Archive of Our Own

It’s a regular day in the Parable, as regular as they come, anyway. The Narrator is about to say his due lines about Stanley’s coworker’s missing, and where on Earth they could be. It’s a typical reset; nothing out of the ordinary, and nothing in particular had gone wrong in the last ending. The Narrator is just about to speak into the microphone when something small and… pink?– catches his eye on the ground under his desk.

“All of… huh?” He makes a small noise of confusion at what appears to be a pink beetle crawling up the leg of his desk. He stares at it for a moment, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Stanley facing the ceiling with an eyebrow raised. He glances back at his monitor.

‘What?’ Stanley asks, his voice coming in clearly through the speakers. The employee doesn’t speak so often, ever since the Narrator granted the man a voice, but occasionally he likes to inform the Narrator of his emotions verbally. The Narrator straightens up.

“Oh, it’s nothing, Stanley, I’ve just noticed what appears to be a pink bug crawling up my…” He trails off, realization slapping him in the face. He freezes, his mouth dropping open in horror. No, this couldn’t be…

He’s heard of this particular bug before, the ‘Love Bug ,’ as a small warning in one of the instruction manuals he’d received when he first started this job– which was a long time ago– but it assured him they were incredibly rare to come across. It had also described what exactly this bug does, and the Narrator had thought nothing of it, had scoffed and assumed it would never affect him. He’d probably never come across it in the first place.

But here it was, crawling steadily up his table leg, already nearing the surface. And as the Narrator sits there, frozen and staring at the little insect despite Stanley’s repeated demands to know what’s going on, he realizes that, if this thing reaches him, well, to put it lightly, he’s completely fucked.

As soon as the thought enters his mind, he snaps out of it, and quickly reassures Stanley that everything is normal in a way that is sure to leave Stanley assuming, quite correctly, that everything is not normal and the Narrator is indeed having some trouble, whatever that may be.

The insect scuttles up the edge of the table, and crawls towards him with haste, veering around various mugs and traveling atop random papers scattered on the desk. The Narrator yelps, and grabs the nearest solid thing he can grasp– a stapler to his right– and slams it down on the desk in an attempt to squish it. The thing is undeterred; the little creature hardly staggers as it continues innocently scuttling towards the man, now atop his keyboard. His eyes widen, and he scoots back as quickly as he can–

–but that doesn’t matter apparently, because the thing can jump. And it does, landing straight onto his knee. The Narrator gasps and stands up, panicking, not knowing at all what to do; he can’t try to brush it off, he can’t let it come in contact with his skin. He can’t, no matter what, touch it with his bare skin.

‘What’s happening?’ Stanley’s frantic yell through the speaker makes him look back up and he’s desperate, so he grabs his empty mug to attempt to brush or hit the insect off with that, his mind a whir of panic.

He misses the first time. The Lovebug is up to his waist now, likely trying to attach itself to the Narrator’s hand or forearm.

“Get it off get it off get it off,” The Narrator mutters desperately, and lifts his arms to try to brush it off once more. That was a deadly mistake.

It’s almost nothing, the tiniest sliver of skin exposed when his arms go above his head, and before he can realize his mistake, the bug latches itself onto his hip, and bites down.

~

Needless to say, Stanley is more than a little worried for the Narrator. He had fallen silent a few seconds ago, after he was panicking about something, was it a pink bug he said he saw? What was so bad about a pink bug? It had to be bad though, with the reaction it elicited from the Narrator.

“Narrator?” He calls again, a little more desperately this time, but he forces himself not to panic. It was fine. The Narrator would speak up soon enough and tell him nothing was wrong and they’d continue on with the story like nothing happened. He hopes.

Stanley gets ready to call the Narrator’s name again, before something weird happens to the air in front of him. He hears the sound of choppy static, and nearly does a double take as the space in front of him glitches slightly, starting to shimmer and seeming to fold, and something, or someone, appears right before him. The air goes still again.

“Narrator?” Stanley breathes, as said man looks up– though he doesn’t look happy at all; he looks panicked .

“W- what’s wrong?” Stanley backs up past desk 431, and looks at the person standing in front of him. He has on a suit and yellow tie, which is steadily fading to pink as the seconds go by, short, gray hair with a streak of yellow– with pink bleeding into it as well– cutting across the front, rectangular, pink-rimmed glasses, and soft, green eyes with vertical, slitted pupils like a cat, and golden swirls floating idly in his irises. Stanley would’ve thought he looked cute if he didn’t look so scared right now. The Narrator doesn’t answer, breathing hard, and Stanley can’t tell whether he’s in pain or not.

“Narrator, what’s going on?” He says again, louder this time and growing more concerned, but he doesn’t move, nervous to get closer to him. The Narrator swallows; he doesn’t look at him.

“Stanley, you have to run,” He pants, tie and hair now almost completely pink, glasses morphing into heart shapes, and even his shoes and suit are getting a pinkish tint to them, he notices.

“Why? What’s happening?” He asks in a more frantic tone. Why is the Narrator being like this; what’s happening to him?

“I- I can’t explain it all right now, but you need to listen to me. I won’t be able to control my body for much longer.”

“What do you mean?!” Stanley shouts, his heartbeat starting to pick up as his nerves increase. “What the hell is going on with you?!”

“Please, Stanley–” His eyes are desperate; hands shaking like he’s holding himself back from reaching out. “The bug- it’ll overtake me completely soon, and it- I’m going to try to-” He swallows again. “This bug, it exaggerates my feelings for you, okay? Whatever you do you cannot let me get a hold of you do you understand me?”

He shakes his head, body unable to move, and he stares with frozen dread at the Narrator– his Narrator– at the man he’d come to know and grow with in the Parable, that he’d come to be fond with and vice versa, and he stares at him now, realizing– probably not at the best time– that the Narrator really is just human. He’s just… a man. Like Stanley.

Who the hell knew the two were so similar to each other?

But now, the man looked terrified. He looks at Stanley like he’d rather be anywhere else. It breaks his heart a little bit.

“It is not you, I promise!” The Narrator shouts, his voice breaking, as if he can read Stanley’s mind, which he’s assured the employee that he can’t. “It’s- it’s me- this blasted bug, it’ll take over soon Stanley you need to run, please!”

“I still don’t understand,” He says desperately, but he doesn’t even know if the Narrator fully understands either.

