yvesol - Tumblr blog

yvesol · 27 days ago

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HAND(S)Y - one shot

(JOHN PRICE X READER)

PLOT:

you make the mistake of assuming that your veteran neighbor offered to do your apartment’s maintenance work out of the kindness of his heart (wc: 4.8k)

tags and cw: fem/afab reader, age gap, dubcon, coercion (sort of), explicit sexual content, size kink (again, kind of)

AO3 LINK

—

“And you’re sure the landlord didn’t mind removing maintenance costs from the rent?”

It was all too good to be true. Apartment (almost) smack-dab in the middle of the city, fifteen minutes from your new workplace (even with public transport), and amenities like a gym and grocery stores just a skip away. The rent was a laughable price. Sure, it didn’t include maintenance, but who cares? It’s a new building, and you have an en-suite bathroom.

Sally, the rental agent let out a long, exasperated sigh as she rubbed down her nose bridge. You almost felt bad for pestering her with your concerns, but who wouldn’t feel a little perturbed after suddenly receiving a call about how the apartment they had just rejected for the high rent was now being decreased to almost half the initial markup.

“The owner himself called me this morning. Said he couldn’t find anyone who could afford the rent and decided to take a chance. He’d rather get any kind of profit than have an empty flat eating up maintenance money.” She pulled out her copy of your lease from her shiny leather tote to give you further proof. A little condescending knowing that she had just seen you sign the contract in front of her on your new apartment’s kitchen countertop.

That was another mystery to you—the owner hadn’t met you yet. You weren’t someone of a concerning background, and nor was your criminal history too colorful (only a few slap-on-the-wrist instances of underage drinking), but it felt strange knowing that the owner wanted nothing to do with his own building. Him refusing to meet you even when you requested to speak to him.

Though, you weren’t sure if he’d be as friendly as the rental agent working for him—as rude as she may be. You could chalk it up to the exhaustion of constantly having to speak to people. You didn’t blame either of them. You weren’t much of a people person either.

The rental agent mentioned that your neighbors were quite alright too. A germaphobic old lady and a man in the army—two other people besides you on your floor. Manageable and silent.

It didn’t take you long to turn your apartment into a home. After a couple shopping sprees, you could officially feel the dread of emptiness seep out of you. A quaint one-bedroom apartment with a lovely kitchen unit that, compared to your old place, actually had a working oven. Even the air conditioner didn’t spit out ice after being switched on for too long.

Maybe your standards had been lowered after staying in bad-to-mediocre places with vents filled with mothballs while in college.

It warmed you to know that your start to official adulthood was going to be in a lovely home. Something that truly showed your personality.

Except, you were still waiting on your mattress and had been crashing on the uncomfortable yet artsy couch you bought off of a broke fashion student in some unseen corner of the city. You should’ve known the price wasn’t worth the discomfort when you saw her skip away with a month’s worth of your old part-time pay—notes leaving your account before pennies could trickle in.

–

There were many times when you wished you were a man: at the mechanic’s, comfortably sitting with your legs spread only to shut them close, being shoved and bumped into when using public transport, and now–moving your very new and cumbersome mattress into your apartment.

You heaved as you tried to push it through the door, the floppy heap of cotton and springs discouraging you with every budge. It almost felt like the heavy thing was mocking you. You were a victim of your own high-strung and eager spending.

“You must be the new tenant in 492. I live in 494. Need some help?” The voice behind you was gravelly thick, like moist tar after a rainy day. Your eyes landed on his broad shoulders first. They were held back high like he was happy carrying the weight of the world. Veteran neighbor. From your assumptions and amateur knowledge of the military, formalities were a huge thing for soldiers, so you extended your hand to him to introduce yourself.

Of course, another thing that was very important in the military was structure, so you bit your lip to stop yourself from guffawing at how his large, calloused hand almost engulfed yours. You couldn’t help but self-consciously tuck a small piece of hair behind your ear when you realized how intensely he was staring at you as he said his name–John Price.

A few moments later, you decided to thank John with a glass of chilled boxed lemonade. And for the first time, you were embarrassed at how bleak your fridge was. It was self-explanatory in college with how students don’t really have the money to fill the box to the brim, but as an adult, it was mortifying. It showed you weren’t careful. That you were careless and didn’t know how to take care of yourself, already losing momentum at the beginning of the race. His presence felt large and looming, making your apartment feel comically small. You wondered how he fit into his unit.

The drops of sweat behind your neck pooled down to your lower back as John’s blue eyes darted around your apartment from his seat at the kitchen barstool. With everything being done under obligation, you weren’t given much opportunity to customize your life, so decorating your first apartment felt like a childhood dream come true.

An immature girl. That’s probably how the soldier saw you even though you were one when he was well into adulthood. Probably already climbing the ranks.

“You’re one unlucky girl,” he chuckled as he took another sip of the citrusy drink. Your vision was never the best, but you swore you could see juice droplets drip into his beard.

“What do you mean, Mr. Price?”

“John’ll do, sweetheart,” he said to you through a grin. “You just happened to walk into a trap. There’s always a new problem with this place. I reckon the owner didn’t tell you that, did he?” A child. An immature, stupid, too-new-for-the-world child.

“He even got rid of the maintenance charge from the monthly rent,” you sheepishly admitted while playing with the fraying threads on your shirt sleeve.

“Yeah, that’s how they get ya. Can you afford to break the lease?” Your eyes are too busy staring holes into your sleeve to notice Price’s bright, blue, inquisitive gaze settled on you.

“I can’t afford to find a new place right now.” It felt like the world had chewed you up and spat you out. One hurdle greater than the next. You wondered just how people did not want to give up after coming out of the warm cocoon of their childhood.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he murmured to himself. He could tell you were disturbed by your delayed replies. His long legs carried him to where you stood, heavy thumping boots bellowing echoes with every step. A large hand sits at the back of your neck, your dewy skin sticking to his palm like honey. You were emotional to the point of pliancy, so it didn’t take him much effort to angle your head up to him.

