Years will pass, the stories of your adventures would unfoldâ the same oh-so-great heroic tales written by blood of those you've slaughtered.
Your departure was etched in silence, farewells never spoken, bonds frayed until they snapped and left to rot alongside what lingered; Your name, not in triumph, but in hate-filled whispers. Words that are a shadow carried by time, unknown by the people, written in legends ungrieved by many of the lost.
And so you vanish, not in tragic heroism like how you were supposed to. You are not to be remembered, Hero. You were set up, tasked, and meticulously orchestrated to be forgotten slowly as you return to being a no-name robloxian. A legend unmade, a man unmooredâ A ghost of the battles that once defined who you 'were'.
Player."
â
OR: Player finishes his quest gathering the SFOTH swords for Shedletsky and does back to his original timeline! happy stuff happens!^_^
â
This was the end, wasnât it?
Player stood there, shoulders sagging under a weight that wasnât just his pack. His breath came uneven, chest rising and falling as though every inhale scraped against his ribs. The silence around him was heavyâthick with the kind of finality that made the air feel colder than it was.
Heâd done it. Somehow. Against every staggering odd, every venomous whisper of doubt, every curse that bled from steel and shadow alikeâhe had dragged himself through it all and endured. His body should have failed him long ago; his mind should have cracked under the weight of the voices.
The frostbite that rested inside of his bones, the venom that burned through his veins, the hollow feeling that made every breath heavier than the last, the phantom fire that seared his conscience raw, the yearning for true freedom with the wind, the overwhelming darkness and overseering light attempting to puppet him unbearably soâeach blade had left its mark.
They had wormed their way into him beforeâslithering, patient, insidious. The blades were never content with silence. They whispered, coiled around his thoughts, pressed against the edges of who he was until he couldnât tell if the voice in his head was his own or something else entirely.
They wanted to make him theirs. Not a wielder, not a heroâjust another husk. Another hollow shell twisted into something unrecognizable, just like all the other Robloxians who had fallen to their call.
And every day, he expected himself to join them.
He didn't think heâd last this long.
Truthfully, he had braced himself for an early end, the kind where no one would even remember the exact moment he was lost. He fully expected that somewhere along the way, his body would simply give outâthe steel cutting deeper than his flesh could heal, the fatigue gnawing harder than his spirit could fight. Maybe it would be a strike too quick, a mistake too reckless, or worseâmaybe it would be him, laying down his guard just once, finally answering when the swords whispered his name.
He thought his grave had been dug long ago. Carved not by heroism, but by arrogance. Written not in triumph, but in failure.
And yet here he was, breathing. Stumbling forward, somehow still carrying both his own weight and the bladesâ burden, even when part of him wondered if this wasnât survival at allâjust prolonging the inevitable.
Not alive.
Surviving.
Barely breathing, but still upright, stubborn as ever. A husk walking forward because stopping wasnât an option. The trials that should have crushed him hadnât. The voices that clawed at his sanity hadnât. The weight of blood-soaked choices, the kind that replayed in his mind at night until he woke choking on his own breathânone of it had broken him.
Against it all, he endured.
Sometimes he wished he hadnât. Wished he had fallen sooner, cleaner, before the world around him had the chance to rot into this. Before the swords could fully spiral him. Before seeing the face of the people that stood by his side could make him feel the ache of everything he wasnât.
And in the suffocating press of those thoughts, another voice rose unbidden from the dark corners of memory.
(âHello, young man..â)
He remembered it clear as day.
(âI sense distress within your soulâŠâ)
Back then, he hadnât known whether to laugh or cry, standing there with blood still drying on his handsâ a chilling sensation running through his veins from the very tips of his fingers. The same ones he used to wield the sword and kill off the King of the Blackrock kingdom.
The Guru's words had cut straight through the walls he kept around himself, made him feel seen in a way he hadnât asked for.
(âPlease, come sit with me.â)
The invitation had been gentle. He caught himself coming back every once in a while to confront his inner demons and overcome them with the help of the old man.
Yet even that memory now felt warped, dulled by the constant distortion of the SFOTH swords' whispers. What had been comfort once twisted in his head until he couldnât tell if it was real or another lie.
The blades that was rested inside his battered backpack had their hilts jutting out in awkward angles yet somehow managing to stay put, their weight pressing into him with a constant, suffocating reminder of what they were. Each one carried a history, a venomous whisper, a shadow that had clawed its way under his skin during the long and brutal trek. They should have torn him apart. They almost had.
('I feel...')
And yet now the SFOTH swords sat quietly, tucked away among the mismatched chaos of other weapons heâd gathered along the roadâeach piece not just steel, but a scar, a ghost, a choice carved into him that he could never scrape away. Blades that werenât just trophies but confessions, lined and jagged, buried in leather and cloth as though that could hide the blood theyâd drawn.
His pack sagged against his back, heavier than it had ever been, though the weight wasnât the steel. Noâit was the knowing.
All of them. Gathered at last. Exactly as Shedletsky demanded.
The thought alone made bile rise sharp at the back of his throat. For a heartbeat he wondered if this was victoryâor the sickest kind of trap.
He stood there, frozen in the silence, the pack digging into his shoulders as though he wasnât carrying swords but the whole world itself, chained to him like an anchor he couldnât cut loose. His mouth felt dry, cracked, his chest hollow and rattling, and the silence of the moment became unbearable.
''What now?'
The question pressed against his ribs like a blade turned inward. He wanted to spit it out, scream it, demand an answer from anyoneâhimself, the gods, the ghosts that lingered in the corners of his vision. From the blades themselves, who once never stopped whispering and now sat in eerie, suffocating quiet. Because if this was the end of the roadâif this was what it had all led toâthen what was left for him but the unbearable weight of carrying it?
And thenâinevitablyâthe answer he wished for came.
Not from the voices in his mind, or from his own train of thoughts, but from the one who had set him on this cursed path in the first place. A voice that cut through the silence with ease, warm and playful, like an old friend who had been watching the whole time.
Shedletsky.
âWell, would ya look at that!â the admârâs voice rang out, casual and sing-song, dripping with feigned surprise as though Player was a magician that had just shown him a card trick. âYou really did it, eh? Seven blades, all tucked away nice and neat. Hah! Not bad, kiddo."
The words came light, easy, almost fondâlike he was talking to a student who had finally gotten their homework right after years of fumbling. His tone held no shock, no awe, no weight of disbelief. Just that amused lilt, the sound of someone who had expected this outcome all along, and was simply entertained by how long it had taken.
Player clenched his jaw. Because underneath that levity, he could hear it. The knowing. The way Shedletskyâs voice carried the edges of truths Player couldnât yet name, the same ones that had haunted him since the very first blade fell into his hands. The same feeling of uneasiness every 'word of advice' the admin spoke of that only added more factors in his supposed adventure.
Shedletsky went on, chuckling under his breath, the sound warm. Classic Shedletsky.
âYou know,â The brunette drawled, voice slipping into something almost indulgent, like an adult humoring a child whoâd just done something clever most their age can't or simply wouldn't want to pull off. âMost people wouldnât have made it this far. They fight,, they fly, they bleed, they fallââ
He chuckled, low and light, but it cut sharper than it should have, like the sound of glass chipping against stone. With the ease of someone who owned every space he walked in, the admâr sauntered over, plucking the cap off Playerâs head without asking. His fingers ruffled through the heroâs already-messy hair, careless and deliberate all at once, leaving it even more unruly than before.
âBut you,â Shedletsky went on, tilting his head as though sizing him up, âyouâre no ordinary Robloxian, huh?â
It sounded like praise.
It was praiseâ Or at leastâthatâs what Player tried to tell himself. Because beneath the lighthearted words, beneath the casual humor, there was something coiled and watchful. Something in Shedletskyâs tone that made it clear: he hadnât just been waiting for this momentâhe had been expecting it.
And yet Player felt a chill coil at the base of his spine. Because every wordâno matter how casualâcame threaded with knowledge. With weight. As though Shedletsky wasnât congratulating him for reaching the end⊠but for stepping neatly into place where he had always been expected to. Something wasn't adding up. Even the voices of the swords were quiet.
ââBecause you're a hero.â Shedletskyâs voice softened, a smile tugging on his face.
Hero.
It shouldâve been a crown, something to wear with pride after everything heâd survived, but instead it slid down his spine like ice. His gut twisted. Because in Shedletskyâs mouth, the title didnât sound like recognitionâit sounded like a game piece being named, like he was just another move on a board that the admin had already mapped out years ago.
âAnd,, congratulations!â heroâ For reaching the end of your path.â A pause, deliberate, the laid back tone of the brunette's voice slipping before quickly picking it up again.
Player's fists clenched
Hero.
The word was ringing in his ears. Mocking him on repeat. They rang hollow. He wanted to accept them, to let himself believe that after all the blood, the weight of steel, the scars carved into his body and his mind, this was validation. That it meant something. But no matter how hard he tried to hold onto that fragile thought, it slipped through his fingers like water.
âBuuutââ his tone tilted upward, a smirk hiding in the sound ââThis end isn't necessarily the end-end, you know?"
Friendly. He tried to tell himself.
That toneâit was almost fatherly. Playful, indulgent, like someone watching a child finally manage to tie their shoelaces on their own. If Player closed his eyes, if he ignored the weight of the swords, he might have almost believed it.
Almost.
But somehow, that only made it worse.
Because there was something wrong.
He couldnât shake it. Couldnât ignore the way the swords writhed against his back, their whispers no longer divided but screaming together now, sharper, louder, demanding his attention. They didnât trust Shedletsky. And maybeâjust maybeâneither should he.
His heart hammered in his chest, not from exhaustion, not from triumph, but from the gnawing suspicion that he hadnât won anything at all. That this wasnât an ending. That it was a door, and Shedletsky had been waiting on the other side the whole time.
Nothing about Shedletsky was ever that simple. Nothing about the way his words curled in the air and lingered just a little too long was natural. It was as though every syllable hid something sharper, a blade pressed flat against his back, disguised beneath warmth and amusement.
And in that moment, the silence inside Playerâs mindâhard-earned, brittle silenceâshattered like glass under a hammer. At first it came as a faint tremor, a soft buzz, static curling under his skin. Harmless, almost ignorable. But then it grew. Louder. Sharper. A pressure that built in his skull until his ears rang, until every heartbeat felt like it pulsed through his teeth.
The swords in his packâthe cursed weight he had dragged across every battlefield, every town, every nightmareâstirred.
Then they awoke.
And they whispered.
And then they screamed.
It wasnât the familiar noise he had grown grimly accustomed to, the constant bickering of blades like wolves tearing each other apart in his skull. Not the usual chaos, where each cursed edge clawed for dominance, begging for his will, his soul, his everything. Not the fractured lull of competing voices dripping venom into every breath he took.
This time, it was different.
This time, they agreed.
Their voices tangled together into one sound, a chorus of steel, cold, poison, numb, wind, light and shadow, iron scraping on iron, until the words were no longer words but a force pressed against his bones. The unity was worse than their wars. Unnatural. Wrong.
Their warnings clawed into him with perfect rhythmâunified, insistent, urgent.
And for the first time since carrying them, he realized just how much more terrifying it was when they stopped fighting each other⊠and turned everything toward him. Ever since he had gathered them, Player wished desperately that they would go back to arguing. Because at least when they fought among themselves, it meant he still had room to breathe.
Now, their unity meant only one thing:
They werenât trying to take him.
It was different from all the other times they clawed at his thoughts, whispering hunger, urging him toward ruin. This time their voices struck together like a bell, warning, pleading.
The hero felt deja vu. It was the same way Fear once had pleaded âits purple silhouette still lingering in the back of his mind, fragile and desperate, before heâd struck it down and silenced it forever. He still remembered its voice breaking as it begged him to see the truth. He hadnât listened then. Only to find out the truth for himself just a few moments later
Player clenched his fistâknuckles pale, nails biting crescent moons into his palm. The dread that had lingered at the edges of his mind, circling like a vulture, finally sank its teeth in. This wasnât paranoia anymore, wasnât a phantom weight conjured by exhaustion. It was real. Heavy. Suffocating. It coiled low in his gut like ice, pressing up against his lungs, making every breath drag like stone through his throat.
Every instinct screamed that something was wrong, even as Shedletskyâs voice cut through the silenceâsmooth, measured, wrapped in that same familiar playfulness that could have fooled anyone else. Casual warmth dripped from his tone, the kind that might have passed for comfort to someone unscarred, someone untested. The kind that sounded like an open hand but hid sharpened steel beneath it.
But not him. Not after everything.
Player had walked through too many ruins, had listened to too many liars dressed in smiles, had carried too many cursed voices clawing at the walls of his mind.
He wasnât going to make the same mistake again. Not when the danger wasnât hidden in the swords, but standing right in front of him. The man smiling at him like a mentor. Like a father. Like a friendâ But that smile didnât reach his eyes, and Player knew better now. He knew warmth could be a mask sharper than any blade. beneath the admin's easy smile, Player felt something vast, something watching.
The voices of the swords were trying to save him.
From 'Shedletsky.'
âHand over the SFOTH swords.â
But what if his mind was just making it all up?
Twisting truth into lies, enemies into monsters, allies into traitors?
Villainizing Shedletsky? The same way the Firebrand had villainized him and Calypso in the eyes of Captain Trotter, weaving half-truths and shadows until trust became poison and loyalty bled away into nothing.
The thought coiled in his chest like a sickness. What if he wasnât uncovering a trap, but inventing one? What if his paranoia had eaten so deeply into him that even the only man promising him a way home now looked like a devil in disguise?
His gaze blurred, focused, blurred againâlocking on Shedletskyâs extended hand. Open, steady, patient. Expectant. Waiting.
The heroâs breath hitched.
âWeâll need it,â Shedletsky said, voice smooth as ever, nonchalant as if this moment meant nothing more than a simple transaction. Like a little kid exchanging crumpled tix for candy. âTo bring you back to your original timeline.â
The words were so simple. Because that's how it's supposed to go. Collecting all seven of the SFOTH swords for the admin, then going back to his timeline. Shedletsky had insisted that he goes back to his timeline, as with the the SFOTH swords now in his grasp, finding Builderman would be a breeze.
Going back meant no longer spending another second in this timeline. Looking at the feats he'd done,he won't be surprised if a lot of things had changed in the future. Going back meant he'll leave everything he has here behind.
And yet,
Going back meant no one else would have to suffer because of him.
And so he took the blades out from his inventoryâhands trembling, jaw tightâas the chorus of screams tore through him. The swords wailed, each voice clawing at his nerves, begging, warning, condemning, but he forced himself to ignore them. His fingers brushed cold steel for the last time before placing them in Shedletskyâs waiting hands.
The moment the admin had them, the noise stopped.
The silence was so sharp it almost hurt.
Shedletsky hummed, almost cheerfully, muttering a quick âthanks.â under his breath, like Player had just handed him a bunch of paperwork, not the culmination of a blood-soaked quest that had carved pieces out of his soul and many others'.
âAlright then, kiddo.â
He said it brightly, the smile on his face far too at ease for the weight of what just happened. One hand slipped casually into the pocket of his dark-light blue striped pants, the other twirling one of the swords as if testing its weight.
âDo whatever you wantââ Shedletsky continued, tone light, careless, almost dismissive. âYouâve got three days until your grand departure, to continue your adventure in your original timeline.â
Playerâs chest tightened.
Three days.
The words felt like a countdown.
It was too long. And yet at the same time, it was too short.
A pause. Then Shedletsky speaks up again
âIâd make the most of it if I were you.â
And so, like the very good temporary employee he was, he nodded along. Because that was it.
That was the role heâd been given, wasnât it? Fetch the swords. Survive whatever comes in his way. Hand them over. And when the job was done, smile and nod, take orders, obedient as ever, until Shedletsky gives him some sort of speech after finally deciding where to shelve him next.
The nod came automatically, even though his stomach churned with the weight of it. Feeling empty without the whispers of the SFOTH swords gnawing inside of him. He wondered if Shedletsky saw through itâif the admin could tell how hollow the gesture was. Or maybe he didnât care. Maybe the nod was all Shedletsky needed. That was the thing about being temporary: no one expected you to stay. Or to actually last good enough until the end.
'No one expected you to matter.'
And for all Playerâs scars, all his fights, all the blood he had lost and spilledâ just to be remembered as a guy that fetched seven legendary swords for an Admin like a lap dog.
He didnât need to hear any more of what Shedletsky was gonna say. Not another word. Before the admin could lace his next sentence with that same easy smile, Player had already flicked through the fast-travel menu, his choice locked in without hesitation.
Turitopulis.
Not directly to Grieferâs crib. Definitely not.
Because if he fast-traveled straight to Grieferâs place, itâd be obvious. Too obvious. Like painting his intentions in bright neon over his head: Hey, I want to see you. I need to see you. And there was no way in hell he was going to give Griefer that kind of satisfaction, not when the man already had too much leverage over him.
So, Turitopulis it was. A detour. The kind of thing any normal Robloxian would doâwalk the rest of the way, pretend it was convenience, or boredom, or just the scenic route. Anything but what it actually was.
