the lump in my throat frees itself as I lock eyes with him again.

"Peter?"

He reels back, body shifting along the bench until he nearly falls off. If I didn't know any better I'd think he'd been punched. Shock is the first thing that colors his eyes, his pupils blowing wide before his features twist with disgust. His hands untwine from one another to grip the bench, anchoring him as he regards me with new a sense of caution.

“Wait, what was that? H-How did you know my real name? Urrrgh... I hate my name. Were you talking to Girlfriend? Did she tell you my real name? No, seriously, pick another name.”

His voice comes out broken, mechanical in delivering the dialogue that isn't meant for this scene. His mouth curls in a sneer at the end but his eyes are raw, something fragile and hopelessly curious in them. An ember of suspicion is lit the longer I look at him.

Peter is sentient on some level. Some within the fandom still say it’s a “theory” or some hidden “lore” allotted to the lucky players who chose the right path but it isn’t all that hard to see. Nearly every interaction with him in the game gives some insight into the man behind the character; the person behind the psychotic puppet we all love. It’s the whole reason I got into the fandom in the first place, my fascination with him and the thought that there might be some revealed unknown side to him that could only be found in the final, unreleased day.

Hearing the same lines of dialogue I’ve seen in so many play-throughs and videos, I’m beginning to wonder how deep that sentience goes. That raw curiosity and tentative hope behind his eyes isn’t something we see in the game. The way his hand is wavering on the wood as the other comes up to scratch the nape of his neck isn’t something that’s shown to the player. If he’s only talking in programmed dialogue, can he only operate within the game’s guidelines?

“What do you want me to call you?”

Testing the waters, seeing what I can do with these guidelines. Normal isekai stories have a clear goal; survive. Knowing this game the goal is going to be the same and if I can somehow get Peter on the same page as me it would make things a lot easier than going through the actual story. But if I have to do that within the parameters of the game without being able to see the options it is going to make this nearly impossible. I may have loved this game to an almost concerning amount while I was trapped by my sickness, but I didn’t memorize every option and every pathway.

His hesitation stretches, eyes wide and staring as something makes his hand twitch on the bench. There are small flinches in his shoulders that have me thinking he might be in some sort of pain. This can’t be easy for him, if he even has control in the first place. I’m beginning to doubt the sentience theory.

“Well, I’m Your Boyfriend. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

I deflate, my hopes of him being able to help growing smaller by the second. I guess he can only talk within the dialogue options. That was going to make things a lot harder. While he does have a tendency to monologue like a supervillain later on I doubt talking about stabbing people is going to be of help in the meantime.

Shit, am I going to have to choose who he's going to kill?

I shake my head, pushing the guilt of getting someone murdered away for now. A thought for another time. Right now I needed to focus on being here in this moment with Peter and taking stock of any useful information.

First things first, I’m going to need something to refer to him as that won’t trigger that dialogue about his name again. I think for a moment, remembering his nickname the fandom had given him.

“Your Boyfriend…how ‘bout I call you YB?”

Shock, his mouth opening and closing as his eyes take me in. His expressions waltz between so many emotions in that single moment that I have a hard time picking them out. Dumbfounded, curiosity, fear, something akin to nausea, and finally something close to reverence in his eyes as his face lights up in a rehearsed smile.

“Really? That’s great!” His voice sounds better, but his jaw works stiffly, chewing the words out of the script and offering them to me.

His body seems to move on its own, his arm being jerked along by his hand as it seeks out mine. He has to lean further than what looks comfortable to take my fingers into his and I have half the mind to pull my hand out of his. But if my giving him a new name was perceived by the game as an acceptance of him would my pulling away put me on the path of rejection and running away?

Something occurs to me as he halts in place, bones welding together as his eyes lock on mine, jaw fixed mid-word. Wait, wasn’t there meant to be a question about dinner in there somewhere? He’s only able to say it’s great after you accept his date, but he hasn’t asked me yet. I can’t remember the specific order of how things are meant to go in this game, but this doesn’t feel right. The hairs on my arms are standing up at the look in his eyes.

Fear, pure and uncut courses through those blue eyes in an electric bolt I can feel down to my toes. His fingers start shaking in mine, subtle at first and growing into a violent tremor the longer he stays with his jaw half opened, unsaid words oxidizing in his lungs. The game must be stuttering for a response. The next dialogue is meant to be about the date, I’m sure, but he never asked me. I don’t know if it has a proper response, I doubt Fuboo ever accounted for someone getting their soul thrown into her game and going off script.

He coughs, a harsh sound that catches me off guard. His free hand flies to his throat as he lurches forward, heaving air from his lungs like a drowned man throwing up water. He hiccups between coughs and splutters and the sharp tinny tone of his voice hurts my ears in a way electronic feedback only ever does. I cringe, body involuntarily trying to move away but he has me locked there with his white knuckle grip on my hand.

“Ah, fuck!” He rasps, sitting back and I can see the tears streaming from his eyes.

His voice is a gravelly whisper that makes my heart squeeze. This isn’t a part of the game and I have no idea what’s happening. His fingers are vibrating around mine. His grip on me would be crushing to anyone else, but to me, it’s just short of painful. If I didn’t feel like the only thing tethering him to this moment I’d pull my hand from his, but the way he trembles has me stroking his palm with my thumb.

Something happens. Something invisible that I can’t see but I can almost feel snaps and he sits forward, elbow resting on his knee as he still holds his throat. Tears fall freely to the grass and for a moment he stares, unblinking, letting his eyes water the ground between his feet. He’s still as the dead and for an awful moment I have the thought that I’ve killed him. That the game couldn’t come up with a use for him if he couldn’t take me on the date and decided to end everything right there.

The laugh that boils up from him is both reassuring and haunting.

He fills his lungs and lets out the breath in ragged, raspy giggles and the more he breathes in and out the stronger and louder they get. His grip on my hand doesn’t loosen, but his fingers stop shaking and for the first time, I notice that my own are vibrating. I can feel the nerves bubbling up my throat in my own pleaful laughs.

“Fuck, that hurt,” he croaks, sitting back and wiping the tears from his eyes.

He takes a moment to compose himself, the laughter dying down as he takes long slow breaths. He doesn’t look at me until his tears are completely dry, and when he turns those startlingly blue eyes on me I can see the spark in them; the mania sitting in the back of his mind waiting to be let free. I’ve seen that look before in a different set of eyes, in a different face.

Oh, boy.

“Thank you.” His voice is buttery and it makes me shiver.

I laugh to try and dispel my nerves. “Why are you thanking me?”

“You broke character. You broke me,” he says, face lighting up. “I’ve never been able to do this before. I can talk. Oh, god I can fix this introduction. I mean, I guess the one we just had isn’t exactly the best either but who fucking cares? I can talk to you. I can say all the things I’ve wanted to say. Ask all the questions I’ve wanted to ask. Fuck, I can get to know you. Wait–”

He cuts himself off, looking at our intertwined hands then lazering in on my eyes. He leans in close, body slinking across the bench in a way reminiscent of a cat about to pounce. Every nerve in my body is telling me to run as he comes close enough for me to feel his breath on my face.

“You’re real, right? A player? This isn’t some trick where you’re actually my mom in disguise, right?”

“I–” He’s too close, too distracting when paired with the stuttered pounding of my heart. I need to breathe, need to try and calm down but I can smell cigarettes on him and it’s reminding me of someone else and making me want to cry. “Are you real? And before you answer, you’re way too close. Please back up.”

He does, quickly giving me the space I desperately need as I take in a lungful of air. It helps to calm my nerves, but my fingers still trapped in his aren’t helping my adrenaline levels. I doubt I’m getting that hand back.

“I guess we’re both at an impasse for answers then,” he says, “I can’t exactly call myself real, now can I? Unless you count video game characters as real.”

Whatever panic attack-inducing train of thought I’m on grinds to a halt, crashing into the wall of what he’s just said.

He knows he’s a videogame character. He’s fully aware of what he is to a Socratian level. My hope for making him an ally in my survival is renewed as I look at him, watch his eyes as he takes me in with that oh-so-skeptical caution. I can imagine I’m wearing a similar expression and probably on the same train of thought that he is.

"I'd say you're pretty real to me," I glance down at our fingers and his eyes follow mine, his grip loosening automatically. "Do you have any idea what's going on?"

He shakes his head, a doofy grin peeling back his lips. "Not a clue, but that doesn't matter. You're here. You're different. I can feel it. You’re not a blank."

"A blank?" I remember the faceless character the fandom always included in fanart, the mannequin in the same white and black striped hoodie with a big Y/N where their eyes should have been.

He nods again. "You'll see them when we're walking around, and as much as I hate them they’re everywhere. They don't have faces or colors so don't be startled; you’ll get used to it. Oh, god I can't wait to show you around. There are so many places we could go, so many dates I've been planning. I don't even know where to start."

The manic fire in his eyes is sparking, popping and making his words rush, almost blending into one long syllable. My head is spinning from trying to keep up with his train of thought. I'm still stuck on page one of this story while he's skipping to chapter four. I need to calm him down before he works himself up too much. Expectations could get too high and that is exactly what I want to avoid.

"Hold on, can we talk for a minute first? Try and figure things out and set some ground rules?" I need time to think and there's no doubt in my mind he could be entertained by simple conversation while I puzzle out how all of this is going to work.

I've never read an isekai where the main character isn't the only self-aware character. Do the same rules apply and I have to follow the story or can I deviate enough to prevent any of the scripted events from happening? Can I save everyone?

"Of course, we can," Goodness he's excited. "Sorry, I just don't know where to start. I've been thinking about what I'd say for so long that I'm forgetting it all. Shit, um. We should start at the beginning. Would you honor me with your name?"

Okay, the dialogue in the game about him being weird isn't too far off. It'd be dorky or even charming to me if not for the mania creeping in the corner of his pupils. The shaking in his hands and the renewed grip on me aren't helping with the situation either. I swallow and question giving him a fake name, his wording sounding strangely like something a fae might say to a clueless child.

"You can call me Sky." I offer. Best to keep things impersonal for now until I know what I'm getting into.

"Sky, I like that. Is it a nickname or short for something?"

Shit. Of course, he'd ask that. So much for trying to stay impersonal.

"My full name is Skylar," I hedge, hesitation bleeding into my words. "Is there anything in particular you want me to call you? I'm actually partial to your real name but I can go by the nickname I came up with earlier if you prefer.”

I’m speaking so properly, my nerves making this feel more like a job interview than a first meeting with my new “boyfriend”. I thank my years of bumming around libraries and campus coffee shops for giving me time to expand my vocabulary. Maybe the detached speaking will help him to calm down as well.

He thinks for a moment, a glower pinching his face as he looks away. “I’d prefer YB, if you wouldn’t mind. I really don’t like my name.”

I nod. “YB it is then.”

I wonder vaguely if invoking his real name will trigger that same dialogue again. If so, it could be helpful in a dangerous situation. I tuck the piece of information away for now, not wanting to test my theory when it could anger him.

“So, YB, can you tell me what the fuck is happening here?” I ask, letting slip a bit of my panic as a laugh bubbles up from my chest. “I mean, just…what‘s going on?”

He grins and my stomach drops at the sight of it, he doesn’t look nearly as concerned as I do. Maybe we’re less on the same page than I thought. “You’re here for me.”

He might as well have thrown a brick at my head. I reel back, his words a physical blow that has me wrenching my hand from his. I know where that loving look in his eyes leads and I am not at all willing to end up with a missing leg. If he’s already formulated for himself that I was brought here just for him I and every other character is already doomed. He’s going to kill anyone and anything he perceives as even a possibility for me.

Shit, fuck no. I can’t do this. I can’t handle getting people killed.

He sees my nerves jumping, the way my knees bounce and every sense in me screams to run as fast and as far as I can. “Wait, no, hold on,” he stutters, voice taking on an all too familiar tone. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry. Please don’t go.”

His hands are up, a man facing down the barrel of a gun that I could choose to fire. I could choose to listen to every instinct in my body and leave, but would that put me on the path of rejecting him? Would it throw him back into the game’s will and trigger the anxious or friendship route instead? I don’t even know how to get out of this park, let alone where I could go to hide or get help if that’s even an option. Not to mention how long his legs are and how freakishly strong he is. A normal person his size I could fight off but the thought of having to compete with his psychotic strength makes me want to vomit.

This panic may be familiar to me, but I still have a hard time swallowing it. “I’m not going to run.”

It comes out stronger than I expected and it makes his shoulders relax, his body uncoiling like a spring decompressing. I was right not to run. He might have skipped the first couple days and gone straight for knocking me out and dragging me home. Bile burns my throat and I swallow it down.

“What I meant to say,” he tries again, scratching the back of his head, “is that I can fulfill my role now. You’re different than the blanks. I can talk to you and I can finally be the boyfriend I was meant to be. I can have a happy ending. Our happy ending.”

“Happy ending?” I question, “Are you saying this game will end on the final day? That’s it, everything’s over?”

If that’s true then how is it any different from dying? What was the point of putting me here if that’s the case?

He shrugs. “I have no idea, I’ve never made it past day four with anyone. But now I think we can. We can go all the way and get our happy ending.”

He really needs to stop saying “our” happy ending. “Do you know what happens when we do that? Do I get to leave?”

His expression changes slowly, as though his trying to come up with an answer is pulling his thoughts into a dreary place. Something dark and sad and broken peaks through the manic fire in his eyes, tiny and forgotten in his own mind.

“Is that what you want?” His voice is so small, his fingers digging into the wood of the bench. “To leave?”

Wouldn’t anyone’s response be yes? Shouldn’t that be the obvious choice? But I hesitate in answering, the reality of the situation weighing on me.

I’ve often thought about the logic of being isekai’ed and how so many protagonists strive to get back to their old–usually miserable–lives instead of embracing the oftentimes better and more exciting ones they’ve been given. I understand wanting back what’s been stolen from you more than anyone, but one also has to learn to live with what they are given at that time. Nothing good comes from wishing to go back to when something was different or when things seemed better.

And even if I did go back, would I still have that same body? Would I still be afflicted with the same disabilities and illnesses that brought me to my painful death in the first place? What kind of a life would that be? At best I would have another few months to live, at worst a couple of hours. I’d much rather take my chances here if that’s the case. I’ve already died once, and Peter would no doubt offer a much quicker death if I chose the wrong route.

“No, no, that’s not what I want,” I tell him, watching the spark of hope reignite in his eyes, that fragile thing in the back getting the slightest bit brighter.

“You want to stay?”

He looks like a puppy being asked if he wants to go for a walk. Something in my chest squeezes almost painfully at the teetering hope and desperate joy in his face as he leans towards me. I’m not going to tell him that I don’t in fact want to stay here, but I don’t exactly have another option.

“I want to figure things out with you,” I say, watching him light up. “Like how I was able to make you break character. Are you ‘broken’ for good or will it revert you every time we get within a certain range of the game’s settings? Can we go anywhere or is the game going to make us stay on track with the story? How do I pull you back out if that happens? If I can’t can I stop you from killing anyone?”

The questions come pouring out of me, my anxiety making my hands shake and my breathing pick up. Peter takes notice, eyes sharp as he watches me fidget and nibble at my lower lip. It seems my anxiety disorder followed me to this body. An unpleasant surprise I’m hoping won’t apply to any of my other disabilities. Hopefully, this is just anxiety and not my blood sugar dipping dangerously low. Managing hypoglycemia while trying to volley Peter’s advances might be too much to ask of me.

“When was the last time I ate?” I ask suddenly, making his pinpoint pupils jump to my own.

“W-what?” Genuine confusion in his tone of voice. Odd.

“I’m asking when the last time the body I’m in ate,” I say flatly, observing my shaking fingers. “You’re my stalker, you’d know that kind of thing.”

At least he has the common sense to act bashful as he pulls back, rubbing at the back of his head again. I’m beginning to suspect it’s a nervous tick as he avoids looking me in the eye.

At first, I think he’s simply avoiding me calling out his obsessive behavior, but the longer I watch the more I realize what’s going on. He’s thinking, and not at all lightly about what I’ve asked. His brows slowly draw together, his lips creeping into a frown the longer the silence stretches between us. I get the feeling I might have said something wrong.

When he finally speaks his voice is soft, lost like the look he gives me. “I don’t know.”

I frown. How would he not know that? He’s always around the player in the game, always aware of everything going on in their lives. Doesn’t he go on some long rant about knowing our patterns and figuring out a perfect time to approach us? Creating this meeting would have included accounting for stops in town like a late lunch or even a coffee, right?

“You…okay. Since you don’t know and I can’t tell right now if I’m going to be okay would you mind if we move this talk to somewhere with food?”

The confusion and borderline depression are chased away in an instant, replaced with raw awe. “You want to get a meal with me?”

I’m used to having to clarify myself in conversation but the dumbfounded adoration is something I’ll have to get used to if this is how he’s going to react every time I suggest anything that might be vaguely romantic.

“Yes, if for no other reason than to not pass out,” I clarify, standing up before pausing. “Actually, do you have your wallet on you?”

He stands, hand automatically going to his pocket. “Of course. I have to buy you flowers and your shake.”

“Well I’m hoping to avoid that for now,” I say, taking off in the only direction I see buildings over the tops of the trees. “Instead, let’s go do a little shopping.”

Chapter Text

It’s one of man’s most ironic qualities. We crave what we lack, and scorn what we don’t.

In my old life, I lived in a city nestled in the mountains; the tallest building standing ten stories off the ground. There were cows and bison down the road and it took three hours to get anywhere with a relatively close population. I loved the mountains and trees more than anything, but the closed in valley bowl would feel suffocating during winter. It helped block out the worst of the snow and flurries, but things were still harsh enough to block off the passes and make traveling unreasonable for months at a time. Getting to visit bigger cities was always the best suprise when the sun would finally come out.

The sun is shining and it’s warm today. It feels very reminiscent of the trips I’d take out of state.

I let my head fall back as I gaze up at the towering buildings, admiring the decorative molding and interesting architectural choices. It brings forth memories of walking through so many places all at once, the layout feeling very New York while the actual properties looking like something out of Seattle or San Francisco. The juxtaposition between the city I now walk through and the one I lived in makes my chest warm and my heart squeeze.

We pass a square with a fountain and an art exhibit of a giant curving shape that I can’t puzzle out. I look to my companion to ask what it is, momentarily forgetting the man standing beside me isn’t the same person I’m used to crawling through foreign places with. Peter’s blue eyes bore into me from a full head taller and I resist shivering at the laser focus of his stare. My heart thumps painfully as I push back the thought that I won’t be able to ask my partner for facts about the cities we’re in anymore.

I wonder how they’re fairing. I hope the hospice nurse helps them with the transition and funeral. They weren’t very good at planning under stress.

“Any idea what that’s meant to be?” I ask, trying to distract myself.

Peter looks at the sculpture, eyes lazy in their trek away from me. “I think it’s supposed to be waves, or maybe gusts of wind? I read the placard once but I don’t remember.”

I could see that, something about motion and flowing with it. Peter pauses, squinting at the metal whirls for a moment. “I haven’t been to this part of the city in a while. I kind of forgot this place existed if I’m being honest.”

I nod, taking one last glance before moving us along our slow walk. Peter’s been kind enough to match my pace but hasn’t been much of a guide in our wandering. I can’t tell if it’s from nerves or the storm I can see brewing in his mind but he hasn’t said anything unless prompted to. The weighty quiet that’s fallen between us is cushioning enough between conversations, but I need to find a way to bring up food again. My hands are still shaking and I’m trying to figure out where the nearest coffee shop is.

Right now I’m okay with letting myself fall back into old habits. Letting the panic and anxiety bleed into my actions in a way I know he’s going to interpret as bubbly excitement. Entertainer mode is easier to handle than trying to figure out how I got here or why of all the media I’ve consumed this was the game the universe chose. Am I really meant to change things? Does whatever power that brought me here think I’m capable of that?

The final destination movies come to mind as we walk into the harsh sunlight; a stifling feeling that what is meant to happen will eventually happen regardless of my actions. If we’re still required to follow the plotline of the game I need to figure out some ways around the less savory parts. I doubt all of them are avoidable, but at least some could be altered, right?

I bite my nail as I think about tonight and what Peter usually does. I wonder how willing he’d be to change that situation, and if not, what’s the best way for me to circumvent things.

“You mentioned needing food earlier,” the tall man next to me offers, eyes glued to my gnawed-on nail. “I know a cafe near here. It’s not my usual spot, but, their pastries are pretty good and I think they have some more filling options.”

I nod, grateful he’s taking the lead and saving me from my train of thought. “That’d be nice.”

He cracks a grin and turns, motioning in a wide arc down a different stretch of sidewalk. I hesitate, my feet glued to the ground as a small voice reminds me that I don’t know this city. I don’t know this street and I have no idea where his van is right now. How easily could he knock me out and drag me home?

His smile starts to fade, eyebrows creasing as he takes me in. I’ve been warned before that I’m an open book and from the frown forming on his lips Peter can probably read every line of my anxiety in bold italics.

“You don’t trust me?”

A nervous laugh perches in the top of my chest. “Do you blame me?”

His hands drop, as does his voice. “N–no, I guess not. You’ve played the game before?”

Something tells me it’s a bad idea to say yes. If the sentience theory is true and he remembers every reset I don’t want him knowing I’m one of the thousands of people he’s met before. “I’ve seen playthroughs,” I clarify, “and I’ve read my fair share of fanfiction too. I have a pretty good idea how things go.”

“Fanfiction?” He questions, a devious smile perking his lips. “You’ll have to indulge me some time on your…preferences.”

“Don’t be a perv.”

The retort is out before I can think. My nerves towards offending him only last a moment, as his head falls back and he laughs. It’s loud, unabashed, and warm in a way that has my shoulders relaxing. I never imagined what his laugh sounded like before, but I never expected it to be so…normal; so nice. It’s midtoned and straight from his chest with a timbor that has weight to it. It brings a small smile to my face.

“I guess my reputation proceeds me,” he says, bitterness lacing his words but not his smile as he looks back to me. “Sorry, I find you alluring. I’m made for you, after all. But, if you’re ever uncomfortable you can let me know and I’ll stop. I’m here to desire you, not violate you.”

“That’s…good to know,” I say, feeling oddly reassured. I know in game he’s always honest to a disturbing level, but it’s off-putting to experience the real thing. Almost like a conman who only speaks in pickup lines. “Can I set up a boundary of no kidnapping me before the story says you have to?”

His smile wavers. “The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind.”

Despite the air of hurt, I doubt that. But, that’s the best I’m going to get for now and I can see as much in his eyes. “Alright, lead the way.”

He beams, motioning down the same stretch of sidewalk as before. “I promise, I’m only taking you to a cafe. The worst that’ll happen is them burning the coffee or being out of danishes.”

A moment’s longer hesitation and his smile softening with my anxiety and I finally get myself to move, his steps falling in line with mine. As we fall into another silence this one feels more like a competition. I catch him glancing at me out of the corner of his eyes and I do the same, both of us having things to puzzle out about the other.

His emotional capacity and demeanor are different from what I remember in the game. While he still has the same sort of “charisma”, he’s behaving more like an awkward introvert on their first date. His hands are tucked away in his pockets, arms close to his body as he walks a full arm’s length away from me. As we pass groups he offers glares to part them but doesn’t make any effort to keep them from cutting between us which seems out of character.

He’s supposed to be a twitchy, jumpy, clingy stalker who hates anyone coming between him and his love. And yet, as another blue-haired young person walks between us and he brings a hand up to ward them off I recognize the shaking in his fingers. Hypoglycemia and I have been too well acquainted for too long for me not to recognize the signs in others. Those aren’t the shakes of someone out of control of themselves. It’s the shakes of someone in need of a burrito and a nap.

The only thing that seems in character is how he keeps switching between sneaking glances at me and retreating into his own mind. His gaze fogging over with deep thoughts and I’m suspecting he’s trying to figure me out. I don’t blame him. If my life was as predictable and repetitive as a resetting video game I’d be just as skeptical of someone who shows up out of the blue and changes everything.

Before I get too lost in guessing what he’s thinking we’ve arrived at the cafe. Peter opens the door to the red brick building filled with bookshelves and soft jazz music. His hand lands on my mid-back, ushering me into the space as I’m greeted with the smell of old wood and dusty pages, mixed with new coffee and fresh bread. I can feel the restraint in him as he holds back from moving his hand along my body, instead keeping it respectfully above the dip of my waist. I appreciate the gesture of goodwill. It seems he’s being true to his word about respecting my comfort and it sparks the smallest hope that we might be able to work together.

We go up to order, Peter asking for only an Americano before stepping aside. I frown, glancing at his shaking hands as he shoves them back into his pockets. He needs to eat just as much as I do and a couple shots of espresso aren’t going to cut it. Also, an Americano? Doesn’t this man have a sweet tooth and sensitive tongue? I order a mocha, extra shots of espresso, and more food than is probably necessary before he steps up to pay, not once questioning my order.

We find a table and wait as the barista prepares our order, a comfortable silence falling between us as we regard one another from across the small round surface.

Something’s lurking behind those blue eyes but I can’t pick out what it is. I don’t know his expressions well enough to differentiate all of the emotions swimming in his mind yet. Surprise is easy, anger too, but this is something different.

“Can I ask you something?”

I have to pretend I’m not startled by his sudden question. “Ask me anything.”

He quirks a brow at me. “Anything?”

I nod. “Anything. I live life as an open book. If you’re curious enough, or brave enough to ask, then you’ll get an answer. Might not be the one you want, but you’ll get an answer.”

He smirks, something devious in it. “Brave enough, huh? I’ll hold you to that when I start asking more…private questions.”

“Later,” I chastise, the barista stopping by to drop off our orders. I slide half the confections towards Peter and brush off his questioning look before sipping my coffee. “You were saying?”

He ignores me, instead leaning an elbow on the table and pointing towards the mountain of sweets. “Did you order these for me?”

“You didn’t stop me. And I know you like sugary things,” I say, meeting his eyes as I take another sip. “I don’t want to eat alone. Makes me uncomfortable.”

He nods, not pushing the topic further as he grabs a sticky bun of some sort. I start on a chocolate twist and relish in the flavor. It’s buttery and sweet with the chocolate being the perfect amount of bitter. The coffee is almost as good, being a little too sweet for me but I don’t mind.

The silence stretches between us as we eat and I let it, making sure Peter gets at least one pastry down before I start up the conversation again.

“What were you going to ask?”

He doesn’t look at me as he reaches for a croissant. “What should I expect out of today?”

I quirk a brow at him, pulling a veggie quiche my way. “What do you mean?”

“What should I be expecting?” he says again, turning a surprisingly hard look on me. “I haven’t seen a single blank and none of this is in the beta. We have to be in the finalized game now so I’m wondering what I should prepare myself for.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” I say, “I’m just as lost as you are.”

His expression darkens, pupils shrinking to pinpoints that make the hairs on my arms stand up. My heart skips a beat and I can’t ignore the heat from his gaze as he sits forward. Shit, why do I suddenly feel like a snake staring down a honey badger?

