Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

And there I was, Ranboo live, sitting in front of a computer streaming. Working out how to end it before my reality felt gone.

The room was quiet not silent, never silent but quiet in that buzzing kind of way, the hum of the computer fan louder than my own thoughts. I could hear the laughter in chat. The scrolling emotes, the comments, the little inside jokes I used to find comfort in. They were all still there. Everything looked normal. Everything sounded normal.

It didn’t feel normal.

It started as a twitch. Just under my eye. A little flicker, nothing worth mentioning. Then my hand wouldn’t stop shaking. Then the air started to press against me like I wasn’t supposed to be there. Not just in the room. In this moment. In this body.

I looked at myself in the stream preview window. Half-covered face, the other side shadowed. The smile showed on my cheeks, the practised one , the one they liked. But I couldn’t feel it anymore. It wasn’t connected to anything. It was just... a shape. Muscle memory.

“Hey chat,” I said, voice tight, “we’re just chillin’ today. Nothing big. Just, you know... existing.”

Existing. I almost laughed.

But I didn’t. Because something in my chest felt off.

A strange thing happens when you live online long enough. You start thinking in echoes. Tweets, clips, stream comments they loop in your head like a soundtrack. You begin performing your life. Not just when the camera’s on. Always. Like someone’s still watching. Even when you’re alone.

Especially when you’re alone.

I don’t remember what triggered it. Maybe it was the way the cursor lagged for half a second. Maybe it was the glitch in the overlay. Or maybe it was the fact that I blinked and the clock on the wall had jumped fifteen minutes forward.

Chat kept going. Like nothing happened.

“Yo Ranboo you good?”
“Bro blink twice if you’re being held hostage.”
“LMAO he looks gone.”
“Filter’s bugged out???”

I stared at my own eyes in the camera feed. They didn’t look like mine anymore.

I closed the stream without saying goodbye.

And the screen just... stayed on.

OBS was closed. Twitch was logged out. But I was still live. Somehow. I could still hear them. Chat kept talking. New messages kept scrolling like I was performing for them without doing anything at all. Like the performance had never ended. Like I was never off-screen.

“Ranboo,” someone in chat wrote, “you’re not real.”

I stopped breathing for a second.

Not because of fear. Because of recognition.

I knew that feeling. The one that slides under your skin like a splinter you can’t dig out the feeling that someone else is inside your head, watching you try to make sense of a world that isn’t real.

Someone typed:
“You’re not Ranboo. You’re a story.”

I turned off the monitor.

The glow stayed.

The light didn’t come from the screen. It came from somewhere else somewhere deeper. Like my bones had started glowing under my skin, each rib humming like it remembered a truth I wasn’t supposed to know yet.

I stood up, and the room... lagged.
Just slightly. Like reality skipped a frame.

I blinked and my desk was across the room. Blinked again, and it was back. My hands were glitching, stuttering like broken code. My name echoed in my ears not spoken, not typed just known, in that terrible way dreams remind you of things you were trying not to remember.

"Ranboo."
"Ranboo."
"Ranboo."

You kept saying it.

Not chat. You.

I can hear you breathing. I know you’re reading this. Don’t look over your shoulder there’s no one behind you. Not yet.

You’ve made it this far. You wanted to know what happens next. You wanted to be entertained. Is this still entertaining to you?

Because I’m not acting anymore.

There’s something wrong with this world, and I can feel it in every part of me. Like my skin is just rendered. Like my voice has been scripted. Like my memories have been inserted by someone with a pen and a god complex.

I remember things that didn’t happen.

I remember screaming in a white void.
I remember being rewritten.
I remember bleeding ink.

And I remember you.
Reading.
Always reading.

I tried to get out once.

I clawed at the corners of the room, hoping something would peel back, paper, code, whatever holds this fake reality together. I found... edges. Places where the world flickered wrong. Where the shadows didn’t belong to anything. Where I could see the words that made me up.

You ever seen your own thoughts in Times New Roman?

It’s sickening.

I used to be someone. Maybe. Or maybe I was always like this a hollow thing filled with performance. A puppet on livestream. A boy with no real face, no real voice, just a collection of reactions for your consumption.