The air shimmered as he reappeared in the bustling still forest-y center. Grass-filled streets stretched out under his boots, villagers hollering about whatever they were talking about, some of them greeting Player in recognition. Darting past in a blur of chatter and even more greens, he shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking, forcing his steps into a casual rhythm that he hoped looked natural.
But no matter how hard he tried to mask it, each step toward Grieferâs place felt deliberate. Weighted. Like gravity itself tugged him in that direction. And that was fine. As long as nobody else knew. He only had three days, anyway.
Go back to traversing the Red Sun Temple, still in progress.
Player would've had that also checked off from his checklist if only a certain now half-plant man wasn't laying on top of him.
Oh right, and they also kissed. No homo though.
â
Or: Toxichero's first kiss, and then even more kisses.
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.Â
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 fastâ 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?
Maybeâjust maybeâhe shouldâve 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.Â
Or maybe he shouldâve 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 Grieferâs 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 adventureâ Griefer throwing in some colorful words with how bad the cure tasted to be on their way hereâ 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 warmâtoo warm, if he was being honestâbut it wasnât unbearable.
The faint smell of earth and greenery clung to the plant-manâs clothes, an aroma that seeped into the space between them and wrapped itself around Player like an old memory. It wasnât 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 heâd 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 placeâthis broken shard of a timeline that looked like home but wasnâtâ 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 werenât coming back. Of streets that belonged to a version of him he couldnât touch anymoreâ 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.
Playerâs arms twitched uselessly at his sides, bandagedâ 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.Â
The damned hero's heart was doing a very poor job of pretending this was still just a âsidetrack.â âthis felt less like a detour and more like the kind of distraction you secretly wanted to indulge yourself in.
âSo, uh, care to scoot off or..?â
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, Grieferâs reply came with all the enthusiasm of someone who hadnât 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.
âN0.â
Player blinked at the ceiling. Then looking back at the other man with a raised brow. â...Thatâs the twentieth time youâve said that.â
âW3LL Y0U'R3 TH3 0N3 TH4T K33PS 4SK1NG.â Grieferâs voice was muffled, though the smirk in it was unmistakable. His vines shifted lazily, like they were making themselves more comfortableâone curling around Playerâs wrist, another brushing against his shoulder.
â1F Y0U D1DNâT 4SK TH4T S4M3 QU3ST10N TW3NTY T1M3S, 1 W0ULDN'T H4D G1V3N Y0U TH3 S4M3 4NSW3R TW3NTY T1M3S, PUNK,â Griefer shot back, his words dripping with lazy finality.Â
Player groaned, throwing his head back against the pillow with exaggerated despair. âYeah, because I donât really enjoy being crushed to death by a guy who smells like fucking petrichor,â he muttered.
That earned him a sudden scrunch of Grieferâs faceânose wrinkled, brows knit, lips twisting, red fangs showing as though Player had just insulted his entire bloodline.
"TH3 H3LL'S P3TR1CH0R?â 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. â...Seriously?â
âY34H. S3R1OUSLY.â
The look Griefer gave him was so earnest, so unfeigned, it cracked through Playerâs 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.
âItâs⊠ugh, itâs the smell of rain hitting dry earth, alright? That, likeâfresh, damp, earthy scent after a storm. Thatâs petrichor.â
Griefer tilted his head, crimson eyes with hints of green narrowing slightly in thought. Then speaking in accusafton.
 â...S0 Y0U'R3 S4Y1NG 1 SM3LL L1K3 D1RT.â
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 manâand jabbed a finger toward him.
 âNo! Thatâs notâugh, donât twist it. Itâs not dirt-dirt. Itâsâpoetic dirt! Pleasant dirt! Like, you knowânature-y and leaves and stuff..âÂ
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.
Grieferâs smirk returned full force, sharp and knowing. âS0 Y0U L1K3 TH3 W4Y 1 SM3LL, 1S TH4T 1T, PUNK?"
Player froze. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
âDude, I did not say that!â
âY0U D1D.â
âI did not!â
âY0U 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 shouldâve left you as a plant.â
But even as he said it, he could hear the laughter Griefer was stiflingâthe 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.
âI had a whole heroic quest to get through this demo, you know. Bottle, cure, Firebrand, go back to Shedletskyâring a bell?â
âN4H. 1 DONâT TH1NK S0.â
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 mouthâ
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 wasnât suffocatingâit 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 bindingâjust 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 Grieferâs eyes, steady and unhurried, utterly unbothered, as though nothing outside these walls mattered. That look cut through everything elseâbanter, noise, excusesâand 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 didnât quite sound like laughter, thin and fragile and breaking halfway through.
The air thickened around them, stretched taut with a silence that wasnât 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 heâd sharpened to survive, let himself fall into it.
Grieferâs 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 workedâpush 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 easyâexcept 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.
âItâs not just about getting your callcard, idiot.â Â
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 falteredânot vanished, not gone completelyâbut 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. Heâd 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 agoâbut 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 Playerâs sides, brushing against fabric and skin in a way that felt casualâtoo 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 hadnât moved off him, hadnât loosened his hold, and he didnât 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 didnât quite hold that same careless luster now.Â
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 couldnât 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 couldnât look awayânot when he was the one who had shattered first the moment Griefer stared at him like that.
The silence that followed wasnât awkward; it had weight, as if it carried meaning Player didnât 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 suffocatingâjust warm enough that Player became acutely aware of every small detail. The faint rustle of leaves when Grieferâs chest rose and fell.He tried to focus on anything else at all but nothing helped as he was currently in Grieferâs roomâ 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.
Playerâs eyes drifted to the ceiling, though his attention was anywhere but there. His pulse had long since betrayed him, beating faster than heâd like, though there was no battle here. No enemies. No new quests demanding his immediate attention as his main one is currently on standbyâ 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 gestureâmore of... Instinct than intention. Which didn't make it betterâ 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 excusesâchecklists, quests, responsibilitiesâ 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.Â
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 ownâ 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.Â
Player found himself listening againâcounting heartbeats, the rustle of leaves, the way Grieferâs breath slowed as if he might actually be also listening in Player's own.
For a moment, he thought that was it. That maybe theyâd 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 theyâd taste in the open air.
âY0U KN0W.âŠâ
A faint crease tugged at the white-haired man's brow that wasnt paired with a scowl of indignation but rather one of thoughtâ an expression that didnât 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 freeâsomething 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 wasnât exactly sure what.
A confession?
A cutting joke?
Something heavy and dangerous, the kind of words you couldnât take back once they were out?
Instead;
âY0UâR3 R34LLY W31RD.â
Player snapped out of his mesmerized stupor, dumbfounded by his words. Rightfully so, because Griefer, with audacity, without hesitation, without shame at allâ 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 wasnât 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 worthwhileâ 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.
Playerâs 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 didnât helpâthe lump in his throat refused to budge.
Griefer beat him to it.
â1 TR13D T0 K1LL Y0U 4TL34ST THR33 T1M3S,â he said suddenly, his voice lower than before, quieter, the hesitation apparent, pulling it like static between his words. â4ND Y3T Y0U ST1LL M4D3 Y0UR W4Y T0 CUR3 M3.â
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 couldnât quite bring himself to keep staring when the truth spilled out raw like that.
The (half) plant man let out a breathâhalf a sigh, half something closer to surrender.
ââŠTH4NK Y0U....â
The sound of it knocked the wind from Playerâs chest. The words weren't mocking, it wasnât reluctant, because , it wasnât even laced with the smugness that usually carried every word out of Grieferâs mouth. It was justâhonest.
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 didnât 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 couldnât explain the way his chest tightened.
Not like fear, not like HATRED.Â
Something else.
Something harder to shake off.
He wanted to say something backâto tell Griefer it hadnât been about debts or obligations, that it wasnât just another quest to check offâbut 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 Grieferâs 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 Grieferâs 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.
â..'M N0T 4SK1NG Y0U T0 S4Y 4NYTH1NG 4BOUT TH4T, PUNK.â His vines curled closer, not tight but steady. Even fixing some of the creases on Player's jacket.
âJUST.. S4Y1NG. F0R TH3 R3C0RD."
Player exhaled, the sound shaky in a way he hoped went unnoticed. His checklistâcharacter index flickering and demanding him to pay attention to his quests, the Firebrandâbut 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 slightlyâhesitant, almost clumsyâ until it passed by Griefer's neck, and instead brushing against Grieferâs 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 softnessâwarm skin beneath the greenery, the faint hum of life thrumming through veins just beneath the surface.
It was a reminder that Griefer wasnât 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 plantâ but alive within his reachâ 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 Playerâs 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 mayorâ 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 Grieferâs 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 contradictionsâ 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 wasnât one-sided. His heart betrayed him just as badly as his hand had.Â
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 didnât want to move. Didnât want to ruin this fragile, stolen peace by pretending it was meaningless.
Playerâs hand continued lingering against Grieferâs 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 couldnât let go of.
Then Griefer shifted.
No, waitâ
Griefer leaned in.
The movement was slow, deliberate, closing the already thin space between them. Playerâs breath caught instantly, his chest tightening as heat climbed his neck. Every thought fled at once, leaving behind a dizzying rushâwas this it?
Was Griefer actually going toâ?
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 itâGrieferâs 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 didnât look at him like that. Didnât want him like that. And yetâhere they were, so close Player could count the faint flecks of green in Grieferâs formerly-otherwise dark red eyes, so close the warmth radiating off his body made Playerâs 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 couldnât 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 themâwaiting, trembling, burningâ
And then it didnât come.
The absence hit like a crack through glass, the breath heâd 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 Playerâs 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 thisâthe stillness, the contact, the unspoken trustâwas enough for him.
Player blinked, his breath catching in the hollow of his chest. He hadnât even realized heâd 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, somehowâit 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 himâleaning 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 itâthe warmth of Grieferâs mouth, the taste of something he wasnât sure he deserved.
And now, with nothing but the weight of Grieferâs cheek pressed into his palm, the absence of it burned hotter than heâd prepared for. It wasnât rejection. It wasnât 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 wasnât 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 heâd tasted the disappointment of not getting itâof feeling the almost and being denied the actualâthe wanting only grew sharper.
It gnawed at the edges of him, raw and restless, like a hunger that wouldnât be quieted, not by logic or shame or the thousand reasons heâd told himself this wasnât supposed to happen.
And the worst part? The touch, as simple as it was, still felt good.
Too good. The press of Grieferâs 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 wasnât sure what a kiss would doâ Which only made the yearning worse, feeding it, sharpening it, until all he could think about was the closeness he didnât have yet.
The closeness he doesn't deserve just yet.
The weight of that truth crashed down on him in silence. Griefer wasnât kissing him. He wasnât 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 heâd let himself admit. More than he was ready to say aloud. And now, sitting there with Grieferâs cheek warm against his hand, the absence of that kiss felt louder than words.
Player's fingers twitched against Grieferâs skin, betraying him before his mind could catch up. He told himself it was nothingâa reflex, a slipâbut the warmth seeping into his hand made it impossible to dismiss so easily.
His chest tightened in a way he didnât like, a way he wasnât 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 didnât want to pull away.
The silence pressed close, thicker than he liked, but he couldnât bring himself to break it.
His heroic facadeâthe 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 wasnât the kind to show weakness lightlyâheâd 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 shouldâve made a joke of it. Shouldâve curled his lip and turned the whole thing into another round of banter, back and forth mockery.Â
The words never came.
He didnât want to chase Player off with laughter or fangs. He wantedâagainst his better judgmentâto 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 Playerâs 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 Playerâs heart, uneven. And something inside him twisted at the thought that maybe, just maybe, he wasnât the only one who wanted this nearness. Drawn into the hero's presence the same way he was with the Venomshankâ 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 thereânot out of malice or whateverâbut because he wanted him there. The realization was a sharp ache, and Player didnât 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.Â
When Griefer dared to peek at the heroâs face, it nearly stole his breath. Player wasnât his usual mischievous grin when facing off foes or gritting his teeth the way he always did when things grew too close for comfortâ may it be an attack he barely dodge or a punch he barely parried.
The hero wasnât wearing that brittle mask of his. Player's gaze lingered, heavy, fixed on him in a way that made Grieferâs 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 Grieferâs 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 shouldâve let go. He shouldâve laughed it off. He shouldâve shoved Griefer away with some careless remark and pretended the moment never happened.
But he didnât.
Instead, he stared. Memorized. The flicker of light in Grieferâs 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 couldnât help but breathe.
Player swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat stayed. He wantedâswords, 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.Â
He tried to tell himself it was fine. That this was enough. That Grieferâs weight on him, the heat of his skin, the lazy thrum of vines curled around his sides, the press of his cheek into his palmâit shouldâve been enough.
But it wasnât.
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 didnât pull away. Didnât tease him. Didnât even smirk. He just stayed there, vines draped like a lazy net, his head tilted faintly into Playerâs palm. Waiting.
And that waiting was unbearable.
He told himself it didnât mean anything.
Except it did.
His body wouldnât let him lie. The way his lips still tingled, like theyâd already been touched. The way his chest tightened, stretching too tight, as if bracing for something that wasnât 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 heâd realized it, there was no undoing it. No unknowing.
The silence between them wasnât emptyâit was thick, humming, filled with everything Player couldnât 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.
Playerâs heart slammed against his ribs, loud enough to drown out every excuse he mightâve thrown up. He wanted to say it didnât mean anything, that this was a fluke, that heâd 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 bravadoâ
Player leaned in to close the final distance instead, closing his eyes to savor the feeling.
The kiss wasnât clean. Not practiced, not perfect. His lips caught awkwardly against Grieferâs 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 landedâonce the heat of it seared through himâthe hero leaned in harder, steadier, his hand holding Grieferâs 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 awayâjust frozen. A pause that lasted longer than it should have, long enough for doubt to claw its way into Playerâs chest.
He could feel itâthe way Grieferâs breath caught, the tiny hitch of surprise vibrating through his jaw. His vines, once draped loosely across Playerâs side, gave a faint twitch, curling in half-formed hesitation. Grieferâs whole body seemed caught between instinct and indecision, like he hadnât expected this, hadnât 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 couldnât get the words out. It wasnât rejectionânot outrightâbut it wasnât 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 Grieferâs 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 Grieferâs mouth as he drew back. The world sharpened unbearably in the gap opening between themâthe 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 "Lookâ 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 Playerâs lungs. The kiss landed rougher than before, not slow, not sloppy as Griefer was the one that initiated the kissâanswering 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 widenedâ shock spilling into relief so violent it almost hurt. Blue eyes fluttered shut the next, his hand instinctively finding Grieferâs jaw again, clutching like heâd 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 Grieferâs 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 otherâs 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 Playerâs knees weak. The world seemed to tilt, narrow, until there was nothing but thisâthe 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, hungrierâPlayer pressing forward, Griefer meeting him halfway, their rhythm stumbling and catching but never breaking.
"34SY, PUNK,"
Grieferâs tongue teased, then dipped right in, slipping against his in slow, deliberate strokes that sent sparks flaring through Playerâs 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 Grieferâs 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, desperateâand 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.
Grieferâs vines stirred restlessly across the sheets, coiling tighter around Playerâs 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 sensationâthe wet glide of tongues, the sudden jolt of cool metal as Grieferâs 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 Grieferâs throat and spilled into the kiss, reverberating against Playerâs 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 itâthe 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 heâd spent the last few months in this timeline building.
And Player couldnât bring himself to care. Not when Griefer kissed him like this.
Not when it felt like everything he hadnât let himself hope for was finally here, burning against his mouth.
Playerâs chest ached, too full, too tight, like his body didnât 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.
ââŠHoly shit.â
But he didnât let go. Couldnât. His hand still cradled Grieferâs cheek, thumb twitching like it wasnât sure whether to retreat or dig deeper into the warmth there.
Grieferâs 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'?"
Playerâs 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 hpreviously.
He tried again. "Yeah, wellâ" 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 couldnât chase the words fast enough, couldnât pretend his chest wasnât still hammering, couldnât hide how wrecked the kiss had left him.
Griefer tilted his head, vines twitching faintly against Playerâs 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.
Player squeezed his eyes shut for a second, wishing the floor would swallow him whole. His brain still looped the same sensationâGrieferâs lips, the press of his tongue, the raw heatâand it drowned out everything else.
âShut up,â 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 Playerâs.
Player groaned, the sound low and half-hearted as he let his head sink back against the pillow. At least their banter didnât change. That was somethingâsomething familiar to cling to when everything else felt like it was quietly shifting under his feet.
Griefer didnât move away, didnât 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 Playerâs waist and shoulders like they were too lazyâor too contentâto 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 Grieferâs weight and the faint, earthy scent clinging to his clothes.
The silence that followed wasnât awkward.
It wasnât 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 didnât budge. He told himself he should be restless, that his mind should be racing with quests and obligations and checklistsâ 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.
Playerâs 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 hadnât slowed, and every time he caught the faint sound of Grieferâs breathing against his chest, it jumped all over again.