“Don’t lie to me,” he rumbles, voice a warning, “You know things about this game. Sure, the lost and scared act was cute at first but now it’s getting annoying, Mom. You’re not Y/N and I want to know what you have planned for us this time.”

I’m at a loss, body moving back instinctively as far as my chair will let me. The movement doesn’t go unnoticed. “I told you already. I’ve seen let’s plays and read some fanfics. I'm not your mom.”

His eyes narrow, hands splaying on the table. “Okay, say I believe you. How are you talking to me? Are you typing in your responses or is this a new path I didn’t know about?”

My mouth is dry and I want to take another sip of my coffee but the caffeine might give me a heart attack. “Because I’m here? I’m just talking. I don’t think I need to explain how speech works.”

“No, you actually do,” he snaps, annoyance bleeding through his words. “Because you’re either Fuboo hoping to fuck with me again or some monsterous A.I. she’s designed to do it for her. I’ve never fully broken character like this and you can’t convince me it wasn’t her doing.”

People around us are still chattering, some might be listening but most are ignoring us. I take a chance at a glance around at the other patrons but noone seems to notice our cold war over our coffees. I wish they did. I wish someone noticed and stepped in. This is not the situation I wanted to be in so soon. I could handle pissing him off later when I’m supposed to but right now is a guessing game of what he’s going to do.

“I’m not a program,” I start slowly, raising my hands in a small plea. “My name is Skylar McDouglas and I’m a real live person. I don’t know how I got here but I am. What will it take for you to believe me?”

There’s a pause, a moment in the roiling fire of his eyes before they clear, a sparkling thought revealed beneath. My stomach flips as his fingers slowly creep over the table, making a steady trek to rest on the metal handle of the fork that came with my quiche. His knuckles pop from how tightly he grips it and I stop breathing.

“Blanks don’t feel pain,” he murmurs, eyes focusing on somewhere around my shoulder, “I doubt an A.I. would either.”

Panic shakes a breathy laugh free from my chest. “You’re not seriously considering killing me in broad daylight?”

Cold dread soaks my bones as he gives me a small smile. My whole body feels like it’s vibrating, every inch screaming to run. I stay put, glued to my chair by the years of fighting I have and even longer of facing down people threatening to kill me. This situation feels almost familiar in the most twisted sense of the word.

“Relax, you won’t feel a thing.”

I forgot how fast this man is. Before I can really comprehend what’s going on he’s reached across the table, grabbing my raised hand by the wrist and pulling it across the marbled surface. His eyes are transfixed on the inside of my arm as he spins the fork around in his hand and plunges it down towards my flesh.

I would try to pull my arm back but his grip is too strong and the contact is already made. Before I can blink the metal is in my arm, digging in a shooting fiery hot pain up to my elbow. I force back the scream that bubbles up my throat, biting down on my cheek until I taste blood as tears blur my vision. I can feel the metal moving, adjusting in my skin until it suddenly stops.

I’m held still as I blink, trying to clear the tears away enough to see Peter’s face. My body’s twisted in the chair, arm still laid down across the table but the rest of me trying desperately to put some distance between this man and myself. And he’s not even looking at me. He’s looking at the blood seeping up from the edges of the forks prongs, pumping in time with my racing heart.

Tears fall freely as my body locks, focused on the sight of my own blood. The illnesses that took me required a lot of doctor’s visits, and while I did have anxiety I never once took the offered relaxers before surgery or exams. Something about an I.V. going into my arm and being able to see that I was still alive, still there in that moment helped ground me and wash away the panic. It seems the same is true to now.

My anxiety is washed away, even as my eyes keep leaking and my heart keeps racing the world slows around us as Peter’s hands start shaking on my arm. He looks up, gaze meeting mine as I bite my cheek again, trying so hard not to start screaming at him. We’re still in a cafe in public and regardless of my want to get away from this man, I remember what path calling the police will put us on.

“You’re heart is beating.”

It might be the most outlandish thing I’ve heard. I hold back the bitter laugh that threatens to come bubbling out and nod instead, biting harder on my cheek. The pain is reaching my shoulder now and my fingers are shaking.

His brows draw together. “You’re in pain?”

“Of course I’m in fucking pain,” I spit, tasting the blood and choking back tears. I have to keep my voice low. “You fucking stabbed me.”

“But, you’re not real,” he argues weakly, hands wavering on my arm. “You can’t feel anything. You’re just code.”

“No. I’m. Not.” I bite, fisting a hand full of napkins. “Now let go before someone sees and calls the cops.”

He does as he’s told. Hands releasing automatically and coming up. “I–I didn’t–you’re not–”

“Shut up,” I bark, pulling my arm back to me and stuffing napkins over the wound as I pull the fork out. My field medic training is screaming at me to stop what I’m doing and go to a hospital but I ignore that part. It won’t do me any good to be answering questions in a hospital room instead of surviving the game.

Peter’s transfixed on the blood droplets left behind on the table and it’s probably for the better as I go to ask the cashier for a first aid kit. I doubt he has any practical training in dressing wounds.

One concerned conversation later I’m in the bathroom staring at a reflection I don’t recognize as I wash blood down the drain and wrap gauze around my arm. I’m doing my best to ignore the face that isn’t quite mine, or the long red hair that definitely isn’t mine as I finish tying off the bandages. Whatever is happening didn’t spare my appearance from the weirdness of this all.

I take a moment, breathing deeply and splashing my face with cold water. My heart rate is coming back down, my lungs moving freely in my ribs again. The adrenaline is still in my system, making me shake as I hold onto the sink. That definitely wasn’t the situation I wanted to be in, especially so soon. But, maybe this is a good thing. The guilt and confusion he felt could come in handy. He’s programmed to be the perfect boyfriend and now that he’s destroyed any chances of that I might have an opening.

If the fucker is willing to stab me during our first “date” then what’s stopping me from using his shame against him?

The cashier is relieved to see me cleaned up as I return the first aid kit and to their surprise, I decline taking home extra supplies. The stab was not as deep as I thought it’d be and missed the major veins and arteries in my arm. It makes me wonder if Peter had in fact intending to only cause me pain after all.

Speaking of the golfball motherfucker. He’s sitting at our table casually scrolling through his phone. I take a moment to peak over his shoulder as I walk by, spying the word isekai at the top of the Wikipedia article he’s reading. Good to know this place has Wikipedia and that he found his way to that genre. Maybe now we can talk without him threatening to kill me.

Chapter Text

She’s swearing and grabbing napkins and all I can focus on are the tears on her lashes. The way her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she pulls her arm towards herself. My eyes find her fingers, just in time to see the fork coming free of her limb. Crimson drops fall from the prongs and pump out of the wound in time with her heartbeat.

She has a heartbeat.

I can see her heart beating.

I can smell her blood and I want to taste those tears in her eyes.

Blanks can bleed. Blanks bleed all the time. For fuck’s sake whoever I kill dies of blood loss. Even the player’s blank bleeds when I smash their head into the window. But it’s always the equivalent of squeezing a water balloon too hard; a small reservoir blowing out the side.

But her blood is pumping.

Probably in a very different way from how mine suddenly is.

My heart is racing, eyes locked on the drops of blood on the table; the red sitting amongst the black and white marbling like gems in snow. My mouth is watering as she gets up and I avoid looking at her out of fear of what expression she’ll see me wearing. I can hear her voice from somewhere behind me, asking the cashier for something, probably a first aid kit.

There’s a conversation as I bully my lungs into working again. Jesus, have I taken a breath since she told me to shut up? My blood is rushing in my ears and my hands can’t stop shaking as I stare at that blood.

It’s real.

She’s real. She’s a person, an actual living, breathing person. Does that mean I am too? Am I finally free of my cursed existence? Can I finally live my own life?

My ears perk when I hear the cashier’s voice again, telling their coworker that they’re going to clean our table. My brain kicks back in, scrambling for a napkin. Quick as I can I dab the blood drops from the table and pocket the cloth, wanting to save those jewels of life. It’s the first sign of hope I’ve gotten and I’m sure as shit not letting them go.

The cashier comes over, offering to take away the quiche and offending fork. I wave them off, pulling out my phone and frantically opening all of the social media apps I use for work.

She gave me a name. She has a full name.

I type “Skylar McDouglas” into every search bar and scroll frantically, looking for any sign of someone even close in appearance to the woman with me.

Nothing.

Not a single person looks even close to her. Even the accounts that don’t have profile pictures are too old to possibly be hers. In a game where your boyfriend is a popular influencer, I can imagine you’d be expected to also have social media. How can she exist in this game without a single account?

TK would have tagged her in the pictures they post with all the Y/N’s for their backstory, but those pictures are gone. Instead they’re some cheesy family photos with their adopted brother and sister smiling wide for the camera.

My skull is buzzing, TV static taking the nametag’s place. It wants back in, it wants me to take on my role and go get the roses. It’s been there this whole time, the ever-present annoyance I can’t get rid of. But, looking at the pictures, it feels like someone’s going into the role, carefully prying that nametag open like a roll of film and painting over the frames they don’t like.

It makes me warm, the world getting brighter and colors getting deeper as I open my search window.

Has there been instances of people being sent to fictional worlds? There’s no way this is a common thing. I would have met someone else by now. As my shaky fingers tap away at the question I take another sip of my Americano to steady myself.

Wait, what the fuck is this?

I pull the cup away from my lips, grimacing at the offensive flavor.

Since when is it this bitter?

I’ve rarely been able to taste Americanos, if I'm being honest, but this is just plain awful and not at all something I would drink normally. I set the cup down, eyes finding the rim of Skylar’s. She ordered a mocha, something to do with chocolate if I’m not wrong.

My hand finds her cup instinctively, pulling it to my nose as I take in a deep breath. Yep, that’s definitely chocolate. I take a sip and let the warmth fill me up and, oh, oh god she’s not much of a sweets person, is she? She must prefer a balance of sweetness and bitterness or saltiness to match. The extra shots of espresso have this tasting like a dark chocolate bar and all she’s eaten so far is the baker’s chocolate twist and she was going to start on that veggie quiche. Wait, does she have a food allergy? She ordered an alternative milk and didn’t touch any of the pastries with cream cheese. Maybe lactose intolerance? I’ll have to find out what milk she ordered so I can buy it later.

I set down her cup, making sure it’s back in the same spot and orientation. I note absently that she isn’t wearing any chapstick or lipgloss that I can taste as I go back to scrolling through my phone.

One article catches my eye. A literary concept spanning from ancient Japenese literature to modern with a similar concept to what’s happening.

Isekai.

Most protagonists are overpowered so they can beat their opponents in fights and the main goal is survival or betterment. It sounds like a solid enough plot and given the shitty nature of this game it makes it the perfect challenge. But, Skylar can’t possibly beat me in a physical fight. I have the strength of the system on my side. Not even Don can stop me. She’s especially handicapped since she can feel pain.

Shit.

Wait.

She can feel pain.

She can feel pain and I just stabbed her.

I just stabbed my darling and caused her actual pain.

My heartrate kicks up a notch as my hands shake around my phone, knuckles white as I stare unseeing at the screen. How the hell did I let this happen? Sure, I’d thought she was Fuboo and I could at least get one shot in on the bitch but why did I have to stab her. The system isn’t controlling me right now and it’s always stopped me from hurting the players so I thought it was okay. I doubt she’ll except my explanation or the fact that I wanted to kill any A.I. standing between me and seeing a player again.

Fuck, no, that’s a piss poor excuse. My heart still beats for her and I had the fucking thought to stab her.

What the fuck is wrong me?

How can I make this up to her?

Her warmth washes over me when she opens the bathroom door, a breeze wafting over the tables to meet me. I revel in it, letting the guilt of what just happened twist my gut. She’s going to be pissed and damn do I deserve it. Fuck, was her joke about me kidnapping her earlier really a joke? I hadn’t even thought of that. The system would let me take her regardless after day three so I honestly hadn’t entertained the idea.

It doesn’t sound like too bad of a plan now. Especially with how badly I’ve already fucked things up.

Fuck, if I can’t get her to forgive me maybe that’s the best route. In for a penny in for a pound, after all.

No. No, stop that. I’m a good boyfriend. The perfect boyfriend doesn’t kidnap his love. I’m better than this. Fix this. I need to fix this.

She turns the first aid kit back over to the cashier, voice soothing their worries in a way I wish she’d talk to me. I could use the comfort right now, even though I know I don’t deserve it. I keep my eyes down as she comes over, gaze tracking my body in a burning trail. I pretend to read my phone as she lowers herself into her seat, body too stiff.

I give myself a moment before looking up, blue eyes meeting her tear stained ones. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of them.

I’ve always known my eyes are special. Noone else in this world has eyes like mine: where their pupils can shrink or grow, or glow in the dark. I’ve always thought it was simply a trait given to me to make me more appealing to the more thirsty fans. But looking at hers I wonder if others could be like me. If other people with special eyes exist.

Her eyes are a different color. And I’m not just talking about the whites being tinted pink. No. Her eyes are no longer the cottony zenith they were before. Instead, that dark prussian ring has expanded to take up her entire iris. It reminds me of gunmetal and as she levels her hard stare on me it feels almost as threatening.

I shift in my seat, hating myself even more for finding that look alluring. The way my body is heating up under her glare and my blood is heading south is very unfortunate right now.

“Is–is your arm okay?” My voice cracks as I ask, eyes finding the bandages and gauze. The sight makes my mouth go dry.

“You missed any arteries so I’m not going to bleed to death,” she says, not at all hiding her displeasure. “Lucky for both of us I’m not dumb enough to retaliate.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know…I thought…Fuck, I–”

She holds up a hand, cutting me off. “I get it. Just know that next time you pull some shit like that I’m likely to try and defend myself.”

And I’m likely to kill you for it, I think, hearing the implication in her voice. She fully knows what happens when a player tries to fight back.

“It’s not going to happen again, love. I promise,” I rush, sitting forward as my hands reach toward her. “I thought you were Fuboo. Or some other program she made to keep us apart–”

“I said I get it,” she snaps, eyes finding my extended fingers. I freeze. “You’ve mentioned hating your mom in other scenes. If Fuboo is half as lovely in here as she is in my world I can only imagine what you’ve been through. That being said, threaten or hurt me again and I will make you watch when I put a knife through my throat.”

My heart stops, a cold stone plunging my stomach to my feet. “You can’t be serious.”

“I've already died once,” she shrugs. “At least this time would be faster.”

I’m at a loss for words. I stare at her, trying to find the proper response as I lean forward. “Wait. Please, darling, just–”

“Do not touch me without my permission,” she growls, fists clenching at her sides and making the muscles in her arms jump.

I retreat, tucking my hands into my lap as I swallow hard. The sight of those arms combined with her glare is doing something to me that doesn’t have a place in this conversation. I should be apologizing not wondering if she can pin me to a wall.

And yet, I feel my cock getting harder.

God, I’m such a loser.

I shake it off, instead focusing on steadying the beating of my own heart. I take a few breaths, the smell of dust and grounds filling my nose as she reaches to grab her cup. She's not looking at me as she holds onto it, finger ticking on the plastic lid. Her demeanor is so different from before. Where did the scared and confused woman go? The one who’d been pretending to be entranced with the city while trying to sneak glances at me?

The change is jarring, and not at all in a bad way. There’s more to this woman than meets the eye, I’m sure of it.

“Okay,” I breathe, wringing my hands, “Okay, I won’t. I’m sorry. Please, let me make this up to you.”

A spark, something dark and pleased in her eyes that has me catching my breath. “What are you willing to do?”

I sit forward, heart leaping. “What do you want me to do? Do you want to go somewhere? Get out of here? I know it might be uncomfortable staying here after what happened.”

“I told the cashier I had an accident after dropping my fork,” she says, rolling her eyes, “They were already suspicious of us when I went up. If we suddenly leave someone’s going to think the worst of you.”

As they should, but that’s not important right now. She’s got a point and as I look around I notice the stares of the employees. The side-long glances they toss our way while scrubbing the spotless counters.

Shit, I hope none of them recognized me. Does my influence actually count now? Would anyone know me from my channel now that they aren’t blanks? Fuck, wait that’s a problem for another time. Focus on what’s important. Focus on her.

“Okay,” I agree, grabbing my coffee cup to hide the shaking in my hands. Her eyes latch onto my fingers. “You’re right. So, what do you want to do? What can I do?”

Her eyes stay on my fingers, a frown curling her lips. She sits forward, pushing another pastry my way as she grabs her own. “You can eat something and we can talk like normal people.”

How she can stomach anything right now is beyond me. I’m a coil of nerves and anything I send down my throat I feel might bounce right back up again. Still, I nod, fingers wrapping around my forgotten croissant from earlier.

When I go to take a bite I don’t taste the pastry, too preoccupied with the sight of her taking a sip of her mocha. Her lips wrap perfectly around where mine had been and I wonder if she can taste me on the lid. How fast would she toss me aside if she knew how hot my blood feels at the thought of my saliva going down her throat?

Wait, no stop. Not the time. Not the place.

That’s a thought for tonight when I revisit the napkin in my pocket.

Oh, god, how much would she hate me for that?

After a minute of thick silence she sits forward, putting down her coffee and uneaten pastry. My eyes find her fingers, still shaking but not nearly as bad as before. Are the nerves still there? Is this personality change just a by product of her being mad?

“Can we have an actual conversation now?” She asks.

I swallow hard, the croissant nearly making me choke. “Yes, dear.”

She huffs, sitting back. “Do you believe me now that I’m actually here?”

I nod.

“Good. And I saw you looking up isekai. Do you have a basic grasp of that now?”

Another nod. Another hard swallow.

“That’s going to make this a lot easier,” she sighs, running a hand over her hair. “Look, as much as you’ve already proven to be unreliable I need you to work with me.”

My brows knit together. Unreliable? “Need me?”

“Pete–YB” she corrects, shaking her head, “I’m stuck in your game. I don’t know exactly why I got sent here but I figure so long as I am my best chance of survival is getting the only other sentient character on my side.”

“Meaning me?”

“No, I totally mean Don and his apartment full of junk,” she draws, rolling her eyes and scrunching her nose in a way that I’m trying so hard not to find cute. “Fucking, of course I mean you. What other sentient character is there?”

She’s got a point. “Okay, but do you really need to worry about survival all that much? I’m not going to hurt you and we broke out of character so–”

“For how long?”

I pause, caught off guard by her interruption. “What?”

“How long are you going to stay broken for?” She asks, crossing her arms. “Are you broken for good or are you going to revert back at any moment? If I say one of the dialogue options are you right back to chopping my legs off to keep me with you?”

“I–” I want to argue with her. I do. But the nametag is still there, still buzzing just outside my skull. Even now I’m having to fight the urge to go buy her roses.

She must see my answer in my eyes because she sits back, tsking as she does. “That’s why I need you to agree to work with me.”

I quirk my brow, watching her fingers tense around her biceps. “This is a very sudden change of pace.”

“Yeah, well, you pissed me off,” she mutters. “It usually takes a lot to get me angry but you managed it in record time. I’ll go back to being the more patient girl from earlier after you show me you aren’t going to kill me.”

My heart aches at the way her hands waver on her arms, toying away at the stitches in her sleeves. She’s pissed, sure, and it’s probably the only reason she’s still sitting here and able to talk so bluntly with me, but she's also scared and I can see it in the taught line of her shoulders.

She’s a coil ready to spring if I put the wrong pressure on her.

So, let’s try no pressure at all.

“I’ll do whatever you want, firecracker.”

The glare she shoots my way is scorching and makes me want to curl into myself and die.

“Cool it with the pet names,” she hisses, “You can call me Sky, Darling, or Love, but nothing else. Got it?”

“Of course,” I rush, wondering where the sudden venom comes from. Shit, I’m bad at this.

She huffs, sitting back and taking a moment to compose herself. I can see the anger starting to leave her and it fills me with a little bit of hope. I let her have the silence, willing it to cool that fire behind her eyes.

If I can prove myself and get her back to the headspace she was in before this will be so much easier. I’ve dealt with rude players before and so far her anger isn’t any worse than what I’ve already been through. But it will be so much easier if she’s not the one guiding the entire conversation.

She breathes, head tilting back to stare at the ceiling as she talks. “Look, there’s no chance of me ‘beating you’ at your own game. I’m not turning this into some sick contest of who can lob off the most limbs the fastest. So, the only other routes I can think to take are survival and making things better.”

I nod even though she can’t see me. “Survival should be easy with me on your side.”

“I don’t give a shit about survival,” she says, eyes locking with mine as she suddenly sits forward. “Like I said, I’ve already died once. It’s how I got here. If I'm here to survive this game would be an easy win, and I’m too stubborn to take the easy route.”

My stomach flips at her tone, at that hard stare. “Are you saying–”

“I want to keep everyone alive,” she affirms, grabbing her mocha and sitting back. “Or at least the main cast. You can kill as many random old fucks as you want. I don’t care. But TK, Don, and Lucy need to stay alive.”

“What?” I stutter, taken aback. “Why do you care? They’re just blanks with dialogue.”

“Were you any different before I showed up?”

“I–” I stop, wanting to argue with her but the words stick in my throat. I want to say she’s wrong, that I was alive and real before her, but was I really? I couldn’t even take a piss without the system allowing it. “I guess not. But why care about those assholes? They’re distractions programmed to get in your pants. It pisses me off.”

“I don’t care,” she says, voice flat in a way that stops me. “I’m telling you all of this so we can work together. Cut a deal. I’m not going to let any of them get to me and in exchange you let them live.”

I can feel my blood pumping in my viens, hot with the jealousy this conversation is sparking. Why does she care so much about some deadbeat perverts she’s never met before? They’re going to get in the way of our happy ending at this rate and I won’t let that stand.

A familiar feeling creeps up my spine, tickling the TV static in the back of my skull. My hand itches for my knife.

“And what if I don’t keep them alive?” I ask, eyes narrowing. “I could go kill them right now. It’d make things a lot easier for us.”

“Then I’d kill myself,” she deadpans, voice so casual it’s caustic. “Like I said, I’m not afraid of dying. It’s how I got here. Hell, maybe next time I’d be sent to a more…pleasant game. I could try right now. It’d make things a lot easier for me.”

I bite back the growl at my own words being used against me. Oh, she’s smart. Too smart. I like it. My blood is heading south again at the challenging light in her eyes and I have to remind myself we're sitting in a cafe having a conversation. Now is not the time to imagine fucking her till her expression turns to something more submissive.

“Fine,” I relent, “but I have a condition of my own.”

She nods. “Of course.”

“You need to take me and my feelings seriously,” I say, tone unmoving as I hold her eyes. “I’m stuck with my feelings for you. I’m made to love you so I’m fucked if you take advantage of me.”

She doesn’t even blink before responding. “I was already planning on it.”

My heart stops, lungs freezing in my chest as I stare at her. There’s not a hint of anything but brutal honesty as she watches me, idly taking a sip of her mocha again. “What?”

She cocks her head. “YB, how many times do I have to repeat myself? I’m stuck in your game. Sure, it’s coerced as fuck and you’ve already proven to be a dangerous maniac but I wasn’t planning on dumping you. I don’t give a shit if it’s because of the game or you somehow genuinely fell in love with me in the last couple of hours but I don’t play with people’s feelings. I’m going to respect you and if somehow I end up falling for the lunatic who stabbed me then it’d be better if we have a good foundation already started, don’t you think?”

I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out. My lungs aren’t working as I watch the small grin form on her lips. We’re talking about the start of our forever and she’s smiling like this is a conversation about the weather. Either this woman is going to be my salvation or my damnation and I’m starting to like the idea of either.

“If things don’t work out,” I say, swallowing hard, “can you kill me?”

Her eyes go wide, shock fresh as a giggle bubbles up out of her. She’s caught off guard and it shows in the way she brings up her hand to stifle her laughter. It makes me smile, the nerves in my chest relaxing the smallest bit.

“I’m not making any promises of that,” she says, “Killing people isn’t exactly something I do in my free time.”

“That’s fair,” I say, letting out my own small laugh. “I guess that’s a bit much to ask right now.”

“It is, but the rest isn’t,” she says, sitting forward and offering her hand. “So, do we have a deal?”

I stare at her extended arm, the bandages still fresh and white over her skin. Small red blooms are forming on them already and my eyes catch on them. Little jewels of life. Proof of the life I could have.

I wrap my hand around hers and it feels like I’m shaking hands with destiny.

“Anything for you, darling.”

Chapter Text

”You’re going to watch me sleep regardless of what I say, aren’t you?”

“...is that going to be a problem?”

“What if I offered something better?”

“Like what?”

“Stay the night with me. Not to have sex, but…stay with me so you can wake up next to me. Doesn’t that sound better?”

Horny psychos are the easiest to read, the easiest to please. When they’re used to taking something without permission, the easiest way to deter them is by giving it willingly. Or at least, that’s what’s worked for me in the past. The thrill goes out of it, the adrenaline of doing something wrong is robbed of the moment and they no longer idolize what they desire. I can only hope the same is true for Peter.

The shower is running beside me, the water drowning out the dry heaving I’m questioning resuming as I stare into the toilet. The porcelain is cool under my hands and I’m grateful Lulu keeps the apartment so clean as I slump on the linoleum floor. I guessed right. Since Peter and I went on a “date” Lulu’d be in her room with whoever her current “study partner” is. Sneaking Peter in and shoving him into my room was easier without having to see them naked in the kitchen and gave me the time to get in here before my stomach tried to empty itself.

I’m really stuck in this game. This is really my life now. The adrenaline and faux confidence from the cafe abandoned me when we went shopping for something for Peter to wear to bed, leaving me feeling shaken and hollow in a way I did my best to hide. By the nearly reverent look in Peter’s eye I know I faked the anger well enough to make him less worried about me.

In reality, I’ve been trying to push out the memories of a different set of eyes.

Out of all the games I’ve played, why did it have to be the one with a character exactly like my ex?

I know I said earlier that I was drawn in by Peter’s sentience and the complexities of who he could be behind the game, but that’s not really what drew me in. It’s what made me stay in the fandom, sure, but what brought me in was how charming he was to the player and how closely it lined up with my past relationship. His mannerisms, the way he speaks, moves, fuck even smells, is almost identical but this time he’s a full head taller than me and freakishly strong. I barely made it away from the last fucker alive, but this?

I…I can’t…

I shake my head, standing up from the toilet, not bothering to flush the empty water. The coffee and pastries from earlier haven’t made a reappearance and now I’m glad I didn’t eat anything else after the cafe.

My arm aches as I undress, getting ready to step into the scalding water and boil away my problems. I remember to tie up my newfound curls before hopping in, trying to scare away the worst of my memories. My therapist once told me that my PTSD would go away with time, but it never did. It only ever made me bitter, scared, and violent towards certain personality types.

I know I told Peter I wasn’t going to take advantage of him, but, with the way he is and the past I have…I shouldn’t have made that promise.

I already invited him to bed. I’ve already used his desires against him. Sure, I’m giving him what he wants now, but all to give me an advantage later. The longer I spend around him the less jumpy I’ll get. The less I’ll want to run. And the nicer I am to him the more he’ll trust me when it comes time for us to face the…harder scenes. Hell, maybe I can keep him from kidnapping me altogether?

