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good-chimes · 4 months

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THE DIVORCE OF THE CENTURY

TRANSCRIPT OF DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS BETWEEN GRIAN AND GOODTIMESWITHSCAR, DAY 1:

His Hon. Judge BdoubleO100: Silence in the court!

[Court is not silent]

His Hon. Judge Bdubs: Silence in the COURT! I can have you all HANGED!

[The court falls as silent as is possible with a dozen Hermits present]

Judge Bdubs: Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today—

Cleo: Ahem.

Judge Bdubs: WHAT?

Cleo: That’s for weddings, Bdubs. We’re not doing a wedding. In fact, if you think about it, this is about as far away from a wedding as you can get.

Judge Bdubs: Fine fine FINE. Dearly beloathed, we have all been dragged here today because SOME PEOPLE can’t get ALONG. Grian, step forward!

Grian: Do I— is this the podium for witnesses? Who built this and why did they make it out of nothing but trapdoors? So. Okay. I’m filing for divorce.

Scar: Wait, I thought I was filing for divorce.

Judge Bdubs: LET THE DEFENDANT SPEAK.

Ren: Bdubs, my man, that’s the petitioner. The court hasn’t accused Grian of any crimes.

Cleo: [darkly] Yet.

Grian: I haven’t done any crimes! I’m filing for divorce from Scar, obviously. As my lawyer will tell you—

Judge Bdubs: Do you have a lawyer?

Grian: Yes, your Honor. This is my defense lawyer Mumbo Jumbo Esq. [Waggles a hand behind his back and hisses] Mumbo!

Judge Bdubs: Mumbo’s your defense lawyer? Aren’t you supposed to have a divorce lawyer?

Mumbo: [steps forward and bows nervously] Well, I’ve never divorced anyone, but I have got a lot of experience in defending, er, mainly myself, come to think of it, and also my valuables. From Grian, as a matter of fact. So I think I’ll stick with ‘defense lawyer’ if that’s alright with the court, thank you.

Judge Bdubs: [leans aside to confer with Cleo] Is that alright with the court? Ask Joe.

[Court Scribe JoeHills confirms this is probably alright with the court]

Judge Bdubs: Good, good, next! Scar, do you have a lawyer?

Scar: Oh, absolutely. My lawyer is this cat I found outside.

Judge Bdubs: Not Jellie?

Scar: Jellie doesn’t believe we’re really divorcing and wouldn’t come.

Judge Bdubs: Is this cat a qualified divorce lawyer?

Scar: She’s a—let me look at those markings—she’s clearly a personal injury attorney.

Cleo: Have you been personally injured, Scar?

Scar: Why, thank you for asking, I have. My feelings have been very hurt!

Ren: Uh, Bdubs, maybe the court should establish some facts. Why they’re divorcing, what the court can do for them, that sort of thing.

Judge Bdubs: YES. Let’s start with the facts. Now, we all know why you and Scar got married in the first place. Don’t stand there and make that innocent face at me, Grian, I know all the secrets. You got married because Etho and I had the WEDDING OF THE CENTURY last month and you were JEALOUS—no, don’t talk, THE JUDGE IS TALKING—you were jealous of us. [aside] Bdubs and Etho had the wedding of the century, Joe, are you writing this down?

Court Scribe JoeHills: Yep, your Honor, I’ve written that down.

Grian: It wasn’t that good.

Judge Bdubs: YOU TAKE THAT BACK.

Grian: Etho had his bouquet wrapped in a Kleenex box.

Scar: [sentimentally] Don’t you listen to him, Bdubs, I thought the flower arch was lovely.

Judge Bdubs: Thank you, Scar! I—

Cleo: You can’t find in favor of Scar because he said something nice about your own wedding decorations.

Judge Bdubs: [with dignity] —was NOT going to do that. Ahem. So, you and Scar got married because you were jealous—

Grian: We didn’t! It wasn’t like that!

Judge Bdubs: —and now you want to get divorced. Why?

[At this point Petitioner Grian and Petitioner Scar, who have been studiously avoiding each other’s gazes, appear to lock eyes by accident. They both jerk away like they’ve touched a blaze rod. Grian immediately swivels to face the bench, and this scribe has to note that at normal times Grian’s stare is disconcertingly like two soulless voids looking back at you, so it’s even worse when he’s attempting a poker face. Scar becomes very interested in his cat defense lawyer and doesn’t look at Grian at all.]

Grian: The thing is, you see, this marriage was a scam from the start.

EVIDENCE #1

[Dramatization by Court Scribe from participant testimony]

One month previously, a note landed in Scar’s bedroom attached to a firework rocket with a red bow and rose. This was very romantic, or at least it would have been romantic if the rocket hadn’t lodged in the rafters and set itself and a chunk of the surrounding wall on fire, but in any case it was clearly Grian making an effort, so Scar deciphered the coordinates scribbled on the charred note and set off to find out what was going on.

They pointed to a spot in the middle of nowhere. In Scar’s long experience of Grian, this meant an equal chance that they were going to make out or he was going to get inventively murdered, but this was always a gamble worth the odds.

But when he arrived, on a green hill in a quiet spot of the server, it was neither. The top of the hill had been leveled off and covered with birch wood, on which Grian was industriously spelling out something with white wool, though Scar couldn’t make out the words from his low angle of approach. Grian stopped when he spotted Scar and launched up to meet him. His wings beat so fast they were nearly vibrating.

“Scar,” Grian said, “Scar.” His grin was one of a cat who had stolen not only the cream, but the milk, the cow, and everyone else’s cows for good measure. “Scar, I’ve had an idea.”

This was clearly a planning-a-prank type of meeting, which probably meant no making out, but Grian’s pranks were not to be missed. “I’m in,” Scar said. “Do we get fancy costumes? I want a fancy costume.”

“No, Scar, that’s not the point—wait, yes, actually.” Grian angled his wings to carve tight spirals around Scar’s coasting flight, always a sign of excitement, and nudged the angle of their joint descent to land on top of the white wool scrawls. “Yes, fancy costumes are a big part of it, but that’s not—listen, this is my big gesture. Just look down.”

Scar looked down. The wool said, WILL YOU MARR.

“I ran out of wool,” Grian said. He flapped a hand. “Just because it’s a big gesture doesn’t mean it has to be finished.”

“What was it supposed to say?” Scar said innocently.

“Scar!” Grian shifted from foot to foot when he got agitated, which was always funny. “Fine! Okay! Stand there.”

The hidden trapdoor beneath their feet gave way as Grian pressed a switch. Scar yelped for form’s sake, but nothing exploded, and the only thing at the bottom of their tumbled slide was an underground bunker.

It had a table, and two chairs, and a huge corkboard on the otherwise blank walls. Grian had always had a thing for bunkers.

“This,” Grian said, with a flourish, “is the Wedding War Room.”

Scar looked around the bunker and asked the important question. “Are you going to decorate it?”

“Am I going to—no, listen, that’s not the point either. You can decorate it, if you want. The point is, you know how Bdubs and Etho got married?”

“It was beautiful,” Scar agreed immediately. “That wedding chapel? Incredible, honestly, Bdubs is a true artist. Oh! Remember the part where Etho put a river of lava through the chapel roof and glitched it into a heart?”

“Okay, but, you know what Bdubs and Etho got?

“Eternal happiness?”

“Scar.”

“No, what?”

“Bdubs and Etho got royal diamonds,” Grian said impressively. “From the vault.”

“Are they still royal diamonds if Ren’s not king anymore?” Scar said. “I thought we blew up the vault, anyway. You blew it up. I was there.”

“Do you pay any attention to anything that’s not Scarland?” Grian said. “Mumbo didn’t know what to do with the diamonds so he and Iskall built a new vault. I think Mumbo and Iskall and Impulse are the only ones who really know how to get into it. Anyway, everyone got so warm and fuzzy about Bdubs and Etho’s wedding that they all decided to open the vault up and just gave them diamonds.”

“Free diamonds?” Scar said thoughtfully.

“Free diamonds!” Grian’s eyes glittered. “Think of that vault. Stacks on stacks on stacks of diamonds. Thousands of diamonds! We could have some of those, for nothing, just by saying some words. And that’s not even mentioning the wedding presents! We’re out here spending days and days grinding resources and stocking our shops when we could be swimming in it! That could be us, Scar.” Scar had entirely forgotten the lack of interior decorations; he always did, when Grian got on a roll as mesmerizing as this.“And so,” Grian took a deep breath and held out his hand, “Scar, will you marry me?”

Scar took his hand with an enormous wave of affection. “Grian,” he said sincerely, “I have never, in my whole life, wanted to marry anyone more.”

EVIDENCE #2

Mumbo took the news more earnestly than Grian had expected.

“Oh,” said Mumbo. “Oh, haha, wow—seriously? Scar said something and I thought it was just a joke, but you guys actually… Wow!” He cleared his throat. “Grian, mate, it’s been a long time coming. I’m so happy for you.”

“Don’t get sappy,” Grian said. “It’s just a wedding. I mean,” he clarified, “it’s a very important wedding, obviously, because it’s my wedding, but I don’t need you to get sappy about it. I don’t even need you to talk about it. I just need you to bring diamonds.”

“I didn’t even know you were going to ask him,” Mumbo said, ignoring the very clear instructions Grian had just given him. “Or did he ask you, or—mate, that’s just brilliant. This is brilliant. Is it because Bdubs and Etho had that wedding? That was really beautiful, I don’t mind saying, I got a little bit teary.”

“This has nothing to do with any weddings anyone else had,” Grian said with dignity. “Our wedding will be better, but that’s unrelated. I didn’t come here to talk about that. I came here to ask you something.” He took hold of Mumbo’s hand in the most meaningful grip he could muster. “Mumbo, we’ve been friends for years, right?”

“Of course,” Mumbo said nervously.

Grian gave it a second’s pause for the sake of drama. “Mumbo Jumbo, will you be my best man?”

“Ah,” Mumbo said, which was not what Grian had expected. “Ah. Er. Might be a problem there.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Well, you see, five minutes ago, Scar…”

EVIDENCE #3

<Grian> scar

<GoodTimeWithScar> yES?

<Grian> my base.

<Grian> now.

<GoodTimeWithScar> On my way

GoodTimeWithScar hit the ground too hard

<GoodTimeWithScar> oNE MINUTE

<Grian> come in the back door

GoodTimeWithScar hit the ground too hard

<GoodTimeWithScar> Was that a trap??

<Grian> mumbo is mine

<GoodTimeWithScar> No he isn’t, Mister!

GoodTimeWithScar was slain by Ravager

Grian was shot by GoodTimeWithScar using [HoTgUy]

<Grian> MUMBO IS MINE

GoodTimeWithScar was slain by Vindicator

GoodTimeWithScar was slain by Ravager

Grian was shot by GoodTimeWithScar using [HoTgUy]

<Renthedog>: :o

GoodTimeWithScar burned to death

<Renthedog> Everything okay there, gentlemen?

<Grian> best man debate

GoodTimeWithScar was poked to death by a sweet berry bush

<Grian> all settled now

<Renthedog> wait

<EthosLab> Wait

<BdoubleO100> WAIT

<TangoTek> are you two…?

<Grian> invitations dropping tomorrow. wedding gift mandatory.

<GoodTimeWithScar> Come one, Come all!

<Grian> only diamonds will be considered real presents

<PearlescentMoon> huh

<impulseSV> omg finally! So happy for you guys!

<PearlescentMoon> be honest Grian, is this because Bdubs and Etho got married and you had to one-up them?

<Grian> NO IT IS NOT

EVIDENCE #4

The bachelor party negotiations were even more hard-fought than the best man.

They held the impromptu negotiations in the Wedding War Room, which was now covered with loving maps and hundreds of bits of paper that neither of them had read since putting them up there. They looked good, though, so Scar kept adding more.

There was a pile of paper strips on the table in front of them. Scar and Grian sat facing off like two negotiators at a ceasefire.

“Mumbo’s my best man,” Grian said, picking the first name off the pile without breaking eye contact and moving it to his side of the table, “so he comes to my party.” Scar gave in with a modicum of grace. The possibility of having bachelor parties at different times had been wordlessly considered and then summarily dismissed by both combatants.

Scar escalated it to a blood sport as he picked up the next bit of paper. “Pearl’s coming to my party.”

Grian yelped and grabbed Scar’s wrist. “She is not. I knew her first!”

“I know her better,” Scar countered. “Or at least,” he added, “I know her building style better.”

“You can’t just steal my friend because you like her building! That’s not how that works!”

“I think she’d enjoy it,” Scar said meditatively. “I’m going to have champagne. Glitter. Razzmatazz.”

“I will have more champagne,” Grian said mutinously. He hadn’t taken his hand off Scar’s wrist. “And more razzmatazz. You can’t have Pearl.”

“Oh, all right then,” Scar said, since Pearl was one of Grian’s oldest friends and he’d never had a chance of getting her anyway. Grian plucked the piece of paper out of his hand and put it on top of Mumbo’s paper. “I get Bdubs, though.”

That was a given. Grian didn’t seriously dispute it, though he opened his mouth to try. “I—yes, fine. You can have Bdubs.” Scar swept the piece of paper to his own side of the table.

“And that means,” Scar proceeded, with the grand momentum of a train starting to roll, “that I get Etho, as well.” He shuffled through the bits of paper and displayed Etho’s name like a magic trick.

He watched Grian calculate his chances of getting Etho if Bdubs was going to Scar’s party. “…okay, yeah, you get Etho.”

“Also that means I get Cleo,” Scar said. “She’ll come if Bdubs does. We don’t want to split up friends.” He drew Cleo’s name towards him, sliding another couple of slips underneath it at the same time. “Oh, and Joe as well, if Cleo’s coming.”

“What’s that other one?” Grian said suspiciously. He trapped Scar’s hand and pried out the third name. “What—no, you can’t have Ren.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Scar said in his most reasonable voice. “Hear me out. I have Cub, right?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, I have Cub, and Bdubs, and Cleo, and Joe, so, by royal decree…”

“You can’t have Ren just because the five of you were in a royal murder cult with him!”

“Excuse me, mister, that wasn’t a cult. That was the royal court!”

“It was too a cult,” said Grian, a man who had once persuaded Ren into living in camper vans in the woods with him for weeks in order to break into a military base and steal a magic box.

Ren’s name was already safely on Scar’s side of the table. “And if I have Ren, then I have to have Doc—”

“Look, Scar, if you get all of Bdubs’ current and former exes—”

“—what’s a ‘current ex’—”

“—Etho and don’t interrupt me, if you get everyone Bdubs has ever had a relationship plus their plus ones you get ninety percent of our friends.”

“Is it my fault I throw good parties?” Scar protested. “Look, you can have—”

“I’m having Impulse,” Grian interrupted, pulling his name out. “I need more redstoners.”

“What for?”

Grian waved a hand. “You just need them around.” Scar nodded, unable to find a flaw in the logic. “Also I get Joel. And Martyn. And Timmy.”

“I built Jimmy a train,” Scar objected. He put his fingertips on the other end of Jimmy’s name while Grian attempted to steal it.

“All right, this is the ‘disputed’ pile,” Grian said, pushing it to the side. “Who else?”

Now they had a disputed pile, it started filling up. “If I have Cleo,” Scar said, “then technically I should have Scott—”

“You can’t keep using that trick!”

“Then how are we going to fix it, Grian?” Scar’s tone was eminently reasonable. “I think we should just let people be friends.”

“They are friends,” Grian said. “They’re friends with me.”

“They could be friends with me.”

“Tell you what,” Grian said, a warlike gleam coming into his eyes. “We’ll ask them.”

TRANSCRIPT OF DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS, DAY 1 (CONTINUED):

Judge Bdubs: So that’s how the split started?

Cleo: You weren’t even married at that point.

Grian: Right! Exactly! We weren’t even married and Scar used underhand methods to steal my friends!

Scar: Excuse me. You went around the server threatening everyone who you didn’t think was coming to your party. Talk about underhand methods! I just offered them a good time.

Grian: Your bribed them! You bribed them to come to your bachelor party! [stabs a finger at Judge Bdubs] You even bribed him, so I don’t know why we put him in charge of this divorce.

Judge Bdubs: Nobody is allowed to question the integrity of the judge! I am as PURE AS THE DRIVEN SNOW.

Scar: That’s a good point. I gave you netherite, Bdubs, you should be ruling in my favor.

Judge Bdubs: You gave me ONE netherite ingot, I’m not giving you a ruling for that.

Scar: Grian, I think this judge is biased.

Judge Bdubs: HOW DARE YOU.

Grian: Scar is right, this judge is corrupt! I can’t believe we were forced into this farce of a trial and the judge is corrupt! Joe, I demand a new judge.

[Court Scribe JoeHills indicates that he is pretty sure this whole divorce trial was Grian’s idea in the first place, and also that judges cannot usually be replaced just like that, and the Court Scribe personally does not have a reserve list]

Judge Bdubs: I refuse to SIT HERE and be SLANDERED! You’re both guilty! [slams gavel] TAKE THEM TO THE DUNGEONS.

[Court Scribe JoeHills confirms that the petitioners have not actually been accused of anything—despite obviously having committed many crimes, Cleo would like to me to record—so cannot be found guilty, and in any case we don’t have any dungeons]

Judge Bdubs: Fine! I give up! CLEO, YOU’RE THE JUDGE NOW.

Judge Cleo: Wait, am I?

[Judge Bdubs forcibly transfers the judicial wig to Cleo, upon which the snakes in her hair make a spirited attempt to eat it.]

Scar: Can we get on with it?

Judge Cleo: Yes, you can shut up. You can all shut up! Thank you. That’s better. Are you sure you two can’t just settle it out of court so we can all go home?

Grian: No, we can’t. Me and Scar have [checks his notes] undergone an irreparable breakdown.

Scar: Sure, we might have had an eruptable breakdown, but you can’t say it was my fault. I tried to make it work. I built us a honeymoon island! It had palm trees and deckchairs and everything. I’m coming here in good faith and I deserve to be the innocent party.

Grian: I want all the diamonds Scar has.

Judge Cleo: Joe, is he allowed to ask for that?

[Court Scribe diligently references the law summary he found on the internet, suggests that at this stage the judge can grant temporary financial orders on petitioner request]

Grian: Fine, I want half of Scar’s diamonds.

Scar: I need all my diamonds for Scarland materials!

Grian: They’re not your diamonds! They’re my diamonds!

Scar: Then I get half of all your dark prismarine, thank you very much, that will be amazingly useful.

Grian: You’re not touching my dark prismarine! I’ll sell it all if you try!

Judge Cleo: Nobody is touching anyone else’s anything! Ren, stop laughing, this is a serious courtroom. Grian, you’re not allowed to sell your dark prismarine. Scar, you’re not allowed to hide any of your diamonds. Everyone is going to keep things exactly as they are until this trial is done.

Grian: Do you trust him? Look at him, look at his face, would you trust that man? Of course you wouldn’t! All the diamonds should stay in my base while we’re having the trial.

Scar: This is outrageous! This is an outrageous demand! You can’t just question a man’s honor like that!

Judge Cleo: Well, put them somewhere safe. Joe can keep them.

Grian: [grudgingly] I suppose we could put them in the Royal Vault.

Judge Cleo: You want to put your valuables in escrow?

Scar: I don’t see what birds have to do with it.

[Short pause while the concept of ‘escrow’ is explained to both petitioners]

Scar: Well, I’ll do it, but I think Grian should put all his resources in nestcrow. Seeing as it’s all his fault.

Grian: I did everything right! I was the perfect groom!

Judge Cleo: You know, Grian, somehow I have my doubts. Go back to your marriage testimony. What happened next?

EVIDENCE #5

“Ahem,” said Mumbo. “Ahem.”

Grian rolled his eyes, jumped up on a table, decided that wasn’t good enough, flew up and perched on the light fitting, and yelled, “Everyone! It’s happening! The best man is speaking!”

Silence fell.

“I was actually going to announce you,” Mumbo said. He cleared his throat. “All right! So! This… is a bachelor party!”

The bachelor party–all three of them–looked at each other.

“Woohoo!” said Iskall.

“Party time!” tried Pearl gamely.

“I was promised champagne,” said Scott, who had been lured through the portal with one bribe only.

“There will be champagne,” said Mumbo. “As best man, it is my job to plan the bachelor party, and to plan a party that is… appropriate, and thoughtful, and informed by my long friendship with Grian, so,” he coughed, “if everyone could check the boxes under their chairs for supplies, we do have an event. Sort of thing. Kind of a party game.”

