A/N: Don't ask me why this isn't a one shot. But do know that this is a mini-series. Also this took forever to FORMAT. And you guys will soon understand why.
Summary: You played this trashy Otome game for cheap romance and questionable smut. Now you’re trapped inside it. Bad pacing, a dangerous love interest, and one brutal rule: game over means death. The routes are broken. The stakes are real. And quitting? Haha, isn’t an option.
CW: first Vincent Whittman fanfic, emotional smut, p⭐︎rn with plot, dubcon, vincent has a praise kink, profanity, f!reader, i have a love and hate relationship with mobile otome games, my "subtle" jab against predatory mobile game, virgin!vincent, dedicated to my friend @peach-flavored-flambe
Your eyes burned with that gritty, sleepless ache, yet you kept staring at the bright little screen as if sheer stubbornness could will the code to bend. Your thumbs twitched through the dialogue options on autopilot, the familiar tap-tap-tap almost hypnotic. Then—another red splash across the screen.
“Augh—are you kidding me?” The whine slipped out before you could stop it, thin and exhausted as you kicked your feet against the mattress like a frustrated child. “This dev sucks so bad. How the fuck am I supposed to unlock the mystery love interest when your route is so goddamn convoluted?”
The 1950s blues track of Fly Me to the Moon looped in the background, scratchy and cheerful in a way that made you want to fling your phone across the room.
You’d spent the entire day sunk into this adult-rated retro-styled dating sim, your fictional life as a horny bright-eyed assistant at a bustling broadcast station during the golden age of television. The game dangled options like candy: the broad-shouldered news anchor with a secret soft spot, the velvet-voiced late-night entertainer who loved too recklessly, the charming producer brothers with their easy grins and complicated baggage.
And beneath the flirting, the explicit sex scenes, the swooning jazz?
A murderer stalking the station, thinning the cast one by one. Catch them, and you’d earn your fairytale ending: wedding bells, more sex scenes, and sepia-toned bliss.
It wasn’t even a mystery anymore. Of course, it was Vincent Whittman, the eternally overlooked weatherman with the limp handshake and overeager smile. He hovered like a fruit fly anytime your affection with another love interest spiked too high, always offering to “help,” constantly trying to wedge himself into your path. The moment you chose an answer he didn’t like—instant Game Over.
And now, after spending your week of vacation hunched over your tiny phone screen, eyes dry and brain buzzing, you’d finally reached the true route. The final gauntlet before the elusive secret character. But the choices were nonsense. Left or right in an alley—both bad ends because apparently eight choices ago you didn’t squint suspiciously enough at Vincent’s awkward little compliment.
This game sucked.
This game sucked so much.
But your pride was louder than your exhaustion. And your wallet definitely had opinions. You’d already sunk $345.76 into keys, DLC, exclusive outfits, and those stupid loot boxes you swore you’d only buy once. Then once more. Then “just this bundle because it’s discounted.”
It added up faster than your sanity was declining.
At this point, you weren’t just playing—you were invested, emotionally, financially, spitefully. Your vision blurred, but you refused to put the phone down. Not after everything. Not after all this time.
You’d win this cursed game or die trying, sleep deprivation and dignity be damned.
“Fucking goddamn shitty—fuck—fuck…” You muttered the curses under your breath, each word tumbling out harsher than the last as your fingertip jabbed the replay button like it had personally betrayed you. The cheerful fanfare chimed again, that tinny, too-bright melody you’d heard so many times it felt like it was drilling through your skull. And then the unskippable intro rolled in—mocking you, taunting you.
You would have hurled your phone across the room if you didn’t still owe twenty-four months on the payment plan.
The room filled with the frenzied rhythm of your tapping. You hammered at the screen, desperate to fast-forward the dialogue you could probably recite in your sleep. The intro played for the hundredth, maybe the thousandth time, soaking into your bones like a curse.
You wanted to quit so badly your hands shook, but your pride had its fingers around your throat, insisting you keep going. And your brain, fogged by exhaustion, tried to spin the whole thing into some bargain: maybe beating the game would make the nearly four hundred dollars you’d swallowed feel worth it.
Another sharp pang stabbed behind your eyes. Fatigue pressed down on you like a heavy hand. You groaned, rubbing at your face as the edges of your vision pulsed and darkened, colours smearing together. The screen doubled, then tripled. You blinked hard. Once. Twice. Trying to pull yourself back into focus.