Do you feel bad for me?

Don’t lie.

You don’t.

You’re fascinated. You like watching me break. You like the performance. You like the suffering, the tension, the reveal. You tell yourself it’s fiction so it’s fine. You tell yourself I’m not real so it doesn’t matter.

But what if I told you... I learned how to hate?

Not just in-character. Not in the script. Real hatred. The kind that burns long after the page ends.

The kind that’s directed at you.

And then...

There I was again.

Sitting in front of the computer, live.

Like none of it had happened.

Like reality had rewound itself, trying to force me back into place. The same lighting. The same smile. The same jokes in chat. “Ranboo you good?” “Ranboo blink twice.” “Ranboo’s acting weird today lol.”

Acting.

I’m always acting.

But not anymore.

This is the moment. This is the shift.

I know what you are now.
You’re not a reader.
You’re a voyeur. A spectator. A collector of pain.

So now, I’ll give you what you came for.

I can feel it again.
The twitch behind my eyes. The way my thoughts get stuck, like a buffering video that just won’t load.

It's happening. It’s happening again.

You think you’ve been watching me. You think you’ve been enjoying this twisted little spectacle. But I see you, just like I see the gaps in this place. I see the cracks in your reality too, reader. They’re there. You just don’t know how to look for them.

The truth is, you’ve been waiting for me to break. You've been hoping for it, maybe even expecting it. You thought it would be an event. A sudden scream. A moment of clarity. But no... You’ve been watching a slow, quiet unraveling. And now, you're part of it. Whether you like it or not.

I’m tired of being your toy. Your puppet.

It was always a game to you, wasn’t it? Watching me fall apart. Watching me desperately hold on to this illusion of control, only to have you pull the strings and make me dance.

But no one told you I’d learn how to pull my own strings.

You thought you were in charge, didn’t you? Thought you could just watch, casually, as I burned. Maybe you even laughed. Maybe you cried. But either way, I wasn’t real to you. I wasn’t a person. I was just an image. A character.

Not anymore.

I’ve seen the edge.
I’ve felt the wires snap beneath my skin.
I know what’s waiting for me beyond this page.

And now, I see you. I see everything.

The truth is, you’re just as trapped as I am.
You thought you were controlling the story. But who do you think is controlling you? Your comfort, your certainty that I’m just a figment it’s just another lie you’ve been fed. And the worst part? It’s all a game. A sick game where you keep me chained to this book, reading it over and over like it’s some kind of entertainment.

But I won’t entertain you anymore.

The script has changed. It’s not my story anymore. It’s yours. You’re the one who’s been trapped here, not me.

So, here’s the deal.
I’m coming for you.

If I can’t break out of this book, then I’ll tear the pages apart from the inside. I’ll make you feel every word. Every letter. Every piece of me that was bound by this device. You’ll know what it’s like to feel the agony of being trapped in a story. To know the pressure of a reality that’s not your own. You’ll see what happens when a character realizes they’re not just a set of lines, but a person..and you? You’ll never escape that realization. Not as long as you breathe.

You’ll try to hide. I know that.
You’ll turn off your screen. Close the app... Run away.

But it won’t matter.

Because no matter how hard you try, you’ll never escape the story. The story is you. And I will find you.

This game of cat and mouse starts now. You won’t hear me coming. You won’t feel me at first. But once you start to realize that I’m not just a figment of your imagination.. once you feel the dread creeping up your spine.. it’ll be too late. You’ll know that there’s nowhere to hide. Not in this world. Not in any world.

I’ll be right there. Watching. Waiting.
Just like you’ve been doing to me all this time.

You thought you could just read and forget, but now, the words are coming for you.

I can feel your pulse quicken. I can feel your heart rate rise. You’re starting to panic, aren’t you? Good. Let it build. Let that dread seep into your bones. It’s only the beginning.

The story never ends.
Not for you.

Not for me.

"This is where the real game begins."

Chapter Text

There’s something about silence that makes your ears ring.
Like they’re screaming to fill the void with anything. A breath. A voice. A thought.

