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Player may have gotten sidetracked.
Only a teensy, tiny bit sidetracked.
The plan had been simple enough in his head: grab the bottled ship that took way too long to do so (as it was a certain genie's home), get the cookbook, all the ingredients needed for the cure, cure Griefer, snatch his callcard, then finally keep going with his quest for the Firebrand like the straight-laced, totally responsible and belonging-in-this-timeline hero he was supposed to be.
Simple enough, simple checklist, it's even indicated in his little sidequest index.
But instead? Well, where was this so-called great hero now?
Was he out in the scorching desert, valiantly fending off those damned oversized skunks with their ridiculous stink attacks, always lunging towards him the moment he made a step too fast— with the sand beneath his feet alerting the pests?
Or maybe locked in some epic and annoying battle with the scuttling, spiky devils that swarmed out from under the rocks sometimes paired up with those skunks?
Or hell, perhaps facing down the ugly, so super annoying vultures that circled overhead, waiting for him to lower his guard, peck his face or fly straight up and scratch its nasty claws to the hero?
Maybe—just maybe—he should’ve been fighting off pirates, blades flashing in the sun, already ruffled yellow hair whipping in the wind from under his cap, dodging bullets and letting out a punch or two between sword clashes to parry.
Or maybe he should’ve been traversing the endless dunes, heat biting at his heels, going deeper into the red sun temple, uncovering the kind of hidden passageways the hieroglyphs wrote prophecies about.
But no. Nope. None of that.
Because here he was.
Player was currently in Griefer’s crib, pinned down not by a monster or a curse, not some hieroglyph drawing came to life, but by the formerly-bubonic plant man himself.
The same man he was supposed to get the callcard from and then promptly go back to his adventure— Griefer throwing in some colorful words with how bad the cure tasted to be on their way here— asking him to hang out right after being cured a few moments earlier, then leading to this very moment.
Griefer had decided, apparently, that Player made for a perfectly acceptable pillow. Which was why the hero now found himself sprawled on the bed, half-smothered in a mess of leaves and vines, the weight of that annoyingly warm body draped across his chest.
It was ridiculous. It was impractical. It was everything not on his neat little hero checklist. It was
And yet.
The longer he lay there, the more Player found himself not exactly hating it. In fact, he realized with a sort of quiet dread that he might have been enjoying it. Griefer was warm—too warm, if he was being honest—but it wasn’t unbearable.
The faint smell of earth and greenery clung to the plant-man’s clothes, an aroma that seeped into the space between them and wrapped itself around Player like an old memory. It wasn’t just dirt, not just leaves or sap. It was something subtler, something familiar.
It reminded him of early mornings after a storm back in his own timeline, when the world felt scrubbed clean and the air hummed with that lingering freshness only rain could bring.
Back in his Bizville, when the streets were slick and shining, the storefront windows fogged, and he’d stand there just breathing in the scent of wet stone, asphalt, and life itself.
He never realized how much he relied on that familiarity until it was gone. Until he was ripped into this place—this broken shard of a timeline that looked like home but wasn’t— this was the past, to be built and innovated into what he's familiar with.
And now, lying here with Griefer, with that earthy scent clinging to his skin, Player felt the ache of it. The reminder of mornings that weren’t coming back. Of streets that belonged to a version of him he couldn’t touch anymore— at least for now until he finishes Shedletsky's quest.
The rustle of leaves caused by the man's every shift pressed into his awareness, like a damned parasitic plant trying to root himself there, right against him. It didn't help the fact Griefer was a semi(?) half--plant now, in which his analogy would be literal.
Player’s arms twitched uselessly at his sides, bandaged— a touch of coldness, greenery and a speck of numbness present as an impact from the SFOTH swords. He was caught between the urge to push Griefer off and the very wrong, treacherous, lingering thought of pulling him closer.
The damned hero's heart was doing a very poor job of pretending this was still just a “sidetrack.” —this felt less like a detour and more like the kind of distraction you secretly wanted to indulge yourself in.
“So, uh, care to scoot off or..?”
Player trailed off, raising an eyebrow, his voice muffled by the broad leaf currently tickling his cheek growing with some strands of Griefer's hair. He tried shifting, only to realize his arms were also pinned beneath a rather inconvenient weight. A sigh pushed out of him, half-exasperation, half-resignation.
He already knew what the answer would be. And sure enough, Griefer’s reply came with all the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t moved in hours, resting atop of the hero without a care with his vines poking at Player.
And to his audacity, Griefer let out a low, groaning sound that seemed to rattle from deep in his chest, exaggerated, drawled for dramatic effect.
“N0.”
Player blinked at the ceiling. Then looking back at the other man with a raised brow. “...That’s the twentieth time you’ve said that.”
“W3LL Y0U'R3 TH3 0N3 TH4T K33PS 4SK1NG.” Griefer’s voice was muffled, though the smirk in it was unmistakable. His vines shifted lazily, like they were making themselves more comfortable—one curling around Player’s wrist, another brushing against his shoulder.
“1F Y0U D1DN’T 4SK TH4T S4M3 QU3ST10N TW3NTY T1M3S, 1 W0ULDN'T H4D G1V3N Y0U TH3 S4M3 4NSW3R TW3NTY T1M3S, PUNK,” Griefer shot back, his words dripping with lazy finality.
Player groaned, throwing his head back against the pillow with exaggerated despair. “Yeah, because I don’t really enjoy being crushed to death by a guy who smells like fucking petrichor,” he muttered.
That earned him a sudden scrunch of Griefer’s face—nose wrinkled, brows knit, lips twisting, red fangs showing as though Player had just insulted his entire bloodline.
"TH3 H3LL'S P3TR1CH0R?” he demanded, his own confusion crackling through the syllables, giving the word an even more alien shape than it already had.
Player blinked at him, momentarily thrown. “...Seriously?”
“Y34H. S3R1OUSLY.”