“You tell me if you need any handiwork done. It’ll be our secret,” he cajoles calmly, staring into your eyes. The smell of bitter tobacco emanates from him as his broad body shields you from the light coming in through your windows. Your delusional mind patterns the afternoon sun to create a golden halo around his head. The fulfillment you got from feeling stable after a long time was a different kind of high. But you couldn’t accept it so quickly. Life has the cruel habit of snatching things away when you clutch them in your palm.

“I couldn’t do that to you. You must be so busy–”

His grip on the back of your neck tightened as his face got closer to yours. Blue irises boring into your tired, red eyes as his lemony, sweet breath hits your lips with every long second. “Hey, it’s nothing. I always do my own handiwork.”

“No, John, at least let me repay you,” you didn’t mean to whine, but you couldn’t help it with the way his fingers were now trailing into your matted and sweaty hair. “Course you will. Just give me a little more than lemonade next time.”

–

John was like a phantom after that day. You’d only just miss him as you’d enter your apartment building, the door to his flat swinging shut as soon as you exited the elevator. It felt like he was trying to keep your little arrangement under wraps for everyone–which was funny as you barely saw the other building residents. But alas, one could never be too sure. Maybe John was much more sociable than you.

Summer was as unforgiving as ever. It felt like the sun scorched everything in its path, from skin to paper to puddles of water. A week later, You were compelled to knock on John’s door with a sheepish smile and your t-shirt sticking to your body with sweat. He agreed to your request with a grunt, soon following you into your apartment with a toolbox. He navigated the place like his own, automatically knowing where the troubled AC was. “It’s in the same place in my unit,” he explained with his signature grin, meticulously styled beard lifting with the apples of his cheeks.

Feeling useless, you trudged to your kitchen to put out some cookies and a glass of lemonade as a sign of gratitude. Also the unbearable heat made you want to stick your head in your freezer.

The sound of John’s throat clearing pulled you out of your temporary paradise. You whipped your head only to see his eyes flit from your hips to your face. Your inner voice prayed that he wasn’t standing there for too long.

“I’ve fixed it. Should take about twenty minutes to cool up the place. Are those for me?” He pointed at the plate of chocolate chip cookies you had baked the night before, definitely not preparing for the ‘something extra’ the man was expecting for his favors. You vigorously nod as you drag the cookies and lemonade across the countertop, but the clicking of John’s tongue stops you. “My hands are dirty, love. Do you mind feeding them to me?”

You weren’t sure why your first thought was to put the confection up to his chapped lips, why you didn’t think of letting him wash his hands in your kitchen sink (only three steps away.) You weren’t even sure if he meant what he said until your cookie reached his mouth. He took a big, hearty bite, making brown sugar crumbs rain down your fingers. Your heart quickened at the feeling of his slick tongue grazing the tips of your fingers. His eyes never left yours throughout.

“Thanks, love, I’ll be taking this with me then.” And just like that, your friendly neighbor John Price left with his glass of lemonade, and only then did you realize you were wearing your white cotton see-through shorts with a pair of black panties underneath.

—

John was no longer the phantom you assumed him to be after that day. You’d occasionally see him around the building while collecting mail, buying groceries, or by the bus stop (where he’d stop his car and offer you a lift to your workplace). You were seeing him everywhere. Literally. The only place you didn’t see him was at work. The repairs around your apartment were too many to the point where he was at your place more than his.

The man had this strange talent of almost always materializing next to you. Even down to picking you up from work. It felt strange, but you were glad you wouldn't have to spend money on public transport. The more you could save up, the sooner you could move out. Taking advantage of John’s help wasn’t fair to either of you. It was eating up his spare time, and for you, well, you couldn’t catch a break whenever you’d see him walk in with his toolbox and bulging muscles.

Also because his demands were starting to get more…personal.

It all started when he had fixed your bathroom pipes for you, blasted thing giving out right when you were about to leave for work. You were lucky to have built a good enough rapport with Price that he let you into his unit and freshen up, even offering you his shower. You weren’t sure if the germaphobic old lady would’ve been too keen on letting you even be in a three-foot radius of her.

Price was about to leave your apartment with yet again, more cookies and a whole bottle of lemonade, when he had stopped just before going out the door.

“Everything alright, John?” you asked as you walked over to him, shoving your wallet and your keys in your work bag in a hurry. “Can I have something for my compensation this time?”

Guilt seeped into your bones when you realized that you had been giving him the exact same treatment for everything he had helped you fix. No matter how complex the task.

You had wished your cooking and baking skills were more intricate and refined, but chocolate chip cookies and boxed lemonade were all you had to offer.

Though you could always switch out lemonade for so—

“Give me a kiss,” he demanded. Not even a question or suggestion. Just something branded with molten hot iron onto your brain without your awareness.

“I-I’m getting late. I’ll see you later.” Yes, it was best if you just pretended if you didn’t hear him. You try to brush past him but he’s quick to block your way. “On the cheek. Not asking you to take my lips. Although, I’m not against that either.”

You were really hoping that the last part was a light joke.

“John—“

“You’re getting late and I can’t drive you today.” The man was a brick wall, blocking the entirety of your apartment door with just a slightly wider than usual stance.

He bent down, his face coming into level with yours. He didn’t bother turning his cheek to you for the minuscule possibility of you leaving a sweet kiss on his lips instead.

You glanced down at your watch and the bus was going to be at the stop in five minutes. You could make it in time if you took the stairs and ran.

With an uneasy mind and bite to the inside of your cheek, your pressed your lips his cheek. You try to wipe off the faint tint of peach left behind by your scented lip balm but he’s quick to walk back to his apartment.

Kisses on the cheek soon turn into kisses on the lips. They start off with quick pecks, something you hope to finish as soon as he leans down.

Until one day, he suddenly stamps his large paw on the back of your head and slips his tongue past your lips, savoring the taste of your hot mouth with his.

