I know this is very unlikely to happen but if Toby somehow makes Berdley relevant again in the last two chapters I will buy one deltjillion copies of deltarune
Years will pass, the stories of your adventures would unfold— 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 unmoored— A ghost of the battles that once defined who you 'were'.
Player."
—
OR: Player finishes his quest gathering the SFOTH swords for Shedletsky and does back to his original timeline! happy stuff happens!^_^
—
This was the end, wasn’t it?
Player stood there, shoulders sagging under a weight that wasn’t just his pack. His breath came uneven, chest rising and falling as though every inhale scraped against his ribs. The silence around him was heavy—thick with the kind of finality that made the air feel colder than it was.
He’d done it. Somehow. Against every staggering odd, every venomous whisper of doubt, every curse that bled from steel and shadow alike—he 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 so—each blade had left its mark.
They had wormed their way into him before—slithering, 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 couldn’t 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 hero—just 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 he’d 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 out—the 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 worse—maybe 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 blades’ burden, even when part of him wondered if this wasn’t survival at all—just prolonging the inevitable.
Not alive.
Surviving.
Barely breathing, but still upright, stubborn as ever. A husk walking forward because stopping wasn’t an option. The trials that should have crushed him hadn’t. The voices that clawed at his sanity hadn’t. The weight of blood-soaked choices, the kind that replayed in his mind at night until he woke choking on his own breath—none of it had broken him.
Against it all, he endured.
Sometimes he wished he hadn’t. 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 wasn’t.
And in the suffocating press of those thoughts, another voice rose unbidden from the dark corners of memory.
(“Hello, young man..”)
He remembered it clear as day.
(“I sense distress within your soul…”)
Back then, he hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry, standing there with blood still drying on his hands— 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 hadn’t asked for.
(“Please, come sit with me.”)
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 couldn’t 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 he’d gathered along the road—each piece not just steel, but a scar, a ghost, a choice carved into him that he could never scrape away. Blades that weren’t just trophies but confessions, lined and jagged, buried in leather and cloth as though that could hide the blood they’d drawn.
His pack sagged against his back, heavier than it had ever been, though the weight wasn’t the steel. No—it 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 victory—or the sickest kind of trap.
He stood there, frozen in the silence, the pack digging into his shoulders as though he wasn’t carrying swords but the whole world itself, chained to him like an anchor he couldn’t 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 anyone—himself, 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 road—if this was what it had all led to—then what was left for him but the unbearable weight of carrying it?
And then—inevitably—the 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.
“Well, would ya look at that!” the adm’r’s 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. “You really did it, eh? Seven blades, all tucked away nice and neat. Hah! Not bad, kiddo."
The words came light, easy, almost fond—like 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 Shedletsky’s voice carried the edges of truths Player couldn’t 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.
“You know,” The brunette drawled, voice slipping into something almost indulgent, like an adult humoring a child who’d just done something clever most their age can't or simply wouldn't want to pull off. “Most people wouldn’t have made it this far. They fight,, they fly, they bleed, they fall—”
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 adm’r sauntered over, plucking the cap off Player’s head without asking. His fingers ruffled through the hero’s already-messy hair, careless and deliberate all at once, leaving it even more unruly than before.
“But you,” Shedletsky went on, tilting his head as though sizing him up, “you’re no ordinary Robloxian, huh?”
It sounded like praise.
It was praise— Or at least—that’s what Player tried to tell himself. Because beneath the lighthearted words, beneath the casual humor, there was something coiled and watchful. Something in Shedletsky’s tone that made it clear: he hadn’t just been waiting for this moment—he had been expecting it.
And yet Player felt a chill coil at the base of his spine. Because every word—no matter how casual—came threaded with knowledge. With weight. As though Shedletsky wasn’t 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.
“—Because you're a hero.” Shedletsky’s voice softened, a smile tugging on his face.
Hero.
It should’ve been a crown, something to wear with pride after everything he’d survived, but instead it slid down his spine like ice. His gut twisted. Because in Shedletsky’s mouth, the title didn’t sound like recognition—it 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.
“And,, congratulations!— hero— For reaching the end of your path.” 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.