The look Griefer gave him was so earnest, so unfeigned, it cracked through Player’s usual defenses. He stifled a laugh, shaking his head with disbelief. He was pretty sure petrichor was already a thing in this timeline, so it didn't hurt explaining.
“It’s… ugh, it’s the smell of rain hitting dry earth, alright? That, like—fresh, damp, earthy scent after a storm. That’s petrichor.”
Griefer tilted his head, crimson eyes with hints of green narrowing slightly in thought. Then speaking in accusafton.
“...S0 Y0U'R3 S4Y1NG 1 SM3LL L1K3 D1RT.”
Player's head immediately shot up, or as much as he could with Griefer's weight pinning him down, accidentally bumping foreheads with the other man—and jabbed a finger toward him.
“No! That’s not—ugh, don’t twist it. It’s not dirt-dirt. It’s—poetic dirt! Pleasant dirt! Like, you know—nature-y and leaves and stuff..”
His words trailed, fumbling over themselves as heat bloomed across his cheeks again. Realizing how bad he worded it because then he'd have to admit he liked the smell of petrichor. And liking the smell of petrichor would mean he liked Griefer's smell.
Griefer’s smirk returned full force, sharp and knowing. “S0 Y0U L1K3 TH3 W4Y 1 SM3LL, 1S TH4T 1T, PUNK?"
Player froze. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
“Dude, I did not say that!”
“Y0U D1D.”
“I did not!”
“Y0U JUST G4V3 4 WH0L3 D3F1N1T10N 0F WH4T Y0U TH1NK 1 SM3LL L1K3." Griefer points out, his smirk turning into a shit eating grin to emphasize his next words. "...P03T1C D1RT, 3H?"
Player buried his face in his free hand with a groan, glaring at the plant-man currently atop of him.
"This is exactly why I should’ve left you as a plant.”
But even as he said it, he could hear the laughter Griefer was stifling—the kind of sound that vibrated low in his chest, warmer than Player wanted to admit. And despite himself, he felt his lips twitch. Letting out a sigh instead.
“I had a whole heroic quest to get through this demo, you know. Bottle, cure, Firebrand, go back to Shedletsky—ring a bell?”
“N4H. 1 DON’T TH1NK S0.”
Player rolled his eyes, already priming a comeback, something sharp enough to jab but not too mean, the way he usually did when the banter reached its peak. The rhythm of it was second nature: Griefer pushed, he pushed back, and somewhere in the middle, the tension cracked into laughter. The words lined up in his head, sharp-edged and ready, balanced on the tip of his tongue.
He opened his mouth—
And stalled.
The rhythm faltered. The retort fizzled out like witch brew cooling too fast, collapsing into nothing before it even left his lips. What should have been effortless suddenly felt impossible, the syllables dissolving into static before he could grasp them. He sat there, caught mid-breath, mid-thought, as if his body itself had forgotten the next step.
Maybe it was the way Griefer was sprawled across him, heavier than he looked but not unwelcome, each ounce of weight sinking Player further into the mattress. The pressure wasn’t suffocating—it was grounding, anchoring him in place in a way that stole the fight from his limbs.
Maybe it was the vines. The steady thrum of them shifting against his sides, brushing here and there in lazy arcs, not constricting, not binding—just present. Just existing, alive and aware, curling with the kind of thoughtless familiarity that made his skin prickle.
Or maybe it was the look. The one in Griefer’s eyes, steady and unhurried, utterly unbothered, as though nothing outside these walls mattered. That look cut through everything else—banter, noise, excuses—and left Player with the unbearable awareness that he was being seen.
Whatever it was, it snared him. Wrapped around his chest, tightened in his lungs, froze the words in his throat before he could even try to wrestle them free. His pulse betrayed him, hammering in his neck and wrists, a steady thunder that made him feel exposed, as if Griefer could hear every uneven beat. His breath hitched, too shallow, too loud in the silence. His hand twitched at his side, unsure if it wanted to push away or reach closer.
All he could manage was a single breath that didn’t quite sound like laughter, thin and fragile and breaking halfway through.
The air thickened around them, stretched taut with a silence that wasn’t empty at all. It had weight, texture, the kind of silence that crackled, electric and alive, a silence that demanded notice.
And Player, against every instinct he’d sharpened to survive, let himself fall into it.
“PFFFT. D0N’T T3LL M3 Y0U'R3 R3GR3TT1NG G3TT1NG MY C4LLC4RD N0W, H3R0?”
Griefer’s grin stretched wide, fangs flashing as he threw it out there like bait, expecting Player to bite, to snap back with some quip about vines or bed-hogging.
That was how their game worked—push and pull, tease and retort, both of them circling the edge without ever tipping over. The rhythm was familiar, well-worn, something Player could usually slip into without thinking.
His lips twitched, breath caught on the edge of a laugh, shoulders tensing as though he were about to fire back. The words lined up, sharp and easy—except they refused to leave. Hung heavy in his throat, useless.
The silence stretched, longer than it should have, until even his own heartbeat sounded too loud in his ears.
And then, instead of a joke, instead of a jab, the words that slipped out next were low and muttered. The second they left his mouth he wished he could drag them back down his throat.
“It’s not just about getting your callcard, idiot.”
Griefer blinked, and that was all it took for Player to notice it. A tiny hitch, a single stutter in the easy rhythm of that smirk. It faltered—not vanished, not gone completely—but wavered just enough for Player to see the space beneath it.
It was barely a second, maybe less, but Player caught it. Of course he caught it. He’d been staring too long, studying the curve of that stupid grin for hours now, memorizing its sharp edges like he needed them to breathe. To watch it slip, even just for a heartbeat, made the air in his chest lock tighter than the way it does everytime an enemy lands an attack right to his abdomen.
The room quieted around them, the playful rhythm dissolving into something slower, something that made Player too aware of how close they were.
He tried to scrape together any sorts of strings composed of words, anything to nudge the moment back where it had been seconds ago—but his chest felt tight, his thoughts not thinking how he wants them to think, his tongue more useless than ever.
