Obsession isn't Love (PayCheck)

by Gendo_isForsakening

Summary:

Elliot works at a local pizza place and streams whenever life gives him the time just him, his lemon-themed avatar, and a voice that feels like safety. As LemonBoy, he's built a quiet community of thousands who come to him when they feel unseen, unheard, or too scared to talk to anyone else.

One of them is Chance a thrill-seeking casino heir left broken after being betrayed by the only friend he trusted. Alone in a hospital bed, he stumbles into LemonBoy’s stream, and the comfort hits too deep. Too perfect. Obsession takes root fast.

But when LemonBoy takes a break to move offline, Chance doesn’t expect the stranger who starts visiting him in real life gentle, persistent, familiar in a way he can’t place.

Notes:

I lied, English is my first language 💔 I just suck at it..

Chapter 1: "Lucky, You"

(Chance POV)

Click

That was the fifth one

Click

Six

His heart pounded so hard it pressed against the inside of his ribs. His fingers tingled. Sweat clung to the back of his neck, mixing with the buzz of whiskey and blood in his head

Across the green velvet table, Itrapped exhaled. Quiet. Measured. Eyes locked on him

Click

Seven

Chance laughed

It was sharp and bright, like a flicked coin clattering across a marble floor.

“Still breathing,” he grinned, spinning the revolver on the table. “That’s five wins in a row. You seeing this, Trapped?”

Itrapped didn’t smile

Not really. He lifted his bloxy cola, gave a slow raise of the glass, and muttered, “Lucky you.”
The room was warm with silence. Staff lingered at the edges, unsure whether to watch or pretend none of this was happening. They all knew better than to interfere. The casino owner's son got to play whatever game he wanted

Chance leaned back, bones aching beneath his jacket. His shoulder stung. His ears were still ringing from the last round. But he smiled anyway

He loved this part. The rush. The closeness to death without having to die. The high of surviving again. Still here. Still lucky

“You’re not gonna toast my record?” Chance teased. “Come on, man. I’m a living miracle.”
Itrapped stood up

“I need air,” he said

Chance followed, laughing under his breath. “What, sick of losing to greatness?”

They stepped out into the back lot of the casino. It was quiet. Puddles reflected the neon signage overhead. The air smelled like rain and pavement

Chance nudged him lightly. “You’re jealous. Admit it. I could live through a meteor if I wanted”
Itrapped didn’t respond

He stopped walking. His hand rested inside his coat pocket. The other hung by his side
“What?” Chance asked, the grin on his face starting to falter

Itrapped’s expression stayed still

Then something happened

There was a sound, something sharp and immediate. His ears went numb. His knees buckled.

Everything blurred

The ceiling was white

That was all he could see

Not velvet, not neon, not cards

Just sterile, white ceiling tiles. Cold lights

He blinked. His vision swam

The beeping sound nearby told him he was alive. The pain proved it

His ribs were bandaged. His leg didn’t move. His mouth was dry. He could feel tubes taped to his skin. His wrists ached

The hospital room was still

Itrapped wasn’t here

Nobody was

Just the emptiness, and the memory of a friend who stood too still before everything disappeared

.
.
.
It was night when the nurse last came in

She gave him a quiet smile, the kind people wear when they don’t want to be too loud in a room that’s already heavy. She adjusted his IV drip and scanned the monitor, her movements calm and practiced

Then she glanced at him, just for a second longer than usual.

“You’re lucky,” she said gently, pulling the blanket higher over his legs
Chance didn’t answer. Just blinked at her

The nurse hesitated, then added, “Not everyone gets found in time. Whoever called the ambulance... they probably saved your life”

Chance looked away. He didn’t want to explain that no one had called. That it was a janitor who found him slumped behind the casino after shift change. That he had been unconscious, alone, lucky only by accident

“You’ll feel stronger soon,” she said softly, patting his wrist with gloved fingers. “Try to rest, okay?”

And just like that, she left. Back into the hallway. Back into the rhythm of machines and empty chairs and other patients waiting for care

He didn’t call after her

Then she was gone, like it was just another thing on her list

Lucky.
Right.

