sparxwrites

[sparxwrites]

lemme say, you materializing for the first time since september with not one, not two, but THREE fics??? icon behavior. i’m being fed. thank you so much 🙏

thank u... i hope i am not just an icon but also a cryptid to you... 🥺

#anonymous #ask #aww bless you anon #glad you had fun with my random lil fics

[sparxwrites]

hiii would you mind if i translate your fic (a helping hand)? ill credit you as the author of course!! and ill send you the link if needed haha

hi! yeah, sure, always happy for people to translate my stuff as long as the original is linked to - and i do love a link to share with my followers, too :)

#anonymous #ask #this is not fic

[sparxwrites]

cw sexual content

It’s not like Mumbo’s jealous. He’s definitely not jealous. It’s not like he had either of them to begin with, after all, not like he has any claim to them – not like they were his. His friends, maybe. Sure, his friends. But they’re still friends. And that still doesn’t make them his.

The fact is, he’s got no good reason to not want them fucking one another. No reason at all, in fact.

But dear god does he not want them fucking one another. He can’t explain why. It makes him feel like a terrible friend. But still. 

But still.

Every time Scar leans into Grian with that dopey little smile on his face; every time Grian nudges Scar with a foot, a knee, an elbow, a shoulder; every time the door to one of their bases is locked and the curtains drawn. Every time, Mumbo feels something sick rising in his chest. It rises and rises, til it hits his throat, and then twists, tightens – and if he doesn’t manage to swallow it down, then he has moments to get out of there, to get somewhere private, before the tears come.

He doesn’t know why he’s like this. He wishes he wasn’t. But wishing, as he’s found, doesn’t do much to push the problem away.

It’s probably nothing. He’ll get over it, probably. If he waits long enough. If he hopes hard enough. If he just squashes these feelings down, whatever they are, just a little bit harder.

He’s sure it’s nothing, though. And he’s sure it’s got nothing to do with how, late at night – when he’s on his own, and Grian or Scar’s door is locked, and their curtains are drawn – he thinks about them. About them, together. About them, together, with him between them. And then his cock starts to stiffen. And then his hand is down the front of his sleep pants. And then– and then–

He gets off with his pants tangled round his ankles, three fingers up inside himself (as thick as he thinks Scar’s cock would be), hand as tight around his cock (as he thinks Grian’s hole would be). He comes gasping, groaning, weeping.

Those tears, though, are unrelated to the ones during the day. They’re unrelated With his own come cooling across his knuckles, with his dick limp in his hand, with his fantasies dissipating like fog, these things are almost certainly entirely unrelated. Different things, entirely.

But still.

But still.

#scarian #mumscarian #prompt was 'weep' #hermitshipping #hermitshipblr #hermitfic #hermits crafting #nsfw hermits

[sparxwrites]

cw cumflation, humiliation, explicit sex

It’s not Joel’s fault that Jimmy’s flimsy. He’s a twelve-foot-tall god with a sexy hair, great abs, and a massive cock; Jimmy’s a silly little toy, silly little breakable toy. It’s just a function of the difference in size, in power. Joel’s strong and basically invincible, and Jimmy’s all wobbly, like a shaken piece of laminate. It’s just science.

The fact that Joel is not, in fact, a god according to anyone but himself, and that Jimmy is not, in fact, a toy according to anyone other than Joel, is irrelevant. They’re true facts, but inconvenient ones, inconsequential ones. 

They’re facts that don’t change the more relevant fact that Jimmy is, in fact, still remarkably easy to break.

That much is evident from the way he’s face down in the dirt, ass up, drooling. Just this morning he was hurling insults at Joel – about Joel’s height, Joel’s building style, Joel’s mother and her personal choices regarding her sex life. Now, he can barely string two words together. Joel’s allowed to feel a little bit smug about it, okay? He’s allowed to feel a little bit smug.

“You like that, huh?” he says, snapping his hips forward, cock sliding easily back into the tight clench of Jimmy’s hole. It helps that it’s slicked up with Joel’s last load of come; they’ve been at this for a while now. Hence the inanity of Joel’s dirty talk. “You fucking like that, do you, you dirty little toy? Huh?”

In his defence, it’s hard to come up with something sexy to say when you’re two orgasms deep and a little crazy with it. 

At least he’s doing better than Jimmy is.