“Er,” said Pearl, checking under her chair. “This is… quite a lot of...”

Iskall started to giggle.

“Seriously, I was promised champagne,” said Scott.

“Yes, yes, we’ll get to that,” Mumbo said. “First, we’re going to sneak into the other party and blow them all up.”

“...so many ender crystals…” whispered Pearl.

“Look how they sparkle!” said Iskall.

“What about the—”

“And! When they’re all dead,” said Mumbo, “we can take their champagne.”

Grian flew down from the light fitting and landed in front of Mumbo. His eyes were shining. He took Mumbo’s hands in his. “Mumbo,” he breathed. “I’ve changed my mind. Can I marry you instead?”

“Er,” said Mumbo. “No?”

“Did you even order any refreshments?” said Scott.

“Listen,” Mumbo said, “it’s Grian’s party, we were going to end up doing this anyway, and it’ll be fun.”

“Dibs on blowing up Scar!” said Grian.

“We understand, Grian,” said Pearl.

“I suppose that’s sort of romantic?” said Scott in an undertone. “You’d think he’d have more trauma about it, after all the–”

“This is going to be so funny,” Grian said, scooping up handfuls of ender crystals. “Best–best man–ever.”

EVIDENCE #6

The actual wedding was a subdued affair.

The wedding venue had just about survived, by virtue of being several hundred blocks away from either bachelor party, though the smoking craters were visible in the background. From the front, the building was a charming mansion with flowers in every window. From every other angle it might be a gray shell, but Grian was a very busy person who was getting married and he couldn’t be expected to get to everything.

On the morning of the wedding, when Grian finally pieced himself together and dragged himself back from respawn he was met by the two Best Man candidates: Mumbo, who was sitting on the step of the venue dismally trying to piece his scorched suit back together, and Cub, who was completely unruffled and appeared to be doing a crossword.

“Oh, Grian, you made it.” Mumbo abandoned his scorched hems in relief. “Some people haven’t even respawned yet. We really do need Scar, though—”

“I’m here! I’m here!” Scar, impeccably dressed in a blue morning suit, swooped in from above, trailing flowers and losing his top hat in the process. “Gosh. Nobody else made it, huh?”

“I don’t believe this,” Grian said. “None of them?”

“Weren’t you supposed to open the portal again for the Empires people?”

“I forgot,” Grian said. “But we can’t focus on that. We have to focus on the fact that at least twenty Hermits promised to come, and now they aren’t here.”

“I, um,” Mumbo said. “I take full responsibility for the original idea, but I think the seventh time you blew up Bdubs and Ren and Doc and Zedaph you did blow up all their stuff as well. And I think some people got hit so hard they won’t respawn for a week.”

“That was their fault,” Grian said. “For being in the way of my ender crystals.”

“Seven times?” Cub said.

“Oh, as if you’ve never blown up someone and all their stuff seven times and pushed their respawn into next week.”

“So, what?” Scar said. “Do we just…not have a wedding?”

Mumbo coughed. “I think you should still get married.”

“What?”

“I just think,” Mumbo gestured vaguely. “You know, your whole thing. And Jevin made you the suits and everything. It would be a shame. You could have an intimate wedding without any guests, you know. I’m just saying.”

Grian attempted to trade a skeptical look with Scar. This didn’t work, as Scar had gone faintly red and wasn’t looking at him. “An intimate wedding, you mean, right here?” Scar said. “Now? Oh, yes, of course, but you know, now I come to think about it, I don’t know I can get married.”

This smelled like weakness. “What’s wrong with marrying me?” Grian demanded. “Are you backing out?”

“No, I—I need my top hat! I can't get married without my top hat!”

“Are you scared, Scar?”

“Of course I'm not scared!” Scar said indignantly. “We’ll do it right now! Who’s marrying us? Oh—Joe’s still respawning, isn’t he? Cub, you can do it, can’t you? Cub’s an ordained priest, you know.”

“That’s right,” Cub said agreeably.

“Is he?” Grian said suspiciously. “Which religion?”

Cub’s faint smile didn’t change at all. “Don’t worry about that.”

“You don’t want to think too hard about it,” Scar said breezily. “But he’s very official! Very well-respected in the community.”

In all their planning, Grian had given no thought at all to the actual wedding. He was nearly certain that the chanting from the officiant was supposed to be pleasant and inoffensive, about, well, love and stuff, and he was also fairly sure the officiant’s eyes were not supposed to turn black as a flaming rift appeared behind him spewing an unknowable sense of dread, but at that point Scar kissed Grian thoroughly, and that lasted so long that Mumbo had to break it up after a few minutes with a polite cough, and by that time Cub had finished chanting and gone back to his crossword.

“That was very touching,” Mumbo said, apparently relieved they weren’t still kissing right in front of him. “Shame about the guests, but you can’t have everything.”

“Shocking,” Scar agreed. “Do they still have to give us presents? Maybe if we waited a week and did it again? I have to say, I could use a little more time to get the trees right on Honeymoon Island.”

“We’re not having a honeymoon, Scar, I told you,” Grian said. “This wedding is just business, and we don’t have any business without the presents.”

Mumbo was wearing the expression that Grian had always vaguely compared to an accountant breaking the bad news about something unspeakable going on in the stockmarket. “To be honest with you,” Mumbo said, “I don’t think many of them were in a present-giving mood. I think, um, you might have to write off the presents.”

“Are you telling me,” Grian said, “that this whole scheme has been a complete failure?”

TRANSCRIPT OF DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS, DAY 1 (CONTINUED):

Judge Cleo: So, let me get this straight, the plan was to scam all of us—

Scar: Scam is a strong word. More like a trade, if you think about it! A trade where we get presents and you get a warm sense of fuzziness and wellbeing.

Judge Cleo: —exactly, to scam us, and it all went wrong, and you realized the marriage was a mistake? That was weeks ago, though. What happened between that and the divorce?

EVIDENCE #7

LIST OF POST-WEDDING WRONGDOING COMMITTED BY GRIAN AND SCAR, VARIOUS (condensed from two hours of court arguments)

i. “Well, then I took some deepslate from Grian because I needed it for Scarland, which is just borrowing, if you think about it.”

ii. “Scar really owed me diamonds because it was his fault the scam didn’t work.”

iii. Lengthy descriptions of the damage from ensuing weeks-long prank war.

iv. “He should honestly have expected me to put chickens in his storage system.”

v. Evidence received from Xisuma that this lagged out the entire server.

vi. Evidence received from Grian that Scarland lags out the entire server anyway and this is probably a crime so why can’t the court do something about that.

vii. Strong representations from both sides that the other one snores and hogs the covers and this probably ought to be a crime.

TRANSCRIPT OF DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS, DAY 1 (CONTINUED):

Judge Cleo: [face down on judicial bench] Have they stopped talking yet?

Court Scribe JoeHills: No, they’re still going.

EVIDENCE #8

FURTHER LIST OF WRONGDOINGS COMMITTED BY GRIAN AND SCAR

viii. “Yes I did blow him up after that, but it’s not illegal if it’s funny.”

ix. Complicated debate about whether ensuing sabotage was funny enough not to be illegal.

x. Representations from Grian that everything is Scar’s fault with absolutely no legal backing at all.

xi. Representations from Scar, ditto, with the addition of fake law he says his cat defense attorney told him.

xii. At this point, Court Scribe JoeHills has given up attempting to make sense of the petitioners’ ongoing argument.

TRANSCRIPT OF DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS, DAY 1 (CONTINUED):

Judge Cleo: Enough! ENOUGH! No! Shut up! If I have to listen to one more attempt at utterly specious reasoning from either of you I am going to pick up this gavel and I am going to drive its handle through my own skull. This is definitely both your fault, you are terrible people, and I hope you get divorced harder than anyone has ever got divorced in history.

[Mildly stunned silence in the court]

Judge Cleo: Right. Good. I am about to quit. But before I quit, because Joe asked me nicely to come here today, I am going to order one of you to serve the other with divorce papers before tomorrow. That’s the next thing on the list: one of you has to formally divorce the other. No, I am not going to hear any more arguments, I’m done with this whole thing, you can find a new judge. Yes, Scar?

Scar: [lowers his tentatively raised hand] How do we know which one divorces the other one?

Judge Cleo: [looks blank] Well… I suppose it’s who serves their papers first?

COMPLAINT TO COURT:

Submitter of complaint: SCAR

Body of complaint: Grian wont accept divorce papers and keeps avoiding me.

COMPLAINT TO COURT:

Submitter of complaint: GRIAN

Body of complaint: scar didn’t take a single copy of the papers despite the fact i filled his bedroom with them

COMPLAINT TO COURT:

Submitter of complaint: SCAR

Body of complaint: Grian paid impulse to make a divorce paper printing redstone machine. It feels like this, should be Illegal!

COMPLAINT TO COURT:

Submitter of complaint: GRIAN

Body of complaint: scar employed my best man to make him a rival printing machine. this is sabotage.

COMPLAINT TO COURT:

Submitter of complaint: ZEDAPH

Body of complaint: Er, I know you’re doing a whole trial thingummy, but I would really like to be able to move around my base without swimming through mountains of divorce papers. Does it look like this is going to be possible any time in the near future?

COMPLAINT TO COURT:

Submitter of complaint: DOCM77

Body of complaint: WHY HAVE SEVENTY THOUSAND BADLY-PRINTED COPIES OF DIVORCE PAPERS BEEN SHOVELED INTO THE PERIMETER! I AM HOLDING ALL OF YOU PERSONALLY RESPONSIBLE! I WILL RAIN DOWN FIRE AND BLOOD!

TRANSCRIPT OF DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS, DAY 2:

Judge Mumbo: Right, so, apparently I’m supposed to be ruling on who served who with papers.

Scar: Excuse me! Objection! This new judge is clearly biased.

Grian: No, he’s not. This is all completely fine. Mumbo can be the judge now, and he can just wear a different hat when he’s being my lawyer.

Judge Mumbo: I am a bit biased, I have to admit.

Grian: No you’re not, Mumbo.

Scar: Admit it, there can’t be a fair trial for Grian under these circumstances!

Judge Mumbo: Uh—

Scar: Because I know Mumbo, and he can’t resist these…HoTgUy abs!

[Minor chaos as the court attempts to enforce a dress code]

Judge Mumbo: [removes his wig] Sorry, Grian, he’s right. Scar’s papers are accepted.

Grian: TRAITOR.

Mumbo: Scar, can I have another calendar?

TRANSCRIPT OF DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS, DAY 3:

Judge Ren: Court is called to order! Where’s—oh, there you are. Scar, you’re late.

Scar: Sorry! I was working on our honeymoon island.

Grian: What do you mean, our honeymoon island? Scar, we’re divorcing.

Scar: That doesn't mean you can just abandon a build, Grian. Some of us don't leave our backsides unfinished.

Cleo: Someone please get Ren a glass of water, I think he’s going to choke.

Judge Ren: Ahem. Now, gentlemen, I understand Scar is filing for divorce from Grian on the grounds of [checks his notes] desertion, abandonment, and unreasonable behavior.

Grian: Excuse me, what! If I’ve been unreasonable, what about him?

Scar: I have been a model of rationality and recti— rectic— ridiclitude.

Judge Ren: Indeed. I have heard Scar always finishes his backsides.

Grian: I’ll give you unreasonable behavior! This whole thing is your fault! If your bachelor party hadn’t been so badly defended I wouldn’t have been able to blow you all up.

Scar: Well, mister, if you hadn’t overthrown Ren in the first place he might have shown up to our wedding in spite of it!

Grian: If you’d been better at your job I wouldn’t have been ABLE to overthrow him!

Scar: You—you—oooh, I oughta—

Grian: [tauntingly] Ought to what?

Judge Ren: Scar, no, not in court…!

Scar: HOTGUY! [Retrieves bow from improbably small pocket and summarily murders his co-petitioner on the witness. Chaos ensues. Trial name hastily changed.]

TRANSCRIPT OF TRIAL PROCEEDINGS FOR THIRD-DEGREE MURDER, DAY 1:

Judge Ren: Listen, Scar, did you, or did you not, kill another petitioner right in front of me?

Scar: What? Oh, yeah, I just shot Grian.

Judge Ren: You can’t just—My dude, this might have been a crime of passion, but you understand this is a court and that was murder, right?

Cleo: Objection.

Judge Ren: Yes?

Cleo: We can’t start prosecuting for murder now.

[Pause as the court considers the comprehensive history of all Hermits present.]

TRANSCRIPT OF TRIAL PROCEEDINGS FOR THIRD-DEGREE MURDER, DAY 1

TRANSCRIPT OF DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS, DAY 3:

Judge Ren: [once Grian has returned from spawn] You’re going to have to come to some sort of agreement, gentlemen. It’s been days.

Grian: I think we should fight.

Judge Ren: This court does not do trial by combat. I refuse to be witness to such barbarity.

Cleo: I mean…if you think about it, it would stop them arguing.

Judge Ren: …

Judge Ren: I think I could stand to watch someone else compromise their morals. From a distance. Who wants this wig?

Judge Pearl: [settling in at the bench] Right! I think you two should fight. To the death.

Grian: LET’S FIGHT.

Judge Pearl: Riding ravagers.

Scar: What?

Judge Pearl: It would be funny.

Scar: Ravagers, though—

Grian: Don’t listen to Scar, he just murdered me. He doesn’t have a leg to stand on.

Scar: Alright! Alright, we can fight, but I’m only doing it if it’s somewhere dramatic.

Grian: …What do you mean, dramatic?

TRANSCRIPT OF DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS, DAY 3 (CONTINUED):

[The court has moved proceedings from its custom-built courthouse to a location considered ‘acceptably dramatic’ by Petitioner Scar. We are now in the dim, cavernous monolith of the Royal Vault, where the walls are sheer deepslate lit only by flickering lanterns, and mountains of diamonds and chests gleam softly in the shadowed gloom. The court is gathered here to watch the petitioners fight symbolically over their own escrowed valuables, which are piled in the middle of a stone platform built by Grian and Pearl, and see a final conclusion to this bitterly-fought split. At either end of the platform are pens with two enraged ravagers donated by Tango, salivating at the buffet of violence and blood about to—]

Judge Pearl: [leans over the edge of her observation chair] Joe! What are you doing down there scribbling?

Court Scribe JoeHills: Oh, I’m just adding narrative color.

Judge Pearl: Well, stop doing that and pay attention to the fight! We’re about to start!

Bdubs: FIGHT!

Cub: Let’s go!

Mumbo: Grian, mate, you’ve got this.

Bdubs: RUN HIM THROUGH, SCAR. TEACH HIM TO MAKE FUN OF MY WEDDING DECORATIONS.

Doc: What happens if they both die? I would like them both to die.

Judge Pearl: Contestants! Mount your steeds!

Grian: [has succeeded in landing on his ravager’s back, something Scar has not yet managed] I want you to know, Scar, that whatever happens—

Judge Pearl: Scar! You can’t just stand there, you have to TRY to ride it.

Grian: —I think we can count this as a—

Bdubs: FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

Scar: [his head comes up to look at Grian] —a double victory?

[As if this is a code word, Grian and Scar’s gazes meet. The Court Scribe feels obliged to note that when Grian and Scar smile at the same time, history suggests something terrible is about to happen.]

Scar: Well, hello there, Mister Ravager! Would you like to get out of that pen?

Bdubs: Wait, what’s he—Scar, you ain’t supposed to break the wall that lets them at us! SABOTAGE!

Judge Pearl: GRIAN!

Grian: [shrieking as his ravager swerves into the crowd of spectators] Scar! The switch!

[Your trusty Court Scribe hurriedly dives out of the way as Scar flings himself into the pile of his and Grian’s valuables, where the tell-tale glint of redstone has been hidden under the piles of chests.]

Ren: Why do both of them have all those empty shulkers?

Cleo: Wait, wait, did we just give Grian and Scar unfettered access to all the diamonds in the vault?

Judge Pearl: WATCH OUT, THEY’VE HIDDEN TNT UNDER THE—

[Scar slams a switch. The world explodes. The Judge and most spectators are instantly blown up. The only survivors are your Court Scribe, who managed to get behind an obsidian pillar, and Cub, rising above the chaos on pre-equipped elytra wings with the philosophical serenity of someone who saw this coming.]

POSTSCRIPT

It’s a beautiful day, the sky is a clear and serene blue, and Grian and Scar have gotten away with everything.

Grian coasts joyfully ahead of Scar on outstretched wings, loaded down with boxes and boxes of ill-gotten diamonds, looping head-over-heels only when he can’t contain the energy bubbling through him. “We are the greatest, Scar. We are geniuses. We are the greatest geniuses who ever lived.”

“Oh, we are,” Scar agrees instantly. A lesser person might have pointed out their first plan failed spectacularly and their hasty second one only succeeded by luck, but this is why Grian married Scar specifically. Only he’s not married to Scar any more, is he? For one shining moment Grian had forgotten that.

The crater of the Royal Vault is far below and receding, the debris scattered like little jeweled toys. Grian is recalled to the present gleeful moment in which they are geniuses who have pulled the whole thing off and are richer than every other hermit put together. “Where are we going?”

“I was following you,” Scar says.

“I didn’t think this far ahead! I only planned up to the part where we stole everyone’s diamonds!”

“Oh, well, that’s easy,” Scar says confidently. “Change course to Honeymoon Island!”

Grian doesn’t have a good argument against that, and anyway, he’s too happy and diamond-dazzled to argue. Scar strikes out to the azure ocean and Grian dips into his wake and soars behind.

Scar has outdone himself, as usual. Honeymoon Island is just one long crescent-shaped beach with crystal seas, golden sands, palm trees, deck chairs, and—somehow—little iced coconut drinks that keep reappearing and each have a little paper umbrella. Naturally, Scar hasn’t thought of including a safe room for all their new valuables, so Grian has to dig out a makeshift bunker for all their ill-gotten gains, but when all that excitement is done, Grian throws himself onto a deckchair with a coconut drink and closes his eyes.

“So?” Scar says, in the expectant tone of someone who has spent three weeks fiddling with the palm trees that are currently casting an exquisitely-latticed shade over Grian’s eyelids, despite the fact they were technically divorcing all that time. “What do you think?”

“It is very pretty,” Grian admits grudgingly. “We can’t use it for a honeymoon, though. We’re divorced.”

“Are we divorced?” Scar is thoughtfully making origami out of his paper umbrella. “We did ditch them all before the trial officially finished.”

“Oh, we’re absolutely divorced. Super divorced.”

“I suppose you’re right. No honeymoon for us, then?”

An idyllic silence falls over the palm-fringed beach. The sea laps at the shining sands, creating a soft music from the shells and pebbles. The leaves rustle. This coconut drink in Grian’s hand is surprisingly good.

“Scar—”

“Hey, Grian—”

There is a pause.

“Go on,” Grian says impatiently.

“No, no, I think you should ask.”

“I asked last time!” This is ridiculous. It’s a shame Grian has been enchanted by the ridiculous for years now. “We’re probably not even talking about the same—”

Scar interrupts, which is rude, but unfortunately he’s picked his most golden and unfair voice, like the sea caressing the sand, and Grian is momentarily helpless. “Will you, Grian,” Scar says, “do me the great honor of marrying me? Again?”

Grian throws a paper umbrella at him. “Scar,” he says, “I thought you’d never ask.”

#fic #long post #grian #goodtimeswithscar #scarian #hermitshipping #bdoubleo100 #zombiecleo #joehills

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glitchedmagic · 8 months

Text

@theminecraftbee ‘s ficlets about Decked Out eating Tango have been living in my head rent free so here’s a little post-do thing of my own.

“The server resets tonight.”

It’s been just over two months since Decked Out finished. Just over two months since anyone has seen or heard from Tango.

Zed knows what happened. Not the details. And he certainly couldn’t explain it to anyone else. But he knows.

And the gnawing feeling of guilt has kept him coming back to the dungeon. Every day.

Decked Out is asleep. Zed can walk through the citadel without a desperate need to throw himself to the ravengers. He can even wander below, into the redstone, without being electrocuted to death. Maybe it’s dead, but Zed doubts it. He knows it’s just sleeping. Eventually, it will wake up. It will be hungry and will lure whoever enters this world into its depths.

Maybe that’s when Tango will wake up too.