â...Youâre not gonna move, are you?â he asked finally, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.
âN4H,â came the lazy reply, a small, content sound following it. âG0T 4LL 1 N33D R1GHT H3R3.â
And just like that, Player forgot why heâd 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 Playerâs neck with a muffled grumble. âS33? C0MFY,â he mumbled, smug like he was declaring it point as fact.
ââŠYouâre heavy,â Player said finally, though his hand hadnât moved from where it still rested against Grieferâs jaw. His voice lacked bite, the words landing softer than any real complaint.
â1 B3T Y0U L1K3 1T,â Griefer shot back, smirking into the curve of his neck. His breath brushed warm against Playerâs skin, enough to send a shiver down his spine.
Player rolled his eyes, though the corners of his lips betrayed him, twitching upward. âDonât flatter yourself.â
The silence between them shifted again, not empty but weighted with something Player didnât have the vocabulary for. He found himself tracing it in fragments instead, clinging to whatever his senses gave him.
The way Grieferâs hair smelled faintly of leaves and smoke. The way his skin radiated warmth like heâd 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 somethingâsome sarcastic jab, probablyâbut hadnât yet found the energy to ruin the moment.
Playerâs 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 couldnât be uncrossed.
Griefer didnât call him out. Didnât flinch. If anything, he leaned just a fraction closer, eyes half-lidded, vines shifting with the lazy rhythm of his breathing.
Playerâs chest tightened. He almost hated how⊠safe it felt. Not the kind of safety heâd carved out in solitude, with walls and weapons and plans that kept everyone else at armâs length. This was different. Messier. Like standing on the edge of a cliff and realizing that maybe, just maybe, falling wouldnât kill him.
âYâknowâŠâ Player started, his voice a rasp, âyouâre not supposed to be comfortable like this.â
Griefer hummed, a low vibration that sent a shiver straight through him.
âS4YS WH0?â
âMe.â
âTH3N Y0U'R3 WR0NG.â
Griefer mumbled against his skin, his words softened by the closeness, blunted into something that didnât 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 didnât 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 didnât pull away. Not when Grieferâs breath skimmed against his lips. Not when his heartbeat steadied beneath the weight of anotherâs. Not whenâfor the first time in a long timeâsilence didnât ache.
It was unbearable. It was perfect. And he couldnât stop soaking in every second.
â
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?"
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
When you're blue, I'm red, I wanna kiss your neck and make it purple all over.
Chance has always had Lady Luck on his side. Russian roulette? Childâs play.
Winning big at the casino? Easy. But what he really wants isnât moneyâitâs more time with his best best buddy!
The problem was, Chance might be hopelessly in love, while Itrapped might only be after his cash.
â
 Or:
Between gunfire and champagne, slow dances and stolen kisses, the line between friendship, love, and manipulation starts to blur.
His perception of the truth and harsh reality blurring along with it.
An Ichance fic
The faint hum of the radio leaked in from the other room, a broken melody choked by static. Every so often, a voice tried to claw its way through the distortionâhalf-sentences, warped laughter, fragments of some forgotten broadcast. None of it made sense, but it filled the silence like an omen.
The lights overhead sputtered. Fluorescent tubes whined as though they, too, were straining under the weight of what hung in the air. Each flicker carved the room into alternating slices of shadow and clarity, and in those shifting intervals, the bodies on the floor seemed to twitch, to breathe, though they were long past breath.
The stink of them was unbearableâcopper, sweat, gunpowder, and rot blended into a suffocating perfume that coated the inside of his mouth no matter how shallow he dared to breathe.
Seven. That was how many had been here when it began. Seven living bodies, nervous laughter, and hollow bravado trying to mask the horror of what they signed up for. Chance easily saw through all of them.
The first round: one bullet, five blanks.
The second: two bullets, four blanks.
Now, the final round: three bullets, three blanks.
Simple math. Half chance of death, half chance of survival. But the numbers didnât matter anymore. They never really had.
All that mattered was the revolver. Its weight. Its inevitability. The thrill of the game.
Only two remained. Himâand the other man.
The last survivor was a pitiful sight. A drooping mustache curled above lips drained of all color, plastered to a face slick with sweat. His hands shook violently around the weapon, so much so that every twitch seemed like it might trigger the hammer before he was ready. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, couldnât settle on one thingâdarting to the ceiling, the corpses, the door, anywhere but at the gun in his hands.
A bead of sweat rolled down the unnamed man's temple, lingered at the edge of his jaw, then fell. It hit the floor with a sound that felt deafening in the silence, louder even than the crackling radio. A contrast to Chance's own laid back demeanor that's been surfing through the rounds like all was a controlled tide.
The manâs breathing was ragged, each inhale like a sob he was too proudâor too brokenâto release.
And him? He sat still. Watching. Listening. Even more humming. Every nerve raw and electric, every second stretched into eternity. His mind replayed the last gunshotsâeach thunderclap still echoing in his skull only in pity. The flinch of those around the ones that had their brains blown out, the moment of release, the body slumping like discarded meat to the floor or to the table.
Russian roulette.
A cash prize of $10,000 sat waitingâdirty money, bundled in crumpled stacks, held by an underground syndicate that orchestrated the spectacle inside of a VIP party. It wasnât just a game; it was entertainment for those faceless shadows behind the mirrored glass, dancing the night away with rich people jokes and class, the ones who thrived on watching desperation gnaw away at poor peopleâs souls.
Itrapped had been the one to coax him into this mess, all sweet smiles, smooth words, and golden hair catching the dim light like it belonged in a cleaner world than this. Chance never needed the cash prize for this gameâhe never even wanted it. But refusing the blonde had never been his strong suit. If it meant spending an hour or two with Itrappedâs company, then why not? A little gamble, a little bloodsport, just another night and maybe something more afterwards.
Playing the game was unfortunate for the others.
Because Chance was here. And Lady Luck had always been on his side, brutal in their simplicity.
One bullet.
One blank.
A revolver sat on the table, gleaming dully beneath the flickering light. Its cylinder spun with a metallic hiss, then clicked into place with the sound of inevitability. Around them, the stench of old gunpowder, sweat, and the iron tang of fear weighed on the air, heavier than the stacks of cash ever could.
He remembered the first round. Seven seats, seven players. Some eyes hungry for the prize, some eyes already drifted downwards in regret. Fingers twitched nervously on laps, feet tapped against the stained concrete floor, breaths staggered and uneven after the first body thudded against the floor.
And Chance? He leaned back in his chair, casual as ever, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. As if this wasnât a death game. Because it was a game of Chance. And that was his game.
His gaze slid to Itrapped, to the way the blonde lingered close by, watching him. That was all the incentive he needed. Money, thrill, gambleâit was all secondary. The only thing that mattered was the spark in Itrappedâs beautiful, beautiful eyes, urging him on, daring him to test his luck, steering him to the edge just the right amount, and winning in the end as usual.
The unnamed manâs hands shook so violently the revolver rattled like loose change. His knuckles were bloodless, straining white as he gripped the handle too tightly, as if sheer force could make his courage real.
He raised the muzzle, pointing it squarely at Chanceâjust above his glabella, the most direct route to erase him from existence in a single trigger pull. His lips trembled, muttering half-choked apologies under his breath.
"I..I-Im sorryâ"
The words came out broken, breathless. Each repetition weaker than the last, as if he were trying to convince himself that the apology might absolve him before the inevitable. Only one of them would leave the table alive.
The audienceâhidden in shadow, concealed behind smoked glasses frilly dresses and neatly tucked suitsâwatched in silence. Their attention was suffocating, pressing against the room like an invisible weight. The lights flickered overhead, casting harsh, stuttering illumination across the would-be killerâs face. Sweat streamed down his temple, dripping onto the revolverâs frame.
And Chance⊠felt bad. Almost.
The man was nothing more than another desperate debtor, clawing at survival for the faint chance of ten thousand dollars that wouldnât even scratch the surface of his ruin. Chance didnât need the money. He never did. That alone made the imbalance almost cruel. But it's not like he'd die for some stranger begging in crippling debt. He's seen these types of people in his casino before.
So he sighed, the sound oddly casual in the thick tension, and shifted in his seat, fixing his posture as if preparing for nothing more serious than a card game. Then, with a lazy flick of his wrist, he waved off the manâs hesitation.
âHeya, pal,â Chance said, voice smooth and steady, carrying a weight of certainty that didnât belong in a room like this. He smiledâconfident, practiced, though not unkind. âDonât sweat it.â
The man blinked at him, gun quivering harder, unsure if he was being mocked or granted mercyâ which was odd as he was the one holding the gun. Chance leaned forward ever so slightly, smirk sharpening as the words rolled off his tongue with dangerous ease.
âIf you feel like Lady Luckâs on your side⊠pull the trigger on me.â
50/50
For a heartbeat, the room froze. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
And that was the curse of Chance: his calm wasnât just his own. It bled outward, seeping into the bones of the people around him, twisting fear into hesitation.
The muzzle didnât move. The manâs finger twitched, hovering, paralyzed between survival and doom.
Chanceâs gaze drifted to the side once again, hidden behind the sheen of his sunglasses. From the far right, lounging like royalty, his best buddy sat spectating with a glass of champagne in hand. The blondeâs smile was faint, amused, golden hair catching the dim light as though none of this ugliness could touch him.
For a moment, Chance almost forgot the weight of the revolver in the debtorâs hands.
Click.
The sound was sharp, metallic, cruel in its finality. The man was still pointing the gun at Chance when it happened, trembling, eyes screwed shut as if bracing for the blast. But there was no blast. No spray of blood. No thud of a body collapsing to the floor. Just a hollow click.
A blank.
And the gambler let out a soft chuckle. Because he knew he was favored by the deity more than anyone.
The man opened his eyes, wide and wet, horror crashing down on him with the realization. His mouth fell open, a strangled gasp tearing free as if air itself betrayed him.
And then, the cylinder was turned.
It was Chanceâs turnâwith the last bullet in the chamber.
The debtorâs face crumpled. His chair screeched against the floor as he bolted upright, voice shattering the tense silence.
âNo! Please!â
The rawness in his cry echoed against the stained walls, rattling the thin light fixtures above. Tears welled hot in his eyes as his chest heaved, his body betraying him with sobs he couldnât suppress. He staggered, knees buckling beneath the weight of despair until he sagged back down, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut by a toddler who deemed it useless and to be thrown out.
âIâI have a family!â he choked out, hands clawing at the table as if clinging to something solid might anchor him to life. But in the end it was his choice. It was his fault, wasn't it?
âMy wifeâsheâs waiting for me at home! I promised her Iâd pay my debt, that Iâdâbe better, that Iâdâ I'd treat her right..! I won't ever cheat on her again!"
His voice cracked, breaking entirely under the weight of his pleading. Eyes wideâ desperately searching for Chance's gaze from behind his sunglasses against the blood-splattered room.
âP-pleaseââ
The revolver sat on the table, cold steel glinting in the fractured light, waiting.
The manâs sobs drowned the room, thick, desperate, animal-like. His palms pressed together in prayer, his forehead bowing low against the scarred wood of the table. His shoulders quaked with each broken syllable.
âIâve come so far..!â
The manâs voice cracked apart, collapsing into sobs too jagged to form words. His cries bled into the room until they were the only sound that existed, raw and ugly against the steady hum of the overhead lights.
Thenâsilence.
A silence that had teeth, sharp and merciless. It gnawed at the walls, at the gamblers watching from the shadows, at the man on his knees. But not at Chance.
Because the gambler remained still, unmoved by the storm of despair at his feet. Slowly, his head turned, sunglasses and fedora tilting just enough for his gaze to meet the crowned blonde on the far side of the room. Blue eyesâserene, detached, unyieldingâfound crimson with that fleck of gold, glittering with thrill of the game.
Itrapped gave him a smile.
And in that wordless exchange, everything was decided.
Chance let the silence linger a moment longer, stretching it taut, until even the debtorâs sobs faltered into hiccuping gasps. And then, softly, he spoke.
âIâll send flowers to your wife.â
The words landed heavier than any bullet. More brutal than the sight of the rest of the Players' corpses thudding to the floor, Chance rose from his chair, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulders and fixing his sleeves as though he were taking up nothing more than a casual exit in a card game after winning. He moved with measured calm, claiming the spot where the debtor knelt, his hands steady where the other manâs had faltered.
The revolver felt normal in his grip as he didn't hesitate.
BANG!
And the manâs life ended as swiftly as the game itself. Blood splattering and adding to the crimson of Chance's tux.
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
Itrappedâs applause cut through the smoky air like the sound of silk tearingâsmooth, mocking, inevitable. He walked forward at an unhurried pace, the golden gleam of his hair catching every flicker of the failing light, as though even this bloodstained room bent to illuminate him.
Chanceâs heart stirredânot from the kill, not from the money-laden suitcase pressed into his hand by trembling officials, but from the figure now standing before him.
âAs expected,â Itrapped murmured. The words carried the warmth of recognition for his victoryâ and the 10,000$ inside of the suitcase.
The champagne glass clicked gently against the table as Itrapped set it down. From his pocket came a handkerchief, immaculate and folded with precision. His left arm slid around Chanceâs waist, drawing him closer with a gesture that felt both protective and possessive. His right hand lifted the cloth, touching Chanceâs cheek with infuriating delicacy as he wiped away the spatter of someone elseâs blood.
Chanceâs breath caught despite himself. So close, he could smell Itrappedâs cologneâsharp, expensive, vanilla, the same ones he bought for him when they hung out and the casino owner shopped more than a few limiteds that for sure would've made any other normal Robloxian's pocket cry.
His sunglasses hid his eyes, but behind them, Chance's gaze softened as Itrapped continued gently wiping blood off of him, muttering about 'stains' and it being an 'awful addition' to the gambler's already-red-and-white tux.
(If only this moment was real.
If only Itrappedâs touch meant more than control, more than manipulation.
If only he truly did love the casino owner, maybe they'd have a happy ending.)
âYou never run out of luck, do you, Chance?â
The words, smooth as velvet, brushed over him like praise. Yet beneath them, Chance could hear the truth: he was useful. He was valuable. And Itrapped was never one to waste an asset. But Itrapped doesn't consider him as an asset, they were best buddies. So Chance leaned into the touch ever so slightly, betraying himself with the smallest tilt of his jaw.
âLady Luckâs always on my side, Trap. Same way youâre always with me.â
Chanceâs words left his lips lighter than air, but his chest felt heavy. He chuckled to sell the line, though it was shaky at the edges. A deep blush colored his cheeks, uncharacteristic for a man who had just stared down a gun and lived. The revolver hadnât rattled him. The death throes of a debtor hadnât rattled him.
But Itrapped did.
For the first time since walking into this now-blood-soaked room, Chance felt sweat bead along his brow. He swiped at it, hoping the gesture seemed casual. His sunglasses hid the dart of his eyes, the shadow of his fedora helping along, but those little things simply cannot hide the way his shoulders stiffened when Itrappedâs smirk grew sharper then relaxing afterwards. Because he was getting worked up over nothing.
The blonde leaned forward, champagne still abandoned, cologne heavy in the air as if Chance could feel it looping around his neck and forcing him to inhale more until he's completely intoxicatedâ Only for a kiss to be brushed at the side of Chanceâs face. It was light, fleeting, precise.
It was a hunterâs touch disguised as affection. He knew Chance would lean in for more so Itrapped made him chase for it. Chanceâs pulse skipped violently. His lips parted, then shut again. He gripped the suitcase too tightly, the material biting into his palms. The fedora wearing man's crimson eyes now gleaming with a shine of gold as he considered this moment and the other man himself as a jackpot from behind his sunglasses.
Itrappedâs timing was always perfect. Always standing close when the prize was handed over, always smoothing Chanceâs image before the audience, always tightening his hold in public while keeping his distance in private. It was too neat. Too deliberate. Carefully planned, carefully calculated, and carefully orchestrated.
But Chance crushed the thought as quickly as it surfaced.
It could be applied to anyone. But not to Itrapped.
No, not him.
Itrapped wasnât just anyoneâhe was his best friend.
His best buddy. The one who clapped for him when no one else did whenever he won way too many matches in other casinos, the one who vouched for him and never did call him a cheater for his luck, the one who wiped the blood from his face like it mattered, the one who stood up for him and de-escalated the situation whenever things got physical after a few players accused him of cheating for having too high of a winstreak. Itrapped was the one who kissed himâas though Chance meant something beyond being a gambler lucky enough to always walk away alive.
As if Chance was someone, and not just a filthy rich nepo baby that owns a casino having a neon sign draped over himself 'to be used as a wallet' for gold diggers to leech on for the rest of their lives.
Itrappedâs blue eyes glimmered, dangerous and unreadable. When their gaze met, the blonde's smirk softened into something that looked like warmth, something that could almost be mistaken for fondness. Tucking the handkerchief back to the pockets of his pants.
âOf course, dear friend,â he murmured. His arm pressed tighter around Chanceâs waist before retreating, leaving behind an absence colder than steel after flashing that smile. âIâll always be there.â
One way or another.