His citrusy breath lingers in your mouth and ingrains itself in your mind till the next time something goes wrong in your apartment. You aren’t sure when the right time to stop is. On the one hand, John grinds his hips against yours as he makes out with your mouth after fixing your sink, and on the other hand, you barely have enough funds to pay for maintenance and move into a better apartment.

So you endure it.

However, it is thrilling to know that there is a man out there who wants you so much that he growls in your mouth and squeezes your waist and under your shirt as soon as you kiss him back.

–

All your restraints break loose on the day you find your roof leaking. You’re quick to call John, knowing that it only takes two rings until he picks up. The burr of his voice, even through the phone, shackles your feet to the ground. They only move when he tells you that you can stay in his apartment while some of his handy friends check out what’s really causing the leak.

So you gingerly make your way across the hallway, laptop in hand and last night’s dinner in a lunch box as a thank you for John.

All three of his friends are similar to him–tall, burly, thick accents that make them sound like they’re spewing insults with every syllable that escapes their mouths.

The man with the dirty blond hair and surgical mask is oddly fascinated with you, though. His light brown eyes constantly shift between you and John–almost like he can detect that there’s a sliver of an unconventional relationship between you two.

You don’t give him the opportunity to ask when you briskly walk into John’s apartment with your head trained toward the floor.

Since John’s unit is similar to yours, there are not many places for you to work on your laptop besides sitting next to him on the couch. Like most men his age, his apartment is sparse, with no extra furniture than what’s required.

Even his couch feels like it was brought just for the sake of keeping something for guests. It’s comfortable yet small, only big enough to fit two adults. And even then, with John manspreading, you’re shoved into the corner, having to use the arm rest to support your weight on your elbow.

Deep down, you knew your efforts to keep a respectable distance were futile. He had already had his tongue down your throat not too long ago; what’s a little clothed thigh-to-thigh contact while sitting on the couch?

The man is unapologetically himself, with his beer in his hand and his arm extended at the back of the couch. He makes sure to take up space wherever he goes.

The television loudly blares his sports match, and the sound of the referee distracts you to the point where you end up writing ‘what a spectacular goal’ in your work report. You don’t have the courage to ask him to lower the volume, so you shut your laptop and place it on the equally small coffee table in front of you.

“I’m not gonna bite you. Sit comfortably.” The arm behind you nudges your shoulder, and you comply, slowly spreading your legs to the point where your knees touch. He sighs and slides his arm around your shoulder, and drags you closer till you’re entirely pressed up against him.

“Much better isn’t it.”

You nod, and he slides his hand down to your waist and squeezes it. “Use your words, love.”

“Yes, John.”

“Good girl.”

His scent is thick with tobacco and Old Spice as it clouds your senses. He hadn’t moved his hand from your waist and simply rubbed as his fingers slowly crept down to the hem of your shirt.

You can only play with fingers your in your lap as you watch the team he’s supporting score yet another goal.

The match was only background noise now. A distant whirr failing to compete with the churning gears in your mind.

“Come to think of it, you haven’t compensated me for helping you today.”

“...what?”

His hand moves further up under your shirt, resting just below the band of your bra.

“Compensation. My friends are busy men, you know.”

“Oh, right.”

You turn to face him, sweat already pooling at the base of your spine as you lean in to kiss his lips.

But he stops you–squishing your cheeks together with a single hand as he pulls you away and smirks at your flustered state. The hand inside your shirt begins to caress your skin.

“I want something more.” His request reverberates in your skull till you almost go cross-eyed. His heady gaze has a hint of amusement as his fingers dance just beneath your bra, skirting around the band.

“Sit in on my lap.” The burr of his voice has you acting like a mindless zombie as you straddle him, hovering just above his semi-hardened crotch. With a click of his tongue, he pushes your waist and makes you sit directly on top. You gasp, holding on to his shoulders to steady yourself and your sanity.

“That’s more like it,” he says. His calloused hands run up and down your thighs, occasionally pushing his fingers into your shorts and grazing the hem of your panties.

“Did you wear these for me?” he whispers before nipping your earlobe. “Wanted to tease me, didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t trying to do anything,” you reason.

“If you weren’t, then you wouldn’t be sitting on my lap right now,” he counters before his lips latch onto your neck. The collar is tight, not giving him access to your decolletage even when he tries to pull down the fabric.

So he rucks up your shirt and takes it off you, ignoring your weak protests while throwing it away in some corner of his living room. “So soft,” he murmurs into your neck as his hands travel around the expanse of your abdomen, fingers digging into your sides to pull you closer till your chest meets his.

You bite your lip to keep yourself from letting out tiny cries when John sucks on your skin. He chuckles when he notices your chest falling and rising at the pace of a rabbit’s heartbeat. It feels like mockery. You’re giving him what he wants with minimal obstruction, yet he acts like he could take you whenever.

He licks your bottom lip as he orders you to take off your bra and sit on your knees so that your breasts are almost face-to-face with his mouth.

It horrifies you to think about how selfish it would be of you not to help him. The man is a veteran and has many things on his plate. Offering yourself to him on a silver platter after making him do all that labor for you is the least you could do for him.

John only watches you unclasp your bra with shaky hands. He does not make any effort to touch you or even quicken your pace, surprisingly patient. But his lascivious gaze says otherwise.

“Been waiting so long to see this. Had to make it the perfect moment. Ease you in.” His paws are quick to latch onto your breasts as soon as you pull down the straps of your bra. You gasp when he places his mouth on your nipple, flicking his tongue on the pebbled nub as his hands squeeze and push your other breast.

It’s far too late to stop and truly contemplate how fucked up the whole situation was–how easily you had just played into whatever he wanted.

His hands travel down your chest to the apex of your thigh and pull on your shorts. “Take these off too, love. Wouldn’t want you to take advantage of my kindness and not give yourself entirely in return.”