“Buuut—” his tone tilted upward, a smirk hiding in the sound “—This end isn't necessarily the end-end, you know?"
Friendly. He tried to tell himself.
That tone—it 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 couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t ignore the way the swords writhed against his back, their whispers no longer divided but screaming together now, sharper, louder, demanding his attention. They didn’t trust Shedletsky. And maybe—just maybe—neither should he.
His heart hammered in his chest, not from exhaustion, not from triumph, but from the gnawing suspicion that he hadn’t won anything at all. That this wasn’t 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 Player’s mind—hard-earned, brittle silence—shattered 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 pack—the cursed weight he had dragged across every battlefield, every town, every nightmare—stirred.
Then they awoke.
And they whispered.
And then they screamed.
It wasn’t 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 rhythm—unified, 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 weren’t 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 —its purple silhouette still lingering in the back of his mind, fragile and desperate, before he’d struck it down and silenced it forever. He still remembered its voice breaking as it begged him to see the truth. He hadn’t listened then. Only to find out the truth for himself just a few moments later
Player clenched his fist—knuckles 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 wasn’t paranoia anymore, wasn’t 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 Shedletsky’s voice cut through the silence—smooth, 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 wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. Not when the danger wasn’t hidden in the swords, but standing right in front of him. The man smiling at him like a mentor. Like a father. Like a friend— But that smile didn’t 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.'
“Hand over the SFOTH swords.”
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 wasn’t 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 again—locking on Shedletsky’s extended hand. Open, steady, patient. Expectant. Waiting.
The hero’s breath hitched.
“We’ll need it,” 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. “To bring you back to your original timeline.”
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 inventory—hands trembling, jaw tight—as 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 Shedletsky’s 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 “thanks.” 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'.
“Alright then, kiddo.”
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.
“Do whatever you want—” Shedletsky continued, tone light, careless, almost dismissive. “You’ve got three days until your grand departure, to continue your adventure in your original timeline.”
Player’s 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
“I’d make the most of it if I were you.”
And so, like the very good temporary employee he was, he nodded along. Because that was it.
That was the role he’d been given, wasn’t 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 it—if the admin could tell how hollow the gesture was. Or maybe he didn’t 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 Player’s scars, all his fights, all the blood he had lost and spilled— just to be remembered as a guy that fetched seven legendary swords for an Admin like a lap dog.
He didn’t 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 Griefer’s crib. Definitely not.
Because if he fast-traveled straight to Griefer’s place, it’d 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 do—walk 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 Griefer’s 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.
Comfort does not come naturally to Griefer, protection does. When you have nightmares, maybe the only way he can protect you is through comfort.
WARNINGS: mentions of blood, gunshot wounds
this fic is also up on ao3
The soft ruffle of bedsheets pulls Griefer out of his sleeping state, the unfamiliar texture of the blankets making him wake up quickly. His eyes meet a ceiling he doesn't recognize, the soft whirr of an AC telling him he is nowhere near Turitopolis in terms of infrastructure. Something rolls over next to him, a soft grunt accompanying the sound of the bed creaking at the shifted weight.
Griefer tenses at the sight of your sleeping body. Your brow furrowed, with the corner of your lips pulled coarsely into a frown. The grip you have on the blankets is tight enough to nearly tear a hole in it.
Grimacing, he lays down next to you again, arm under his pillow as he watches you sleep.
His memory hasn't always been the best, but looking at you here next to him reminds him of why the both of you are even here in the first place. Right, Vermillion village- That punk and his crew in the dunes spot. He feels a slight bit of concern coat his mouth when he swallows.
You'd somehow managed to take a shotgun blast to the side and (barely) survived, telling Griefer through your blood-loss induced wooziness that you'd be fine and that you just needed to sleep at the inn. Griefer is not a doctor, but apparently you fought an ancient god or whatever and won, so he just took your word for it and carried you to the hotel.
Carefully, as not to disturb your sleep, he lifts the blanket wrapped around you to check your abdomen. Your shirt was shredded by the blast, but the wound itself had closed.