“It doesn’t matter, just– you cannot let me get to you, you need to get far away, far away so I don’t hurt you. Please just run, Stanley, I don’t know how much longer I have until I lose control,” He staggers forward, while simultaneously looking like he’s trying to step back.

Stanley backs up a step. He looks at the Narrator, then to the open door, then back to the Narrator, and notices the previously golden streaks swirling in his irises are now shifting to pink. His eyes widen, and he makes a beeline for the open door.

He sprinting toward the two door’s room, and hears footsteps behind him soon after.

“Stanley!”

The voice that calls his name is the Narrator’s, the voice he knows so well and loves so very much, but at the same time the voice that called his name is too vicious, dripping with possessiveness and want– it isn’t like his Narrator at all. He urges himself to go faster, nearly tripping as he forces his unaccustomed body to push itself further.

He arrives at the two door’s room soon enough, and hears the Narrator’s voice calling him again. He hesitates only for only a moment, but it’s enough time for the man to nearly catch up to him, and he hears the footsteps growing louder, and forces himself to take off again.

The hand that reached out to grab him misses. He growls from behind, and Stanley’s heart races as he sprints through the right door and pushes himself further, his side beginning to hurt, not used to this much physical exertion.

Footsteps are still impossibly close behind.

He enters the employee lounge soon enough and closes the door desperately behind him. There’s no time to pause; he turns around again and races to the exit.

The door closes before he can reach it. He freezes, backing up and almost tripping where the floor dips considerably.

He hears a giggle from behind; his eyes widen, and he turns around to see the Narrator standing there, panting hard. He smiles at the worker, sending a chill down his spine. Stanley himself breathes heavily.

“Did you really think you could keep me out?” He says between gulps of air. “You thought you could trap me, and not the very opposite?” The Narrator’s smile grows wider, but it’s not a genuine smile. It’s a smile of victory, triumph; he knows he’s won. “You thought you could escape me, Stanley?” He says the man’s name slowly, as if he likes the way it sounds coming out of his lips.

“Open the door,” Stanley tries, his voice slightly shaky. He clears his throat, not wanting to sound weak. The Narrator laughs, head thrown back from the action. The sound unnerves him; it’s so unlike the fond laugh he knows well, like someone trying to imitate it, scarily well, but still not right. The closest thing he can pinpoint it to is the manic laugh he lets out during the Countdown Ending, but even then, it’s not quite the same.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, my darling.” He purrs, starting to walk forwards. Stanley swallows, nerves growing stronger by the moment. This is wrong, this is all wrong, the Narrator should not be acting like this, and it scares him.

“W- who the hell are you? Why are you possessing the Narrator?” He’s not even sure something is possessing him, he just wants to keep stalling. The Narrator said no matter what, don’t let him grab you. He doesn’t want to know what’ll happen if he does.

The Narrator laughs again, sharper this time, and he stops walking.

“Oh, my dear. I’m not being possessed. I am the Narrator,” He tilts his head slightly, licking his lips greedily. “I am no less the Narrator than during normal circumstances. I’ve just been… infected . That could be interpreted poorly, of course, but now, well… it’s quite the opposite,” He smile seems to grow even wider, dripping with greed, desire.

“You are not my Narrator,” Stanley says breathlessly. He doesn’t know what to do in this situation. He’s confused, he’s fucking scared; he doesn’t know what’s going on. Obviously something happened with the Narrator. Was it that pink bug?

The Narrator pauses, his smile drops as he considers Stanley’s words. It returns not a second later, positively delighted. “Your Narrator, oh, your Narrator, Stanley? I’m yours… yes, aren’t I?” He says with a small stumble in his voice, slowly walking forwards.

“Don’t come near me!” Stanley shouts as loud as he can, voice shrill as he can’t shake the horrible feeling: this isn’t right this isn’t right this is so wrong , What the fuck–

The Narrator growls, only picking up speed. Stanley backs up, but before he can stumble backward anymore and into the vending machine, a brick wall sprouts out of the ground, stopping him. He tries to run to the left; brick walls appear on either side. He’s trapped.

Stanley gulps, eyes so wide they hurt. The Narrator just keeps advancing, but Stanley can’t get away. He’s too close; if Stanley tried to run, the man would only grab him.

“I’m yours; you can’t get away from me. And you are mine, darling,” He smiles again, now only a few feet away from the employee.

“I told you to stop ,” He gasps, pressing himself further into the wall.

“Oh, but I don’t care what you want, Stanley. You are my favorite possession. You obey me, not the other way around. Don’t you worry, however. It’s a simple mistake to make, I won’t judge you for it.” His voice is light and airy, tone so unlike the Narrator but so like him too, Stanley doesn’t know how to react.

“Nothing to say, dear?” He questions with an innocent frown and an eyebrow raised. Stanley tries to reach out to grab him, or hit him, anything to get him away, but the Narrator catches his wrist easily and pins it above Stanley’s head. He does the same for the left, pinning both his wrists above his head and effectively holding him there. He advances until the men are only a few inches apart, and Stanley can feel the heat radiating off his body, impossibly warm. His wrists feel like they’re burning, the near painful touch causing fire to spread over his skin and seep into his veins. They tingle against the sensation, too, and Stanley already feels like his senses are being overloaded, but the Narrator leans in further.

He feels the Narrator’s hot breath on him, and the man licks his lips again, a playful smile on his lips as he glances down at the rest of Stanley’s body. He can feel himself shaking, gripped with fear as he tries to move his wrists, but they don’t budge.

“You’re so very cute when you're nervous, dear,” The Narrator says in a low tone, nearly whispering. The smile never leaves his lips, only seeming to grow wider, drinking in Stanley’s state with his swirling eyes, pupils expanded in his delight. Stanley’s throat feels like it’s constricting; he can’t speak even if he wanted to. It hurts to swallow, the lump impossibly big in his throat.

The Narrator stares at him, gazing into his eyes like he’s searching for something and Stanley feels so very vulnerable, hardly able to move in this position. He closes his eyes, silently begging for the man to let go, go away, go away please get away from me. Being trapped and unable to move is nothing new to him, if cutscenes and loading screens and a certain ending have anything to say about it, but there’s a quite profound difference to Stanley between an invisible force— the Parable itself— rendering his body immobile and being pinned down and trapped by another being’s tangible grip on him. And at least he could prepare for those things. For this, he had no basis of anticipation whatsoever, no clue that this was going to be what transpired for the day. It’s too much; the walls are beginning to feel claustrophobic and Stanley is not usually one prone to claustrophobia, but the excessive heat radiating from the Narrator’s body only serves to make the small space more suffocating.