Zed won’t be here to see it.

“Who knows when you’ll be able to eat again?”

His voice is quiet but he knows the whole dungeon can hear him. He plays with the clasp on his gas mask. Tango’s storage room, where he lays on the dusty floor, has enough oxygen flowing through it still to allow him to breathe without the mask, though he’s already getting a bit of a headache. He’ll put the mask back on soon. Eventually.

“One last snack?”

He’s offered the dungeon himself hundreds of times these past few months. As a player, when it was live, hoping to spark a bit of his friend’s life back into him. Then after. Hoping for something. For a glimpse of flickering blue flame and wide eyes that had long since given up pretending to see.

There’s quiet.

There’s so much guilt in the quiet.

Don’t worry, Zed. Just a few months. Not too big of a project.

All good here. With level one done, the rest will go a lot quicker.

Yeah, level three got away from me a bit. Level four will be smaller, don’t worry.

Audio needed to be reworked, you know how it is. Soon.

Just tired, lost track of time last night.

Not too much longer now.

Don’t worry, I’ll be back to normal when the game’s done. Promise.

Did Tango know he was lying?

Zed is well aware that what he’s doing isn’t good for him. It’s ironic, how Tango pulled away from everyone, to eventually disappear in this cave. And now Zed’s doing the same thing.

It was always Tango pulling Zed out. Into the sun for a stupid game or a ridiculous project. So it makes sense that without him, Zed can’t bring himself to leave the hole.

“I could break more redstone.” Zed offers the dungeon. “Really get you mad.”

He’d done that. About two weeks after Decked Out went dormant. He hadn’t gotten a reaction at the time. But the next day, everything was repaired.

That had spurred Zed into doing a stakeout. Break some stuff, sit and wait until the dungeon brought Tango out to fix it.

Zed had died down in the redstone, waiting. It hadn’t been a pleasant death.

That’s when Impulse had stepped in, staging his own intervention. But all it had done is make Zed feel more guilty.

An intervention for the guy who failed to do an intervention when Tango needed it most.

See? Ironic.

His head is starting to pound. He puts his mask back on.

“I want my friend back, you stupid castle,” He says through the mask. The dungeon understands him anyways.

He won’t be getting Tango back. He’s known that for much longer than he can admit.

Time passes. His phone dings a few times. It’s just the others. Making preparations. The server resets in just a few hours.

“Was it worth it?” Zed asks. “Not you, dumb dungeon. I’m asking Tango. Was it worth it? Did you make this choice? Did you know the consequences?”

Silence.

“Did you ever consider saying goodbye?”

The thing is? Tango was saying goodbye. In the only way he could. It was in the heartfelt artifacts crafted for each hermit. It was in his own voice, echoing words throughout the dungeon long after his own voice left him. It was in every ounce of the game.

None of them saw it until it was too late.

Zed stands. He has to be at spawn soon. He has stuff to pack. He has his own hole in the ground to say goodbye to.

He takes the long way out. Up into the main room of the citadel.

There’s a small part of him that hopes to see a glint of Tango. That’s what’s supposed to happen, right? A little wisp of blue fire. A soft voice. A gust of wind blowing a loose piece of paper across the floor. Something he can look at and be comforted by.

Nothing happens.

Zed knows that Tango’s gone.

He stands at the door. It’s open just a crack, just like he left it.

The night is clear.

“Goodbye, Tango.”

#second: its a horror story about losing yourself and being forced to accept it #me: a tragedy about not being able to say goodbye got it #also like????? in a world where death is meaningless??? THIS? THAT TYPE OF GRIEF??? HOW WOULD YOU DEAL #my 'tango is eaten by his base' hcs are a bit different from theirs but idc the vibe is very much the same #for a bit of horror that i couldn't squeeze in #i imagine that tango (as in like his physical body) is asleep somewhere in the redstone #its just impossible for anyone to find #yes the dungeon did that on purpose so none of those other stupid hermits can try and 'save him'#also idk how it would work in-world but everyone who will be playing decked out on the world download?#food for the dungeon #glitch talks #hermitcraft #tangotek #hermitfic

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neptune-ian · 1 month

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can you do a reading on how bts will react or feel about their fans behaviour / fans reactions when they do get into a solid relationship? thanks very muchly!

How will BTS react to their fans’s reaction about their relationship?

Seokjin

The Moon, The Death, Queen of wands, three of cups rx, three of wands, eight of swords, seven of swords, /The Hermit\

Note : 😬

He would not be happy at all. Like, not happy AT ALL. He could withdrawn from the media/public for a moment the time it all passes and calm down. In fact he could be very closed off and would do what he can to not hear of the fans’s reaction or even try to stop them from talking about it. He would be disappointed at fans’s reaction but it won’t stop him to say what he has to say : his mind, the truth. He want that to stop so he will probably communicate it somehow but not being open to fans’s opinion for instance : he is the one talking and you are the one listening. Nothing more and nothing else. He seems so annoyed and pissed I imagine him be like « Yaah seriously don’t talk about that, you have no rights and I do not want you to talk about it. Shut it ».

Yoongi

The Hanged Man, King of swords, Ace of cups rx, ten of pentacles, ten of cups, four of swords, four of wands, three of cups, nine of wands, /The Devil\

Note : 😏🤨

Oh well he would expect it but it won’t stop him from loving less his fans at that very moment… somehow disappointed but more like « really? » besides that he would enjoy it because at the end of the day he would still stay with his lover and support them through that moment. He could like it because it’s as if he is teasing the angry fans with it « you don’t like it? I don’t care *kiss his partner* ». He would stay very objective, stern and composed. He won’t act over his emotions at all and will patiently wait for it to cool down but he won’t let people say bad things over him nor his other one. He is proud of his relationship and is so in love with them (note : my heart started to melt and getting warmer). He would only see his lover.

Hoseok

The Sun, The High Priestess, The Devil, The Hanged Man, The Wheel of Fortune, The Chariot rx, The Star rx, Queen of cups, three of pentacles, ten of swords in horizontal, /three of swords\

Note : 😮‍💨🥱

Somehow he would be unbothered yet bothered? Well it won’t stop him to show off his relationship and enjoy every moment with his significant other. Like the other two he would be disappointed but more like « why are you all breaking my heart with that reaction of yours? Can’t I be happy? » but not in a sad way, in a pissed tone. He will let it pass but at the same time be more or less vocal with it — which means he could still post photos, tours, trips and all with his partner and everyone would know it but he won’t care, on the flip side he would be tired of hearing his fans being immature, mean and unconsiderate of his joy with the one he loves. He will mostly rely on time and not give too much of his energy on something he can’t control.

Namjoon

The Emperor, The Emperess, The World, The Hanged Man in horizontal, Queen of swords, two of wands, two of pentacles, three of swords, /six of wands\

Note : 😊🤓

He will be the luckiest for now, it seems that Namjoon won’t be bothered at all and would stay composed and confident! He won’t be as sad as the others and will try to focus more on his relationship and himself rather than what the fans have to say. I also think that his partner would be of a great great support for him! They could take the lead in that circumstance actually… talking for them both to calm the situation quicker and it could even work. People would actually defend them quite quickly and he would be grateful for that do that for him but also his person. His work, his relationship and himself would have more importance than the fans’s reaction and would move on from it quite easily!

Jimin

The Sun rx, The Wheel of Fortune rx, The Moon rx, The Death, The Temperance, Ace of swords, nine of wands, five of cups, seven of cups, three of pentacles rx, /The Chariot\

Note : ☹️🫥

He would be the most sad among them all ; while the others would be defensive Jimin would be sad and annoyed… but he will try to stay calm and have his mind clear. Though he would feel unlucky in that situation because he may have thought that his fans would be happy for him and supportive but also becaude he wanted his relationship to stay a secret unless he decides it won’t be hidded anymore. He would still stay with his person but would defend them publicly and show people that he is not scared of their bad comments on them two. He would try his best and try everything he has to have what he wants (privacy, understanding, compassion, tranquility…). I think he will mostly try to take care of his mental health because he doesn’t want to fall back where he used to fall when people judged him.

Taehyung

The World, The Star, The Hanged Man in horizontal, Queen of swords rx, Knight of swords in horizontal, five of swords, /The Wheel of Fortune\

Note : 😎😐

He won’t care that much it seems? Not because it was unexpected but he just doesn’t care that much about what people have to say about him, his life and especially his love life. He would just ne happu that people will know he is in a relationship that he loves with the person he loves. He would be vocal about the issues he would be facing but not everytime/often. He will just talk about it whenever he feels like it then for x time he won’t talk about it no more. However it won’t stop him to feel disgusted, bothered and tired of the fans’s reaction. He won’t appreciate it but will just rely on time to do its work and keep focusing on his relationship. Actually he could even tease in a way fans just to piss them off more and mock them after in a innocent way but to make it clear for everyone that he is with whoever he wants and that he loves them. If he choosed to be with them it’s because there are reasons that are personal to him and no one is invited to give their opinion — a bit like Seokjin.

Jungkook

The Emperor, The Hanged Man, The Chariot, The fool rx, Knight of cups, Page of swords, five of cups, /The Hermit\

Note : 😢

Jungkook would be so sad yet he would still stay bold to talk with his fans. He would be open to communicate his feelings and thoughts and share his mind with his fans for them to understand him. It would be his way to calm the fans… he would be very understanding of the fans and be compassionate with them to not hurt them and add fuel to fire already. It won’t mean that he will accept whatever they will say to him not at all, he would stay firm but he would also want to be open to communication because he values understanding a lot. Communication would be important for him at that moment. He would be very logical, in his power (so he could intimidate his fans as he won’t budge at all not in a stubborn way but because he is very confident) and be very honest and direct. After that, he could just withdrawn for a moment from the media and the public in general just to take of himself and make sense out of it all and the information he gather to his fans.

#neptune’s reading #neptune’s tarot reading #bts tarot #kim seokjin tarot #yoongi tarot #hoseok tarot #kim namjoon tarot #namjoon tarot #jimin tarot #taehyung tarot #jungkook tarot #kpop tarot reading #kpop asks #tarot blog #celeb tarot #celebrity readings #celebrity tarot

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astroboots · 2 years

Text

RED FLAGS ║ PART 2

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader (hints of Marc Spector x female reader)

Summary: Something strange is going on with Steven. Or alternatively: how you fix your relationship by giving Steven the sloppiest office blowjob ever.

Rating: really fucking explicit

Warning/content: unease around male character, inappropriate office behaviour, blowjob, semi-public sex. Please do not attempt to re-enact this, it will land you with HR.

Word Count: 9.3k (guys this was meant to be a short interlude... idek)

Series Masterlist | Astroboot's Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss' Masterlist

[PREVIOUS] - [NEXT]

Something is wrong.

You’re naked in your boyfriend’s bed—the very same bed where he took you apart some hours ago, desperate, worshipful mouth pressed tight between your thighs. But now he’s staring down at you, that very same mouth set in an almost-disdainful line, eyes flat and blank.

It’s like looking in a funhouse mirror and seeing a distorted reflection of reality. So many of the peripheral things are the same but the essence is different somehow. Off in a way that has your heart pounding loud in your ears.

The difference is jarring in the same way that the still-healing wounds on his torso are. Though in this low light, the bruising on his shoulder and the cuts across his chest don’t look nearly as bad as they did when you first saw them. Was it just the shock of their existence that made you think they were worse than they are?

He clears his throat and you realise with a start that you’ve been silently gawking at his chest for the last several minutes. When your eyes fly to his face, you find him poorly suppressing an amused smirk. He’s never looked at you like that before; you weren’t even aware his mouth was physically capable of curving into such a snide expression.

You don’t know what to say to him. To this stranger of a man who has replaced your sweet, awkward Steven. Don’t know what to do with yourself either. In fact, you’re pretty sure you’re staring at him like a deer in the headlights, covers still clutched to your chest.

His brows draw together, head tilting slightly to the side as he regards you, dark eyes sharp, almost predatory in a way that makes you feel exposed and vulnerable, like an insect pinned to a display board. Your breath stutters in your chest, and a wave of goosebumps raises the hairs along the back of your arms.

Something is wrong, and you want it to stop. And if it won’t stop, you need to leave.

But calmly. Years of experience with drunk blokes in pubs and with overly-handsy coworkers tells you to act normal. Make an excuse. Wouldn’t do to alarm him.

"Is… um… is your insomnia flaring up again? I should go. I… really need to be getting home anyway. Early morning at work, you know." You’re babbling nervously, can’t seem to stop as you start to gather up your clothes. You hurry as much as you can without letting go of the duvet, unwilling to lose the only barrier of protection you have against him.

“I’ll… um… Just let me–” you stammer as you scoop your ruined tights into your handbag and grab your boots. You back prickles uneasily and you have to force yourself not to look over your shoulder and see if he’s still standing there watching you. “I’ll just get dressed and be on my way.”

You don’t look at him or wait for a response. Things in hand and bedding still wrapped firmly around yourself, you scuttle across the flat like a deranged hermit crab, relieved to find that the doorway you spotted is, indeed the loo. You retreat inside, closing the accordion door firmly shut behind you.

Encased in the darkness of the small room, you listen anxiously for any noise from the rest of the flat, but all you can hear is your heart beating loudly in your ears. You fumble blindly with your handbag, pawing through the keys and makeup and all the other odds and ends that seem to accumulate despite your best efforts, cursing yourself for not being more organised.

Finally, after an infinitely long moment of listening to your breathing come faster and faster as you search, your hand closes around your phone, and you yank it free. Your fingers are clumsy as you thumb it open, turning on the flashlight so you can find the pull cord for the bathroom light and tug it down until the room flickers with a jarring glaring brightness.

You squint down at your phone, and the familiar background screen of you and Steven looks back up at you. Something akin to guilt floods your chest when you pull up the Uber app to secure a ride home—ETA: 12 mins. It’s followed immediately by relief.

You need the loo, but you feel too exposed to actually sit down for a pee while starkers. It’s ridiculous really, this isn’t a Hitchcock movie, and logically you know that no one is going to attack you from behind the shower curtain. Still you opt for dressing yourself as quickly as you can.

Fully clothed and with your escape route secured, you feel a tiny bit better, but the tightness in your chest refuses to dissipate fully.

You use the loo and wash your hands. Catching sight of yourself in the tiny mirror above the sink, you run a quick hand over your hair before giving it up as a bad job, less worried about your looks than… than… What is it that you’re worried about anyway?

Standing there staring at your reflection, peaky and fretful under the harsh light, you wrap your arms around yourself and wonder what the bloody hell is going on with you. You’re being ridiculous.

It’s just Steven, right? Your sweet, caring Steven. Except it’s not.

He hasn’t really even done anything untoward, and yet here you are, your heart in your throat, ready to jump out of your skin at the slightest provocation.

He was just so oddly still. Loose and almost... relaxed in a way you’re not used to from Steven.

Maybe that’s it, you tell yourself, trying to pluck up the courage to open the door to the rest of the flat. People sometimes act differently after sex. (Case in point: whatever is going on with you right now.)

Maybe this is just what Steven is like once he finally lets himself relax?

The thought warms you, makes the tightness in your chest relax marginally. But the warmth fades as soon as you open the door to find him standing in the middle of the room, staring at you.

He’s dressed now as well in the well-fitted shirt and dark jacket, so different from his usual oversized clothes. You note absently that it’s a good look on him, but the thought never truly takes hold because you’re too focused on his eyes, just as piercing as before. Another shiver works its way up your spine. This isn’t just your imagination.

Something is wrong with Steven, and everything inside you is screaming that you need to get out of here.

Now.

“I’ll just… um… wait downstairs, shall I?”

He says nothing, and you’re glad, even though that’s wrong too. Steven always offers to walk you, but this time you’re just as happy to be away from him that much sooner.

You’re uncomfortably aware of the weight of his eyes on you as you make your way to the door and start to unfasten the frankly ridiculous number of locks and deadbolts. Even for London this is a bit of an overkill, isn’t it?

Once you finally get the door open, you flash Steven one last wave and a quick, “see you around.” You duck out the door before he can reply, shutting it gently behind you. Resisting the urge to let your head thunk forward against the wood, you turn and head for the lift, still feeling odd about the whole interaction and vaguely on edge.

What was that? Why do you feel more like a witness fleeing a crime scene than a woman bidding a fond goodnight to her boyfriend?

It doesn’t help your nerves that the hallway is dark and empty and one of the lights keeps flickering, lending the whole space an eerie feel. You almost wish you’d asked Steven to walk you down, but you want your Steven, awkward and openly affectionate, not the odd, mostly-silent man you’ve just left behind in his flat.

You reach the lift and punch the call button, prompting a deep hum as the machinery starts to move. You’re staring at the bright red LED light indicating which floor it’s on, willing it to arrive when something grabs hold of your wrist. Hard and unyielding. The persistent grip makes you flinch, jerking your hand back and spinning around to confront… Steven.

He’s right there behind you, looming over you, looking impossibly large and menacing, and your heart hammers in your chest. You take an involuntary step backwards and clutch your bag to your chest. Your back bumps up against something cold, and you nearly shriek before realising you’ve backed into the door of the lift.

God, what is wrong with you tonight!?

It’s just Steven, you tell yourself, willing your rabbiting heart to slow down. (But it’s not. Something inside you is still screaming that this is not your Steven. His eyes are wrong, his stance is wrong, his fucking hair is wrong.)

And you don’t know what you expect (the worst. Oh god, since when have you expected the worst from Steven?) but it isn’t for him to take a step back and hold his hands up in the universal gesture of harmlessness.

Harmless… right. What a laugh. Right now he looks anything but. Except...

He regards you steadily, eyes dark in his too-serious face. He’s still too still, too... much to be your Steven, but...

There’s something about the way he’s giving you space. The way the stillness is deliberate now, controlled. He’s not trying to make himself smaller—not the way Steven always does—but he’s holding himself back. The power obvious in every line of his body is being restrained in an effort to reassure you, and it’s enough to overcome the worst of your irrational fear.

There’s a tilt of his head, as he gives you a nod, one that seems to say, ‘that’s right. You’re okay.’ And as those dark eyes burn into yours, you can almost bring yourself to believe it.

He seems to notice too, something shifting subtly in his face. His lips curve up into a small smile, but even that is wrong… almost condescending. And he tips his head slightly to the right.

It’s then that you notice your cheap watch hanging from his hand, the stupid thing looking tiny and delicate in his thick fingers.

Oh. Oh God. You’ve made a right idiot of yourself, haven't you? Embarrassed warmth floods your cheeks. He must think you’re a complete nutter, overreacting like that over the return of a wristwatch.

Your eyes shift from your watch back to his face, and there's something—the slightest quirk of an eyebrow or maybe the way that one corner of his mouth ticks up higher—that turns the expression cruel, like he’s having a laugh at your expense.

The heat spreads and prickles up over the back of your neck, making your ears burn. You’re not even sure anymore if it's nerves or embarrassment or something else entirely, but it rubs you the wrong way all the same, and annoyance comes to the forefront.

Narrowing your eyes, you send him a look that would ordinarily have Steven withering, but it only seems to amuse the man in front of you.

"Thanks," you tell him flatly, not quite daring to pop off the way you want to. Instead you hesitantly step forward into his space to grab the watch from him. The band pops apart—of course it does—leaving you each holding half of the useless thing, and you have to scramble to grab the other half from his hand under his taunting gaze.

What is wrong with you? What is wrong with Steven!? God, you just want to be done with this and far, far away from here.

Like the answer to your prayers, a loud ding sounds out in the silence, heralding the arrival of the lift.

The doors open behind you, and you back in, unwilling to take your eyes off the man who continues to watch you with the same expression of condescending amusement. Once you’re far enough in, you punch the button for the ground floor, and give him a perfunctory wave as the doors close between you, breathing a sigh of relief once the lift begins to move.

Still, it’s not until you’re safely ensconced in the uber on the way back to your flat that you feel like you can finally take a full breath again. And as soon as you do, doubt floods into you along with it.

What in the bloody hell was that!?

Why did you react that way? Somehow, in the veritable sea of red flags lining the road of your relationship with Steven, nothing else has set you off like this.

The whole thing seems surreal, and the farther from Steven’s flat you get, the less sure you are of what happened. Was he really even behaving oddly? Or were you the odd one for overreacting—practically having kittens over your boyfriend… what? Not fawning over you the way he usually does or nattering on about one of his interests in the middle of the night?