Griefer lets go of a breath he forgot he was holding, gently bringing the blanket back over you and returning his eyes to their task of staring up at the ceiling. You are such an idiot. You save people that don't deserve it and put yourself in danger all for some task that some Shedletsky guy is too much of a coward to do himself. You saved HIM, Griefer, of all people, from a fate of being stuck as a plant for eternity.
He mindlessly fidgets with the flower on his cheek.
The sensation of your arm reaching towards him snaps him out of his thoughts to look at you. There you are, still asleep and still frowning, grabbing him for dear life like he's the only thing that can save you from your nightmares. His chest swells— Either with pride or with embarrassment —at the thought of you needing him at all.
He puts his hand on your arm, awkwardly, in an attempt to comfort you. Immediately he cringes and pulls away though, his emotions literally blooming on his face when he realizes that you're trying to cuddle. Theres a small whimpering sound you make when you turn away from him, apparently your unconscious state realized he wasn't going to hold you. After a few cold moments and your lack of touch suddenly beginning to bother him, he rolls onto his side. Weighing his options.
He doesn't have to do this, but god you are so pathetic when you're having nightmares it's almost impossible not to pity you. He's only doing this so you don't roll off the bed and injure yourself further. Yeah. That's a good enough lie, Griefer.
Griefer hesitantly puts his arm around your waist, letting it fall loosely over you until he's 100% sure the plant shit on his body isn't suddenly made of poison ivy or something. He feels you relax under his arm, your hands no longer balled into fists around the covers, judging by the way he can now pull them over his body to get under them with you.
Heat rushes to his face as he pulls you a little closer to his chest, effectively spooning you like a highschool boyfriend snuggling his partner for the first time. He feels your breathing against him, feels the way your tension melts away when he tightens his arm around you. He feels the sigh of relief that escapes you when he finally allows himself to fully wrap himself around you, forming a safe cage of vines and venom that could beat the shit out of just about anything that could come and hurt you.
Griefer almost lets go of you again, embarrassed by this uncharacteristic act of affection he's giving to you. It feels wrong to be so... eeugh... lovey-dovey, But the moment his grip loosens on you, you shake. Uncontrollably.
A quick and quiet panic strikes him deep in the soul and he pulls you tight against him, burying his face into your hair. His thumb gently caresses the skin on your arm, willing your nightmares to end so he can stop his heart from fluttering in his chest like a butterfly. You relax again, a bit of relief entering his body now that you've calmed down again.
What kind of nightmare are you having that you need Him for comfort?
Whatever it is, he can't help the sense of fondness that overtakes him when you snuggle up against him a bit more, your hand finding its way into his. He breathes in the smell of your hair, forgets his previous feelings of embarrassment, and mumbles something against your head as he feels sleep tug at his consciousness.
Hi again! I am literally TERRIFIED posting this lmao. I’ve always been extremely critical of my own writing, and now is no different. I feel like no matter what my writing won’t be up to par. I just hope my little drabble meets your standards and satisfies anyone who happens to come across this! Enjoy :)
Ao3 Link
Fic info: 2.2k words, Potential Demo 4 Spoilers, cussing, period comfort because I started my period and I fucking hate everything, player/reader is implied female because they start their period and i mentioned having a uterus twice but other than that I kept it androgynous, established relationship, fluff, I probably really sucked at this, we chillin with griefer in his crib (so original I know..)
You and Griefer had been officially dating for about a week and a half now, after he finally got the nerve to ask you out. You had no idea that your feelings had been reciprocated at the time, since you figured he still hated you after the whole tussle with the venomshank.
Regardless, though, you were happy. You’d never admit it to his face, but he was pretty attractive - and you really enjoyed getting to know him during the festival that Mayor Thaniyel had set up in honor of his son being cured.
At the time, Griefer had offered to let you hang out with him at his crib, and.. well, who were you to refuse? So you took him up on his offer recently.
You had a good amount of tix, and with all the fights you’d been through recently, you had more than enough to afford a small break and cover a hotel. And honestly? You were feeling a bit worse for wear. You deserved it, after everything that had happened.
Turns out, though, that the “worse for wear” feeling was really just your body trying to warn you of what was to come. You spent yesterday chilling with Griefer on his couch, playing games and chatting, and really enjoying yourself.