The man growls. “Open your eyes, Stanley. They really are so very pretty; I just can’t get enough of them,” He squeezes the worker’s wrists tighter.

Stanley obeys, and his breath hitches at the sight of the face that’s so close, too close.

“You’re hurting me,” He gasps quietly. The man’s smile doesn’t waver. His grip doesn’t loosen, seeming to grow tighter.

“Ask me,” The Narrator demands, his voice still low and dangerous. Stanley swallows.

“P- please,” He whispers, fighting to keep his eyes open. He squirms under the man’s grip.

“Good enough… I’ll allow it.” The hold on his wrists loosens, though still not enough to where he can attempt to escape.

“You like this, don’t you, darling?” The Narrator asks with a voice like honey, thick and sweet that makes Stanley want to curl away but also hear more of, because god does he love the Narrator’s voice— his Narrator, though. Not this one. Stanley hesitates. He shakes his head (and the way his hair brushes the wall makes him want to shudder because he’s already overwhelmed, any more touch he feels is going to send him over the edge).

“No, I don’t,” He whispers, and the man’s smile wavers the slightest bit.

“Playing hard to get, I see?” He murmurs, a low rumbling in his voice. He licks his lips, eyes darting to Stanley’s own.

Stanley only has seconds to register what that means, to try to turn his head away, but he isn’t fast enough, and the Narrator closes the already small gap between them.

His breath hitches again, as if it weren’t already coming out in tiny stutters. The man’s body is too warm; it’s touching his, and he’s so close, too close, he can’t think. He doesn’t remember the last time he touched someone, if he has at all, and the Narrator is so very hot, like a walking heater. His head is spinning, he feels nearly dizzy, he’s so hot, he’s touching me and it’s too much, he feels like he’s going to faint. But the Narrator doesn’t slow down.

He tightens his grip on Stanley’s wrists again and pushes them further, and leans in. Their lips meet.

Stanley’s brain short-circuits. The man’s lips are hot, just like the rest of him; it can’t be natural, but then again, Stanley has nothing to reference but his own self. He can’t move; his wrists pinned above his head and body pressed hard against the wall. The Narrator kisses him and he can’t breathe.

He doesn’t kiss back at first, but the man in front of him makes a small growling noise in the back of his throat and presses harder, hunger and desire positively oozing from the man.

He can hardly think, but the worst thing about this moment is that he doesn’t know if completely hates it . He never wanted to do this, never even anticipated meeting the Narrator in person, much less the encounter escalating to something of this degree.

But he had so badly wanted someone to touch, to be able to feel another’s bare skin on him. Eventually he just grew used to the physical isolation, taking comfort in sounds and touches of other, non-living things. He found other ways to cope with the loneliness, but his mind never really has let go of that desire. He couldn’t make it; he’s only human after all; he knows his body and mind only naturally crave the touch of another. Now that’s it’s happening, though, it hurts, and it’s overwhelming and he so badly wants the Narrator to let go, but he’s aware of the traitorous part of him that doesn’t want this moment to end, wants to lean into the kiss, embrace it rather than fight it.

All of this runs through Stanley’s mind during the action. He closes his eyes tightly and stops fighting him. He still doesn’t kiss back, but he doesn’t try to get away either. There’s no point; the Narrator’s grip on him is like steel.

The Narrator pulls back after several seconds, panting. He licks his lips, wet and still warm.

Stanley stares at him, at the pink swirls in his irises, floating hastily in the man’s eyes, seeming to go faster every second. The Narrator smiles again, still panting from the long kiss. Stanley’s lips feel hot; he wishes they didn’t.

“Nothing to say, my dear?” He croons. Stanley chokes out a breath the Narrator can definitely feel, and looks away.

“Look at me, Stanley,” He growls again, and takes a hand off Stanley’s wrist to grip his chin and wrench it back to face him. Stanley’s left arm is free, but he’s still trapped.

He has seconds to think, but in that time a plan forms in his head. He slowly leans forward, as if going for another kiss.

For a split second Stanley can see the Narrator visibly brighten, the pink streaks in his eyes swirling faster than ever. He takes his hand off Stanley's chin and leans in hastily, and before their lips collide again Stanley pulls his head back and rams his forehead into the Narrator's as hard as he can.

The Narrator reels back with a startled shout and his grip loosens on Stanley’s wrist. Stanley takes the opportunity to kick the man in the shin as hard he can and push him off. It works, somewhat, and Stanley has enough room to duck under him and stumble back out into the open room.

The Narrator recovers in seconds, and growls, pink irises swirling faster and faster it almost makes Stanley dizzy. He looks so angry in his disoriented state, Stanley wouldn’t be surprised if his eyes turned red.

“That isn’t fair, darling,” He turns to face him. The Narrator advances, Stanley backing up desperately and putting his hands up in a passive gesture. He doesn’t think it’ll work. His head throbs, but he can’t afford to stop. The doors are still shut. He’s in no way free, but at the very least he’s out of that suffocating position, hopefully permanently.

Stanley’s breathing is shallow as he circles through the room so his back is facing the wooden table with the coffee machine on it.

“I don’t want this,” He says desperately, anything to stall the man and keep him from lunging at Stanley.

“I don’t care what you want, my dear Stanley. You are mine, whether you agree with this statement or not.” The Narrator hardly even looks harmed, even though he has to be at least slightly hurt from the force of their heads colliding. He wonders if the infection forces him to ignore his pain, only focusing on his sole target: Stanley. He breathes hard, shouting anything that comes to mind in hopes of stalling.

“I’m a person! You can’t take advantage of your power here and expect me to love you back for it! I don’t love you,” The worker chokes out, and he hates saying it so much because he does love the Narrator, he loved him and relied and depended on him, but everything has gone downhill; his emotions are a jumbled mess. But he says it regardless, anything that might get the man to back off.

Stanley opens his mouth to say something next, but no sound comes out. He widens his eyes immediately, his hand flying to his throat. He attempts to speak again, but again, no words are formed. He realizes something then: the Narrator has taken his voice, just as he had given him one all that time ago.