Your logical mind is scrambling for some rational explanation: It’s not outrageous to think Steven might be out of sorts because he couldn’t sleep. Or perhaps you had an unremembered bad dream, and the anxiety bled over into wakefulness. Half two in the morning is not anyone’s best hour.

But the way he looked at you there at the end, like you were nothing to him…

No matter how you try to explain what happened or excuse it away, the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach remains the same. As does the fact that, for a bit there, for whatever reason, you were afraid to be alone with Steven.

And that’s a giant fucking red flag if you’ve ever seen one. One you don’t know if you can get past.

You don’t get any sleep that night, and the entirety of the following workday is a fog. There’s spreadsheets and Team meetings and more spreadsheets, and thank God none of it requires your active brain capacity, because you have none to give today. Your thoughts are entirely preoccupied with last night, and trying to decide what to do about Steven.

The logical part of you votes for cutting your losses and ending things now before you get in too deep. Part of you thinks it’s already too late.

Your phone pings from your bag, and despite your uncertainty and everything that happened last night, your heart still skips excitedly at the thought that it might be Steven. Fishing it out, you unlock it, anticipating a text from Steven; expecting him to be checking in on you the way he always does.

Except, it’s not Steven.

Instead it’s an unsolicited picture of an unimpressive specimen of male genitalia taken under the most unflattering fluorescent bathroom light possible. Definitely not Steven.

Hello, unwanted dick pic #13.

God, this is what you would have to look forward to if you break it off with Steven, isn’t it? A return to the dystopian, post-apocalyptic landscape that is the London dating scene.

You don’t want to go back to unsolicited dick pics; questionable men, who are either lying about their marriage status or their profile picture; and blokes who leer at you like you’re a piece of meat hanging from a hook in the window display of a butcher’s store.

But most of all you don’t want to go back to dating strange random men, because you want to be dating Steven.

You like Steven.

You like his puppy dog eyes, and his awkward adoration, and his enthusiasm. You like the silly texts that he sends you throughout the work day— random photos of cute dogs on the tube or Egyptian artefacts with captions full of lame puns and emojis and the reason why he thought of you.

You like all of it.

You like Steven. You like Steven a lot. Before last night, you might even have said you were falling in lo– (No. No, you’re not going there. Not right now.)

But last night was... not good. Quite bad, in fact, wasn't it? You can admit that now. In the space of that last quarter hour with Steven, he made you feel scared and... and... small. And you don’t know how to deal with that from someone you’re supposed to be able to trust.

Don’t know if you even want to try.

God, you’re a mess.

You shoot yet another glance at the wall clock, but it’s still not half five.

You’ve spent the last several hours counting down the minutes and seconds until you can clock out, but the more you check the time, the more it seems to drag on until you think the hands must be clinging to the face of the clock, slowing time itself just to taunt you.

It takes an eternity and a half but then, finally, the clock ticks over.

You gather up your belongings in a daze and bid your coworkers an absentminded goodbye before wandering off to the lift. You stare at your own reflection, distorted in the metallic sidewall as the lift descends, still fretting about Steven.

Do you want to break up with him? Keep seeing him? How the bloody hell are you supposed to know when you don't even know what it will be like when you see him again?

When the doors open on the ground floor, you can hear that there’s some kind of commotion taking place at reception.

“Sir, I’m going to ask you one final time: Who are you here to see?” The no-nonsense voice booms through the entrance hall of your office building

Susan, the loveable old battle-axe of a receptionist, is giving some poor bloke a hard time again. Nothing unusual there. You can hear her barking out, “If you don’t give me a name right now, you’re going to have to leave. This isn’t a bus stop, alright?”

“Sorry, Sorry.”

Oh God. You recognise that voice.

“I'm not loitering or anything dodgy like that. I'm just waiting for my... girl–uh... lady... um… friend."

Rounding the corner, you see him.

Puppydog Steven has returned. He’s wearing another novelty print button down and a hangdog expression. Back stooped and hunching into himself, he’s standing in front of the receptionist desk, holding a bouquet of roses the size of a carnival prize in front of himself like a shield.

“Steven?”

At your voice, he turns towards you, hunching further over into himself like he’s bracing himself for a blow. As you approach, you can tell he’s nervous and unhappy in a way you haven’t seen since your first date, and your first thought is that something awful must have happened, because of the contrast between last night and now beggars belief.

“This one yours then, love?” Susan asks, still eyeing Steven like he might be about to make off with the electronics.

“Yeah, he’s um… Yeah. Thanks, Susan,” you flash her a placating smile, then turn to Steven.

“Steven, what’s wrong? Why are you—,” but you don’t even get the chance to finish the question before he interrupts you.

“I’m sorry. Oh God, this is why I don’t— Sorry, sorry. I–” The words are disjointed, tripping over each other in his hurry to get them out, but clearly it's some sort of garbled apology. “Look, if I– If I did something last night that made you uncomfortable, I’m– Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

In your peripheral view you can see Susan, working studiously at the corner of the reception desk that offers the best position for her to listen in on your private conversation with Steven. You’re acutely aware of various other onlookers who seem to all have found reasons to loiter in the reception area as well. Unless you want to be the star of the workplace gossip blasted in the office kitchen tomorrow morning, you need to move the two of you somewhere less public, and quickly.

“Susan, can you block off one of the meeting rooms for me?”

She gives you a slightly dubious look, and for a moment you think she’ll refuse. Susan lives for any morsel of gossip to keep her entertained. But to your surprise, she does you a solid without any further prompting.

“Room 10, pet.”

“Thanks. I’ll owe you one.” You flash Susan a grateful smile and make a mental note to get her one of those fancy coffees she likes from the cafe around the corner for brekkie tomorrow.

“C’mon.” You grab the cuff of Steven’s shirt and tug gently.

Steven follows your lead, allowing you to pull him with you down the hallway of conference rooms. Rounding a corner, into a more secluded bit of hallway, you follow the corridor until you reach the last door in the row. The one to the conference room that affords the most privacy.

Swinging the door open, you all but shove Steven inside before closing the door behind the two of you. You flip the lock to ensure there are no unwanted interruptions before turning back to Steven.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he starts again as soon as you’re facing him.

“Steven, Steven. It's alright,” you interrupt, attempting to reassure him, because God, he looks miserable—every inch the cowering puppydog, just waiting for the kick he knows is coming—and you can’t bear for him to look like that. But he just shuts his eyes like looking at you is painful. He shakes his head, the set of his mouth all misery, and then your heart skips a beat when his eyes snap open and lock onto yours with an intensity that’s startlingly reminiscent of the night before.

“I just– Look, I— You’re the best bloody thing I’ve had in my life in a long time—maybe ever—and… and last night was amazing. Better—way better—than anything I could’ve ever imagined.”

He’s so open, so honest, gazing at you with large, pleading eyes. You feel yourself melting despite your earlier indecision on whether you should be done with him, especially when he continues.

“Last night was perfect,” he says with fervent conviction, but then falters and looks down, apparently shy. You feel your heart squeeze at how adoring he is. “At least, I thought so. You were perfect. And I got to fall asleep with you, which was perfect too. But then I woke up and you were gone. And I’m afraid I’ve bollocksed it all up somehow, the way I always do. Good ol' Steven, can't pull a bird to save his life, let alone hold onto one. And it never mattered so much before, but now it does because it’s you, and…”

And he’s still talking, but you’re stuck on one particular part of that word vomit.

He said… he said that he woke up and you were gone. But that’s not right. You know that’s not right. He woke up before you, so clearly you were still there! Does he... not remember?

You almost ask. Almost say so directly, but something holds you back. Some lingering fear prevents you from bringing up your last unnerving middle-of-the-night encounter. An absurd worry that you don’t dare mention that other, wrong Steven for fear of summoning him back.

Instead you interrupt Steven’s rambling to probe gently, “I was gone when you woke up?”

Steven nods.

“Yeah, this morning. Must’ve worn me out ‘cause I slept straight through.” He gives you a small shy smile that fades quickly when you don’t return it. “Was nearly late for work.”

You’re still reeling, your mind stuck on the bit where he doesn’t remember interacting with you in the middle of the night at all. (Maybe the idea of it being not your Steven isn’t so far-fetched after all?) But Steven doesn’t give you any time to consider; he barely even pauses for breath before barrelling on.

“I don’t blame you for leaving, of course, but I can’t help thinking that I must’ve–” he cuts himself off, gaze dropping to the floor like he can’t bear to look at you. “Look, you... you have to know by now. How dodgy my memory is sometimes. Missing dates or showing up on the wrong day and all that, yeah? Sometimes things happen that I don’t remember. I do things that I don’t remember. And I can’t bear–”

He breaks off, swallows hard, and finally looks up to meet your eyes. His gaze is serious and direct in a way that almost reminds you of last night, except that there’s no hint of that dreadful, supercilious amusement.

“I can’t help thinking that I must’ve done something, and I’m– I’m sorry if I– Sorry. I– Just please.” His eyes are huge, round and still so open and honest, and there’s something else there too as he continues, “Please tell me that I didn’t do anything to hurt or upset you.”

Fear. It’s fear you’re seeing in his eyes and written across his face. You recognize it now, and you think your heart might break over how scared he looks. Completely terrified over the idea that he might have hurt or upset you.

“Steven... ” You hesitate, brow furrowing as you trail off, not sure what to say or how to describe what happened last night.

“Oh. I– Oh. I did, didn’t I?” He looks vaguely sick at the idea and starts to back away, the hand holding the roses dropping to his side as he hunches into himself all over again, spewing apologies twice as fast as before. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m– Oh God, what did I do? Whatever it was, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t ever– Or would I? Guess I did, didn’t I? God I’m– I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine why I would…”

This whole conversation has been a lot to take in, but Steven is clearly distraught, set to go on self-chastising indefinitely for something that seems to be out of his control. You hate to see him this way—it’s painful to watch his quick descent into misery and self-hatred.

“Steven— Steven!” You try to interrupt his spiral, but he doesn’t even pause. You don’t know what to say to break him out of it, so you stop him the best way you know how.

Surging forward, you grab onto the lapels of his jacket to hold him in place while you press your lips to his. It’s a little awkward—Steven is still talking, mouth open when you make contact, and you misjudged the angle slightly—but it does shut him up rather handily.

His eyes flutter closed and he melts against you with a moan so sweet that you want to tuck it away in a keepsake box and keep it all to yourself. When you pull back a moment later, his eyes are half-lidded and dazed, and he’s wearing an expression like he’s forgotten how to carry out the simple task of breathing.

“It’s alright, Steven,” you soothe him and it is. With him anyway. You’re not sure what’s going on exactly, but you know you lo– that you care about Steven a lot and don’t want to lose him to… whatever it is that happened last night.

He blinks, gaze focusing slightly as he’s coming back to earth. Then he really looks at you. And the dazed confusion is coloured with something akin to hopefulness in those wide eyes.

“So, I didn’t… do anything to hurt you?” Those round, pitch dark eyes are so sincere. So ridiculously vulnerable like he was never introduced to the concept of self-preservation. Steven is the living embodiment of wearing his heart on his sleeves to the point where you worry for him sometimes.

You shake your head no, a smile tugging at your lips at the sight of him, because when that sincerity is pointed in your direction you can’t help the swell of affection in your chest.

And it’s true.

He didn’t do anything to hurt you. You were unsettled at worst, and you’ve got the beginning of a suspicion that somehow it may not even have been Steven you were dealing with last night at all.

“So we’re... um...” he pauses and licks his lips, hesitating, and you try not to get distracted by the way his pink tongue slicks over the swell of his bottom lip, “We’re good then, yeah?”

You nod, smile spreading wider despite yourself. “Yeah. We’re good.”

“You’re... You’re sure?” he presses. He’s still gazing at you with those dark puppydog eyes, uncertainty painted across every line of his face. One stray curl has furled up against his forehead as he bites down onto his bottom lip, worrying the plump flesh.

You reach for him without thinking, wanting to reassure him, and you pull him in to plant another short, chaste kiss against his lips.

Eager for you as always, Steven meets your kiss. Soft, warm lips pressed to yours for a long moment, and then he’s licking into your mouth with a hungry enthusiasm that has your knees ready to go out from under you. His free hand comes up to wrap around your back, and you bury your own hands in his riotous curls as he kisses you hard enough to bend you back over his arm.

Steven’s kisses are always ravenous, but this time in particular, he kisses you like he’s seeking salvation from your lips; like you’re water when he’s dying of thirst, and he’s determined to consume all of you that he can get before you change your mind.

You have to plant your hands on his shoulders, barely managing to pull away from his lips long enough to catch oxygen into your lungs. He releases you with obvious reluctance, and your knees are weak enough that you take a moment to be sure they’ll hold you before you take a step back to look him over, drinking in the sight of him.

Collar askew, curls a frantic mess over his forehead, kiss-swollen lips, just a hint of uncertainty lingering in those big, dark eyes. Fuck, he’s so damned gorgeous.

And okay, yes, you want to reassure him, but you’re certainly not opposed to messing him up a little bit more in the process. Messy is such a good look on him after all.

You sneak a quick glance at the wall clock above—6pm, after office hours.

There may still be some unlucky souls still working upstairs in the office space, but no one is going to be using these ground floor meeting rooms at this hour. No one except you, that is, and you know exactly what you want to do with that privacy.

Grasping Steven’s collar, you tug at it to lead him further into the room.

He follows without resistance, but clumsily, nearly tripping on the carpeted floor. Too busy staring at you to watch his footing. He’s like a puppy learning to walk on a leash, and it’s adorable.

You lead him to the mahogany conference table, and take the bouquet from his unresisting hand, laying it down gently on the table top before pulling out one of the large rolling office chairs. A bit of manoeuvring, and you’ve got Steven standing in front of the chair with his back to the door, just in case.

He gasps when you drop to your knees in front of him, and makes an abortive movement like he meant to catch you by your shoulders but was too slow, leaving his hand hanging there uselessly in midair.

The rough carpet scratches at your skin through your tights, but you keep your attention on Steven as you make quick work of unbuckling his belt.

You can see the moment it dawns on him exactly what your intentions are. His eyes grow comically large, tongue darting out in a nervous fit to lick over the swell of his lower lip.

“Wait, wait. What are you–? There’s people outside. We can’t do this here, can we?” He sounds scandalised, and it makes you want to show him just how scandalous you can be.

“It’s fine,” you tell him, nuzzling at the crotch of his jeans and breathing in the scent of him, before the soft whisper of the metal zipper being lowered fills the room.

“We shou—oh fuck, that feels so…—Shouldn’t be doing this though, should we?”

For all his protesting, Steven is already half hard, the incriminating evidence pressing against the front of his underwear. His throat constricts as he swallows, a nervous reflex.

You still, fingers hooked into the edge of his jeans and underwear, and peer up at him.

“Steven. Do you want me to stop?”

“No.” The response is instantaneous, accompanied by a vigorous shaking of his head. “I-I– Don’t stop. Keep… um… keep going, please. If you want to.”

“Good.” You tug down the jeans and pants down over the ample curve of his ass to his thighs in one fluid motion, and his cock springs free from the constraints, rising to slap gently against his stomach.

“Then sit down.” You wrap both hands around his hips and give the gentlest of pushes, but he drops down so forcefully it’s like you’ve tackled him.

He’s so distracted—eyes wide and shell-shocked and glued on you—that he nearly misses the chair, not quite making it square in the seat. The chair wheels squeak noisily, as his momentum sends it rolling backwards away from you.

You blink in disbelief.

"Oh bugger. Sorry, sorry. Let me just...” Steven, clearly mortified, tries to course correct, planting his feet to kick forward, but he miscalculates the trajectory and sends the chair into a spin instead. “Oh god, I'm so sorry."

Giddy relief fills your chest, and you can’t help the laughter that bubbles up in your throat. Dear God, why are things with the two of you always like this? It’s practically a comedy of errors.

Still, if there was any doubt before, it’s definitely gone now. This man—the man in front of you, awkward and fumbling and sweet—is your Steven.

You shake your head and climb to your feet, still smiling as you walk over to him. Planting your hands on the armrests, you force the chair to a stop. Steven’s horrified expression, now inches from your own face, nearly sends you into another fit of giggles.

“Stay,” you order with a fond smile. “Don’t move. Just relax, alright? I’ve got you.”

While Steven is normally very good at taking orders from you, this is one that he entirely fails to follow. His whole body remains tense, fingers flexing as they hover nervously in the air until you take them and guide them to the armrests where they grip and hold on tight.

You drop to your knees again and lean forward until you’re caged in by his spread legs on either side of you. Steven lets out a breathless gasp even though you haven’t so much as touched him yet.

On your knees like this, your face inches away from his cock, you get an up and close personal view that you weren’t privy to the night before. The head is flushed dark pink and it shines slick with the precome that’s beading at the blunt tip.

Even his cock is ridiculously pretty. It’s really not fair.

This close the scent of him is even stronger, clean, with a hint of musk and something altogether Steven. Parting your lips, you ghost your breath over him, relishing the way he practically whines at the sensation, his cock twitching and jerking, more precome welling out to drip down the impressive length of him.

So sensitive, your Steven.

You dart out the tip of your tongue to lap up the runner of liquid. It’s a barely-there touch, but from the sound he makes, you’d think you had punched him square in the solar plexus. The choked-out, pitiful sob makes the blood in your veins sing.

You do it again, just to see if he’ll make the same noise.

He does.

Then again, and he moans, long and breathless, and it shivers through you. Makes you want to see what other sounds you can pull from him. But first you pull back for a moment.

“Shall I continue then?” you ask, pretty sure you know the answer already.

“Yes, please. God yes.” His voice is breathless, desperate, and you can’t help the self-satisfied smile tugging at your lips.

You wrap your hand around the base of his cock, and it jumps in your grip, thick and hot and throbbing against your palm. You love how reactive he is. Looking him in the eye, you drag your tongue against your bottom lip to wet it for him. Then without further ado, you wrap your lips around him.

“Shit. Oh bloody–Shit.” His whole body stiffens under the assault of your mouth, and you can feel him pulsing on your tongue.

Closing your eyes, you savour the sounds he makes for you. Keen little noises and punched out gasps like you’re holding him under water and drowning him in sensations until he can barely breathe.

His reactions, the way his cock twitches, the sweet tang of precome on your tongue; it’s all perfect, and your stomach clenches with arousal and the aching need to touch yourself.

It’s tempting, so tempting, to slip a hand under your skirt and indulge in your own pleasure, but you want to stay focused on Steven right now. Want to be able to take in every minute detail of his response to you. So you keep your hands wrapped firmly around the base of him as your mouth inches down, taking as much of him as you can before backing off again to tease him with just the tip of your tongue.

"Oh God, oh God, that feels amazing. You're so--oh fuck--so good at this… I mean why wouldn't you be? I mean... oh God.” He’s babbling. Fingers gripping the armrest so hard that his knuckles have gone ghost-white. “Pleasedon'tstop."

It is, possibly, the world’s worst and most adorable attempt at dirty talking. But it hardly matters. Steven is so responsive to your every touch, so obviously overwhelmed, that it’s impossible to take his words the wrong way. Impossible not to be aroused by his enthusiastic reactions.

When you kiss the tip of him, he keens. When you swirl your tongue, tracing shapes against the sensitive head, he’ll cant his hips upwards, in an attempt to get even deeper. When you grant him exactly that, letting him slide himself deeper into your mouth, his hands fly to your shoulder, fingers flexing there, digging in until they’re just short of painful.

And all the while he’s watching you with awe, gaze locked on you, as though he’s afraid to look away in case you disintegrate under his hands. As though he can hardly believe you’re real.

That look in his eyes makes you burn. Makes you want to do even more for him. To make him feel as good as humanly possible. So you suck and kiss and lick every inch of him you can, your hand wrapped in a tight fist around his slick girth to work what your mouth is unable to.

One large, shaking hand comes up to cup the side of your face, his thumb barely ghosting over the corner of your mouth where it's stretched wide around his cock before moving to your cheek. He rubs small, soothing circles over your cheekbone, gentle even as he's writhing under your mouth. The tender, doting touch sends pleasure skittering down your spine.

Even now, with you on your knees for him, the man is trying so hard to hold back. To be careful with you. His hips barely hitching up to meet your mouth, as you lick and lap at every inch you can.