You woke up today, ready to do the same thing when you felt a dull pain in your gut, followed by a strange sense of dread. Now that you think about it, how long has it been since you were sent into the past? Three weeks? Maybe four?
And then it hit you. This would be your first period since the convention, and you were completely unprepared.
Quickly, you hurried to the bathroom. As you pulled down your pants to check, you saw a huge red stain had already spread across the fabric. Yep. You had already bled through your underwear and ruined your pants.
Tears welled up in your eyes as you wrapped toilet paper into a makeshift tampon - those were your favorite pair of sleep pants.
You rubbed at your eyes, trying to dry up your tears. Everything was going to be okay! Crying over a pair of pants was ridiculous, you said to yourself.
You walked out the door, shoddily dressed, jacket wrapped around your waist just in case as you went out to go and get supplies. You already knew this was going to be rough because you didn’t have your pain medication - naproxen and birth control that your physician had prescribed specifically for your cycles.
The dull throbbing intensified as you dragged yourself to the nearest convenience store, churning in your gut until it became a constant, sharp ache ringing across your bloated belly. A few tears pricked at your eyes but you quickly and frustratedly wiped them away. You couldn’t be caught crying in public over period pain, that would be way too embarrassing.
The convenience store had ibuprofen, which would only take a little bit of the edge off, but you bought it anyways. Unfortunately for you, they didn’t have any pads, or tampons for that matter. So you were forced to ask the clerk if he knew any place that sold them, and he got this poorly-masked disgusted look on his face before politely telling you that he didn’t. Bitch.
So then you went on a whim and searched around town, finally finding some after three stores and an hour of searching. At this point, the muggy rainforest heat was making you sweat your ass off, hair and clothes sticking uncomfortably to your skin.
The more the day dragged on, the more you wanted to scream at everyone. Finally reaching your inn room, the first thing you did was have a good cry before hopping into the shower, shedding your sweat-soaked clothes. You washed yourself up before quickly throwing on another outfit, sticking a pad on your underwear, and going out the door with your bottle of ibuprofen tucked safely in your pocket.
While on the way to Griefer’s crib, you cried once more in frustration - every minor convenience that occurred to you today, combined with the fact that you just happened to cross paths with a tree golem and were forced to fight it, piled on top of each other and made you so unbelievably and irrationally angry that you literally had to put yourself in a five minute time-out.
To put it simply, today was going just swimmingly.
Finally reaching the top, you knocked on the entrance to let Griefer know you had arrived. You saw the pause menu open on his game as he turned around. “Finally. What took so long?” He asked with a slightly annoyed tone to his voice, which only served to reignite that itch to punch a hole through the nearest wall, even though, reasonably speaking, he was just being himself and you should pay it no mind.
“Sorry.” You said softly as you approached. “I just had a rough start to my day.” You really hoped he didn’t notice your slightly puffy eyes as you took your place on the couch next to him.
You saw that he stared at you a bit longer than usual. He had this sort of unreadable expression on his face - not his usual smirk or glare, but something a little softer. What was up with that? You decided to just chalk it up to paranoia and hormones as you sat and watched him play.
You had declined his invitation to join the game, mostly because you didn’t feel like it, but also because you feel like you’d spike his controller if you got mad enough - which would probably happen, considering your emotional volatility at the moment - and spiking people’s controllers wasn’t nice.
The time you’d spent with Griefer was pleasant so far, laughing at his mistakes between casual conversation, talking about the game in general, and Griefer getting mad because you laughed at him. And even though your cramps were slowly getting worse, you were actually enjoying yourself and almost forgot about your little predicament. All it took was an adjustment of the way you sat so that you slumped backwards, and placing your arms between your knees and stomach so that they pressed in on your uterus, and all your problems were solved.
It was then, in the downtime of conversation between you and Griefer, that your body decided to throw you a curveball. A sharp, stabbing sensation, right in your nether regions. You jolted, breathing in a bit loudly from your nose as you all but scrambled to adjust your position so that you wouldn’t feel like there was a knife between your legs.
Griefer turned to look at you with this skeptical expression, and it took everything in you to not go skydiving out the window as you saw the pause menu open out of your peripheral vision.