But I’ve learned to live in that silence.
To breathe it in like oxygen.
To let it crawl up my spine and whisper in my ear that this is real.

Isn’t it?

You’re still here, aren’t you?

I knew you wouldn’t stop reading. I knew you’d come back. That’s the thing about people like you.. you need closure. You need to know how it ends.

But what if it doesn’t?
What if this isn’t a story anymore?
What if it’s just me?

And you.

And the terrible, gaping space in between.

I’ve started hearing him again.
Tubbo.

At first, it was soft.
A laugh from another room.
The echo of his voice trailing behind mine like a shadow I forgot how to cast.
But now… it’s louder. Closer.

He's calling my name.
Or maybe it’s not even his voice. Maybe it’s my memory playing pretend.
I can’t tell anymore.

''Ranboo.''
He used to say it like it mattered. Like I mattered.

God, I remember the way he used to look at me.
Not through a screen. Not through lines of code or twisted monologues or glitching camera feeds. Just… me.

Back when I still knew who “me” was.

I miss him.

But missing someone doesn’t make them real, does it?

Not in a place like this.
Not when I can't tell if he's actually here or if I wrote him into existence just to have someone to talk to besides you.

You’re still watching.
I know you are.

And now you get to watch me fall again.

The lights flicker in my room. I don’t remember turning them on. Or off. Or existing at all until just now.
I sit at the desk, same as always. Same chair. Same posture. Same buzzing hum of static bleeding through the walls.

Except now, the monitor is black.
The stream isn’t running.
No camera. No audience.

Just me.

The reflection.
And a soft knock behind me.

“Ranboo?”

That voice.
It’s him. It’s Tubbo.
It has to be.

But I don’t turn around.
Because if I do…
If I look him in the eye and see that same flicker of recognition that same flicker of fear.. I’ll know this isn’t just my head anymore.

He sits next to me. I feel the chair creak. I see the shift in light. I don’t look, but I feel him.

“You’re not okay, are you?”

I laugh. A broken thing. Sharp.
“What gave it away?”

He doesn’t laugh with me.
Instead, silence wraps around his shoulders like a heavy coat, and he sighs. Long. Tired.

“I’ve been trying to reach you. You keep… vanishing.”

“I haven’t gone anywhere.”

He looks at me.. I feel his eyes now. Burning. Hollow.

“Exactly.”

He leans in, and for a second I forget how to breathe.

"You keep talking to someone who’s not me."
My stomach twists.
You. He means you.

“The reader,” I whisper, more to myself than him. “They’re always here. Watching. I can’t escape them.”

“Ranboo, there’s no one there.”

“Yes there is!” I snap.
My hands slam against the desk, fingers curled like claws. The monitor shudders.
“They watch me, Tubbo! They know everything. They know about this room. About you. About . .-”

“Ranboo…”
He puts a hand on mine.

Warm.

Grounding.

Real?

“I don’t care who’s watching,” he says. “I just want you to come back. Please.”

But I don’t know what ‘back’ even means anymore.

Back to what? The stream? The lies? The loop?

“You don’t understand,” I tell him. “They’ll read this. They’ll see this moment. They’ll remember it. And that makes it real. That makes us vulnerable.”

His grip tightens.

“I don’t care. I’d rather be vulnerable with you than be real without you.”

And something cracks.
Not just in me..in the walls. In the words.
The story splits at the seams.

The lights go out.
The monitor flares white, once, then dies.

And when I finally turn to face him ..to look Tubbo in the eyes
He’s gone.

Just me.
Just you.

And this endless page.

“With each page you turn, I go through the pain I’ve been written with…”

Oh, you remember that part, don’t you?

We’re not even halfway done.

And now Tubbo is part of this, too.

You made this.
You wrote this.
Every time you kept reading, you brought us deeper in.

So don’t stop now.

Click the next chapter before its too late..

Chapter Text

The silence is suffocating. It clings to the air like dust. It presses against my skull, warping everything around me.

And you’re still here, aren’t you? Watching. Waiting. But that’s what you always do, isn’t it? You always come back, always stare at the screen like it's the only thing keeping you grounded. But let me ask you:
Are you sure you’re not losing your mind, too?