“God, look at you. You’re so pretty. I can’t believe you’re actually–” He breaks off, gasping, then starts again, barely seeming aware of what he’s saying, “Your mouth feels so good. So fucking pretty, you are. Can you— Can you take me deeper?” Then when you hum an assent around his cock, “Oh God, oh please…”

The words coming out of him aren’t even particularly filthy, but they affect you all the same.

Heat blossoms in your stomach at how wrecked his voice is as he pants out how pretty you look over and over again. You can feel how wet you are—dripping into the already soaked cotton of your knickers. You squeeze your legs together, moaning around his cock when the pressure makes your cunt clench around nothing.

“Oh. You’re–? Fuck. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Steven gasps out, and you pull back far enough to look up at him and shoot him a cheeky wink.

“God, you’re amazing,” he groans, thrusting up into your mouth just once, like he can’t help himself, then stilling. Whatever shyness or uncertainty had him tongue tied just a few minutes ago seems to be gone, and he starts to beg for you to “Touch yourself for me, love. Please. Fuck. Want you to enjoy yourself too. Please.”

Hah. As though you weren’t already enjoying yourself thoroughly.

Still, it’s no great hardship to do as he asks, so you pull off slowly, teasingly, and sit back on your heels to look up at him. Collapsed back in the chair, chest heaving, cheeks flushed and curls in complete disarray as those dark eyes burn down into yours, he looks gorgeously undone.

God, and he says you're the pretty one?

You can’t help but lose yourself in admiring him for a long moment.

Too long of a moment, apparently, because his brows draw together and the light of uncertainty starts to flood those big brown eyes. His hands rise to flutter in the air, a sure sign he’s feeling insecure.

Quickly, before he has a chance to overthink things too much, you make a show of sliding one hand down to cup your breast. Between your office clothes and sensible bra, you don’t get much out of it, but you’ve certainly captured Steven’s attention.

He looks utterly gobsmacked, mouth hanging open, and his eyes remain glued to your hand as it continues its descent down your body, and up under your skirt. His swollen, shiny cock jerking and leaking precome in an entirely gratifying manner.

You press a hand between your thighs over your clothes and gasp when even that muted pressure sends pleasure streaking through you. There’s an awkward moment as you scramble for the edge of your tights, and manage to drag them down far enough to wedge your hand under and into your knickers.

The angle is cramped and uncomfortable, but so, so worth it to be able to rub slippery little circles over your clit. Fuck, you’re already so wet, and you can’t help but moan as you feel wetness leaking down between your thighs every time your cunt clenches.

“Oh my days,” Steven breathes, eyes as wide as you’ve ever seen them as his gaze flits between your face and the hand buried beneath your skirt. He seems to have forgotten about his own arousal entirely, totally focused on you.

And, well, that just won’t do.

When he looks up at your face again, you catch his gaze and send him a naughty smile before ducking forward and taking his cock in your mouth again.

Steven lets out a gasping moan that sounds like it’s torn from his very soul, and this time his hips rise to meet you, no longer holding back. He’s all instincts and hunger now, and you’re reminded of the Steven who took control from you last night and drove you to three orgasms so intense that they left your legs numb in their wake.

His cock fills your mouth perfectly, and it’s almost too much. You struggle for a moment to fit all of him, but then the two of you find a rhythm between you that lets you take him deep without choking.

You rock your hips against your hand in time with his thrusts, and the muscles of your forearm ache as you chase your pleasure. It feels so good that you keep forgetting to time your breathing, but fuck, you barely care. Can’t help but love the burn of it down to your lungs. The taste of him, bittersweet and tangy on your tongue, is intoxicating and you could easily get addicted to this. To the uninhibited sounds he’s making at your touch and the taste and smell of him.

You’re overwhelmed, surrounded by him, head swimming with it. Or perhaps it’s the lack of air that has reality going a bit woozy around the edges as you match each roll of his hips into your waiting mouth with a roll of yours rocking against your hand. Your world narrows down to his cock in your mouth, his voice in your ears, and the devastating ebb of pleasure pours through you, building higher with each advance and retreat.

It’s too much and just the right amount because suddenly you’re there, right on the edge. Don’t realise that you’re moaning until the sound cuts off when you shove forward, desperate to take Steven as deep as possible. You roll your hips down one last time, pressing hard against your clit, and that’s all it takes.

You come hard, white hot bliss surging through you as you convulse on the floor of an empty conference room, Steven’s cock lodged as deep in your throat as you can take him.

Dimly you hear Steven’s shocked “Oh Lord, are you—? Oh my God!” and then a broken, breathy litany of “Oh God oh God oh God,” but it hardly registers.

You hold there as long as you can, until your lungs burn and the muscles of your arm threaten to cramp and you’ve wrung every last drop out of pleasure you can out of your orgasm.

Finally, shuddering with overstimulation, you have to pull back. Pulling your slick hand out of your underclothes, you flex your aching fingers, chest heaving as you suck in a long overdue breath and then another.

“Oh God, oh God, don’t stop.” The head of Steven’s slippery, wet cock glances off your equally slick lips as his hips rise to chase your mouth, “Pleasepleaseplease– I need– Fuck. Please don’t stop.”

His cock is twitching in your hand in protest from the sudden lack of attention. The length of it is dripping from your spit, precome flowing from the fat tip as if it’s drooling, glistening under the ceiling light.

You can’t help the shudder that works its way through you when your oversensitive cunt clenches at the depraved sight.

If your goal was to make a mess of him you’ve certainly succeeded.

To buy yourself time to catch your breath, you press saliva-slick kisses along his hardened length, relishing the way Steven descends completely into incoherence.

Half sentences and broken off words, begging for your mouth. It’s a far cry from the man who was all shy nerves, and worried about people being outside not so very long ago.

And you love it. You love it all.

The sounds he’s making are intoxicating. You want desperately to hear how loud he can get, but there’s a little voice in the back of your head warning that this is not the place to let the volume become an issue.

There shouldn’t be anyone down by this hallway, but the way that Steven is carrying on, you worry the sound will carry far enough that your co-workers on the floor above, still in their offices, will be able to hear you two.

“Steven,” you murmur, pressing another kiss to the fat tip of him, “I need you to keep quiet for me.”

You tilt your head until you can sneak a glance at him. How utterly ruined he looks, chest heaving, rising and falling in tides, eyes dazed, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. You can’t help but smile, fluttering your eyelashes for his attention as you lap up the precome oozing down his cock with little kitten licks, savouring the way he shivers violently below you.

You know you’re being mean. He’s so overwhelmed that he looks like he is going to jump out of his skin, but you can’t resist as you continue to tease him.

“You don’t want me to have to stop, now do you?”

He whines at that, and if you had the luxury of time and privacy, you’d scold him again, drag out your fun and tease him just a tiny bit more.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” Steven begs so prettily, shuddering below you as he stutters out, “I—I’ll be good. Quiet, I promise. Please, please don’t stop.”

“Good,” you say, then you lean down again and take him back into your mouth.

His hand flies up to his mouth, and he clamps a wide palm over it in a desperate attempt to quiet himself. It helps some, but you can still hear the muffled groan that rumbles from somewhere deep in his chest.

Your previous established rhythm falls apart.

His hips stutter into a staccato pace as he thrusts into your mouth in a desperate attempt to get deeper. The telltale sign of his sharp jaw tensing, the small muscle there flexing. Those gorgeous doe eyes roll to the back of his head, his face awash in pleasure.

God, he’s fucking beautiful like this. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the sight of him.

From the way his thighs are trembling, you know he must be teetering on the edge even before he warns you with a hoarse and broken, “Close. I—I’m close.”

You hum, and the vibration makes him hiss like you’ve burnt him. His hands come to frame your face, attempting to gently pry you off of him.

You let him pull you away just long enough to form words, hands still wrapped around him to replace the momentum with firm strokes to keep him on the edge, as he twitches and jerks in your palm.

“Do you want to come in my mouth, Steven?”

He shivers, his eyes are shut tight, and for a moment you aren’t sure if he heard you at all. But then he nods forcefully, choking out a rough, “Fuck. You can’t just– God. Yeah. Yes. Fuck. Please,” that has the tip of your ears tingling.

God, he sounds ruined.

He also sounds loud, and he isn’t stopping.

“Steven.” Your voice is flat, cutting through his desperate rambling. “Shut it.”

A strangled moan tears out of him at your command, and somehow the suppressed noises he’s making are even louder than when he was babbling.

In a sudden fit of inspiration, you shove the fingers of your other hand, still sticky with your slick into his mouth. His tongue drags against you, and he gasps around the intruding digits. At the same time, you lean down to take him as deep as he goes, swallowing down the urge to gag when he hits the back of your throat. His body goes rigid, throwing his head back and baring his long graceful throat to you with a muffled groan. He suckles at your fingers, mouth hot against your sticky skin, and you can feel it the moment that he comes. His cock pulsing warm and thick against your tongue, as he floods your mouth, tangy and slightly bitter.

It’s quite possibly the hottest thing you’ve ever experienced, and it makes you want to drag out that pleasure for him and ruin him even more.

You hold him in your mouth, tongue lavishing at the stiff underside of his cock, your own fingers pressing against his tongue as he writhes underneath you. You don’t let up, drawing things out until his thighs are shaking violently beneath you and you’re sure that the overstimulation must be bordering on the painful.

Only then do you pull away, sitting back to take in the sight of Steven. Rosy-flushed cheeks, and half-lidded eyes boring into you. He’s staring down at you like you’ve hung the stars and moon in the night lit sky one by one.

All of a sudden, you find yourself feeling almost shy under that loving gaze. Flustered at the adoring attention from him. You feel silly to be the object of that devotion, while you’re still on your knees, knickers and chin equally sticky, and the remnants of his come still lingering on your tongue.

You don’t know what to say or do next, but it doesn’t matter.

Before you can even try to figure it out, Steven surges forward, dropping down to his knees in front of you and closing the distance between you to crash his lips against yours. He licks into your mouth with frantic desperation, apparently uncaring that you still taste of his come.

You can taste yourself in his mouth as well, as Steven devours your mouth with a hungry fervour that you’ve come to associate with his touch.

It’s sweet; it’s depraved; it’s ravenous.

It’s all the contradictions of Steven himself wrapped into a kiss. And for better or worse, it’s something you’re not sure you can live without anymore.

Eventually he slows in his pace, until the one kiss dissolves into many, syrupy and languid in a way that makes the air around you thin. And then...

“God, I love you.” He sighs the words gently into your mouth, so blissful and contented that it takes a moment for you to realise what was said.

You stiffen in his arms as his words fully register with you. Pulling away, you draw back enough to see Steven’s face, not entirely sure if you heard him right until you see the complete adoration in his eyes.

Oh. Oh wow, he really does mean that doesn’t he?

The expression on your face must betray how stunned you are by his confession, because Steven’s brows draw together in concern and he immediately starts apologising.

“Sorry. Should I… um. Should I not have said that? Not the most romantic moment, is it? Course it’s not. Confessing after you– you–” he stutters, clearly flustered. “Well, after that.” He flinches, face flushing bright red, and mutters, “God, I sound like a right bloody wanker, don’t I?”

He’s right.

This was hardly the perfect time, or a particularly romantic one. And he does sound like a bit of a wanker.

Your eyes meet, and he flinches, eyes worried and voice hesitant, as if he did something grievously wrong to offend you.

“Did I make you uncomfortable? I did, didn’t I?” He drops his gaze, as though he thinks he’s committed some grievous wrong to offend you. “I’m sorry, we can pretend I never said it if that’s what you want.” It clearly pains him to make the suggestion, but he makes it anyway. “I don’t– I don’t want to lose you.”

That’s the thing with Steven.

He's all in.

Whatever else he has going on, Steven’s never been half-hearted about this, about you.

He doesn’t time his moments or play tactics to win you over. Whether it’s bravery or stupidity, you can’t tell, but he’s always been open and vulnerable with his feelings, even that very first night at the restaurant, when his eyes lit up at the sight of you. They’ve always been right there on his sleeve.

And right now it’s clear to see that he’s en route to having a complete nervous breakdown if you leave him hanging any longer without an answer.

You’ve known for a while that you liked Steven, had feelings for him, and now there’s not a single doubt in your mind about how deep those feelings go.

“I love you too.”

He looks up at you timidly from underneath those thick eyelashes with shock that’s shading into careful, dawning hope. His mouth opens as if to speak, but then he hesitates for a long moment, jaw working, like he’s too scared to ask you to repeat it in case he misheard or you’re playing a practical joke on him.

“Yeah?” he asks eventually, voice whisper-soft.

You don’t answer him with words.

Instead you nod, pulling him close until you can kiss him again. Removing any lingering doubt that still might remain—for both of you. Whatever yesterday night was, you meant every one of those three little words, and want to stay to figure it out.

It’s you and Steven, red flags be damned.

~ Continue ~

Dedication and Credits

To the city of London itself, can you dedicate a city? No? I'm doing it anyway. I'm finally home after 2.5 years of being away and I miss her so. Love of my fucking life.

@thirstworldproblemss my love, my best friend, my soul twin, clown sister. Thank you for being with me literally every single day the past year and almost a half in my pocket, on good days, on bad days, and on the boring-nothing-special days. You've kept me going all this time, and the best part of my gloomy days would be waiting for you to wake up half across the world and start our nonsense for the day. My life is all the better because you're in it. Thank you for keeping me intact and in one piece all this time.

@frannyzooey the kindest, most talented, and most supportive person. You are so loved and truly one of a kind. You give so much of yourself wanting nothing in return and your presence is my life is such a gift. Thank you for always being there with a kind word when I was about to blow my freaking casket in the last year and a half. For talking me down, for being a pillar of calm and reason when I felt like dousing things down with gasoline and setting it on fire. Thank you for being you, I cannot wait to spam you with a million food photos from this day on, that's my promise to you.

@jazzelsaur for your beautiful, curly avocado toast hair that smells like delicious onions. I love you, your baby whore 🥑🧅

@radiowallet with your brilliant big mind. For you love of the comic and nerdy. For being so absolutely fucking wonderful and supportive and kind in a word that is anything but on some days.

@the-ginger-hedge-witch this is not a dedication. This is a call out, remember when you tried to character assassinate Brendan Fraser? Pepperidge Farm remembers. P.S. I love you dearly

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sexyinaratkindaway · 7 months

Text

Day 6: Temperature Play

Pairing: Jimmy/Tango

Jimmy is lucky. He knows that. He has great friends, a beautiful city to take care of, a husband.

A loving, doting, hot, funny, smart, caring husband.

An insanely powerful husband who is the master of an ancient, cursed citadel of frost haunted by terrible monsters and vengeful spirits.

It's kind-of-really super hot.

It's hotter still when his husband that he hasn’t seen in months gives him a private, comprehensive, exclusive tour of Decked Out that he knows none of the other Hermits have gotten to have just yet.

"You won't be here when it opens!" Tango said. "I want you to experience the Citadel!"

Experience it, Jimmy does. It's cold and dark and damp and scary—"Just wait 'till I get the ravagers in here!"—and he has a blast.

It's all laughter and stumbling together through the dungeon and Jimmy getting spooked by the shriekers going off even though they’re not hooked up to anything. It's a great time. Tango shows him the frozen caverns; the subterranean forest, covered in snow, and the river running through it; the abandoned river deck, and the frozen crypt, the catacombs, the hidden library deep underground. Tango holds his hand throughout it all, skin cooler than all the ice around them, but Jimmy doesn’t care particularly about his hand going numb, because they’re together and he’s the happiest he’s ever been, just letting Tango drag him here, and there, and there. He actually can’t bear to ever be too far from Tango, following him close, like a shadow, trying to drape himself on him and never let him go.

Tango laughs, Jim’s kisses tickle on his delicate nape, the barest brush of stubble against cool skin, and drags him through the cold halls, trying his hardest to ignore the wandering hands looking for ways under his robe.

“I missed you,” Jimmy murmurs in his ear, and his giddy delight makes butterflies soar in Tango’s belly.

“I missed you too.” He says, and then he pulls him in the little alcove the campfire is in to tumble together on the threadbare sleeping bag, in a tangle of laughter and limbs and finally, they get to kiss.

Jimmy’s lips are so warm, his mouth is scorching hot, Tango keens when it travels to his throat, and then he starts pulling on his vest and his shirt out of his jeans, and every time he touches bare skin, Jimmy hisses and twitches and buries his face deeper under Tango’s chin.

“Sorry,” Tango mutters, “I, uh, can try to run a little warmer for you if you want.”

“Nah. This is fine. I missed you too much to care.”

They leave it at that, because Tango is shoving the vest off—the badge pinned to it clinks against the ice floor—and pulling at the flimsy cotton of the shirt until the buttons pop, because now he’s laying down and Jimmy is kneeling over him and, wow, he’s hard as a rock under his jeans, is he not?

It’s fine. Tango’s hard too, under his robes.

Jimmy only grumbles a little bit at the tinkling noise of buttons clattering to the ground, and together they manage to wrestle his belt and jeans off, too, and, woof, isn’t he the prettiest of sights, sat on Tango’s lap, blushed cold-pink and hard and naked, save for his boots and his hat?

“Can you ride, cowboy?” Tango asks, a smirk on his face, and Jimmy doesn’t really answer, because too-cold hands are running up his sides and making goosebumps stand, and back down his sides to caress his hips and grab at his thighs and–

“Jesus, Tango,” he gasps. Tango’s hand is wrapped around his cock, achingly hard and burning hot in the cold air of the caves and his lover’s cold skin. “Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

In fact, another cold hand reaches around his hip, to tickle a finger against his hole, and Jimmy bucks into the stimulation almost by instinct.

Tango laughs, delighted. “Oh, so the cowboy can ride!”

“Tango,” Jim mutters, an edge in his voice that is totally overpowered by the fact that his cock is weeping. “Stop teasing me.”

He bucks into Tango’s fist, and Tango lets him do it. Not much they can do, right here and now, on a threadbare sleeping bag, with no lube or condoms or anything. He’s content to just watch Jimmy chase his pleasure, long and slender above him, eyes scrunched closed in concentration. He’s so pretty, and prettier still when he shivers because Tango’s running a finger up his spine, when his nipples are pebbled and hard and flushed pink from the cold and looking so delicious that Tango can’t help but pinch one, and his little yelp and the splurt of pleasure that dribbles on Tango’s thumb make him salivate.

“You’re doing good, baby,” he says, “c’mon, let me see you come. We have so much time, I can’t wait to ruin you like you deserve, but for now I just wanna see you fall apart.”

He twists his wrist around Jimmy, leans forward just the little bit he needs to breath a gust of cool air on his cockhead.

Then Jimmy cries out the most beautiful of noises, a trill and a groan and an excited clicking, and there’s something wet and hot on Tango’s chin, like blood, or lava, but it’s just Jimmy’s pleasure, musky and thick and perfect, his warm hands under his hood to pull on his hair as he bucks wildly into his hand, chases the last edge of his pleasure.

They collapse together.

Jim is shivering, naked in the frost.

Tango lends him his cloak while they get back up. It’s thick, and heavy, but cold.

Jimmy feels home.

#knight's notebook #kinktober #hermitnsfw #tangotek #solidaritygaming #team rancher #rancher duo

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hermitfic-ao3 · 4 months

Note

recs:

You Could've Applied Online (archiveofourown.org/works/47834815) - a brilliant work (and series), everyone should read it, it's that good

The New ConVex (archiveofourown.org/works/24511930) - a fun take on the convex and S7

the last days of the free angel of carrows (archiveofourown.org/works/41524917) - a really really good urban fantasy au

You Could’ve Applied Online by Anonymous

Rating: M

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Pairings: Etho/Bdoubleo100 (Kind of…), SolidarityGaming/TangoTek, Smallishbeans/LDShadowLady

Summary:

“Twelve hours? Where do you work that makes you work twelve hours straight?” Bdubs asked incredulously. “Wait no. No we can’t pick this up! We’re talking about murder here!”

“Yeah, and now I'm gonna have to find a new roommate because of this. You owe me. Maybe tomorrow won't work. Let's schedule it out for…next week?”

Bdubs stuttered over his words, hand holding the knife tensing around the handle as he looked around the room. Was he being pranked? Did Scar do this? He couldn’t think of another conversation that had confused him more than this. Etho’s eyes crinkled around the edges, mouth subtly changing into what Bdubs imagined was a smile as he felt irritation creep into his mind. “You’re joking right now.”