“Okay dude, something is obviously wrong.” He asked, deadpanning at you. You opened your mouth to deny it, but he cut you off and folded his arms. “You think you can pull a fast one on me, but you’re not slick. I can see the way you wince and flinch when you think I’m not looking.”
You felt embarrassment and shame wash over you, even as you were trying to come up with a plausible explanation. He raised an eyebrow, waiting for an answer. “I-” you forced out, already feeling the tears pooling in your eyes. “It’s nothing important.” You stated, feeling your throat tighten. Really? That was the best thing you could come up with?”
“Don’t give me that bullshit.” He said sternly. “You’re obviously in pain. Spit it out.”
“I’m.. um.. I started my cycle today. That’s why.” You said softly.
“You started your what?”
“My period.” You said, looking away as a fat tear rolled down your cheek, hoping he didn’t see you crying like a loser.
“Oh.” He said. The awkwardness was palpable.
Great, now you’ve ruined everything.
You just stared at Griefer’s paused game, acting like you weren’t crying at all. Anything so you wouldn’t have to meet his eyes.
“Is that why you had a bad morning?” He asked, his voice softer, having lost its edge.
“Not the only reason.”
“Want to talk about it?” He offered.
Your face crumpled at his small gesture of kindness, more tears streaming down your face. “..Yeah.” You said, trying not to let your voice waver.
“It’s just.. a lot of little things.” You started with a sniffle as you brought up your sleeve to dry your eyes. “Like, I didn’t know I was going to start, so I bled through overnight and woke up to find my favorite sleep pants ruined,” you started, your voice cracking dangerously.
“And then I realized I didn’t have any of my period products, so I had to go out and get some, and then this stupid store clerk looked so grossed out when I asked if he knew a place that sold pads, and I don’t have my medicine, and it’s really hot outside, so I had to go back to my hotel room to change a third time,” you were stopped by a hiccup, unable to control your crying at this point.
“I’ve been trudging through this stupid heat for at least an hour today while my gut feels like it’s been sliced open and my uterus tries to kill me and I swear I almost passed out at one point,”
You quickly paused to catch your breath, sniffling again. “-and to make matters worse I had to fight a damn tree golem on my way up, and I can’t stop crying over stupid shit like this.”
Griefer was silent for a moment. It was really unsettling, honestly, considering how much he spoke.
“Anything I can do to help?” He asked after a moment.
“Could you just let me cuddle up to you while you play your game?” You asked timidly. You didn’t really know why you craved physical affection, especially at a time like this.
Griefer was silent for what felt like forever, before looking away and patting the spot next to him. “..Fine. Cmere.”
You had learned by now that when he refused to look, he was probably flustered. And you had also learned not to point it out, lest you make him shut down.
You scooted over to sit next to him, leaning into his shoulder as he played. “..thanks.” You said. “For this. And thanks for not being completely grossed out.”
“I'm not some punk ass bitch like that cashier.” He said, returning to his usually cocky and abrasive self.
The next few minutes were spent happily watching Griefer play his game, and even though he was getting ridiculously mad over some tryhard, you still felt happy simply being able to cuddle up to him and bask in his body heat.
“You wanna watch some tv?” He asked suddenly. You looked up in surprise at the sudden question. “Sure, I don’t mind, but why?”
“I dunno. I just don’t feel like getting angry over a game right now.”
You shrugged. While it was completely plausible, you felt like he had an ulterior motive.
After agreeing on a show and settling in with some snacks, you took your places back on the couch. As the intro started, you felt an arm snaking around your waist, and as you looked up, Griefer was trying his damndest to keep a poker face while staring straight ahead at the screen
You couldn’t help but giggle. His attention snapped to you.
“If you want to hug me, just say that.” You said with a smile.
He stared at you for a moment. Then, before you react, he leaned down and pressed a quick peck to your lips.
Taking advantage of your shock, he wrapped his arm all the way around your waist, pulling you into him so that your head rested on his chest, his hand placed over your lower stomach and pressing in. Immediately, you melted into him.
Griefer scoffed. “Don’t get any ideas, idiot. I saw you pressing into your stomach earlier and figured it would help.”
“It does.” You said. His hand was surprisingly warm, like the rest of his body, a nice little bonus.