Chance unconsciously found his hands sliding against Itrapped's. Chasing after for more contact. The words should have reassured him. They echoed sweet, steady, certain. But they werenât promises. He could easily tell there was some underlying meaning to it.
Still, Chance believed them.
Because he wanted to. So he put on his poker face once more, letting out a loud laugh just then.
"I knew I could always count on you."
achance told himself the unease in his chest was just adrenaline. That the shadow in Itrappedâs smile wasnât real. That the way his gaze lingered on the suitcase and not on him didnât matter.
And yet, the cracks were there. Small. Subtle. Growing.
he ignored them, and it clung tighter, he let himself sink into the illusionâbecause to admit the truth would mean losing the only person he couldnât bear to lose. Because for all his luck at the table, this was the gamble he could never win.
And so, in a room that stank of death and tension, he smiled. Even as his heart whispered that Lady Luckâs favor wouldnât last forever.
The heavy door shut behind them with a metallic clang, sealing off the echo of applause and the stink of blood. Chance still hadnât let go of Itrappedâs hand. Their fingers were laced, a grip more intimate than necessary, and though the blonde could have pulled away at any time, he didnât. Instead, he let Chance cling, even guided him with casual confidence down the hallway and into the bathroom. The faint sound of the ongoing party still able to be heard.
Clean marble tiles. Golden fixtures. A place meant for indulgence, not cleansing sin. Yet here they were, blood on Chanceâs clothes marking him like a scarlet badge.
Itrapped stopped at the sink, finally turning to face him. His azure gaze slid over Chanceâs dirtied designer suit before returning to his face, amused. Then pulling out a sleek black bag from one of the locked bathroom bag holders.
âYou.. brought spare clothes?â Chance asked, blinking in genuine surprise.
The question slipped out sheepishly. It wasnât the kind of detail he ever thought ofâhis life was luck, not planning. His mom and dad were the ones that usually does the planning, after all. Itrapped chuckled, low and smooth, like smoke curling from a match.
âAh, no,â he said. âThese are my gift for you. I bought them before the party started, because I was certain youâd win every round of Russian roulette.â
Chance froze for a beat, heat crawling to his ears. His heart stuttered. Itrapped thought about him. Bought something just for him. Anticipated his victory like it was never in doubt. The thought filled him with warmth so strong it almost hurt. He scratched the back of his head, trying to play it cool, though the nervous chuckle that slipped out betrayed him.
âHa⊠you didnât have to, y'know..â
His voice trailed off as he reached for the bag. The suitcase clunked softly against the bathroom floor as he set it down, replaced by the weight of Itrappedâs gift in his hands. The leather felt expensive. Not expensive enough to actually hurt his pocket money with how loaded he is, but still expensive for regular robloxians. Although it was a luxury, what made it so invaluable was simply because it was from Itrapped.
"Not at all."
One look at the gambler. The blonde rolled his eyes then continued.
"I insist."
Chanceâs chest tightened. He wanted to say somethingâthank you, or maybe youâre too good to me, or maybe something far more dangerous. But the words tangled in his throat.Chance shoved the doubt away, forcing his usual smug smile back on as he looked back at his best friendâhis anchor, his weakness, the man heâd already fallen for too deeply to climb back out.
"Yeah, yeah.."
â
Itrapped leaned lazily against the marble counter, the cool gold fixtures glinting under the bathroom lights. He watched as Chance fiddled with the bag, hesitant like a boy unwrapping a gift at his first birthday. The gamblerâs sunglasses hung low on his nose, his movements clumsy in a way they never were at the table.
'Cute,'
Itrapped thought. Cocking his head to the side as he watched the man changeâ The bathroom door was locked, anyway.
Chance unbuttoned his blood-soaked red vest, peeling it off with slow, deliberate care. The crimson stains stood out like flowers on fabricâgaudy, ugly, and yet strangely fitting for him. He dropped it onto the counter with a wet slap, revealing the white shirt beneath, streaked through with crimson. Taking off his fedora and headphones temporarily to fix his hair next.
Clumsy always made them easier to hold. Easier to steer.
Itrapped tilted his head, his eyes narrowing with faint amusement.
Chance never looked more human than when he was vulnerable. Without cards in his hand or dice at his fingertips, he was just a manânervous, sweating, still pink in the face from that half-joke about Lady Luck and friendship. And here he was now, tugging his shirt over his head, grey skin gleaming faintly under the harsh light. All for Itrapped to exploit. All for Itrapped to use.
Itrapped smirked, letting the silence stretch. Letting him squirm under the weight of blue eyes. The new suit was sleek, sharp, black with subtle stitching, tailored to flatter. Itrapped had picked it days ago, knowing full well Chance would wear it. It was his style, in celebration, because Chance always won. And yet Chance always let himself be blinded by their 'friendship'.
When the gambler finally slipped the jacket over his arms and smoothed it across his chest, he looked back, eyes behind sunglasses flicking up nervously to meet his.
Itrapped straightened, stepping closer, closing the distance until the faint scent of blood was drowned out by the cedar cologne he wore. Putting the bloodied tux in the black bag and trashing it. His hand rose unhurriedly, smoothing the lapel of the suit, brushing away invisible dust. Putting Chance's earphones and fedora on after he helped him fix his hair.
Perfect.
Like a doll dressed for display.
âYou wear it well,â Itrapped whispered, voice low, velvet wrapped around steel. And he could feel the darkheart thrumming at its sheath, attached to his belt. His fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary before retreating, though his arm brushed deliberately against Chanceâs.
The suitcase still sat at their feet, heavy with bills, heavy with meaning. And yet Chance would rather pay attention to the man in front of him instead.
âYouâre the one that picked it out for me.â
Chanceâs voice matched his, low, almost intimate, as he stooped to lift the suitcase from the bathroom floor. The heavy latch clicked faintly in his grip.
ââOf course itâs gonna look great.â
Chance never realized itânever seemed to notice how every gift, every suit, every word of reassurance stitched him tighter into Itrappedâs hand. How every victory in those filthy rooms wasnât just his, but a victory the hacker had already prepared for him.
Still, there was something charming in the way he said it. Like he actually believed his own words. Like he thought the suit was chosen out of care, not calculation.
Itrapped let his eyes linger, blue glimmering with that familiar fleck of gold as he stepped forward, his voice dropping further.
âMaybe,â he said smoothly, fingers brushing Chanceâs sleeve as though adjusting it. âBut itâs not the suit that makes the man. Itâs the man that makes the suit.â
Itrappedâs lips curved into the faintest smile.
So easy.
A lie sugarcoated and dipped with enough cinnamon to hide poison. A thread tugged just enough to make Chance flush again, to keep him tethered. And it worked. The gamblerâs blush deepened although his poker face remained almost-intact. His grip on the suitcase tightened as though it could steady him.
Itrapped leaned back, satisfied. The man in front of him would wager his life a hundred times over for approval. For closeness. For a touch mistaken as love.
And so, Itrapped let him keep believing.
Because belief was the most profitable bet of all.
âAfter you, Chance.â
Itrappedâs hand hovered just briefly at the small of his back before falling away, a courtly gesture cloaked in command. Chance nodded and let himself be steered out of the quiet, sterile bathroom and into the cacophony of the party beyond.
The air changed instantlyâthicker, warmer, sticky with the scent of liquor, perfume, and sweat. Laughter pitched too high, coins clinked, glasses chimed. Filthy-rich Robloxians mingled with silk-draped mistresses, gold-diggers draped over diamond-laden wrists, and alcohol flowed like blood down the throat of the beast that was this underground empire.
Chance adjusted his sunglasses, his fedora not doing enough as though they might shield him from the sudden brightness of chandeliers and the stares that followed them in. He carried the suitcase at his side, his other hand still faintly brushing Itrappedâs until the blonde let the distance grow.
They didnât get far before the sharks circled.
A ginger-haired woman in a scarlet dress slipped neatly into their path at the baristaâs counter, her perfume sugary and cloying, her smile practiced to perfection. Her handsâtoo jeweled to belong to anything but desperationârested lightly on Chanceâs arm as though sheâd known him forever.
âWell, hello there, handsome,â she purred, eyes darting over his new suit with a spark of recognition. âThatâs quite the look youâre wearing. Care to buy a lady a drink?â
Chance stiffened, blinking down at her with that same somewhat awkward half-smile he always wore when he gets caught off guard that isn't while gambling. He wasnât used to being the prize, not like thisânot outside the game. His free hand twitched, hovering like he might rub at the back of his neck, but the lady anchored him in place.
Itrapped watched it all unfold from a step away, his blue eyes narrowing with the faintest glimmer of amusement only for it to transition into a frown just as quickly as it appeared. He saw a blush of embarrassment creeping back over Chanceâs cheeks as even more women flock him, the hesitation in his body language, the way his voice caught in his throat before he could stammer out a polite response.
"Well, ladiesâ"
The woman leaned closer, brushing against Chance as though she already owned him. The other women following suit as if they're attacking as a pack. An intruding hand tracing the tips of Chance's fingers, obviously aiming to 'smoothly' hold hands.
And that was when Itrapped finally moved.
A single step forward, smooth and unhurried, until his shadow fell over them. His arm draped lazily across Chanceâs shoulders, pulling him away from the prying, elegantly gloved hands of the women. The gesture casual but staking claim all the same. His smile was easy, practiced, but there was nothing soft about the way his blue gaze cut into the ginger-haired woman that was the closest to where his friend was.
âCareful,â he drawled, voice just enough that only she and Chance could hear, politeness threaded with warning, the smile on his lips not at all genuine. âThis oneâs spoken for.â
The woman faltered, lips parting as if to protest, but the sharp glimmer in Itrappedâs eyes cut her down before the words could form.
Her confidence wilted in an instant. With a tight smile and a muttered excuse about seeking out a âless preoccupied gentleman,â she slipped back into the sea of bodies.
And, just as Itrapped expected, the others followed. The whispers and fluttering lashes of would-be suitors scattered like smoke in the wake of his presence, leaving Chance untouchedâhis prize, his possession, his partner for the evening.
Chance blinked, still stiff beneath the weight of Itrappedâs arm until the silence settled in around them. Then, at last, his shoulders eased. A chuckle escaped him, high and awkward, cracking into a tiny squeak before he swallowed it down.
Itrappedâs lips curved faintly. He didnât know if the sound was from nerves, fluster, or something else entirely. He only knew it was hisâand that was enough.
"Thanks, man."
But there was more to the equation. Another thing for certain.
"Of course."
Chance would take this for affection.
And Itrapped would let him.
Just as he planned.
â
The barista slid two crystal glasses across the counter, the golden liquid inside catching the chandelier light like molten fire. Chance tried to distract himself with the drink, but his grip on the glass betrayed himâfingers tapping, restless. The faint blush along his cheekbones hadnât faded since the ginger-haired woman and co. had walked off.
Chance fiddled with his sunglasses again, pushing them higher up the bridge of his nose as if the gesture could hide the warmth still clinging to his face. His voice dropped into a low mutter, words spilling out without much direction.
âMan, I just donât get it, âTrapped. I mean, sure, Iâm pretty hot and all butââ
The rest trailed off into half-formed thoughts, excuses tangled with self-conscious laughter. He was blabbering, trying to mask the rush of nerves with humor, the way he always did when the silence pressed too heavily.
Itrapped didnât hear it. Or ratherâhe didnât let himself. He had no patience for Chanceâs fumbling attempts at honesty. What mattered was control, not sentiment.
Still, his lips curved into that signature âsoftâ smile heâd perfected over the years, a mask that gave nothing away. Inside, there was nothing but quiet calculation. But outsideâhe looked every bit the friend Chance believed him to be.
He remembered the way that womanâs hand on Chanceâs arm had been too bold. Her lips, too close. And the way Chance froze under her touchâit sparked something sharp in Itrappedâs chest, something that didnât belong.
Jealousy.
No. He refused to call it that.
He told himself it wasnât the woman herself that bothered him. It was the interruption. The intrusion. Chance was his piece on the board, his doll to dress, his gambler to parade. A living, breathing vault that always cracked open under the pressure of luck and chance.
And yet.
When that ginger-haired parasite leaned in close, when Chanceâs nervous smile almost slipped into something elseâit had burned. He had wanted to snatch Chance away, to remind the good for nothingâ lesser gold diggers and whores that this man belonged to him.
All for him to exploit.
All his.
So, no. It wasnât jealousy. What curled in his chest was something colder, sharperâ It was the threat of Chance slipping through his carefully woven strings, a puppet daring to notice the pull of its own threads. He couldnât afford that. Not now. Not ever.
Chance couldnât catch on to the truthâthat their friendship was nothing more than a mask, a ploy for money and, eventually, the location of the Banlands key. Chance couldnât be allowed the space to entertain someone else, to replace him, to strip him of the role of âbest buddy" and "only friend"
He needed Chance to depend on him. He needed Chance to need him.
Itrapped thought for a moment, eyes narrowing as laughter echoed around the bar as his mind keeps bringing up what happened a few moments prior. Chance was hisâhis to direct, his to ruin, his to puppet and drain money off of.
So he raised the glass to his lips, swallowing deep. The champagne fizzed, but the bubbles did nothing to soften the taste. The bitterness clung to his tongue, as heavy and sour as the lie he wore. Only to realize the silence wasn't working in his favor.
âYou sell yourself short, my dear Chance,â Itrapped murmured at last, turning to Chance with a smile too polished to be entirely sincere. His hand lingered a second longer on Chanceâs shoulder before retreating to his glass. âWomen notice winners and rich men."
Chance gave a small, sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as though the gesture alone could wave away the heat rising in his face.
âWinners, huh? Dunno about that. Felt more like she was trying to⊠ehh, yâknow.â
The words stumbled into the air and broke apart, unfinished, before he covered them with another laughâlouder this time, almost forced. Chance's eyes darted around, hiding behind dark lenses that didnât quite mask the nervous glitter of what was underneath.
Itrappedâs smile faltered, a shadow cutting through its edges. The sound of Chanceâs laugh didnât soothe him; it grated. If anything, it only stoked the storm already twisting in his chest, every beat whispering that he could lose him, that his personal VIP free pass buy-everything cardâChance could drift beyond his reach with nothing more than a smile from someone else.
And that was unacceptable.
So he steadied his glass, took one slow breath, and resolved himself. He had to act. To anchor Chance, to tie him tighter to the strings heâd spent years threading.
Secure his place.
He rose from his seat with the kind of grace that turned heads without trying. Crystal glass set aside, he extended a hand, palm open, posture regal yet casualâpracticed. Controlled. The move of a king claiming his pawn before anyone else dared touch it.
And the universe seemed to conspire in his favor.
The chandeliers dimmed, bathing the ballroom in a warm, honeyed glow that clung to every polished surface. The hum of chatter softened, replaced by the swelling notes of strings as the orchestra shifted seamlessly into a slower rhythm. Velvet skirts brushed against tailored suits, jewels sparkled under the golden light, and one by one the crowd gravitated toward the dance floor, drawn like moths to the rhythm.
Itrappedâs gaze cut through it all. His sharp, ocean-blue eyes found Chance across the table, lingering on the faint pink dusting the gamblerâs cheeks. The red in his face glowed all the brighter in contrast to the glint of gold that always seemed to shimmer in his expressionâa radiance Chance never seemed aware of. The kind of effect he had on the blondeâ in which Itrapped desperately tried to kick and dismiss as a vile, tainting parasite.
A smile, smooth and practiced, graced beautifully onto Itrappedâs lips. The kind of smile that disarmed, persuaded, claimed. He tilted his head ever so slightly, voice low and coaxing, each syllable sinking into the lull between music and silence.
âMay I have this dance?â
The words carried, soft but commanding, impossible to refuse. Chance froze, fingers tightening on the suitcase until his knuckles whitened. He blinked behind his sunglasses, heart tripping over itself. Dancing? Here? Now? His instinct screamed to laugh it off, to decline, but the weight of Itrappedâs eyes, the open hand waiting for his, made his pulse hammer like the trigger of a loaded revolver. And he would pull the trigger on himself anytime if given the chance.
Around them, whispers stirred. The gambler, the golden boy of luck himself, being led onto the dancefloor by the crowned prince of the underground. Some watched in envy. Others in curiosity. All of them in acknowledgment. Chance was a well known figure, afterall. And so was Itrapped.
Chance swallowed, nervous chuckle breaking the silence. âAlright then," He hesitated. Then, with a shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips, he slid the suitcase under the bar counter for safekeeping and placed his hand in Itrappedâs.
"Yes, you may."
Chance's hands were warm. And Itrappedâs was cold.
Itrapped pulled him closer with unshakable confidence, leading him through the crowd toward the center of the floor. And as the music swelled, his arm slid firmly around Chanceâs waist, pressing them together.
The room blurred at the edges. For Chance, it felt like a dreamâdangerous, dizzying. For Itrapped, it was strategy. A public claim, a visible tether, a message to every pair of wandering eyes: This man is mine.