Your hands are frozen on his shoulders, baffled at how brazenly commanding John’s being. Seeing this, he sighs and grabs ahold of your hands in his and shoves your thumbs in your waist band. “Come on, down they go.”

“Look at you, all soaked.” John leers at the wet spot on your panties as you hover over his lap, knees uncomfortably digging into his couch. John pushes his thumb throw your labia and drags it from your slit to your clit, lightly pressing on it. Your nails dig into his shoulder. It was horrifying yet arousing. You’d only ever read stories about heroines paying off their debt using their bodies, but seeing it happen to you, in reality, was another thing.

It was all too humiliating–being so naive that you inadvertently trusted an older man with ill intentions. Your lips were still tingling from the wet kiss he left earlier, all tongue and no mercy. And then he moved to do it again, hot mouth devouring your mewls. His other hand, situated at the back of your knee, moved up to your ass, squeezing along the way and fixing itself underneath the cotton of your underwear. Thick fingers dug into soft skin like a clutched cushion.

“You wanted this to happen, didn’t you? That’s why you’re so ready for me?” he teases as his fingers move faster. “Bet you broke things in your apartment just so I could come in and see you half-dressed.”

“No,” you weakly stammer out.

“Sure, lie all you want. I already know you wanted this dick to fill you up the whole time. Don’t worry, I’ll stuff your cunt, sweetheart–I promise you that.”

He pulls the saturated gusset of your panties to the side and strokes a thick finger up the seam of your cunt. He kisses away your gasp when he enters your hole, hands playing with your nipple as he shoves another finger in, slowly increasing his speed.

You whine as you rub your clit, trying to find some sort of relief, but he immediately pulls out and shoves your hand away, slapping your clit to keep you in line. “You’ll get what you want if you’re patient. Now pull my cock out my pants.”

You meekly nod as tears threaten to spill out your dewy eyes. With ginger hands, you slowly unzip his jeans. His bulge is intimidating, already hard and straining against the cotton of his boxers.

You gasp slightly when you see the damp circle of precome on his underwear. His heated gaze and the intimidating outline of his dick make you shiver in your spot. When you pull him out, you nearly feel like running away. The sheer size of him is nothing you’ve seen before. Most of the people you’d hooked up with weren’t as girthy or long.

John groans as you wrap your hand around him, stroking the tip with caution.

“Come on, don’t be afraid—sit on it.” The timbre of his voice pulls you out of your momentary daze and you gulp.

John’s hands grasp your hips as he slowly pulls you down. He hisses when the entrance to your warm, wet, cunt meets his tip. The stretch you feel as your walls slide down his length is painful, his engorged cock fitting snugly.

“What’s wrong, love? Need a moment?” It almost feels like the older man is mocking you. ‘Have you really never taken something this big before?’

And before you can adjust to his size, John bucks his hip up into you, making you squeak as your body jerks.

“I think I’ll just need to fuck myself into you to fit well, don’t you think, darling?” he whispers in your ear before leaving a scorching kiss on your mouth.

You’re breathless after he pulls away and you nod dumbly, too overstimulated to do or say anything. His thumb strums along your clit, making you weep and wrap your arms around his neck. He rocks on top of him, viscid walls familiarizing themselves with every nerve that bulges out from his cock, slick collecting at the base.

And before you know it, he moves his hand away from your hips, only watching you bounce on his lap like you’re chasing your own high.

“I’m so—so full,” you whimper as John massages your breasts. You feel his muscles tensing under his t-shirt and he pulls you into another heated kiss as he pinches your nipple. You whine, almost at edge, as he tongues your mouth, groaning from the depths of his chest as he feels you contracting harder around his length.

“Come for me, honey,” he mumbles into your mouth, hand going down to your clit.

The elastic knot in your abdomen tightens till it snaps, rendering your spineless as you fall into John’s embrace. You both breath heavily as John reaches his own climax, his spend painting your walls white.

You were too exhausted to worry about birth control at the time.

—

You weren’t sure how long you had slept for, but you were sure that you had been out for longer than an hour considering that you were wearing John’s old military training t-shirt and had a sour taste in your mouth. Your cunt began to ache as you remembered the reason why you were so exhausted.

John is nowhere to be seen, so you drag yourself out of bed, limbs heavy as you crawl across to the foot.

That is until you hear John’s phone buzz at the night stand.

Curious, you crawl back. The thought of privacy briefly crossed your mind before you brushed it away. You’d bared your body to that man. A small text didn’t matter.

Your huffed at what you read. Eyes wide with sleep quickly vanishing by the nanosecond, It was the realtor who’d shown the apartment you were presently living in.

Sally M. : Hello, John. I just wanted to confirm how quickly you were planning on emptying unit 492. I know a few people who want to see it already.”

#I just realized that the link was broken #john price smut #price/reader #john price x reader smut #john price x reader

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yvesol · 28 days ago

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codes & codons - PART 1

(SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY X READER)

PLOT:

in the dead of the night, your computer’s webcam glows red—he watches you from another realm made up of binary roots, hoping that he will one day get to taste the sweetness of your lips instead of the static that stings his tongue.

or: the sentient horror game character au

MASTERLIST // READ IT ON AO3

—

He was never programmed to say your name. Or that he’d find you in the real world.

Bravery was never your strongest feat. From the formative age of you-don’t-remember to your adulthood, you have remained a consistent anxiety-stricken and nervous coward. Heart palpitations, cold sweat, and fidgeting were all more like familiar habits than coping mechanisms whenever anything concerning happened in your life. Including now, where you were a blubbering mess on the phone.

“You don't–” hiccup “--get it, Gaz, the presentation is in two weeks, and I’m finding a mistake in the code now of all times.” You were heaving, trying to make sense of what your computer screen was showing you: Ghost, the video game character you oh so lovingly programmed, was saying something completely different than what he was supposed to.