Chance stared up at the ceiling. The words echoed. He turned them over in his mind like a coin between his fingers. Lucky. As if waking up alone, barely stitched together, counted for something

He rolled onto his side. Pain crept through his ribs like it had a right to be there. The world outside was a dull hum, too far to reach

He picked up his phone

No messages. No calls. Nothing.

He opened Twitch without thinking. It wasn’t a choice, just a habit. Muscle memory taking over where feeling had left off
The screen loaded in a burst of chaotic thumbnails. Bright colors, loud stream titles, faces caught mid-scream. It made his head hurt. He scrolled

Then paused

A simple image sat quietly among the chaos

A blocky cartoon figure. Pastel yellow skin. Lemon-colored apron and a matching visor. The background showed a small hand-drawn lemonade stand. There was no hype, no facecam, no shouting.

Just a stream titled:

"late night lemon stand 🍋 just chatting and drawing"
Viewers: 987

He tapped it

The screen faded into quiet. No music. Just soft ambient sound and the gentle hum of a fan in the background

The avatar appeared, calm and still. The model had the look of a Robloxian. Its skin was soft pastel yellow, dressed in a lemon-colored apron and visor, with a black turtleneck underneath. Behind it sat a cartoon lemon stand with a tiny sign that read

‘25¢ per Feeling’

Then came the voice

“Hey there. Welcome to the stand.”

Chance froze.

The voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t demand attention or fill the silence with noise. It was calm. Grounded. Almost careful.

“Rough day?” the streamer asked “Same here. But we’re still here. That counts for something”

The model blinked, shifting slightly. The animation was basic but charming. It didn’t matter

“You don’t have to talk if you’re tired. Just being here is enough,” LemonBoy added. “This space is for you. All of you”

Chance stared

The chat scrolled slowly. Messages from viewers popped up one by one. Some shared about their week. Others vented quietly. Someone said they hadn’t cried in years until this stream

LemonBoy replied to each with the same calm, steady tone

“That sounds heavy. I’m proud of you for talking about it”
“It’s okay to need help”
“Feelings aren’t flaws”

It shouldn’t have meant anything

But Chance felt something tighten in his throat

This stranger, this soft lemon-themed avatar, spoke like someone who had been hurt before. Who had crawled out of it. Who understood the kind of silence that follows betrayal

Chance didn’t type anything. He couldn’t

He stayed still

Eyes on the screen. Phone warm in his hand

He didn’t even realize he had tears in his eyes until one rolled past his temple and disappeared into the pillow

By the time the stream ended, his phone screen had dimmed, battery nearly gone

But he stayed a little longer, staring at the chat fading into silence

Not love. Not yet.

But something close. Something hungry

He would come back tomorrow

He had to.

Chapter 2: Off-Stream

Notes:

THIS IS AN AU SO ELLIOT IS OOC!!

(Elliot POV)

The stream had ended five minutes ago

Elliot hadn’t moved

His desk lamp hummed beside him, casting a low amber glow over the sketchpad he hadn’t touched in twenty minutes. The LemonBoy model still sat on his screen, frozen mid-blink like it was waiting for him to come back.

He didn’t close the window. Didn’t log off the software. He just sat there elbows on the desk, fingers laced behind his neck, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion

One thousand viewers
One thousand people who’d tuned in, typed in chat, shared their feelings
And none of them knew him. Not really

He exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair. It creaked under the shift of his weight

The room was small a little second-floor rental above a corner laundromat. It still smelled like detergent and old paint. His pizza uniform hung off the door hook, still red, still warm from earlier. His shoes were kicked messily beneath the bed. He’d only gotten home an hour ago

He didn’t stream for long. Never did. Two hours was enough. Any longer and he started getting in his own head wondering if he was helping or hurting. If he was just filling the silence because he didn’t want to be alone

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands

He hadn’t even said much during that stream. Just drew quietly, answered chat, told them to breathe, reminded them that their feelings weren’t broken

But someone had needed it
He always hoped someone needed it

He clicked a few keys. The model vanished. The overlays faded

Just a desktop now. A messy background of screenshot folders and a single yellow sticky note in the corner that read

"You are not selfish for needing comfort too."