And suddenly the space between them felt smaller than it had any right to be.
Griefer's vines shifted lazily across Player’s sides, brushing against fabric and skin in a way that felt casual—too casual, almost forced.
Somewhere between the exchange and the sound of that laugh still lingering in the air, the banter already slipped into something else. Something quieter. Better(?). He realized Griefer hadn’t moved off him, hadn’t loosened his hold, and he didn’t feel the need to shove him away. They made eye contact,
And Griefer's eyes gave him away.
His gaze, usually dripping with mischief, with the smug certainty of a man who thinks he's the shit didn’t quite hold that same careless luster now.
They sharpened instead, honed in on Player with a kind of weight that was impossible to shrug off. Searching. Caught between suspicion and something else Player couldn’t name, something that made his stomach twist in knots. Griefer moved slow, as if to mask the crack in his usual bravado with motion.
And Player felt it.
Felt the shift crawl across his skin like static, prickling, undeniable.
His pulse tripped, ran and did cartwheels right in his throat, his mouth gone drier than the desert he'sesuppoosed to be traversing. He couldn’t look away—not when he was the one who had shattered first the moment Griefer stared at him like that.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward; it had weight, as if it carried meaning Player didn’t dare acknowledge out loud. Although it should've been a bit weird to go from teasing banter to just silence, it wasnt at all. His throat worked around words that never left. Hesitation brewing up and tying his tongue.
The air was warm. Not stifling, not suffocating—just warm enough that Player became acutely aware of every small detail. The faint rustle of leaves when Griefer’s chest rose and fell.He tried to focus on anything else at all but nothing helped as he was currently in Griefer’s room— everything practically screaming the other man's presence with Griefer right on top of him.
The steady, grounding weight of the fanged robloxian sprawled across him. The scent of earth clinging to his clothes from Griefer's own made his head stir and heat creep up his face. He could see pink dusting the other man's cheeks from his peripherals, and the hero was pretty sure he had his fair share of pink dust on his cheeks too.
Player’s eyes drifted to the ceiling, though his attention was anywhere but there. His pulse had long since betrayed him, beating faster than he’d like, though there was no battle here. No enemies. No new quests demanding his immediate attention as his main one is currently on standby— his character index flickering, but he ignores it for now, overshadowed by the presence right on him.
Griefer shifted a little, his head pressing more firmly against him. Slotting a hand to rest on the side of Player's waist.
Totally not a deliberate gesture—more of... Instinct than intention. Which didn't make it better— but the hero would rather not put his mind on the implications of it too much.
Maybe it was Griefer's half-plant side acting up as Player technically is the holder of the Venomshank, or maybe not. Either way, whatever the reason was?, It rooted Player in place all the same, like the vines curling faintly around his wrist.
And it felt belonging.
So much that neither of them spoke.
Neither needed to.
Player let the quiet stretch on, realizing how strange it felt to not want to break it.
Strange,
but not unpleasant.
His usual excuses—checklists, quests, responsibilities— all seemed so far away now, as though they belonged to another segment of another demo entirely. The same way everything seemed so far away when he was within his mindscape, giving himself a DIY lobotomy by killing off all his emotions.
Everything else was a blur.
Right now, there was only the steady rhythm of another heartbeat pressed close to his own.
Not just his Hatred's pulse aligning with his own— churning his gut and making his vision flash red with every beat, knocking him off his feet everytime he was a few seconds off from using the Ghost potion and knocking himself to his feet. No, this one was albeitly more tolerable.
Player found himself listening again—counting heartbeats, the rustle of leaves, the way Griefer’s breath slowed as if he might actually be also listening in Player's own.
For a moment, he thought that was it. That maybe they’d just stay like this, quiet and still, beautifully so until the world barged in again.
But Griefer decided to break the silence. Voice coming low and drawn out, like he was rolling the words around on his pierced tongue to see how they’d taste in the open air.
“Y0U KN0W.…”
A faint crease tugged at the white-haired man's brow that wasnt paired with a scowl of indignation but rather one of thought— an expression that didn’t quite suit him, or maybe it was only because player hadn't seen that look on Griefer's face at all.
For a heartbeat, Griefer looked as though he might actually let something real slip free—something unguarded. But of course, just as quickly, the other man wrestled it back into the crooked and very much Griefer-like expression Player knew too well: that cocky, sharp-edged fanged smirk, but Griefer didn't quite make it enough to hide the flicker of something raw beneath it.
The hero would be lying if he said he didn't hold his breath watching his face like a mesmerized fool.
He braced himself for something he wasn’t exactly sure what.
A confession?
A cutting joke?
Something heavy and dangerous, the kind of words you couldn’t take back once they were out?
Instead;
“Y0U’R3 R34LLY W31RD.”
Player snapped out of his mesmerized stupor, dumbfounded by his words. Rightfully so, because Griefer, with audacity, without hesitation, without shame at all— tilted his head, vines continuously shifting languidly around him, and stared with thhe same fanged smirk thats somehow more soft than usual.
Unabashed. Unapologetic. A stare oh so heavy as if Player was a relic to be seen as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. As if Player was a loot with a 0.016% drop rate Griefer finds mid-match during his videogame grinds.
And Player felt pinned by it. He could practically feel those crimson eyes swirling with now bits of green hooking into him the way the SFOTH swords whispered into his very mind, rattling his bones, making himself not be able to think straight.
Except this wasn’t like the swords. There was no hunger in that gaze. No malice. No gnawing compulsion.
This was different.
Griefer looked at him like he was something carved from light and shadow both, like he was a puzzle worth unraveling, something worthwhile— something worth keeping. As though Player were one of the legendary swords themselves all to be tucked away, not to be wielded for battle but used for guidance, protection, and to be protected by a sword guardian. Griefer looked at him as if he was not only in it for the love of the game.
Player’s throat went dry. His body betrayed him, heat climbing his neck, pooling at the tips of his ears. He forced himself to swallow, but it didn’t help—the lump in his throat refused to budge.