“No more talking for you, Stanley,” The Narrator hisses. “You are my protagonist, the Narrator's silent Protagonist of this game. My wonderful, quiet pet,” He all but purrs, still slowly advancing, like stalking prey. Stanley certainly feels like that metaphor suits the situation. He swallows hard, backing up further, only a few feet away from the small table to his left.

“You will love me,” The Narrator continues. “I can, and will, make you. What are you going to do without a voice now, my dear Stanley?” He smiles, sickly and sweet, like this is anything but fucked up. “I can do anything I want to you, and you cannot protest…” Stanley’s stomach churns at those words. He glances at the table to his left, weighing the possibility of him being able to pick up the coffee machine and swing it before the Narrator can knock it out of his hands.

He hates not being able to speak. It makes him feel so powerless, even more so than when he did have his voice. Stanley hasn’t been mute for so long, he feels like a piece of him has broken off. He’s been reduced to what he was originally at the start of this blasted Parable: the silent Protagonist, to put it in the Narrator’s words.

The Narrator continues to gaze hungrily at him, smiling, creeping closer and closer and Stanley watches as the brick walls behind the man sink back into the ground, no longer useful. Stanley will be backed into the wall in a few moments, anyway. A wave of nausea and dread washes over him at the prospect. If this doesn’t work, and the Narrator is able to pin him down before he can do anything… Stanley would rather not think about it.

His back bumps the wall a moment later, and the Narrator’s sickly smile widens considerably, which does not help alleviate Stanley’s anxieties. Nonetheless, he gets ready to reach for the wooden table just feet away from him.

The Narrator jumps at him and Stanley ducks and reaches desperately for the coffee machine. He picks it up with two hands as the Narrator recovers near-instantly. It’s decently heavy, for a coffee machine at least, and he hopes it’ll be enough to keep him down for at least a little while.

“Stanley,” He growls, tone warning. He turns, but not fast enough as Stanley swings it as hard as he can into the side of the man’s head. It collides with a thunk , and the Narrator staggers back, clearly hurt, but not enough to deter him from his goal. “ Stanley!” He shouts, evidently furious now. Stanley doesn’t say a thing– not that he can now anyways– and backs up quickly into the open room, coffee machine still in his hands and prepared to whack again. His hands are shaking, but he tries to display a somewhat confident demeanor.

The Narrator hardly appears disoriented when he turns around again to face him, looking murderous. A jolt of fear runs through him; what if this doesn’t work?

“I think you’re due for a punishment, darling ,” The Narrator says in a low voice. “I hope you don’t really believe you can try to hurt me and get away with it.”

Stanley bites his lip. He raises the machine again, ready to lunge and hit the Narrator with it again, but a chair appears from thin air right behind him and an invisible force pushes him, causing him to fall back onto it. The Narrator snaps his fingers, and ropes are produced from the back; they wrap around Stanley’s torso, and tighten not a second later, pulling him back before he can escape and effectively tying him to the chair.

“There, now, isn’t that better?” The Narrator croons, irate look gone and replaced with another wide smile. The pink swirling in his eyes have calmed down, he notices. Stanley stares, his heart thumping violently in his chest. He clutches the coffee machine in his lap like a lifeline, still hoping to some god or entity that he can catch the man off guard somehow and hit him with it. But even if he can, how will he get out of these ropes? The Narrator has every power and advantage over him; he has no hope to overcome him.

Stanley wants to scream in frustration; he wants to sob in fear and ice cold dread and he suddenly feels extremely self-conscious tied up in this chair with the infected man in front of him approaching him slowly like a viper waiting to strike, soaking in the sight of Stanley tied up and panicking with burning delight.

He hasn’t won yet , Stanley tells himself, even if he doesn’t really believe it. He still has the machine. He can easily knock it out of your hand though. Or bind your arms. And then you really can’t do anything…

The Narrator is only a few feet in front of him; he crouches down to Stanley’s eye level, head tilting.

“Did I mention how beautiful your eyes are, darling?” He murmurs, nearly touching him now. Stanley swallows again, heart beating louder and faster between his ribs; he nods slowly.

“How about we try that kiss again, hm?” The Narrator’s eyes flick down to Stanley’s lap, the coffee machine in his clutches, and his eyes narrow.

“You shouldn’t have hit me with that. Now I get to do much worse to you, and it’s all your fault…” The ends of the Narrator’s lips tug upwards, and Stanley feels lightheaded. He can’t give up just yet. “Of course, I was already going to do it anyway… how can I resist, with you as my companion?”

The Narrator reaches a hand out to grab his chin, but Stanley lifts it up out of reach, his eyes squeezed shut again, hardly daring to breathe at all.

“Now, Stanley,” He tuts. “Don’t think you can avoid me again.”

The Narrator grabs the worker’s chin harshly and brings it down to level with his. Once again Stanley can feel the heat radiating off his body, much too hot to be natural. He opens his eyes.

Stanley’s breath hitches further as the Narrator’s grip tightens on his chin, and two of his fingers make their way closer to his mouth, just brushing his bottom lip. His own hands, still holding onto the coffee machine, tremble slightly.

A soft whimper escapes him as the other hand snakes up the back of his neck, fingers curling around it firmly and brushing the ends of his hair. The Narrator has no visible reaction, only the swirls in his irises slowly picking up speed again.

Stanley’s mind is racing; he can feel every hot breath the man lets out again and all he can think is of anything he can do that might distract or stall him. Anything at all just think of something please–

“That’s better,” He smiles. “You are perfect, my love.” He leans in once again, simultaneously pushing Stanley’s head forward and their lips meet for the second time, this time Stanley being pushed further into it due to the Narrator’s grip on his neck, and the other hand moved to the side of his head now.

He hears the moan of satisfaction as the Narrator explores the inside of his mouth, pushing Stanley’s head into the kiss and leaving no room for breath, much less escape. With each second passing he becomes more fervent in the action, closing his eyes as he continues on insatiably, never tasting enough of his employee and craving more.

Stanley doesn’t try to fight him again. He doesn’t want this any more than he wanted it the first time, but there’s simply nothing he can do. He gives in, letting the Narrator abuse his mouth and hating every second of it (or rather, hating himself more, because there’s something in him— a part of him that says again that this isn’t actually so terrible, this might be good, might be the thing you’ve wanted since the beginning, and he wants it to shut up; he didn’t ask for this).

