Chapter Text
“Chance! Let’s start your next campaign.”
Skylar’s words echoed around Chance as he was blinded by the spectral energy.
The world seemed bigger, somehow. The initial urge to roll a check evaporated as the former D20 pressed a hand against the hardwood floor of the office to regain balance. His whole body felt heavier, trying to adjust to the new elevation.
His breathing was heavy, a new feeling in his throat as he swallowed; scratchy, painful. Even his voice ached as he spoke.
“Holy crit…”
You stood by, giving the former object the space needed to readjust. You carefully watched, unsure of what you actually expected when Skylar first introduced the concept. The sprawl of Chance’s limbs yet the bare skin slightly covered in a sheen of an unknown source was definitely not at the top of the list, but if it wasn't for your acute awareness that he was suffering an abnormal sensation, you would’ve deemed it a welcome sight behold.
Chance sat up onto his knees, barely noticing his lack of clothes. He tried to focus on you, squinting as he held a hand to his throat, continuing to swallow as he called out to you.
“S-sweetheart…”
You took a deep breath at that. The confusion in his aching voice, the worried voice of Skylar in the background, the questioning of the entirety of the office you had a feeling was happening. It was enough for you to realise that there was more to realisation than how it was portrayed. The initial worry of objects entering into the social part of society had hidden the physical side that should've taken more initiative than the possible paperwork and dodging through the repercussions.
You knelt in front of Chance, who immediately tried to grab onto you, feeling your skin against his hands. Parts of his skin were red flushed, over his shoulders and within the crevices where that sheen and beads of sweat irritated the flesh as his body got used to the temperature. The wrist that held that dragon tattoo was an angry red in comparison, that you were immediately making sure Chance didn’t scratch at it.
You couldn't help but admire him regardless. The pudge of his stomach, his hair sticking to his forehead, the flushed expression on his face. It was just the tip of the iceberg. You weren’t seeing him as the embodiment of the die but as a human of his own right. You can finally see him actually be a GM at a table. Touch him. Engulf him with what he deserved.
“You alright, Chance?” You asked, grabbing his attention, his red eyes still squinting at you, making out the shape of your face before he finally responded.
“Yeah, I'm alright. You just look so blurry…” he muttered, bringing his hands up to cup your face.
“And it feels like my throat’s burning,” he smiled sheepishly.
“Didn’t think being human would hurt this much.”
You smiled softly, starting to sense the possible oversight Skylar and that Tinfoilhat guy had. Chance was, after all, a man of performance. He never acted out of character during any campaign. The realisation process had only amplified what didn’t happen when he was an object. In a way, you were just glad that was the only thing wrong now that you knew it could be possible that many of the objects may have worst injuries or problems you had to remedy.
“Just glad you are alright,” you muttered before you pressed a kiss to Chance’s temple.
“I'm just going to get you something to wear, okay?”
Chance rose an eyebrow before he realised, a blush emitting from his already flushed cheeks. He placed his hands on his thighs as you got up, squeezing his legs together.
“Ah, yeah, the stranger-” Chance coughed as he instinctively tried to amp his voice.
“I'd appreciate that.”