Griefer beat him to it.
“1 TR13D T0 K1LL Y0U 4TL34ST THR33 T1M3S,” he said suddenly, his voice lower than before, quieter, the hesitation apparent, pulling it like static between his words. “4ND Y3T Y0U ST1LL M4D3 Y0UR W4Y T0 CUR3 M3.”
The words hung in the air like a weight. A cherry on top of everything Player has to go through (and had gone through) to finally relish in comfort and that sweet sweet rest.
He looked again, and for once, there was no smirk to soften them, no exaggerated drawl to turn Griefer's current look into nothing more but a jest. The white haired man's gaze wavered, just slightly, red-green eyes flicking aside as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to keep staring when the truth spilled out raw like that.
The (half) plant man let out a breath—half a sigh, half something closer to surrender.
“…TH4NK Y0U....”
The sound of it knocked the wind from Player’s chest. The words weren't mocking, it wasn’t reluctant, because , it wasn’t even laced with the smugness that usually carried every word out of Griefer’s mouth. It was just—honest.
The hero stared, blinking once, twice, as if the meaning would change or the letters would rearrange itself into something easier to handle. Hell, he'd might as well take "Y0U, TH4NK." as Griefer's actual answer even if it didn't make sense both grammatically and with the context of the conversation they're currently in.
Except it didn’t change nor rearrange itself at all, obviously.
The quiet stretched, thick and fragile all at once. Glass canon would've been a nice word to describe it but he didn't want to assume the silence had that much strong of an impact on Griefer's point of view.
Player could hear the faint creak of the bed beneath them, the rustle of leaves as Griefer shifted, the faint pulse of their heartbeats overlapping in the stillness. For reasons unknown, the hero couldn’t explain the way his chest tightened.
Not like fear, not like HATRED.
Something else.
Something harder to shake off.
He wanted to say something back—to tell Griefer it hadn’t been about debts or obligations, that it wasn’t just another quest to check off—but the words tangled on his tongue because it was the case.
So instead, his hand moved before his mouth could.
A small, hesitant shift. Scarred fingers, his hand still having fingerless gloves brushing up against Griefer’s arm, to his shoulder, because he didn't want to risk resting it nor letting them wander to the other man's neck.
The corner of Griefer’s mouth twitched upward, less of a smirk and more of something dangerously close to a smile, Player pretended not to notice. Because then it'll stir something he didn't want to indulge himself too deep into. It was blatantly obvious that Griefer knew what was going on in his mind.
“..'M N0T 4SK1NG Y0U T0 S4Y 4NYTH1NG 4BOUT TH4T, PUNK.” His vines curled closer, not tight but steady. Even fixing some of the creases on Player's jacket.
“JUST.. S4Y1NG. F0R TH3 R3C0RD."
Player exhaled, the sound shaky in a way he hoped went unnoticed. His checklist—character index flickering and demanding him to pay attention to his quests, the Firebrand—but they felt like distant noise compared to the weight of that quiet confession(?) and the other man pressed so close to him.
And though his mouth refused to form the words, his hands betrayed him yet again, inching just slightly—hesitant, almost clumsy— until it passed by Griefer's neck, and instead brushing against Griefer’s cheek. A touch light enough to be excused as nothing. But both of them knew there was an underlying meaning that came along with it because of the way he pressed the palm of his hand closer.
The warmth that met Player's cold fingers startled him. He expected roughness, the leafy scrape of a plant-like texture against his fingertips that he grew somewhat accustomed to due to Griefer's vines on him for the past few minutes now. But instead there was softness—warm skin beneath the greenery, the faint hum of life thrumming through veins just beneath the surface.
It was a reminder that Griefer wasn’t just a plant-man to be used as a meatshield for his battles, Griefer wasn't just a walking mess of vines and and even more leaves thats all bark with a C00L typing quirk.
Griefer was alive, half plant— but alive within his reach— huddled up on top of him.
Griefer wasn't just another Robloxian from a timeline that wasn't his own to leave right after completing a quest from an admin. Griefer was his own person too, and he was starting to grow on the hero, the realization of it made Player’s chest ache.
After their last battle, the bubonic plant looked like it had wilted down. He was sure it was about to die, and he only did cure Griefer just to get his callcard and because he felt a tad bit bad for the mayor— which doesn't make it any better as he didn't cure Griefer simply to cure him.
Player tried to retreat his hand, to pass it off as an accident, but the movement stalled halfway, his fingers hovering against Griefer’s cheek as though something inside him refused to let go. Tracing the vines trailing from the leaves covering the right side of the other man's eye.
The hero's pulse raced, practically being able to hear his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears, a storm of contradictions— he should pull back. And yet something within him whispered, demanding he doesn't put any distance between them at all.
Griefer tilted ever so slightly into the touch. Not enough to be obvious, but enough for Player to feel it. Enough to confirm it wasn’t one-sided. His heart betrayed him just as badly as his hand had.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The blonde swallowed hard, adam's apple bobbing, throat tight. He told himself he should say something, to make a joke, toss out a bait, anything to break the heavy stillness that had settled over them.
But nothing came. Words felt clumsy compared to whatever it was that lingered in the atmosphere between them.
He let yet another silence stretch. He let it linger. He let himself memorize this moment: the faint rustle when Griefer shifted, the steady warmth pressed into his side, and atop of himself, the way their breaths seemed to find a rhythm together without either of them trying.
And damn it, Player realized he didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to ruin this fragile, stolen peace by pretending it was meaningless.
Player’s hand continued lingering against Griefer’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly over warm skin. And Griefer was just letting him. He told himself he should pull back, that this was already far too much, that he shouldnt indulge after the line, but his body betrayed him, staying put as though it had found something it couldn’t let go of.
Then Griefer shifted.
No, wait—
Griefer leaned in.
The movement was slow, deliberate, closing the already thin space between them. Player’s breath caught instantly, his chest tightening as heat climbed his neck. Every thought fled at once, leaving behind a dizzying rush—was this it?