“Guh,” says Jimmy, in reply, with classic Jimmy eloquence. He’s past the point of orgasm, cock drooling a sticky little puddle into the dirt, barely half-hard and entirely wrung out. He shakes as Joel’s cock slides deep into his guts once more, whimpers when it pulls back out. His stomach’s soft and heavy with Joel’s last two loads, every thrust working them deeper into him. His eyelids flutter, eyelashes dragging in the dust, mouth open and saliva running out. It’s puddling in the dust. The dirt under his cheek is turning to mud with his drool.

“Asked you a question,” pants Joel, snaps his hips forward once again, grins vicious and wild at the broken noise it drags out of Jimmy. The body underneath him shunts forward an inch along the ground with the force of the thrust, limp, unresisting. Just like a good toy should be. “Answer it. Answer me, Timmy. You like my cock inside you?”

Jimmy, with the single remaining brain cell that hasn’t been fucked out of him, manages a weak, “Ye-eeeeaa-hhhhnnn-” that cracks halfway through as Joel splits him in half once more. He tries, half-heartedly, to grab his own dick and stroke it, manages just barely to paw at it and sticky his fingers with his own leaking come before his arm falls back to the ground. “Ye-eh-eh-eh-eah–”

He’s panting, gasping like an animal in time to Joel’s punishing thrusts. His noises are getting faster as Joel does. As Joel gets closer, for the third time.

“Say it,” gasps Joel, panting too, panting in time with him, like he can fuck the words out of Jimmy. “Say it. Say you like my cock inside of you, little toy. My little toy.”

Jimmy, beyond words, absolutely cannot say that. Cannot string a sentence together. What he manages, instead, is a single word, panted against the dirt, over and over, as Joel uses his body as he pleases: “Toy. Toy. Toy.”

And when Joel comes, from that – from Jimmy’s willing self-debasement, from the knowledge it’s him, Joel, who has brought Jimmy to such lows – he presses his hips close to Jimmy’s ass, his chest to Jimmy’s back. And he tucks a hand under Jimmy’s body, to press against his belly, and feel his flimsy little toy’s belly swell to accept the generous gift its god has seen fit to give it.

#smallidarity #hermitshipping #hermitshipblr #nsfw hermits #hermitfic #fic #prompt was 'toy' #so of COURSE i had to do this

[sparxwrites]

There’s something wrong with Grian. Has been since they all got back from Third Life. 

And they did all get back, despite some participants’ fears to the contrary. Not whilst they were still alive, of course – initial excitement and hubris, swiftly followed by red bloodlust, took care of any fears whilst still playing. But the hungry ghosts had started to whisper, not too long after people had begun dying in earnest: What is this? What’s it doing to us? Why are we still here? …What if we never make it back home?

They all got back, though, and they all got back fine. 

Except for Grian. 

He’s been… strange. Placid. Doesn’t move much, doesn’t smile. Won’t eat unless someone feeds him. His eyes won’t focus right. He looks like he’s looking at something else, somewhere else. 

He looks like he’s still back there.

It’s Mumbo’s turn to feed him today. They’ve got him in a room, near spawn, so everyone can keep an eye on him. It’s got a bed, and a little side table with a vase of flowers, and a bathroom attached. A rug on the floor, some pillows on a chair in the corner. It locks from the outside.

“Grian, buddy,” he says, quietly, as he spoons golden apple mush into Grian’s slack and unresisting mouth. He doesn’t chew; only swallows on command, when someone rubs his throat. “C’mon. You can’t stay like this forever. I mean– I guess, technically, you could, if we keep feeding you, and– but that’s not the point, the point is I don’t– we don’t– want you like this forever. We want you back. …I want my friend back.”

Grian, mouth full of mush, says nothing. His gaze is as vacant as ever.

Mumbo sighs. His lower lip wobbles. His eyes burn, threaten to spill over, as he reaches out to rub at Grian’s throat. Grian swallows, on command, mush gone. Mumbo feels a little sick.

“C’mon, Grian,” he says, softly. “C’mon. Come back to us.”

And Grian, still, says nothing.

#grian #mumbo #hermitcraft #third life smp #trafficblr #hermits crafting #life smp tag #life smp fic #hermitfic

[sparxwrites]

cw intoxication kink (and associated consent complications), sexual content

“Drink up,” says Etho, and Joel does as he’s told.