And yet⊠beneath the calculation, beneath the smirk, something sharp still twisted in Itrappedâs chest as Chance blushed and dared to look at him like no one else did. His eyes didnât leave Chanceâs face, even when the rest of the room dissolved into smoke and chatter.
They danced.
As if the music bent to their will, the orchestraâs strings melted into something darker, more indulgent. A lullaby for liars. A waltz for wolves.
Itrappedâs left hand pressed firm against Chanceâs waist, steering without effort, while his right settled on his shoulder with the kind of intimacy that didnât need to be rushed. Chanceâs palm rested awkwardly against his arm at first, stiff and uncertain, but soon he allowed himself to be guidedâstep after step, sway after sway. Around them, other dancers moved like glittering ghosts, but they blurred into nothing. The spotlight, imagined or real, seemed to fall only on the two of them.
Chanceâs laughterânervous, shaky at the edgesâspilled out when Itrapped spun him in a sudden twirl. His suit flared with the motion, sharp lines briefly undone, and his fedora nearly toppled as his sunglasses slid precariously down his nose. Normally, heâd recover with ease, flash a grin, toss out some slick remark. But this timeâhe stumbled.
Then Itrappedâs hand caught his wrist, anchoring him, and reeled him back in. The motion was seamless, practicedâalmost like Itrapped had choreographed it from the start. Their chests brushed as Chance steadied, and for a dizzy second, he swore he felt the thrum of a heartbeat that wasnât his own.
âWoaâOHâ!â Chance blurted, far too loud, far too uncollected. His cheeks flamed, betraying him.
âCareful,â Itrapped murmured, his voice low, lips hovering dangerously close to Chanceâs ear. The air between them buzzed. âIâd hate for you to fall.â
Chance let out a chuckleâsoft, breathless, not nearly as smooth as he wanted it to be. His mouth moved before his brain caught up, and the words tumbled out, crooked and awkward:
âYeah. âCuz youâd be enthusiastic..â
It wasnât suave. It wasnât clever. Around anyone else, heâd have nailed itâturned it into a line, a flirt, something effortless. But with Itrapped, the polish slipped, leaving only the raw, unsteady honesty of someone who cared too much. And even as he laughed again, sheepish and flustered, Chance couldnât help thinking that Itrapped must know it.
The words lodged somewhere deeper than they should have.
Itrappedâs smirk held, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something elseâsomething he refused to name. Those.. Feelings still gnawed quietly at him, the ghost of the ginger-haired womanâs touch flashing in his mind.
'Focus, Itrapped.'
And yet here he was, holding Chance tighter, moving him across the floor like they were the only two in existence, the music obeying their every step.
Each sway, each turn, each breath between them blurred the lines further.
It was just the two of them.
'Heâs holding me.'
The thought kept pulsing through Chanceâs mind, growing louder with each beat. His heart hammered. It wasnât just the dance. It was the way Itrappedâs crimson eyes gleamed under the chandelier glow, the way his touch felt protective even when it was meant to control. Chance wanted to believe it was real. That the kiss on his cheek earlier hadnât been just a move, that the suit wasnât just a gift born of expectation, that thisâthisâmeant something more.
'Heâs my best friend,'
Chance thought, tightening his grip as Itrapped spun him again. Eyes watching the twoâ beautiful, handsome men dancing with eachother.
'And I.., I think Iâm in love with him.'
The spin ended with Chance falling right back into Itrappedâs arms, their chests brushing, heat sparking at every point of contact.
And Itrapped smiled.
To anyone watching, it looked like something out of a fairytale or a romance novel. But inside, it was something Itrapped didn't want to talk- or even think about.
'Ridiculous.' His thoughts snapped sharp, almost bitter.
This isnât romance.
Heâs just a gambler who canât stop winning.
A vessel to siphon wealth through.
Someone that knows about the banlands key.
Someone to be discarded after use.
Thatâs all heâs ever been, all heâll ever be.
But his hand refused to let go of Chanceâs waist. His arm held him a beat too long after the twirl, savoring the warmth. Pulling him close. Itrappedâs jaw tightened, though the smile never faltered, biting the inside of his cheeks. He finds himself unconsciously leaning in closer, voice sweet, words chosen not for truth but for control.
"You dance so beautifully on the palm of my hands."
Chance flushed, sunglasses barely concealing the raw hope in his eyes. His breath hitched. He wanted to answer, wanted to say everything sitting heavy on his chestâbut fear kept him silent. And oh, by Telamon's name, the gambler was so gullible.
So they swayed. Step by step. Beat by beat.
The room moved around them, but for the two of them, there was nothing else. The orchestraâs melody stretched into something syrupy, almost drugged, and the chandeliers above cast halos of gold that flickered with each sway. Each step left an echo in their chests, rhythm bleeding into heartbeat.
Chanceâs hand tightened just slightly in Itrappedâs. His palm was clammy, betraying nerves, but his movements had steadiedâless clumsy, more certain the longer he let himself be guided. The warmth of Itrappedâs touch at his waist grounded him, or maybe unmoored him entirely.
One convincing himself this was love.
Multiple thoughts pulsed through Chanceâs head like a prayer, like a gamble he couldnât afford to lose. He stared up into blus eyes, searching for the gold fleck in their depths that he always loved as it reminded him of his own, the spark that made him believe this was more than performance. That they can be morr than just friends.
Chance told himself the closeness meant something. That the hand at his waist lingered not because of control, but because of affection. That the twirl and catch, the brush of their chests, the velvet of Itrappedâs voiceâit was all proof. Proof that maybe, just maybe, his best friend was more than that.
The other convincing himself it wasnât.
Itrappedâs smile stayed, sharp as ever, but beneath it a storm twisted. He knew this was performance. Knew the room was watching, knew the whispers circling like vultures: the golden gambler and the crowned king of vice. A perfect pair. A dangerous duo.
And yetâwhen Chanceâs golden eyes met his with that raw, open vulnerability, his chest betrayed him. A hitch in his breath. A falter in the mask. 'This isnât love,' he told himself. 'Itâs strategy. Itâs possession. Itâs leverage.' But the lie rang hollow against the heat between them.
And as the song drew to its final notes, they found themselves at the center of it all. The other dancers fell back, the spotlight cutting down like a blade, isolating them in a circle of brilliance. The music swelled, then softened, the last notes stretching thin
Chance swallowed hard, throat dry, sunglasses sliding lower as though to expose the trembling, now-gleaming gold of his eyes.
His chest poundedâ
Ba-dump.
âItrappedâŠâ
His voice cracked on the name, fragile but desperate.
Ba-dump.
âIââ
Itrapped froze. The storm in his chest roared louder than the music ever had. His breath hitched, his smirk faltered for half a heartbeat.
He felt the weight of the unfinished words before it even left Chanceâs mouth.
Ba-dump.
The orchestraâs final note lingered like a held breath.
Then the world crashed back.
A blaring intercom crackled overhead, harsh and cheerful, slicing the moment clean in half:
âDance over, fellas! Those moves were sooooo romantic! Now letâs move on to the best part of the party!"
The momentâ oh so fragile, precious, and utterly dangerousâshattered under the weight of the intercomâs cheer. The spotlight snapped away, instead focusing on the waiters delivering even more food to the long table.
"âFeast!"
Applause and chatter returned in a roar. Laughter. Glasses clinking. The circle around them broke as dancers scattered toward the banquet tables, silk skirts and velvet jackets brushing past without a second thought.
Chance blinked, breath still caught in his throat, the word unsaid burning on his tongue. His chest rose and fell with the pounding of his heart, and for a second he thought he might still say it. That maybe if he looked Itrapped in the eye, the noise around them would fade again, and he could speak the truth.
But when he turned his head, he saw Itrapped already moving.
The blondeâs expression was unreadable, the practiced smile slipping back into place as easily as a mask. The hesitation from moments before, the almost imperceptible hitch in his breathâit was gone. Buried under years of control.
Inside, though, Itrapped's chest still tightened.
He was about to say it. He almost said it.
The thought lingered like a brand. Because the hacker didnât want to hear it. Didnât want to feel the tug it left in his stomach. What was wrong with him?
âCome,â Itrapped said smoothly, his arm falling away as though the dance had been nothing but performance. âTheyâll expect us at the table. It's tallied."
Chance nodded, a smile tugging at his lips as he adjusted his fedora this time around, the hat a bit tilted due to the spins of their performanceâ still burning through him. âYeahh,, right, of course,â
"Iâ"
Itrapped led the way through the sea of bodies, his crimson gaze fixed forward, his hand brushing Chanceâs wrist just enough to guide him. Outwardly composed, inwardly restless.
"âlove you."
Oh. What a Foolish man.
Ba-dump.
Foolish, foolish man.
Ba-dump.
Itrapped rather flatline than feel the way his heart was beating this fast.
Ba-dump.
'I love you'
Oh please. The words had no place in his mouth, no business in a mind like his. Love was for fools, and Itrapped was no fool.
And yetâwhen his gaze slid back, catching the faint flush still painted across Chanceâs cheeks, he felt the foundation of his certainty quake. It wasnât just the alcohol, nor just the afterglow of their dance. No, it was softer, more dangerous: the kind of smile Chance didnât offer to anyone else.
Not the cocky gamblerâs grin, not the mask of bravado, but something unguarded, something perilously close to genuine happiness.
Itrappedâs throat tightened. For the briefest, reckless heartbeat, he almost wished the intercom hadnât shattered the moment. Almost wished heâd let the silence stretch long enough to hear what Chance had been about to say. Even when he knew what the man's next words was.
Almost.
â
The night blurred past in streaks of neon and city glow, muffled by the tinted glass of the casino ownerâs luxury car. Plush leather seats separated them, yet the air felt unbearably close. Chance leaned back, sunglasses pushed up onto his head now, fingers drumming restlessly on his thigh.
Across from him, Itrapped sat with perfect composure, champagne calm still clinging to his every gesture. But his eyesâthose sharp, calculating bluesânever left Chance.
â...Care to continue what you said earlier?â he asked at last, voice smooth, unhurried, as if he were inquiring about the weather.
Chance stiffened, breath catching before he laughed too quickly, too loud. â..Hey, man, I say a lotta things, yâknow? Youâll have to be specific.â His fingers kept drumming, faster now, betraying him.
Itrapped tilted his head, the practiced mask he wore beginning to crack. The smile faltered into something thinner, sharper, until the faintest frown carved its way across his face. Patience had limitsâand Chance was pressing against them.
âI think you know.â His voice was soft, but there was an edge to it, a steel hidden beneath velvet.
The words hung in the air like smoke, curling into the silence that followed. Chance felt it press down on him, heavy and suffocating, until all he could hear was the thunder in his own chest. His heartbeat was frantic, rattling his ribs as though trying to claw its way out.
He wet his lips, sunglasses forgotten at his crown, every instinct screaming to laugh it off, to drown the moment in his usual charm. A gamblerâs trick. A bluff. Because thatâs what he was good at.
But thisâthis wasnât a table with cards and chips. This was Itrapped. And the words heâd almost spoken on the dance floor still lingered, weighing down his tongue, threatening to break free.
I love you.
The fedora'd man swallowed hard, eyes darting anywhere but Itrappedâs piercing blue stare. The silence grew teeth, and he could no longer tell if he was more afraid of speaking the truthâor of what Itrapped might say if he did.
And before he knew itâbefore he could even draw breath to confess, to drag the words up from where they burned in his chestâthe blonde moved. Smooth, decisive, as though heâd been waiting for this moment all along.
Itrapped leaned forward, closing the space in an instant. His hands slid up to loop around Chanceâs neck, fingers firm yet deceptively gentle, guiding rather than forcing. Chance barely had time to gasp, to process, before his head was tilted down, the brim of his fedora brushing against the icy crown atop Itrappedâs hair.
Then their lips met.
It wasnât tentative. It wasnât questioning. It was a searing collision, heat striking against the cold perfection Itrapped wore like armor. Chanceâs heart roared, his whole body jolting with the contact, every thought scattered like playing cards thrown to the wind.
The world outsideâthe hum of the car engine, the city lights bleeding past tinted glassâvanished. There was only this: the press of Itrappedâs mouth against his, the weight of his hands at his neck, and the dizzying rush of something Chance had long denied but could no longer contain.
At first, it was a move. A carefully chosen play, another thread to knot Chance tighter to him. Itrapped pressed even more forward with practiced ease, as though sealing a bargain with skin instead of words. The kiss burned, designed to overwhelm, to brand himself into Chanceâs memory so nothing else could take root there.
But thenâsomething slipped.
The moment stretched, heat sparking where it shouldnât. Chanceâs stunned stillness gave way to the faintest, nervous press back, and suddenly Itrapped was drowning in itâthe warmth, the sincerity, the want. His chest tightened, pulse stumbling as he lost the steady rhythm of his own design. What began as a calculated move twisted, tangled, until it no longer felt like control at all.
Itrappedâs hands lingered at Chanceâs neck, fingers tightening as if anchoring himself there, unwilling to loosen his grip. The kiss had gone deeper than he intended, stealing the air from them both, until Chance groaned low in his throatâa sound that seemed to vibrate straight through Itrappedâs chest.
He pulled back at last, lips parting, breath ragged. For a heartbeat they just stared at each other, the hush between them broken only by the harsh rise and fall of their chests.
But Itrapped didnât give him a moment to catch it. Not a second to sort through the storm in his head. His mouth returned, though not to Chanceâs lips this time. He lowered his head, pressing a line of searing kisses to the underside of the gamblerâs jaw, grazing his slight stubble with every brush of his lips. Chanceâs skin was warm, salt-tinged, alive beneath him.
Itrappedâs pace was steady, deliberateâmeasured, like every kiss was another claim laid. But the way his breath trembled, the way his lips lingered too long, betrayed him.
Itrapped lingered at the hollow of Chanceâs throat, feeling the erratic drum of his pulse beneath thin skin. His lips brushed there once, testing, then pressed harder, heat searing against the frantic rhythm.
âFâfuckâŠâ Chanceâs voice spilled out, low and drawn, the word unraveling into a sharp breath. His head tipped back almost instinctively, baring more of his neck, surrendering without thought. Letting his sunglasses slide askew, only to be shoved away to the floor of the car by both of them to be forgotten, while his chest rose and fell in uneven bursts.
Itrapped waited, hovering like a predator ready to strike. And then he heard it.
âGo on.â
The words came shaky, fractured at the edges, but it was all the permission he needed.
He sank in. Teeth catching skin, lips pressing hard, leaving trails of bruised heat down the column of Chanceâs throat. Each bite was precise, placed with the same intention he brought to every move in their dangerous gameâonly this time, the mask cracked. The sound of Chanceâs ragged breathing filled the space between them, the faint groan curling out of him with every suck and press of Itrappedâs mouth.
"So beautiful,"
Purple marks bloomed where his lips lingered, a constellation of hickies etched into skin too pale to hide them. With each one, Itrappedâs control slipped further, until it was no longer about calculation or ownership but about the sheer, consuming need that clawed at him the longer Chance leaned into his touch.
Chanceâs fingers twitched at his side, gripping the edge of the leather seat like it was the only anchor he had left. His breath stuttered out in half-laughs, half-curses, breaking in the back of his throat as Itrappedâs mouth dragged along his skin.
A shaky chuckle slipped between groans, heavy with heat and disbelief. Everything forgotten in the haze and yetâ
âJackpot.â
The word left the gambler's lips unguarded, breathless, almost slurred with the mix of adrenaline and want. His head tipped further against the seat, eyes gleaming an even brighter gold as it was now his turn to move.
For a moment, Itrapped expected him to stay pliant, to let himself be consumed. But instead, Chanceâs hand shot up, catching the blondeâs jaw with a rough, almost desperate grip. Fedora slipping lower, he leaned forward, closing the space in one reckless surge.
Their mouths crashed again, this time on his termsâmessy, heated, unpolished. Chance kissed like he gambled: all in, no hesitation, no second thought. His other hand finally found Itrappedâs shoulder, clutching at the velvet of his coat like heâd fall straight through the world without it.
Itrappedâs pulse spiked, a mix of triumph and something dangerously close to panic. He wanted this control, had planned for itâbut the moment Chance kissed him back like that, like he meant it, without knowing the full truth of Itrapped's actual intentions, the strings he thought he held so tightly tangled around his own throat instead.
He was a goner.
The second their mouths clashed again, Chance knew itâknew there was no coming back from this. His heart wasnât just pounding anymore; it was rioting in his chest, wild and reckless, louder than the hum of the engine, louder than the world itself.
Every brush of Itrappedâs lips felt like a gamble he couldnât win, and yet he kept betting, kept leaning in deeper, kept clutching at the blonde like letting go would mean folding his entire life. His fedora joining his sunglasses to also be long forgotten, but he didnât care. He couldnât care.
âTrapâŠâ he whispered against the otherâs mouth, breathless, ragged. It wasnât just want bleeding through anymoreâit was devotion, confession, every unspoken word he had buried beneath his jokes and bravado spilling out between gasps.
Because he was already ruined. Already claimed. Already lost.
And for the first time, Chance didnât care about the odds.
Before he could say what hes about to say, he gets interrupted again.