Was Griefer actually going to—?
His pulse was a wild, frantic drum in his ears, drowning out everything else.
His palms tingled, restless, caught between the urge to grab on, to pull Griefer the rest of the way, and the fear of what that would mean if he did. The seconds dragged, thick and heavy, stretching into something unbearable.
He could feel it—Griefer’s breath ghosting against his skin, the closeness that bordered on suffocating but not enough, never enough.
His mind twisted itself into knots, torn between disbelief and reckless hope.
This was stupid. It had to be. Griefer didn’t look at him like that. Didn’t want him like that. And yet—here they were, so close Player could count the faint flecks of green in Griefer’s formerly-otherwise dark red eyes, so close the warmth radiating off his body made Player’s stomach flip over itself and do a fatality cutscene.
Every muscle tensed, caught in the limbo between anticipation and dread. Player's throat worked around a lump he couldn’t swallow, his lips parting just slightly, betraying him, ready to meet what might never come.
He was sure feeling a lot of chest pains as his chest ached for the nth time with the weight of Griefer's action for the past few minutes, the fragile, dangerous wanting that had been gnawing at him longer than he took finishing off a battle.
The world narrowed, pressed down to the thinnest thread stretched between them—waiting, trembling, burning—
And then it didn’t come.
The absence hit like a crack through glass, the breath he’d been holding wrenched out of him too fast, shaky, uneven, like his own body was mocking him for expecting more.
His heart stuttered, stumbling over itself, caught somewhere between relief and disappointment, the two clashing so violently he felt almost as dizzy, as exhausted as he does everytime the effects of the ghost potion wears off in fights.
Instead, there was only a shift in weight, the faint rustle of leaves and those stupid vines again, shortly followed then by the warmth of Griefer leaning further into his palm. Pressing the side of his face more firmly against Player’s hand, nestling there like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Not his mouth. Just that quiet, grounding touch of his face to the hero's palm as if this—the stillness, the contact, the unspoken trust—was enough for him.
Player blinked, his breath catching in the hollow of his chest. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it, waiting, ready to be caught in the momentum of something bigger. His throat worked around the lump forming there, a tight knot that refused to budge.
It wasn't there because of 'rejection' with the way griefer didn't actually lean in to kiss him. Because it was worse, somehow—it was the ache of yearning, the hollow pang that came with recognizing too late what he had been holding out for. What he had been hoping, gnawing, clawing his cold, scarred fingers at the bedsheets for.
A kiss.
Swords, he wanted the damn kiss.
Player wanted it so badly his body had already betrayed him—leaning forward, drawn in by gravity or longing or something dangerously in between.
His lips tingled with anticipation, his nerves thrummed like struck wires beneath his skin, every beat of his heart screaming closer before his mind could catch up. He could almost feel it—the warmth of Griefer’s mouth, the taste of something he wasn’t sure he deserved.
And now, with nothing but the weight of Griefer’s cheek pressed into his palm, the absence of it burned hotter than he’d prepared for. It wasn’t rejection. It wasn’t even avoidance. It was just… not that. And somehow, that was worse.
His chest ached, expanding too tight with every shallow, unsteady breath, pressing hard against a truth he wasn’t sure he could stand to look at.
He wanted Griefer in a way that went far deeper than banter and grudges, bad jabs, jokes, and whatever this was. He wanted him in a way that made his stomach twist and his thoughts blur and his carefully built walls crack apart like an enemy's shield after a few too many hits from Player's steel sword.
Now that he’d tasted the disappointment of not getting it—of feeling the almost and being denied the actual—the wanting only grew sharper.
It gnawed at the edges of him, raw and restless, like a hunger that wouldn’t be quieted, not by logic or shame or the thousand reasons he’d told himself this wasn’t supposed to happen.
And the worst part? The touch, as simple as it was, still felt good.
Too good. The press of Griefer’s cheek against his hand was grounding in its steadiness, tender in a way that felt uncharacteristically intimate. It unraveled him slowly, breath by breath, making his pulse stutter and his thoughts scatter all over the place, messier than the vines sprawled everywhere from the other man himself.
If something this small could undo him like that… he wasn’t sure what a kiss would do— Which only made the yearning worse, feeding it, sharpening it, until all he could think about was the closeness he didn’t have yet.
The closeness he doesn't deserve just yet.
The weight of that truth crashed down on him in silence. Griefer wasn’t kissing him. He wasn’t even trying. But the simple act of leaning into his touch, the easy trust of it, was enough to unravel Player in a different way. Enough to make him see that somewhere between their previous battles and banter, something had shifted inside him.
He cared. More than he’d let himself admit. More than he was ready to say aloud. And now, sitting there with Griefer’s cheek warm against his hand, the absence of that kiss felt louder than words.
Player's fingers twitched against Griefer’s skin, betraying him before his mind could catch up. He told himself it was nothing—a reflex, a slip—but the warmth seeping into his hand made it impossible to dismiss so easily.
His chest tightened in a way he didn’t like, a way he wasn’t used to. Not the sharp edge of Hatred gnawing at him, not the cold clarity of battle. This was… gentler. Dangerous, because it left him exposed. In the best way possible.
He tried to summon thoughts of his checklist, the neat order of his quests: bottle, cure, Firebrand, to try and get himself to pull away and not go on with whatever this was escalating into. But all his excuses felt flimsy, paper-thin. They crumbled under the weight of the moment, under the pressure of Griefer leaning into him so naturally.
His priorities blurred until all that remained was the warmth against his palm, the faint rasp of breath, and the realization that he didn’t want to pull away.
The silence pressed close, thicker than he liked, but he couldn’t bring himself to break it.
His heroic facade—the shield he always had ready, always equipped like a damn starter card remained lodged behind his flesh. Not wanting to get out of his skin. He was left with nothing but the steady, unyielding truth searing inside him, Player wanted to stay like this. He wanted Griefer closer.