It’s to inaugurate the new bar-cum-fight-club. He’s christened the fight club bit with Gem, with a good fight; and now he’s christening the bar bit with Etho, with a good drink. He’s got a vodka coke, mixed by Etho (mixed strong, mixed to get him drunk). Etho’s got two fingers of whiskey sat in front of him, barely touched.

They chat, for a bit, about not very much. New shops, server politics, inter-server news. Scar’s latest antics. It’s remarkably casual, given how tightly Joel’s wound, the way his foot is bouncing restlessly under the bar. They commiserate over Grian’s habit of lagging things out of their respective chests – promise to plot revenge at a later date. Etho praises Joel’s build style at one point, and Joel goes pink in his cheeks, the tips of his ears. He brushes the compliment off. The flush is probably just the alcohol.

Joel drinks his drink, over a comfortable half-hour. Etho takes a single, small sip of his. Etho mixes Joel another drink. 

And so it goes: Joel gets drunk, and then drunker. Etho stays sober. They keep chatting, about everything and nothing. It doesn’t matter much, so long as Joel’s glass keeps getting refilled.

Joel’s foot bounces faster, faster, and then slows. Stops. The tension ratchets to a peak maybe three, four drinks in, where he’s buzzed but not fully drunk yet. By drink five, though, it’s leaching from his shoulders, his muscles turning soft. By drink six, he’s practically relaxed.

“You know,” says Joel, when he’s seven drinks in, slurring badly with it, “Bdubs says you like to– to do it with him. When he’s asleep. That true?”

“Yes,” says Etho, and pours another vodka coke. He’s still nursing his own whiskey, the same one from the start of the night. He slides the vodka coke down the bar to Joel. “Drink up.”

Eight drinks, nine. Halfway through the ninth, the world lurches, starts to spin. Between blinks, everything slides sideways. One minute, Joel’s on the bar stool, breathing unsteadily through his nose and trying to stop Etho’s face splitting into three in front of him. The next, he’s on the floor.

Then there’s Etho, crouched beside him– Etho, grabbing him by the front of the shirt– Etho, hoisting him up to splay his drunk, useless body over the surface of the bar–

“Hey, Joel,” says Etho, conversationally. Like he’s not fit himself into the space between Joel’s legs where they hang over the edge of the bar. Like his hips aren’t digging into Joel’s lax thighs. Like his erection isn’t pressing up against the fork of Joel’s trousers, hot and hard and insistent. He reaches over, casually, picks up Joel’s glass in one hand, cradles Joel’s head to raise it slightly with the other. “Drink up.

Joel – too drunk to get hard, too drunk to protest, too drunk to even remember enthusiastically agreeing to this several hours beforehand, but certainly not protesting – moans quietly. He opens his mouth. Lets Etho tip the rest of the drink down his throat. It’s mostly vodka, burns as it goes, sets the world spinning faster.

The dizziness, the tunnel vision, the way his head is limp and helpless in Etho’s broad, steady hand… he might not be able to get hard, but he’s pretty sure he’s never been so turned on in his entire life.

“Good boy,” says Etho, when he’s done. He sets the glass down on the bar, clink of crystal on lacquered wood, and picks up his own. Downs the whiskey in a single gulp, with one hand. The other finds the buttons of Joel’s trousers, the zipper. Finds the lack of underwear beneath. Finds Joel’s soft, small cock. “Mmm. Nice. Now… You just lie there, and don’t worry, and you let me have my fun. Hmm?”

And Joel, obediently, does as he’s told.

#smalletho #hermitshipping #nsfw hermits #hermitfic #hermits crafting #i love their ship name :) #and i love them #prompt was 'drink'

[sparxwrites]

“Grian?” calls Mumbo, pushing the door to his friend’s precariously-perched cliffside home open. It hadn’t been an easy climb up, not without elytra, and now he’s up here he’s half-worried the whole thing might collapse underneath him. Not that elytra would really help with that if it did. “You in here, mate? Just, uh – friendly friend check-in! I mean, neighbour check-in! Friendly neighbour check-in! I mean– look, no one’s seen you for a couple of days, and I just wanted to make sure–”

Then Mumbo registers what he’s actually looking at. Or, rather, registers that he’s looking at something, anyway. It’s not entirely clear what the something is. 

“Grian. Mate. What on earth are you doing?”

Grian’s head perks up, from the middle of a truly bewildering pile of clothing, all bright and beady-eyed. His wings perk up too, an odd little raise so the elbow-joints are higher than his head, the wings themselves slightly flared. Mumbo’s never seen him make that gesture before.