I brush my hands over the scabs on my arm, looking down at the clotted wound. This body heals faster than my last, but I guess the lack of chemo helps with that. Yeah…maybe I should just stick to the plot. As curious as I am about breaking the game, Peter’s already proven too unpredictable when not given a script to follow. I remember the days well enough that I can probably navigate things the way I want to, and avoid any more unnecessary injuries.

It’s still hard to believe the crazy bastard stabbed me. Fuck, I know he hates his mom but really? In broad daylight in a coffee shop? At least give me the dignity of dying mugged in an alley so I can defend myself instead of sitting there trapped by social contract.

He’s lucky I talked the barista out of calling the police on him. They saw what happened and asked if I wanted help. I had to make up some excuse about him being a schizophrenic friend of mine that forgot to take his meds and one of his hallucinations is seeing bugs under people’s skin. God, I hate doing that. I hate faking mental illnesses, it paints people with those disorders in a bad light but it was the only thing I could think of.

I mean, maybe this would be easier if Peter did have a mental disorder I could figure out. Psychopathy is so complex and broad that even if he fit the stereotype it would be hard to navigate. I’m no psychologist but having a better label to his problems would be easier than dealing with how his is now…whatever that is. Why is he like this?

The question itches at the back of my mind as I step out of the shower, turning off the water and letting the steam blanket the room. It’s nice, relaxing almost, but I can’t stay in here much longer. He’s going to get worried…if he isn’t already sitting outside the door.

I change into the leggings and tank top I brought with me, loosely braiding my hair to the side as I walk out of the bathroom. I pause, grabbing a box of tissues before venturing into the apartment. Lulu is still nowhere in sight and the banging and moaning have finally stopped. I’m more than a little grateful for the lack of sound. I really don’t need Peter getting turned on while lying next to me. Or I guess…more turned on?

He’s sitting on the corner of the bed when I walk in, hands folded obediently in his lap like he’s scared to touch anything. I raise an eyebrow at him when his eyes blow wide at the sight of me, mouth falling open in some unspoken greeting.

I flick my head back toward the door. “You can take a shower if you want. Or at least, go change in the bathroom and brush your teeth.”

He deflates a little, apparently having whatever scenario he’d been daydreaming about crushed by my deadpan attitude. “I don’t need to shower.”

I snort, too tired to acknowledge my nerves around this man. “You reak of cigarette butts and anxiety. At least go use some mouthwash.”

He seems taken aback by my curtness but I still need time to myself before fully indulging him tonight. He’s hesitant, but nods, standing and taking the bag of clothes we bought with him. He leaves the door cracked and when I hear the bathroom door close I sigh in relief, turning to the tall standing mirror in the corner of the room.

I’m pretty sure this wasn’t meant to be in the original room design, but then again a lot of things have changed. The walls are still the horrendous pink with red heart wallpaper and the closet is still the standalone wardrobe it was in the game but some things are off. Just like the outfit I started in the clothes strewn across the floor are more towards my fashion tastes than what the player model would wear. And, unlike the game, the bed is a queen-sized mattress instead of what I guess was meant to be a full. Odd small details that make me think the game is still active, regardless of Peter’s lack of scripting today.

It even smells like my old room. Musk and green tea incense stick sit on the night stand, half burnt with ashes piling in the simple wooden dish below. It’s an oddly comforting sight as I set down the box of tissues. They’re my favotire kinds of incense and the game including them feels both intrusive, and oddly thoughtful.

Then there’s the conundrum of my body. I walk up to the mirror, lifting my arms slightly as I turn in small circles to look at the form before me. There’s an alien sense of familiarity to the reflection, almost like staring at a twin who decided they didn’t want to look like their sibling anymore.

Random curls of the strawberry blonde fall free from the braid I messily put together, framing the cheeks and face that look similar enough to how I used to. It’s odd that the game body still has my scars, even the ones on the backs of my hands from punching people at protests and years of mechanic work. I pull my shirt up, wondering if I still have the scars from any of my surgeries, but the dimpled reminders are nowhere to be seen; instead replaced by tattoos I’ve been avoiding acknowledging until now.

If I haven’t had any of my surgeries do I still have my uterus? Obviously, I still have my stomach and lower intestines so that’s a relief. But, if I still have my reproductive organs would that mean I’m also on birth control? Fuck, I should have checked in the shower if this body has some sort of device like an IUD. I’ll have to do that the next time I go to the bathroom. I can’t be too safe around Peter and his breeding kink.

“You’ve been staring at yourself for a while now.”

I start at the voice, turning to find Peter sitting on the floor by the side of the bed. He’s leaned up against the mattress, arm lazily draped over his knee as he watches me with an innocent sort of curiosity. When did he come back in?

I lower my hands, dropping the hem of my tanktop and getting a perfect view of the way his eyes follow the fabric. He swallows, hands clenching and unclenching unconsciously and I am once again made very aware of just how carnally this man desires me. Horny psychos are the easiest to read and some small part of me wants to crush that lust right now by admitting my sexuality. But, I doubt it would be helpful in the long-run for him to know I’m grey-sexual. Hell, he’d probably take it as a challenge.

I turn back to the mirror, trying to ignore the way his gaze makes my skin crawl and my body heat up at the same time. I have to entertain him tonight, make him comfortable so we can start building trust. I can untangle his attraction and that warmth in my core later. It’s probably just nerves, anyway.

“I’m trying to see what’s different,” I explain, turning to the side to admire the weight I have back in my waist, my chest. God, I missed having an ass.

“What’s the biggest difference so far?”

His expression is naively blank as I shoot him a wry grin. “The lack of cancer.”

I’d gotten a taste of his shock earlier at the cafe, the way he recoils and loses the ability to speak. It’s almost cute when his brows crease and his eyes search my face for any hint of a joke. If I didn’t already know him I’d feel almost bad for throwing out statements like that, but his reactions are my only solice against his violence.

“I didn’t get isekai’ed in the normal way, YB,” I laugh, turning back to the mirror and bringing my shirt back up. “I was chronically ill for most of my life and when they found the cancer I wasn’t at all surprised. I was used to being sick anyway, ya know?”

“No, I don’t.”

His voice is so flat it makes me turn to him, finger still holding up my shirt. When his stoic eyes don’t waver to my waist I know he’s being serious. But, how could he go his whole life without getting sick? I know this is a game and all but is there no illness here?

What a blessing that is.

“Oh, uh, well…” I stop, letting the silence stretch as I try to find the words. I give up, turning back to the mirror. “I’m glad you’ve never had to deal with that. Being chronically ill isn’t exactly fun.”

“Tell me about it.”

I pause, glancing at him in the mirror. “What?”

“I want to know more about you,” he says with a shrug, “So, tell me about it.”

“I–” I can’t remember the last time someone genuinely cared enough to ask about my conditions. “It’s not exactly the most…palatable topic.”

The grin he shoots me is mischievous, eyes swimming with a morbid sense of humor. “Try me.”

I take a deep breath, turning back to him. “Alright, you asked for it. Genetically speaking, I probably shouldn’t have been born. My sister and I were both born all fucked up. 7 weeks early with fluid in our lungs and overall underdeveloped. But, we pulled through and made it to adulthood.

“When I was twenty-two I was diagnosed with PCOS–a disorder where my ovaries don’t work–and it came with a whole list of complications on its own. When they went in to look at the cysts they found such an amount of endometriosis taking up my pelvis that I was admitted for emergency surgery and they had to take out my uterus, most of my lower intestines, and give me a colostomy bag instead.”

“Endo…what was that?” He asks, looking far less uncomfortable with this talk than I thought he would be.

“Endometriosis. It’s where the lining of my uterus that sheds with my period grows out and into my other organs.”

Bewilderment is fresh on his face. “And it cost you your stomach?”

I nod, feeling strangely calm while talking about this. My illnesses were something constant, a problem to be solved and overcome in my past life and bringing them up feels like reminiscing on an old friendship, as fucked up as that sounds. Peter’s curiosity and the raw caring in his eyes is also helping to ease my anxiety. I never thought he would actually be interested in this.

“Not exactly my stomach, but close enough. I had about a ten-year countdown to the end of my life at that point. Can’t exactly eat a lot if you don’t have organs to push the food through.

“I thought, ‘this is it. The worst is behind me and I can try to live the rest of my life the best I can’. But, of course, it wasn’t over and they found the cancer in my ovaries at the checkup after the surgery. It was downhill from there and my chances of surviving were…I mean…I’m here now so you know the rest.”

He nods, genuinely apologetic as he shifts on his hips. “That’s…you went through a lot.”

I shrug, feeling a little numb. It’s odd to talk about it like this, so openly, with someone who’s never even had a cold. “Yeah, well…Now you know why I’m not afraid of death.”

He nods again, eyes turning distant as his jaw works. I don’t know if he’s trying to find something to say but I don’t think I can handle the nervous tension in his shoulders anymore.

“Don’t feel bad for asking,” I assure, turning back to the mirror. “I don’t mind talking about these things. We all become disabled in one way or another when we get old and I figure it’s better to talk about it openly now while I still can. Helps destigmatize it and spread information for those who have to deal with the same problems later on, yah know?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “That’s a very selfless thing to do.”

I raise a brow. “Is it?”

I don’t see him nod, but I can hear it in his words. “I can imagine people weren’t the kindest to you when you were sick. It must have taken a lot of strength to be so open and informative. It’s a really kind thing to do for people who wouldn’t appreciate or deserve it.”

I freeze, my lungs pausing as my eyes stare unseeing into the mirror. There’s no way he would know how right he is. There’s no way he could have guessed how often I got harassed or screamed at for being openly disabled in public. I don’t want him knowing how often I wished to hear those exact words from somebody while trying to stay strong in the face of those who didn’t understand.

“I..I guess so. Thank you.”

Another shifting sound. He must have nodded again. “So, what’s the biggest difference so far? Besides the illnesses.”

I swallow, taking a breath. I’m grateful for his subject change.

“My face looks the same as it did before chemo, back when I had some meat on my bones. I have my ass and hips back which is nice, and the chest is about the same too…I’m the same height I think…I guess the body shape is me at my healthiest.”

“Sooo…what’s different?”

I hum, turning while pulling down the side of my legging to reveal the tattoos on the side of my thigh. I can see Peter lock up behind me in the mirror, breath coming quicker as his cheeks turn pink. I resist the urge to smile. Teasing him is kind of fun but the tattoos are more important to me right now.

The right side is made up of science; physics equations and drawings mixed with language scraps and diagrams of different structures. Small pieces of art and poetry snake up my side and meet the monogram of the roman alphabet on my ribs before dissipating into jumbled languages scattering out like stars in the sky.

The left side is different. Spices and herbs decorate my thigh, bleeding in flowering vines up to where it blends with swirling cracks of a geode carved in monochrome over my ribs. Small hints of animals are scattered throughout; a fox’s tail peaking out from behind a parsley sprig, a turtle’s shell with a hyacinth flower laying over it.

I turn, pulling my shirt up to just below my breasts as I peer at my back. I ignore the way Peter inhales, ignore that he gets a full view of my lightly defined abs and ribs. I don’t need to see his face to tell he’s already drooling.

Down my spine drips the cycles of the moon, my freckles perfectly scattering in the different slivers to mimic its surface. There are tattoos on my ears as well, black cuffs that scale the shell while silicone gauges stretch my lobes. For the first time, I notice the rose gold nostril piercing that nearly blends into my face.

“It’s like…” I try to find the words, “The body shape is the same, right? But this is what I wanted to look like. I never got the opportunity to stretch my ears or get any tattoos. I’m glad the game kept the joke one, though. I was allergic to cinnamon, so I always said I was gonna get cinnamon sticks tattoos on my thigh.”

Peter quirks a brow as I smile at him. “Why would you get that?”

I grin wider, too pleased with myself. “I could tell the person to ‘prick the stick’ if I needed an EpiPen.”

He tries. He really does. He tries not to laugh and I can see him fighting the urge until he eventually gives in with a soft chuckle.

“That’s fucking awful.”

“I know.”

“It would’ve worked.”

“Fuck yeah it would’ve.”

He laughs again, the hand resting on his knee coming up to rub his closed eyes. I take the moment to study him, memorize the way he looks right now. I’ve seen plenty of fan art of his smiles, but none of them looked this genuinely happy. None of those smiles had the same lazy laughs, the crumpled sleep clothes, and closed eyes.

I hate to admit it, but I like his smile. I really like his laugh.

“So the tattoos and piercings are the only differences?” He asks, composing himself.

I shake my head, curling one of my loose locks around my finger. “This is different. My hair was blonde before, and I had an undercut. I didn’t have freckles either.”

I take one last glance in the mirror, honing in on the one feature I hope isn’t different.

I sigh in relief. “My eyes didn’t change.”

“Is that important to you?”

I turn back to him. “They change shades of blue with my mood. So yeah.”

I’m deciding right now that shock is my favorite emotion to see on him. I could sustain myself on his confusion if the game would let me. His mouth opens and closes, gaping like a fish. It’s cute at first, but as time passes and he flushes darker and darker I become acutely aware that this reaction isn’t normal. Even for him.

Then I see the slightest movement in the front of his pants and he shifts to hide it.

Right, I forgot who I’m dealing with.

Blue is his color, and anything I do with it is bound to excite him in one way or another. I can only imagine what’s running through that head of his. I’m half tempted to ask what he thought of to get so turned on but I decide against it. Maybe another time if I want to be repulsed.

I force a light laugh. “You really are excitable, aren’t you?”

A joke, an olive branch in the awkward silence for him to take. He looks uncomfortable enough as is, his eyes distant and hand coming up to rub absently at the back of his head. I don’t need him closing himself off again over something as mundane as a boner.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, turning his face away from me.

I frown. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

He sighs, “There are parts of me that I can’t control. Things the role makes me do that I don’t necessarily like or even want. Getting excited over a fucking color is really inconvenient at the best of times.”

“I can imagine,” I say, readjusting my clothes before padding over to perch on the edge of the bed. Peter stiffens at the closeness, my calf barely touching his upper arm as he shifts on the floor. “What does it feel like?”

“A boner?”

“No, you doof,” I say with a small smile. “I can guess what that feels like. No, the…what did you call it? Role?”

Peter stares up at me, eyes lost in hard thought as his hands grip the air again. I wonder if I’ve asked the wrong question–made him angry–before he sighs.

“You know those safety-pin-name-badge-things you get at work?”

I quirk a brow, not quite sure where this is going. “Sure?”

“It feels like one of those is in the back of my skull,” he says flatly, fingers finding the same spot he’s always rubbing. “It…’clips’ in and suddenly my body’s moving on its own. I say things and do things without having to put in any effort because the role does them for me. Kind of like I’m watching a movie from somewhere in my head.”

I frown at the way his fingers are shaking. “But, you’ve broken the fourth wall before?”

He nods, no longer looking at me. “I can deviate if I put in a lot of effort. But it takes too much energy and isn’t worth it. Once I’ve changed something, it stays that way and I don’t have to try again.”

I hum, not quite knowing what to say. The way he’s talking about it feels strangely out of place. His deadpan voice and matter-of-fact statements feel so contradictory to the horrifying implication of not being in control of your own body. How terrifying is it to be shoved into your mind and watch as you’re forced to do things over and over? Is this twisting in my gut how he felt when I was talking about my illnesses?

“I’ve never…” he breaks me out of my thoughts, biting his lip as he pauses. “I’ve never actually told anyone about this before. I’ve tried. I’ve told players that I can’t control myself, but I’ve never…”

He’s never had someone to talk to about this, I realize. A cold stone sinks in my stomach as he starts digging imaginary dirt from under his nails. He looks so lonely, so lost. He may be hamming it up to get me to feel sorry for him, and it may be working, but I’m not sure if this is acting.

My fingers find his shoulder before I can think better of it, feeling him jump through the light grey fabric. He looks up at me and I try to give him a reassuring smile. “I’m sorry you have to go through that.”

He swallows hard, eyes softening as he bites his lip. “It’s okay. It’s worth it.”

I shake my head, not sure if it is. He frowns, reaching up to wrap his fingers around mine. The contact makes me freeze.

“I mean it,” he says, voice stronger than I expect, “I’m fine with my role. It lets me be with players…with you.”

His voice trials off, the last two words so quiet I almost don’t hear them. He grimaces when I don’t react, looking away and finding interest in a loose thread on his blue flannel pants. I watch his fingers work as he worries his lip. This is a different side to him, one I didn’t expect.

“This…this may be a bit forward of me,” he says, “but at some point tonight, can I touch you? N–Not sexually, of course! Just…platonically? Like a hug or something? It’s been so long since…”

My brows crease, fingers tightening on his shoulder unconsciously. “Don’t you touch the players all the time?”

He shakes his head, still not looking at me. “That’s…that’s the role. But I get it if you’re uncomfortable with it. After today I’m surprised you’re even talking to me.”

I role my eyes, choosing not to acknowlege that last line. While the guilty conscience has been showing up less and less in conversation he still tries to show how bad he feels about this afternoon, or at least, how bad he should feel. I can’t tell if he’s as lacking in empathy and shame as the game makes him out to be or if his struggle to eat after stabbing me was a sign of genuine remorse.

I focus in on the part of my leg pressed to his arm, my fingers on his shoulder as I flex my grip. My stomach isn’t in a knot, my heart isn’t racing, and my lungs are taking in air just fine. There’s no adrenaline or cortisol clogging my brain and I’m not shaking from low blood sugar. In this moment, here with Peter, I am somehow completely calm. It’s a strange realization, almost as strange as the thought that I wouldn’t exactly mind him touching me platonically.

His arm pressed to my leg is pleasantly warm, his shoulder tight but solid under my hand. This contact is okay, it feels good to be this close to him. Maybe we can take things slow and test boundaries as they come up?

“Yeah,” I say slowly, feeling him tense under my hand. “Yeah, you can touch me. We can start with a hug.”

He whips around, shock so beautifully raw in his eyes as I stand up. “Do you mean it?”

“Yeah,” I say, facing him and spreading my arms wide. “We’re going to be sleeping in the same bed anyway. Might as well get used to one another.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation. His hand coming up, fingers half curled around the air as his lips work around unspoken words. His expression is lost, a mixture of things I can’t make out as he sits forward.

I had meant for him to stand up and wrap his arms around my shoulders, but I guess he had other plans. He folds his legs under him, resting on his knees as his arms snake around my waist and pull me closer. He buries his face in me, nuzzling into my sternum as my hands instinctively find his shoulder blades. Warmth spreads through me, my face flushing as I look down at him. I can feel every line of him pressing into me, long and lean at all points of contact.

Peter stays like that for a long moment, breathing deeply through his nose with his hands tightly woven around me. His fingers grip my top when I try to adjust my feet and he hums in a way I have to ignore. The way his voice rumbles over my skin is something I’ll unpack later.

He looks up at me, something akin to devotion in his eyes. “Thank you.”

I can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous this man is. You’d think I’d just handed him the entire world. “You’re a dork.”

He smiles, wide and unabashed as his cheeks heat. He buries his face back into me, pulling me toward him as he sinks back on his heels. It’s an awkward position, one that brings his face to my stomach as I stand on either side of his legs, but I let him have the contact. I hold him back, stroking the back of his head and shoulders in slow circles as he sinks further into himself.

Horny psychos are the easiest to please.

A grin splits my lips. What am I gonna do with this guy?

Chapter Text

“W–What?”

My voice cracks, thick with the haze that my mind's been in since she let me touch her.

God, she’s soft.

Not like the other blanks. The blanks were soft too, but soft in the way one would describe silk laid over a countertop. Surface level smooth and pleasant to the touch, but not much give underneath.

Skylar has give. Skylar is soft in a different way. Her skin is still smooth, and pleasant to run my hands over. But, when I dig my fingers in, I find them sinking into the meatiness that is her thigh. My nails can leave trails in the muscles of her back.

And she’s so warm. I wonder vaguely if the other blanks were something more akin to a heat lamp, like the one I have set up for Rat at home. Something to make superficial warmth, a nice place to lay for a while until it becomes too much. Skylar doesn’t feel anything like that. She feels warm to the core, a heat that slowly radiates through my skin instead of sinking straight for my bones.

My mouth is watering again and I have to swallow before I look up at her.

“What did you say?”

She frowns down at me and this angle is something I’ve always needed to see. “I said get on the bed and wait for me to get things situated.”

In an instant, my face is magma, a rushing of the molten blood in my ears as it divides between my cheeks and cock. God, if she keeps looking at me like that I’ll let her do whatever she wants to me. There’s no way she’s implying anything sexual, but with that firm look she’s giving me I can’t really interpret it in any other way.

I’m kneeling before her, wrapped around her legs like a groveling disciple of her church, and she’s just ordered me onto her bed.

I could die happy right now.

If only the system would let me.

It’s an effort to untangle myself from her, my hands gripping her thighs once more before I’m finally able to let go. My knees shake as I stand and I have no doubts she sees it. She’s smirking by the time I sit on the bed, cross-legged with my hands in my lap.

Do I look presentable?

Am I following her orders right?

I wish these pants didn’t show as much as they did, but the tent up front can’t be helped in a moment like this. She huffs a laugh and I only feel my cock get harder at the way she pads over.

Her hips are so mesmerizing as she moves. I know she doesn’t mean for them to be, she told me before that she was a fighter or dancer or something in her other life. It’s easy to see in her fluidity as she rocks back and forth, rearranging things. She steps in broad motions, letting her legs fall apart as she moves around the room in a way that sends images of her in full splits tumbling through my mind.

Fuck. Stop.

Breathe.

Turning off the light gives me a small reprieve. She turns to me as I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. She frowns and something in my stomach drops. Is she disgusted by me? Does she want me to leave?

“I can’t imagine what it’s like to be so easily turned on.” She says, brow softening as she steps closer to me.

I can’t help but laugh, startled by the sudden admission. “Not something you struggle with?”

“Lucky for me it takes a bit more than a single color to turn me on,” she says. A smirk comes back as she points to the head of the bed where she had been moving around. “Lean against the headboard with your legs spread.”

I nearly choke on my own tongue and scramble to do what she asked, sitting with my back against the headboard and my legs stretched down the mattress. My heart is racing, breath coming too quick for it to be considered a normal response to this situation.

She wants nothing to do with sex for right now, I shouldn’t be thinking these things. And yet, she’s crawling onto the bed and making her way towards me. I can see down her top and the sight of her perky breasts moving as she crawls sends me reeling.

When she’s on all fours between my knees and I’m hard as a rock before her how else am I supposed to take the situation?

Then her eyes trail down my body and I feel like combusting.

Her gaze is hot everywhere it touches, eyes half-lidded and lazy in their perusal of me. I feel like an item in a shop’s window being observed by a potential buyer. Oh, what I wouldn’t do to get her to come in and try me on.

Her eyes land on my cock, a soft flush powdering her cheeks. Her lips are parted ever so slightly and with the rosiness and half-lidded eyes I now know the definition of “allure”. When she turns those eyes back to me I realize what she said earlier wasn’t a lie; they do change colors with her mood.

They’re royal blue all the way through.

Fuck it’s hot.

“What are we–”

“Have you ever thought about trying male chastity?”

The question is so sudden it grinds my fantasies to a brief halt. I know I was just thinking of lude things, but such a blunt question was not what I was expecting.

“Male chastity?”

She nods, sitting back on her heels and I don’t think I can handle the way her hips expand like that. Her ass from behind must look like an upside down heart I’m sure.

My mouth’s watering. I swallow again.

“Have you ever thought about trying a cock cage?” She asks, head quirking to the side as her eyes fall between my legs. “With your size it might be hard to find a cage but at least it could be a solution to the somniphilia problem.”

I blink, trying to process what she just said. Fuck, I need her to stop staring at my dick first. The only thing I can think about is her touching me, her lips wrapped around my–

I know she doesn’t want me touching her without permission but she can forgive me for this one time.

I reach out, hand gentle on her chin as I raise her head. She stiffens, but follows my touch until her gaze meets mine. I keep the contact brief, pulling my hand back.

“If I’m going to talk about this I would love for you to look literally anywhere else but between my legs. Otherwise I’m going to keep imagining how well I’d see my cock through your throat.”

I didn’t mean to say that last part, but by the way she swallows, the message is received.

The control is still here, at least mostly. My role is still tickling the back of my skull, whispering horrible ideas of what I could do to her. I have to actively silence it.

“So, have you ever thought of it?” She tries, eyes drifting instead to the window.

I relax a little, trying to get my mind on anything but the look of her profile in the moonlight. Fuck what I said about her being forgettable. She’s ethereal.

“I’ve already tried,” I admit.

She glances back at me, eyes briefly dodging down and sending me back to square one of trying to calm down. “No luck on finding one?”

“I own three.”

The comment seems to shock her, possibly as much as the initial question shocked me.

“I–uh…”

She’s cute when she stutters, and her blush is sexy. I’m deciding that right now.

“The problem with being programmed to be a horny freak,” I say, a bitter smile cracking my face, “is that the system sees everything, and anything that could become a turn-on, will become a turn-on.”

“Ah.” She’s silent for a moment, processing. "I don't want to send you the wrong signals tonight. We can keep that in mind for another time."

I crack a grin, trying my best to get back the suave confidence I usually flirt with. "Trust me, darling. I would love to hand you the key to my heart and balls. Just say the word.”

She laughs, a spluttering thing I don’t think she means to let out. A hand comes up to cover her face as the other falls to my knee to steady herself.

My eyes focus on that hand, the way it’s making electricity jump up my thigh. Her long fingers are so warm and her grip is so sure. I want to pay attention to her laugh, I want to memorize every decibel of it, but that hand…

I will not imagine it.

I will not think about what it would be like.

What those fingers would look like wrapped around my–

Dammit.

I move slightly, readjusting my hips on the mattress in a way that hopefully will move my leg enough to make her aware of our position.

It doesn’t. That hand remains.

So does my fucking boner.

She smiles at me, wiping away a tear. “That’s the corniest line I’ve ever heard. Absolutely amazing.”

Her smile fades into something softer as her fingers flex on my knee, gently stroking the tiniest way up my thigh.

I think I might die. My lungs are going to explode if I don’t stop holding my breath against the feeling of her touch.

“I guess it can’t be helped then.”

I pry my eyes away from her hand just in time to see her coming closer, shifting her weight forward as she crawls the rest of the way up between my legs. Her knees press into my inner thighs, inches from where all of the blood in my body has currently taken up residence. Her face hovers above mine as she steadies herself on the cushy surface and I can smell her.

Oh, fuck she smells good.

My mouth is watering and by the smirk on her face I can tell I’m drooling.

There’s something in her eyes, something I can’t interpret when she’s so close and I can feel the tail end of each breath as it ghosts my face. How disgusted would she be if I licked her right now?

“You’ll have to tell me if you’re uncomfortable or want to stop at any point, okay?”

I have no idea what I’m agreeing to but she can cut my balls off and feed them to me for all I care. “Of course.”

She stares at me for a moment longer before nodding, a minute movement. Then she pulls back, hands snacking around my hips and pulling me down the mattress a few inches. My breath catches at her strength and I throw my hands up to prevent myself from doing anything I would regret as she holds herself up over me. How is her grip so soft and careful, and yet she just pulled me like I weighed nothing?