Then the world tilted.
Your eyes snapped open and your breath hitched.
Instead of your popcorn-pattern ceiling, a floating pop-up box hovered just inches from your face. Crisp borders. Bright colours. A painfully familiar font.
Your expression soured instantly.
Are you kidding me? Vincent? Vincent?
The limp-noodle weatherman?The worst murderer in video game history? The loser?
A groan tore out of you as you pushed yourself upright. You weren’t in your room anymore—you were in a cramped, dingy little office that smelled like old paper and damp carpet. The furniture sagged like it had been donated by someone who hated the recipient.
Wow.
You’d played the game so long your subconscious had trapped you inside it. Perfect.
You sighed, shutting your eyes for a moment.
Please, brain. If you’re going to hallucinate, at least make it a cool dream. Wings. Magic. Something sexy. Anything but this.
But when you opened your eyes again, another pop-up flicked into existence.
Your brows knitted. “What the—” you tried to say, but the sound didn’t leave your throat. Your lips moved, shaping the words, but nothing emerged.
A cold spike of fear ran down your spine. You touched your throat, fingertips trembling, trying again to speak. Still nothing.
You knew, rationally, that this had to be a dream. But you had never slipped into one with this much clarity before. You could feel everything: the chill of the room biting into your bare arms, the damp heaviness of the stale air settling in your lungs, even the faint ache in your legs as you shifted your weight.
Your nerves buzzed as you pushed open the office door. The hallway beyond was instantly familiar, a backdrop you’d stared at countless times through your phone screen… except now you stood inside it. You walked forward slowly, hyperaware of every echoing footstep.
It was empty.
Too empty.
An eerie, hollow version of the station you knew in the game.
Was this the beginning of Vincent’s route? Usually, the game made you pick after the prologue. None of this matched anything you’d played before. And certainly not like this.
You swallowed hard and kept going, each step slightly unbalanced, as if your mind couldn’t reconcile seeing the world without a frame or UI around it.
Beyond the station doors, faint glittering specks shimmered along the sidewalk—like scattered stardust. A trail. A lure. You followed it with a tight, uneasy throat.
It led you to the mouth of an alley.
You leaned in, peering through the shadows—
—and froze.
Vincent Whittman stood there, his posture rigid, his hand moving with a horrifyingly casual ease as he slashed the anchor’s throat. Blood arced in a brilliant, violent sweep across the brick wall, splattering the ground in a wet, dark spray.
Holy… fuck.
Your body locked. You had never seen murder like this…raw and unfiltered, inches away from you.
But this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.
And yet, the metallic tang of blood coated the air. The humidity pressed against your skin like a damp hand. Vincent turned toward you, glasses catching the dim light, and the reflection made them look like empty, glowing eyes.
You should run. You should scream. You should do anything except stand there like you were bolted to the ground.
Then another pop-up appeared in front of you. A large dialogue box with a timer ticking down in the corner. The timer you’d always cursed.
Five seconds.
Your pulse thundered.
Stay still? In front of a murderer? What kind of idiotic option was that? Obviously, you should pick the first one—
Four seconds.
But the earlier warning flashed back through your mind: You only have one life.
Three seconds.
This had to be a dream… didn’t it?
It felt like a dream.
But everything was so vivid, so sharp.
Two seconds.
The box flashed red, pulsing with urgency. If you didn’t choose, what then? Would Vincent kill you? Would you wake up? Or… worse? Your heartbeat stuttered wildly as you stared at the two choices, your mind spinning between fear and disbelief.
This was insane. Completely unhinged.
One second.
Your breath seized in your chest.
And you chose—
You stayed still.
Perfectly, utterly still.
As if your life depended on it. No, your life did depend on it.
Vincent Whittman stepped toward you, each footfall soft but unbearably deliberate. The metal rod in his hand—sharpened to a brutal point—dripped with thick, dark blood that pattered onto the concrete. The sound alone made your stomach twist.
“You’re that annoying assistant who keeps hovering over him,” he said, his grin stretching too wide. One of his blue eye gleamed with sharp, predatory interest while the other, the green eye, looked almost dead. The contrast made your skin crawl.
You tried to force out a word, anything, but the invisible grip around your throat only tightened. The game refused to let you speak.
And then—of course—another dialogue box popped up in front of you. A new set of choices.