Seconds drag on like hours, and eventually the Narrator pulls away again, breathing hard and taking his palm off the side of his head, the string of saliva connecting their lips breaking when he does. Stanley shudders. His neck is starting to overheat from the prolonged contact of the Narrator’s hand on him, but he doesn’t try to escape it. He squirms, not daring to close his eyes as the man smiles deliriously, half-lidded in front of him, his face still only a few inches away from Stanley’s.

“Oh… you taste grand, my darling,” He murmurs, hand snaking up slightly to run his fingers through more of his hair. Stanley flinches inward minutely as the Narrator touches his cheek with his palm, rubbing his thumb on it with nothing but enthusiasm in his eyes.

(And oh, how the Narrator loves seeing his protagonist broken down and powerless, so very vulnerable and utterly human. It’s beautiful; he is beautiful.)

The Narrator leans in for another kiss, pushing Stanley’s head toward him slowly at the same time.

No. Stanley refuses to be treated like a plaything again. He’s not going to be used, he hates being used, not if he can help it.

He lunges forward, forehead colliding hard with the man’s own once again and he struggles against his binds, the coffee machine still resting on his lap.

The Narrator growls again irately, and hardly reels back this time, only slightly thrown off. He switches his hold on Stanley’s nape to grip his hair tightly in a flash, and yanks his head back hard. Stanley gasps, and the Narrator stands up, leans over the tied-up protagonist, and presses his lips to the employee’s before he can do anything further.

Stanley doesn’t take it this time. He brings the coffee machine up from his lap, and rams it into the man’s chest as hard as he can. The Narrator grunts, and Stanley kicks him in the stomach. He stumbles back, never letting go of the worker’s hair and consequently manhandling him slightly, but Stanley pulls back, ignoring the sharp pain as his scalp protests, and he’s effectively let go of.

Stanley has no time to recover. He looks up; the Narrator is recovering, clutching his stomach and looking angrier than ever. He gulps, and in a panic throws the coffee machine as hard as he can at the Narrator’s head.

It hits him in the temple. The Narrator crumples as it makes contact with his skull in another thunk, and Stanley winces. He feels himself fall forward as the ropes around him loosen, then fall completely. He catches himself by the palms just before he faceplants on the ground.

Stanley hauls himself up frantically, staring wide eyed at the figure on the ground in front of him that is just beginning to stir.

“S- Stanley!” Behind him, the ropes shoot up again and Stanley lunges out of the way before they can entrap him again, and lunges for the coffee machine next to the Narrator.

The man hardly has any time to lift himself up before Stanley brings the coffee machine down on his head again. He winces again at the sickening sound it produces, but the Narrator is knocked out cold.

Stanley stares at him for a moment, breathing heavily, then lets go of the coffee machine and scrambles back as quickly as he can. He lands on the couch, and immediately brings his knees up, feeling a sob catch his throat. His breathing doesn’t calm down, and he’s afraid he’s going to have a panic attack if he can’t get himself together but he can hardly think .

He doesn’t want to think about it at all. He doesn’t want to look at the man lying unconscious on the ground in the same room, and doesn't want to ponder what just happened between them. He wipes his mouth desperately, trying to get the feeling off . His hand comes back slightly wet, and Stanley stares at it.

He swallows and wipes his hand on the couch. He can’t bring himself to look at the Narrator. All that would bring him is pain. The rest of the room is also tainted with fresh memories of everything that had just happened, so Stanley resorts to looking down at the couch cushion in between his legs as he forces his breathing to calm.

God, that was a terrible experience. His Narrator, the man he’d come to trust and bond over the dreadful years in this world, had… done that to him. Everything happened so suddenly, he almost doesn’t know how to process it.

He can’t help but think that every time he passes through the employee lounge on a future run he’ll be reminded of what transpired here.

And the start of another thought is formed in his mind as he sits, one that he hates . The Narrator had said… if Stanley hadn’t knocked him out when he did, would he have…?

Stanley squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head quickly. No, nope, he won’t let that thought enter his mind. He shudders to merely entertain it. Besides, there’s no point in thinking of what could have been had he not been strong or fast enough; he was, so it’s not going to happen. The Narrator is knocked out, and nothing like that is going to happen now. 

At least, that’s what he tells himself. The man is still infected, whether he’s knocked out or not, and he still will be when he wakes up. And Stanley will still be trapped in the room with him, the Narrator more angry than ever…

Stanley stands up quickly, the action making his head spin and he stays still for a moment, letting the room go back to normal. Once it does, he races to the door and jiggles the handle. Locked, just as he figured. The employee curses, and his hand slides off dejectedly.

He looks to the exit door, thinking just maybe, that one could be unlocked by chance, but thinks better of it. No point in checking; if this door is locked, so will the next one be.

Stanley takes a shaky breath, hating the fact that he can’t talk once more, and tentatively looks back at the Narrator on the floor. He gulps.

The Narrator, before this whole disaster, had said that there was a bug in his office, hadn’t there? It’s a bit of a stretch, but possibly, if it was, maybe it had latched onto him. If the office worker could pull it off, maybe the contaminated man would go back to normal.

It would require Stanley going close to him, and most definitely touching him at least a small bit, however. Employee 427, quite reasonably, absolutely hates the idea. Touching the man again, willingly, after everything that just happened? Nausea creeps into his stomach at the thought.

It’s necessary , he tells himself. At least, if I do it, hopefully it is…

What really gets him to walk over to the Narrator, though, is the thought of if he doesn’t do it now, he could stir at any point, still infected. That idea, being way more terrifying than simply touching him while he’s unconscious, drives Stanley to approach him, warily of course.

Stanley lowers himself down to crouch above him, ready to spring for the coffee machine at any sight of movement.

He looks over the man’s arms, hands, and any other exposed skin for any sort of visible bug that might be attached. Nothing. His breathing is quiet, labored, and he feels the heat radiating off the man even as he’s unconscious. The hair on his arms rise.

He forces himself not to scramble away from the Narrator again, and his heart sinks as he realizes he really will have to touch him to find that bug. He bites his lip and forces his hands to stop shaking.