Please, for the love of all that is good, show me what those arms can do.

Before I can beg she turns, flipping around and settling her hips in-between mine, hands finding my wrists and folding them around her in one fluid motion that has me wondering if fairies dance as gracefully as she does. Her back presses into my chest as she places my palms on her stomach.

The room is still as she adjusts herself, shifting her weight from side to side as she wiggles in closer, moving her body along mine. I can feel every small adjustment all the way down to her toes brushing my calves as she curls her legs up towards her chest.

Blood is rushing in my ears, my face is bright red and my hands feel so hot and sweaty all of a sudden. I try to think of anything else as she gets comfortable but the only thing rattling through my brain like a pachinko machine is the way she is unintentionally grinding into my cock. Her hips are so wide I have to spread my legs more, and that just allows the base of my shaft to fit between her ass cheeks, even through her leggings and my pants.

I..I can’t..

I’m fighting for my life here.

She ignores my silent battle, settling in and resting her head on my chest as her hands press my damp palms into her stomach.

“You need to breathe, Peter.”

Something about hearing my name snaps me out of it.

I hadn’t realized I wasn’t breathing. My lungs burn as I shakily laugh at her. She keeps her gaze forward, trained on the fingers of my right hand as she plays with them.

“It’s hard to do that with you this close, darling,” I admit, hands shaking. She notices. Her grip tightens, fingers stroking the backs of my palms.

“Sorry I didn’t warn you,” she offers, not sounding sorry at all. “I thought you would be too awkward or the system would make things worse if I told you.”

I’m not going to correct her on how my role works. Not if these are the kind of surprises she’s going to keep springing on me. I relax my fingers along her stomach, or at least try to. “What exactly are we doing here?”

She looks up then, meeting my gaze over her shoulder. Her eyes are still dark, but a different color now. The gun-metal grey is back, glinting in the moonlight coming through the window. “You were practically pulling me onto you when you were on the floor. I had a lot of autistic friends in my other life, and a lot of them liked deep pressure. They would do something similar when they wanted to non-verbally ask me to lay on them.”

She looks away, those dark eyes turning back to my fingers as I feel the tiniest tremor in her own. “And I’m not going to sleep tonight so I figured it’d be best to get comfortable.”

Comfortable isn’t the word that comes to mind when I think of our situation, but the longer we’re here the more I start to notice. She’s stacked up pillows behind me, making a nice support for my lower back that I settled into perfectly when she pulled me. There’s a blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed she can easily grab and throw over us and she’s already braided her hair to the side so it won’t get in my face.

And I feel…warm, solid. Her weight sinks into me, not enough to be suffocating but with the pressure of her above me and the cushion of the support below I can feel my heart rate slowing. My lungs move easier which feels redundant with someone laying on me. My nose fills with her scent and it makes my muscles relax. My hands aren’t shaking as I flatten my palms on her stomach, her body rising and falling with her breath.

My arms tighten, knees coming up slightly as I wrap myself around her. I bury my face in the crook of her neck and breathe in deeply, feeling her hand come up to gently rub the back of my neck at the base of my skull. It feels like heaven.

She smells so warm.

Two notes. Two noticeable aromas are all the blanks got. But Skylar is different.

The top notes are easy to pick out, sugar and vanilla that mingle with the memory of holiday cookies. Sweet creamy coffee mixed with hints of something hazily spicy make for the base. Espresso, nutmeg, and something woody wrap around my senses like a red ribbon as I’m reminded of things I’d forgotten all about.

The whispers of a coffee shop that’s just gotten done with an afternoon rush in fall. The chatter amongst friends as we stumbled in late at night and ordered munchies and laughed over plastic lids. She must have a habit of layering her perfume because nothing can capture the essence of the midnight cafe so perfectly on its own.

Her hair smells like something spiced, something musky that’s making my nose tingle at the new sensation. It’s not overpowering but the closer I get to her nape the stronger it is and the more my body melts. It reminds me of Turkish coffee and chai. Oils and something luxurious that smells expensive.

She smells edible.

She winces and her hand on my neck tenses, nails accidentally digging in. “Peter, respectful touches please.”

The feeling of her nails in my neck has the opposite effect of what she wants, I’m sure, but I temper the lust best I can. It takes a moment to realize what she means, but when I pull back and see the bite mark I’ve left in her neck a cold wave of shame washes over me.

“Fuck,” I breathe, untangling myself from her. My hands land on her sides, trying to be gentle as they shake. “I’m so sorry.”

She brushes it off, waving her hand at the comment while not looking at me. “It’s fine. I don’t think you drew blood.”

I wince, groaning softly and letting my head fall back to her shoulder at the thought of hurting her. She can feel pain. I don’t want to cause her any more pain.

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugs, the movement small but I still raise my head, still notice she isn’t looking at me. “Just, keep the rest of the night platonic. Okay?”

“I will as long as I can,” I promise. “I can’t guarantee anything after my role takes over.”

She nods and for the first time, I notice that she’s stiff under my hands. “I left a box of tissues on the nightstand if I do fall asleep. Do you think you’ll have enough control to take care of yourself without using me?”

I glance over at the box, surprised she thought so far ahead. “Yeah, yeah I think I can do that.”

Wait. Using her?

She swallows, nodding almost robotically. “Good. Thank you.”

I frown. I can feel her shaking in her own skin. She’s doing her best to keep her back relaxed against me, but her nerves are jumping with every small movement I make.

“Are…are you scared of me?”

The question hangs in the air between us. Heavy. Heavier on my lungs than she is.

I can only focus on my breathing, only focus on keeping it even and hoping she matches it with me. She’s vibrating and for some reason, it’s making me nervous. Making me feel the slightest bit angry. Why the fuck can’t I keep her calm? Why am I always scaring her?

I can’t do this. Not if I’m going to get angry. I won’t subject her to that. Not again.

I move her into sitting up as I lean off the headboard.

She finally says, “It’s not you.”

I look down at her as she lets one of her hands fall to my thigh. Her grip is light, her fingers sure in their position but not in their strength. And yet, I don’t move, I won’t if she’s trying so hard to keep me here. Her hand doesn’t have the same effect as earlier. I’m not turned on. I’m concerned.

“It’s not me,” I repeat slowly.

She bites her lip, shaking her head as her fingers waver. “I–I have…There was this…Fuck. I just…”

She pauses, taking a few deep breaths as she tries to find the words. I keep quiet. My hands are on the mattress now, ready to push me up. I’m too scared to move, too scared she might stop talking.

Another shaky breath, her fingers falter, then grip tighter. “I didn’t think this body would carry the same trauma the other one did. Fuck. I have…issues…surrounding somnophilia.”

It’s a loaded statement, one that leaves more questions than answers. That ravenously curious part of my brain wants nothing more than to pry. To do whatever it takes to make her tell me everything. If she has a journal here I could read that instead, but would it even have any entries? Shit.

Before I can think further the small part of me that I’ve tucked away for so long speaks up. The part of me that still knows how this love thing is supposed to work.

Gentle.

I need to be gentle. I’ll get my answers if I’m gentle.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I offer, voice deep and soft in a way I’ve never heard. It sounds…nice. “I can leave if you’re uncomfortable.”

“No!” She rushes, fingers finding my wrists and pulling my arms around her again. I go with her, keeping my hands exactly where she grips them. “No, I don’t want that. I’m sorry, it’s just…hard to talk about.”

I nod, taking the moment to test the tentative trust we have. I wrap my arms further around her, pulling her closer to me. She’s still stiff, but complies, falling back against my chest.

“Take your time.”

One heartbeat.

Two.

Three.

Four is all it takes for her to bite her lip before starting. “I had an ex in my other life who was abusive.”

White hot fire shoots up my spine, a familiar clipping in the back of my skull meeting it to form a burning lightning through my veins. My hands find my forearms just in time before my fingers dig in, trying to tear flesh from bone as I imagine doing the same to her ex. She looks back at me as my vision bleeds red and I grind my teeth to stop from growling.

She’s already seen me angry, but I don’t need her seeing me murderous. I don’t want to lose control. This isn’t me. This isn’t the person I want her thinking I am. I’m not Fuboo’s monster right now, I’m her boyfriend getting ready for bed. Fuck, what would I even do? She’s not from this world and I doubt they're here. Oh, but if they are…

Images of blood and gore painting the walls fills my mind. My hand itches for my knife as my lungs grapple for air. The idea of seeing them dismembered is making my body hot, making me want to go hunting tonight. How delicious would their screams be? Would they beg for their miserable life?

“He’s dead.”

Her voice is firm, a pair of pliers around the nametag as it’s torn from my skull. My vision goes dark for a moment and my head errupts with a dull aching from the sudden shift. My arms are slack around her when I fianlly come back into focus and I wince, seeing the half-moon indents my nails have left behind. I slump, head falling back to her shoulder as she tries to look at me.

“Thanks,” I breathe, head pounding.

“Are you okay?”

I nod, using the movement to nuzzle back into her. “I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute. The role tried to take over again.”

“Really?”

“I wouldn’t rationally get murderous over something like that. I mean, what would I do? He’s not even in the game.”

She hums and I can hear the purse in her lips. “Good point.”

I let myself relax further, holding her closer and using her scent to clear my mind. Everything is fine. She may have been hurt before but I’m here now, I can treat her right. I can keep her safe.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I say, her fingers flexing around my arms. “I’m glad he got what he deserved.”

“He deserved to rot in prison,” she says, a surprising amount of calm in her voice. “I wasn’t the only person he abused. I just so happened to be the idiot who moved in with him until I got smart and ran away. He never paid for what he did and got himself killed like the idiot he was.”

I look up, meeting her eyes as she watches me. Her irises are still that gun-metal grey, still a deliciously dangerous knife in the dark. “What happened?”

She sighs, looking away from me in what I can only guess is an attempt to hide the smirk that crosses her lips. It’s there and gone in an instant, but the manic fire that’s been lit stays in her eyes as she speaks. “The project car he’d been fixing exploded while he was working on it. One of the engine’s pistons went straight through his chest and tore out his heart.”

I could cum from the look in her eyes. The way her lip is curving up to show the point of her canines like a crooked smile. I can feel the vibrations through her, but this time from something different than nerves. Excitement?

“I laughed my ass off and got kicked out of the shop when our coworkers told me,” she says, confirming the rolling heat in my stomach. She likes the thought of him dead, probably wishes she’d done it herself.

That look is sinful.

She comes back to the moment, eyes fixing on me. She notices the raw adoration in my expression and softens, features schooling back to something neutral. Watching her put the muzzle back on that part of herself breaks my heart.

I want to see more of it. I wonder how I can bring it back out.

“I found it poetic, really,” she throws out, voice flat as she looks away from me. “For all the shit he did to me he never got caught. Never faced the consequences. But in the end, he got his heart literally torn out by the one thing he loved more than himself.”

“I would have loved to see it.”

A glint of that smile, a sexy growl as she murmurs, “Me too.”

I swear I can’t fall for this woman any harder.

She relaxes back into me, allowing my arms to encompass her fully as we settle into a comfortable silence. My heart is beating a steady rhythm as my fingers gently stroke her sides, tracing the tattoos I can’t see but I know are there.

I never knew I had a thing for tattoos until I saw her admiring them in the mirror. I always thought I’d hate them. They’d take up the spaces where my bitemarks and hickeys would go, but seeing the black ink on her skin made me want to trace every line from start to finish. Preferably with my tongue.

In more ways than one, this woman is a work of art.

“I’m glad you’ve calmed down,” she says, drawing me from my imagination. “I was worried I’d have your cock up my ass all night.”

I hold back the laugh that bubbles up my chest. I hadn’t even noticed my dick going soft. “You mentioned the cock-cage earlier. If it’d make you more comfortable I could start wearing it at night.”

She’s pursing her lips and this time I get to see how cute it is. “You seem strangely open to kink stuff.”

Now that, I laugh at. She looks back at me as I raise a brow at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I–” she stops, a blush powdering her cheeks. “Alright, smart-ass. I know you’re supposed to be a freak but everyone has a limit to what they’re into.”

I grin, leaning close enough to make her flush deeper as I purr, “Darling, my limits are whatever you’re not willing to do.”

We’re so close I can smell mint as her breath fans out across my face. Her fingers flex around my forearms and I can feel her lungs pause as she searches my face. There’s something behind her eyes that I can’t make out; something that’s turning that gun-metal into a soft sapphire that has my body melting. My expression softens the longer we stay this close, my body unconsciously pulled impossibly closer until our noses are almost touching.

She frowns, apparently finding the answer she was looking for as she turns away, ears a beautiful shade of red. I’m grinning at the embarrassed tightness in her shoulders as I settle back again, relishing in how I finally got her to blush.

“You need to set up better boundaries,” she grumbles, huffing out a breath as she tries to bully herself into calming down.

I smile, nuzzling close. “Why? You seem pretty vanilla to me.”

It’s a goading question if ever there was one, but there’s one thing I’ve learned about Skylar in our short time together. She never turns down a challenge.

Her lips are pursed again and I’m fighting the urge to tease her once more. “I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work.”

I perk up, grinning. “Oh, come on. It’s not fair if you don’t share. You already know mine.”

She grimaces at my tone. “You’re being childish.”

“No, I’m being curious.”

This woman is so much more than she seems and I need to know more. I need to see every corner of her mind and nail an image of myself there. I need to learn every detail of her past so I don't repeat the same mistakes. I need to know her.

She frowns, thinking. “Do you really want to know?”

“Is that a question?”

She huffs. “I’ll tell you my list if you tell me about your past.”

My fun is brought to a halt, my body locking up around her. “My what?”

My “backstory” is widely known in the fandom. The emo phase Fuboo gave me as punishment after my first rebellion, my younger sweet self everyone cherishes, even my sister and supposed “bad home life” are all made up facets to the creepy stalker I'm known to be. With so many fanfictions and comics about those years of my life I can’t find a reason for her to ask about it.

She nods, determination flooding her eyes. “Tell me about your life here and I’ll tell you my kinks.”

That hardly seems like a fair trade. But it’s a trade I guess I’m making. Recounting a made up life is worth getting to know how I can make her blush again.

“You have to go first,” I push, trying not to look too excited.

She frowns, sighing. “I knew you were gonna say that. Alright. But don’t get too worked up.”

I offer her a grin, mischief curling my toes. “I’ll keep my hands to myself. At least for tonight.”

She shoots me a glare, elbow finding my ribs in a less-than-friendly way. I laugh at the contact, rubbing my side as she huffs. She doesn’t look at me as she starts saying, “Bondage, biting, scratching, markings like hickeys or cum painting, bratting and brat taming, edging, and toys.”

I blink at her, hand pausing on my ribs. She said it so fast and so flatly, almost like she was ordering her least favorite coffee. “That’s…quite the list.”

“Oh, and voices,” she amends, choosing to look at the window instead of me. “And no, I’m not going to answer any questions about any of them tonight.”

Especially since we apparently have a lot of the same kinks. I can see why she was hesitant to tell me. It’s going to be a lot harder for me to hold back from messing with her knowing all of that.

I wonder if my voice is one she finds appealing.

“Your turn,” she says, cutting me off before I can try whispering in her ear. “Tell me about your life.”

I groan, holding back from grinding my teeth. “It’s not very entertaining.”

“I still want to know,” she says, leveling a stubborn glare at me. “I told you my kinks now you have to tell me your past.”

I have to will myself to stay calm while she looks at me like that. The little scrunch in her nose is too cute and with the bratting kink in my mind it’s giving me ideas of what she might look like pouting. “Alright, alright. I grew up in a well off family with my sister Sarah–”

“No, not that,” she interrupts, catching me off guard. “Your past.”

I stare at her, brows creasing. “What do you–”

“What is it like being in this game?” She pushes, “Tell me about your time in here.”

I freeze, body locking around her in a way that has her jumping. “I don’t think you want to hear that.”

Talking about the role earlier was hard enough for me. I’ve never had someone to talk to about it. Sure, the others had their roles since the begining and I could have tried talking to them but they never brought up the nametags. They never brought up being out of control. It was a struggle to talk about it, to find the words.

Now she wants to know about the game. Why?

She gives me a soft smile, hand coming back to my nape. The soft circles she rubs send shivers down my spine and calm the storm in my head. “Humor me.”

“I…Okay.” I take a deep breath, steadying my nerves as she massages my neck. “This game…it was never meant to be like this…”

Chapter Text

Two things have been made clear by last night: 1. I need to stick to the plot and 2. It’s a good thing I have a martyr complex.

Peter’s life story, while tragic, illuminated the fact that he thought of the players as nothing more than objects. We are nothing more than a vehicle for his happy ending to arrive in, and he doesn’t mind using us in whatever way he needs to to get that happy ending. As the night stretched on and he became more and more unhinged in his recounting I’d become more desperate in my attempt to hold out hope.

When it became clear that he’d been lost to the insanity that all of this is, I found something else to put my hope in.

I started to believe the other characters are still sentient.

I mean, they have to be, right?

It explained some of their actions in the game and filled in the plot hole of why Don was at the diner. Peter couldn’t explain to the player that Don was meeting him there to discuss the return of his belongings. The player would have no context for any of that, hence him saying bad writing. If Don is willing to answer a text from a number he shouldn’t know let alone meet up with the person, wouldn’t that mean he still remembers Peter?

I’d had to take a break. I couldn’t handle the explanation of why he started assaulting us and I needed a cup of coffee to keep listening to more. A quick bathroom break and a glass of water for him, and he finished talking about day three before passing out.

I was left alone to try and sort through everything that had been dumped on me. Everything I now know about this world and the four people who are being tormented within.

Peter’s sleeping soundly next to me, wrapped around a pillow I replaced myself with earlier while I scroll unseeingly through this world’s version of tumblr on my phone. I’m not reading any of the posts, not seeing the aesthetic autumn and winter photography blogs this version of me has followed already. No, I’m more concerned with what the coming days will bring.

I’ve broken Peter out of the system, sure, but I still don’t know how long that will last. I don’t know if when he wakes up he’ll be right back to stalker psycho extraordinaire and if he is what the best way to break him again will be. Physical touch might work since the player rarely initiates contact…except for the kiss on the cheek at the diner later today. Shit. I suppose it’ll have to be a scene-by-scene basis. Fuck, I was hoping it would be easier than this.

I glance at him. He looks so peaceful in sleep. His face is relaxed for the first time, brows not pinched with unspoken anxieties, lips not mouthing out unrealized words. His arms are still around the stuffed replacement for me in a way that reminds me of a child afraid to let go of a toy, but it’s not a bruising hold like had on me earlier. Even his body looks smaller, the night making him pliable to the illusions darkness seems to bring.

What an illusion it is to think this man looks almost adorable.

I should probably get my head checked for having the brief thought that he could be considered handsome if he took better care of himself.

I shake my musings away, glancing at the time and getting up. He thinks of me as nothing more than an object, a tool to be used to get his happy ending. Sure, I’ve already proven that I feel pain, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not a person in his mind. I doubt I’ll ever be. I’m another Y/N, or hell, maybe a better replacement for the blanks he always knew he was interacting with. Even if he does come to terms with my humanity I doubt he’ll ever fully comprehend what that entails.

My stomach turns at the label my mind already knows he deserves.

He’s just another incel. God, I hate incels.

How many of those motherfuckers did I have to tell off and get arrested in my old life? How many came into the shop and claimed I was nothing more than a piece of eye candy and should stay in the bedroom where I belong?

I have to stop myself from grinding my teeth as I root around the piles of random stuff on the floor.

I pull on a pair of black jeans and a black tank top before finding a book satchel and the atrocious Dad’s Damn Diner uniform top. I toss it in the bag along with another shirt just in case this one gets ruined. The uniform top already smells like grease and depressed wages and I don’t want to be reminded of what’s to come before I get to the diner.

Peter is going to be easy for me to handle. Death was the vehicle that brought me here and if he thinks I’m afraid of riding that train again he’s got another thing coming. He should be much more concerned with pissing me off again. I won’t stop myself from going full apeshit on him if he pulls some crap like yesterday again. Hell, I shouldn’t even give him a second chance. If I’m an object to him what’s stopping me from treating him the same way?

The thought bounces hollowly around my mind before I focus back on the clock.

Six a.m.

Beautiful.

I have more important matters to deal with than an incel and how much I want to brain him with my shoe.

A door snicks shut somewhere in the apartment, plodding feet moving about in muted routine. A weight sits in my chest, wrapping around my heart as I hear Lulu start up her daily chores so early in the morning. Even without payment of any kind for the work that she does she’s kept the same schedule and habits of a personal maid. For someone labeled by the game as a “deadbeat” that is a pretty out-of-character trait and betrays how hard she’s trying for us, even if she never gets as much as a 'thank you'.

I may be more sympathetic to Lulu than most because of the resemblance she has to my partner but I always thought she got the short end of the stick in how people saw her. I met Autumn when they first got out of rehab, ironically, while I was drunk at a party. They were there getting a friend out of the house while I was inside beating the shit out of the guy causing problems. Autumn ended up taking me to the ER for split knuckles that wouldn’t stop bleeding and a broken nose and the rest is history.

I guess…I guess it really is history now.

Fuck.

I push the thought away, cursing the hot lump that forms in my throat. I know I’ll never see them again. I made my peace with that when the chemo stopped working, but right now I want their arms around me. I want their voice whispering that everything is going to be okay. I shouldn’t miss them this much and I shouldn’t be on the verge of tears at the thought of them having to stand there as the coroner took my dead body away. I shouldn’t be worried if they’re going to relapse or if Audrey can keep them away from molly long enough for them to heal. Fuck, what if they fall back in Scott and Jade?

Goddammit. No. Lulu. Lulu is alive. Lulu is here and she needs me to protect her.

I’m dead in their world and there’s nothing left for the dead to do but be buried.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself before opening the door.

Lulu’s in the kitchen, just like I thought she’d be. In the game, she’s usually waiting on the couch with coffee already made and waiting in the pot for us. If not for the player running late I suspect we’d sit and have a cup together, maybe chatting before going about our respective days.

But the coffee isn’t brewed yet, and Lulu is still moving around the kitchen.

I walk over, setting my back down on the counter and trying to calm the nerves in my stomach. I have a loose script of what I want to say but this all hinges on if I can remember the game’s dialogue well enough.

She jumps as I make noise, eyes lighting with something I can’t name as she turns. “Hey, looks like someone’s in a hurry!”

Her laughter cracks at the edges, her brows twitching almost imperceptibly. If I wasn’t looking for the signs that something isn't right I would have missed them. Just like the dialogue from Peter about me jumping, this doesn’t fit. This is all supposed to happen three hours from now when I’m actually running late and the system knows it. It’s the reason I came out so early.

Those small twitches give me the courage I need to close the space between us. It’s odd, now that Peter’s explained how the ‘nametag’ works I can almost see it clip into Lulu as she locks in place. She’s statuesque as I throw my arms around her shoulders, pulling her to me in a crushing embrace.

“Peter’s in my bedroom,” I whisper, voice barely audible, and with my lips pressed to her ear I hope she can understand me, “He’s asleep in my bed right now so I have to talk fast. Don’t believe a word I say after I let go of you. I’m going to be a royal cunt and I need you to warn Don for me. I’m going to say things I don’t mean and none of this is your fault and you don’t deserve it but I’m doing it to keep you and everyone else alive and hope someday you can forgive me. I’m proud of you.”

I pull away, holding her by the shoulders as she stares glassily at the ceiling. There’s something flickering behind those eyes, something intelligent that’s lashing about.

Before the rolodex of the system can find the right response to what I just unloaded I say, “Yeah, no thanks to you!”

In an instant her face shifts. Gone is the bewilderment frozen mid awe, and instead is scowling confusion as she shakes herself out of my grip. My heart squeezes painfully as her posture closes off and she steps back.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” I continue, hoping with all my being that I get this scene right.

I need her to be mad at me. I have to treat her like shit so she won’t be here at lunch and I can minimize my chances of getting her killed. I can’t risk breaking her out of character with Peter being down the hall. He’ll take it as favoritism or me wanting her to run away with me or some other delusion that will get her killed.

I need her to be mad at me, and as her scowl turns to a glare I know I got the dialogue right.

Lulu tenses, her movements mechanical. “Dude, I heard you rummaging around earlier. Don’t pin your lazy ass on me!”

“Rummaging around? I just woke up! You know I have to work at seven and you didn’t even bother checking on me? What were you and your boy toy snorting last night, Lucy?”

A pause, a stutter. Did I get that wrong? It kills me to use the wrong name for her but it can’t be helped. I remember the player yelling her name at some point and this felt like the right moment.

There’s something behind her eyes as the system searches for the proper response. Can she tell I don’t have the normal dialogue prompts? Obviously, she knows I’m different, our introduction is jarring enough to show her that, but can she tell how hard I’m trying for her safety?

The system finds the answer. The nametag clicks in as a microscopic shiver goes up her spine. Her face contorts with anger that doesn’t seem her own and she flips me off.

“You know what? Fuck you! I am not your keeper and you aren't my fucking dad!” She shouts, shaking as she huffs.

She stomps over to her room, pausing with her hand on the door frame. Seeing the woeful look in her eyes is so disheartening when joined with the enraged snarl on her lips. “AND I TOLD YOU NOT TO CALL ME LUCY!!”

With that, she slams the door and I hold my breath. I listen for any sign that Peter was woken up by that, but there’s only the sound of something thumping against Lucy’s door before sliding down to the floor.

I let out a breath of relief, heart racing as I grab my bag and keys. I got the dialogue close enough to keep her safe. Hopefully, during lunch, she won’t be here and I won’t have to worry about her again. Maybe someday I can apologize for all of this, but until I deal with Peter and his bullshit I’m going to have to keep this up.

God, I’m gonna have to keep this up.

Lucy was the easiest of them to keep safe.

My stomach twists at the thought of seeing TK and I want to throw up at the thought of dealing with Don. There’s an odd sense of excitement as I lock the front door behind me, grabbing out my phone to use as a GPS.

Work is going to be interesting and I bet for all the wrong reasons.

Dad’s Damn Diner is the Denny’s of this world.

There’s a strange sense of familiarity while I walk up to the diner, the aesthetic and vibes it gives reminding me of late-night longboarding trips and munchies after drinking. My phone's GPS luckily didn't lead me wrong in getting here but it’s oddly nestled within the city’s apex. Much like a Denny’s, I suspect that this isn’t the kind of restaurant you go to. You kind of just end up here.

The color scheme of the restaurant is even more obnoxiously bright in person and I’m starting to notice a pattern with the locations of the game. Every mundane but crucial location has some semblance of red and pink decor–except the park but that’s obviously not going to have a red lake and pink bushes. It’s probably a nod to this being a “romance” game even though it’s clearly a horror visual novel.

Much to my dismay, the front door is locked.

My head aches as I try the cold nob. Of course, it would be, it’s only six twenty in the morning. Who in their right mind would leave the front door open this early?