“Mumbo!” Grian says, brightly – and then, blissful, says “Nest.”

“I can see that.” Mumbo can, indeed, see that. It’s definitely a nest, for a given definition (‘bunch of stuff piled up approximately in a circle’) of nest. It’s also technically an answer to his question, but it feels very much more letter of the law than the spirit. And not that it’s unknown for Grian to be an obstructive pain in the behind, or to be a rules lawyer, but this feels… different. “Why’re you in a nest, buddy?”

For a moment, Grian considers that, head cocked to one side. “Nest,” he concludes, eventually, conclusively, which– again, doesn’t really answer the question, but answers a few others. “Give me your jacket.”

Mumbo sighs, and starts shrugging off his jacket. He knows what happens if he tries to refuse; his moustache is only just recovering from the last time he attempted to preserve his clothing in the face of Grian’s nesting instincts. “That time of the year?” he asks, sympathetically. “Something made you broody? Based too high up and now you’re all bird-brained?”

“Jacket,” says Grian, holding out both hands expectantly, which is a firm yes on the bird-brained and a vague who knows on everything else.

Mumbo sighs, and hands the jacket over. He watches, pained, as it immediately gets shoved in amongst all the other clothing lining the nest. The fabric gets, undoubtedly, horribly creased by the inclusion. He just hopes he doesn’t lose a button again this time.

“Okay,” he says, as Grian chirps happily, arches his wings higher and starts fussing further at the clothing. “Okay, bird-brain. Fine. I’ll put out a call for clothing, see if Scar can run us across some golden–”

“Scar,” says Grian, suddenly, head turned in Mumbo’s direction and beady eyes locked on to Mumbo’s face.

“Uh. Yeah? What about him, buddy?”

Grian hums, and then holds out his hands, expectantly. “Scar,” he says, with a single-minded intensity. “Give me your Scar.”

#grian #mumbo #goodtimeswithscar #hermitcraft #hermits crafting #hermitfic #prompt was 'line' #cannot fucking remember how that connects to this #lining the nest maybe?????

[sparxwrites]

cw sexual content, hypnosis kink (kind of)

Cub wakes up to Scar standing over him. This is, admittedly, not that weird – well, it’s weird, but it’s not that weird by Scar standards, and also Cub’s got a pretty high weird threshold. He’s got an even higher who gives a fuck threshold, and between those two there’s not a lot that manages to ruffle him. So waking up to Scar, tiny shorts and all, standing over him and apparently having been watching him while he sleeps? Whatever. Just another day on the Hermitcraft server.

The little crystal on the end of a chain is new, though.

“Oh, hey Scar,” he says, blinking sleepily, shifting against the mattress. It’s hot out, has been for the past few days, and when he twitches a lazy foot he finds he’s kicked the blankets off himself down to his waist. A bead of sweat rolls down from the soft peak of his belly across his ribs, catching in the dark hair across his stomach. It tickles. He scratches at it, absently. “What’s up, man?”

“Oooo,” whispers Scar. Moans, really. Like he’s some kind of ghost. Which doesn’t really answer the question. “Oooo.” The crystal starts to swing on the end of its chain, back and forth, back and forth.

“Well. Okay then. Pretty weird wake-up call, but you do you, man. You do you.”

“Oooo.” Scar is, in Cub’s opinion, not going to win any awards for his ghost impressions any time soon. “You want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid. Oooo.”

Ah. That answers quite a lot of questions. Raises a whole bunch of other ones, sure, but again. High who gives a fuck threshhold. Really, really useful on the Hermitcraft server.

Especially useful when sex is in the offing. Really useful to not ask too many questions when the alternative to getting answers is sex.

“Aw, hypnosis!” Cub enthuses, watching the crystal swing, watching Scar’s face screwed up with concentration. “Yeah, that’s a good one, man. Real hot. Mind control, consensual non-consent, all that good stuff.”

“You want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

“Look, man, I’m all for picking up what you’re putting down, but I’m not gonna lie. Little bit lost. Gonna need a bit more instruction here. Still half asleep.”

“Cub,” hisses Scar, crystal still swinging. “You’re supposed to be getting hypnotised! Oooo, you want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid, oooo.”

Cub’s not sure how hypnosis works, exactly. Well, he knows how his hypnosis works, when he’s full vex, but the way that works is it just works and Scar’s always sucked ass at it besides, so. Not that helpful. But he’s pretty sure just repeating the same thing but spookier and in a deeper voice is not how any of this works.