“..I also heard this would help.” Griefer said, pulling out a chocolate bar. Immediately, your eyes lit up, gingery taking the candy from him.
“You’re the best, you know that?” You asked.
“Duh.” He said with his stupid, signature grin. Before he could continue, you looked up and gave him a kiss on the lips, too.
Now, it was Griefer’s turn to be stunned.
“I love you. I’m very lucky to have someone that cares.” You said, smiling as you laid your head back onto his chest turned back to the tv, unwrapping the chocolate bar.
You took a big bite, just in time to feel Griefer’s other hand reach up to pet the top of your head. “…I love you too.” He said quietly, likely embarrassed to admit it.
“What? I didn’t quite hear you.” You said with a teasing lilt to your voice, despite your mouth being filled with chocolate.
“Just shut the fuck up and watch the damn tv.” He said, which only served to make you laugh.
Finn McCool: You know, I never considered you for a rival.
Player: I never considered you at all.
Finn McCool: ...Now that's just hurtful.
Player: Did you miss me?
Griefer: No. 😎
Player: Take off your sunglasses.
Griefer: T^T
Calypso: What do you five have to say to yourselves?
Cutlass Pirate:
Flintlock Pirate:
Player: ...Oops?
Mysterious Figure: I was stalking you.
Mysterious Figure: I STRONGLY believe you need therapy.
Azuri: I hope you two have a good explanation for this.
Cassie: We have three, actually.
Player: Pick your favorite.
Slinger: How do you miss TWICE!?
Slinger: What the fuck am I paying you for.
Rocketman: ...You don't pay me.
Slinger: NOW YOU KNOW WHY!?!
Mayor Thanyiel: Take your meds.
Griefer: Fuck no.
*Mayor Thanyiel covers pill in cheese*
Mayor Thanyiel: Hey, I got some cheese for you.
Griefer: ...I want cheese.
Player: Hate when I'm playing "make believe" with little kids and I shoot them with a laser, and they say "actually I went back in time so it doesn't count." tf you talking about. You just casually rip open a hole in the space-time continuum? That's irresponsible as shit pal.
Rocketman: Knight, make that "Ante Up" useful.
Rocketman: Counting on you, pal.
Knight: ...
Rocketman: Err, Knigh-
Knight: Shut it...
Rocketman: Yes sir.
Arg'il: Y O U ' R E T O O L A T E, C A S S I E. I A M N O W, F O R K L I F T C E R T I F I E D!!!!!!!!!
(Arg'il gets crushed by a bunch of boxes.)
Red: Brooo, I get high on weeeed.
Griefer: Bruh, you're like 6 years old or something.
Red: Actually I'm 12 and almost 13.
Red: Owned.
Telamon: Dead men tell no tales? Wrong. Your honor, as a necromancer, I literally summon my first witness: The Victim!
(The Victim is resurrected)
Robur: How to put a baby(Cassie) down.
Robur: EDIT: I MEANT HOW TO PUT HER TO SLEEP.
Dr Sophie: I've made a robot that screams!
Robot: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Cruel King: ...Why?
Dr Sophie:
Dr Sophie: Hmmm...
Kyoko: I just realized something. 6:00 AM isn't a place, it is an emotion.
Calypso: Kyoko, 6:00 AM isn't a place. At all.
Kyoko: That's because it's an emotion.
*Talking about Azuri*
Rocketman: She's so scary...
Baller: She's bad as hell!
*everyone looks at Baller*
Baller: Dude, I'm literally right, stop.
Calypso: Do you live in Australia?
Player: Crikey.
Calypso: No, if you did, you would NOT say "crikey".
Player: Um, Steve Irwinnnn.
Calypso: Steve Irwin what???
Player: I'm speaking Australian, vegimite.
Calypso: AUSTRALIAN IS NOT A LANGUAGE.
Player: It can be if you try hard enough!
Calypso: This is where I watched Trotter die, Jerry.
Subspace: Guys, there is something stuck in my throat.
Medkit: Die.
Subspace: No longer stuck, fuck you I was lying anyways.