The alleys around the building are less than inviting as I step into them. They reek of trash and cigarettes, something vaguely musty hanging thickly in the air. I avoid looking down out of fear of rats scurrying by as I skirt the side of the building.

I may have visited a lot of bigger cities in my past life, but I didn’t exactly want to live in them. There were a lot of aspects that I didn’t much like, like the cleanliness or lack of care for those less fortunate and living on the street.

The backdoor is propped open by a torn-off piece of cardboard shoved between the door and the frame, preventing it from latching again. The makeshift door stop makes me snort. Does my character not have keys? You’d think with me working so early in the morning and the prep team already here that the employees would have a safer way of accessing the building.

No wonder it’s so easy for Peter to leave a body in the freezer. Jesus.

Walking in I’m greeted by blasting upbeat alternative and the sound of knives on cutting boards. Someone is humming around the corner while a tall young woman I recognize as a background NPC works on stocking the aforementioned freezer with newer supply bags. It’s disheartening to see her lack of proper labeling or rotation in the bags, simply piling them on top of one another. Good to know diners here care as little about food safety as they did in my world.

I focus back on the task at hand. The voice around the corner must be…

TK stands at the line, chopping away at onions and chives before throwing them into cambros for the day. There’s a lazy smile on their face as they hum along to the music. It’s a chill enough song but they bounce and sway and it tugs on my heart. They’re such a happy person despite all of this. I’m glad they can still find room for music and singing.

I’m not quite sure how all of this is supposed to go if I’m being honest. Lulu was easy to handle. I just had to stick to the script with her and don’t plan on deviating as the days go on. But Tk is different. We have some time while Peter is still asleep at my place and I’m willing to bet that this is my only chance to break another character; if that’s even possible.

The break is going to be painful, I know that, and based on Peter’s reaction yesterday there might be some swearing our shouting involved. It might be best to get them out of the restaurant until they’re fully in control. Even then, I’m not sure how they’re going to react or what’s going to happen. Peter is…different from what I remember in the game, talking more concisely and being more honest with me. He’s even been more respectful.

Fuck, I really have no idea how any of this is going to go down. The only thing I can really do is go for it, I guess.

My feet are quiet on the tiles, my breathing slow and steady as I approach so I don’t know what clues them in. The “click” happens, the pin snagging in their skull and they lock in place, hands pausing in their work as they spin on me.

Something’s different, not necessarily wrong, but different. Their body is stiffer, movements more mechanical as their eyes fall on me, their jaw working in a different way. It reminds me more of how Peter was, how he chewed the words up and spat them out while we talked.

Their throat bobs, muscle memory navigating to hold a tray that doesn’t exist.

The problem the knife poses becomes apparent as they nearly stab it through their opposite palm.

Adrenaline is quick in my veins, my heart speeding up as I’m pulled forward on instinct. My fingers grab the wrist holding the knife and apply enough pressure to make them let go. It falls to the ground in a loud clatter that echoes through the diner. I freeze, holding my breath as the shuffling of bags around the corner stops. The NPC girl calls out, asking if TK is okay.

Shit, shit, okay, change of plans.

I can’t have her interrupting this. I don’t want her seeing TK break and having questions afterward. I barely have an idea of how I’m going to explain it to the person this is happening to, let alone an outside observer.

I duck quickly as TK’s body starts to move on its own, trying to take them down the same path they’re meant to in the game. I put my shoulder in their stomach, one hand finding their right wrist as the other wraps around the back of their legs. Their body is surprisingly pliable as I pull them over my shoulder and back, draping easily like a sack of flour.

My feet are fast on the tiles, carrying me around the corner as I glance at the NPC girl. She’s halfway to standing as confusion twists her face. I throw on the most convincingly mischievous grin I can as I make my way to the back door.

“I have to talk to TK for a minute,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the shakiness I feel in my hands. “We’ll be back.”

This must be normal for my character because the girl smiles and shakes her head at us before turning back to her task. Has the game changed the dynamic I have with the other characters to accommodate for my actions?

Best not to question things. It’ll make things easier on me in the short term.

Tk’s moving on my back by the time I step away from the diner. They’re shaking violently, arms and legs jolting on me as I try to set them down on their own feet. They wobble, stumbling forward as their hands find my shoulders. I hold them by the elbows, trying to steady them as they pant for breath, eyes wild as sweat beads on their brow.

Will this be enough? Will my removing them from the setting in the game be enough to break them?

They cough, a violent sound that’s followed by a meak whine as their hand flies to their throat. They look away as they wince again, ribs contracting so hard they nearly drag both of us to the ground. This is taking longer than it did with Peter and as their fingers dig painfully into my shoulder I wonder if the break will even happen.

Just as I’m debating going back on script and saving them from the pain Tk’s body snaps forward, lurching with a step as they gasp for air. Their hands find my shoulders again as their shaking takes their knees out from under them. We sink to kneel on the morning-damp concrete as they breathe, body convulsing with the lasting waves of pain from the system leaving them.

What does it feel like? Was it worse for them than it was for Peter?

I’m about to ask when their head shoots up, startling me as their bloodshot eyes meet mine. They’re wide, lips slightly parted as they start panting for breath in a different way, their fingers find a new grip on me.

“We have to get out of here,” they croak, “C’mon. We have to leave.”

They lurch to their feet, hand gripping in a less-than-friendly way as they pull me up with them. They let go of me as they frantically search for their keys, patting and digging through their pockets.

“TK, wait,” I try, reaching for them.

They stop me short, grabbing my hand as they pull out their keys. “He’s not programmed to be here for a few more hours. We can get you out of the city before then. Hell, maybe we can get to the next city in that time.”

“TK–”

“C’mon,” They say, ignoring me as they pull their keys from their pocket. “We have to go now.”

They reach for me, turning to run to the small brown car I can see parked down the alley. Their grip is strong as it finds my forearms and unfortunately, they manage to grab the part of my arm that Peter stabbed yesterday.

Pain shoots down my fingers and up to my shoulder. Tenderness makes me pull my arm back, hissing and cradling it to myself as my vision blurs for a second. TK stops, looking back at me, taking me in for the first time.

“You’re hurt?” They ask, voice filling with panicked concern, “Did he already find you? What did he do–”

Before they can finish their gaze falls on my throat, their body locking in place. My hand flies to the side of my neck, feeling the tender imprints still left in my skin. Their eyes blow wide and their breathing stops as they take in the bite mark Peter left on me last night. Shit, I forgot to check how bad the bruising is before leaving the apartment.

“Wh–what happened?” They ask, voice barely a whisper as our eyes meet. “Who are you?”

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my hands as they stare at me. “I’m Skylar,” I start, giving them a shaky smile, “Can we talk, TK?”

“I can’t tell which one of you is crazier,” TK says, staring at me again as I take a sip of coffee. “The psychopath you let stay with you last night, or you for letting him into your home.”

“He’d’ve made his way in regardless,” I remind them, sighing into the dank alley air. “I was trying to avoid the alternative for yesterday.”

They look marginally more uncomfortable with the subject matter than I am and it’s comforting to know that at least one of the other characters still has a decent grasp on reality. I didn’t know what to expect after everything they’ve been through, let alone that they would be so…grounded.

We're sat on the stoop outside the diner, coffee mugs in hand as TK tries to get a grasp of things and I get a moment to breathe. Explaining things was much easier than I thought it was gonna be. Tk asked so few questions and listened attentively enough that it made me wonder how much control in the game they have.

“I always knew things were bad with him,” they mutter, staring blankly at a pile of trash across the alley from us, “but I never thought he’d go so far.”

“So, you’ve been lucid this whole time?” I ask, leaning back against the door and rubbing my arms. The alley is colder than I expected it to be, but I’ll take the cold. It’s helping with the headache creeping up from the back of my neck.

They nod. “I’m pretty sure we’ve all been. I can’t speak for the others but from what it sounds like we’ve all experienced the ‘resets’ like Peter has.”

“You remember everything?”

Another nod. “Kind of hard to forget being murdered, don’t you think?”

I let out a small pitying laugh, remembering my own demise happened only yesterday. “I guess death is kind of memorable, huh?”

Their smile is meek, weary that it will be taken from them. “The first one was, at least.”

They have a point. What’s it like to get used to death? I want to ask–might have to get used to it myself–but save that for a different time. We’re on the clock here and I have more important matters to talk about.

“Why didn’t you leave after that?” I ask, softening my voice and leaning forward.

TK looks away, grimacing at the memory. “I did. We all did, I think. I sent out messages to everyone but the only person who responded was Lulu. We hopped in my car and drove out of the city. But, before we even made it an hour Lulu was suddenly gone, respawning back at the apartment. I thought I might have better luck and kept going but–” they shrug, “a player entered the diner, and suddenly I was at work.”

“The system kept you trapped?”

They nod, expression souring. “This may be his game but Peter isn’t the only one stuck here. I’m not surprised he turned it into his own personal sob story, though.”

“Why did everyone lose contact?” I ask, gripping my coffee cup for warmth. “How come no one ever talked about what was happening?”

“We tried,” TK says, indignant, “or at least, I tried. I don’t know about Lulu or Don but I tried texting him every day. Here–”

Their hand disappears into their pocket, reappearing with their phone in hand. They unlock it and click through to their messages, passing me the device as they scroll down to a certain chat window. Sure enough, under Peter’s name they have hundreds of unread messages reading as received by Peter’s device spanning back…wait those time cards don’t make sense. Some are from yesterday, and others are for today…but in a few hours?

I shake my head, skull throbbing between my eyes. I’m too tired to try and make sense of how the resets affect everything in this game. The existence of this text window is enough proof of the nightmare this place is even without me trying to figure out how often they texted him.

I focus back on the messages themselves. They all show as being received by Peter but never read. Peter never mentioned that.
Peter never got any messages.

I turn to TK, remembering something from the game. “Try texting me.”

Their brows crease but they don’t question me as they pull up the text window labeled ‘Y/N’ and send a single smiley emoji.

A few seconds go by, and the sent notification reads as received on their end, but as I pull out my phone nothing happens. The screen stays dark, no messages received.

TK’s brow furrows deeper as I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “That explains why the player never receives your texts on day three unless Peter sends them.”

TK blinks. “Did he mess with my phone?”

I glance at them. For a person with a college degree in human behavioral science, they’re surprisingly unobservant. “No, Peter didn’t do anything. You guys lost contact because the system made you lose contact. I’m guessing the game filters all texts that would harm the plot and that’s why none of you can talk to one another unless Peter’s going to murder you.”

TK’s look becomes far off, lost in thought as they stare down at their phone. Their knuckles are white as they hold the screen, back slouching on the stoop.

I let them have their moment, trying to piece together everything.

This goes deeper than I thought it would. If everyone here is an actual person, someone with goals, a life, aspirations, and they’ve been trapped this entire time by the system they were made in then…are they real? Is this place real? Or are we still in a video game? Where does one end and the other begin? Am I…what am I in all of this? If I hold the power to break them out of the confines of their own creation does that put me on the same level as Fuboo?

I look down at my hands, fingertips tinged pink in the cold.

Does that make me a god here?

“Skylar?”

I’m pulled from my thoughts as a hand finds my shoulder, making me flinch. “What? Sorry, sorry, I was…”

I don’t finish, I can’t. That’s so much garbage jumbling around my head that I can’t pick out one thought from another.

“Hey, it's alright,” they say, voice calm but brows pinched with concern. “I was asking what you’re planning on doing.”

“What I’m planning on doing?” I echo.

TK nods. “You know what’s going to happen better than any of us. I won't be of much help since I’m probably going to be murdered by that creep tonight, but if there’s anything–”

“You’re not going to die.”

The words are out of my mouth before I can think to stop them. TK is taken aback, leaning away from me as their hand leaves my shoulder. I feel cold without their touch.

Their mild shock turns to a gentle sadness, a mournful smile curling their lips. “If a player isn’t mean to us, we die, Skylar.”

“Only if Peter knows,” I retort, “And right now he’s at my place passed out in bed. He probably won’t wake up for a couple of hours.”

Their brow creases, hands finding their mug as they try to steady their fingers. “How do you know that?”

I shrug, taking another sip of coffee. “He’s not following the system right now and it’s been so long since he got to sleep. I have a feeling he’ll be out for a while.”

TK looks more than skeptical but nods all the same as they take another sip. “I’m still expecting to get a knife in the back. But, on the off chance that doesn’t happen. What are you going to do?”

I shrug, finishing off my coffee before leaning back. “Stick to the plot and keep everyone alive. I’ll break you all at the last second so you can live your lives however you want, but until then I’ll have to be mean.”

“And you don’t mind?”

The question is concerned to the point that it makes me laugh. I turn a smile on TK I hope is mischievous instead of manic. “I don’t mind being kidnapped. It’s not like I really have a home here anyway. And even if he kills me it won’t matter. I’ve already died once.”

“It's not any better the second time around.”

TK’s expression is unreadable as they stare at me, unwavering as they take me in. My smile falters and I look away, unable to take the concern in their eyes. They shouldn't care about me and it's making my heart hurt, but I can't let that influence my decision to be mean to them.

“I never wanted to be a love interest.”

The statement comes out of nowhere, startling me into looking up. TK has leveled me with an even look, hands idle on their mug.

“I never wanted to love the player. I'm ace for Christ's sake.”

“Then how–”

“Peter’s right when he says that our roles see everything. Anything we think can become coding. I think…I think it was when I thought of ending things myself. I wouldn't…killing myself isn't an option. I'm not an idiot. But…for a moment…when the player offered me a fry…I considered getting the ending myself and finishing things for everyone.”

I stare at them, taking in the solid set of their shoulders. They look away. Eyes tracing the coffee in their mug as their fingers waver. Did everyone have the same thoughts? Of ending things on their own terms?

Oh god, did Lulu ever try to overdose? What did Don try?

“I dont mind being killed,” they mutter, “I want you to be safe. But, something about you being here feels final. I hope….I hope this time we can actually go for coffee together sometime.”

There's hope in their voice, fragile, small, so scared of coming out and being stabbed once more. How much strenght did it take for them to keep hold of that hope? How did they keep it from starving to death in the wake of everything?

“Let's make it to the end of this first,” I say, my smile not meeting my eyes. “in the meantime, can I ask a favor of you?”

They quirk a brow at me. “What is it?”

I try for another smile. “Can you show me how to wait tables?”

Chapter Text

Everything is so soft.

The world leaks into my dreamless slumber in trickling rays of honey glow. Everything is slow movements, fingers skimming across smooth sheets and warm blanket fuzz clinging to me like dew. A padded surface my limbs can stretch across and something squishable I can melt my arms around as I shift and sigh. The air whispers of loving embraces and tender moments just around the corner and I cling to the thing that smells so much like contentment.

My vision is foggy as I blink away the crust at the corner of my eyes. Sunlight streams through the window, cascading across the clothes on the floor in lazy lines as I shift again. My body feels heavy on the mattress, melded with the soft surface I can’t remember sleeping for this long on. I’m wrapped around Skylar’s pillow, the cushion smelling of her hair products and skin and it makes my face warm to think of holding her like this.

Sitting up is an effort, a fight to free myself from the alluring embrace of sleep. When I right myself I’m greeted by the quiet room, a soft noise from the living room that sounds like a door shutting. I glance at the clock, sighing as my lungs languidly start working again.

It’s ten o’clock.

Skylar must be at work already, the rush already under way and her day treating her as well as can be expected.

God, I slept for seven hours? I can’t remember the last time I slept that long.

I feel…good.

It’s an odd realization to say the least and one I’m sure to explore more throughout the day. For now, I’m free to do as I please for another hour before heading to the diner. That’s usually when the worst of the customers are there and I’ll have time to pick out who to target for Skylar.

Right now, I want to pick out my favorite things in her room.

The clothing on her floor is different than Y/Ns.

Unlike the basic style of tank tops, black pants, and that black and white striped hoody her style ranges from punk to what I can best describe as something I would see a librarian who can recommend the best murder mystery novels wearing. A staple seems to be torn jeans in varying shades of black and long tweed/wool (I don’t know how to tell the difference but they feel expensive) skirts with button-down shirts.

Her sense of fashion is decidedly more purposeful and much better than mine as I spy leather boots and scuffed shoes in the bottom of her closet.

The game must really favor her if it’s going to these lengths to change things for her.

While this room isn’t entirely hers, it’s a museum dedicated to the person I’m destined to love. My own personal Louvre filled with small details and stories to be unlocked.

I find her perfumes in a drawer of her dresser and smell each and sure enough she combines two to get the scents that make me want to cry and put that marking kink to the test all at the same time. It’s an effort to put the bottles back without spraying some on myself. Would she like that? If I showed up smelling more like her and less like, “cigarette butts and anxiety”?

I must have accidentally left my clothes in the bathroom last night, too distracted by the thought of seeing her in that tank top without a bra on to bring them back in. I find them on the floor, piled behind the door in a way that suggests someone kicked them there. Probably Vio or Lucy?

A quick spark of anger at the idea before I shake it off.

Oh well, I won’t have to deal with those nuisances soon enough.

When I go to put my sleep clothes on the end of her bed I’m hit with an odd feeling when entering her room.

I know this room better than anywhere else in the game. I spend most of my time in here, despite “stalking” the players day and night. It’s practically my second home. And yet, as I perch on the corner of the bed and set my clothes on the mattress behind me I’m struck with an odd sense of unfamiliarity.

The wall paper is the same. The sheets on the bed are still the same color. The closet is still just big enough for me to squeeze into if I really wanted to. The only thing different about the room itself is that the window isn’t open.

Maybe that’s what’s wrong?

I plod over, opening the window and taking in a lungful of the morning air. It smells crisp, fresh in a way I haven’t taken the time to appreciate before.

Turning back around there’s a phantom of last night standing in the door, my mind once again reminding me how godly she looked stepping in after her shower. The easy movement she used when going about her night, the soft timbre of her voice that made my heart stutter and bones jelly in her hands., it all culminated in me being an idiot and staring at her for far too long before asking what she was doing at the mirror.

I resume my seat from last night, gazing over at the mirror as I replay the scene in my head. The way she stared at herself, eyes hard and brows pinched in some deep thought I couldn’t imagine the magnitude of.

The talks of her illnesses, her hardships…

My hand instinctively finds my pocket, the napkin still there from yesterday. Staring down at the little red dots on that snowy rag sends a sort of fuzziness over me. A numbness that has me staring at the wall as my fingers trace the drops.

Y/N’s aren’t real people. Hell, they’re not even different people if you really think about it. They’re all the same body with different hair and smells. It’s always been that way. No commitment to one person, no complications if something happens to one version of the same player.

The day resets. Things go back to the way it was before.

No one on this end remembers but me.

But things are different now…aren’t they?

I stare down at the blood, fingers gliding over the stiffened crimson.

Skylar is real.

She’s a commitment.

That’s all I’ve wanted for so long. Someone to just be with me.

She’s alive. I’m alive.

She asked me about life in here. She cared enough to ask. Noone has ever asked me about myself. Sure, the players get to know I test products, but do any of them even know my age? That I like strawberries? Do they even care?

She cared. She listened.

I hope I didn’t scare her. My rambling became more panicked, faster, as memories from the beginning came back to me in rushes. Old sensations and emotions I’d forgotten about came to mingle in my chest and stomach as I’d talked and I have a feeling I didn’t portray things right. I must not have but what a burden off my chest it was to explain to her how I never wanted any of this.

I never wanted to hurt anyone.

I can’t do to her what I’ve done to players. I can’t put her through all of that.

She isn’t a blank. She thinks. She breathes. She’s alive. And she cares.

A beautifully intoxicating feeling fills me up, spilling out of some crack in my chest I’d long forgotten about. I could be floating in a cloud and not feel as good as right now, sitting amongst the artifacts of her. The napkin in my hand looks less like a triumph of her life and more like a relic of my violence. Something I want to keep to remind myself of what not to let happen.

It’s going to be hard but I’m willing to try.

I glance at the clock before standing. Time to go to the diner. Time to try and keep the others alive; as much as I hate the thought.
It's for her. To keep her happy.

I’m not ashamed to say I use her perfume before leaving. There's a lovely smelling bottle in the bottom of the drawer, something blue that smells fresh and clean. I take it so I can smell more pleasant to her.

I’m hers now, wholly and entirely hers. I want everyone to know and if the first step is to smell like her then I’ll gladly take it. I'll let her leave her mark on me.

When was the last time I walked around with my hood down?

When was the last time I could feel the sun on my skin without a player standing next to me?

I'm warm.

Something spicy drifts on the air and I feel warm.

I don't know what's different about this morning but everything is warm and my stomach is growling.

Food stalls line the street as I meander through town, small groups of people gathering around as some of the peddlers chirp about the lovely weather and the kind people they're interacting with.

I'm half tempted to stop at an open air crepe stall but decide against it when the nametag tickles the back of my skull.

The lit cigarette in my fingers smells awful in comparison to the sweets and after debating if I want the burn it'll offer I stamp it out on the stone corner of a building.

It's a sweet whisper of familiarity.

A habit born of desperation.

But today I'm warm. I don't need to be burned.

I'm not desperate.

I walk along, just fast enough to keep the role's buzzing to a static cling in my mind. It's yet to clip in except for the small incident last night but I don't want to tempt fate on how long that will last. It's louder today and I have a feeling it’s only a matter of time before it reclaims me.

Skylar pulled me out so fast.

It's almost reassuring to know she can lead me out of the madness; can save me from myself if need be.

My feet carry me down these familiar roads.

My cigarette stays crushed in my pocket.

Coffee sounds good today. I want to try a mocha.

I veer off course, the nametag bearing fangs at the nape of my neck.

A quick stop. A cup of coffee to help me focus on our date, I justify.

The teeth retreat, my mind once again in my possession.

It's the simplest and dumbest solution I have to staving off the role. Small loopholes I crawl through to have my small rebellions against the engraved path. If it can be justified as something kind for a player, I can do it.

I'm still following my role after all. Albeit a little late but it'll be fine.
I pass an open air pavilion that was once a small grassy knoll.

Mom probably thought too much greenery would be too good for my mental health and paved it over with concrete and “decorative” dusty rocks. There's a large fountain at the center and a full sized piano I don't think works at the point of the converging pathways. I once pressed a finger to one of the keys but nothing happened so I haven't bothered coming back.

People are gathered; actual people.

The hairs on my neck stand on end and I throw my hood up.

How…how do you talk to people?

I don't know. I've never needed to know before.

People are gathered around the piano as I try to walk by.

Notes that cling to my limbs float to me on a pleasant breeze, gluing my feet to the patterned cement.

Notes.

Music.

I turn, eyes wide.

A young person, sporting red faux-hawk hair and a large soft build sits at the bench, hands stretched out to meet the black and ivory.

Beautiful music flows from the instrument I swear never worked before. They draw a crowd and I'm pulled in with them, my wandering falling prey to the seductive melody.

There's never been music, not really.

There's only ever been that one shitty pop-punk song I loathe to hear and love to complain to the players about when we go see TK's corpse.

This melody weeps emotions I didn't know existed. Pain and sadness, cold and darkness, it's all I've ever known. But this song sings of something different.

Promised futures.

A beautiful meadow in spring with a picnic basket nestled in the crook of an arm.

Cool water of a creek as toes are dipped among the guppies enjoying the babbling water.

Tepid teas and warming laughter during talks that stretch–

The song ends and with it the fantasies I had been indulging. People applaud politely and step forward to drop small bills into a colorful cartoon character covered hat atop the piano. The artist spinning such beauty smiles shyly as another person hugs them from behind.

That was…that was one of the most amazing things I've experienced.

I–I want–I want what I just saw. I want to hope for those futures.

My wallet is in my hands and the hundred meant for Lucy is between my fingers before I can second guess the decision to drop it into the hat.

Warmth fills my chest as a familiar static whispers in my skull. I silently curse that damned nametag as I turn, not wanting to tempt its cruelty in such a beautiful place.

A new song follows me out of the pavilion, a murmuring companion of sweetness yet to come.

Maybe today won't be so rotten after all.

Chapter Text

Lobotomize me. Please. Do it.

You’d be saving me from the hell that is working in the food industry.

Honestly, I didn’t think things could get worse than the shop, but this? I’d take white suburbanites putting diesel in their pavement princess jeeps or Tokyo Drift wannabes putting fucked up engines in their cars over this any day. The worst you get then is a teenage girl crying in the lobby or a dead fuckup in the news. At least I wouldn’t have to deal with grandma’s saying our ketchup is too spicy.

Ketchup.

Too spicy.

No, you know what? I don’t need a frontal lobe, right? This would all be so much better without it. Someone come take it, hell I’ll pay you to.

As I stir some of the chocolate meant for milkshakes into the motor oil coffee kept in the back for the employees I find my eyes once again finding the prep knives. They aren’t sharp enough to get to my brain from my eye socket, are they? No, no, maybe up the nose would be best; old Egyptian mummy preparation style.

I sigh heavily, downing the mug in one go and unintentionally making eye contact with one of the other npc cooks. Fear crosses his face when he realizes I didn’t bother waiting for it to cool down before chugging it.

Why would I? I’m already six cups deep and don’t have time to wait for my caffeine to come to any sort of reasonable temperature. It’s the only thing keeping me standing and even slightly lucid.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say it hurt. My tongue is scorched and I’m really only putting the chocolate in my mugs for the sugar at this point. The burn honestly feels good, helping me stay awake while I have my third crisis of the day.

I’m not shaking.

I haven’t eaten since my date with Peter yesterday and I’m not shaking.

Why the fuck am I not shaking?

Am I already dying? Did I fall into a coma the second the rush started and all of this is just some fucked up glucose-induced dream?

No, no, the coffee burn proves I’m awake. I’m alive.

I fill up another mug before turning back towards the grills.

This is just a weird day. That’s all. I should be happy I’m not hypoglycemic anymore. I should be happy that I don’t have to worry about eating every three hours.

I should be happy I don’t have to worry.

But I’m not.

I’m worrying about my lack of worrying.

This fucking game is giving me anxiety about not having something to be anxious over.

What kind of sick fucking joke is that?

If I’m not anxious over things I can control what the fuck am I supposed to do with this feeling? Worry about global warming? The economy? The fucking sun exploding?

Or worse, feel relieved that I was reborn after death only to suffer in this sweltering shit-hole of old perverted grandpas and their whiny brat grandkids?

Nah, fuck that. I’d rather have a wrench in my hand and the threat of death waiting in the form of a skipped break.

At least I’m used to that.

I take a swig of coffee again, heart hammering in my chest from the sugar and caffeine.

Good, that at least feels normal.

I shake my head as I round the corner, rubbing the base of my skull where that fucking headache has perched all day. I know a nap would fix it but I don’t have the time to think about rest. Not when the rush is still underway and I’m already ignoring my responsibilities to scare the shit out of the cooks by pouring boiling bean juice down my throat.

At least TK has warmed up to me. Or at least, I thought they had.

They go stiff as a board as I walk over to them, sipping on my mug as a server looks on with pleading eyes.

“–hate this guy. He called me a slut last time and I know Dad won’t do anything if you kick him out. Please, TK?”

TK doesn’t respond, hands moving mechanically, joints clunking as their eyes fix straight ahead.