Player's hand was trembling. Not enough for most to notice, but Griefer felt it clearly where their skin met. The hero wasn’t the kind to show weakness lightly—he’d sooner laugh in the face of pain or crack a joke in front of his enemies followed up by somehow adapting into their moveset and taking the win than to admit vulnerability and loss.
And yet here it was, humming through his fingertips, betraying him in a way words never could.
Griefer should’ve made a joke of it. Should’ve curled his lip and turned the whole thing into another round of banter, back and forth mockery.
The words never came.
He didn’t want to chase Player off with laughter or fangs. He wanted—against his better judgment—to keep this. To see how long the hero would let him stay pressed this close. So he leaned in even more, slow and deliberate, letting the warmth of Player’s hand anchor him. It felt strange, terrifying even, to let himself melt into a touch rather than recoil from it.
Griefer could feel the thud of Player’s heart, uneven. And something inside him twisted at the thought that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the only one who wanted this nearness. Drawn into the hero's presence the same way he was with the Venomshank— If not more.
The vines around him adjusted, shifting against his body, draping around him like loose threads, curling in quiet patterns and tracing shapes that felt less like a trap and more like an embrace.
Player's breath caught. This was choice. This was Griefer keeping him there—not out of malice or whatever—but because he wanted him there. The realization was a sharp ache, and Player didn’t know what to do with it.
His pulse hammered wildly, too loud in his ears, too loud in his chest. He could smell the faint mix of soil and witches brew clinging to Griefer, sharp but not unpleasant, tapping into his very soul him in a way that made him dizzy. He wanted to tell himself it was nothing, that it was just proximity, exhaustion, coincidence. The swords messing with his head. But the lie crumbled too easily.
When Griefer dared to peek at the hero’s face, it nearly stole his breath. Player wasn’t his usual mischievous grin when facing off foes or gritting his teeth the way he always did when things grew too close for comfort— may it be an attack he barely dodge or a punch he barely parried.
The hero wasn’t wearing that brittle mask of his. Player's gaze lingered, heavy, fixed on him in a way that made Griefer’s chest ache.
The plant-man fought he urge to smirk, to break the tension with words that would cheapen it. Instead, Griefer let himself stay still, breathing in the closeness.
The warmth of Griefer’s skin against his palm spread through him, chasing away the chill of doubt he never let anyone see. It burrowed deep, curling in the spaces between his ribs until it hurt.
He should’ve let go. He should’ve laughed it off. He should’ve shoved Griefer away with some careless remark and pretended the moment never happened.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he stared. Memorized. The flicker of light in Griefer’s lashes. The faint crease by his mouth that spoke of words unspoken. The way his presence filled the room without smothering him, like air he couldn’t help but breathe.
Player swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat stayed. He wanted—swords, he wanted something more. A kiss, maybe. The thought was wild, dangerous, unthinkable. Yet it hovered there, pulsing at the edge of his mind with every second Griefer stayed close.
He tried to tell himself it was fine. That this was enough. That Griefer’s weight on him, the heat of his skin, the lazy thrum of vines curled around his sides, the press of his cheek into his palm—it should’ve been enough.
But it wasn’t.
Every excuse Player reached for crumbled before he could even finish the thought. He told himself it was stupid, that kissing Griefer was the last thing he should be thinking about in this mess of a timeline.
His hand stayed, he couldnt let go. His pulse thundered, and his heart whispered what his lips refused to. His body betrayed him, leaning forward, slowly closing the distance until every inch nearer felt like a confession. Until they were face to face. Griefers hand on his waist tightened ever so slightly.
Griefer didn’t pull away. Didn’t tease him. Didn’t even smirk. He just stayed there, vines draped like a lazy net, his head tilted faintly into Player’s palm. Waiting.
And that waiting was unbearable.
He told himself it didn’t mean anything.
Except it did.
His body wouldn’t let him lie. The way his lips still tingled, like they’d already been touched. The way his chest tightened, stretching too tight, as if bracing for something that wasn’t coming.
The way his hand, traitorous and trembling, wanted to pull Griefer closer, wanted to force the space between them into nothing.
He wanted that kiss with a hunger that scared him. And now that he’d realized it, there was no undoing it. No unknowing.
The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was thick, humming, filled with everything Player couldn’t say out loud. And the more he sat in it, the more he felt the ache bloom, spreading slow and unbearable through his chest.
Swords, he wanted him.
Wanted him so badly it hurt.
Player’s heart slammed against his ribs, loud enough to drown out every excuse he might’ve thrown up. He wanted to say it didn’t mean anything, that this was a fluke, that he’d blame the atmosphere, exhaustion the swords or whatever later. But none of those lies felt sharp enough to cut through the truth blooming in his chest.
Before his (already supposedly dead) fear could strangle him, before he could retreat into deflections and bravado—
Player leaned in to close the final distance instead, closing his eyes to savor the feeling.
The kiss wasn’t clean. Not practiced, not perfect. His lips caught awkwardly against Griefer’s at first, a brush too clumsy, too rushed, slow and sloppy like he was terrified of getting bitten by the man he was kissing if he moved wrong.
But once it landed—once the heat of it seared through him—the hero leaned in harder, steadier, his hand holding Griefer’s cheek and then gently cupping his face as he anchors himself to the only thing that mattered in that moment.
Griefer stilled.
The change was immediate, sharp enough to lance through the haze of heat Player had drowned himself in. His lips went slack against his, not pushing forward, not pulling away—just frozen. A pause that lasted longer than it should have, long enough for doubt to claw its way into Player’s chest.
He could feel it—the way Griefer’s breath caught, the tiny hitch of surprise vibrating through his jaw. His vines, once draped loosely across Player’s side, gave a faint twitch, curling in half-formed hesitation. Griefer’s whole body seemed caught between instinct and indecision, like he hadn’t expected this, hadn’t dared even imagine it.
And that look. Swords, that look.