He hadn’t written it for his viewers. He wrote that one for himself

His phone buzzed quietly beside him. Not a message just the time. 12:02 AM.

A small sigh slipped out. He grabbed a nearby glass of water, took a sip, then reached for the worn sketchbook that lived on his desk’s edge. No digital brush. No chat. Just pencil and paper

He flipped to a blank page. Doodled on something.

LemonBoy again. Just the head. Big smile. Wide eyes. A lemon slice behind one ear like a flower

The little guy had become more of a mask than a model. A version of himself who always knew what to say. Who never froze. Who wasn’t afraid of being “too much.”

People said he helped them. That LemonBoy made them feel seen.

But Elliot sometimes wondered if he even felt real

The drawing stared back at him, a drawing of LemonBoy, all smiles and no weight behind the eyes

Elliot tapped his pencil against the corner of the sketchbook. He wasn’t going to finish it. He never did

He closed the book and set it aside, letting the quiet sit for a moment. Outside the window, a distant car passed. Somewhere, a dog barked. The city didn’t sleep, but his little street came close

He didn’t live far from work. Builder Brothers was a fifteen-minute walk twenty if he stopped at the corner store for tea

Technically, the company belonged to his dad. Mr. Builder. A man who wore responsibility like a uniform and had built the restaurant empire from scratch before Elliot was even born. The guy meant well he really did. But after Elliot’s mom died, he buried himself in paperwork and projects, thinking it was the only way to keep the family standing

Elliot didn’t blame him. Not really.

But the house was always quiet. The kind of quiet that hurt your ears after a while

He never told his dad about the apartment. Let him believe Elliot was living just fine in the family townhouse across town. The truth? That place felt like a tomb. Every corner still had his mother’s touch. Her perfume lingered on the curtains no matter how many times they’d been washed

So he found his own space. Small. Cramped. A little second-floor box with a leaky faucet and questionable insulation. But it was his. His hours. His walls. His choice.

He worked long shifts. Took the heaviest ones on purpose not because he loved the job, but because it gave him structure. Because it made his dad worry less. Because it kept him from thinking too much in the in-between moments

The LemonBoy streams…
Those were the only time he didn’t feel like he had to smile just to be polite.
Because there, he could say things like
“It’s okay to feel tired.”
“It’s okay to not be okay.”
Even if he hadn’t figured out how to believe it for himself yet

Elliot leaned back in his chair, stretching. The apartment creaked around him

His next shift was in six hours

He should sleep. But sleep meant dreams. And dreams, lately, kept ending in that same damn hallway where his mom used to stand with a towel over her shoulder, asking if he’d brushed his teeth

He reached over, pulled the blanket off the back of his chair, and wrapped it around himself. The night pressed in from the window, cool and soft

Somewhere out there, he hoped someone from the stream was sleeping easier

That was enough for tonight

He didn’t need a message back
He didn’t need someone to say thank you
He just needed to know that, for someone, being LemonBoy made a difference

That way, maybe he could pretend that was enough for himself, too

Chapter 3: “Don’t leave again.”

(Chance POV)

The apartment was silent except for the fan and the low hum of his phone

Chance lay stretched across the leather couch, one leg kicked over the armrest, head tilted back just enough for the light to catch the edge of his fedora. The rim cast a long shadow over his eyes not that he needed it. The Versuretti shades he wore were worth more than most people’s rent. Once a fashion statement. Now they just covered the constant, restless red in his eyes. That sleepless kind of red that turned blinking into a task

He wore a pressed black suit even now. Nothing casual. Never casual. His white shirt collar peeked sharp beneath the silk lapels. The tie he hadn’t loosened. No one was here to see, but still he dressed. He always did. Like routine. Like armor. Like control.

The phone screen lit the room dimly, its soft glow dancing off the polished buttons of his jacket. LemonBoy’s stream played quietly

The PNG avatar blinked on-screen not animated, just a flat pastel-yellow figure lit up by voice. A lemon-themed apron. A tiny cardboard stand behind him. And that soft, careful voice speaking through the dark

"...You're safe here, even if it doesn’t feel like it yet,” the voice said. “You still showed up. That matters”

Chance didn’t respond

Spade lay on the rug beside him. Or more accurately took up half the rug

She was massive. All soft, jade-black fur and long, aristocratic limbs that spilled over the edges of her pillow like royalty lounging in exile. She twitched one ear as he shifted

Chance looked down at her. “You take up more floor than a loveseat,” he murmured. “I should start charging you rent.”