By Itrapped this time.
"I love you."
â
âI love you too.â
The words slipped out, fragile and raw, carried by steam from his lips as it mingled with the cold air.
But no one answered back.
Not really.
The warmth, the kisses, the champagne glow of chandeliers, the dizzying swirl of slow dancesâall of it fractured like glass the longer he stared up at the sky. There was no ballroom, no luxury car, no steady hands holding him like he was something worth cherishing. Only the white of snow, endless and pitiless, blooming red where it swallowed him whole.
The only real thing that had happened was the russian roulette.Â
Chance blinked, and suddenly the weight on his chest wasnât desire, but blood. Thick. Hot at first, already cooling as the wind stole it from him. His sunglasses sat cracked in the frost, fedora lost to the storm. The last thing he rememberedâthe only thing that was realâwas Itrappedâs smile, sharp and cold, the muzzle of the gun flashing in the dark. How the blonde desperately tried to make him lose. The plunge of the Darkheart in his chest right after they exited the casino.
Everything else? Just a trick his mind had played to keep him from facing it. A last-ditch gamble against despair.
His fantasy of love.
His coping mechanism as he lay discarded, betrayed, and forgotten.
Snowflakes clung to his lashes, heavy, dragging him down into sleep he wouldnât wake from. Still, with his final breath, Chance whispered the words again, as if saying them could make them true:
The said weed crashes Player's apartment because he didn't know how to go back to Turitopulis after Player accidentally summons him mid-grocery shopping for his 'rest day'; followed by a kitchen disaster once they get to Player's apartment involving sugar-coated fries.
The hero finds himself stuck with the other male's familiar neon jackets, smug grins, vines and feelings that refused to let go.
And somewhere between bad jokes and worse cooking, green stopped being just a color.
It became them.
or: Toxichero shenanigans; set after demo 4 and part 2 of my other fic after their 'grocery date' â divergent fic 1.1
â
Player felt⊠neutral about the color green.
Everywhere he went, it was there. The bright green of the zombie costume guy who always seemed to hang around outside his apartment supposedly also going to the VIP convention.
The soft, fresh green of grass in meadows, swaying lazily in the breeze. The leafy, almost overwhelming dark green of Turitopulis, where the rainforest seemed determined to remind everyone that plants and insects ruled the place.
Of course, not all shades were pleasant. There was the sour, rotting green of zombies in Telamonâs manor, the kind that made you wrinkle your nose, and the dull, drooping green of plants at the dunes that had clearly given up on life.
After his so-called ârest dayââwhich had ended in the chaos of accidentally summoning GrieferâPlayer gave up on the idea of shaking him off as both of them have no idea on how to get the man back.
Instead, he let the him tag along and crash at his apartment for the night.
It wasnât like Player didnât have options.
Sure, he couldâve fast traveled at his apartment home in a blink, skipped the whole walk back, avoided the sidelong glances, the running commentary, the way Grieferâs footsteps always seemed to match his no matter how many times he sped up.
Or fast travel to Griefer's crib and dump him back there.
(Throwback when Player had recently just found out he's able to fast travel with other people if he has their callcard.)
But for some reason, the thought of mentioning the fact made something in him.. Sadden(?) ever so slightly.
He can feel the way the words hovered at the back of his throat uncomfortably for the entire trip, the offer to fast travel to Griefer's crib, or either the fast travel to his apartment. An easy escape ready to go.
Yet when he opened his mouth, he wasnât able to say what he wanted to say.
The words he meant to let out â something casual, something safe â got caught in his throat, tangled up with the weight of his thoughts. And instead, what slipped free was something else entirely.
Something⊠softer.
âYou know,â he muttered, eyes flicking toward the vines curling lazily up Grieferâs arm, the blossoms glowing faintly in the dim light of the streetlamp, âyour flowers are really pretty.â
'Itâs okay, Player,' his brain rushed to justify, tripping over itself.
(Griefer tried his damned hardest to stop Player from seeing the way a few bud or two bloomed after those words left his mouth)
'You can play it off as teasing. Or mocking. Whatever Griefer buys, just roll with it.'
Except.
When his mind replayed the words again â the tone, the weight, the way it had tumbled out before he could catch it â even he couldnât defend how it sounded.
It wasnât sharp like his usual banter.
It wasnât mocking.
It wasnât even remotely playful.
It was⊠out of the blue. Unsteady. Almost reverent.
And that softness, that undercurrent of something heâd rather not name, clung to the syllables like dew to petals.
Griefer blinked.
Then again.
His head tilted, a vine shifting with the motion, petals brushing faintly against his cheek as though the flowers themselves were reacting. His mouth opened, closed, then finally â
âWH4T?â
It came out more startled than angry. More disbelieving than smug.
Playerâs heart skipped. His ears burned. Panic clawed up his chest.
ââŠNothing, dude,â he forced out, scrambling for cover. âThe voices are getting to you again or something."
But his attempt of a banter/excuse landed weak, flimsy, like paper trying to pass for steel. And judging by the way Grieferâs eyes narrowed â bright, sharp, almost suspiciously amused â the other man could too.
Griefer didnât buy it.
He never bought excuses that thin.
The silence stretched, and when it finally broke, it wasnât with laughter or a jab. It was with a low hum, a thoughtful noise that sent a shiver down Playerâs spine.
ââŠHUH,â Griefer muttered, red eyes glinting as they studied him â not with mischief this time, but with a weight Player wasnât used to being on the receiving end of, followed by a statement. Not a question, but a statement.
âY0UâR3 N0T J0K1NG."
Player stiffened, and then scoffed, still trying to play it off. Praying to whatever being from up above or down below could hear him would be merciful enough to grant him this one slide from his slip up.
"The hell makes you say that?â
But the rest caught in his throat the same way he'd tried suppressing whatever he was feeling for so long.
Because Griefer was still looking at him. Not smirking. Not laughing. Just lookingâ like the words had sunk deeper than Player had intended. Like he wasnât planning to let him wriggle out of it.
Griefer leaned in, just slightly, enough for the faint glow of his flowers to brush against Playerâs shoulder. His voice dropped somehow even softer, though the grin never fully left.
âY0U D0NâT H4V3 T0 PR3T3ND, Y0U KN0W.â
Playerâs breath caught. His mouth opened, closed, but nothing came out.
And Griefer, of course, noticed.
The grin returned, sharp as ever â but this time, it carried something else beneath it. Something almost⊠careful.
And Player knew he was doomed. By fate. By spawn. By Telamon. By the fucking narrative itself.
How was he supposed to move on from this?
â
So then, by the time they reached his place, Playerâdetermined to salvage at least a shred of dignityâdecided heâd cook dinner. Anything to get his mind off of whatever that was that happened earlier. Maybe even a snack, too, since he actually had groceries now.
It couldnât be that hard,
right?
Wrong. Predictably, disastrously wrong.
He grabbed the brand-new salt and sugar shakers heâd bought earlier, both sleek, unlabeled twins sitting innocently on the counter. In his defense, they looked identicalâperfectly polished little traps waiting to ruin his evening. Without thinking twice, he tossed a generous sprinkle into the pan, feeling oddly proud of himself. Competent, even.
That illusion lasted all of three seconds.
One taste test later, and his face twisted up like heâd just bitten into pure betrayal. Sweet. Sickly, cloyingly sweet.
âYouâve gotta be kidding me,â Player muttered, glaring at the supposed snack as if it had personally chosen violence against him. His stomach sank. Of course heâd mix them up. He didnât cookâeverybody knew that. So why was he surprised?
From behind him came the unmistakable sound of chokingâno, laughing. Loud, wheezing laughter that echoed off his apartment walls like it owned the place.
âH4H4H4! Y0U C4NâT B3 S3R10US, PUNK!â
Griefer practically doubled over, pointing at the doomed fries like it was the greatest comedy routine heâd ever witnessed. His shoulders shook, vines curling like they were laughing too.
âSUG4R?! 1NSTE4D 0F S4LT?! H0W D0 Y0U 3V3Nââ He cut himself off mid-sentence, wheezing, before collapsing into another round of uncontrollable laughter, nearly sliding off the counter.
Player groaned, dragging a hand down his face. âGlad to know my humiliationâs your new favorite show.â
â1TâS 4 M4ST3RPI3C3,â Griefer gasped out between snickers, grabbing one of the sugar-crusted fries and holding it up like fine art. âTRULY. Y0UâV3 R31NV3NT3D D1NN3R. P4STRY FR13S!â
Once the fit of laughter died down, the infuriatingly beautiful half-plant man just scooted over to where the fries sat, plucking one up with long fingers and popping it into his mouth. He chewed onceâthen promptly burst into laughter all over again, nearly choking as he bent double against the counter.
Player pinched the bridge of his nose, already regretting every decision that had led to this moment. âDonât. Say. Anything.â
âTH1S T4ST3S L1K3 CR1SPY SW33T P0T4T03S.â Griefer leaned against the counter dramatically, hand pressed to his chest as if the fry had personally betrayed him. âH0W B4D 4R3 Y0U 4T C00K1NG T0 M3SS UP M4K1NG FR13S??â
Player groaned, dragging a hand down his face. âTheyâre fries, Griefer. Just fries. Normal, perfectly fineââ
ââSW33T, CRUNCH1NG, SUG4R DR0WN3D FR13S, SUR3.â Griefer cut in before he could finish, pointing the half-eaten fry at him like it was Exhibit A. His tone was equal parts scandalized and smug, as though this culinary crime deserved its own trial.
âTheyâre edible!â Player snapped back, though the way his ears were burning under Grieferâs grin didnât exactly help his defense. âPeople eat sweet potatoes all the timeââ
âOh, SW33T P0T4T03S? SUR3.â Griefer nodded with exaggerated seriousness, crunching another fry obnoxiously loud, clearly savoring the way Player twitched with each bite. âBUT W3 W3R3 SUPP0S3D T0 B3 M4K1NG FR13S. R34L ON3S. N0T WH4T3V3R TH1S⊠EXP3R1M3NT 1S.â
His eyes narrowed, mischief flickering in them like sparks. âS0, PUNKâ 1S TH1S Y0UR S3CR3T W34P0N? Y0U K33P TH3S3 AB0M1N4T10NS 1N Y0UR B4CKP4CK T0 F0RC3 F33D Y0UR 3N3M13S 1N B4TTL3? TH3YâD SUR3LY SURREND3R.â
Playerâs jaw dropped. âTheyâre not that bad! You're just my number 1 hater!"
âY0UâR3 R1GHT, 1 4M," Griefer said 'solemnly', holding another fry up to the light like some rare specimen. Then, grinning ear to ear, he popped it into his mouth. â 4ND TH3S3? TH3S3 4R3 W0RS3.â
Player snatched the plate away before Griefer could grab another, glaring daggers. But Griefer only laughed harder, doubling over and clutching his stomach like this was the best entertainment heâd had in weeks.
Player wanted to argue. He really did. But the more Griefer grinned, the more words refused to form, and all he could manage was an incoherent grumble as he stabbed at the air with a fork.
âOkay, you know what? Next time, youâre cooking.â
Grieferâs grin widened, sharp and shameless. â0H, N0W Y0U'R3 B31NG 4 B4D H0ST. SUMM0N M3 1N 4 GR0C3RY ST0R3, DR4G M3 1NT0 Y0UR 4P4RTM3NT, 4ND N0Wââ he paused, gesturing grandly with the mangled fry still in his hand, ââN0W Y0U'R3 F0RC1NG M3 T0 C00K F0R Y0U?â
Player crossed his arms, scowl only half-convincing. Trying to keep up with their usual banter. âSure am. Go on, cook for me. And donât half-ass it eitherâmake it five-star Michelin worthy or you're fired."
Griefer barked out a laugh that carried just enough mockery to sting. âWH4T3V3R. Y0U JUST G0TT4 S1T ST1LL 4ND L00K PR3TTY, PR1NC3SS.â
Player nearly choked on his own spit.
But his protests were drowned out by the sound of drawers sliding open and the clatter of utensils as Griefer made himself far too comfortable in the kitchen. With casual, practiced movements, he rooted through the cabinets like he owned the place, every action dripping with infuriating confidence.
And then, as if fate was personally conspiring to bury Player six feet under in humiliation, Griefer pulled out a pink apron. Not just any apronâbright bubblegum pink, with the bold text Kiss the Cook stitched across the front in loopy cursive complete with hearts and glitters.
Playerâs jaw dropped. âIâ whatâ how the hell is that in my apartment?!â
Griefer slipped it on with no hesitation, tying it around his waist with a flourish. The contrast between his current 'cool' and badass attire and the ridiculous apron shouldâve been comical, but somehow, impossibly, he managed to wear it like it belonged on him.
He shot Player a look over his shoulder, eyes glinting with mischief. âD0NâT W0RRY, PUNK,â he drawled, lips curling into a grin sharp enough to cut. âCH3F GR13F3RâS 0N TH3 H0US3.â
And as he adjusted the apron strings with one hand and gave Player a wink.
Oh, lord.
Player groaned, throwing a dish towel in his direction. âYouâre going to burn my kitchen down.â
âB3TT3R TH4N Y0U P0ISON1NG 1T W1TH SUG4R,â Griefer shot back without missing a beat, catching the towel in one hand like it was all part of the act.
The kitchen filled with their usual rhythm: Playerâs exasperated mutters, Grieferâs relentless teasing, the sizzling from the pan competing with laughter that lingered far longer than either would admit. It was loud, ridiculous, comfortableâso familiar it almost felt like ritual.
But rituals donât last forever. And he meant that in the best way possible. Because by the time the night slowed, the kitchen chaos had dulled into quiet clinks of plates being put away, into lazy yawns Player swore he could fight off, into the faint hum of the city bleeding through thin apartment walls.
And somewhere between sitting down on the couch âjust for a secondâ and half-heartedly arguing about whose cooking had actually been worse, Playerâs eyes had fluttered shut.
When he stirred again, it wasnât to the kitchen, but to warmth.
The neon green of Grieferâs jacket, sharp even under the dim apartment light. On his bedâ presumably where Griefer had carried him safely to.
His arms, steady, wrapped around Player.
The green of sprouting vines curling and winding, tangled with the hero's limbs as though the plant itself refused to let go. Leaves scattered in lazy arcs around them, brushing against the floor.
And somewhere in the mess of it all, Player realizedâ
Heâd changed his mind about the color green.
âY0UâR3 ST4R1NG, PUNK."
Grieferâs voice cut through the quiet, smug and lilting, like heâd been waiting for the perfect moment to strike. His grin was all teeth and mischief, his tone dancing on that razor-thin edge between taunt and invitation.
The vines coiled lazily around Playerâs wrists and waist tightened just enough, not in threat, but in reminderâgentle pressure that said, youâre caught, and I know it.
Player didnât flinch. Didnât even look away. Instead, he let a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth, smooth as he shot back, âSure am.â
His tone was casual, but his eyes gleamed with challenge. Voice a bit groggy from his nap. âI love staring at my talking, walking plant buddy. Itâs like free entertainment, right in my apartment because someone didn't know how to go back to his own crib.â
â0H PL34S3,â Griefer drawled, his grin wide and infuriating, â1T W4SNT MY F4ULT Y0U US3D MY C4LLC4RD B3C4US3 Y0U M1SS3D M3. TH3N W3 W3NT 0N TH3 M0ST R0M4NT1C GR0C3RY D4T3 3V3R."
Player groaned, dragging a hand down his face, looking back at him afterwards.
âThat is not what happened.â
But Griefer only tilted his head in mock thought, neon green jacket catching the light in a way that made his smirk even more obnoxious. His eyes narrowed, like a predator locking onto prey, like heâd just struck gold.
âOh, SUR3,â he crooned, leaning in just enough for the vines around Playerâs arm to tighten playfully. âK33P L00K1N' 4T M3 L1K3 TH4T, PUNK. R34LLY M4K3S M3 W0ND3Rââ his voice dipped lower, teasing, deliberate, each syllable drawn out, ââ1F Y0U W4NN4 K33P M3 4S 4 P3RM4N3NT H0US3PL4NT 0R S0M3TH1NG.â
The hero huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes, but his smirk didnât falter. âYouâd die in a week. I can barely keep a basil alive. And besidesââ
His gaze flicked over Griefer. The hero smirks.
âYou take up way too much space to be a houseplant.â
For a moment, silence. And thenâ
Griefer let out a loud 'HUH?!', and Player half-expected him to sprout a fainting couch alongside his vines. His hand flew to jab at the hero's chest, as though accusing a random woman in a witch trial. â4RE Y0U C4LL1NG M3 F4T?!â
Player shrugged nonchalantly. Not at all denying his accusation, humming 'innocently', looking at his nails like it was the most interesting thing ever. âHmmm I dunnoâŠYou literally sprawl across my entire couch every time you come over.â
âTH4TâS C4LL3D C0MF0RT, PUNK!â Griefer barked back, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him. His vines flexed around Playerâs waist again, tugging him just slightly closer, as if to punctuate his words. âY0UâD M1SS 1T 1F 1 STOPP3D.â
"I'd rather for you to stop so I can actually sit down in my own couch." He pointed out, going on with their banter, then giving Griefer a smack to the face due to being too close.