Another shift under the mask. He was definitely smiling now. “How’d you guess?”

Or: Bdubs kills someone (on purpose), makes people angry (NOT on purpose), and somehow gets a boyfriend in the process. Or was he a bodyguard? Bdubs doesn't really know himself.

Oh, and Etho just wants to pay his rent on time. Preferably without another dead roommate.

mod note: this fic is so delightful. i am absolutely OBSESSED with this fic. it’s a modern with magic AU/hitman au/alien AU it’s genuinely so so so good!

-mod nox 🌙

The New ConVex by LeopardMask

Rating: G

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Summary:

The Vex sighed. Their old subjects had abandoned the cause, in this new world. Granted, they had essentially let the subjects go, with no new goals assigned, but now the Vex were bored. They wanted someone to play with.

Of course... there were 20-odd other people in this world. It could be time for some... recruitment.

the last days of the free angel carrows by Bee_4

Rating: T

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Summary:The Atsign Agency: run by Joe Hills and the zombie Cleo, they're here to solve all of your supernatural problems, hauntings, magical accidents, and also just about any contracting work or errands you need if you're willing to have it done cheaply by two unqualified odd jobbers struggling to make rent. After over a decade together in the city of Carrows, the two of them frequently see things and deal with things that are probably a bit too ridiculous to name, and have the experience to handle it, if not particularly frequently the money.

When the mysterious (and clearly very rich) Pearl Moon walks into their agency, offering them a massive payment for a simple job, what are they to do but accept?

Yeah, they may be about to regret that one. This job is going to be anything but simple, and the entire City of Angels may be at stake. Careful, Atsign Agency: the past is watching.

mod note: only tagging the main characters/pairings for the first and the last fic, the middle one has a lot of cameos of different hermits and i don’t want to clog the tags :)

#mods favorite #ethoslab #bdoubleo100 #ethubs #team ranchers #jizzie #joe hills #zombie cleo #pearlescentmoon #hermitcraft ensemble

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bloody-bee-tea · 6 months

Text

Beetober 2023 Day 16 - Flea market

Suguru stumbles when he absorbs the last curse. He’s exhausted, his side is aching from the hit he took halfway through the battle and his stomach is revolting with how many curses he had to take in today.

The mission went fine, but Suguru would still say everything is shit right now. He just hopes Satoru didn’t see because he’s going to make fun of him in that way that means he’s honestly worried and Suguru doesn’t know if he can find the strength to lie convincingly to him today.

“You okay, Suguru?” Satoru asks just on cue and Suguru waves him off, too busy trying to keep from throwing up from the vile taste the last curse left behind.

Usually all the curses taste the same, but Suguru thinks this one is worse than the others.

He really must be exhausted.

“Well, then let’s go for crepes!” Satoru excitedly says and drapes himself over Suguru’s back. “There’s a shop close to here, I think,” he mutters, already scrolling through his phone and Suguru wonders where he gets the energy to do anything right about now.

“I’d rather go home,” Suguru admits, his stomach still twisting and turning and just the thought of crepes makes bile rise in his throat.

“It’s on the way, though, I promise,” Satoru says and shoves his phone into Suguru’s face. “See? We can take that way home, and pass the shop. We get a quick little crepe to go and before you know it, we’re home and you can play hermit in your room.”

Suguru lets out a weary sigh. It’s hard to say no to Satoru when he presents things to him like that—it’s hard for Suguru to say no to Satoru no matter what—but he resents the last statement.

“Not everyone is invincible, you know. Some of us need sleep.” He intended to sound more stern, but it comes out weary and tired. It still doesn’t stop Satoru from digging his bony chin into his shoulder.

“And you’ll sleep better with a full stomach,” Satoru immediately replies and Suguru can’t even deny that he’s right.

It would probably help to get something into him but still, the thought of food right now makes him clench his teeth together in an attempt not to throw up right then and there.

“Fine,” Suguru sighs out, like he always knew he would, and Satoru laughs in victory. “But get off me,” Suguru complaints when Satoru jostles him so much in the process that his stomach turns again.

He shoves him off, and pretends not to see Satoru’s pout.

“Lead the way,” he gruffly tells Satoru. “And if you take more than two minutes deciding what you want at the shop I’m going to leave,” he then threatens, even though they both damn well know he won’t.

He would never just walk away from Satoru.

“They have their menu online, I’ll just decide on the way,” Satoru says, his nose buried in his phone to concoct the most revolting combination of toppings, no doubt.

By the time they arrive at the little shop, Satoru is still furiously muttering under his breath, clearly not at all decided on what he wants to order and Suguru sighs. He orders first—just a crepes with a little bit of chocolate for the taste—and by the time Satoru is done he has already finished his crepes.

“Knew you’d wait for me,” Satoru says with a way too satisfied grin and Suguru laments the fact that he didn’t just walk away, especially when he sees the monstrosity Satoru is carrying.

The toppings are all wobbling dangerously and Suguru can already see them all falling down, but Satoru chomps down on them without a care in the world. It would be nauseating but the food did help to settle Suguru’s stomach somewhat and at least the vile taste is gone from his mouth.

Now all that’s left is his exhaustion and the aching side, which is a win in his book, even when Satoru bumps right into him, making pain shoot up his ribcage.

Satoru munches on, but his eyes are fixed on Suguru over the rim of his glasses, intense and knowing, and Suguru quickly looks away.

“What?” he still asks and Satoru hums.

“You’re not okay,” he simply says once he demolished his crepes and licks his fingers. “You need to see Shoko?”

Suguru wants to say no, wants to pretend that he’s just as invincible as Satoru but the throbbing in his side is proof that he’s not.

“Probably,” he finally admits and Satoru simply nods.

Suguru somehow always expects him to turn away from him when he admits things like that, because he cannot keep up with Satoru, but it never happens.

“Then let’s go,” he easily says, dragging Suguru along by his arm but he’s more careful about it, clearly trying not to jostle Suguru too much.

Sometimes, Suguru doesn’t know how to handle his kindness at all.

~*~*~

“I’m thinking cake today,” Satoru says, stretching his back lazily as if they didn’t just put down a Grade One curse and Suguru has to press the back of his hand to his mouth to not throw up.

He swears they taste worse with every day.

Suguru mutely shakes his head because there is no way he’s going to be able to keep cake—or anything, really—down but Satoru has turned away from him and conveniently doesn’t see.

“This way, my friend!” he yells out and simply walks off into a specific direction.

He must have scoped out the place before they even came here, Suguru thinks with despair, and he plays with the thought of simply letting Satoru walk away without following him and instead returning home immediately, to curl up in his bed, hoping the nausea will pass.

Before he’s even done imagining that scenario his feet started to walk on their own, and it’s decidedly not into the direction of home, but after Satoru.

Suguru briefly closes his eyes but then gives in.

“You’re so selfish, Satoru,” he mutters and Satoru flips him off for it.

Suguru really has to learn to not go along with every single one of Satoru’s whims but he knows that today is not that day.

“The cake is supposed to be so good, though,” Satoru says, slowing down so Suguru can fall into step next to him. “You’ll see, you’ll like it.”

Suguru doubts that very much because the taste of vomit and shit is still on his tongue but he doesn’t tell Satoru that.

“You’ll rot your teeth away by the time you hit twenty if you’re not careful,” Suguru mumbles and Satoru shrugs.

“It’ll give Shoko something to do,” he says with a wide grin and bumps their shoulders together. “You think we should bring her a slice as well?”

“Might as well,” Suguru sighs out because Shoko is stuck at school more days than not and she’d probably enjoy some cake.

“Great. It’s your treat then,” Satoru mischievously says and then runs off before Suguru can slap him over the head for it.

Suguru follows much slower, his stomach still too upset for anything even remotely to running but of course Satoru lets him catch up.

The cakes do look good, when they finally make it there, and Suguru has to admit that his stomach settles somewhat after eating a slice. It definitely settles enough for him to argue with Satoru for close to half an hour over what cake to bring Shoko only to pay for an entire ensemble of slices.

“Next time it’s your treat,” Suguru grumbles because he doesn’t quite understand how it came to this but Satoru only grins that devastatingly beautiful smile he has and Suguru knows that they’ll have this exact same fight next time as well.

He pointedly doesn’t think about the fact that there definitely will be a next time because it would be akin to admitting just how weak he is to every one of Satoru’s whims.

There could be worse people to be weak to, though, Suguru thinks as Satoru hangs off his shoulder even while they walk.

~*~*~

“Rise and shine, grumpy!” Satoru yells as he barges into Suguru’s room without even knocking.

“Go the fuck away,” Suguru mutters into his pillow and pulls the blanket more firmly around him.

It’s one of their rare days off and Suguru intended to spend it in bed, sleeping to his heart’s content but clearly Satoru has different plans.

“Nope,” Satoru sing-songs and flops down on top of him.

Suguru is glad the blanket is hiding his face, because he’s sure it must be bright red. Satoru is in his bed and Suguru shouldn’t even be thinking about this.

“Yes,” Suguru gruffly gives back but of course it has no effect on Satoru.

“We have plans for today,” Satoru informs him and pokes his head through the blanket.

“Yes,” Suguru agrees. “And those plans involve staying in and sleeping. I’m not leaving this room and I am definitely not leaving this room to get more sweets. Go on your own.”

“Aw, Suguru, are you a grumpy person in the morning? That’s adorable,” Satoru laughs out.

Suguru has to bite his tongue because ‘You’re adorable’ is not a good comeback to that and so he instead opts to roll over in an attempt to shove Satoru off the bed.

It fails, of course, and when Satoru worms his way under the blanket Suguru surrenders to his fate.

“What?” he snaps out when Satoru won’t stop staring at him and Suguru realises that he must have pocketed his glasses before he slipped into bed. He tries not to think too hard on that, because it makes his heart do funny things, to think about how Satoru intended to do this all along.

“We’re going out. There’s a place I want to check out,” Satoru declares and his voice leaves no room for argument, though Suguru still tries.

“I am sick and tired of checking out more places,” he grumbles.

“Nah, you’ll love this one,” Satoru says with utmost conviction and it’s intriguing enough for Suguru to raise an eyebrow.

“Oh, will I now?”

“Yep,” Satoru immediately says. “But—you’ll have to get up,” he then says and Suguru has a split second to notice the mischievous sparkle in his eyes before he’s being shoved off the bed.

“Ouch, Satoru, what the hell,” he wheezes out, his side aching slightly from the impact with the ground and when he looks up at Satoru, he sees him sitting up in his bed, blanket pulled around himself and he looks so cosy and adorable that Suguru wants to do something stupid, like reach out and hug him or maybe even kiss him.

He looks away instead.

“We’re on a time table, here, so get your ass going. We’ll be leaving in fifteen.”

“This is worse than going on a mission,” Suguru grumbles under his breath but he gets up and leaves for the bathroom.

He doubts Satoru will let him crawl back into bed and the sooner he goes along with whatever nonsense Satoru has planned the earlier he’ll be back in his own room.

They are on their way to the city thirteen minutes later and Satoru looks way too pleased by that. Suguru really is too weak when it comes to him.

“Where are we going?” Suguru asks when they continue to walk for longer than he expected and by now his stomach is grumbling a little.

He wonders if the sweets he’s surely going to have to ingest soon are going to upset his stomach if he eats them first thing in the morning, but he probably should have thought about that earlier. It’s way too late now.

“You’ll see,” Satoru cryptically says and Suguru sighs.

“You’re a menace,” he tells him and Satoru simply grins at him.

Suguru wants to trace that grin with his fingers. Or maybe even his lips.

“If the food is not good, I’ll be leaving immediately,” Suguru grumbles out, tearing his eyes away from Satoru.

“Who said anything about food?” Satoru gives back and Suguru frowns at him.

“You said we’re checking out a place. When you say that it always means food!”

“Not today,” Satoru grins and then suddenly stops without warning. “Shit, you didn’t have breakfast yet. Wait here.”

Between one blink and the next he’s gone, and Suguru wonders if anyone ever told him to not needlessly teleport to places. Probably not, though, and even if—it’s not as if Satoru is going to listen to that.

Suguru waits for less than five minutes before Satoru appears next to him again, sandwiches in his hands.

“Here you go.” He shoves one at Suguru and he notes with surprise that it’s his favourite.

“Thank you.”

“Sure thing,” Satoru easily says and then drags Suguru along the path once more.

They banter for the rest of the walk, until Satoru finally comes to a stop and expectantly looks at Suguru. But the sight in front of him makes Suguru speechless.

“This is a flea market,” he finally says. “For books.”

“Yes,” Satoru agrees as if it should be obvious, and it kind of should be with all the books around but—

“You don’t like books. You don’t even read.”

“But you do,” Satoru says, as if that is explanation enough, as if it’s as easy as that, and Suguru turns towards him.

“Why?”

“Because I keep pestering you with things I want to do after missions, so I thought this is only fair.”

Suguru opens his mouth, closes it, takes a deep breath and then tries again.

“It helps though,” he admits. “What you do after missions. The food.”

He’s not sure how to explain it to Satoru in a way that doesn’t make him worry for the foreseeable future but when Satoru’s grin turns into something soft, Suguru knows he doesn’t have to.

“I know,” he simply says and Suguru blinks at him.

“How?”

“You get this—look that only lifts after we ate something,” Satoru explains and reaches out to touch his fingers to the corner of Suguru’s mouth, before he moves up to brush them under his eyes. “Your eyes get all pinched and the corners of your mouth turn down. And you lose colour. They don’t taste good, the curses, do they?”

“They don’t,” he whispers out, completely caught off guard that Satoru notices these things about him.

“I thought some sweets might help,” Satoru says and scratches the back of his head as if he’s embarrassed all of a sudden. “Don’t get me wrong, the sweets help me replenish energy as well but it’s not as if I couldn’t just eat at home. But you don’t, I know that. You go straight to bed and then you feel worse when you get up, so I thought—”

“I’m in love with you,” Suguru blurts out because he’s an idiot and in love and he cannot handle this side of Satoru at all.

He’s not used to someone paying this much attention to him, and then doing things for him. It’s all Satoru’s fault, really.

Satoru blinks at him and right about now Suguru really wishes he knew how to teleport as well, because being anywhere else would be preferable right now.

At least until a blinding smile breaks out on Satoru’s face and suddenly Suguru can breathe again.

“I should hope so,” he says like the insufferable brat he is, “because I’m not doing these things for just anyone, you know.”

His voice speaks of confidence but Suguru knows him better than that. The minute shaking in his fingers when Suguru reaches out to thread their fingers together speak a different language after all.

“Thank you, Satoru,” Suguru says, smiling brightly at him with his heart beating fast in his chest and he loves to see the faint flush on Satoru’s face.

“Yeah, yeah,” Satoru stutters, clearly caught off guard but then he tightens his grip on Suguru’s hand, determination in his gaze. “Just, in case it wasn’t clear, I’m in love with you, too.”

“The books might have given you away,” Suguru teases him and proceeds to drag him onto the market, not letting go of his hand at all.

Satoru complaints the entire time they spend on the market, just like Suguru usually complains the entire time after a mission when they go get something sweet to eat, but Satoru doesn’t pull his hand away once, not even when Suguru would need two to check out a book.

And Suguru wouldn’t have it any other way.

#bt writes #jjk #satosugu #stsg #geto suguru #gojo satoru #getting together #love confessions #hurt/comfort #fluff #attentive gojo satoru #he's going to make the best boyfriend

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miscelunaaa · 2 years

Text

shell-ter | knj

pairing: hermit crab!namjoon x marine biologist!reader (who is also soft-bodied because reasons)

genre: crack, humor, smut, strangers to lovers, hybrid au, really just unabashed nonsense

summary: While walking on the beach and avoiding your responsibilities, you stumble upon a line of hermit crabs waiting to exchange shells. It should be an exciting moment for you, but instead there’s this random naked guy yelling at you to leave his friends alone. Why can’t a stroll on the beach ever just be a stroll on the beach?

rating: 18+ for maximum crabby goodness

word count: 6.9k

warnings: Scientific inaccuracies around the nature of crabs, hermit crabs, and other adjacent decapod crustaceans (I tried my best, I promise). Implied early pandemic setting. Writer plays fast and loose with hybrid tropes. Swearing. Crabby Namjoon lmfao. Meet ugly. Awkward public nudity, which is also very likely illegal wherever this is set. Joon’s crab friends leave him to die. Probably inaccurate descriptions of hermit crab mating conventions. Namjoon being casually naked the entire fucking time. Instinctually protective Namjoon. Lots of hybrid nonsense. Bittersweet ending?? Kind of??? Look, Namjoon plays by nature’s laws, y’all. This is perhaps the least feelingsy thing I have ever written. sexual content in the form of: Breeding kink. Oral, female receiving. Face sitting. Body worship??? Size kink. Big Dick!Namjoon. Dirty talk. Strength kink. Unprotected sex with other birth control in place. Rough-ish sex. Squirting. Possessive Namjoon. Hybrid nonsense.

notes: this is all @thatlongspringnight’s fault, so everyone pls be sure to thank Julie. I ironically and unironically love hybrid fics, and this series is going to be my homage to the more ironic side. There will be more chaos!! I’ve got ideas for each member, some more than one! Please note that this is a significantly delayed crosspost from my AO3 pseud. I’m still trying to decide how to approach this space in a lot of ways and posting this is partially me feeling out how I personally feel about getting work out in this space anymore.

Please also note!! I am no longer doing any tag lists. If you want updates for as soon as I post a fic, please subscribe to me on AO3. Updates go straight to your inbox and AO3 is way more stable than this fucking dinosaur of a platform. And this is to say nothing about it actually giving a shit about writers.

my masterlist | my disclaimers | read on ao3

The sun has only been above the horizon for a short while and already it feels like the sand’s been baking underneath its gaze for hours. The tiny grains each feel like hot coals as they wend their way between your toes. You scowl and try to step more carefully. Seokjin’s already fucked up the shower drain once or twice after neglecting to shake the sand off his body; you’d hate to be the next call to your cranky landlord.

It’s not a glamorous life, being a marine biologist, but someone has to do it. Or at least, that’s what you and Seokjin keep telling yourselves every time the university threatens to cut your funding and bring both of you back home. Someone has to study the beach flora and fauna, right?

Right?

“But why crabs?” you mutter to yourself. “Why the fuck did I pick crabs …”

Hermit crabs aren’t even real crabs, you muse to yourself as you step lightly over the early morning beach. They’re still crustaceans, just not “true” crabs like their sisters in the infraorder. Every time the university threatens to cut funding, you have to explain it to some bureaucrat who doesn’t think it’s important to know the difference. To the average person and their piss-poor science literacy, taxonomy seems like a lie anyway.

All things become crabs in the end. You’re more than ready to carcinize and join your tiny decapod brethren. Seems easier than waking up at the asscrack of dawn just to put on pants and a bra and see if you can catch them moving shells all at once. At least the crabs are nicer than anyone in the finance department so … take me now, crab daddy or whatever.

Today doesn’t seem promising. You’ve been trying to observe a vacancy chain for a week, with no luck. It’s not even for your thesis; you’re just fucking bored. Like fine yeah whatever you could be working on your thesis right now but why do that when you can avoid it and watch hermit crabs line up and wait patiently for shell to free up? They even naturally orient themselves!! They line up by size! That’s way more fascinating and way less depressing than talking about brachyura behaviors in wild environments versus commercial ones.

Maybe you should have picked the fake crabs instead. Maybe your advisor would let you change your thesis … for the third time …

Better not. It’s just easier to procrastinate the inevitable at this time.

Hours pass, and nothing’s happening on the beach. You’ve walked it up and down, you’ve reapplied sunscreen, you’ve finished both water bottles, and you’ve seen nothing, not even a lone crab sighing. You go home for lunch with a sigh, taking care to knock the sand out of your sandals before going into the dinky apartment. And then you repeat it all again, leaving this time with a sun hat and stronger sunscreen for the intense afternoon light.

You’d think by this time that the sound of the waves beating the shore would drive you nuts and remind you of your failures, but no. It’s the only thing soothing your annoyance at the lack of hermit crabs and your lack of will to work on your thesis.

Every once in a while, as the sun makes its way across the cloudless sky, you sit for a moment in the hot sand, dropping your notebook to the side. During these moments, you allow yourself to stare out into the sea and let the quiet flow through you. It’s nice, really. No one’s been coming to the beach because of the pandemic, so it’s personal nature hours just for you, the lone soul brave enough to venture out.