She didn’t move. Just lifted her head slightly, blinking with those glass-dark eyes, then rested it back down like he wasn’t worth the effort

He reached out and gently scratched between her ears

“Still love you though,” he added, quieter now

Spade was spoiled. She had her own custom room. Vet calls that cost more than hospital visits. Her fur got conditioned with organic oils from a brand that shipped from France. She only ate from a crystal bowl

She was the only thing he had left that stayed

Well. Her and LemonBoy

Chance adjusted the volume slightly. He’d heard this stream before. A late-night drawing session. LemonBoy was talking about routines. Comfort. Letting yourself rest.

The PNG avatar didn’t smile. It didn’t have to. Just glowed gently as it spoke

His fedora slipped forward slightly, brushing his lashes. He pushed it back with one gloved finger, more annoyed by the tilt than the thought of taking it off. He didn’t remove it indoors anymore. Not since the hospital. Not since his hair started falling weird from lying around too much. He still went to the salon once every week or so let them clean it up. But it always got messy again the next day

He was getting lazy

Not in the way broke people got lazy. He could afford luxury even on bad days. No this was the kind of laziness that came from numbness. The kind of laziness that replaced texts to friends with silence. That turned dinner into whatever was left in the fridge. That kept him from bothering to adjust his cufflinks even though he always used to

Back then, when he felt like this, he’d shoot a message to Itrapped

"Wanna hit the tables tonight?"
"Drinks? I’ll pay you just show"

That sort of thing. Itrapped always came, eventually

Now? He didn’t even try. He hadn’t since the hospital

There was no point

The last words he remembered from Itrapped echoed without warning

"Lucky, you.”

Chance squeezed his eyes shut beneath the shades, jaw tightening. He sat up too quickly, Spade stirred beside him

He stood, adjusting his white cuff. Walked into the kitchen in slow steps

The place was pristine but cold. Like a showroom. Stainless steel surfaces. Imported tiles. Pill organizers lined up by day, unopened mail stacked neatly by the microwave

He pulled out a bottle of water. Drank half of it before he realized he wasn’t thirsty

The stream was still talking

“…you’re not behind, you’re just here, and that’s enough”

Chance leaned against the counter

“Yeah,” he muttered, “Tell me that again”

He listened to the stream for another hour. Then another.

He always had it on now. While feeding Spade. While brushing his suit. While adjusting his tie in the mirror even when he wasn’t going anywhere

The screen was a constant now. LemonBoy didn’t know him. Couldn’t see him. But still every word felt like a thread holding something inside of him together

He didn’t notice it was hurting

Didn’t realize how it was growing into a need

Not yet

Not fully

Just knew that when the stream went quiet when LemonBoy went offline the silence hit like a closed door. A real one. With no key

So when LemonBoy stopped going live for a while?

Chance noticed

He noticed hard

For now, the PNG glowed gently on the screen

And Chance listened, and listened, and listened

Two days

It was only two days

LemonBoy had missed streams before. Once when his power went out, once when his mic stopped working and he had to post through his phone instead. Little things

But this time, there wasn’t a post

Just… silence.

Chance noticed

He didn’t panic. Not immediately. Not in any way that showed

He still fed Spade on time imported hay, vitamin-dusted pellets, and fresh-cut fruit slices on a chilled ceramic dish. Still wore his pressed suits. Still cleaned the marble counter in his kitchen even though he barely cooked anymore

Still looked like a man who had everything. Because technically, he did

But inside?

He kept checking the stream

Every few hours. Refresh. Close. Re-open. Refresh again.

The screen stayed quiet

He’d tell himself he didn’t care, out loud even

Spade would hop into his lap and he’d whisper to her like it was some kind of joke

“Gone off to relax, maybe. Good for him,” he murmured. “Even lemon boys need to cool off”

She’d blink up at him like she knew better

By the time the stream returned soft pastel screen, lemon-colored stand, familiar voice glowing through the speakers Chance didn’t smile

He didn’t cry, either. Just watched. Face unreadable behind his tinted lenses.