Up close, Player could see his eyes go wide, pupils flaring, lips parted like he wanted to speak but couldn’t get the words out. It wasn’t rejection—not outright—but it wasn’t the return Player had been aching for, either.
A cold spike of fear drove itself through him and his heart plummeted, dragging his stomach with it. Already his hand twitched where it cupped Griefer’s cheek, his thumb brushing once before retreating as if scorched. His body screamed to pull away, to shove this moment into a box, seal it, pretend it never happened.
And so, with his chest caving in, Player let himself retreat.
Slowly, carefully, lips unlatching, dragging against Griefer’s mouth as he drew back. The world sharpened unbearably in the gap opening between them—the loss of warmth immediate, gutting. A thin, glistening string of saliva stretched between them before breaking, catching the faintest glimmer of light.
Player wanted to say something, anything, but his throat locked tight. His gaze dropped, shame curdling hot in his chest, already bracing for the sting of rejection.
Cringing internally at himself, because he clearly wasn't thinking straight. The hero gulped down his pride and blurted out a quick "Look— I'm so sorry-" only for Griefer to move, cutting him off.
No words. No warning.
Griefer let out a soft groan, annoyed by the hero pulling away and then leaned forward, closing the distance with a certainty that knocked the breath clean out of Player’s lungs. The kiss landed rougher than before, not slow, not sloppy as Griefer was the one that initiated the kiss—answering fire with fire. Where Player had faltered, pulling back in doubt; Griefer took it upon himself to be the one to lean forward, catching his lips in a seal.
Player's eyes widened— shock spilling into relief so violent it almost hurt. Blue eyes fluttered shut the next, his hand instinctively finding Griefer’s jaw again, clutching like he’d drown if he let go. The warmth returned, doubled, flooding his body in dizzying waves.
He tasted warmth, softness and the faintest bitterness of witch brew on Griefer’s lips, and instead of pulling back, he chased it. His pulse roaring like fire. Time blurred. The kiss stretched, stumbled, deepened in small bursts, broken only by sharp breaths against each other’s mouths.
They both pulled away for air, only to go back kissing right after each took their respective breath. Griefer prodded Player's mouth with his tongue the next.
Slow, deliberate, answering him with a gentleness that made Player’s knees weak. The world seemed to tilt, narrow, until there was nothing but this—the brush of lips, the shared breath, the warmth of being wanted in return.
The kiss deepened with every heartbeat, gathering urgency like a storm rolling in. What began as soft, tentative brushes of mouths became something sharper, hungrier—Player pressing forward, Griefer meeting him halfway, their rhythm stumbling and catching but never breaking.
"34SY, PUNK,"
Griefer’s tongue teased, then dipped right in, slipping against his in slow, deliberate strokes that sent sparks flaring through Player’s chest. The gentleness was still there, but threaded now with something hotter, something that tugged at the edges of whatever casual-thing they had going on. He could feel Griefer's tongue piercing.
Player responded in kind, fingers curling into the tangled mess of Griefer’s hair, letting his and Griefer's cap fall down to the side of the bed, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left to question. The blonde's body arched with the momentum, leaning into the heat, the press, the sheer overwhelming presence of him.
The air between them burned. When they pulled apart for the briefest inhale, it was ragged, messy, desperate—and before either could steady, this time it was the hero that dove back in, his mouth crashing the white-haired man's as though breath itself was secondary to this.
Griefer’s vines stirred restlessly across the sheets, coiling tighter around Player’s waist, his grip not binding but anchoring, instinctive in their need to keep him close. And Player let them, let himself sink into it, surrendering to the grip, the heat, the sharp ache of being wanted this much.
His thoughts blurred, breaking down into sensation—the wet glide of tongues, the sudden jolt of cool metal as Griefer’s piercing slid against his tongue. The contrast making him shiver followed up by the scraping of teeth, deliberate enough to leave him breathless, followed by a low groan that vibrated in Griefer’s throat and spilled into the kiss, reverberating against Player’s lips.
It was too much and not enough all at once. Each brush, each shift, stretched the seconds into something unbearably fragile, as if the moment itself might shatter if he pulled away too soon.
His chest ached, not from lack of air, but from the rawness of it—the sheer force of feeling that had him clinging closer, desperate to hold onto it before it slipped away.
It was reckless. Dangerous. The kind of thing that could topple every wall he’d spent the last few months in this timeline building.
And Player couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when Griefer kissed him like this.
Not when it felt like everything he hadn’t let himself hope for was finally here, burning against his mouth.
Player’s chest ached, too full, too tight, like his body didn’t know how to hold everything surging through him. Relief. Hunger. Fear. And something softer, more dangerous than all of it.
He broke away only when breathing once again became impossible, their foreheads brushing, strands of hair sticking where sweat clung. His voice came out rough, a whisper cracked down the middle.
He broke away only when breathing once again became impossible, their foreheads brushing, strands of hair sticking where sweat clung. His chest heaved, lungs raw, heart clawing its way up his throat. His voice came out rough, a whisper cracked down the middle.
“…Holy shit.”
But he didn’t let go. Couldn’t. His hand still cradled Griefer’s cheek, thumb twitching like it wasn’t sure whether to retreat or dig deeper into the warmth there.
Griefer’s laugh came low, still rough around the edges of his own breathing. "W3 JUST K1SS3D F0R 4TL34ST THR33 M1NUT3S STR41GHT 4ND TH3 F1RST TH1NG Y0U S4Y W4S 'H0LY SH1T'?"
Player’s mouth opened, ready to snap something back, something sharp and clever to pull the spotlight off his own racing pulse. But nothing came. His brain sputtered, words stalling at the tip of his previously oh-so-useless tongue./p>
He tried again. "Yeah, well—" His voice cracked, broke into a half-cough. Heat rushed to his ears, and he forced a shaky laugh to patch it up. "You taste like.. Like dirt and metal.