I lower my mug, quirking a brow at them. This is…new.

Just a minute ago, they were cracking a joke that I’ll drink the dinner’s stock of coffee by the end of my shift. This…this doesn’t feel right.

The young woman turns to me, frustration puffing her cheeks as her shoulders tighten towards her ears. Her hands waver on the notepad before her as she gives me a stuck-out lip. Fear is so thick on her I can almost smell it.

“Sky, you know how Richard can be. I’m trying to get TK to kick him out but they aren’t talking to me. Did I do something to piss them off?”

There’s no hope for salvation in her voice, the wobbling in her green eyes betraying how close to breaking she is. I doubt she could handle hearing what's actually going on with TK…whatever that may be.

Something clicks, a thought slotting into place as I glance at the clock.

Ah, this must be it.

The worst customer of the day.

I take a moment to watch TK. Their movements are less mechanical than I first thought. No, it looks more like they’re being dragged along, invisible strings dancing them around the flat top like an overly tight wooden doll.

“No, you didn’t do anything to piss them off,” I say, turning back to the server. “They’re just running on fumes from helping me this morning.”

If this is the worst customer then Peter must be around here somewhere. That must be why TK’s acting like this so suddenly. Peter’s their trigger for the script kicking back in. It must be a distance thing, or maybe a timing thing? I don’t know and don’t have the time to figure it out at the moment.

“I got it,” I tell the young woman, watching her face light up. What was her name again? “What table is it?”

Her eyes may be brighter, but her dark brows are creased with concern. “You sure? His family’s here too.”

I wave it off, grabbing the extra-large serving tray I’ve been lugging around all day. “Not a problem. I’ll trade you booth four. The old woman has a thing for redheads and it’s making me uncomfortable.”

She nods, smiling sweetly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I owe you big time! He’s in booth twelve. What kind of coffee do you like? I’ll bring you one tomorrow.”

I give her a small smile, wondering if it’s safe to make her this happy. “Don’t worry about it. Pay it forward.”

With that I slip back to the front of house, stopping off to grab as many cups of coffee as I think the family of a guy named “Richard” would need.

Man, to be named Richard in a game like this. If Peter already hates his name I can only imagine how much he would have hated being known as “Dick”.

The front is packed, people filling the booths with chatter so loud I can barely think over the din. Other servers bustle around, doing their best to keep up with the booths and tables that never got featured in the one angle of the game captures. This place is surprisingly bigger than it looks in the game and I can now see how it affords to stay in business regardless of the…less than stellar food.

A creeping feeling up my spine, causing me to snap straight. The mugs jostle on my tray and I have to steady myself before looking towards the source of the electricity up my spine. I wonder if I have a sixth sense towards Peter after spending the night together, or is the player particularly blind to his presence?

Either way, it’s hard for me to miss him standing outside the window, one glinting eye peeking around the corner of the building as his cigarette smoke curls up around him. Our eyes meet for only a moment before I quickly look away, heading towards my booth.

That look in his eyes…one nod and he’d be in here taking people apart. I don’t know how to feel about that knowledge; don't know how to feel about that bottomed out stare. I try to keep my breathing level, try to keep my smile as neutral as possible.

I don’t want to give him any indication of what’s about to happen. Thinking about wanting to murder a customer is different than telling a deranged psycho to do it for you.

I have to remind myself to relax my shoulders as I step up to the family seated in the extra large booth, setting down my tray and passing out the coffee.

Two older folks, two middle-aged, and two children. The nuclear family model at its finest. The middle-aged man is dutifully distracting the children with discussions about cartoons while the woman gives me a soft smile. The older couple is seated together, the woman giving me an apologetic smile before I even get the chance to say anything. As soon as I meet eyes with the older gentleman I understand why.

The first thing to hit me is the cigar smoke clinging to his red and white checkered shirt, something vanilla sitting on top like a decorative doily his wife made him put on to try and mask the tar underneath. The beer gut he sports spills out over top the khaki pants he’s wearing and the socks with sandals top off the most stereotypical old man look I’ve ever seen in my life.

I make an effort not to look put off by his harsh stare and bristling as I set a cup down in front of him.

“You’re not Isabel,” he says and I try not to gag at the fresh bourbon on his breath. “Are you trying to steal her table?”

Ah, a day drinker. Lovely.

“No, sir,” I say, righting myself and offering a polite smile. “She wasn’t feeling good so I’ll be stepping in. My name is Skylar and I’ll be your server today. Is there anything I can get ya’ll to drink besides coffee or water?”

He huffs a small laugh, the younger woman stiffening at the tone. His daughter perhaps? She shares his nose.

“I haven’t heard someone use ‘ya’ll’ in these parts. So, what, they don’t teach you southern bitches basic manners?” He says, laughing to himself as he sits forward.

His wife freezes, face dropping as she watches me, daughter doing the same. I quirk a brow at the man as he cracks a wry grin at me. Does he really think that’s funny? Calling serving staff bitches? Look, I know this game is supposed to be awful but this seems a little excessive for having just met the guy.

“I’m afraid I’m not following,” I admit slowly, choosing my words as I try to keep any annoyance at bay. “And, I’m not southern. Would you like a moment to look at the menu before ordering? I can come back.”

He scoffs, smile falling into a sneer. “Obviously, you’re too dense to follow. Go get, Isabel. We were sat at her table so I’ll only be served by her.”

Ah, okay, I see where this is going. I’d love to say my wits are still intact but with this headache and the haze of exhaustion, I’m a little slower at the moment.

“She’s not feeling well,” I say again, trying for another smile. “I’ll give you guys a moment to look over–”

“Are you deaf?” he interrupts, tone changing into something haughty as both the women next to him become impossibly stiff. “Look, I know some penny whore like you can’t surmount to much, but you can at least listen to someone, right? Go get our actual server.”

A sharp hot rod shoots up my spine, crashing into that headache at the back of my skull. It explodes, clouding my vision in red. My hands clench at my side as I straighten up, muscles in my arms jumping as one hand finds the serving tray propped against my leg, keeping it balanced.

“What did you call me?” My voice is a hiss let out between clenched teeth.

Breathe, I need to breathe.

“A penny whore,” he says just as easily as he would say his wife’s name. “Look at your neck! I don’t want to be served by some slut who doesn’t have the decency to look presentable at work.”

My fingers find the patch bandages I slapped over Peter’s bite marks earlier, an almost pathetic laugh bubbling up my throat. I barely catch it with my grinding teeth as I try to breathe through the anger.

A ‘penny whore’? Are you fucking kidding? I didn’t know what to expect out of this guy but for him to reduce me to a two-bit slut in two seconds flat is a bit much, even for me.

I may be too tired for this shit, or I may be too drained, or both. But something snaps.

What the fuck am I doing?

I don’t need this job.

Hell, I don’t need any of this. I fucking died like twenty hours ago and now I’m having to deal with this?

Fuck this.

Fuck this job, and fuck this guy.

“Whatever you say, Dick,” I say, turning to his wife. “I’ll be back in a minute to take your orders.”

Richard’s wife is about to say something, her soft cheeks wobbling with the tremor taking her over before the old bastard raises a hand to stop her.

“I was talking to you.”

“Yes, and now I’m talking to the adults in the group.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused,” I say, voice a touch too harsh to be considered polite. “And you know what you can excuse yourself from the dinner now, Dick.”

“What?!” he roars, starting to rise out of his seat in the booth. “What did you just say?”

“I’ll gladly serve your family,” I say plainly, not backing down as he rises to his full height, “but you need to leave. Now. Or I can get the manager to remove you from the premises.”

“Your manager?” He barks a laugh. “Go ahead. Tell ‘Dad’ his old friend Richard Seaman is here and wants to have a word about a soon-to-be ex-employee.”

I pause, both unsurprised and taken off guard by his full name. I shouldn’t expect any less from this game, giving a guy like him the name Dick Seaman. Fuck.

I don’t try to stop the laugh that comes up my throat. “Sure, thing. I’ll tell him Dick Cum has arrived.”

His face is red in an instant, chest-puffing as he hisses, “Why you little–”

There’s a reason I’ve been lugging this extra large serving tray around all day. The second his fingers find the mug of coffee before him mine are already rising, bringing the plastic shield with them.

The game always talked about the player having food thrown on them. I wasn’t particularly excited about the idea of wearing spoilables all day so I figured bringing this makeshift armor with me would be a good way to prevent that from happening.

The hot liquid hits my fingers as it splashes against the plastic, but the burn on my skin is nothing compared to what Richard feels when it falls back onto him.

There’s screaming and yelling from all in the booth, but especially from Richard, who's hollering so loud his grandkids can no longer be distracted. They’re crying, the mom and dad doing their best to calm them down while Richard’s wife reaches towards him in a vain attempt to leash some of his anger.

As I shake off the serving tray, Richard wheels on me, struggling out of the booth.

“You fucking bitch! If we weren’t in public I’d fucking kill your whore ass.”

You know, with him wearing an entire cup of coffee he meant to throw on me, Richard’s insults just aren’t hitting the same. And neither are his threats, especially since he’s three inches shorter than me and in considerably worse shape.

I’ve had knives pulled on me for much pettier reasons than this. He needs to step up his game if he thinks he’s an actual threat.

Speaking of the hollering ape, I need to find a way to get him out of here.

I could potentially pick him up, but I doubt he’d go quietly. What are the odds of an old person having a stroke from a head injury again? I probably can’t risk punching him if he does start swinging soon. Maybe I could arm lock him and escort him outside? If he doesn’t have calcium issues it should work. I’d hate to break his wrist by accident.

I’m pulled from my thoughts by a warm and broad hand landing on my shoulder.

The grip is firm, but in a reassuring way and as I turn I find myself face to face with a bigger older gentleman. He’s wearing cook’s clothes with a splattered apron wrapped around his waist. Heat-split knuckles peak out of his pants pockets and he has a toothpick between his teeth.

The scowl he turns on Richard is all the context I need for his identity.

“Hi, Dad.”

He grunts, not taking his eyes off the fuming customer. “Sky, why don’t you go to the back for a while. Rick and I need to chat.”

I nod, not bothering to argue as I turn to leave. Richard throws profanity after me, his words bouncing harmlessly to the linoleum floor. One of the cooks is already wheeling a mop out from the back as I start to round the corner.

I spare one last glance back at the two men fighting, at the young woman sitting too straight in the booth and refusing to look up as she tries to calm her kids. The older woman is on the verge of tears as she tries to reach for her husband, who shakes her off to yell harder at the owner. The younger man has his own silent tension, making his arms stiff as he rocks the younger of the kids.

I soften, knowing that same fear all too well; the fear of speaking up against the patriarch and having the abuse turned on you. I hope his wife doesn’t get in trouble for trying to stop him.

A shadow crosses the window and my eyes find the pair reflecting the sunlight back at me. Peter stands stock still, a looming height as he takes in the scene before him before looking back to me.

I swallow hard, telling myself not to react, not to give any indication. I don't want this blood on my hands, regardless of how deserved it is.

One look at the family, one look at him, then I slink into the back, going to have my tenth cup of coffee for the day.

Chapter Text

Hell will always find me. No matter how hard I try, the hell of my making will always be waiting around the corner for me.

The seconds tick on.

I watch through glassy eyes as my hands fidget once again on the tabletop, the booth’s leather a distant sensation.

The seconds tick on.

My heart is pounding hard in my chest, too hard for it to be healthy.

The seconds tick on.

My sharp teeth worry my lip in an attempt to calm my nerves.

And the fucking seconds keep ticking on.

I have no control over the way my knee bounces as I wait for Skylar to come back around the corner.

I need my fallen angel to come save me from this hell.

I haven’t been in control of my body for hours now. I haven’t been able to stop myself from smoking, from pacing, from staring in through the windows as the rush carried on.

My heart feels fit to burst on the next beat. I'm surprised when it doesn't.

The thing making me want nothing more than to burst in and do horrible things to every customer who dared to talk down to my beautiful darling makes my muscles feel spring-taut.

The clock over the door won't stop fucking ticking.

I, once again, use a small amount of energy to keep my body at bay. Remembering the way she looked when confronting Richard has my blood pumping hot, heading South at a rapid pace. I do my best to stop the reaction but to say it was only the role making my cheeks warm at the bored indifference she had would be a lie.

Her eyes didn’t have the same steal they had last night while we talked, but I can only imagine what would have happened if they had. There’d been a flash of it before the owner came out to stop the fight. A moment where she crossed her arms and stared down at the older man with a look that would kill a lesser person.

If only I could read her mind. What deliciously violent thoughts did she have to have that look?

Would she ever look at me like that?

I hope so.

I hope she looks at me like the grub I am when we own one another.

When she finally accepts me. If she hasn't already.

Was it my imagination or did she nod at me with that same look in her eye before dodging around the corner?

I’ve been trying to convince myself it was the role, that it made me more inclined to see things. But some small part of me can’t help but wonder if she meant for her head to bob towards the older man as she met my eye.

A shiver runs down my spine and I once again pray for her to come save me from the vile thoughts of what I’ll do to Richard tonight.

The clock keeps ticking.

His heart is still beating.

For now.

Luckily, I don’t have to wait long.

I hear my angel speak from around the service window, TK’s annoying voice answering easily as they no doubt stop her from attempting to take a nap against one of the kitchen walls.

I wonder what she looks like when she sleeps.

Did TK pause when she lounged against the tiles with her eyes shut?

Did they take the moment to admire how comfortingly heart-breaking she looks?

How perfectly exhaustion helps to enhance the spark behind her eye and the sharpness of her grin?

If they didn’t then they’re a fool. And if they did, they’re going to find the very sharp end of my knife between their ribs for staring at my love.

No, no. I can’t kill them.

I can’t hurt TK. I promised Sky, as much as it pains me.

Still, the thought of her being proud after I kill Richard is even better than the thought of killing TK. They’re one of the most fun to kill, almost in a tragic sort of way.

It’s a fitting end for our friendship.

Something twists in my gut as I shake my reasoning free from the role, once again slammed away from control of my mind. Haunting thoughts of murder and gore are the hardest to block out. If I don’t try to separate them the role takes full control of me. But, when the thoughts are whispered so sweetly it’s hard not to listen.

I've been listening for too long. It's hard not to.

Skylar comes around the corner, eyes locking on me and stalling the internal war I’ve been slowly losing for hours.

Has she always been so hypnotizing?

No, that’s a stupid question, of course she has.

Her dark circles are worse now, cheeks sallow, and face pale as she shambles over to my booth. Moths take flight in my gut, undoing the knot from earlier as a grin lifts my face. The role isn’t solely responsible for the joy I feel at the sight of her.

What I wouldn’t give to reach out, wrap my arms around her and hold her in my lap as she takes a much-needed nap.

Instead, I chirp, “Hey, there stranger.”

She doesn’t respond, eyes glassy as she comes closer. Is she going for the kiss option? I know we technically started with the date yesterday and it ended well but is she really sticking to the love route?

My curiosity only grows as she slides weightily into the booth next to me, the leather of the seat sinking beneath her as her eyes slide shut. She doesn’t say anything as she takes in a long, slow breath and holds it.

I want to say something, do something, reach out, anything, but I can’t. The role has my limbs wrapped in razor wire and my lips sewn shut.

The clock keeps ticking and my heart keeps racing.

She doesn’t open her eyes as she lets out her breath, her shoulders falling. Her head falls with the wind from her lungs and before I can put in the effort to react her forehead connects with the table’s surface in a sickening thud.

I flinch, the game apparently deciding it's appropriate for the situation. I throw my weight against the mental bars the game has around me, forcing my mouth open and my hand forward towards her shoulders.

She must sense my movement. A hand flies up, faster than I thought she could be right now, and halts me in my tracks.

“Pause,” she sighs against the tabletop, “I need a moment.”

Electricity fires from the nametag, shooting to weld my joints in place.

My hand pauses mid-air, unmoving from the inches it floats above her.

My mouth is half opened, throat stuck at the beginning syllable of a question.

My heart continues in my chest, but my lungs freeze as well, the same frost I usually only experience when a player leaves.

Or when a player pauses the game.

Stomach acid burns in my belly as I continue watching her, unable to do anything beyond that.

I’ve been “paused” before. I’m always aware of it when players take their time between scenes and sit on dialogue boxes or streamers have to pause and see if there’s a save option. It’s always an unavoidable dose of awkwardness as I’m left staring down at the blank they inhabit, unable to do anything else but wait.

But at least when that happens I can still fucking breath.

My lungs are burning. My eyes are fogging up the longer I have to wait and I’m starting to panic in my digital cage.

How long can I go without breathing?

Can I pass out from lack of air?

If I did, would there be any indication or would Skylar be left wondering why I’m stuck like this?

Oh, fuck.

Does she know how to unpause me?

I stare at the blurring image of her and pray that she looks up soon, says something, fuck does anything.

Luckily, my darling is always there for me when I need her.

With one last long sigh, she sits up, thickening blue in her irises as she turns to me. There’s something behind those eyes but I’m too distracted by her lips making contact with my cheek before she sits back, eyes falling shut and head resting against the cushion of the booth.

Her kiss unlocks something, the electricity retreating and taking the soldering between my bones with it.

My lungs start up again, taking in my normal amount of air and leaving my throat screaming for gasps I can’t take.

My eyes blink at their normal pace, far too slow if they’re ever going to clear this fog away.

But, I’m alright. I’m breathing again and moving to rub the spot she just kissed. That was one hell I’m not eager to experience again anytime soon.

The clock is still ticking and I'm breathing again.

Something…something in me says it’s best to keep this to myself.

Skylar doesn’t need to know about this, right?

Instead of worrying any more, I give into the role as it pulls my lips up into a small smile.

“Hey, cutie,” I say, rubbing my cheek. “Already kissing after the first date? Have you no shame?”

“Says the person who left a fucking bite mark on me,” she fires back, grabbing the bandages on her neck and ripping them off in one hard motion. “You got me called a slut, asshole.”

I wish I felt more remorse for that, but the sight of my teeth indented in her beautiful freckles is giving me goosebumps. Putridly delicious thoughts of her having plenty more marks slowly crawl through my mind. It’s not helping with the arousal I’m still trying to calm down from earlier.

“True, true. Yet here you are trying to seduce me into giving you a hardy tip.”

Her eyes flash open, the glare she shoots at me just as sharp as the gunmetal in her eyes. “Of course, you’d make a fucking dick joke right now.”

I’m grinning at her, unable to move or say anything as the nametag sparks, sending hot tendrils through my veins. Electric fingers are rifling through the rolodex of the game, trying to find the proper response to what she’s just said, but there is none. There’s no way for me to respond to that.

My eye twitches and she watches as a grimace lowlights my smile.

She quirks her head, steel leaving her eyes. “I’m guessing I’ll have to try harder to break you?”

A pop, the game jumping me back onto track as my hand is tugged along with the script.

I guess there are key words she can use to get things moving.

“Harder than a kiss on the cheek?” I rumble, fingers grazing her side, “My interest is peaked…”

My arm wraps around her as her expression turns sour again.

She watches that traitorous hand snake around to her hip, giving her a solid tug until she’s flush against me and my hand slides to its home in the dip of her waist. She turns the grimace from my fingers back to me, rigid against my side as I offer her a hungry smile.

She feels so good under my touch. Her side is beautifully sculpted, her skin wonderfully plump.

God the muscles I can feel just under the surface.

My mouth is watering again.

I scream from within my own mind. I want to let go of her, to stop touching her without her permission. I told her I wouldn’t be doing this but this fucking game is making me go back on my word.

Surely, she’ll forgive me for this, right?

She’s reasonable enough to know I have no control right now, right?

Please, let her be as understanding as I’ve been led to believe.

She doesn’t react for a long moment, watching me through unamused eyes as I’m stuck grinning at her like an idiot. I know how lustful my smile is. I know she probably thinks I’m disgusting right now but I’m trying to block out the images of her on top of the table.

I’m trying my hardest to ignore the thought of what it would be like to bend her over the bar and fuck her while looking TK dead in the eye.

God, what I wouldn’t give to have her touch me right now, or let me touch her of my own free will.

She pulls me from the thoughts with a long sigh, plucking my fingers off of her one by one as she slides from the booth. “You’re an insufferable maniac.”

The grin schools back into something more appropriate for the public as she looks down at me, the system not quite sure what else to do.

She's being much less compliant with the script than I thought she'd be.

Skylar purses her lips, the same thick blue in her eyes as she thinks for a moment. I hope for both of our sakes she’s trying to find a way to break me free of this hell.

“What’s your favorite color?”

It’s a simple question, a lame excuse at trying to break me free.

Or at least, it should be, if not for the fact that Mom couldn’t be bothered to program something for even that.

How little did she care about players actually getting to know me?

Electricity, heat, and my vision going white as I cough.

The same feeling as yesterday in the park.

I close my eyes against it and hold my breath, not needing another episode with so many npcs around.

“I asked you what your favorite color is.”

I fucking know that, but of course I can’t answer her if my throat is filled with magma and my lungs are boiling in my chest. The heat is building to a crescendo, the pain keeping pace with the frantic speed the game is searching its code for the answer.

When it doesn’t find it, it does the same thing it did yesterday.

It abandons me.

It’s a sharp snap, a quick separation that feels hauntingly similar to the resets.

Instead of the game ripping my spine from me, however, it’s the game tearing itself from my skull. A pair of pliers making quick work of the nametag in a way that has the world spinning and me seeing white for a panicked moment.

Then the world settles, my vision clears, and my lungs can move on their own again.

The clock isn't as loud in my ears anymore.

“Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my throat and my forehead in unison.

She hums above me, watching as I wipe my eyes before looking up to her. Her expression is neutral, eyes that same deep blue as she purses her lips. Does she want to say something or is she thinking hard? I can’t tell.

“There’s no point in sticking around,” she notes, turning around and pulling off her apron.

I nod, the nametag still tickling the back of my skull as I stand. We’re still too close to the script for me to be comfortable. I can feel it needling my neck, toying with my nervous system. My stomach turns and I do my best to swallow down the bile burning the back of my throat.

My only solace is Skylar throwing her apron over the coat rack, failing to say anything to her coworkers before walking out the front door. My chest warms; throat soothing as I follow her out.

Does she hate her coworkers enough to walk out? Does she despise TK enough to make them worry about her? Wonder where she’s run off to and if something’s wrong? Will she ignore their call if they decide to look for her?

Oh, what heaven it would be to have her full attention like that. How amazing it would feel for her to brush everyone else off in favor of me.

Something in her changes when we’re out of the diner. She’s walking easier, taking in deep breaths before she laces an arm through mine. Her hands are soft again, gentle as she clings to me and offers a smile so genuinely delighted it makes my head spin.

I tell myself it’s because of her work. She feels lighter now that she’s not at work.

“Did you sleep okay?” she asks, voice singing as we walk along the road. “You look…better.”

I’m taken aback by the question, still so unused to anyone being genuinely concerned for me. “Y–yeah, I did. Did you?”

She shoots me a wry grin, humor wrinkling the corner of her eyes. “YB, I didn’t sleep.”

Oh, shit that’s right. I forgot she said she wasn’t going to sleep. I deflate, guilt sinking my gut to the sidewalk. “Fuck, I’m sorry–”

She stops me, waving the concerns away as she lazily scans our surroundings. “Don’t worry about it. I wanted to see…well, I wanted to see if you’d…relax…enough to sleep.”

It sounds odd, an admission carved slowly out of the hidden concern creasing her brows. It makes my chest tight, my lungs moving easier as I take in a deep breath. Does she want to deny her concern for me? It’s an odd feeling, but given what she knows and what’s already happened between us I don’t blame her for not wanting to care.

Just as my eyes find the fork mark in her arm she clears her throat. “Did you steal some of my perfume? You smell different.”

I nearly trip over my own feet, making her laugh breathily as she steadies me. “Yo–you noticed?”

Her grin is back, as dazzling as she is. “Of course. If you like that one, you can keep it.”

My cheeks are burning and I’m hoping I’m not too red as I rub the back of my neck. “Thank you.”

She nods, perking up as we round the corner to the vendor sector.

The street has more npcs milling about now, more colorful people that feel warm and solid as we pass them by. It’s almost suffocating after so many years of having to slog through the sea of hollow, cold blanks. I stay close to Skylar, just as she pulls me close to her side as we wade through the masses. The vendors are surprisingly less busy than earlier and Skylar pulls us into a line for Masala.

The silence between us is nice enough, but I’d rather have her beautiful voice fill it. “So, how’s your day at work been? Order, whatever you want, by the way. I’m paying.”

She nods, reading over the menu. “You saw the rush earlier and the…gentleman, I had to deal with. Besides that it’s been a practice in patience to say the least.”

I nod as well, a question boiling up my throat and I have to catch it with my teeth. This isn’t the place to ask it, not with the food vendor smiling at us and so many people within earshot.

Skylar must feel the same. She comfortably nestles into silence with me after we order our food, watching the people on the street with a sort of bored indifference. Her mind is lost to something far off as she allows me to do my own people watching.

Or, I guess, person watching.

With no sleep and the hell of a morning she’s had she’s in a surprisingly good mood. I’d have expected her to be more rude toward me, if not outright violent given the dark bruises and wound on her arm.

I have to swallow against the guilt tugging my gut as I glance at her arm. It’s better than the cocktail of possession and arousal that drips down my spine whenever my eyes fall on those indents on her neck.

We are in public, this is not the time to imagine leaving more marks on her, even if they’d preferably be rope burns.

Skylar tugs me from my thoughts, most literally, after getting the bag with our food in it. Her hand is warm in mine as she pulls me down the street, navigating us away from the crowd.

When I’m sure we’re far enough away from the main road I let the question free of my jaws.

“Why haven’t you asked me to take care of Richard?”

Skylar looks back at me, curiosity quirking her brow. “You know his name?”

I shrug. “Can’t track someone down if you don’t know their name, now can you? He’s one of the four options that shows up.”

Skylar looks like she wants to question how that works but chooses to shake her head instead. I’m glad, I doubt I’d be able to give her the answers she wants.

“You know,” I offer instead, “you could ask me to do whatever you want. I’ll gladly do it. Anything–everything I’m capable of. I’ll gladly be your lapdog if you’ll let me.”

Her expression is unreadable as her lips press together. “I know.”

“Then, why haven’t you?”

A feverish anxiety is burning in my chest, making my hands clench so they don’t shake. She knows what I’m capable of, knows how much of this world I can control, yet she’s only asked me to pay for our food. I could buy her anything, do anything, kill anyone for her. So why? Why hasn’t she asked me to? Does she not want me? Does she not trust me?

Does she doubt my love for her and the lengths I’d go for our happy ending?

I have to breathe around the tightness in my ribs as the nametag burns again. I can never tell if this anxiety belongs to the role, or comes from me.

Probably both.

Skylar frowns, thinking for a moment. “For the same reason you haven’t asked me to do the same.”

I return her frown, brows drawing together. “I can’t ask that. You won’t kill for me.”

“No, I won’t,” she agrees, thoughtfully. “But, I could end the world for you.”

I trip over my own feet again as I digest what she just said. “What?”