“…thanks for waiting,” LemonBoy’s voice said quietly that night, “I was feeling off this week, but I’m glad I’m here now”

Chance’s breath hitched slightly

He didn’t realize he’d been holding tension in his chest until the sound broke it

He didn’t chat. Never did. Just listened. Watched.

It was a chill stream. Quiet talking. Drawing requests. Ambient sound.

By the end, his shoulders had slumped just slightly, like the stress had peeled itself off him for a moment.

But after it ended?

It came back. Worse

The next morning, Chance didn’t get out of bed for a while.

Spade wandered the apartment freely her claws making faint taps against the imported flooring, a soft rhythm Chance always liked. She knocked her toy over. He didn’t react.

The tablet with LemonBoy’s last stream sat replaying beside him, volume low. Just background. But Chance had his eyes closed, one hand pressed to his forehead like he was trying to slow the spin of his thoughts.

He skipped breakfast.

His suit stayed laid out on the dresser, untouched.

He’d stopped checking his work emails days ago. The only reason his father hadn’t shown up personally was because Chance still showed up to the company building once a week dressed immaculate, perfect posture, a signature scribbled on every scheduled paper. Then he’d leave.

He only did that so his father wouldn’t come looking.

It was easier this way. Cleaner

No one asked if he was okay. They just assumed rich boys with watch collections and personal stylists couldn’t break

They didn’t see him close the blinds as soon as he got home. Didn’t see how long he sat in silence after the stream ended. Didn’t know how long it took to coax himself into brushing his teeth, combing his hair, changing out of his suit pants just to feel human again.

Even Spade started sensing it

She’d hop onto the couch and nudge his arm with her head, heavier than most rabbits, fluffing her body over his lap like a blanket

He’d pet her. He always did. But slower now

Less energy. Less voice

One day, he didn’t speak at all

That night, the stream went live a little later than usual.

Chance was already sitting in the dark when it lit up.

The screen flickered

LemonBoy’s PNG glowed

The voice came through

“Hey. If you’re still here, thanks for waiting. It means a lot”

Chance pressed one knuckle against his lips

The voice was clear. Gentle. Present

But something inside him still ached

He knew this wasn’t real closeness. That the voice couldn’t see him. That no one here knew his name. Still… it felt better than the silence. Better than his father’s polite phone calls. Better than remembering how Itrapped’s voice sounded when he said it.

"Lucky, you."

The thought struck him like a slow knife again

He stood suddenly too fast. The blood rushed to his ears

Spade startled at the motion, ears back

Chance swore under his breath and crouched to calm her, smoothing her fur with an apology mumbled against her side

She was too big to hold, really. Not like the kind of rabbits you saw at stores. She was massive. Heavy. Regal. He’d flown to a private breeder overseas just to get her. Said it was because she “looked cool”

But truthfully? She looked like she wouldn’t leave

Spade pressed against his suit jacket, breathing calm

Chance looked at the tablet screen behind him

The PNG was still glowing

Still talking

Still there

He whispered, “Don’t leave again.”

But no one heard

And if LemonBoy had he wouldn’t know what it meant

Notes:

Chapter 4 will be Elliot angst centric again sorry, I swear the love story plot will start showing up in chapter 6 at most💔
This chapter is to show Chances growing unhealthy obsession that's only getting worse
Next chapter is Elliots VERY healthy life style??!?

Chapter 4: Routine

Notes:

I may or may NOT have lost my account for the past few weeks haha... Sorry y'all BUT also I can start posting every week again :3

(Elliot POV)

Morning began the same way it always did.

Not with an alarm, but with his phone’s battery nearly dead from playing the same 3-hour playlist of songs. His room was dim, save for the soft light leaking in from the window blinds. The apartment smelled faintly of Bloxy Cola and pizza.

He didn’t bother to stretch.
Just rolled over, reached for the headset on his nightstand, and slipped it on like armor.