The words tangled in his mouth, hollow even to his own ears. He grimaced, fumbling, and the usual rhythm of their banter refused to click back into place. He couldn’t chase the words fast enough, couldn’t pretend his chest wasn’t still hammering, couldn’t hide how wrecked the kiss had left him.
Griefer tilted his head, vines twitching faintly against Player’s side as if amused by his struggle. "D1RT?" His grin was fanged but softer than usual, eyes scanning his face with that same unbearable honesty from before.
"1 M34N, M3T4L CH3CKS 0UT, BUT D1RT? TH4T'S WH4T Y0U G0T?"
Player squeezed his eyes shut for a second, wishing the floor would swallow him whole. His brain still looped the same sensation—Griefer’s lips, the press of his tongue, the raw heat—and it drowned out everything else.
“Shut up,” he muttered, but it came out half-breathless, half-pleading, lacking any real bite. His banter was gone, stripped down to bare nerves, and for once, he had no armor to hide behind.
Griefer chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm, vibrating where his chest pressed against Player’s.
“Y0U’R3 R34LLY B4D 4T TH1S, Y0U KN0W.”
"Oh really?”
“Y34H. R34LLY. Y0U KN0W, K1SS1NG. PRET3ND1NG Y0U’R3 N0T BL0WN T0 H3LL 0V3R 4 L1TTL3 K1SS 1S K1ND4 FUNNY.”
Player groaned, the sound low and half-hearted as he let his head sink back against the pillow. At least their banter didn’t change. That was something—something familiar to cling to when everything else felt like it was quietly shifting under his feet.
Griefer didn’t move away, didn’t shift the weight of his body sprawled across him. If anything, he seemed to melt deeper into the space they shared, vines loosening their hold only to curl lazily across the sheets. A few refused to leave entirely, still draped over Player’s waist and shoulders like they were too lazy—or too content—to bother letting go.
Player told himself he should shove him off. Really, he should. But the thought scattered as quickly as it came, dissolving into nothing against the steady warmth of Griefer’s weight and the faint, earthy scent clinging to his clothes.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.
It wasn’t even heavy. It was something.. Softer, something that hummed between them like a secret neither of them was ready to speak aloud.
The hero swallowed, but the lump in his throat didn’t budge. He told himself he should be restless, that his mind should be racing with quests and obligations and checklists— But none of it surfaced. Not when the world had narrowed down to his current state; the weight pinning him, the vines curling lazily against him, the heartbeat steady and close enough to sync with his own.
Player’s hands twitched uselessly at his sides, caught between wanting to push Griefer away and wanting to pull him closer.
The worst part was, the second option was winning. His pulse hadn’t slowed, and every time he caught the faint sound of Griefer’s breathing against his chest, it jumped all over again.
“...You’re not gonna move, are you?” he asked finally, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.
“N4H,” came the lazy reply, a small, content sound following it. “G0T 4LL 1 N33D R1GHT H3R3.”
And just like that, Player forgot why he’d even wanted him to move in the first place. It was almost cruel with how natural it felt.
Griefer shifted faintly, nestling further into the crook of Player’s neck with a muffled grumble. “S33? C0MFY,” he mumbled, smug like he was declaring it point as fact.
“…You’re heavy,” Player said finally, though his hand hadn’t moved from where it still rested against Griefer’s jaw. His voice lacked bite, the words landing softer than any real complaint.
“1 B3T Y0U L1K3 1T,” Griefer shot back, smirking into the curve of his neck. His breath brushed warm against Player’s skin, enough to send a shiver down his spine.
Player rolled his eyes, though the corners of his lips betrayed him, twitching upward. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
The silence between them shifted again, not empty but weighted with something Player didn’t have the vocabulary for. He found himself tracing it in fragments instead, clinging to whatever his senses gave him.
The way Griefer’s hair smelled faintly of leaves and smoke. The way his skin radiated warmth like he’d pulled the sun down and bottled it under his ribcage. Even the subtle twitch of his jaw, like he was fighting back the urge to say something—some sarcastic jab, probably—but hadn’t yet found the energy to ruin the moment.
Player’s fingers, traitorous as ever, lingered against his cheekbone the same way it did a few minutes prior. He pretended it was absentminded, casual. But really, he was memorizing the slope of it even though one could argue he already spent a good amount of time feeling him up earlier.
The ridges, the heat. His pulse thumped loud in his ears, telling him every second that he was crossing a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.
Griefer didn’t call him out. Didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned just a fraction closer, eyes half-lidded, vines shifting with the lazy rhythm of his breathing.
Player’s chest tightened. He almost hated how… safe it felt. Not the kind of safety he’d carved out in solitude, with walls and weapons and plans that kept everyone else at arm’s length. This was different. Messier. Like standing on the edge of a cliff and realizing that maybe, just maybe, falling wouldn’t kill him.
“Y’know…” Player started, his voice a rasp, “you’re not supposed to be comfortable like this.”
Griefer hummed, a low vibration that sent a shiver straight through him.
“S4YS WH0?”
“Me.”
“TH3N Y0U'R3 WR0NG.”
Griefer mumbled against his skin, his words softened by the closeness, blunted into something that didn’t sting. And Player let out a short, shaky laugh. His throat was too tight for anything steadier.
The vines curled slightly tighter at his waist, like they were echoing his pulse, and he didn’t have it in him to fight it. Not when every part of him wanted to stay pressed into this warmth until the rest of the world gave up trying to find them.
He tilted his head, just enough that their foreheads brushed again.
It was stupid. Reckless. Intimate in ways he had no business indulging in.
And yet..
He didn’t pull away. Not when Griefer’s breath skimmed against his lips. Not when his heartbeat steadied beneath the weight of another’s. Not when—for the first time in a long time—silence didn’t ache.
It was unbearable. It was perfect. And he couldn’t stop soaking in every second.
—
Player's quest index looms, and so he rolls his eyes and dismisses it simply. Stirring up the other man clinging onto him, grunting softly.
"Hey, dude."
"MHM...?"
"Whatever happened last night was no homo right?"