He checks the Narrator’s ankle first, as that seems like a somewhat easy place for an insect to crawl onto, and rolls up his pant leg just a tad. Still nothing. He tries the other leg, to no avail. Stanley clicks his tongue in frustration, still terrified the Narrator would wake any moment. The man could easily pin him down in this position if he was fast enough.

Shaking his head, Stanley forces the thought to exit his mind. He’ll check his waist next; that seems like the next sensible part of the body, right?

So, with a shaky breath, the worker lifts the Narrator’s top up just half an inch, and sees it. A hot pink, beetle-like bug latched onto the man’s hip. Stanley widens his eyes at the sight and smiles in relief. He hesitates just a moment before bringing his hand down on the little creature to pull it off.

It doesn’t budge. Stanley frowns, and tugs harder, but the tiny thing is stubbornly attached to the Narrator’s skin, the area around it hotter and pinker than the rest of him. Stanley takes a deep breath, and yanks . He hears skin tearing and winces, not letting go. Eventually the thing is finally detached, and Stanley stands up, throws it to the ground and immediately crushes it underfoot. He stomps on it a couple times, and lifts his shoe to see it unmoving and completely squished. He sighs deeply, and sinks to the ground, sitting crisscross beside the unconscious man.

Stanley looks at the wound he’d created by pulling that thing off. It’s not too bad; the skin it had pierced is torn and bleeding slightly, but not so much that Stanley thinks he’d require a bandaid.

Before his eyes, the Narrator begins to change. His skin cools rapidly; his body is no longer a radiating heater, his tie, shoes, suit, glasses, hair, and everything pink on him fades back to their normal shade. His hair has its normal streak of yellow, his clothing loses its pink tint, and his tie goes back to its yellow too. His glasses, morphing back to their regular rectangular shape, have reverted to yellow too. Stanley snorts lightly in amusement. This guy really likes yellow, doesn’t he? It makes him think of the Adventure Line™.

Despite the man returning back to his usual self– by appearance, anyway– Stanley still of course hasn’t forgotten what happened. The Narrator having been infected and apparently unable to control his actions doesn’t change anything about the trauma he had inflicted upon his protagonist.

Stanley stares at him, at his Narrator– actually his Narrator this time. He’d wanted to meet the man for so long, wanted to actually spend time with him and talk to him face to face. He’d used to imagine he’d look at the Narrator’s face– whatever face he had conjured in his imagination at the time– with fondness and wonder and excitement if they ever met, but now only a deep sickly feeling rises in him when he stares at that resting look. The face that had come in contact with his, that had used him for enjoyment and desire before he was ready and without his consent. His eyes glance at the man’s lips before he can stop them.

Stanley stares at the Narrator until he can’t bring himself to anymore. He picks himself up off the ground, and drags himself to the couch and plops down on the end of it, curling up and burying his face in his knees, wishing he could turn back time or forget any of this had ever happened.

Stanley looks up at the sound of stirring. He jumps up immediately, fists and jaw clenched and eyes wide and darting to the coffee machine, before looking back up at the man standing in front of him.

“I’m… back to normal,” Stanley hears the Narrator murmur, his eyes flicking to the chair, ropes splayed limped out in front of it, with a mix of horror and guilt and dread in his eyes. The swirls in them, Stanley notices, are back to gold and floating continuously in his irises. The chair, along with the ropes disappears with a pop. The Narrator turns back to face him, meeting his eyes for a moment and then looking at the floor immediately. Stanley stares at him, still not moving.

The Narrator looks at him a moment with slight confusion before realization dawns on his face once again, and he looks so incredibly guilty that Stanley might feel sorry for him, if they were under different circumstances.

He makes a clicking sound with his mouth. “T- there, Stanley. I gave you your voice back, I- I-“ The Narrator cuts himself off, having no idea what to say. What would he do, apologize? That’s more than useless, insulting; a pathetic apology will not erase the damage done.

Stanley still doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move.

“…Stanley? Will you please talk to me?” The Narrator asks quietly, tentatively, still looking immensely guilty. He takes a step forward, starting to reach his hand out before thinking better of it. Stanley only doesn’t step back because of the couch immediately behind him.

Silence stretches on for seconds more.

Then, “I took that bug off you. You were… possessed by it?” He’s pretty sure he already knows the answer, but he wants to hear it from the Narrator himself.

The Narrator hesitates, obviously reluctant in answering. “No, I wasn’t. Not exactly, but I- I wasn’t myself. You obviously know that, right? I would- I would never-“

“I understand.” Stanley silences him. He looks down. “You were aware of what you were doing, though, right?”

His eyes flick up to the Narrator, looking at him so sadly and guiltily, like he would vanish with a snap if he could. He probably could, actually, when Stanley thinks about it, but even the Narrator knows that in doing that he would destroy their relationship for good.

“Yes, I- I knew what I was doing… to you, and I could not stop myself. I abhorred myself for it, I-“ His voice breaks. “I would never do anything like this without your consent, you must believe that, Stanley.”

“I do believe you.” His voice quiets even further. “I’m just your silent Protagonist, though?”

“Pardon?” The Narrator asks hesitantly.

“Your quiet pet, you called me. That’s really how you think of me?” Stanley’s voice lowers down to a mutter.

The Narrator looks horrified at that. “No! No, no that couldn’t be further from the truth, Stanley! I told you, the bug-“

“Exaggerates your feelings for me, yeah, I know. But exaggerating means it had to come from somewhere. You can’t magnify feelings that just aren’t there. So that means, to some degree, that is what you think of me.” He hugs himself. “Right?”

The Narrator, for the first time in his life, is speechless. He has no idea how to respond, to convince Stanley that god no, that is the furthest of what I think of you. I could never imagine you like that, it isn’t true, genuinely. I never want you to think that, I love you as a person. I would never take advantage of you like that. How can he, though, especially when he had put him through that pain? Especially when those words had come out of his mouth. He always has the words for something. Now, his mind comes up blank and he hates it.

Stanley scoffs after several seconds go by, and tries not to let the hurt show. “That’s what I thought.” He breathes in shakily, turning his head away. “I want to get out of here. I need to get away from you. Open the doors, please, Narrator.”

The Narrator stares at him, heart slowly cracking as he comprehends the words from that terribly soft voice, and nods slowly. The doors swing open a moment later, and Stanley walks to the entrance. He stops and turns. A tiny spark of hope blossoms in the Narrator, but Stanley doesn’t come forward.