As someone deeply engrossed in what they did, you always wore your work ethic like a badge of honor, turning you into a nocturnal tornado on the computer, typing away codes for different projects, and spending hours trying to find tiny errors. You were a victim of your own discipline, constantly sleep-deprived and delirious during the day. You were sure you must’ve unknowingly changed something while working the night away. Maybe you mistook Transcendent for another project and wrote something else in its code.

“He was supposed to say that he’d wait for the player. H–how did he even say my name…I don’t understand what’s going on–”

“Hey, listen to me–”

“No, Gaz, it’s so weird. I can see my name on the screen. I never put it in the program–”

“Listen to me! Calm down. You won’t be able to think if you panic so much. Take a few deep breaths first, alright? With me, now, come on, one…” You did as your friend said, finding solace in his soothing voice.

Gaz was a fellow programmer and the only one who understood you better than yourself. A true friend when you always needed one. Even though he wasn’t much of a gamer, He helped develop the main codes for the game, even giving you input for the story so you could make it more interesting. He was integral to you in every aspect of your life.

“I’ll drop by your place and take a look, okay?” he reassured. There are contrasts in every duo, complementing figures. Where you lacked organization with your messy notes, there Gaz stayed meticulous with his carefully annotated textbooks, and where Gaz lacked concern about random things like bills and apartment maintenance, you stood tall with your list of worries.

“You can’t come over tomorrow. I have to go to like, three interviews back to back. I’ll be out all day,” you say as you wipe away your snot and tears. You're finally done with your wailing now that there’s some comfort for your frenzied mind. “It’s okay. Just text me your apartment’s passcode and I’ll let myself in.”

If you agree, send him your passcode. You could feel the onset of a wave of productivity. Having Gaz in your life truly was convenient.

You look back at your computer and sigh, the only words that are displayed sending chills down your spine and static in your ears.

“I will find you.”

It felt like each and every pixel of his skull mask-covered face was mocking you.

And when you finally shut your eyes and fall into the thick cocoon of sleep, does he take a good look at you.

He takes his first breath as the webcam glows red.

–

Kate Laswell, the head of talent acquisition at 141 Games, was staring at you through her clear glass coffee cup as you chewed your wrinkled lip, waiting for her question. “I am quite impressed by your resume. Working full time while handling a side project like Transcendent must’ve been difficult.” The woman was trying to warm you up to her presence, even going as far as to conduct the interview at the coffee shop in the company building.

‘I had the idea for the longest time, and I was just so tired of waiting for the right moment to settle down and work, so I grabbed my computer and started. I’m exhausted, but I feel accomplished.” You prayed that your answer didn’t make you out to be a neglectful and distracted employee but rather a dedicated programmer.

Kate smiled at your answer, crows’ feet deepening beside her eyes as she placed your resume on the coffee table. “I could easily look at your file and figure out what Transcendent is about, but I want your perspective on it. Tell me about the game: the plot, your inspiration, how you came up with the codes. All of it.” She placed one leg on top of the other as she leaned forward a little, making the sunlight hit her brown hair in such a way that you could see the little canities sprouting.

“Well, it’s a choose-your-own-adventure game where your choices can either give you a good ending or a bad ending. Your job as the player is to free yourself from being haunted by your dead ex-boyfriend. So you go on a journey to learn how to exorcise him. It’s scary if you get the bad ending and sentimental if you get the good ending.”

Kate hums, her eyes watching you like you’re the most interesting person ever, a program so unique that it cannot be replicated by anyone, even if they have the codes for it. “Tell me more.”

The interview goes better than you thought. You were interviewed by three of the most famous game development companies, but something in your heart just pulled you to 141 Games. Kate’s enthusiasm to learn not just about your magnum opus but also about your other projects made you feel validated for your craft. Also, she was the only one who didn’t force you to hand over your game to the company if you chose to work there.

Your apartment looks the exact same way as it did before you left–notebooks about programming languages strewn on your coffee table notes about Transcendent stuck on your refrigerator using some of the many magnets Gaz gets you from his business trips, and your computer screensaver displaying the time and date.

The only thing out of place was a box of donuts waiting for you on your kitchen counter. You find a note from Gaz next to it–he called them emotional support donuts. Nothing could be more fitting for the glazed confection that sent a rush of dopamine with every bite.

With the last of the donuts in your mouth, you walked over to your computer to check if he had fixed the code, only to find an email notification from him. Surprised that he didn’t just send you a text; you read the email anyway.

Sender: [email protected]

Time: 3:15 pm

there is nothing wrong with the code

i think you stay up too much

What a weird message. No mention of any curiosity over how your interviews went.

Jealousy. You rubbed your temples to get rid of that thought. You had enough on your plate with job offers, new projects, and the university presentation.

He could’ve just called you, but you digressed from texting him. The haiku-esque email made you think of it as another one of his playful moments.

Sender: [email protected]

Time: 6:36 pm

Hi Gaz,

Thank you for the donuts :) they were delish. And thanks for looking at the code anyway. Though I doubt what you’re saying is true. I think I’d remember if the dialogues in my own game had been changed. Also what’s with the weird texting style? are you making fun of me for the code thing?

Love,

Your best friend.

You then open Transcendent to check whether Gaz was right or not. There was already one mistake in the game; there was no way there weren’t more mistakes.

The familiar music starts, and you start the playthrough as usual, making notes for the presentation you have to give at a local university next week. It was all going swell when you found another strange dialogue. Where Ghost was supposed to mention that he would never leave the player, he says something else.

“1 @m com1ng. Wa1t f0r m3. Just 0ne mor#”

You whipped your phone out of your pocket as fast as you could and dialed straight for Gaz, hoping that he would pick up in a ring or two. You swore that the dialogue didn’t say that the day before. Your mind was running through every logical explanation for the situation as you waited for Gaz to pick up. You sat with bated breath, hoping that it was your friend who might’ve accidentally messed up this part of the program, too, but to your disappointment, he hadn’t picked up at all.