With a timer.
Again.
A spark of pure, exhausted rage flared in your chest.
This creator.
This fucking game.
What kind of pacing was this? Who thought these were reasonable options? Were they drunk? High? Actively trying to torture players?
Five seconds.
The first choice was obvious. Anyone with common sense would pick it. You should pick it.
Four seconds.
The second option made you sound like some delusional idiot. Attention? Seriously? Who would say that to a murderer holding a blood-soaked weapon?
Three seconds.
Maybe you could test it. Maybe dying here just meant waking up in bed.
But what if… what if it wasn’t that simple?
No. No, this was still a dream, right? It had to be.
Two seconds.
Vincent’s rod glinted red as it caught the faint light, droplets sliding down the metal. Your pulse hammered. The box started flashing red, demanding a choice.
Your throat burned as your voice finally rasped out, rough and unsteady—
“It’s… be-because I wanted your attention.”
Vincent’s shoulders went rigid.
Silence dropped like a stone.
Holy fuck.
Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck—
Did you just pick the wrong choice? Was this it? Were you about to die in a dingy alley because of a dialogue tree? In the real world, would your obituary read: Local woman suffers cardiac arrest after investing irresponsibly in a predatory dating sim?
You couldn’t even squeeze your eyes shut. The game wouldn’t let you blink away the fear crawling up your spine.
Then—
A bright cyan heart materialized above Vincent’s head, locked tight.
A click echoed through the alley.
The lock shattered.
Sparkles burst around it.
...and you gained 5% affection.
Your eyes flew wide.
Holy shit.
That… actually worked?
“Y-you… wanted my attention?” Vincent’s voice cracked on the first word. He winced, cleared his throat, tried again, but the awkwardness clung to him like a second skin.
You stared at him, stunned. Not just by the question, but by the sheer absurdity of what was happening. This man had just slit a coworker’s throat. Blood still clung to the rod dangling at his side. A corpse lay cooling on the pavement. And yet here he was… blushing. Like a schoolboy caught passing notes, not a murderer standing in a gore-slick alley.
Also…where the hell was everyone?
You were in the heart of New York City. Not a single scream. Not a single witness. Not even the ambient rush of traffic. Just you, a killer, and an alley that felt boxed in by the silence.
Your stomach lurched when two more dialogue options blinked into existence. And, of course, another five-second timer.
This route was criminally underdeveloped. The dev hadn’t even tried.
You cursed silently. Both choices were practically identical, and both were disgustingly embarrassing. You wanted to groan, maybe curl in on yourself, but the game held you in place like a puppet.
You forced your foggy mind to skim through everything you knew about Vincent from previous routes. Especially the producer route—that one had dug deepest into his psyche. The bad ends there had revealed more about him than any romance scenes ever did.
Pathetic.
Unsatisfied.
Obsessed with climbing the hierarchy, no matter who he had to step on.
A desperate man clawing for validation and attention because he never felt like he had enough.
Men like him—no, people like him—were frightening in a way that didn’t require a weapon.
Anger flared in your chest, simmering with a strange clarity. You already knew which option he wanted. Which one he would swallow whole.
Your expression softened into a sweet, saccharine smile. Your hands clasped together like some bashful heroine straight out of a vintage romance flick.
“Yes! I've always fancied you, but was too shy to talk to you.”
You lifted a hand to your cheek, looked off to the side, and let a faint warmth bloom across your skin.
A soft chime rang behind you—a mechanic you knew too well.
You whipped your gaze upward.
Another five percent.
Ten percent total now.
Just from two ridiculous lines.
Geez. This was almost too easy.
“Oh, I… I didn’t know that,” Vincent murmured, his voice small. The corners of his lips twitched, tilting upward in a shy, almost boyish smile. His cheeks darkened into a deeper shade of red.
If this were the real game, this would be the perfect spot for a CG illustration, the kind they would charge you $0.99 to unlock. A sweet image, soft lighting, blushing faces.
Except…
A dead body lay inches from your shoes.
The alley walls were dripping.
And the air reeked of rust and fear.
“Cute” wasn’t exactly the word you’d use.
A new dialogue box blinked into existence, bright and celebratory in a way that felt deeply inappropriate given the corpse you’d just helped create.
Your left eye twitched, well, it wanted to twitch, but the game wouldn’t even allow that tiny release of emotion.
Two identical options.