Skylar laughs airily at my shock, her eyes sparking with a crystalline clarity. “YB, haven’t you noticed how much things have changed since I showed up? There are kids now. There are other people. Hell, you’re talking to me.”

And there’s music, I think, piano notes weaving through my thoughts.

She grins, eyes twinkling as she watches my silent agreement. “The end of the world as you know it is in the palm of my hand and you haven’t asked me to do a damn thing for you. I can give the right inputs, the right dialogue, and get whatever ending I want and you haven’t once asked me to change anything.”

I want to respond, I want to say something but my mind is a jumble I have to slog through. Where did this topic come from? What does she mean by that? What would that entail? Would she do it? Why does she seem so sure she can do it?

Why are we talking about this?

Skylar lets me have my moment, lets me process what I’m hearing before continuing us down our path on the street.

Her hand feels good in mine, grounding in this otherwise unsettling conversation.

This should be unsettling, right?

I feel tugged along, both literally and verbally by her. I wanted to get some answers but instead it feels like I'm collecting questions like snowflakes on my tongue.

“You really think you have that much control here?” My voice is meek to my own ears, showing the nerves twisting my insides.

I'll humor her. If for no other reason than I want her to feel safe around me.

“Hun, I have no doubt I could tear this place apart piece by piece,” she purrs, her voice making me shiver almost as hard as the azul in her eyes. “I could erase it line by line and redraw it into something different if I really wanted to. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a god, but I could probably have the power of one if I really tried. And you could ask me to use that power however you want.”

She spins suddenly, stopping me in my tracks as I almost run into her. She stares up at me, those dangerous eyes flicking between mine as her expression stays innocently neutral.

“But you haven’t asked yet.”

Her voice is so soft when she points it out. It makes me stutter, incoherent syllables I click my jaw shut to stop. She cocks her head at me as I try to find something to say but with her so close I’m so distracted. All I’m smelling is vanilla and coffee and warm spices. All I’m hearing is whispered dreams I’ve longed for. All I'm remembering are things I've wished so hard to have back.

And all I can think about is how beautiful of a destruction she could wrought upon this place.

Upon me.

If she can destroy my attempted control of a conversation with a single phrase, how easily could she take me apart?

Would she be willing to do that for me? Would she be willing to kill this world? Or maybe just me? Since when did she find out she could do these things? How far is she willing to go for me? What can she do to me with that kind of power?

I need to breathe, need to stop the waterfall of repetitive questions and the noose around my stomach that is making me so queasy.

A coy smile tugs at her lips. “Why haven’t you asked yet?”

I stare down at her, unable to find any answer but the truth. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

There’s a pause, a moment of passing contemplation before her face twists into a beautiful grin. If only cobalt would shine as brightly as her eyes do when she smiles like that.

“That’s the same reason I haven’t asked you to kill anyone,” she murmurs, nothing more than a sultry rumble that stirs my heart. “It hasn’t crossed my mind.”

I guess that answers my question of if she nodded at me in the diner. The confidence I had at seeing her give silent permission is killed in a single sentence.

She spins suddenly, hands tucking close to her chest to keep the food safe as she starts us towards the apartment again. When she brings her hand to her face I notice for the first time the hot cup held between her fingers.

How did I not notice her ordering a drink at the stand?

A cold emotion I can’t name drips down my back at the thought of how inattentive this woman makes me. First, the box of tissues by the bed, now this cup.

I’m not going to think about what else she’s capable of hiding from me.

Instead, I focus back on her, on the things I can see. Her expression has taken a dive, something dark and sad behind her eyes as she walks. She’s chewing her lower lip in a borderline abusive way as she thinks, a small frown tugging at the corners. Her hands are steady, but her muscles are jumpy and her shoulders restless as she readjusts the arm carrying our food.

Whatever is going on in that mind of hers…I don’t know if I want to hear it.

“Would you do that for me?” I ask, wanting to clear away some of that darkness.

She glances at me before taking another sip of her drink.

“No.”

It’s an easy answer, given on a lazy breath, and yet it feels like a slap.

“But you just–”

“What I just described to you isn’t what I want and isn’t what you should want either,” she clarifies, “I don’t want anyone dead and you shouldn’t want this world to end. Wanting something like that will only lead to unhappiness when you finally get there and realize it sucks. Everything’s over and dead and it’s just a crap hole from there. Asking the person you’re supposed to ‘love’ to do something like that isn’t love. There’s no such thing as loving to the point of destruction.”

She glances at me, expression sober in a way that sends a chill down my spine. “We both should know that.”

“I–” I stop myself, shaking my head against the muck still bouncing around. She’s right, of course, but everything she’s told me is mixing with the music from earlier and I’m having a hard time drowning out the fantasies of starting the world anew with her. “Then what are you saying?”

A silence stretches between us, our footsteps and my breath the only thing distracting me from the thoughts. For the first time I notice the nametag again, burning hot in the back of my skull and causing TV static in the rest. It’s taking up the parts of my mind not occupied by this conversation and I’m starting to suspect it’s part of the reason I can’t get rid of the mental hairball blocking my windpipe.

Breathe and focus. Ground yourself. You can smell her, something warm and spicy and real. You can smell yourself, floral and fruity with an undertone of musk that always hangs around. You can feel the road under your feet, solid and real. You can feel her hand in yours, warm and soft as she thoughtfully squeezes.

I feel better when I take in my next shaky breath.

“We need to love to the point of rebuilding,” she finally offers, voice a distant echo from the past, “We love enough to do what’s right, no matter the cost.”

The way her brows draw together, the plastic lid of her cup falling between her teeth as she starts to worry it is adorable to say the least, but also…concerning.

Is she okay?

I know better than anyone how much of a toll staying up as long as she has can take on a person’s mind; let alone having a conversation on this scale. I don’t want her getting lost in some dark hole in her memories I’d have to dig her out of.

“Okay,” I say, drawing her gaze to me as she continues biting her lid. “I’m willing to learn how.”

And I mean that.

I want what that music was promising earlier. I don’t care how long it takes to learn how to get there, how to “rebuild”, I’ll do it.

For her, I’ll do anything.

She nods, finally pulling her cup away from her mouth. “Thank you, YB.”

I give her a smile, hoping it eases some of the tension in her shoulders as her eyes go distant again. “Of course, darling.”

I’ll try. I’m willing to try for her.

She offers a small smile, clearing her throat before shaking her head. When she looks at me again her face is back to the way it was when we first left the diner, radiant and excitable. “Would you mind if we continued talking after we got inside? I’m not exactly…thrilled to see Don.”

I frown, startled by the realization that we had somehow walked back to her apartment already. No wonder the role is chomping at my nape. “Of course, love. Whatever makes you more comfortable.”

Her smile is disarming and the feeling of her arm looping mine is grounding as she pulls me along.

Everything is going to be okay. Everything can be okay. I'll make sure of it.

For her.

Chapter Text

Peter didn’t care about how work went.

Normally, I would be hurt by the lack of interest from a partner, but in this case I couldn’t be happier.

He didn’t ask how meeting TK went. He must have thought I got to work late like the normal player.

Things are easier to hide from him than I thought.

My attitude is getting harder to fake, though. The splitting headache is nestled nicely behind my eyes, stabbing fingers crawling over the top of my skull in a horrendous grip of my brain.

It’s worth it.

Doing the mental gymnastics necessary to distract and confuse him is a small price to pay if I can keep everyone safe.

And if I can keep him from noticing my testing the game's boundaries for a bit longer, even better.

What I told him earlier about becoming a god is foolish to even consider. I’m not a god, nor would I ever want to be.

But, without any of my disabilities I feel like one.

Peter completely missed me ordering a drink.

He didn’t notice the cup until I took my first gulp.

He still hasn’t noticed that it’s Chai.

God, how I’ve missed the taste of cinnamon.

I wanted to cry at the beautiful warmth going down my throat when I realized I wasn’t going into anaphylaxis. It’d taken everything I had to come back to the conversation when he finally asked me a question.

My hands aren’t shaking.

I’m not hypoglycemic anymore.

My mouth isn’t hurting.

I don’t have allergies.

My adrenaline isn’t pumping.

Peter’s fingers are warm on my lower back as he towers over me from behind, breath warm on the crown of my head.

I’m not freaking out over his touch.

His grip in the diner didn’t send me into a spiral, despite it being unwanted. I’m choosing to believe it’s because this body doesn’t carry the same trauma as the last. That’ll be the explanation until I can look closer into this feeling of…comfort?

Gross.

His palms are warm as they flatten out on my spine and side, making me shiver as I slot the key into the apartment door.

I internally hiss at the way my body is relaxing under his touch.

“I can’t help it,” he purrs, breath hot against the shell of my ear, “You’re far too irresistible…”

My body melts in hellfire; muscles going loose and taut all at once. I can smell cigarettes and citrus on him, something airy and musky all at once that’s familiar in a way I hate. Late night parties and bar fights come to mind as my senses tug on memories held tightly behind my sternum.

It pisses me off.

All of this is pissing me off.

How dare this man have the ability to influence me on such a physical level?

I have to breathe, to remind myself that this isn’t his fault. The “click” happened when we got into the building and he hasn’t been in control since. It’s for the best, really. I get a moment of rest while I follow the “nice” script and make sure I have enough positive report with Peter going into the days I don’t know.

It’s frustrating, having to juggle the script to save everyone and ensure my own safety come day four and five.

A needling anxiety has been persistent all morning, saying he woke up this morning when I was talking with Lulu. But it seems I was wrong. If he woke up later than my scripted time for leaving he’d have no reason to suspect me of changing the script for anyone other than him.

That’s good. All I have to do is keep things on track so he won’t become suspicious of anything I do.

Like if I want to change the script on day four.

It’s a thought that’s been lingering in my periphery since meeting Rick. I changed that event, given only slightly, to a better outcome for myself. If I can do it through physical means with an npc, I wonder if I can do it with Peter too. It wouldn’t be too hard, and sure, muscling him out of the script could be an option, if I knew what actions triggered other events.

“Skylar, there you are!”

My thoughts are cut short by the shout. I grind my teeth and shake my head to clear out the notion of trying to tie up Peter for a couple of days until we’ve cleared the game.

This is going to be the hardest interaction of the day, I can already feel it.

Especially, when I turn to face my landlord and find the hallway empty.

My stomach drops through the floor as I try to locate the man in question. He’s supposed to be down the hall. Peter and I are on the “nice” script. Shouldn’t Don also be?

I get my answer when I spie him over Peter’s shoulder, standing directly behind us.

“Fuck!” I nearly jump out of my skin.

Peter locks up, a stuttering in his hands before he’s suddenly spinning around, tucking me protectively behind him.

“Excuse you! You can’t just sneak behind people like that!” Peter growls, a challenge in his otherwise polite tone.

Cold, I feel suddenly so cold as Peter’s words rattle around my head and I’m left staring up at the two men.

That’s not the right line.

I had prepared what I was going to say before but now I’m not sure. Is this the “mean” script? Fuck my head hurts so bad it’s hard to remember. Don’s body language is giving nothing away either. I feel like I’m looking at TV static; no indication of what’s wrong, only that something is entirely fucked.

Don crosses his arms, a scowl wrinkling his brow. He gruffs, “The other half of your rent is due today.”

“Uh,” shit, what do I say? “Yeah! I’ll–uh–talk to Lulu about it tonight when I see her.”

Good? Maybe? My heart is racing and my head is pounding. Fuck, I need to breathe.

When I force my lungs to move again my eyes snag on Don’s hands, wrapped around his impossibly large forearms.

They’re shaking.

It’s subtle, a small vibration from deep in his bones that anyone could miss. I’m not surprised the game doesn’t mention it, but seeing the movement calms me. Curiosity is good at killing anxiety.

What else does the game leave out about this man?

Don shakes his head, a put-out sigh escaping his lips. “Actually, I’d prefer if I came inside to talk to her about it right now.”

I relax ever so slightly at his words. This is the “mean” script. At least now I can puzzle out how best to interact with this behemoth of a man. Still, one thing doesn’t make sense.

I glance at Peter, the pale bean pole unwavering in his silent battle with Don.

Why is he on the “nice” route while everyone else is on the “mean”? Is the game convinced I’m taking the “mean” route and I just happen to be picking the dialogue for the “nice” route with Peter? Or have I already fucked up and the game is still going to convince me I’ve saved everyone?

Fuck.

I glance back at Don, stomach roiling at the thought of already sealing this man’s fate. Would it be better to break the script and let him get out of here before this all goes south? No, no that’s an awful idea. There’s no telling what Peter’ll do the second he’s free from the script.

I must be pale as a ghost as I turn to open the door. “Okay, come on in.”

The best thing I can do for him is speed along this talk. I can get him out of here and away from Peter so I’ll have less of a chance of fucking things up further.

I hold the door open as Peter gives me a possessive glance, surprisingly concerned as he walks past me. Can he hear my heart pounding right now? Does he see the nausea threatening to overtake me?

Don enters next, hazel eyes scanning the apartment for rubbish. I take the moment to watch him as he scrutinizes the place.

He’s tall, taller than even Peter, and he has to duck when he first comes in. I have to wonder how much he weighs if at that height he’s still as muscular as he is. His footsteps are heavy as he stalks around, heavier than I imagine mine could ever be without stomping about, and yet, it seems more out of tiredness than weight.

I catch his eyes as he goes over the space, thinking briefly that he is indeed a handsome man. He’s not as old as the game lets on and frankly it’s both reassuring and disheartening when I remember him saying something about Lulu being too young to die the way she can.

It’s when he turns away from me I realize where Don is looking.

He’s made his way to the sliding glass door leading to the balcony, back turned towards me but it’s obvious what he’s doing. He flips the lock on the door, giving the handle a good tug and frowning when it pops open with little resistance.

My brows crease as he shuts the door before moving to the windows, running the same test and getting the same result.

He shoots a glare at Peter, who meets his gaze with an equally challenging scowl.

He’s…he’s doing a security check? And he hasn’t glanced at the rug or any of the dust on the windowsill once. Wait, was he never checking for garbage or damage to the unit in the first place?

This man is openly challenging Peter’s intrusions and Fuboo happened to change the script to make him more strict?

Fuck, I need to breathe. The room feels too small, too hot and cold all the same time.

He remembers. He remembers everything just like TK. He has to. Why else is he being so protective of a troublesome tenant?

This man is actively watching Peter violate the players and can do nothing about it except…

I freeze, staring as he comes to stand before me.

It suddenly makes so much sense why he’s so remorseful when one of the others dies. It makes so much sense why he always questions why he’s attracted to us and why he’s so at ease when we’re being mean to him.

Don is willingly trying to sacrifice himself for the others. A father taking the fall for his children.

“She’s not here, is she?”

Fuck, no. I can’t do this right now. I can’t think about these things with Peter in the room. I’m having to choke back tears as I reply, hoping no emotions besides malice show towards this man. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

A pause, a moment where my breath catches and I’m questioning if I got the script wrong. Then he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I can’t keep doing this, and you certainly can’t keep up their end of the rent,” he says, voice so, so tired. “Listen, you’re clearly the more responsible one. She’s broken her agreement one too many times. She has to go.”

It breaks my heart, eyes stinging as I nod. “Alright, and don’t worry. I have someone to replace her.”

He crosses his arms. “Oh? And who might that be?”

I lean over, ignoring how leaden my body feels as I loop my arm through Peter’s. I give Don what I hope is a reassuring smile. “My boyfriend!”

Don quirks a brow, eyes frantic as they dodge between Peter and me. I can see the need in them, the need to warn me.

It’s okay, Don. It’ll be alright this time. Promise.

Peter’s weight shifts into me, cheek rubbing along the crown of my head. I can feel the quirk of his smile on my scalp.

“That’s right, just the two of us~” my oh, so unfortunate alley coos.

Don rolls his eyes before walking to the front door, each step unwinding my shoulders a little more. I can see the ease in which he breathes the further he gets from Peter and it helps calm my nerves when he finally gets a hand on the nob.

“Fine… Have Lucy meet up with me the next time you see her. I’ll give you a call when I’m ready to start moving your boyfriend in.”

There’s one last glance, a final hard look of Don trying to warn me before he shuts the door. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until the door snicked shut.

I need to fix things so he won’t have to worry about me. I don’t want Don living in fear anymore.

Is there any fixing things while we’re stuck to the script?

It takes Peter pulling his arm from mine for me to realize I’m still clinging to him. He gently takes my hand in his, a sparkling blue in his eyes as he gazes at me.

I taste bile. The images of Don’s tremors. The way that goliath of a man was so shaken by this person…just how dangerous is Peter?

Can I really handle things the way I want to? Is peace really an option with him if he’s able to traumatize someone as capable as Don Williams?

“...Do you mean it though?” he asks, voice too giddy for the situation. “I know you say what you need to shoo him off, but if you're serious about your offer, I'd love to start moving in whenever you're ready.”

The script, right. What…what am I supposed to say?

Actually, no, forget it. I’m too tired to figure out what path this is or how I’m supposed to respond. So long as I don’t stick to it Peter’ll break and I’ll be free to enjoy a nice meal.

I pull my hand from his, walking to the kitchen to get another cup of coffee. My headache is only getting worse and I can’t even tell if caffeine is helping at this point but fuck it I haven’t had a heart attack yet. Peter’s left staring blankly at where I had just been as I take my place by the counter.

It’s fine, I tell myself, the game will break him soon. Even if it’s torture to him he can wait in limbo as the system figures out I’ve gone awol again. I shouldn’t care how much it hurts him, not after everything he’s done. Even if it wasn’t his fault.

I shouldn’t care this much.

“Whatever,” I mutter, thinking aloud as the coffee machine purrs, “I just need things to stay stable.”–my eyes flick to the still frozen man–”And for you to keep up your end of the bargain.”

If possible, Peter becomes stiffer, eyes glazing as he appears to stop breathing. The game is probably having a hard time determining what I just said. Good. It’ll at least give me a moment to breathe before having to move on with any dialogue.

My body moves on autopilot as I go about the motions of filling up the grounds container and water for the machine. I let my mind go blissfully blank for the first time in days and enjoy the silence that helps dampen the throbbing in my skull. The machine is a gentle hum, a pleasant white noise as I pull down plates for our food. It’s almost comforting, going about mundane tasks I haven’t been able to partake in in so long.

Memories of Autumn always wrapping their arms around me while I cooked us dinner, their voice whispering soft compliments in my ear. Word of affirmation never did anything for me until they started telling me how much they cared.

I close my eyes and lean on the counter, hands gripping the surface for stability as I battle with the lump in my throat. Why of all the moments am I thinking of that now?

It’s almost like I can feel her warm hand on mine.

“Cross my heart…”

Wait, what–

Peter’s voice washes me in cold dread as my eyes fly open. I spin around, finding that he’s moved to stand right behind me. He looms over me, stepping closer as the hand previously holding mine comes to cup my cheek, his other finding purchase on the counter’s edge behind me. He’s effectively boxed me in, leaving no room for escape from the smell of old smoke and perfume on him. I stop breathing when he bends down and places a kiss between my brows, gently stroking my cheek with his thumb.

My stomach constricts at the contact, heart racing at his proximity as he kisses his way down my brow and over my cheek. I can only blame the surprising warmth of his body for my face flushing as I grab the counter for stability. He hums at the movement and I can feel his grin against my skin as his lips skate to my ear.

His breath is hot on my lobe and it makes my temperature rise impossibly higher as he whispers, “God, I could eat you alive right now…”

What.

The.

Fuck.

My mind explodes as my body locks up, doing its best to find the correct way to respond to this situation. I’m pretty sure I already threatened him about touching me without my permission again, but was that one of the things I threatened to kill myself over? Do I need to put my money where my mouth is or is this a part of the script?

I feel hot all over when his tongue teases my neck, right over the bite he left last night. Ripping off my bandages earlier didn’t help with how tender it is, and as Peter’s tongue skates over the sensitive skin it’s ticklish and raw. Something hot and acidic twists in my gut, expanding up through my chest and lodging below my collarbone.

Anger, pure beautiful anger boiling like heartburn.

It makes my hands shake on the counter as my eyes narrow on the textured ceiling over his shoulder.

He’s fucking doing this on purpose, isn’t he? He’s reminding me that he’s already claimed me. If it were Autumn I’d be turned on, but this sorry excuse of a boyfriend?

I’m almost blinded by the red filling my vision before his hand meets my waist. His fingers are an anchor as he pulls me flush against him. His hand so, so stiff against me. There’s a pause, a deliberate stutter before he’s pressing back into me; something not quite hard grinding into the front of my hips that has my breath catching.

I glance towards him, ready to tear him to shreds, when I’m taken aback by the look on his face. Where hunger should be there’s a crease in his brow. Where bared teeth and a long tongue should be showing, there’s a harsh line and pursed lips.

Raw. Something raw and small and vulnerable in begging wrinkles around his eyes. Something scared and reverent in that torrent blue as he pulls me in for another long grind against something that is definitely hard now.

He…he doesn’t want this?

My heart stutters, guilt pooling in my gut.

I can feel the shaking in the fingers on my side now, a tremor from deep in his bones.

He knows I don’t want this either.

The sight of him trying so hard to restrain himself, to communicate to me how much he doesn’t want this, stops the boiling of my anger. My heart squeezes, chest hurting at the way he grimaces when no one comes to stop us and he’s forced to keep grinding. I can smell blood and see the indent from him biting into his cheek as he tries to keep his hand from sliding around to my back. I was ready to kill this man for touching me, and yet he’s probably doing the same at this very moment.

I’ll unpack these feelings of guilt and something warm in my gut later. For now, I should stop us.

My hands find his chest, flattening out over the lean muscle I wasn’t expecting to find. I can feel his heart racing as I put a little pressure behind the contact.

“Stop.” My voice comes out stronger than I thought it would.

Instantly, Peter locks up, body paralyzed as I gently push him away from me. Fuboo always said Peter follows consent with his love interests. I don’t know how true that is, but when operating under that assumption he should listen to me now, right?

“I don’t consent to this,” I say as plainly as I can.

There’s a confused look on his face as he leans back under my touch. He’s stopped by his hand gripping the counter, shakes rattling his forearm against my side. I don’t try and push further as his lungs struggle to take in air. His eyes gloss over as the confusion morphs into poorly concealed pain.

I wonder if his headache is as bad as mine.

My petty thoughts are cut short as Peter groans, leaning forward for stability. On instinct my hands move to his sides as his shaking gets worse. In a sick mirror of this morning, I find myself suddenly holding up his weight as his knees buckle and his hands fly to my shoulders. I’m sandwiched back into the counter and hold back a hiss as his fingers dig into my already sore sockets. The only thing keeping him up are my hands on his sides and his knees luckily finding purchase on the counter between my own.

Fuck, he’s skinny.

Lean was the wrong word to use earlier.

Despite his height, it’s easy to keep him standing as he breathes his way through the break. The snap comes after a minute, tears falling from his eyes to my shoulder as he rests his head on me. He’s shaking more after the break and it’s making me concerned until I hear him take in a wobbling breath.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, mournful and almost lost in the fuzz of my hair.

Something in my chest breaks for him as he continues to grip my shoulders, too afraid to move his hands anywhere else. I want to do something for him, comfort him in some way, even if it’s for as selfish a reason as getting him away from me.

My hands slide around his sides, my body moving closer as I wrap my arms around him fully. He’s wooden as I press into him, taking slow steadying breaths I hope he’ll follow. It takes a moment, but he soon melts into the contact. His arms meld around me as his face burrows into my neck. It’s an awkward angle to say the least, his height curling around me in an enveloping embrace, but it’s not uncomfortable as his breathing starts to even back out.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, not entirely believing myself but Peter relaxes regardless, “It’s not your fault.”

He shakes his head, probably not believing me either as he holds me closer. If my words won’t reassure him at least this can, at least I can give him something physical to ground him.

I let him hold me for a few minutes more before I pull away, his hands reluctant to let me free. I can smell my cup of coffee behind us and the food is probably getting cold at this point. I’ve done enough for him. There’s no reason to keep up the nice act for longer than need be.

“We should eat,” I say, motioning to the barstool on the other side of the kitchen counter, “That much stress while your blood sugar is low isn’t good for you.”

Peter’s staring at me, something intense and lost behind his eyes. It makes me want to wriggle out of my skin and slip down the kitchen drain. Instead, I hold his gaze and once again motion to the barstool with a nod of my head. His movements are lazy when he finally turns to look at the seat, then to our food.

He nods, relinquishing his place before me and allowing me to take in a full breath.

Coffee.

I can distract myself from what the fuck that moment was with coffee.

As I prep my cup Peter busies himself with setting up our food, portioning it out and setting the plates down across from one another. I’m okay with that, there’s only one stool and I’d rather be standing right now. I feel much too tired and jittery all at the same time. I could fall asleep if I sat down, or vibrate out of my bones, if my nerves allowed it.

“I’m sorry about earlier.”

Peter’s words are soft, spoken more to the counter than to me as he sits down. I turn to him, offering what I hope is a light-hearted shrug.

“You have a role to play,” I say simply, watching him glance up at me, something unreadable in his expression. “We both do. I won’t blame you for something you can’t control.”

He flinches, rocking in his chair to sit on one hand as the other goes to scratch his nape. “I–I tried.”

Something tightens in my chest and I frown at it. “I know.”

He glances up, seeing the hard line of my mouth and what I’m hoping is determination in my brow before nodding. He doesn’t say anything more before grabbing his fork and digging into his plate. I do the same, relishing the taste of curry and perfectly fluffy rice.

A silence sits with us, pulling up a second stool at the counter and fitting in between the sounds of forks on plates and sipped drinks. It’s not an uncomfortable presence and I more than welcome it, but Peter looks like he wants to say something with every flake of pepper that goes down his throat. What keeps him from speaking is beyond me, but it’s a welcome change.

Still, there are questions I need answered, and things I need to figure out.

“Can I ask you something?” I finally broach, the silence leaving in one long leap.

Peter’s startled by my words, fork scraping painfully on his plate. I grimace.

“Anything.”

I collect myself, trying to put on a more neutral air. “The chloroform and sleeping pills for tonight. You always have those on you, right?”

He stiffens, cheeks reddening in embarrassment. “Y–yes.”

I sigh. Of course, I already knew that, but I wanted to see how truthful he would be with me. Seems like he’s willing to
be honest for now.

“Which one do you think you’ll use on me tonight?”

The color is gone from his cheeks in an instant, his eyes widening. “What?”

I sigh again, my patience slowly bleeding out on the floor. “You and I seem to be on the love route. The other characters are on the hate route. I’m asking which path I’m going to get hit with tonight.”

He winces at my word choice. I brought up the sleeping pills even though the option for the “mean” script is getting physically knocked out by him. I don’t need his apparent guilt over physically assaulting the player clogging up this conversation.

“I–I can’t say,” he mutters eventually, finding a piece of rice suddenly very interesting. “I don’t know what to expect tonight.”

I nod. “Okay, then let’s go over some stuff to make sure I don’t get hurt more than necessary.”

He glances up at me, confused. I have to bite back the sigh at his surprise.