Which is fine, you could just message him and then continue playing the game in the meantime.

You found a few more mistakes in the dialogue, mainly numbers replacing letters, and sometimes, his figure wouldn’t show up in some scenes at all. You chalked up the latter to the game, not being able to load everything on time.

You were enveloped in gooseflesh as you thought about how much work had just suddenly piled on your shoulders right before one of the most important days in your career. After all, people already had low expectations for an indie gamer like you; you couldn’t afford to make things worse for yourself.

You decide to go on the gaming forum you’re usually active on and look up Transcendent, hoping to find out whether other people have had similar issues with the game. Still, to your surprise, the only comments you find are theories about Ghost’s past and more praise about your game.

You push your blue light glasses back up the bridge of your nose before stretching and opening up the codes for the game again. Your mind reeled over how one singular mistake could progress into multiple, checking for potential bugs, but the program was spotless. Clean as a whistle, as straightforward as typing out ‘print: hello world.’

<!DOCTYPE html>

<head>

<title>Dialogue</title>

</head>

<body>

<p id="dialogue">Player: "You have to move on."</p>

<button onclick="document.getElementById('dialogue').textContent = 'Ghost: \"I could never leave you”.\"'">Continue</button>

</body>

</html>

Frustrated, you shut your computer. You still had to decide which place you wanted to work at, and there simply weren’t enough hours in the day to fuss over a single problem.

Gaz’s cryptic emails continued for the next few days till he ceased all contact. He wouldn’t pick up when you’d try to call him, and your texts to him refused to go through, with only a small error symbol appearing when you’d text him a simple greeting.

“I haven’t seen ‘im either. Rent was supposed to be paid three days ago, and he’s not responding to my calls or texts. Didn’t say anything about not being able to pay on time. The house is locked too. If you find him, then let me know, or I’ll have to call the police.” His landlord seemed more frustrated about not being able to collect rent than about Gaz’s safety. With a nervous nod, you went back to your apartment to continue working on your presentation.

You bit your nails and thought about going to the police, but it wasn’t the first time Gaz had gone AWOL and returned as if nothing had happened. It just never happened for longer than four days.

But you couldn’t let all these thoughts get in the way. With the university presentation and new job opportunities, your hands were tied, not to mention all the new side projects you were handling. For now, you’d just have to shut the concerned side of your brain and make it through the fog.

You don’t see Gaz at your university guest lecture as he had promised before; so much for moral support. Surprisingly, Ghost doesn’t act up during your demo playthrough: there are no weird dialogues, and his character loads properly during different scenes. The program almost acts like a well-behaved dog.

Your mind splinters when you watch a sci-fi movie about a robot gaining self-awareness. But you’re quick to remind yourself that sentience is not possible. It’s probably all those energy drinks you chug down like water.

You can’t help but reel at the different possibilities about his disappearance. Maybe he has finally settled down and gotten a partner, though he’d never leave you in the dark about it. He could also be very sick, probably came down with something extremely contagious–but the landlord said he hadn’t heard from him in days.

Or maybe he’s jealous and resents you for not crediting him.

You try to email him for the tenth time to see if he’s okay, and hours later, you finally get a reply.

From: [email protected]

Time: 1:41 am

not c0ming b4ck

You try hard not to bite off the inside of your cheek, though its cushioning is the only way you can stop yourself from grinding your teeth. The man has fallen off the face of the Earth, and this is the only reply you get? You try sending a follow-up email, but all you get is an error saying that it never went through.

You try again five times. Same result. You make a decision to go to the police if he doesn’t reply in three more days.

–

The coffee in the styrofoam cup is hot enough to turn your palms soft and red. It’s the least of your worries now that you know your friend has been missing for a week. A random junior officer was kind enough to hand over the warm caffeinated drink when he noticed your jittery state while waiting to speak with a detective. You doubted that it would help.

You jolt like a foal that has just started to stand on its twig-like legs when a large man enters your vision. His mahogany desk looks comically small compared to his frame: broad shoulders, towering height, and thick hands. His face looks aged, mainly because of stress and the way his beard has been cropped. His name slate sits tilted on his messy desk that is filled with files and a lone coffee cup that is almost filled to the brim.

“Hello, I’m Detective John Price. How can I help you, ma’am?” He sits across from you with his arms folded, making him look even more imposing. His dark circles and deadpanned face showed that he was trying to grasp onto every bit of politeness he could harness within himself.

“Hi, my friend is gone–he’s missing.”

The crowded police station makes it hard for you to collect your thoughts. A combination of cacophonies come from all directions. An old woman loudly yelled about noisy neighbors in one corner, two drunk men argued with one another, and a group of policemen laughed while eating bagels. It doesn’t help that the desks have been put so close together that every once in a while, someone’s elbow bumps into the back of your head as they hurriedly walk past you. You ignored the following apologies after a while.

John looks at you pensively before taking a big gulp from his cup. “How many days has it been since you’ve last heard from him.”

“About a week. Though he’s only been contacting me via emails and completely went AWOL about three days ago.”

“So, three days?” John sluggishly pulls out a sticky note from his desk’s drawer and clicks his pen.

“Huh?”

John sighs as he rubs his temples. “It’s been three days since you’ve actually heard from him.”

“Yes, but his number–like, I tried calling and texting for the past week, and nothing went through. I’m just really worried.”

Though his beard covers a good part of the lower half of his face, you can tell he’s grinding his teeth. His questions say concern, but his face says frustration.

“Has something like this happened before? Not hearing from him? Maybe he’s on a trip.”

“Yes, but–”

“There you go, there’s your answer. If he has contacted you via email, I’m sure he’ll contact you again. Don’t fret.” He’s about to get up, but you grab onto his arm. You try not to cower under his gaze when he looks at you like you’re a child begging for candy.

“No, you don’t get it. I got this really weird email saying that he’s not gonna come back. Here, I’ll show you.”