It’s during one of these moments, late in the day, the sun just beginning to touch the horizon after a long day of making things unbearably hot, that you see it. Or, rather, you see them.

Hermit crabs, perhaps a half dozen or so, beginning to queue up in the sand. It’s adorable, really; they’ve arranged themselves biggest to smallest, and they’re holding onto each other with their claws to make sure the order is maintained. At the end of the line lays a shell, just a bit too big for the biggest crab to move into.

The wonders of nature never cease to amaze you.

You watch from a few feet away, trying not to make any sudden movements, as a few more crabs join the line and the rest shuffle to make sure they’re in the right order. You turn to reach for your notebook.

As you’re flipping through to the first available page, you hear a little pop.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The angry voice makes you jump, your notes and pen flying somewhere as your hat falls off and you scramble to look dignified instead of very obsessed with crustaceans.

“N-NOTHING?? I-I waS—”

“Doesn’t look like nothing to me.” The voice is angry, accusatory. Your head spins around to find its source before you’ve even located your pen and you’re too startled to care about the undignified shriek you emit when your eyes find it. Or, actually—if you had to make an assumption—him.

A man, tall and lanky and naked as hell, is staring down at you. His hands are on his hips, his skin burnished gold in the mid-afternoon sunlight. Good lord, he’s so fucking naked! And angry!! But mOSTLY NAKED???

Why is an angry naked man yelling at you on the beach?

Why is it also kind of turning you on???

(Maybe Seokjin was right, maybe you do need to get laid.)

“Do you fucking mind?” He’s tall too, glowering down at you with handsomely hooded eyes, his full lips set into a hard line that makes no sense with how soft they look.

This is not the time to be thinking about this man’s mouth!! What are you doing? Has the sun addled you? Say something!

“D-do I mind? Mind what?”

“Do. You. Fucking. Mind?” the man spits at you. His eyebrows furrow.

Don’t look down. Fuck. Do not look down.

“Do I mind?” Something in your brain finally fires correctly. “Do you mind?? Naked asshole yelling at me?”

“This is my natural state and this is my turf—”

You scramble up to stand, almost falling over because your head swims from doing it too quickly.

“Your turf? This is a public beach, dickwad.”

Dick. Don’t look down don’t look—

Fuck. You looked down. Ohhhhhh boy did you look down. Oh wow. That’s a peen. That’s a big ole peen out in the sunlight in public on this here public beach. Holy shit. He’s gifted and he’s naked and he’s on the beach yelling at you and fuck why is this making you so horny???

“Lady, I don’t know who the fuck you are but you’re on my turf, you’re scaring my friends, and you need to fucking leave so we can do our business and get back to doing what we do.” The man’s chest is rising and falling rapidly as his jaw ticks with frustration. He’s got really nice pecs and his n—NO. FOCUS.

“I’m sorry, what friends? It’s just you and me here on the beach.” Thank god. This would be hard to explain to the local cops.

He steps to the side and points at the ground, to the little hermit crabs in their line. “My friends??? The crabs that you’re disturbing, including myself???”

The incredulity in his voice makes it click for you.

“Oh. Oh my god, are you a crab hybrid?”

He puts his face in his hands and shouts through his palms: “YES.”

“I … okay, are you all hybrids? I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, I—”

“Save it, I don’t care. Could you just leave us alone now? You’re scaring the littler ones and we all just want new shells.”

You bend over to pick up your notebook. “I’m a scientist, I promise I wasn’t trying to scare you and your friends.”

“Fine, whatever, just leave us alone please? You’ve been walking up and down this beach for days and you’re disturbing the peace.”

You’re suddenly very aware of the sand stuck between your sandals and the soles of your feet. Your heart sinks. “Ah, yeah. I can … do that. I guess.”

It’s better this way, probably. You need to start working on your thesis anyway. Your notebook feels heavy in your hand as you secure your hat back on your head.

“Great,” the man says. His shoulders relax as he sighs. “Great. Thanks for understanding. I have to get back to it but if I see you around again, I’m coming for you. Got it?”

Did he have to say “come for you” while ass-fucking-naked on the beach and looking like a hunky dreamboat??? You feel something in the pit of your stomach pulse with need.

“Yeah,” you say as you abruptly turn away. Is the sun hotter now or is it just you? “I got it. Bye then, I guess.” God, this is just fucking weird. Hybrid crabs in the wild and they’re kind of hot too. Ugh. Seokjin’s going to laugh his ass off.

“Bye.”

You only make it a few steps away before a loud, frantic “FUCK” makes you whip back around.

The man is on his hands and knees, still very naked and human shaped, scrutinizing something in the sand.

“Um, is everything alright?” You keep your voice low and soft in hopes that your question won’t aggravate him further.

He sits back on his heels, throwing his head back with a groan. His throat bobs, and you try not to think about what biting at his resplendent skin might be like.

“No. No it’s not. I lost my fucking shell because these assholes—” he gestures wildly at nothing in particular “—finished the shell queue without me. The only one that’s left is way too small.”

And now the handsome naked man is pouting. He’s a hermit crab hybrid without a shell and pouting and distraught and now even more naked in a way. Good lord, is this a test? Is there a dude with a camera hiding somewhere recording all of this for reality TV?

“I’m sorry.” What else can you say?

“This is what I get for helping these ungrateful fuckers. This fucking sucks.”

If he doesn’t have a shell, does that mean he’s homeless?

“How long do you think it’ll be until the next vacancy chain forms?”

“The what? The shell switch?” He looks up at you. You’re still standing a little ways away, but the anguish is clear on his face. “I don’t know, it could be days it could be …”

Weeks.

Shit. You can’t just leave him out here like this.

Without thinking, you walk over to him and squat down to look at him at his level. “I’ve got a roommate, he’s a scientist too. I’m sure if we explain what’s going on, he’d be okay with you crashing with us for a bit. If you want, that is. I just … I feel bad. You lost your shell because you were yelling at me.”

The man bites his lip as his eyes trail away, lost in thought. And then, after a moment, he nods his head.

“Okay. It’s the least you can do, I guess.”

He’s hot. He’s kind of rude, but at least he’s hot, you think.

“Great,” you reply, hiding your slight irritation. You shrug off your sun protective button-up and hand it to him. “Tie this around your front to cover up. It’s just a five minute walk from here. I’m Y/N, by the way.”

He looks at the shirt and takes it reluctantly.

“I’m Namjoon.”

The first thing you learn about your new hybrid acquaintance is that he has little regard for personal boundaries. The moment he steps into your apartment, he refuses to leave your side. You’d expected him to be skittish, maybe, but not clingy like this. You’d had to keep him out of your bedroom as you changed out of your beach clothes, and you’d actually locked the door to the bathroom for once because it took too much convincing to let him know that you weren’t going to suddenly disappear on him, leaving him alone in a strange place. You weren’t unconvinced that he wasn’t going to to break the door down. You could hear him pacing on the other side as you tried to pee in peace with mixed success.

If you hadn’t been convinced of his hybrid status before, watching him sniff at the air and scrutinize everything in your little apartment would have been enough to change your mind. And then there’s his proclivity for nudity, which just further proves his nature. His behavior is just that removed from what you’re used to from normative humans.

You’d also expected more questions from him, if you were being honest. Then again, just because Namjoon had been encountered in a wild environment didn’t mean he’d been born out there. He’d not been perturbed by the microwave or the stove or even the hot water kettle you’d started as soon as you got out to the kitchen. But fuck, he was weirdly clingy.

You frown as you wait for the water to boil. You don’t know much about hybrids, but if you had to guess, his clingy behavior likely has something to do with you being an available female and it being the mating season. August is primetime for horny hermit crabs; maybe his instincts are drawing him to you in some way because of it. If you’re being honest, you don’t completely hate it, though it feels a bit cringe to admit that to yourself. Even so, you try to shake the shame. So what if you enjoy the fact that he may or may not at this point in time consider you desirable in some way? Who doesn’t want to feel desired every once in a while?

As you reach up to open a cabinet above the counter and grab a box of tea, you hear something rustle behind you. Namjoon probably, still looking around while hovering.

“Namjoon, do you want some—”

Your voice catches in your throat as you feel a warm body press to your back. Large hands appear on either side of you, grasping the counter. You feel warm breath on your neck.

“—tea?”

A nose nuzzles into your skin, lips exhale a shaky breath.

“You smell really good, baby,” Namjoon says. “Smell good enough to eat, to …”

T-to what? You feel like you’re about to implode. To whAT??

“To what?”

Ugh, you sound pitiful with your voice all airy like that. You’re lucky anything managed to come out at all.

His hands don’t move to touch you, but his chest is scorching against your back. He’s close enough that you hear him swallow as his lips brush just barely against the shell of your ear.

“To breed.”

Namjoon’s voice is so low it brings goosebumps to your skin. A tremble passes through you, and you’re certain he can feel you shiver between his form and the counter.

“That exciting for you?” he asks. “The idea of getting your cunt fucked by a hybrid cock?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

His hands finally move, his weight settling against your back as he begins touching you, brushing his fingertips against your forearms and over your hips.

“Do you want me to mate with you, baby?”

“Yes.” God yes.

The scramble for your bedroom is a blur. All the way there, your hands are trailing over his skin while his are pushing your clothes up and off. You can feel how hard he’s gotten against you, but before you can get your hands on his erection, he’s falling back against your bed and pulling you on top of him.

Maybe you should be worried about how quickly things escalated. And maybe your conscience should shut the fuck up and let you be vaguely irresponsible with your feelings and body for the first time in months.

Namjoon groans as you straddle him, letting your hot flesh drag against his. His fingers sink into the softness of your thighs.

He murmurs a protest against your kisses. “Not yet, I want to—”

You realize he’s pulling you up his torso before can think to stop him. With stunning ease—damn that hybrid strength—he carefully positions your center over his face.

“This. I want this. I want your scent. I want you.” He looks up at you from between your thighs with those intense, dark eyes of his. Fuck. Fuck you want to die. This is fucking obscene. This is fucking—

The first suck against your folds makes your body pulse, and every movement after that brings you higher and higher into a stratosphere you didn’t even know existed. Namjoon is extremely skilled with his human mouth. It feels like you’re being devoured. It feels fucking amazing.

“Taste so ripe for me, baby. Breeding you’s going to be so easy,” he says against you. The vibration of his low, husky voice reverberates up your spine. Goosebumps spring up from your bare skin. Did your nipples just pucker?

Maybe you’ll leave out the fact that you’ve got an IUD. Maybe you’ll just let him have his fantasy about you. You’d hate to break his little paguroidean heart.

Namjoon licks wide stripes through your folds, each stroke culminating in a suck at your clit before he starts the motion anew. He groans into your flesh as if it’s the finest thing he’s ever consumed, as if he can’t help how this makes him feel. Each stroke, each tug, each movement and sound he makes pushes you closer to an edge you didn’t realize was there.

Your hands find their way to his scalp. You run your fingers through the dense hair as you breathlessly moan praises to him. It’s all you can do not to grind down onto his face; you’d hate to feel like you’re suffocating him. When his teeth graze your clit, however, you find yourself gripping his hair close to his scalp and grinding down anyway.

“Fuck, I’m so close, I’m gonna come,” you keen, your hips dragging along his lips.

“Come on my face, baby. Give it all to me,” Namjoon growls. His grip on you tightens and he starts helping you hump his face.

Suddenly, the wave hits you. It carries you past the edge and out into a realm of pleasure you haven’t felt in ages. You cry out, your body tensing as your cunt pulses with release. High as you feel, the emptiness makes it feel incomplete.

It’s like Namjoon senses this, because abruptly, he’s flipping you down onto your back. He towers above you as you whimper and reach for him.

“Please, I need your cock,” you say, fighting tears as your orgasm’s flood recedes.

“I’m going to fuck my spawn into you over and over, baby,” he purrs, his eyes trailing up and down your quivering body. “Gonna fill your soft, pretty body up with my seed. You’re not going to be able to walk for days when I’m done with you.”

You watch as his hand drifts down his torso to tug at his massive length. Will it even fit? You’re not sure. And will he actually wreck you the point of rendering you immobile? Who fucking cares?? You’re willing to see him try. For science. Yeah, for science or something.

You reach for him again, hands open and needy as you help him pump his length a few times before he finally lifts his eyes back to you. He looks hungry, perhaps as even as needy as you feel.

Namjoon finally leans over you, and you feel the tip of his cock start pressing into your cunt. You suck in a breath as slowly, so slowly, he pushes further inside. His size almost hurts; it toes the delicious line between pain and pleasure, and you can’t be bothered to differentiate between the two. Not now, not in this moment.

He groans once he’s finally fully sheathed within you, and the sound of his pleasure makes you clench. The squeeze makes his body tense.

“Cunt’s so tight, so fucking right around me.”

If you weren’t so breathless from being filled, you’d cry out praise in return. You don’t get the chance to catch your breath. Namjoon starts thrusting slowly, and the drag of his skin against your core makes you grip the sheets and press your hips into his.

For a moment, you wonder if this is it. This is hybrid sex. It’s normal sex but just a little bit better in all the right ways. Your hormones sigh in content, but your scientist brain is a little disappointed that it’s not something more.

After a few moments, during which you finally seemed to adjust to his girth, he stops and hooks your legs around his elbows. The stretch of your muscles is unexpected and before he starts to thrust again, you panic.

“Namjoon, I don’t think I can bend like tha—”

“Yes you can. I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his face dropping to kiss your knee as you adjust. He’s got your legs bent up at an intense angle, making his thrusts even deeper. Because of his strength, he’s able to help support your weight on his arms and thighs so that you don’t have to support it yourself. You’re completely at his mercy now, and fuck if it’s not the hottest thing that’s ever happened to you.

He picks up his pace as you relax into the position. Every thrust has his hips slapping against yours, the wet sound of his cock fucking your cunt echoing into your tiny bedroom. You realize through the haze that your bed is creaking and hitting the wall behind it as he fucks you hard and deep. You can’t be bothered to care if your neighbors will hear. They can probably hear you moaning and crying in his arms too. The hybrid above you seems to think the same thing.

“That’s right, baby, let them hear you. Let them hear me breed this wet fucking hole. Let them hear me fill you with my spawn.” Namjoon’s breaths are beginning to grow raged. When he’s not grunting obscene, filthy things at you, he’s biting his lip. Sweat’s dripping down his temples and neck and beading at his chest. “You’re mine. This is my cunt, no one else can fill you like this, can they?”

“No one can. I’m yours,” you whimper as your hands trail up to grip his arms. “Only yours.” What the hell has gotten into you? Pre-thesis trip you could never.

His thrusts grow rougher still and you realize that the string within you has wound itself tightly again. Fuck, it’s never snuck up on you like this. Namjoon’s cock is dragging against every sensitive spot it can and at such a quick pace that suddenly, just as soon as you noticed it, the string is snapping.

You scream. You’ve never screamed during sex before. This orgasm’s even stronger than the last; your ears ring, your heart pounds, your cunt tries to squeeze around his length so tightly that he almost can’t move. And you’re wet, so so suddenly wet. There’s a trickle down your ass and into the sheets and you realize that this fucking hybrid’s still fucking you through it as if it’s nothing.

He doesn’t make it much longer after you. As soon as your orgasm begins to ebb, his hips begin to stutter, hard and fast.

Namjoon swears one last time and with a last snap of his hips, he comes, emptying himself within you.

Your ears continue to ring with the sudden silence. The sound of heavy breathing is the only thing reminding you that right, yes, you’re still alive, this isn’t a weirdly real wet dream at all. This actually happened.

You wait for Namjoon to pull out, only to realize that he’s looking down at where you’re still joined. His brow is furrowed, even and his chest rises and falls with recovering breaths.

Finally, you break the silence.

“Everything okay, Namjoon?”

“Yeah, just ... I didn’t realize you could gush like that.” His fingers brush along the stretch marks at your inner thighs as he looks down at the sticky scene.

“Yeah, it’s a bit messy, I’m sorry. It means you did a good job though.”

Namjoon grabs a pillow and places it under your hips before carefully pulling out. You whimper at the sudden loss of his cock.

“Don’t apologize, I just—”

Is he ... is he pouting right now??

He sits back on his heels and surveys your wrecked, tired body, the pout still playing his lips.

“I just wish you could have done that on my face. It smells so good.”

Your feel your face heat instantly. Not even his obscene dirty talk had you feeling this embarrassed. Does he even know what he’s saying right now?? You’re so stunned you can’t even speak.

Namjoon shrugs to himself before finally settling next to you in the bed and pulling you towards him with care.

“It’s fine,” he says into your neck. “The night is still young, it just means I’ll have to try harder when we go again in an hour.”

Your stomach lurches at the thought. You’re not sure if it’s horror or anticipation. “Again? In an hour?”

Morning comes sooner than either you or Namjoon expect, and with it, your roommate, also arriving sooner than you expect.

He makes himself known in his customary way, which doesn’t have the customary result he expects. Barging into your room, already recounting the wonders he saw out at the reef, goes over poorly when you’ve got a hybrid still sleeping in your bed, clinging to you under the thin sheet covering your naked bodies.

Seokjin yelps. You scream. These are normal and expected reactions.

But poor Namjoon … he does neither of those things.

“I’ve never seen a grown man skitter.”

“Well, you scared him. I think he’s got a right to be spooked.”

You and Seokjin are standing outside of your bedroom door while Namjoon hides under your bed, refusing to come out until he thinks it’s safe. Your roommate’s not wrong; the man had absolutely skittered into his new hiding place. He’d actually tried to drag you with him, but you’d resisted long enough to shout at Seokjin to leave before you tore him a new asscrack.

“His dick is … well, it’s huge.”

“Nice subject change there, you jerk.”

“What? You expect me to see an endowment like that and not say something? How did you even fit it inside you?”

“Please don’t say the word endowment. We’re stressed enough about funding without you comparing his dick to the massive amount of money we’re missing out on.”

“Fine. Unlike the rich white assholes back home though, he seems … nice? I guess? The whole hiding under the bed thing notwithstanding. Did he at least know how to use that enormous—”

You hold up a hand. “Just stop. The sex was great. Amazing even. But um, the hiding thing—”

“You’re about to tell me something weird aren’t you. Hon, you’ve got to stop bringing home your weird hippie types, like, you can’t just bring hot homeless dudes home. Living in a van is not the same as having a house! I hope you used a condom.”

“Jin. Ugh. God, that was one fucking time. He’s not unhoused and even if he were, what business is that of ours?”

Suddenly a voice comes from inside your bedroom. It’s muffled, and perhaps a little salty in tone, but it’s now close enough to make you think that maybe Namjoon’s gone from hiding under the bed to hiding under the blankets. “Well, technically I am homeless and it’s all your fault!”

Seokjin raises an eyebrow and levels a hard stare at you. “Talk.”

Namjoon doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to get back to the beach after being coaxed out from your bedroom. In fact, he’s not in much of a hurry to do anything besides follow you around the little apartment, wrapping his arms around your waist whenever he’s got the chance. He’s also not in much of a hurry to put on any of the clothes that Seokjin picked out for him.

Namjoon just looks at the garments and instead walks over to you and pulls your body into his chest. His body is warm against your back. The gesture seems sweet, but it’s beginning to get annoying. Seokjin looks the two of you up and down, your stiff form enveloped by Namjoon’s lanky, muscular one.

He shrugs. “If I had thighs like that I’d eschew pants too, I guess.”

You purse your lips as you watch Jin leave the room, leaving you with the very naked and needy Namjoon.

“Hey, so um,” you start, your fingers finding his arms to loosen his hold on you. “You’re really cool, but I’m not much of a … cuddler? Like casual cuddling is cool but this is a bit much.”

Instead of letting you shake him off, the hybrid’s hold around you tightens.

“I’m not cuddling,” he scoffs. “I don’t cuddle. This is protection. I’m making sure you stay safe until you can release your eggs in the ocean.”

It’s very hard not to roll your eyes and scoff back. This is an instinctual behavior for a lot of brachyura species, and apparently it’s something he’s displaying too.

You pat his arm, perhaps with a little bit of condescension. “Yeah, but I don’t have any natural predators, big guy.”

“True. But you’re still all soft.” His hand trails up from your waist to fondle one of your breasts. Your breath hitches while he continues to speak. “You still need protection.”

“Namjoon, I’m not going to suddenly sprout an exoskeleton.”