“What. Like, hypnotised as a sex thing, or hypnotised for real?” he asks, curiously, scratching at his belly again. If he does it because he can see Scar watching his hands hungrily, and if he pushes the sheet a little lower down on his hips, then, well. Who gives a fuck.

“Hypnotised for real! For real! C’mon, Cub. I’m really trying here.”

“Not tryin’ hard enough, man. Sorry.”

“Cub!” Scar’s pouting, now. The crystal’s mostly stopped swinging, half-forgotten.

Cub sighs, props himself up onto one elbow, subtly kicks at the sheets. “Well, Scar,” he says, “look. It’s not working. But,” and he sets a hand against the curved side of his belly, slides it down, down, under, exploring skin revealed by the kicked-off sheet, “if it makes you feel any better, my dick is feeling very hypnotised. Like, very hypnotised.”

“Really?” asks Scar, voice suddenly high-pitched, eyes suddenly fixed somewhere at the opposite end of Cub’s body to his face. He might be drooling. It’s cute.

“Aw, yeah, man,” purrs Cub, curling his hand loosely around the thick base of his own half-hard cock, squeezing gently, feeling it plump up in his hand. Scar whimpers. “Very hypnotised. Very hypnotised indeed.”

#convex #hermitfic #hermits crafting #hermitshipping #nsfw hermits #they're so silly i love them <3 #prompt was 'hypnotic

[sparxwrites]

(set during the s7 mayor arc) cw domestic abuse

“He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.”

Bdubs has been saying that to himself a lot, lately. It helps him to remember, when things get difficult. And things have been getting difficult quite a lot, lately.

It’s his fault, of course. He knows it’s his fault. If he wasn’t so difficult, things wouldn’t get so difficult. He makes everything complicated. He knows this. He can be annoying, he knows – brash, arrogant, mouthy. Too loud. Too much. Of course things get difficult around him. Of course they do.

“He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.”

He doesn’t dare say it too loudly. There’s probably no one else in the City Hall at six A.M. on a Sunday, but if there is, he doesn’t want them to hear. Doesn’t want them asking questions. Questions like what are you doing in Mayor Scar’s office (cleaning, of course, someone has to keep the place tidy and it’s not going to be Joe now, is it?) or what’s that on your head (a bandage, obviously). There’s usually annoying follow-up questions to that one, too, like why is there a bandage on your head (because he hit his head, duh).

So he keeps his voice down. He keeps his mantra quiet. He tries not to think about getting caught; tries not to think about who would be worst to be caught by. Mayor Scar, maybe. Or Cub. Who Mayor Scar is definitely not having sex with. Because Mayor Scar told him that, personally, and very insistently, just last night. And Mayor Scar wouldn’t lie to him. Mayor Scar is always kind and truthful to him. Mayor Scar is so, so patient with him, always. Even when Bdubs is being difficult.

“He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.”

Bdubs tells himself that as he runs a cloth for the final time over the windowsill. As he sets the potted plants back on the clean wood, rearranges the kitschy decorations there – a framed diamond, a tiny cat statue, a little ceramic snail. There. Done. Everything clean; everything back in its rightful place. Order restored. He’s served so, so well.

He takes the time to look over the Mayor’s office one last time, before he leaves. Out the window, the sky is the pink-orange of morning, the sun just barely rising. It gleams off the freshly-cleaned windowsill, polished to a shine. There’s a crack in the bottom-left window pane, spiderwebbing through the glass. 

The window is perfectly clean too, of course – Bdubs is a hard worker, dedicated, and for all of his other flaws he serves Mayor Scar so, so well – but it’s pretty hard to clean cracks in a window. There’s some grime he didn’t quite managed to buff out, caught in the very splintering centre of it all. 

The light catches the imperfections at just the right angle. For a moment, just until a cloud scuds across the newborn sun, the whole thing glows the jewelled brown-red of recently dried blood.“He loves me,” Bdubs whispers to himself, once more, just for luck. “He loves me. He loves me.”

#hermitshipping #hermits crafting #hermitfic #scardubs #domestic abuse // #this one makes me sad and is kinda ooc #but ALSO got teeth in my brain and wouldn't let go so. whatever. #prompt was 'crack'

[sparxwrites]

cw explicit sex, wax play, other kinky bdsm nonsense

“Probably not what Keralis intended his candles used for, hmm? Hah. Do you think he would be shocked, if he knew we were misusing his things?”