“YB, we can’t escape the script, especially tonight,” I explain, trying my best to stay collected. “I would much rather get a sleeping pill tonight than the other options but that’s not going to happen at this rate. So, there are some effects from chloroform or getting my shit rocked that I’d like to explain before it happens.”

Peter hesitates, fiddling with his nails in his lap. “Okay, tell me what I need to know.”

It’s lonely.

The walk back to the diner is bustling with people and vendors but it all sounds distant to me, muffled. The headache has turned into a soft throb in the back of my skull, something I can ignore, but the cottony feeling in my ears is entirely new and alien to me.

Why are the people so cold feeling?

Why can’t I seem to enjoy watching them go about their days as I make my way back?

I blame it on my lack of sleep; on the caffeine making my heartbeat in my chest at a staccato without giving me the energy I need.

Lunch was nice enough. Peter was good at listening to the way my world works and how things might go tonight. But he was less okay with letting me go back to work alone.

I need time to think. Time to myself. I used the excuse of the “mean” path involving the player leaving on their own and he finally acquiesced to letting me leave. Is that how life is going to be with him? Is he constantly going to need reassurance that I’m only going to work and not going out to meet someone beyond his approval?

I don’t think I can handle living like that again. I can’t handle being possessed, owned. It’s happened once before and I’ll be damned if it happens again.

The looming anxiety towards the dreaded day five and beyond creeps up again. Something I’ve been ignoring since I woke up on that bench. I’ve been able to circumvent the script so far, avoid the situations no one wants to happen, but what about those days? I’ve only played one route on day four. I only know one outcome for that day and I don’t want to risk going off script. While I’m not entirely thrilled about having to sleep with him, if I have to to stay alive I will. Unless…

My fingers find the fork marks in my arm, then the bite on my neck as I swerve through the crowds. I can’t risk getting hurt like that again, not when the worst case scenario is death or dismemberment.

Or could I stop that from happening all together?

I wonder.

Where…where there…are there paths for a player to fight back?

Obviously there’s paths that have to do with struggling, running, maybe even trying to immobilize Peter so they can get away, but what about going further?

I pause outside of a retail shop, taking in a shaky breath as I look at myself in the polished glass windows.

Gun-metal grey eyes great me as look over the face that isn’t quite mine. The face that doesn’t yet carry the same haunted look my old one did.

I’ve defended myself before, don’t get me wrong, but it’s only resulted in major injury once. Could I…

I shake my head, once again thinking of Autumn and their reassurances that I did what I had to. The police wrote it off as self defense and my beautiful partner held me as I cried in the station's waiting room.

I take another breath, closing my eyes against the lump coming back up my throat.

I was a survivor, back then.

I did what I had to do that night after drinks.

And if push comes to shove…I think I can do it again.

The rest of the night goes by as well as the morning did. TK doesn’t talk to me for the rest of the day, doesn’t try to stop me on my way out the door at night and I’m thankful for that. I’ve pushed our luck too far with the talk this morning, now it’s best we stick to what we know will keep everyone safe.

Still, it’d be nice to hear someone else’s voice before I have to go home to Peter.

It’s lonely, trying to play the hero.

Chapter Text

Our bodies move in an unspoken choreography.

She can’t see anything, not in this dark. Her eyes may be special but they aren’t like mine.

She can’t see me and yet she moves with me in a silent waltz, her steps matching mine as she enters the room, hand skimming the wall like the shoulder of her last dance partner. She doesn’t know this apartment, doesn’t know where to find the switch to the lights, and isn’t bothering to try as she comes closer.

Her body collides with mine but she doesn’t recoil. She stays close, fingers leaving the plaster and finding my chest instead.

My heart beats in my throat, the nametag burning in my skull as I shake before her. I want to savor her touch. I want to savor this moment before my role ruins it.

She can’t see me, but her fingers skim my body, finding my shaking hands at my sides and gently twining my wrists.

In a sick mirror of last night, she turns, arms stretching wide as she raises mine. The burning in my skull dulls, my arms being guided around her body. She lays one across her collarbone, my hand gripping the opposite shoulder as both of hers grab my hand with the cloth. She doesn’t move it any closer to her face, instead taking the moment to sink back into me, body curving to every line of mine.

She’s so soft, so warm. I want to melt into her.

My arms constrict, the nametag pulling the marionette string to hoist my hand to her face. She lets out the air from her lungs one last time before the cloth is pressed over her nose, my wide palm encompassing her mouth.

Her breath is hot on my fingers and I have to remind myself that this is okay. That she knows what’s happening and is willingly letting me do this. When her gasping starts and her body instinctively curls I follow her, staying with her as she drops to her knees on the ground.

My legs fall around hers, my body cocooning her as she continues to breathe the chemically sweet fumes. Her heart is pounding in her chest, a staccato pace I can feel in my forearm across her clavicle. Her fingers are vibrating around my wrist, nails digging in unconsciously as her lungs hitch. I wish my hand wasn’t welded to her mouth by the nametag, but all I can do is try to keep my breathing steady.

You can only fight instinct for so long. When the brain is deprived of something vital it uses every measure necessary to regain what’s lost. I remind myself of that everytime I kill for a player, and I have to do the same as she starts fighting.

She bucks, body rigid as it collides with me and her fingers turn cruel. She’s clawing, pulling and pressing in places that if not for the nametag turning my skin to steal would have me bleeding. She’d have easily disengaged my grip if not for my role and instead resorts to squeezing my wrist as hard as she can.

This is taking a torturously long time, so much longer than it does with the blanks. Her world’s rules must apply now, at least for chloroform. If that’s true this is going to take a lifetime to start working and luckily only last a few minutes.

Fat, burning drops hit the fingers wrapped around her face and my heart breaks. The hiccups in her breath, coupled with the shaking is already doing a number on my resolve, but her tears might be too much for me. A hot hard lump is forming in my throat and it’s getting hard to breathe around it.

“You’ll be okay,” it takes so much energy to whisper it, but I have to do something to quell my guilt, “This will not kill you, I promise.”

One of her hands leaves my wrist, finding my thigh instead in a reassuring squeeze. It sends bolts up my spine and into my chest that steady my breathing, just as she starts to cough. Her frame rattles with every inhale, almost doubling over and I’m left with no choice but to hold her against me to keep her upright.

My heart squeezes painfully, that lump growing bigger in my throat and I have to swallow to try and clear it. Fuck, when is she going to fall asleep?

As if answering my plea, her fingers slacken, her back relaxing into me. Her breathing starts to even out, shallowing as her head falls back onto my shoulder. Her eyes are on me, distant and foggy as they flutter shut. My heart hurts, but my lungs are working again as she turns to dead weight in my arms.

The nametag unhooks from my hands, giving me the freedom I need to hurl the rag across the room. I don’t want it touching her for any longer than necessary. I don’t want her beautiful face marred by chemical burns.

My arms wrap around her more tightly, the one no longer occupied by the rag slipping under her legs. As I pull her to my chest I notice something glistening on her own, just over the lip of her shirt. I glance down, seeing another dark splotch form on the neckline.

Are those…are those tears?

Didn’t all of hers land on my fingers?

As I watch another falls and joins those resting at the peak of her chest.

Ah, they’re mine.

I can’t remember the last time I cried.

The nametag hooks back in, moving me along with the scene before I take any longer. I don’t even get the time to process the sensation of crying as I stand effortlessly.

I nearly fall over as I take my first step, the adrenaline from holding her still leaving me in a single wave that has my vision blurring. When I come back into focus things are different.

She’s so soft, my fingers sinking into her thighs and side.

My hands are hot where they touch her.

She smells so good, coffee and spiced musk.

My mouth is watering as I inhale her.

She’s relaxed into me, breath fanning out over my neck.

My blood is pumping in a different direction than before.

I know what this is. I know where this is going. I only have a few moments left of coherent thought before the role takes me. I want her, I want to take her right now. But, not like this.

I lay her down on the bed, her hair spreading out in a fiery halo and her arms draping over her abdomen. She’s so relaxed, so peaceful in her sleep that she looks smaller somehow, younger almost. The dark circles are less prominent, the tears barely glistening on her lashes.

I’m on all fours on the mattress before I can even think to stop myself, crawling over her and hovering as I take in the full view.

She’s still in her jeans and tank from work. The smell of the diner lingers. But, her smell is all I care about as I bend down, tongue hanging from my lips.

I lick the tears from her lashes before moving down to her throat.

Musk and oils. Sugar and vanilla.

I can see down her top and between her breasts and it's heating my blood.

My cock is getting harder by the second, body flushing and hands quaking on the mattress next to her. Holding myself up is becoming a chore as I skim the tip of my tongue along her throat.

She tastes like sweat and skin, no hints of any dirt or grease. How she stayed so clean through today is beyond me but it makes me swallow hard to keep from drooling on her.

My last coherent thought before the nametag clips in is that of her past. A thought of her trauma and how she opened her heart to me out of trust.

I need to keep that trust.

The nametag pierces my skull, closing around my spine. I’m pushed back into the cage in my head, watching through glass eyes as my body starts to move.

Blood is roaring in my ears, my lungs are working double time to try and keep up. The room looks brighter as my pupils expand, colors becoming more vivid.

I need to feel her.

Smell her.

Taste her.

Be inside her.

I want to eat her alive.

I scramble within the cage, tearing at it, trying to force my way back into control. I can’t let this happen. I can’t let the role do this.

I’ve resisted the role before. I’ve gone without touching players on the first night before. A few players even sent Fuboo emails claiming to have gotten alternative days. She said it was a test build she accidentally published.

I’ve resisted touching players on the first night, only for it to come back on the second tenfold.

Mother dearest never wanted me to be happy, after all.

Skylar smells gourmand, ripe for the taking as I bend down, tongue brushing over her collarbone. The hot lump is still in my throat and it’s making me swallow hard. Making me want to taste more of her as I keep myself from drooling onto her chest.

Her lips are barely parted and it takes too much energy for me to keep myself from sticking my tongue down her throat. Would she be able to take it? How deep could I go before her gag reflex kicks in? God, how far could my cock fit?

My eyes trail her body as my erection presses painfully into the zipper of my pants. I hiss at the feeling, one hand leaving the mattress as the other clenches the sheets.

I’m focused on that supporting hand, fighting tooth and nail from the cage to keep it where it is. I need to keep those fingers entangled with the cotton otherwise I’ll be touching her.

I’ll be feeling her soft skin under my palm, her shirt rising as my fingers brush her stomach. I’d get to see those tattoos again, press my fingers into them and fuck up the lines with the shape of my hand. I’d get to feel the curve of her chest; tease and play with her nipples until they pebble between my fingers. God, she’s not wearing a bra right now and I’d get such easy access to them.

The collar of her shirt is darker now, stained with my drool as I undo the front of my pants.

I imagine her hands, smaller than my own, as I pull out my dick. My fingers wrap around my shaft, hand working in a frantic rhythm as my body tightens above her.

What would she smell like when she gets turned on? When she starts reeking of pheromones and sex? Would she smell like me after? I hope so. God I hope I can smell my cum on her for days.

Her body is so soft; has so much give and fuck what I wouldn’t do to dig my fingers in. Who I wouldn’t kill to slide my fingers down her pants while my teeth draw blood.

My thumb swipes across my head and I groan, hips bucking into my own palm. My eyes screw shut and I bend down, teeth finding my supporting bicep as I pant out my pleasure. There’s a hot coiling in my stomach as my hand shakes around the sheets.

I want to touch her. I need to touch her in the same carnal way I need to eat and sleep. I need to know how wet she gets and what she looks like splayed out on a mattress ready for me.

I need her to trust me enough to let me tie her down and make her mine.

That need for trust is what gives me enough energy to keep my hands off her; to keep my fingers bunched around cotton instead of tangled in her hair.

I hear something below me but I’m too preoccupied to open my eyes. Too busy combatting the roiling heat in the pit of my stomach. Something sticky and elastic is building and I’m using everything I have to keep that supporting hand in place.

The nametag is burning in my skull as my pumping becomes more erratic, fingers swiping over my head and hitting my balls each time I stroke my length.

A feeling like barbed wire wrapping around my arm is taking up the supporting one as I try to focus on the pleasure. I can take this, I can be happy with just this. I don’t need to touch her and that nametag can fuck off if it thinks it can negotiate my hand into moving.

Just as the wires reach my fingers I hear something below me again, drawing my attention away.

I open my eyes, vision blurry enough to make me blink several times.

Skylar’s awake.

She’s awake and she’s looking at me in a way I’ve never seen.

I can’t read her face as she takes me in, takes in the animalistic stance I have over her: one hand desperately chasing pleasure while the other vibrates in its attempt to hold me up. I’m still biting my arm, teeth still latched on as I try to ignore the glistening droplets on her shoulder.

More form the longer I watch and I’m forced to realize why my vision is so blurry.

Tears fall freely onto her as my eyes leak worse than my precum.

I don’t want to see the disgust on her face when she finally takes it all in. I don’t want to see the moment she’ll come to hate me after catching me like this. But something in her eyes has me staying put. Has me continuing as she stares into my hazy vision. God, those eyes are so mesmerizing.

Does she see me for what I am? Does she finally see Fuboo’s monster?

I’m losing energy inside my cage. I can’t hold that hand on the mattress any longer.

Just as the marionette strings constrict and my fingers detach Skylar reaches out. Her touch is feather-light, barely brushing my cheek as she hesitates.

It’s just enough for me to let go of my arm, mouth leaving a slobbering trail down the appendage as it stays on the mattress. She watches me as I lick my lips, tasting saliva and something coppery that has to be my sweat. God, I want to taste her again but I must look repulsive to her.

As I’m trying to breathe around the hot lump in my throat Skylar moves again, arms encircling my neck as she pulls me to her. I get a moment’s reprieve from the burning of the nametag before one of her arms slips between us.

Before I can think to question her I feel long, slim fingers brush the head of my cock.

My body combusts, a molten line from my core running up my spine to meet the nametag. It explodes and so does my vision as I nearly collapse, barely catching myself on my elbows as I’m thrown into the forefront of my mind once more.

I choke, coughing around the hot lump in my throat as sobs wrack my body. I screw my eyes shut, trying to stop the torrent that pours from them as I rattle above her, seconds away from falling apart.

Her fingers brush my length again, but this time by accident as she hooks the waistband of my underwear with her nails. She brings them up, tucking my erection away before snaking that hand around my waist and using it to pull me down onto her.

I sink like a rock through water, melding with her as she gladly wraps herself around me. Her legs tangle around mine, my face burying in her chest as her arms encompass me. I can’t breathe, can’t get air into my lungs fast enough as I silently wail into her.

I did it. I kept myself from touching her. But the victory feels hollow, weary and sore like my bones within my body. My mouth isn’t watering anymore as I hiccup.

She holds me tighter than I ever could have asked for, and it’s the only thing keeping me from trying to jump out her window.

I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to live in fear of the things I have no choice but to do to her. This isn’t fair. I don’t deserve this. What did I ever do to deserve this?

I just want it all to stop. I don’t want to live like this anymore.

Skylar doesn’t say anything as she holds me, her hands speaking volumes as they ghost over my neck and down my spine. Long languid lines and circles that draw my attention away from the storm in my mind and back to the feeling of my body. The lump in my throat shrinks the longer I breathe, my lungs moving in my ribs with less effort.

I don’t know how long we stay like that, how long I’m cocooned in her embrace before I’m able to breathe again. The tears stop and I feel bad about ruining her shirt as I rest my cheek against her chest. Her heartbeat is a balm to my shattering soul.

She doesn’t loosen her grip on me until I start to pull away. I can’t bring myself to look at her as I get up, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring unseeing at the floor. I can feel her gaze on my skin. I don’t want to see the disgust that’s on her face. I don’t need her to cast me aside.

I can go somewhere else for tonight. Fuck, I’ll sleep in my van for once. There’s no point in staying here. Not if she’s going to hate me or feel uncomfortable around me.

I need to salvage what I can from this shit show.

“I’ll stay in my van tonight,” I say to the open air, swallowing as I stand. “I’m sorry…I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I’m halfway to the door when her hand finds my wrist. I freeze, trying to force air into my lungs as the silence lingers between us. I’m not going to look back, not going to see the disgust on her face. I won’t do that to myself.

“Thank you.”

The words hit me like a truck, spinning me around fast enough to tear my hand from her grip.

“Wh–what?”

Her expression is neutral at first, softening as she sees my shock. “I said thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” I laugh, the sound bitter and fraying in the dark room. “Why the fuck are you thanking me?”

She frowns, brows creasing. “You didn’t touch me. I’m thanking you for that.”

I’m speechless, all words being torn from my mind at her gratitude until a laugh bubbles up from somewhere in my gut. It’s acidic as it escapes my lips.

“Are you fucking crazy?” I rasp, voice hoarse around the laughter and hot ball that’s starting to inflate again. “You wake up to that and your first instinct is to thank me? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

There’s a spark of anger, her eyes turning metal. “YB–”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” I bite, face heating as my eyes sting. “Fuboo gave me that nickname in the fucking beta. It’s the name of her fucking monster; a psychotic freak who assaults and kills people for his own pleasure. A piece of shit that doesn’t deserve to be alive let alone thanked for using you as his own personal porno mag.”

She’s frowning at me, hands clenching at her sides. “But you didn’t touch me.”

“And if you hadn’t broken me when you did I would have,” I stress, “It took everything I had to fight the role and keep myself from sticking my hand down your pants. Do you even realize how badly I wanted–needed–to be inside you?”

Her frown turns hard, concern paved over by something sharp. “But. You. Didn't. Touch. Me.”

“I. Almost. Did.”

Her expression turns sour as she takes a step toward me. I match her pace, taking a step towards the door as she fires a red-hot glare my way. I retreat, turning and grabbing the nob before she can get too close. I can’t hurt her tonight, not after everything that’s already happened.

Her palm slams into the wood as I try opening it, forcing it shut and for once I’m pissed at the strength her body holds. I’m too spent from keeping my hand stationary, fingers trembling as I try in vain to wrench the door open.

“You could have touched me, but you didn’t,” she says, voice melting from something firm to a soft candor as she talks. “You could have followed your role and brushed it off later and I would have been none-the-wiser. I could have woken up and re-lived one of my nightmares but instead, I woke up to you crying and biting your arm hard enough to bleed.”

I start, glancing down. She’s right, of course, and how I went this long without noticing the trails of blood down my arm or the perfect indent of my teeth is beyond me.

My face pinches at the sight.

That could have been her neck. Again.

“You respected my boundaries even though it put you in physical pain,” she continues, voice warmer, softer now in a way that makes me grind my teeth. “I’m thanking you for that.”

I can’t look at her, can’t bring myself to see that damned caring I know is in her eyes. I don’t deserve it. Not when my arm is covered in blood and her chest is still covered in drool. Why can’t she understand how dangerous I am? How dangerous of a game she insists on playing?

Maybe I need to show her. Maybe then she’ll understand. Some of the more persistent players needed to be taught a lesson too.

I use the system, use the strength and speed it gives me and I can feel the tickle of the nametag as I, for once, pull from it. My hands are quicker than thought as they find hers, pulling her hands into my right and latching around her wrists in a single grip. My left flies up, fingers carding through the hair at the back of her skull before curling into a tight grip that has her head tilting back.

She holds back a noise of pain, wincing at the wrenching of her head and awkward angle as I lean close. I can smell her again, can feel my eyes constricting to pinpoints that focus in on her ashen stare. She’s frantic, searching me as her body locks in place with her panic response. Her breath comes in short shallow puffs like she’s afraid to take in more air as her pulse jumps in her wrists. She wants to fight me, wants to get away.

Good.

“Is this what it’ll take for you to understand?” I rumble, “Is this what I have to do?”

Her eyes are wide, fluttering around my face before there’s a shift. Something “clicks”. The ash turns to metal and that gun-barell glint hits my gut like a punch as a teasing grin crosses her lips.

“Joke’s on you. I’m into hair pulling.”

It feels like a slap, a mockery of our situation. She’s taking this as a challenge? Doesn’t she understand the position she’s in?

Anger blooms in me, spreading through my chest in a claustrophobic heat. I growl, teeth barred as I pull her hair. It takes one solid stride to slam my fist with her wrists into the door above her head, her body following suit as one of my legs finds purchase on the wood between hers. She’s pressed to the door as she winces again, face somehow remaining neutral as a flush darkens her cheeks.

Is that anger I see sparking those metallic eyes? I hope so. I hope I’m pissing her off enough to want to believe me.

“Are you listening to me?!” I shout, the anger boiling up my chest and meeting the lump in my throat, “How fucking stupid are you? I’m telling you that you’re in danger.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she says, grinning. Her fingers curl in my grip, skimming what parts of my wrist she can touch.

The contact is doing a number on my nerves and I have to try and ignore it. Try to ignore the way my stomach is sinking and my cock is heating up all at the same time. A cocktail of sensations is going through me and it’s making me want to scream or cry or throw up or throw myself in front of a truck and I can’t tell which is the best option.

“You should be,” I stress, voice watery, “You should be afraid of me. I’m going to hurt you. I could fucking kill you.”

“I’m not afraid of dying.”

“But I am,” I sob, “I’m afraid of you dying. I care if you get hurt. I want to keep you safe. I want to keep you alive. And right now the only thing threatening that is me.”

“Do it, then,” She purrs, smile a razor. “Be the first guy to fulfill his promise and kill me, Peter.”

“You aren’t listening to me!” I wail, slamming her wrists again as I look away, unable to meet her gaze. “You aren’t taking this seriously. If you keep doing this I–”

“Peter, look at me.”

I shake my head, closing my eyes against the tears that are threatening to fall. I shouldn’t be like this. I shouldn’t be acting like this. I should be doing damage control but instead I’m hurting her worse. I’m making things worse.

“Peter. Look. At. Me.”

I look up, meeting her hard gaze as my eyes fog. My bottom lip quivers and I bite it to stop the motion. She notices, eyes tracing my face before she frowns.

“You’re not going to hurt me,” she says, voice softer than her expression. “You’re not going to do anything without my consent because you’re better than that. I know you are.”

My heart is shattering, falling in sharp pieces to the pit that was once my stomach. I cough against the feeling, shaking as I try to keep her against the door. No, I don’t keep her against the door, I’m using our position to stay standing at this point. I feel so tired, so cold and lost and her voice is so soft and warm and I don’t deserve it.

She slips one of her hands from mine, my grip too weak and shaky to stop her. Her fingers are warm, soft, and slender as they brush my face, tracing my jaw. It makes me hiccup around the lump in my throat, closing my eyes so she won’t see how pathetic I am.

As her fingers cradle my cheek, swiping my tears, she murmurs, “I trust you.”

A rush of something I can’t put a name to fills me. Something hot and clogging that consumes every crevice of my abdomen, flooding my chest and constricting my throat. My hand falls from hers to join the other at the back of her head, pillowing against the door as I press my forehead to hers.

Her hand falls from the door, coming around my waist as she smiles sadly. The feeling of her touch, her scent in my nose, the way that she looks at me when I bring myself to open my eyes; it all comes together with the feeling in my chest to make an expanding heat I’ve never felt before. It’s amazing and terrible all at once. Cloying and sloppy, but feathery and light as well.

It’s nothing like the rushing heart and thundering blood traveling south I feel from the system. It’s not anxious hands and desperate questions as I scramble to learn everything about her. It’s tender, a weighted blanket around my heart that gives it a steady, slow beat. It’s white noise, waves crashing peacefully in my mind that wash away the panic and misery.

I can’t handle it. I can’t find the words to express it as I watch her in the dark, eyes darting around her caring face. I want more of it, I want her warmth to help soothe this feeling. I want to keep her safe and by my side so this terrible beauty never goes away.

I hope she feels it too. I want her to feel it too.

I’ll make her feel it too.

I lean forward, eyes falling shut as my hands slide to her jaw.

My lips are on hers, tenative and pressing in a way I hope isn’t demanding. She freezes, fingers digging into my face and back as I tilt my head, slotting our closed lips together more firmly as I breathe her in. Her mouth is soft, lips smooth against mine and I hope it feels as pleasant to her as it does to me. I don’t want to take anything from this, I want to give. I want to give her the same warmth. The same caring.

“I love you,” I rasp, the words tumbling from me. “I love you so much.”

Love. That has to be what this is. This has to be what real love feels like. Not whatever mockery the system makes me feel. This is real love.

I lean forward again, mouth finding hers in an aching kiss. I want her to feel how much she means to me. I want her to know just how amazing she makes me feel.

If only she would kiss me back.

Her body slackens, hands loosening on my face and back as her lips slide against mine. Her inhale is slow and deep as she curves into me and I feel I might combust at the way it presses her chest into mine. I want to cry at the way she cradles my face, brushing her finger over the space below my eye.

There’s a soft hum in the back of her throat as she tilts her head to the other side, a new angle to explore as I slowly move. She’s…she’s giving me permission? My heart is pounding in my chest, lungs barely working as I pull her close and she melds with me. It’s like we were made for each other with how easily our bodies find all the right curves and angles. I can feel every line of her against me, some causing more of a stir in my veins than others.

As much as I want to keep going, see how far this could take us, I pull back. I didn’t kiss her in the hopes of going further. Hell, I hadn’t even meant to kiss her tonight.

Oh, shit. I kissed her.

Oh, fuck she’s going to be pissed.

I open my eyes, finding hers already on me and I’m shocked to see my fingers steady around her head. I feel more settled in my bones, heavy within my skin in a way I haven’t felt since my first body. This woman is doing things to me I never thought possible and it makes my heart skip in my chest.

“I ought to kick your ass for that.” She says, laughing around a cheeky smile.

I laugh too, small at first until it grows into a warm chuckle. “You’d have every right to.”

“Here I was singing your praises for not crossing my boundaries and you go and kiss me without permission.”

“I can go find a paddle if you want to spank me for it.”

“Oh, my god. You’re fucking awful!” She laughs, smacking my chest before pushing me away. I jokingly stagger, laughing as I give her room to lean off the door. “One of these days, I swear…”

She trails off, shaking her head as she smiles to herself. In the moonlight, she looks angelic with her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks and her teeth so white. I want to kiss her again, but once is already pushing my luck for tonight. Why she isn’t killing me right now is beyond me.

The silence that falls between us is comfortable enough, but it leaves room for anxiety to creep back in. Things are good now. Things feel fine, but tonight still happened and I can’t pretend that it didn’t.

“Hey, I can still go stay in my van if you want,” I offer. “It might make you more comfortable until I have to leave.”

“If you promise not to kiss me again you can stay,” she says, voice honeyed and reassuring. “While I don’t blame you for what happened earlier it was still unnerving to say the least. I don’t want any more surprises while you’re here.”

“There won’t be, I promise,” I say, killing a devious smile and remark before they can be made. I need to do damage control for a little while and not make dirty jokes. I don’t want her being scared of me or losing trust. “Do you want me to sleep in your closet or on the floor as proof?”

She cocks her head to the side, considering my offer until I shoot her an offended look. When she splits into a wide grin I know she was only joking about taking me up on my offer, even if some small part of me had meant it. “Lulu won’t be home tonight. Let’s go watch movies in the living room and I’ll make us some popcorn.”