Biograft: CREATOR FAKING THEIR DEATH TO EXPOSE TRAITORS OF BLACKROCK IN HIS FIELD OF ENGINEERING(APRIL 2026 COLORISED)
Shuriken: Me inhaling pure Neon into my body by sucking it out of an "open" sign at a store.
Shuriken: HHHHHHHHHHHHH!!
Slingshot: What the fuck.
Shuriken: I felt like I was pretty clear.
Broker: Kids are just like "ppptppptppthhptpppthh" until one day they'll like "oh shit I can think" and it's all gone downhill from there.
Medkit: The greatest mistake anyone made was letting me develop sentience.
Banhammer: Per capita is so confusing, just call it per guy.
Rocket: You're just dumb.
Banhammer: I could reduce you to photons.
Windforce: Remember to be funny today, big guy.
Banhammer: I failed you sensei.
Windforce: As usual.
Coil: Hey there cutie.
Rocket: Hey, sorry I'm not interested.
Coil: Damn, can I try again.
Rocket: Give it a year.
*one year passes*
Coil: Hey.
Coil: Sorry if I'm 2 minutes late.
Rocket: No.
Coil: Damn.
Coil: Only God can judge me.
Windforce: Ahem.
Skateboard: Shut the fuck up I'm trying to sleep.
Coil: I'm not saying anything.
Coil: Do you hear the dog.
Skateboard: Yeah, I thought you were barking.
Coil: Why the fuck would I be barking, dumbass.
Skateboard: I don't know.
Zuka, to Traffic: Text me when you are home.
*20 hours later*
Zuka: Are you fucking homeless?
Zuka: kys.
Illumina: ?
Zuka: Rocket told me it. It means "kill yourself".
Shuriken: There's a family of geckos living in the bathroom.
Slingshot: No pets are allowed in the building.
Slingshot: Also rent is due tomorrow.
Firebrand: If you had to choose, would you rather lose an arm or a leg?
Darkheart: A leg. Need both arms to fish.
Firebrand: My son just said he needs both arms to hug his mortal wife, so thanks.
Darkheart: Sounds like he's never been fishing.
Skateboard: Ohhhh.
Skateboard: I have a mommy kink.
Vinestaff: So I'm supposed to act like your mom?
Skateboard: Yesssss.
Vinestaff: Boy if you don't get your ass down these stairs and wash these damn dishes.
Skateboard: ._.
Broker: I was stalking you.
Broker: I strongly believe you need therapy.
Hyperlaser: Any way to deal with crushing, existential dread?
Hyperlaser: Asking for a friend.
Hyperlaser: A friend who looks and acts exactly like me.
Boombox: They're talking about me!
Doomsekkar: HER????
Doomsekkar: YOU'RE STILL TRYING TO USE HER?????
Doomsekkar: HAHAHAHAHAH! THIS IS HILARIOUS!
Doomsekkar: DO YOU THINK SHE CAN HEAR YOU NOW, MUTTERING HER NAME????
Doomsekkar: WHAT'S SHE GONNA DO? MAKE ME AN ICE CREAM????
*something happens*
Doomsekkar: ...HEY DID IT GET COLDER IN HERE OR IS IT JUST ME?
Slingshot: Shuri? What's that green stuff near your mouth?
Slingshot: ...2 minutes in jail and you've already resorted to eating moss.
Medkit: Gentlemen, this is a bucket.
Rocket: Dear Gods...
Medkit: There's more.
Rocket: No.
Medkit: It contains the dying wish of everyone here.
Medkit: You did collect the papers, right Sword?
Sword: You bet!
Medkit: Alright, the first one is... Sword with a bucket of chickens.
Medkit: There is something radiating off of it...
Rocket: Those are stink lines.
Medkit: Another one is me having intercourse with the Crossroads Tower... The Crossroads Tower having intercourse with me, the Crossroads Tower getting hit by a car and there's stink lines coming out of it-
Medkit: DID ANYONE ELSE BUT SWORD PUT SOMETHING INTO THE BUCKET!?
*silence*
Medkit: Great, this was a fantastic waste of my time.
Rocket: You did not read mine!
Medkit: Does it say you want the bucket.
Rocket: Yes!
*Medkit hands the bucket to Rocket and starts leaving.*
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