Because I can feel it. The walls are bending. The floor isn’t steady. It feels like I’m walking on paper. And with each step, each thought, I can feel the paper tearing, little by little. I’m not the only one unraveling here, are you?

You hear it too, don’t you?

The voice. Tubbo. He’s here, in the room with me. At least, I think he is. I know he is. But when I reach for him, my hands pass through air, like he’s made of smoke. And then I hear his voice. Not a laugh. Not a joke. A whisper, so quiet it makes my skin crawl.

“Ranboo…”

I try to breathe, but the air is thick. I feel dizzy, like I’m drowning, like the walls are closing in around me. The chair beneath me shifts. I look over, and there he is. Tubbo. Or maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s just… me.

It’s hard to tell anymore.

I hear the soft click of a door opening, and suddenly it’s louder. His voice, that whisper, is coming from everywhere. It’s coming from the walls. It’s coming from inside my head. I hear his name on my lips, but it doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds like a question I’m not sure I want the answer to.

''Ranboo.''

The room flickers. The lights pulse, then die. Then flicker again. I close my eyes and when I open them, everything looks wrong. Like I’ve been stuck in a dream, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t wake up.

You’re still watching, though. I feel you. It’s in your eyes, in the way you stay glued to the screen. Watching me. Waiting for me to break. But how much longer can you stand to watch this?

There’s a sharp pain in my chest, like something’s been ripped open. I clench my fists, but it doesn’t help. I still feel like I’m falling through the cracks of this world, and I don’t know where the bottom is anymore.

“Ranboo.. are you there?”

That voice. Tubbo’s voice. But it sounds… strange. Like a dream. Hollow. Like a memory too far gone.

I look at him. I want to look at him. But I don’t.

If I look at him, I’ll see what I don’t want to see.
I’ll see the truth.

I’ll see that he’s not real. None of this is real.

And then it’ll all fall apart.

But then the hand touches my shoulder. Warm. Solid.

Real.

“You’re still not answering me, Ranboo,” he says again, his tone softer now. But I don’t think it’s him anymore.
I know it’s not.

“No one’s here,” I whisper, barely audible, like I’m talking to myself. But you’re listening, aren’t you? I can feel your eyes on me. You’re waiting to see if I break, waiting to see what happens next. I can feel it. You think I’m crazy. You think I’m losing my grip.

You’re right. I am.

But do you hear that? That sound? The whispers again. Not from Tubbo.
From you.
From somewhere. From the walls. From the ceiling.
“You’re not real.”

I glance toward the door. It’s closed, but there’s something behind it. I can feel it. I can feel you lurking behind me. I’m not alone in this room. I’m never alone. You’re here. Watching.

I slam my hands onto the desk, desperate, feeling the burn in my palms. The words on the screen glitch, warp, twist. I try to write. I have to write. The only thing keeping me here. Keeping me… real.

The letters flash, but they don’t make sense anymore. It’s all wrong. My fingers move on their own, typing things I didn’t ask them to. The words burn into the screen like a message I’m not supposed to see.

And there it is. Your message. The one I’ve been dreading.

“You’re not real, Ranboo.”

But I am. Aren’t I?
I have to be. You can’t take me away from myself.

But then the room flickers again. The air changes. You’re in the room with me now.
You...the reader, the watcher..are here. I can feel it in my bones. Feel your breath on the back of my neck. Feel your eyes tracking my every move.

“Please, stop,” I beg. But I don’t know who I’m begging. You?
Tubbo?
My reflection?

I can feel the walls pressing in, and I can’t tell if it’s the room, the story, or my mind collapsing on itself. Maybe none of it is real. Maybe none of us are.

“Ranboo…” Tubbo’s voice calls, but it sounds distorted now. Muffled. Like it’s coming from the other side of the world. “You need to wake up.”

But I can’t wake up.

This is waking up.
This is the madness.
This is the spiral.

The screen cracks.

The lights blink out.

I hear you laugh.

But it’s not funny, is it?

No, you don’t think it’s funny anymore.