He’s still standing up when you get on your tippy toes and nearly press your phone to his face with Gaz’s email displayed on it. He takes one look at the email and then glares at you. “Not going to come back, you say?”

You nod with as much concern as you can show, eyebrows furrowed and eyes glossy. His large hand clasps your wrist and turns the phone back at you. “Please read this again.”

From: [email protected]

Time: 1:41 am

Hey,

I had to go to Spain for an impromptu work trip. Network has been shit since I’m staying in the mountains. Will be back in about two weeks!

Love,

Gaz

Your blood grows cold. It was the same time, with the same email address, but with a different message. You were so sure you pulled up the right message, but you checked through your inbox again. Just to verify. “But–but–”

No sign of the original message.

“Ma’am, I can understand that you may miss your friend, but these–” he points to the heap of files sitting on his desk “--are real missing person cases. I have to spend each second of my day running aroun’ the city, trying to find any trace of ‘em. And because of false reports like yours, I have to run on back and waste precious moments where I could be investigatin’ on consoling people like you. Now, please take your leave. I’m busy and would like to get back to work.”

You could tell he was trying to be as nice as he could, so you obliged, not putting up much of a fight, and dragged yourself out of the police station. It’s not like you had any evidence to support you anyway.

You stare at Gaz’s strange email until you get a notification from Kate Laswell asking if you have made your decision.

–

The sound of static buzzes like a low hum in your ears, forcing you to take an Advil before leaving for work. Gaz’s disappearance still has you frazzled. So far, no one has taken you seriously. His landlord did not care about his whereabouts when he mentioned that he had randomly received a wire transfer for the rent.

Life still went on for you, though. You got a new job, choosing 141 Games as your next summit. It took a lot of contemplation, but it worked out in your favor in multiple ways: the office building was only twenty minutes from where you lived (via public transport), they always had an assortment of pastries in the break room that didn’t taste like they were a day old, and you got very high pay despite having little to no background in video game programming.

Everything was perfect except for the hindrance of one coworker–Philip Graves.

Most of the people on your team were very glad to have you on board, some of the smartest minds in the country crowding around you in the breakroom for a small welcome party, except Philip, who cut it short by condescendingly nagging everyone for wasting time.

“We better get back to work if we don’t want to stay overtime, am I right?” You still shudder thinking about his deprecatory stare at you with his arms folded, judging how a little girl like you could make it to the top so quickly.

You couldn’t blame him, though–from what you had heard, Philip worked hard to get to where he is today and was not happy to learn that you got your position simply by creating one game.

But then again, that little video game was the result of your blood, sweat, and tears. And you did it all while balancing a full-time job. Though you weren’t someone who reveled in praise and constant approval, you did enjoy the occasional acknowledgment from your peers for your hard work, as a humble woman. You believe this only ticked Philip off even more, going as far as to tell the intern that you didn’t drink coffee when it came to ordering snacks for department meetings.

If you were in high school, you would’ve asked the person next to you to tell you whether big bully Philip Graves was hazing you for being the new kid.

Things are a little different as an adult. Usually, when you seek out support, your enemies assume that you have no defense and go full throttle. It starts with no coffee at meetings, then it moves on to condescending remarks about your suggestions, often dumbing down your ideas at meetings, and then, last but not least, promotion sabotage.

So you keep quiet, keeping your worries to yourself.

You sink into your very comfy and expensive Ergohuman chair as you gloomily wish you could speak to Gaz and find comfort in his presence. You hadn’t heard from him in two weeks. Literally and figuratively.

His strange emails went from three sentences to a single word. All random phrases got more cryptic with each email he sent. He hadn’t even bothered to ask you about how your presentation went. A part of you doubted whether he was angry because you never mentioned him in the game’s credits, even if his contribution was really all about cross-checking and maybe one or two dialogues.

Jealousy.

You’d been seeing that word a lot more lately. Your computer kept showing you ads of articles about jealousy in friendships and the workplace.

It was almost like it could read your mind. The buzzing sound in your ears grows a little louder. You take another Advil.

You swiveled in your chair to look out the window. The bleak winter snow covered almost every roof in sight, like a white blanket over the city. You wonder if Gaz is somewhere out there, possibly avoiding you over his exclusion from Transcendent’s credits.

You’re pulled out of your wishful thinking when Farah clears her throat. She has a tense expression on her face as she places a small stack of papers. “They’re assigning duos to get work done faster. You’re in charge of gameplay engineering with…” she sighs at the expectant look on your face.

“Graves. They’ve added more play styles, so expect to stay late tonight.” Of course, life is too good to be true. Where there are steep highs, there are also drowning lows. Farah purses her lips before awkwardly patting your shoulder. “Good luck.”

It was obvious to everyone how much Philip disliked you. And they tried their level best to never get caught in it. But now that you’ve been assigned to work closely with him, the office has become a ticking time bomb.

To distract yourself during lunchtime, you decide to play a chapter of Transcendent. The music brings back a fraction of the comfort you get with Gaz. The game has been your only solace lately, save for the weird dialogues that Ghost has still been saying. You start to question whether you added an AI algorithm during one of your many all-nighters.

However, you can’t bring yourself to care as much because, strangely, the game never acted up during the presentation. Maybe it was because you lacked friends, but it felt like the game was speaking to you.

“H3 w1LL p4Y”

Another out-of-character dialogue. You try to close the application, but it refuses to shut down. The screen continues to show you the emotion-lacking skull face.

“D0 not Deny m3”

The buzzing grows louder. You’ve run out of Advil. There are only so many unfortunate things that can happen to you at once. You’re afraid to go to a shrink because you just nailed down a good job, and being sent to a mental hospital amid an all-time high in your career was the last thing you wanted.

You aggressively click the close application button, but to no avail does the game shut down. You huff, trying to shut down your laptop, but it was almost like it didn’t want to. The screen continued to blare the bold white letters of Ghost’s dialogue.