“If you really mean what you say, you won’t follow me. Understood?” That hope withers and dies, and is replaced with nearly overwhelming shame. The Narrator can only nod.

With that, Stanley turns around and exits the lounge through the entrance door, and the Narrator is left standing there, completely at a loss for what to do.

The doors close again after several more seconds, but the Narrator keeps standing.

Curse that terrible bug for making him do this, curse his near limitless power over this realm; he doesn’t deserve it. He hurt his Stanley, and now that very man does not want to look at him.

The Narrator sinks to the ground and sits with his legs crossed, very still. He stares at the floor unblinkingly. How could he have done that to him? Stanley may never be able to look at him the same again, and it’s all his- all that blasted bug’s fault.

Self-loathing curls around him like a snake entrapping its prey. The Narrator felt everything, he heard everything, heard Stanley begging him to stop and he continued to push, and violate his worker’s trust and boundaries and he liked it, but he also hated it and hated everything he was doing but he could not make himself stop, and he despised himself for it.

The Narrator does not make a sound, still staring at the floor with an expression that any onlooker who doesn’t really know him would consider emotionless. He sits for hours, unmoving, wishing he could turn himself into a rock and sink into the floor. Wishing he could turn back time, that he could just go back to his office before this ever happened and kill that stupid bug.

Hours later, with him still on the floor, the Narrator can’t take it anymore. He approaches the entrance of the lounge slowly, like he’s afraid to cross it, and marches determinedly through and down the corridor to find Stanley.

It doesn’t take long. There’s only so much to go and hide in this office building, and Stanley is curled up under one of the desks in the room immediately after his office cubicle. He has his head facing down, arms wrapped around his legs that are raised to his chest. The Narrator watches, sadness creeping up his throat, but he forces it down. There’s no time for self-pity. He has to make this right.

He approaches the employee, slowly, and lowers himself to the ground and sits, a few feet away from him so as not to startle the man. He clears his throat quietly.

Stanley looks up instantly, and narrows his eyes at the Narrator. He doesn’t try to scoot away, which the man reasons is a good thing.

He doesn’t talk. The Narrator watches him for a moment and looks away. He opens his mouth to speak, but Stanley interrupts. The Narrator looks back up.

“I kept thinking that… if I didn’t stop you quick enough, you would have…” Stanley trails off, silent for a moment and still staring straight ahead. He can’t bring himself to say it. “Right?” He’s not looking to the Narrator with any sort of confirmation or response, but doesn’t really know what else to say. He doesn’t want to talk about this, but at the same time there’s quite literally nothing else to do in this dreary building. They’ll have to confront it at some point. Might as well get it out of the way now.

He knows he told himself he wouldn’t entertain the thought, but he couldn’t get it out of his head; no matter how hard he tried to distract himself, it kept sticking and circling its way back as things often do for him in the Parable.

The Narrator doesn’t speak beside him. Stanley takes a deep breath and looks at him. The man looks stricken at these words, and Stanley nearly feels guilty.

He watches with wide eyes as tears form in the other man’s own, and opens his mouth. Maybe Stanley shouldn’t have mentioned that to him.

“Oh god,” The Narrator chokes after a moment, looking down. “I- I am so, so sorry, Stanley.” A few tears escape, and dampen the Narrator's cheek. The Narrator doesn’t try to wipe them away. He can’t bear to grasp what Stanley just told him. If he had done that… their relationship would’ve been shattered forever, even more than it already has. How would someone come back from that? How the hell could he make an excuse for something like that? How could he live with himself if he hurt his other companion so deeply as r–

Stanley taps his arm gently, pulling him away from his spiraling thoughts. The Narrator looks up from staring at his hands and at his employee, who has scooted closer. His own eyes shine with tears, and his cheek feels more wet than before. Stanley stares at him with those solemn, brown eyes, and his guilt crashes into him like a sheet of water. He sniffs, not used to all this liquid coming out of his eyes. He hasn’t cried in a long time, and he can count the instances he has before on one hand.

“Hey, if it helps… I don’t blame you, not really, not anymore. I know it wasn’t you,” He says softly, looking entirely worried for his Narrator. The Narrator takes a shaky breath, still not wiping his eyes.

“I understand you don’t blame me , Stanley, but I certainly blame myself. I mean,” He laughs humorlessly. “I fucked it all up again didn’t I? First that- blasted skip button and now that damned bug. I just can’t seem to keep my head on straight, can I? And now we are never going to be the same again… I suppose that’s what the Parable does. We’re doomed never to have a steady relationship, aren’t we?” He stares at the ground, wishing the worker would take his hand off. Stanley should not be the one comforting him right now.

Stanley really wishes he hadn’t mentioned that thought to the man. He was feeling guilty enough, something that is rather uncommon in itself, but now he practically feels the self-hatred for his actions radiating off the man. He doesn’t know what to do; he’s just as bad at this as he is the Narrator.

Normally, since the two couldn’t actually interact directly, they would just sort of ignore the glaring issues between their relationship and each other’s actions unless it was dire they talk about it at that moment, and go on with their lives with a sort of mutual, unspoken agreement that they needn’t dwell on the past; they just keep moving forward if one of them steps over the line, with the silent promise they wouldn’t do it again (or at least too many times again).

It wasn’t exactly healthy, but then again, neither was the Parable.

Stanley almost wants to do the same now; just pretend this whole disaster never even happened, and go on with their lives as if nothing has changed. Like Stanley doesn’t have a swirl of mixed and confusing feelings all boiling together in the stupid pot of his mind.

“Stanley?” The Narrator’s quiet voice interrupts his thoughts, and Stanley cocks his head slightly, inviting him to go on.

“I bet you hate me, don’t you?” His tone is slightly snarled, but resigned; he stares straight ahead as Stanley looks at him, not wanting to interrupt. “I mean, why wouldn’t you? I hated you at first, but then I grew to love you, and care for you. That was largely due to my position over you, however; you were at the mercy of me. It was foolish of me to expect you would possess the same emotions for me as well,” He mutters the last sentence and sighs.

“I understand if you never want to see me again, either,” The Narrator says miserably.