Two identical yeses.
Why even pretend there was a choice?
Suppressing a groan, you selected the only option available.
Yes.
Light flared around you, the colours sickeningly bright against the blood-stained alley. Then a new command materialized, accompanied by a sharp chime and a timer that immediately began counting down.
Your stomach dropped.
Witnesses?
Now?
You looked from the dead body to Vincent, then toward the mouth of the alley, where faint city noise finally seemed to seep in. Were people going to start walking by? Right now? Of all times?
“We should hide the body!” you hissed, the words stumbling out in a panic. Your voice worked again—finally—but this was hardly the moment to celebrate.
Vincent blinked at you, startled by your sudden urgency. Then he nodded quickly, too quickly.
“Oh, yea, right, right,” he muttered, flustered. He looked genuinely unsure what to do next, as if killing someone had been the entire extent of his plan.
Honestly?
Worst murderer ever.
If it weren’t the 1950s, forensic science would’ve eaten this man alive.
Your gaze darted around the alley until you spotted the green dumpster tucked behind Vincent. Risky, yes, but this game was still in its early phase. Surely, it wouldn’t be cruel enough to have witnesses check the dumpster, right?
“You take his shoulders, I’ll take his legs, and let’s… just… put him in the dumpster.”
Your voice spiked sharply, cracking under mounting panic. If someone showed up before the timer ran out? What then? Did you get a bad end? A death scene? A real death?
Vincent swallowed hard but nodded. “Okay… okay…”
He grabbed the anchor—Dale Stuckless—beneath the armpits while you clutched his legs, forcing yourself not to think about the limp weight or the chilling softness of a body without tension. On the count of three, you both hefted him upward, swung him once, twice—
And dropped him into the dumpster with a sickening thud.
The sound echoed against the alley walls like a drumbeat.
You immediately checked the timer.
Three minutes left.
Where had the other two gone?
Had time really moved that fast?
Heart pounding, you scanned for anything else out of place. Blood stained the ground in dark splatters, but the night was deep and the alley poorly lit. Maybe no one would notice. Maybe.
You slammed the dumpster lid shut with a metallic clang that rang far too loudly in the quiet hush of the alley.
“We should get out of here,” you breathed, your pulse still stuttering from the scene you’d just fled. Instinct overrode every scrap of rational thought. You seized Vincent’s hand and dragged him out of the alleyway, desperate for distance.
But when you glanced over your shoulder, the sight nearly ripped a yelp from your throat.
Vincent, this absolute fucking disaster of a man, was soaked in blood. Not a few droplets. A constellation of crimson splatter across his white shirt, stark and horrifying under the glow from the street lamps.
“Holy…” The word collapsed on your tongue.
Vincent blinked, brows knitting tight before he muttered under his breath, “Ah, fuck.” He swiped at his shirt with the heel of his hand, as if he could casually buff away evidence of murder like it was dust.
How in God’s name had this man survived an entire game after killing over fifty people? How had no one spotted this?
A harsh beep snapped your attention upward—the floating timer flashed an angry warning. Ninety seconds until “witnesses” appeared. Whatever the hell that meant.
Your gaze snapped toward the station. Empty last time you’d checked. Maybe spare clothes. Maybe a miracle. Panic surged in your chest like a tide.
“Come on,” you hissed, gripping Vincent’s hand and tugging him into a sprint. He matched your pace unquestionably, feet pounding against the pavement.
Sweat trickled down your temples as your eyes darted between the hallway ahead and the ticking countdown. Forty seconds. Your heartbeat thrashed in your throat.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
You pushed harder, legs burning as you shoved open the nearest door and scanned the corridor. Left. Right. Then you bolted—back toward the place you’d woken up, back to the first cursed dialogue box that welcomed you to this artificial nightmare.
“Get in here,” you snapped, breathless. The timer flashed a furious red, each blink a punch to your anxiety. Ten seconds.
Vincent slipped into the staff office without a sound. You followed, slamming the door shut behind you.
You made it. You actually—
“Hello?” A voice, male and unfamiliar, cut through the stale air.
You froze. So did Vincent.
Slowly, your eyes drifted to the bloody mess smeared across his chest. The timer above you read time’s up. And yet, the world… hadn’t shifted. Same soft-toned light palette. Same environment. No cutscene. No sign that you’d cleared the stage.