"You know, sitting like a normal robloxian doesn't hurt anyone, stop manspreading your legs everywhere."
â1M 4 SP3C14L K1ND 0F R0BL0X14N,â Griefer shot back instantly, grinning wide enough to show teeth. âY0UâD S1T R1GHT B3S1D3 M3 ANYW4Y.â
Before Player could retort, the vines gave another playful squeeze, sudden enough to throw off the hero's composure, letting out a small yelp, and the smug bastard didnât waste a second seeing that it was now his chance to turn their banter to his control.
â4ND N0W Y0U'R3 BLUSH1NG 4G41N,â Griefer purred, the words sharp but smooth, each syllable dripping with mockery. He tilted his head just slightly, as though to savor the sight, his grin curling wider.
Playerâs throat worked, willing his smirk to stay, though his ears betrayed him by burning redâ alongside his face heating up, forcing a scoff out. âBlushing? Dude. All your stupid vines are blocking the airflow.â
Griefer barked a laugh, leaning closer, the neon edge of his jacket brushing against Playerâs arm before the vines also curled around him. â1TS A S1GN TH4T Y0U SH0ULD 1NV3ST 1N 4N 41R C0ND1T10N3R... BUT H3Y, M4YB3 Y0U JUST C4NâT H4NDL3 M3.â
âOh, I can handle you just fine,â Player shot back before he could stop himself. The words slipped out too easily, too sharp, and his smirk faltered the second Grieferâs grin widened like heâd just been handed the best gift in the world.
â0H? D1D Y0U H34R TH4T, V1N3S?â Griefer said, gesturing at the greenery sprouted from himself, coiled around them, his tone dripping with mockery. âL0C4L PUNK S4YS H3 C4N H4NDL3 M3.â
The vines shifted again, brushing against Playerâs wrists until his own hands entangled with his own. at the same time, the vines snaked to Player's waist, curling tighter like a mischievous cat refusing to be ignored.
âObviously," Player muttered, rolling his eyes slightly, though his voice betrayed him by catching on the edges. His vheeks dusted with pink now that he's practically cuddling with Griefer alongside his vines binding him down.
"Youâre just being annoying, that's for sure.â
â4NN0Y1NG, HUH?â Griefer leaned in closer, his jacket brushing against Playerâs arm. The neon green seemed almost to glow now, like it was laughing at him too. âFUNNY CUZ Y0UâR3 N0T PULL1NG 4W4Y.â
Playerâs lips parted, but nothing came out. Because Griefer was right. He wasnât. And he didnât think he ever would.
âNot like I can pull away, genius!â he shot back, though his voice lacked the usual bite, the words landing softer than intended.
Grieferâs smirk deepened at the edges, but he didnât push further this time. Instead, the vines slackened slightly, curling more lazily around Playerâs arms, not binding so much as resting.
Comfortable. Familiar.
And for the first time, maybe ever, the color green didnât just remind him of the world he had to fight through. It wasnât just a color anymore. Not just grass on a meadow or moss on forgotten stones.
Not the sickly hue of some monster he had to fight or the dull shade of dying weeds. Noâthis green was alive. Warm. A shade that pressed against his skin, steady and grounding, like it belonged there.
It reminded him of thisâthis ridiculous, smug, impossible man who made his chest feel like it was about to burst and his thoughts tie themselves into knots.
âH3Y.â Griefer called out after a while.
Silence.
He waited, but nothing came back. No sharp retort, no muttered complaint, not even a lazy shove of protest.
Of course. The hero was already asleep right after taking a damn nap. Every time they hung out, Player would always end up like thisâburnt out, stubborn enough to deny it until his body decided otherwise.
Griefer let out a low breath through his nose, half amusement, half something gentler. His vines shifted on instinct, adjusting to cradle the other man closer. And though heâd never admit it out loud, not even under threatâhe didnât mind at all.
Griefer leaned back against the couch, his grin softening into something less teasing to something more soft. He didnât mind. Not one bit. Because when the hero fell asleep like this, tucked into his vines like they belonged there, Griefer could finally watch.
He noticed everything. The way Playerâs shoulders eased, no longer weighed down by whatever battles heâd been fighting in silence.
The faint crease in his brow that only smoothed when sleep claimed him. Even the steady rise and fall of his chestâit was the only proof Griefer needed that Player trusted him. Trusted him enough to let go.
Hell, Griefer knew the guy barely got enough rest as it was. He pushed himself too hard, carried too much, kept moving like if he stopped, the whole world would collapse. So seeing him sleep so soundly here, of all placesâin his hold, surrounded by his vinesâfelt like a victory Griefer would never admit out loud.
His vines shifted unconsciously, curling closer, adjusting their grip with a tenderness that betrayed every mocking word he usually threw. He needed to prune soon; all the buds had bloomed, petal after petal unfurling without restraint, bright against the heroâs dark clothes.
It figured, didnât it? That his body would betray him like this. Blooming whenever Player complimented him. Blooming whenever Player's near. Blooming whenever he simply thinks about the hero.
And damn it, he was happy.
The white-haired menace tilted his head, watching the way a leaf brushed against Playerâs cheek like it couldnât help itself. His own smirk softened further, almost wistful.
âL00K WH4T Y0U D0 T0 M3, PUNK,â he whispered, voice barely more than a vibration in the quiet.
He knew Player couldnât hear him. That was the point.
Because if he were awake, Griefer would never say it. Never admit that every time the hero dozed off on him, he felt like the most trusted bastard alive. That he liked the warmth pressed against him, the smell of cheap detergent clinging to Playerâs hoodie, the way his vines bloomed like they knew something he refused to put into words.
So instead, he let the silence hold them. Let the flowers bloom unchecked, wild and vibrant, all because the one person who made him laugh, fight, and curse in equal measure had also made him feel⊠safe.
âY0U R34LLY 4R3 4 P41N,â Griefer murmured, more fond than annoyed. His voice, usually sharp with mockery, was low nowâalmost tender.
The vines shifted again, curling with the slow deliberation of something alive and protective, cradling the sleeping hero like he was something worth guarding. A secret.
So he leaned down, his wild grin softened to nothing more than the barest curve of his lips. Almost routine by now, almost instinct, he pressed a kiss against Playerâs forehead. Light. Careful. The kind of gesture heâd never, ever let the punk catch him doing if he could help it.
Everytime Player falls asleep and he doesn't properly gives him a goodnight, he makes sure to press a kiss to the hero's forehead as a compensation.
Except Player had stirred awake just moments before, heart stumbling against his ribs just like every other time Griefer gave him 'secret' forehead kisses.
He didnât move though. Didnât flinch or open his eyes. Noâhe stayed perfectly still, kept his breathing even, playing the role of âfast asleepâ with the kind of stubborn determination only he could manage. Because if there was one thing heâd never admit, it was how much he loved this part.
Every damn time.
That goodnight peck. That fleeting press of warmth on his forehead that burned hotter than any of Grieferâs snide remarks. It wasnât about being caughtâit was about savoring it, holding onto the one piece of proof that beneath all the banter and sharp edges, Griefer cared.
And so he let it happen. Let the villainâs vines hold him steady, let the soft brush of petals bloom around him, let Griefer believe he was still asleep. His smile was hidden, buried against his own arm, but it was there. Small. Secret.
Because the truth was? He wouldnât trade those stolen goodnights for anything.
Not that heâd ever tell him.
â
"Goodmornin' handsome."
"....WH4T"
"I was talking to myself, you idiot." Player says as he brushes his hair in front of his mirror.
And Griefer was debating on whether he'd smack the hero with his trusty crowbar or kick behind his knees so he'll faceplant on the said mirror.
Obsession pursues the hunger of the self, even if others are harmed in the process.
A man's desire has no natural boundary. The more it is fed, the more it grows, always demanding more.
Desire consumes.
"I Lov[<3]e Y0u, 7âs7s7even."
â
OR: a voidburger fic where I make the past 7n7 and noli lore mix with the new one
Cultists bowed low before him, their foreheads pressed against the fractured ground leaking the essence of the void, whispering prayers that dissolved into static as they left their lipsâ The same static that the now-deity emits in all the presence of his glorious power.
His followers' trembling adoration echoed through the hollow expanse of the void temple, yet Noli did not so much as turn his gaze. To him, their reverence was nothing more than background noiseâfleeting sparks against the infinite dark. Not even worthy enough to be considered worthwhile, not worthy enough to consider one of his stars.
He drifted above them, weightless and untouchable, as the void itself had chosen him as its center. His form had become more than human, more than flesh; he had ascended, shaped and crowned by the abyss.
The cloak upon his back that wrapped around his form rippled like a living tide, its folds spilling and shifting as if woven from liquid shadow, and with each idle step, the void glittered of stars and purple hues blending as though bowing to his presence.
The Void Crown, wrested and taken under 007n7âs constant nagging, had completed its work: the coronation of a god. The coronation of Noli.
Yet divinity carried its price.
The moment he placed the crown atop of his head, half of Noliâs body had begun to wither, eaten away by the very power he now commanded. His once-pristine black mask cracked and then sundered in two, the broken side exposing purple flesh warped and rotting, veined with lightless cracks, warping alongside every shift of his code.
Noli's frame had stretched taller, still lanky, but it was now almost statuesque, his figure inscribed with shifting binary that coiled together with the jagged symbols of the cult he now owns, scriptures of the void splayed across his decaying half in a language he'd never seen before and yet understands, his own emblem burned within himâetched deep as if branded by eternity itself. The void staking its claim.
Recalling the events, he should have been angry.
After all, 007n7 had vanished the moment he took the Void Crown, only leaving the sound of his c00lgui executing a hacking commaand and Noli himself alone to ascend into something neither man nor mortalâ Leaving him to rot. Yet anger never came. How could it? He had become both creation and ruin, a deity veiled in contradiction, a living paradox of the void itselfâendless, all-consuming, divine.
All because of 007n7.
He can hear all the prayers from the cultist that was meant only for him, whispers running through his ears like black water, his beautifully corrupted flesh burned with silent authority, and in that stillness Noli understood:
This path was never an accident.
He was sculpted for it, shaped by every fracture and loss, pulled toward this destiny as surely as a star is pulled into collapse. He was born to inherit the stars. And if he knew it now, then 007n7 must have known it long before, pushing him onward with relentless teasing. His silence, his absenceâit was not betrayal, but confirmation. The very reason why he tracked down the crown and make him be the one to grab it was to make Noli who he is now.
A God,
Complete with prowess.
Sure, he had a good amount of power thanks to his own hacking panel that matched 7n7âs, being a duo that caused terror throughout Robloxia, but 007n7 must have seen the dormant potential, the fault line inside Noli that could split open into something greater than the confines of code.
Perhaps every nudge, every taunt, every carefully chosen word had been less about just being partners in crime and more about setting him on a path that neither of them could return from.
What once began as lines of code flickering against a holographic screen that executed feeble commands to troll the average robloxian had expanded into something vast, immeasurable, and terrifyingly beautiful.
Where his GUI once mirrored 7n7âs ingenuity, a battlefield of codes and commandsâAfter getting the void crown, whole constellations now bent like easy-soft circuits, galaxies shuddered as if waiting for his input, and reality rippled beneath his fingertips like a system begging to be rewritten. The same familiar rhythm from his hacking skills that was now also so powerful.
Noli realized the truth late.
7n7 hadnât simply wanted him to win. He had wanted him to ascend. To become something beyond victory or defeat, beyond hacker and a college roommate. 007n7 wanted him to be something eternal.
Something divine.
A God.
Complete with worshippers.
He felt the truth of it in every protocol he could summonâthe way his commands bent probability, how a single line of rewritten code could silence the whole experience or make the stars themselves hesitate. Power pooled at the edge of his consciousness like mercury: beautiful, cold, and impossible to hold without cutting yourself. Each ritual the cult enacted only amplified that force, their pledges spoken to his will, their fear refining the sharpness of his authority.
And yet, even as he learned to script storms and bend faith into protocol, a quieter code pulsed beneath everything: the private syntax of two friends who spent cold nights lounging across eachother in a dimly lit college dorm. His best friend's words barbed encouragement ââDon't you want to become God?â âhad been both prophecy and provocation. Stealing a kiss right after he'd answered yes.
The brunette had never forced him. 007n7 had never shoved the Void Crown into his hands, nor demanded his submission to it. Only now, wreathed in the majesty of godhood, did the veil fall from his eyes. Every word, every jab and tease, every so-called nagging command had been an arrow pointing toward this throne in the void. 007n7 had not been pressuring himâhe had been shaping him, sculpting him, setting him up for a greatness Noli himself had been too small, too bland,
And far, far too human, to ever imagine.
That realization was not what unsteadied him. It was not the weight of the Crown on his head, nor the paradox of creation and ruin etched into his flesh, that made his rotting heart falter. It was something far simpler.
He can only imagine what 007n7's face would look like once the sees him now.
After yearsâyears of quiet longing hidden beneath sharp banter, mouth-to-mouth kisses that both swore were platonical, and the chaos of their shared worldâNoli finally admitted to himself what his soul and code had always known. The fact that he loved his best friend.
007n7
His roommate.
His partner in crime.
Shit.
The Void Cult leaderâs chest ached with a rhythm both broken and eternal, his half-decayed form trembling under the truth he could no longer deny. He remembered the laughter between codes, the sharp edge of competition that always concealed an unspoken care, the way 007n7âs voice had haunted his decisions long after days of no-contact because of some stupid argument. It was maddening.
His hands were easily cold, Noli wished 007n7 was here to hold them, to keep them warm.
Divine power surged through his veins, yet what shook him was not the infinity of the void, but the memory of a mist, a glance, a presence now absent.
Noli had ascended. But divinity had not purged his humanity. It had amplified it. It had burned away every excuse, every barrier, until only truth remained: his heart, rotting yet relentless, beat for the one who had led him here. Noli had ascended as the god of the void. And yet at the same time right after, he became a new-god undone by love, a deity haunted by the absence of the only soul who had truly known him.
And so, even with eternity bowing at his feet, his own prowess making the void itself bend and ripple to accommodate his presence, the thought of 007n7 lingered above all elseâlike a bright, untouchable star, like a destiny he had been too cowardly to face. His ascension was supposed to silence such frailties, to burn away the remnants of human longing, but instead it magnified them until they throbbed louder than the chants surrounding him.
âOâ great lord, heed our prayers, forgive us for our sinsââ the cultists wailed, their voices rising as one, desperate, trembling, filled with awe and fear. Their bodies pressed lower against the shifting ground, as if they feared being swallowed whole by the void should he refuse them. ââWe are to serve the void forevermore!â
But their words dissolved into weak gusts of wind against the roar of his thoughts. Hollow. Meaningless. As though the void itself mocked them, throwing back their cries as nothing more than distorted echoes. Their voices rose, yet none of them could pierce the storm in his mind.
A cultist rose from their kneeling position.
â...My lord, I have sinned...â
The confession cracked through the silence, trembling, desperate. The cultistâs voice was raw, straining beneath the weight of reverence and fear. She pressed her forehead to the cold surface beneath them, knuckles white as she begged for absolution. To them, sin was a wound only their god could close, their trembling bodies the offering, their devotion the plea.
'Olivia.' The voidstar supplied.
That was the sinner's name.
Noliâs eyes lingered, not on the penitent, but on the futility that dripped from their every word. The void pulsed around him, the binary scars across his body flickering with uneven rhythm. Was this what godhood meant? To preside over the broken and fearful, to collect their guilt like a ledger while the one voice he sought remained silent?
âThe Void isnât pleased with you.â Noli dismissed, his tone sharp, cutting away at their reverence as quickly as it came, silencing the first cultist who dared confess. His voice reverberated through the black expanse, deep and layered, like a choir of shadows speaking through him.
Because what was divinity worth, when every prayer, every bow, every voice meant nothing compared to the silence of the one who had left him? Their worship could not fill the void 007n7 had carved into his being.
"You do not deserve the blessing of the stars."
The wails of the congregation broke. Their devotion tipping into hysteria. Fingers scraped the fractured floor until they bled, as though flesh and bone alone could prove their loyalty. Some muttered broken prayers, others dared not speak at all, their silence heavy with terror.
Above them, the void swelled and recoiled like a living sea, its currents bending around Noliâs form. Streaks of violet light of different shades forked in the distance, illuminating his figure in flashes that burned into the eyes of all who looked up.
To them, he was both savior and executioner, a God whose mercy was thinner than glass.
The space between each and every one of their forms stretched unbearably long, until even the air seemed unwilling to exist without his command. Then, with the faintest curl of his fingers, the pressure lifted, and the void stilled once more. The cult remained on their knees, broken and trembling, afraid to raise their eyes lest they be found unworthy.
And yet, for all their terror, their devotion was shallow to him. Their cries did not stir him, their obedience meant nothing. For in the quiet that followed their worship, only a specific someone's lack of presence thundered through his beingâan absence the void itself refused to fill.