His apartment was small one of those aging rentals above a corner store that hummed through the walls at night. He didn’t decorate much. A desk. A fan. A stack of sketchbooks on the floor. A LemonBoy plush he got as a joke from a viewer. It sat in the corner, still wrapped in plastic.

The place felt like him.

Not the version he showed to people not the sunshine-visored LemonBoy, not the cheerful Builder Brothers employee who always offered to cover someone’s shift. Just… Elliot. Stale air, old takeout containers, and drawn blinds. Quiet and lived-in.

And that was the problem.

Because his family kept asking to visit.

Mia 🐼
“We should drop by sometime!”
“Elliot, send the address already!”
“Don’t make me ask again 😤”

It wasn’t that he didn’t love them.
He did. In his own, tightly-contained way.

But love was easier to handle through screens and calls. Not real knocks at the door. Not real eyes seeing the cluttered apartment he’d quietly let rot while keeping up the image of a guy who had everything together.

He’d worked overtime for months, streaming in between shifts. Comforting strangers with words he wished someone had said to him when he was twelve, when he was the one staring down an empty hallway, wondering if grief was supposed to feel this still.

He thought if he stayed busy enough, no one would notice how alone he really was.
But they noticed.

They noticed enough to want to check.

And Elliot knew eventually they would come.
Especially Mia and his father.

And she couldn’t see this. Didn’t need to see.
She couldn’t see the life he’d folded himself into.
The clutter. The isolation. The plastic-wrapped plush in the corner.

This place felt like him but not the version he could let anyone see.

So he started looking for houses.

Something small. Cheap but clean. A neighborhood that looked lively enough to feel “normal” but quiet enough that no one would dig.
A place that looked like he’d been living there for years.

He called off work first, citing “health” reasons.

The manager at Builder Brothers was easy on him. “Take your time,” they said, which almost made it worse. He wasn’t sick. Not in a way anyone could see.

Next was the stream.

He sat at his desk for fifteen minutes before typing anything.
The LemonBoy PNG sat smiling beside the textbox like it always did. Nothing moved just the soft glow when it spoke, the faint flicker when the mic picked up sound.

But there was no sound.
No stream. Just a post:

"Taking a short break for personal reasons 🍋 I’ll keep you guys updated. Thank you for understanding."

He stared at it for a long time before hitting send.
It wasn’t a lie.
But it wasn’t the truth either.

The apartment was quieter once the boxes came out.

He packed in silence. Only the sound of tape pulling off the roll and a drawer closing here and there. He didn’t bother organizing things by room. He just filled box after box, like he was erasing evidence more than moving house.

He took down old post-it notes he’d once written for stream overlays
“You matter.”
“It’s okay to feel tired.”
“Stay for as long as you need.”

He didn’t throw them away.
Just folded them and put them in an envelope. Sealed. Unlabeled.

There wasn’t much to bring.
A laptop. His art tablet. His uniform. A few blankets. Some lemon-shaped coasters from a fan package he never opened.

The LemonBoy plush went in last.

He turned it over once before placing it into the box. It looked new, untouched, but that didn’t mean anything.

Everything looked fine when you didn’t stare long enough.

He left the lights on longer than usual that night.
Let them warm the room, as if the place would remember he was ever here.

His phone buzzed quietly beside the final box.

He picked it up.

A message from Mia:

Mia 🐼
“HIHIHIHI 😚 just wanted to say I love youu 🩷🩷 and I’m gonna come visit sooooon, okay?? I miss my big brother!! 🥹🎀 tell me if you want snacks I’ll bring some 😋💕💕!!”

Elliot didn’t reply.

He just stared at the message until the screen dimmed.
And then turned the light off.

He sat in the dark for a while.

Not sad.
Not angry.
Just… still.

Like someone watching the last few moments of a movie he didn’t ask to star in.

Outside, the city kept moving.
Delivery bikes zipped past. Neon signs blinked against glass windows. Somewhere, someone was probably watching one of his old VODs.

He turned toward the last box beside the door.

“All set,” he whispered to no one.

And tomorrow, he would start pretending again
That he had always lived there.
That his smile wasn’t a mask.
That comfort wasn’t something he only knew how to give to others.