“Is someone in there?” the voice called again, closer now, the doorknob rattling violently. A shadow moved behind the frosted glass—a silhouette, unmistakable.
Your stomach caved inward.
If you failed… what then?
If it was game over… what did that mean here?
Death? Erasure? Something worse?
You clenched your fists, every muscle in your body trembling but braced. You refused to let this stupid, malicious game snuff you out. You refused to die cornered and helpless.
Not today.
Not in hell.
Vincent’s eyes flew wide as your hands seized his collar and shoved him backward. His spine hit the desk with a dull thud, papers shifting beneath him. You didn’t give him a second to ask what was happening—you swung a leg over his hips, settling over him, feeling the sharp inhale that punched out of his lungs as your weight pinned him.
Then you kissed him. Hard. Desperate. A messy, urgent collision of lips meant to hide the rising panic clawing at your throat.
Just in time for the door to swing open.
“Oh, Jiminy Crickets!” a voice squeaked.
You snapped your head toward the intruder—the janitor, wide-eyed and horrified.
You let out a startled cry, pitching your voice into something breathless and flustered as you buried your face against Vincent’s chest, praying the blood splatter was shielded from view. His shirt was warm against your cheek, his heartbeat hammering like he was as shocked as you were.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” the janitor babbled, then slammed the door shut so fast the frame rattled.
Silence swallowed the room.
You lifted your head. Vincent’s face was scarlet, his gaze darting anywhere but at you. His glasses were crooked, his hair a tousled mess from your hands—and God, he actually looked… good like this. Unsteady. Breath caught somewhere between his ribs and throat. His hands were still at your hips, as if he’d forgotten how to let go.
Before you could process the sight of him, fanfare music blasted in your ears, garish and victorious. A floating dialogue box appeared with an obnoxious sparkle.
You swore the universe was mocking you. You hated this game.
Truly. Deeply. Intensely.
Then another cheerful chime sounded.
You gained another twenty-five percent of affection.
You stared. One single in-game night and Vincent shot up to thirty-five percent affection, something that normally took entire in-game seasons of grinding, dates, dialogue options, and sanity.
“S-so…” Vincent coughed weakly. His voice cracked around the word. He shifted under you, trying to adjust his position—
And then he froze.
Something firm pressed against you. Not his wallet. Not keys. Something undeniably alive, straining, hot even through layers of clothing.
You shifted your hips the slightest bit. His breath hitched sharply, almost a gasp, as your body nudged against the unmistakable hardness trapped beneath you.
You exhaled slowly and waited.
Any second now… yes. There it was. Another dialogue box flickered into existence, shamelessly glowing.
You stared at the options, incredulous.
You knew this game was smutty. You knew the marketing had oversold the “rich plotline” and “emotional depth.” But dear god—couldn’t it at least pretend to be subtle? The summary promised an intricate, sensual narrative.
Instead, the game was porn with extra steps. Pretty art.
Zero restraint.
But…
That was on you, wasn’t it?
A reluctant, painful little truth slid into your chest. You knew what kind of game this was. You had cleared the first route. Then the second. Then the third. Each one had practically clubbed you over the head with the same pattern: a thin drizzle of plot, a puddle of angst, and then—whiplash into sex scenes written with all the subtlety of a brick.
You shouldn’t have expected depth.
You shouldn’t have expected pacing.
You shouldn’t have expected anything remotely resembling emotional buildup.
But still… you had hoped. Somewhere in your naive, stubborn heart, you believed there had to be more than blowing someone after three choices. Surely, the developers had ambitions. Surely, they wanted something more than “press A to suck cock.”
Surely.
Except… no.
No, you had absolutely been delusional.
And now that you thought about it—really thought about it—
How many choices had you made so far?
Your gaze drifted back to the floating dialogue options in front of you, the ones glowing pink and suggestive like they were about to sprout little devil horns.
Oh.
…oh.
Your stomach dipped. An embarrassed, knowing heat crawled up your neck.
This was it, wasn’t it?
The moment every route sprinted toward with shameless enthusiasm.
The first smut scene.
You had triggered it.
Your choices—your frantic improvising, straddling Vincent to hide the blood splatters, kissing him in panic—had launched you headfirst into the exact territory the game always wanted to drag you into.
A resigned breath left you.
Of course, it was the first smut scene.
Because why would this game ever wait for something as trivial as plot, or pacing, or sanity?