Beneath the grandeur of such dominion, a silence gnawed at him. The voices of mortals were pale echoes compared to the void left by a single missing name. Their hymns, their cries, their trembling reverence
They were good-for-nothing currenciesâ overprinted money that could not buy what he sought. For gods did not need devotion. Gods required truth. And his truth had abandoned him.
Their worship was a hollow performance of loyalty.
007n7âs absence was the only truth he could not swallow.
His curled hair shifted with the phantom winds of the void, his torn mask glinting the crown's emitted glory, his face lit by the same luminosity. The binary etched across his decayed side pulsed in rhythm with the void's emptyscapeâthe 1's and 0's flickering purple, staggered, uneven, glitching, betraying his inner conflict.
Noli drifted past the cultists, his form floating above the pavement, it was as though reality itself rippled to accomodate his godly presence. Air threatening to shatter and punish those who took the wrong breath within his vicinity.
The void parted before him, stars bending into streaks and hues, leaving a trail to mark his path then returning as ot was before, their brilliance eaten alive by the endless black, what shone through were stars that now are his own. He did not need their prayersâhe had long since surpassed the fragile comfort of devotion. Worship was for men who wanted to be God.
Men yearn to be gods.
Gods yearn for what men have.
What gnawed at him was not his cultists' fear, but the empty chasm where a single voice should have been. That familiar timbre, sharp and grounding, that once cut through chaos like a bladeâit was absent, and the silence screamed louder than any chant. The more they praised him, the more counterfeit it all seemed, as if the void itself mocked him with hollow echoes of his adoration for his college dorm mate.
His rotted half twitched, the symbols carved into his flesh burning, shifting faintly, spilling a violet glow that contrasted and bled into the shadows. The glitching rhythm across his body surged like a failing heartbeat, each pulse jagged and unpredictable, the soundless crash of code unraveling into fragments. He clenched his hand against the voidstar, it stung, and the entirety of the void trembled.
"Sev.."
Still, no answer came. No presence. No trace of the one who mattered. And Noli could feel the fractal cracks starting to form.
His gaze fell to the kneeling figures behind him, eyes burning through the half-mask. They were small, pitiful, bound by their own illusions of faith. He could crush them with a word, unmake them with a gesture, yet none of it would bring him closer to 007n7.
The void was endless, yet in its infinity, it offered him nothing but the absence of the other hacker. And so, in the hollow majesty of his throne, Noli realized the bitter truth: godhood had given him everything except the one thing he truly desired.
007n7
â
The first time he tried to reach 007n7 was a goddamned failure.
He tried to access the panel he used for hackingâtrying to locate where his best friend was and teleport on over to him. Only to be met with 'Teleportation Error // Object: Null.'
The words flashed through the GUI like a sentence, a denial sharper than any blade. His chest tightened. For a god crowned by the void, nothing should have been unreachable. And yet, in that single phrase, the universe itself told him otherwise. In the midst of endless devotion, cloaked in divinity and crowned by the void itself, he was lost.
No matter how he rewrote the query, no matter how he forced the panel to obey, the response came back with cold finality. Null. Absence. Erasure. Gone.
'He's dead' The voidstar supplied, the same way it did with that sinner's name.
Each attempt cut deeper than the last, the flashing denial gouging into him like a blade across the ribs. He was a god now, crowned by the void, cradled by infinity itselfâyet the system that once bent at his fingertips refused him the one answer he sought.
And it wasnât helping that time itself betrayed him. The void was treacherous, its currents flowing in ways that mocked mortal measure. A couple of minutes in his realm unraveled into days back in the origin dimension. Hours here could mean weeks there. What more, when the newly-crowned deity had lingered for days within the void temple, indulging in the coronation that sealed his divinity?
The realization twisted in his chest: if the panelâs null meant what he feared, then his hesitation, his silence, his arrogance of timelessness had cost him. Entire years might have slipped away while he floated above the cultistsâ worship, wrapped in glory.
Years in which his best friendâs world had flowed on forward without him. Years in which something could have happened.
Still, he tried again. Again and again. Each attempt cracked deeper into him, his voice breaking into snarls as the panel refused him. Null. Null. Null. It was merciless, mechanical, absolute. The silence from the other end was worse than deathâit was as though the universe had conspired to erase 7n7 from existence. His own power howled inside him, but it could not reach what was gone.
Then the GUI flickered. For one horrifying second, it betrayed him. Flashing not null, but an image. The corpse of the brunette, sprawled on a concrete floor, blood spilling in a widening pool. A gun clenched in his limp hand. His pink glasses crooked, shattered at the corner. His messy hair matted dark with red.
Noli wasnât stupid. He knew what happened with just the imagery alone, the crownâs hum dimming to silence as if even the void itself mournedâor mockedâhis loss. The panel didnât glitch. The GUI didnât falter. That image of 7n7âs body was no error in the code. It was truth, stripped bare and shoved into his hands.
And still, he couldnât accept it.
Noli turned to the void star. The raw core of his ascension pulsed like a heart in his grip, resisting as if to warn him, but he sank his will into it without hesitation. Commands blurred into pleas, logic into obsession. He demanded that the void yield, that it give him somethingâa path, a trace, a signalâanything that proved his best friend still exists somewhere.
Noliâs fingers shook as the void star pulsed violently, reacting to his desperation. Its glow grew fevered, frantic, answering his refusal to bow to what he knew was final. He would not accept death as an endpoint, not when he was god, not when the void belonged to him.
If his own dimension had erased 7n7, then he would claw through infinity itself to find one where he still existed. One where he could try again.
Noli bent his will into the Void Star, no longer commanding but clawing, tearing, demanding. He forced his essence into the core, urging it to behave as his old panel once had, twisting its functions into something alien.
His body threatened to break even more under the sheer power, rot, 1's and 0's spreading further up his arm as the star screamed against his intrusion. The void itself quaked, snapping like glass shards beneath his command.
The Void Star screamed as it bent under the weight of his desperation, light breaking into jagged streaks. His body rotted further, code crawling across his skin in jagged bursts, but he pressed harder. He was not merely querying; he was tearing open the fabric of reality itself. And then, at last, the void relented.
A response.
Not null.
Coordinatesâraw, jagged, unstable, tearing through the GUI like lightning across broken glass. They burned against the darkness, not clean lines of code but erratic pulses, trembling with static as though the void itself resisted giving them up. And yet, there it was. Real. Palpable.
A presence flickered across his vision, faint but undeniable. The GUI surged in protest, symbols spilling across it in unfamiliar scripts, alien characters that writhed and glitched before finally locking into place.
And then he saw it.
A trace. A signature. A heartbeat where there should have been silence.Â
007n7.
Alive.
Not gone, not erased, not condemned to null but tethered elsewhere. A realm the GUI labeled in broken, fractured white letters to contrast against the white backgroundâForsaken.
Noli didn't hesitate to click whatever the hell it was that had 7n7's user ID inside of its file, the GUI buzzing before its screen expanded, the coordinates burning themselves into Noliâs vision, searing across the GUI until his body moved on instinct alone. He summoned the void around him, folding space as though it were parchment, and stepped through the fracture.
The whispers of his supposed 'duty' as a deity dimmed behind him, the said words collapsing into silence as the void devoured the background. All that mattered was forwardâall that mattered was 007n7.
The air was different. Heavy, unfamiliar, tinged with the static of a world that wasnât quite his own. Someone else pulling the strings. He could feel its looming presence everywhere. But none of it mattered. For there, in front of him, was 007n7. Facing his back, kneeled down, fixing a generator with one hand, his figure familiar in a way that carved into his very being.
Noli moved as if in a dream. The small differencesâ new clothes, stubble, the careful way 007n7 worked at the generatorâshould have been flags, but they blurred into insignificance beneath the tide of recognition. This must've been his 007n7 after a few years have passed.
So, where others might catalog inconsistency, Noli felt only the loving geometry of a shape that fit him: the slope of a shoulder, the rhythm of a breath, the particular tilt of a head he had mapped into memory a thousand times.
Although 007n7 now wore an expression of waryâfear?âsomething Noli hadnât seen on his best friendâs face at all,
It was still 007n7, so he closed the distance without thinking.
The void shifted with him, bending like a curtain torn aside, his every step pressing eternity into the cracks of this world. He felt his throat tighten, laughter clawing up from his chest again, this time sharp, frantic, desperate to mask the fragile thread of hope trembling inside him.
Fear didnât belong on 7n7âs face. Fear was for the weak, for strangers, for those who had never stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him against the chaos of systems and gods. Yet here it was, carved into his features like a scar. Noliâs mind reeled, but the thought was quickly smothered, devoured by the need to believe.
'Of course heâs afraid,' Noli rationalized, his thoughts twisting to suit the narrative he needed. 'Heâs been alone. For years. Waiting for me to find him. Heâs only cautious because Iâve taken too long.'
But now Noli had ascended. He won't ever leave his best friend's side.
The void-star pulsed warmly in his palm, reinforcing his delusion, whispering certainty into the cracks of his faith. He reached out, trembling fingers grazing the fabric of that blue button-up, the unfamiliar cloth sending shivers through him. His breath hitched as though touching proof of a miracle.
The void-star pulsed in his hand, a steady, burning weight, urging him forward. Noliâs fingers twitched as if pulled by something greater than choice, reaching outâdesperate to confirm with touch what his eyes swore to him. The thought of contact consumed him: the rough edges of calloused skin, the strange warmth that had always lingered beneath 7n7âs defenses, the faint trace of cider that once clung to him now tangled with the fresh scent of grass underfoot. It was real. He was real.
Noli opened his mouth, but the void tore the sound apart.
âBY tH⏠$tâR[s]ââ
The words glitched, fractured, too loud in the silence. A laugh followed, jagged and unsteady, a broken current crackling out of him before he could rein it back in. Half-joy, half-madness.
This was 007n7.
âSeVe7Æ7..."
His voice distorted again, static stretching the syllables, but Noli didnât care. His chest heaved, his eyes bright with something raw, unbearable. Even as the man before him flinched, even as wary eyessearched for escape, Noli only saw the familiarâthe anchor he had ached for through eternity.
A heavy presence tugged on his own. And yet Noli marched forth. Alhough the man before him recoiled, flinching as if struck, scanning the unseen boundaries of the void like a prisoner measuring his cell for exits, Noli did not see it. He did not want to see it. His eyes burned past the foreign edgesâthe stubble, the wariness, the careful distrustâand fastened only on what he recognized.
The messy hair. The crooked glasses. The stupid burger hat. The weight of a presence he had craved through silence and eternity.
And then, only when they were face to faceâwhen the voidâs illusions no longer had the chance to blur his visionâdid Noli see it. The way 007n7âs hand pressed hard against his side, fingers trembling as they tried to hold himself together. The blue button-up was already ruined, drenched with crimson spreading like ink across fabric, every breath forcing another pulse of blood through the wound.
For a moment, the sight didnât register. Noliâs mind refused it, rejected it, scrambled to overwrite the reality as though it were just another line of faulty code. But the void did not glitch this time; the wound was real. The blood was real. His best friendâhis starâwas broken before him.
The laugh that had lingered in his throat curdled into silence, static swallowed whole by the gravity of what stood in front of him.
And 007n7 ran.
â
The air in was heavy, metallic with the scent of rust, grass and blood. 007n7 had grown used to that.
He was categorized as a survivalist, find the generators, fix them, stay quiet, and for the love of everything, donât get caught. Because his kit wasnât made for saving others. It wasnât even made for saving himself. Clones, misdirection, a slim window of escape if he played it just right, teleportation from his formerly-powerful C00LGUI that now takes more than a few seconds than necessary to execute the command.
But beyond that? Every scrape, every slash, every ounce of damage stuck to him like tar. His abilities werenât meant to benefit anyone but him, and everyone else knew it.
This round had already gone to shit faster than most. Theyâd started as seven. Seven was manageable sometimes, but eight was most definitely better. Odds werenât good, but they werenât terrible either. Then he checked the roster on his watch, the names blinking across the cracked screenâand his stomach dropped.
Elliot wasnât there.
No healer.
Not even Builderman, too.
The layout was him, Guest 1337, Shedletsky, Noob, Taph, Two Time, and Chance.
He was lucky enough to have spotted a medkit along the grass, holy grail in rounds like these, enough to buy him and his teammates precious seconds.Â
He deployed his clone first, a perfect decoy intercepting the daemonshankâs slash from 1x, metal shrieking against fabricated flesh. 007n7 didnât waste time to lose the killerâhis watch blinked with the survivorsâ statuses, Guestâs health bar flashing low, and he searched for the soldier then veered towards him without hesitation. His readout was at 30% meanwhile 007n7 was at 27%, dangerously close to collapse, but Guest had to be the one to keep fighting.
After finding the blue-haired man and semi-arguing on who should heal up, the Soldier finally relented and let 007n7 use the medkit on him. The heal was sloppy, hands shaking, nerves frayed from the chase, Guest gave a smile and muttered a thank you before goong on to the frontlines again, checking in on Chance who had just got hit by entanglement.
Recklessness made him carelessâa strike clipped his side moments right after, crimson splattering across his already bloodstained shirt. He hissed, pain white-hot, but thankfully now his ability' cooldown was over, his clone bought him just enough cover to slip free, vanishing into the shadows as 1xâs weapon carved the decoy's instead of his flesh.
007n7's breath came ragged, chest tight. Looking back and seeing Guest block the mass infection and punch 1x before the projectile reaches him. But it wouldn't have made much of a difference. Because he was at a 1%. One wrong move, getting caught by an entanglement, a stray mass infection or just one smack from 1x4's minion will be the end of him for this round.
But he pushed back into the cycle. Find items to help others. Hide. Generators. Always generators. That was survival. That was the rhythm of this hellhole alongside die and revive, die and revive again, die and die, and die, and die infinitely.
But then the rhythm broke.
The thing standing there wasnât like the usual killers. He kept track of them quite easily, always repeating, but in cycles.Â
1x1x1x1, John Doe, Slasher, and his own son.
But this one was different. Half-rotted, tall, cloaked in black that shimmered like liquid. He wasnât just hereâhe warped the world around him, the air rippling as if reality was too weak to contain him.Â
The sky itself splitânot with lightning, not with scripted terror heâd seen a hundred times before, but with something wrong. The stars bent in directions they shouldnât, dragging streaks of light into spirals that defied gravity. The air pulsed like it was alive, pressure shifting so violently it rattled in his teeth. And from that collapse, something formed.
A figure. Tall. Cloaked. Half-rotted and yet radiant, divine, as if the higher beings in the name of Roblox had sculpted it and then cursed it halfway through.
That thing wasnât one of them.
Heâd been in too many rounds to mistake it for another survivorâ survivors bled, stumbled, screamed. They werenât born out of ruptured skies. They didnât carry that kind of weight, a presence that made the ground groan and the stars warp into spirals.
The rules of this realm were cruel, but they were rules. Survive until the time bled out, keep the generators humming to decrease the time needed to survive, dodge the killerâs blade long enough to outlast the round as a survivalist. There was no escape. No door at the end, no salvation waiting past the timer. You survived, or you didnât. Either way, you always come back unharmed in the cabin.
But this?
This wasnât part of the game.
His hand snapped to his watch, thumb flicking across the glass. seven survivors dwindled to fourâNoob and Taph gone, Two Time reaching their 2nd life only for their HP bar to flicker to 0%. 007n7's own HP was still hovering at 1% from daemonshankâs last near-hit. He couldnât afford another mistake. The thing stepped closer. Not fast, not lunging like 1x, but deliberate, its gaze fixed squarely on him as though the rest of the realm didnât exist.
âBY tH⏠$tâR[s]ââ it croaked, voice glitching, static curling through the syllables.
His blood ran cold. 007n7 clutched his wound letting his stamina bar fill up before starting the chase, staying for too long that he heard it laugh. Not the manic bark of a killer chasing blood, not even human laughter, but something glitchy, metallic, fractured. It rattled in 7n7âs bones, a broken machine choking on sound.
Then came the word. His name.
The new killer knew his name. Which was bad enough, but then he saw the look in its eyesâdesperate, starved, fixated. It wasnât random. It wasnât coincidence. Whatever this thing was, it knew him. It wanted him.
And 007n7 didnât wait to figure out why.
His feet moved before his mind caught up, tearing through the grass, lungs burning, side screaming with pain from the earlier injury. He didnât dare look back. Maybe this new killer had tricks, maybe it could bend the rules, maybe it was worse than anything this hellhole had thrown at him beforeâbut the one truth he clung to was the same as always: if something knew your name here, it meant you were already marked. It meant you are connected, one way or another.
The same way 1x1x1x1 always goes for Shedletsky, driven by Hatred.
The same way John Doe always becomes even more enraged whenever it's Builderman he's chasing.
The same way Slasher kills off Guest 1337 with more brutality than he does with other survivors.
The same way his own son had considered him his 'favorite playmate' and hug 007n7 whenever he 'tags' him because he was his dad.
007n7 bolted.
â
"Mass Infection!"
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