Cleo grunts, bringing the candle up to eye-level to check how much wax has melted beneath the flickering flame. “Oh, no,” she says absently, very carefully paying precisely no attention to the man she has stripped naked and tied down to her bed. “These ones are body-safe, specially – trust me, you do not want to do this with the regular beeswax variety. Keralis absolutely knows what these are going to be used for.”

“Huh.” Doc blinks, wrinkles his nose. “I see. …Why not beeswax?”

“Might actually burn you.”

“Huh.” He pauses, idly tests one of the thick leather cuffs round his wrist. Barely an inch of give on the restraints. God, does he love how well Cleo knows what she’s doing. “I am not seeing a reason not to use beeswax, there.”

This time, Cleo snorts, amused. “Ask me later in the season, and we’ll see. Let a few other people have embarrassing sex-related injuries they need to ask for help with beforehand. I don’t like being the first.” She wiggles the candle impatiently. “Also, shut up, I’m trying to concentrate.”

Sensing a challenge, Doc grins, shifting to lie a little more comfortably. “Or what?” he goads. “How do you plan to make me shut up? Will you gag me, Mistress Cleo? Or–”

Cleo –  looking studiously and supremely bored in the way Doc so loves, she must know he loves it, she must know what it does to him – stretches out her hand and unceremoniously upends the candle full of hot, melted wax over his prone and vulnerable body.

Doc gasps, shudders at the spatter of hot wax over his belly. His stomach muscles contract, briefly, his wrists and ankles drawing in against their restraints. Then the reflex passes, and he’s still. He relaxes against the mattress, sighs. Then–

“For god’s sake, Cleo. My stomach? Really?” He cranes his head up, with some effort, to stare at the cooling wax. It’s right over his happy trail, spatters of pretty blue-grey hardening tangled up with greenish-dark, wiry body hair.

“Yes, your stomach.” Cleo sets the candle, still lit, down into a holder, and crosses her arms. “Why? You want me to skip the foreplay and go straight to your balls?”

Doc, with grim determination, does his best not to let her know what the thought of that does to him. He’s only partially successful – the cock is a traitorous appendage, in his opinion – but he does at least keep the excitement off his face. “I mean that you have gotten it all in my stomach hair.”

“So?”

“It’s going to pull all my hair off getting it out! And then I am going to look stupid with part of my hair missing!”

“Well, that’s not my problem, is it?”

“And it’s going to hurt to get off.”

“Oh,” says Cleo, with a smile that makes him shiver from his head to his toes, “I know it is. That’s the point.”

#hermitshipping #zombiedoc #cleom77 #zombiem77 #doccleo #cleodoc #wtf even is their ship name #hermitfic #fic #nsfw hermits #hermits crafting #anyways prompt was 'wax' #i love these two their dynamic is so good they should be shipped more often

[sparxwrites]

hi, need u to kno that bc of those two crackfics you wrote, scar just has a fetish for creeper feet to me now. its a statement of fact. He Is Just Like That

GOOD

that's bc he does. he has a creeper foot fetish. it's just a fact. those fics were basically scientific reports.

#anonymous #ask #sparx chats #people saying nice things #<3 <3 <3 <3

[sparxwrites]

(if you don't know what divine travel is, a) this won't make much sense, but b) you should because it's cool as hell and i've been conceptually obsessed with it for years now) cw for animal death

“We’re never getting out of here.”

“Shut up, Scar.

“We’re going to be stuck here forever.”

“Scar. Shut up.”

“We’re going to die, all alone–” He sing-songs it, drags out the o into an oooo. “–on this horrible world, full of creepers and zombies and things, in the moon–”

“Scar!” Grian, bloody up to his wrists, bent over desecrated corpses of three white rabbits, looks up at the man pacing circles around him. There’s a loop of viscera around two fingers of his left hand. His right thumb’s tucked just barely under a small, still heart. There’s a deep crease between his brows, dark bags under his eyes.

Scar, politely, stops pacing. Grian’s gaze is a physical weight. “What?” he says, shrugs. “It’s the truth. This is the third one of these we’ve been on, and we died in all the rest of them–”

“Yes, because someone couldn’t– 

“–and it was really unpleasant, especially that last one with the piglin–” 

“And who’s fault was–!”