Stanley stares at him, at a loss for anything to say. He stammers. This is all complicated. Just before today he would have immediately crushed the thought out of the Narrator’s head and reassured him that he would never want to leave him. But now… of course, it isn’t true, but saying immediately that he loves him, wants him to stay forever… he doesn’t know what he wants anymore. He can hardly look at that face without being reminded of the previous events of the hours, of how he was pressed against a wall, tied to a chair, forced in a kiss with a man he loved that he wasn’t ready for yet. He sighs.

“I don’t want you gone. Saying… saying I never want you away from me would be a lie, I’ll admit that, but that I never want to see, or hear you again? That’s not true,” He says firmly. “Besides, I can’t never see you again in here. We’re stuck together, aren’t we? You can’t leave the Parable any more than I can.”

The Narrator hesitates, still not looking at him. “I am aware that’s true, however… there is a way I can cause myself to deteriorate. Not like the skip button, but properly die. I can erase my own code. I would have the Curator take over for me. I bet you’d enjoy her way more than me,” The Narrator offers in a completely genuine, albeit dejected tone.

Stanley stares, almost not comprehending his words. Stanley had viewed the Narrator as certainly a very composed and intelligent person, and while he isn’t wrong about those things, he’s starting to realize now that maybe he didn’t quite grasp just how much emotion he actually experienced. The Narrator can be sensitive and vulnerable too, even if he won’t show it much of the time.

And here the man is offering to essentially commit suicide because he believes Stanley hates him. In a very unpleasant way, he assumes too. He wonders then, if the Narrator is actually suicidal, or was ever in the past.

Stanley is more than a little worried for the Narrator at that thought, because what’s even worse is that it doesn’t seem entirely implausible.

“No! I don’t hate you, Narrator.” He sighs, smothering his frustration that he can’t seem to form the right words to help the poor man. “Look, we both hated each other at first. You were… not the best person, and that’s an understatement. I wasn’t either. We both did some dumb shit, some hurtful stuff and our sins are pretty much equal. I did…” He hums, wanting to tear his hair out. “I did have feelings for you. B- before all this, I was excited to meet you, if I ever got the fucking chance, and on the off-chance you actually had a corpeal form. But then all this happened and now my feelings, toward you and myself have- they’re just complicated right now. Really complicated, and I don’t know how to sort them out. So… right now, I’m not sure how I feel about you. But I don’t want you to kill yourself,” He says firmly. “You don’t like it when I do it, so that’s a no-go for you.”

The Narrator, despite everything, allows a small smile to cross his face.

“Okay then, I won’t do it. Believe me, it would not be fun. I was fairly worried you were going to tell me you did want me to carry the action out.”

“Never,” Stanley confirms.

The Narrator doesn’t respond; he just sighs and leans back, closing his eyes. The lighting is not that great under the employee desk, but even with his face mostly in the dark, Stanley can admit the man is rather pretty. A sharp jawline, and defined features; his glasses fit his face perfectly, little stuff he didn’t have time to notice when he was trapped and in a panic hours ago. Stanley looks away, and stares at the ground in front of him. From his peripheral, he sees the Narrator lifting his glasses to wipe his eyes, still closed.

They sit here for quite some time, neither of them moving, both men caught up in their own heads. Despite everything that happened, they both know at least one sure thing has come out of this: they’ve met now. Really met. And although it’s taken them years– or however long he’s been trapped in this world– or that dumb little pink bug that started this whole fiasco, it’s better late than never, Stanley thinks. He just wishes it was under different circumstances that this came about.

Still, regardless of all the difficulties this day has brought, they have all the time in the world to fix it, don’t they?

After some time longer, Stanley isn’t quite sure how much, the Narrator opens his eyes and raises his hand to fix his glasses. Stanley looks at him, the movement catching his attention.

“Well, Stanley, I think that’s enough time sitting around, thinking.”

Stanley nods. He agrees. He scoots out from under the table into the light and squints, eyes adjusting. He stands up, turns around, and waits for the man to follow suit.

“Stanley, I think I would like some help getting up, if you don’t mind,” The Narrator says, still sitting.

Stanley rolls his eyes. “Alright, old man,” He extends his arm and the Narrator grabs it, getting out from under the table with a scowl on his face.

“I’m not even that much older than you!” He cries.

“Yeah, sure. Come on, I’ll show you around the Parable, yeah?” They let go, and the Narrator frowns.

“For what reason? You’ve already seen the place, I’ve seen every little bit there is, things you haven’t seen. We’ve both been around this building thousands of times. What would you have to show me?”

Stanley shrugs. “We haven’t been together.”

The Narrator opens his mouth to respond yes, we have, I am with you in whatever place you desire to go, but Stanley beats him to it.

“Besides, there’s not really much else to do here is there?”

Well, not like he can argue with that. The Narrator sighs quietly and closes his mouth. He nods.

“Alright.”

Stanley frowns. His eyes dart to the Narrator’s lips against his will and he grimaces, rubbing his arm self-consciously.

“Um, do you think, if you can, you could maybe redesign the employee lounge, or make it into a different room? It’s just… so that when I pass through it, I’m not as reminded of… it.” He looks imploringly at the Narrator, who nods immediately.

“I cannot tamper with designs currently; I’ll have to be in my office for that. But as soon as I leave the building I shall go to work on it straight away. We can enter through the left door for now.”

Stanley hums, still frowning. “When you go back… will you be able to come here again?”

“I… I’m not sure. The only reason I am here currently is because I was transported forcefully. But, when I do eventually return to my office, I will explore any options that might allow me to join you personally again. That is, of course, if you wanted me to,” He smiles slightly.

Stanley nods, a smile forming. He looks at the Narrator’s hand, preparing to take it, but decides against it. He’s not ready for that type of hold, especially as he was forced into touching with the man earlier today. He just turns around and faces the door.

“Through the left door, then. You can recite your script, too. I won’t mind.”

The Narrator brightens up at that, and smiles. He joins Stanley then, standing a few feet back to let the worker take the lead.

“That I shall do, then. Ahem .” He stares ahead, a faint smile playing on his lip.

“All of his coworkers were gone, what could it mean? Stanley decided to go to the meeting room; perhaps he had simply missed a memo.”

It feels different, wildly different, the voice coming clearly from his right, in only one direction instead of from all around and inside his head. Regardless, Stanley takes a few steps forward, and strides confidently out the door as he’d done thousands of times before.