“I exi5t for y0u”

You squint at your screen. Out of all the nonsensical things he’s said, this one has to be the most confusing one so far. You try to turn off your laptop by folding it and opening it again, but the game stays persistent. You start to think you’re hallucinating when the music sounds a little louder than you think.

“It’s been ten minutes past lunch. I don’t like waiting.” Almost as if on cue, the game shuts down when Philip enters the break room. You sheepishly apologize, and he scoffs as you both walk over to the meeting room to work on the project together. You try your best to keep up with his fast pace, trainers stomping as he ignores a greeting from an uneasy intern. You flash them a quick smile to show that everything is good and there’s no need for them to be worried about office politics.

He ignores you for most of the day, only ever acknowledging your presence when you show him you’re done with the tasks he had assigned you. His attitude has significantly shifted the dynamics between you two, going from coworkers to boss and subordinate.

You think it’s because of his age. He thinks it’s because you’re a meek beginner in the tech world.

His imposing form starts to unsettle you even more than before, to the point where you’re afraid you’ll get PTSD every time you see a Patagonia vest.

Weaponizing your skittish behavior was the only way out now. Killing with kindness.

“Um, Philip,” you mumble, shifting the equilibrium of uncomfortable silence to an even more awkward initiation of a conversation. He doesn’t look up from his work and simply hums in acknowledgment like you aren’t worth his attention. Like it was something you needed to earn.

“I’ve been having trouble with this one particular part of the program lately. Do you think you could take a look?”

His pupils minimize as they land on you. “Is that why you’ve been so distracted at work lately?”

“Wha—no, I’m just asking for help,” you counter.

“Right. I’ll take a look at it later. Why don’t you go through the rest of the schematics for now?” Philip’s suggestion felt more like an imposition than anything.

An hour passes by, and nothing has soothed your weary mind. The amount of work just keeps piling up, and the base of your neck has begun to gore because of your posture. Your eyes burn raw with the friction of your eyelids slowly moving.

You feel like Philip is glaring at you, so you shift your gaze to him, and he immediately looks at his computer, seemingly unbothered, but you don’t miss how his lips flatten. You’ve worked with him long enough to know he’s disappointed in you. It’s one of the only body language indicators he uses with you.

“You can’t get tired already. No one said this job was gonna be easy,” he says without looking away from his computer. It irks you how every word he says reminds you that you’re not as good as your peers. He tears down your confidence one morsel at a time, savoring each bite like a starved cannibal as he stares right into your soul.

“I didn’t say anything,” you reply, your speech filter fading into the abyss through every passing minute without sleep.

“Yeah, but your eyes say a lot. Go get some coffee from the break room,” his blue eyes flit to your computer before he continues speaking. “I’ll look at your code while you’re gone.” Translation: I’d like to be left alone because every time I see you, I’m reminded of how you joined our team without any significant experience.

“I’ll get you a cup, too,” you say before walking out the door. You do not hear him call out to thank you.

The office building is empty, and the fluorescent lights of the main office are switched off, making you feel like you’re in the bowels of a backroom puzzle. No end in sight. When you finally enter the break room, you feel like pulling your hair out because there’s no coffee left in the pot.

With a huff, you pull out the tin of coffee beans from the cabinet and place the filter in the machine to get the only medicine for your exhaustion. The sight of coffee dripping is almost harmonic, occurring at exact intervals. The sight makes you sleepy as you watch the pot from your seat at the table across the countertop.

You close your eyes so you can rest till the pot fills up. Philip can wait a little while since he’s determined to finish his work.

–

You can see morning light through the window when you wake up. Your heartbeat instantly picks up speed, guilt, and embarrassment fueling your sudden energy to jog to the meeting room where you and Philip were working. There’s no one at the office yet, so your footsteps echo.

His computer and workbag are gone, leaving just your things scattered around.

You begin to panic. Maybe he was right after all. Maybe you were not cut out for this type of work, and you didn’t have the grit.

Embarrassed, you walk up to your things to tidy them and head back to your desk. Since you’re already at work, you might as well leave at the end of your shift.

While packing, you notice a sticky note on your computer, and when you read it, relief immediately floods your tense mind, making you relax your shoulders.

‘Don’t worry. I finished it quickly.’

There’s no signature, but you know it’s from Philip. The handwriting is weird and blocky, but you chalk it up to his eccentricity. Still, you’re surprised you haven’t received a barrage of texts from him, shooting condescending remarks at you.

Someone calls out your name before you can text Philip an apology.

“Have you been here all night?” Farah asks. You turn around, embarrassed that you couldn’t straighten up your frazzled appearance when you had the chance.

“Um, yeah. Philip and I had a lot of work to do,” you answer, running your hands over your hair and resting them on your neck, which was even more sore than the night before because you had fallen asleep on the table.

“I see…” Farah looks away momentarily as if contemplating something, before clasping her hands together, jolting you out of your exhausted daze. “Well, you look like shit–no offense–so why don’t you stay home for today? I’ll email your assignments to you. Just make sure they’re done by nine am tomorrow.”

Because of the dry winter air, you wring your hands, and your skin feels rougher than usual. “Are you sure? I don’t think Philip would like that. I’ve just started, too,” you weakly reason, but Farah only shakes her head to refute you.

“He was making you do all that work for no reason. Speaking of which, I think he’s due for a meeting with HR for his behavior. Don’t worry too much, and get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The bus ride home is bleak, but it’s just what you need to escape from the overstimulation all your senses are feeling. Your muscles ached to rest on your soft mattress, and your eyes begged to be free from the shackles of your blue-light glasses (Gaz always said that the whole science behind them was a myth, but you chose to wear them anyway).

The sight of your blanket-covered bed entices you, but you can’t help but refresh your inbox for each and every email account you have before going to bed. But still, zilch.

You even tried using different devices, but even then, there’s no word from Gaz. The morning gets chalked up to a quick shower and a nap that is immediately followed by.

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