“And then those things, in the moon–” He sings that, too, a little wobbly up-and-down like you’d do to make a child laugh. The fear behind it is tangible. “And they keep laughing at me, every time, and I can feel them watching when I–”

“Scar! Will you shut up and listen to me! Please.” Grian pulls his hands free, swipes lank and sweaty hair out of his eyes, off his forehead. “Listen to me. Scar. We’re not dying here. Not today.”

“Well, you might not be, but, as you so kindly keep pointing out, I–” Scar’s pouting, lower lip stuck out, hands in the pockets of his obscenely short shorts. He kicks a rock; it bounces, rolls, comes to a stop next to the glassy, bulging eye of one of the dead rabbits.

“We’re not bloody dying here today,” says Grian, triumphantly, “because I know where the End portal is.” He looks up, around, turns to meet the horizon with his gaze. The world stretches out in front of him, endless, wild, impossible. Foreign. But not entirely unknown – not any more.

“What? How?!” Scar’s staring at him, wide-eyed, something like hope in the set of his brow and mouth for the first time in weeks.

“Divine travel,” says Grian, baring his teeth in a grin. He holds up his hands, bloody, the crimson drying to brown in the cracks of his knuckles. The rabbits are stretched out on the grass, neat anatomical specimens, disembowelled, a fortune read in the warm trail of their removed organs. A map. “I know where we need to go.” He pauses, his eyes alight with all the fire of the sun rising in a halo behind his head. “Scar. Scar. We’re not dying here. Not today. We’re getting out.”

#hermitcraft #hermitfic #desert duo #scarian #i guess or whatever #fic #hermits crafting #also hi guys! not dead. just very busy and barely in fandom any more #but here have some prompt games #prompt was 'divine' #yes yes i stretched how divine travel works a bit shhh

[sparxwrites]

I just read your Ao3 fic 'wearing thin' and I am CRYING-

you're welcome :) and also your tears are my sustenance. yum yum yum.

#fr tho thank you that's very sweet of you to say <3 #themultifandomtransguy #ask #people saying nice things #this is not fic

[sparxwrites]

Anonymous asked:  I’m so in love with your Ridgedog~ so I’m torn between something with Ridge/Lalna or Lalna/Rythian

well this got off course buuuuut there’s a fanfic out there that’s fitting for this! one of my favs actually

#wow this is crazy old but! guess what drifted across my dash! #yogstuff #other people's stuff #other people's fic #lov me a lil bit of cannibalism. as a treat. #blood // #cannibalism //

[sparxwrites]

Any thoughts on the recent Hermitcraft (or whatever mcyt) videos? Just curious about what's up recently besides spambots on ao3. Hope you're doing well!

you might have to be a bit more specific than that! there's been a lot of videos. i am glad mumscarian are back to their usual "doing crimes, but primarly through the vector of having a negative iq when in each others' presence" behaviour, because that's one of my fave genres of content <3

(and i'm fine! just very, very busy - we're up at a full-time job and two part-time jobs now, hobbies and social life and personal freelance projects not included - and i've not been terribly inspired to write fic right now. unforch, i'm extremely dependent on sth being my special interest to produce fic for it, and whilst i still like hermitcraft it's no longer a special interest. i've been busy working on some original writing tho, which tragically will probably never make its way on here, but please rest assured that it's absolutely baller.)

#anonymous #ask #this is not fic #faq #probably this blog is gonna be quiet until sth else grabs me bc life is just. hectic rn #and i have four-ish original writing things im working on #or five #or three #depends how you count them #alongside aforementioned overcommitment on the job front #i wanna try and finish wilbur's 8 and your smile and get my minecraft multiverse-cosmology thing written up tho #so maybe some stuff! we'll see #and if you guys send me asks i will try and answer... #no promises tho

[sparxwrites]

ohhhhhhh my god! oh my god! i'm gonna cry!!!!!

I’m sorry. I’ll see you again. I think. I hope.

wearing thin by @sparxwrites

#tfw u write sth to do emotional damage to others #and then they RETURN the damage #goddamn #other people's things #other people's art

[sparxwrites]

anyone know tf is up with these? they read like spam (weird phrasing, on a fic that's just like... regular-ass modern au, anon commenters) but there's no links or anything in them so...?????

#this is not fic #blogging into the void #who are these people what are they doing and why are they doing it on my unfinished y*gscast longfic