“Don’t care. Still gonna do my job as your mate, at least until you can get back to the ocean.”

“Buddy, we had mammalian sex!”

As much as you protest, it’s no use. At any given moment as the day moves on, Namjoon’s got his naked body entwined with yours, to protect you from predators like email pings from your computer and Seokjin (but only when he suddenly stands up or steps too close to you). It’s all you can do to get him to release you from the confines of his embrace so that you can use the bathroom. For his part, Namjoon seems to be content to spoon you on the couch as you mindlessly sort through thesis research.

It could be worse, you guess. You’re getting your touch fix for the next few months of thesis hell.

Seokjin tolerates the interloper as well as can be expected, but softens when he sees the delighted look on Namjoon’s face as he has instant ramen for the first time. It’s a humble dinner, but it does the job. After that, Namjoon seems to soften on Jin too, and finally, you can move around the apartment without requiring Namjoon’s protection.

The next day, the hybrid seems more restless. He’s not ready to go back to the beach, but if you had to guess, he’s close. Now that he’s no longer preoccupied with your safety, he starts inspecting things in the apartment with care. He opens cabinets and sticks half his big body in them, probably just to see how it feels. He smells and sniffs things like spices and soap. He touches the carpet and the couch and the different utensils sitting in the kitchen’s tool crock. Nothing is not worth his inspection, it seems.

At one point, you walk into the living room to see him standing in the box that Seokjin’s extra computer monitor shipped in. He stands in it as if it’s exactly what he’s supposed to be doing at the moment, while still naked as ever, his hands at his sides with his back straight. His full lips are pursed into a thoughtful pout as he stares off into space.

“Everything okay, Namjoon?” you ask gently, hoping you don’t startle him.

He blinks and turns to look at you.

“Yeah. Uh …” He pauses, and looks down at his feet in the box, and then back to you. “Does this box make my butt look big?”

It’s now your turn to blink and not speak for a moment.

This must be an instinct thing too. And it’s one you’re frankly unequipped to handle. How do you tell a hermit crab hybrid that he doesn’t currently need a shell, not in this form at least?

“Um, no, it doesn’t,” you say carefully but casually. “Looks great.”

Namjoon tries to hold your gaze but you glance away and try to make yourself look less perturbed by pulling out your phone and pretending to check the time. When you look back at him, his pout is even more pronounced.

“I don’t believe you,” he grumbles.

The rest of the day passes much like this, with Namjoon trying to see how it feels to cram his big body in various spaces. At one point, you find him sitting in your empty suitcase. At another Seokjin enters the bathroom and comes out screaming moments later; Namjoon had laid down in the bathtub and decided not to make his presence known until Jin had already lowered his fly to pee.

Your favorite might be the hybrid’s discovery of the colander in the kitchen. After inspecting it closely, he sets it atop his head. He thinks for a moment, rolling his shoulders and shifting his weight between his feet, as if to feel out how the colander might protect him from danger. Whatever protection it offers must be enough because after a moment, he nods, and carries on doing whatever it is a hermit crab hybrid does after finding suitable protection. In this case, it’s sitting at the kitchen table, eating peanut butter straight out of the jar with his bare fingers while you and Seokjin chip away at your research.

Later that evening, after you’d all eaten dinner and had gone to bed, Namjoon wakes you up and says, “I think it’s time for you to go release your eggs into the ocean.”

And who are you to argue with his instincts as a hybrid?

As luck would have it, the beach is vacant still, and the weather is having one of its rare mild days. There are no errant visitors escaping their homes for some sun. There are no beach patrols or lifeguards, no kids playing hooky. It’s just you and Seokjin and the increasingly agitated crustacean hybrid who just wants to make sure you deposit your eggs in the ocean like a good girl.

No matter how many times you tell him you’ve got an IUD and a mammalian reproductive system, he still thinks that he needs to see you leave his spawn out in the sea. He’d tried to pull you out of bed to do it last night, but you’d pinched his nipple to get him off you and made him compromise: if he put a pair of Seokjin’s shorts on and left the colander at home to come with you, he could escort you to the ocean to “deposit your eggs.”

So now it’s mid morning. You’re about to wade out into the ocean to please Namjoon’s instincts.

Seokjin had shaken his head and said, “The things we do for science” when you’d woken him. He’s not wrong, you sigh to yourself as you kick off your sandals and shrug off your bag. You set them in the sand next to Seokjin and approach the water lapping the shore. You turn, and see that Namjoon’s close behind you, but instead of looking out at the ocean, he’s looking at the sand underfoot, his brow furrowed.

“Everything okay, Namjoon?”

“Yeah, go release your eggs, baby.”

You hate that his casual language still makes you preen, days after he’d fucked you. It’s even more infuriating that he can make something like releasing imaginary spawn out into the ocean sound remotely sexy. And yet … the things we do for science … and for the people we’d probably come to love if circumstances were different.

The water is warm and comfortable as you wade out into the shallows. It soaks through the running shorts you’d worn and wicks up your shirt as you move deeper, so that eventually it’s up to your waist. You turn and look at the beach, Seokjin standing where the sand is still dry, Namjoon closer, the waves brushing over his toes.

You squat a little, trying to make your imaginary spawning look convincing. After a few moments, you stand and start wading back. As you emerge from the ocean, Namjoon smiles. Ah, he has dimples, how had you never noticed?

Seokjin trots forward and tosses you a towel as you walk further ashore. You wrap it around your middle as Namjoon moves to wrap his arms around you.

“Thanks for having my spawn,” he murmurs, his voice sweet and heady as he kisses your forehead and holds you for a moment. Your eyes meet Seokjin’s over his shoulder, and the man looks like he’s about to burst out laughing. He keeps his cool and swallows it down as Namjoon releases you and clears his throat.

“So uh, just a second, I think—” The hybrid squints and looks out across the sand. “—Yeah, one moment.”

He runs off in the direction he squinted, and suddenly stops and squats down. You and Seokjin watch as he picks something up and looks at it closely. And then he puts it down and picks something else up. The objects are too small for you to see clearly.

“Is he … is that …” Seokjin trails off and starts walking toward him, and you follow.

“It’s another vacancy chain,” you say as the two of you draw closer to the hybrid, just enough to see the gathering at his feet. You watch Namjoon’s eyes trail up and down the line of hermit crabs, who’ve already ordered themselves by size. “Maybe one of them is about to give up a shell that’s the right size?”

Your roommate throws you a glance. “That’s the hope, right?”

You nod. Is he expecting this to bother you in some way? For a moment, you zone out, wondering what you’re supposed to feel about all this. But it’s only for a moment, because suddenly your attention’s being stolen away.

“You fuckers, I’ll fucking fight you!” Namjoon suddenly shouts.

With a little pop, he disappears. In his place is a little hermit crab without a shell, its little spiral abdomen, soft and vulnerable, curled up to the side. Seokjin’s shorts flutter to the ground a second later, now empty. You and Seokjin watch as this little crab, presumably Namjoon, scuttles up to another crab similar in size, and starts to hit it with his pinchers. All hell breaks loose in the vacancy chain, and you loose track of Namjoon as the hermit crabs all swarm and start … fighting, you guess? It’s weird and kind of hard to look at, but you also can’t get yourself to look away.

After a few moments, a lone crab wearing a shell emerges from the scuffle and creeps toward you and Seokjin.

“Is that … Namjoon? Is he looking at you?” Seokjin groans. “This is fucking weird.”

You squat down to look at the little crab. It, or maybe he, waves a claw at you, almost as if saluting, and then walks off quickly. You let your eyes follow him down the beach as he moves away from the fray. When you turn to look back at the vacancy chain scuffle, you see that it’s broken up. The crabs are dispersing and going off to do whatever it is that they do during these late summer days.

Namjoon’s gone. And you can’t help but smile to yourself and wonder what the fuck just happened.

“Is that it?” Jin’s beside himself with laughter. “He’s just fucking leaving? No dinners or dates, just a fuck and run after you’ve fulfilled your purpose? Is there no romance left in the world??”

You stand and dust off your knees, watching your fellow scientist send the hermit crabs scurrying away as he walks up and reaches for his discarded shorts.

You sigh wistfully. “With the way the guy ate me out, I was dinner.”

“That’s gross. That’s fucking disgusting. I don’t need to know that shit.”

“Look I’ve seen things now, don’t knock hybrid dick till you try it.”

“Quit bragging, it’s unbecoming.”

“Fine. Just know that jealousy is unbecoming as well.”

As you walk back down the beach to collect your things, Seokjin squints out to the horizon. He takes a deep breath and sighs. “Well it’s good he was a paguroidea and not brachyura I guess, right? You didn’t like compromise your data or anything?”

“Oh god no,” you shake your head. “I will do a lot of things for science, but that’s not one of them.”

“Then, uh, what was all this then with Namjoon? An experiment of sorts?” He’s got a smile on his face, and a light, teasing tone. He’s trying to make sure you’re okay, it seems, trying to gauge whether or not you caught feelings.

“No, not an experiment,” you say, letting yourself grow quiet with thought.

“Then what would you call it? Like are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” You really are, you mean it when you say it. “This was fun, I think. Just some fun and helping someone who needed it.”

“So is that code for schedule you a vacation for the next mating season around here or—”

Seokjin’s sentence is cut off by you throwing a sandal at him.

“You jerk! I can’t believe you’re supposed to be the uncle to my spawn and you’re treating me this way!”

Your roommate’s laughter peals through the air. “You’ll regret that when you need help coming up with names for your several hundred children.”

“Ugh, thank god for larval stages and precocious young.”

“They grow up so fast. Want noodles when we get home?”

“Please. Let’s head back.”

Thank you for reading! Drop me an ask and tell me what you think. Find me in various places at my carrd :)

©miscelunaaa 2022. My work is only found on this blog and under my ao3 pseud. Do not, under any circumstances, copy or repost my work. Thank you.

posted: originally to ao3 9.10.2022, to tumblr on 10.26.2022

#namjoon fic #kim namjoon fic #kim namjoon fanfic #bts fic #bts hybrid fic #hybrid namjoon #hybrid namjoon x reader #hybrid knj #knj x female reader #knj x reader #knj fic #lmao what is tagging anymore #it's been so fucking long since I last made a big post I think I've forgotten everything tbh

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ghostlee · 1 month

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NSMDMAMDJ JOEL BEING ALL GIGGLY AND WHIMY ABOUT IT /POS I LOVE THAT MAN WITH MANIA

Omgomg wait but I hc Joel to be a bug he just FITSS as a bug yk?? And like so he has antennae and the lil bug wings. (Me thinks the wings are damaged and he does some stuff to like fix it like how Toothless has the prosthetic in HTTYD, and it gets removed for the life series sorry I'm rambling abt this it just upsets me seeing ppl draw Grian and Jimmy with their wings tied that looks PAINFUL so I think of more natural reasons)

Soo so so the antennae are like sensors on actual bugs right?? So that means that they're super sensitive................ I'll let you guess the rest of it

(Maybe Etho found out during double life, and it was one of the few places he could tk Joel without feeling it because he doesn't have any antennae himself)

- 💫

AWWWW That is so cute!!

Yesss I wish they found other ways to keep Grian and Jimmy from using wings in the life series without tying them or having them be hurt.

I could 100% see Joel needing to take off the wing, maybe he still has like one left but he can’t fly with one so the prosthetic just gets left back in hermitcraft sorta thing.

It’s super cute to think though that the Antenna are ticklish tho hahah, even just like the wind blowing a bit to strong can get Joel giggling and I feel like the hermits didn’t know why he was randomly giggling when the wind would blow at first. But then one time Grian and Etho were sitting with Joel when the wind starts blowing really hard and Joel starts giggling and tries to cover his Antenna and Grian and Etho are both like. “Wait they are ticklish??” And Joel gets all flustered and is like. “WhAt, no you idiots it’s not tic-“ as the wind blows again and the hermits watch them like twitch as Joel starts laughing again and runs inside the nearest building.

Grian going “uh huh. It’s okay for them to be ticklish Joel. My wings are ticklish and here, Ethos fox ears are ticklish, watch.” As he like reaches over to Etho to lightly fluff Ethos fox ears for the boy to burst out laughing as his ears press back against his head and he leans back away from Grian going “Hehehehey.”

Joel tries to fight a smile watching Etho and Grian interact before he’s like, “yeah okay they are ticklish, don’t tell anyone else though.” With a small pout as he crosses his arms and playfully looks away.

Another concept I could see happening is like Etho and Joel is DoubleLife tickling each other and Etho manages to pin Joel and is watching his Antenna twitch and move around while his eyes are focused on them. He then goes “can I touch them Joel?” And he feels the man below him like freeze before he relaxes some and goes. “30 seconds.” As Etho grins and slowly drags his index fingers over them and Joel melts into giggles as he fights to not grab Ethos hands.

THEM THEM THEM

#tickles #tickle talk #ghostleebeingagremlin #ghostleetickles #lee #tickle #ler #lee!ethoslab #lee!etho #ler!etho #ler!ethoslab #ler!joel #lee!joel #ler!smallishbeans #lee!smallishbeans #antenna #antennatickles #💫speaks

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m0ther-of-p3arl · 11 months

Text

shepshermitdesign23 WEEK ONE

grian as a rogue

he is an avian rogue, chaotic neutral, he uses kind of long metal hooks that he holds in both hands (think jet from atla) his background is that he's yk looking for scar hes trying to find info on scar so when it says "grian needed that information" thats what i meant cuz he doesnt know where scar is and NEEDS to find him (that's his motivation)

(1946 w)

tw: slight blood, battling with magic and also not magic, yeah

i wrote this for @shepscapades hermit designing thingie but i decided to write a fic for it instead, as my drawing skills leave much to be desired lmao- so uh here have roguey grian being a rogue and stealing things! (btw i did not edit this even once so its really rough just bear that in mind while reading sldkjfs)

The stars are him, and he is the stars. This is a fact, something he knows beyond doubt, something that’s always been there underneath, rippling against the waves of Grian’s life. So as he leaps across the rooftops, a shadowed figure wrapped in black and gray, he stares up at them, breathing deeply to calm his rabbiting heart. This is fine. It’s just another heist, another job, it’s the last one.

It’s the last one. And of course, his last day on the job, he’s given an offer he can’t refuse, the biggest and most important thing he’ll probably ever do. Grian has been sent to steal the crown. The king’s crown. Ren’s crown.

Grian knew Ren once upon a time, before he was consumed by the power that was offered to him. He remembers how they would go out for drinks at the pub, laughing and towing along their respective boyfriends, betting on the raucous barbarians that just couldn’t help but pick fights with each other after getting tipsy on a few drinks.

But that was almost a different life. Now Grian’s older, he’s smarter, and he can’t remember the last time he laughed. Hell, he can’t remember the last time he smiled. When Ren became king, when it was revealed that he was the heir who had been missing for so long, Grian was adamant against a resistance. He decided that it was best to just… stay in the shadows, in honor of their old friendship.

And he’s been surprisingly good at doing so. But the offer he’s gotten… well. Let’s just say it’s something he can’t refuse. Someone he can’t refuse- or rather, information regarding to their whereabouts from a very reliable source. The only reason Grian is going to be able to pull this off is because if he does, he knows what could be at home waiting for him.

He’s been so lost in his thoughts he’s almost missed his stop, and he tucks his hooks into his belt, making sure his wings are properly bound to his back, their bright colors sure to give him away otherwise. The castle looms in the distance- Grian’s target. He pulls out his spyglass, taking note of the guards patrolling around the castle, Ren’s trademark red banner hanging from their waistbands.

How is he going to go about doing this? He scans the castle walls for an obvious in, but if there’s one thing to be said of Ren, he is not lax in his security. His eyes rove over the towers once again, hoping that maybe he’s just been a little bit mistaken, but no. Every inch of this castle is swarming with guards.

“Fuck,” Grian curses under his breath, putting his spyglass back into the pack and tightening his fists on his hooks, trying to come up with an alternate plan. He could go in by brute force, incapacitate or kill all the guards on the way up to the treasure room, but the problem with that is to be honest, he doesn’t know if he’d be strong enough.

Another option lies in the fact that he can fly- if he wished, it would be as easy as one, two, three to unbind his wings, soar up to where the jewels are kept, and enter through the window. But he’s certain someone would see him coming, maybe even the Hand, and Grian doesn’t want to have to deal with that. In fact, he’d rather he has to exert as little force as possible. His strengths lie in being sneaky, not strong, and though he often wishes he had a little more muscle on his bones, he knows where his forte is.

So, what’s the ploy? Grian slides down the roof a little further, crouching and hoping he won’t be seen. He supposes that if he wants to pull this off without getting caught, his best bet is… going through the trash chute. God damn it. Grian heaves a disappointed sigh, but it’s not like there’s any better option. He jumps nimbly down from the roof and begins to follow the sewers, divots of odorous rushing liquid carved into the ground.

He’s memorized the floor plan of Dogwarts Castle, to the very point that he knows which pipes lead where and when. He crawls into the ground, soaking his front in the foul mixture of rot and feces. Only a couple years ago, Grian would have found this idea appalling, and though it still freaks him out a bit, he’s resigned now to the things he needs to do if he wants that information.

And he does. He wants it more than everything. So he crawls forwards, breathing shallowly through his mouth to block out the stench, his memory the only thing leading him through the pitch dark maze. Turn right, then left, another left, right again. There should be a ladder here. He blindly runs his fingers against the dead end he’s come across, and sure enough, a cold rod of metal sticks out from the wall. Grian moves his hands upwards to feel another, and another, and another, until he’s standing to his full height.

Then he grabs hold of the rung right above his head and begins to climb. He pulls his whole body upwards with each strong push, going four rungs at a time to save energy. He’s so close, he’s almost there. He can see the light peeking through the end of the tunnel, and he closes his eyes for a second, recalibrating to figure out where he is. That’s North, then East, South, and lastly, West. So he’s in the bathroom across the hall from the jewel room. Good. So long as no one’s taking a poo right now, Grian’s in the perfect position.

Plus, he’s so covered in human waste that even if someone is to see him, they’ll probably just assume he was cleaning out the sewers. He quickly climbs up the last couple rungs, his head poking out into a decrepit stall. Pulling himself out of the toilet, Grian briefly considers dumping the ubiquitous bucket of water sitting in the corner over his head, but in the end decides against it. It could make too much noise, leave too much of a trace, and his employer for this job has insisted very particularly that Ren or any of the guards cannot know, under any circumstances, that Grian’s the one stealing the crown.

Flipping locked the latch on the door quickly, he peers through the moon-shaped window, waiting for a gap in the constantly rotating circles of guards. Before he leaves, he makes a quick glance to the door of the jewel room across the hall, the horizontal slit in the golden lock telling him all he needs to know.

For whatever miraculous reason, the door is unlocked. Grian takes his chance, opening his door and leaping across the hall in one fluid motion, quickly sliding into the treasure room before the sounds of chatter from the end of the stony, lamp-lit hall get any louder. He slides his hand up one of his hooks, using the pointed end as a sort of skeleton key to lock the door. A quiet clicking sound tells him he’s met his goal, and he slowly turns around, his heart beating haywire in his chest.

He stumbles backwards as he realizes someone else is here as well. He’s a warlock, his blond hair cut off at his shoulders, a black headband pushing it out of his eyes. The man’s robes are a dark green (an unconventional color for a warlock, Grian notes,) a looping sigil imprinted in the center of his chest. His eyes are a light, piercing blue, a staff clutched in his right hand and a sphere of red light dancing in his left.

“Hello, Martyn,” Grian barks out in a laugh, because he should have known, he should have known. There’s no way Ren would make it this easy for him, and the door to the treasure room being unlocked was a big giveaway that he ignored. And why was he so careless? Because he needs this information, he would do anything, he would- he would kill his own mother if it meant he got to know. And because of this, he’s been unspeakably sloppy.

“How’ve you been, buddy?” Martyn smiles darkly, his skin shallower, his eyes more sunken then when Grian saw him last. “It’s been too long, hasn’t it?”

“Oh, for sure, too long,” Grian agrees, trying to drag out the conversation long enough to gauge his chances of winning this fight, and if that’s not an option, how he can nab the crown and fly out before Martyn can react. He’s already shrugging the bindings off his wings. “How’s Ren doing? Tell him I say hi, yeah?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Martyn grins, his teeth pointed, more animalistic than Grian remembers. “You can tell him yourself, right before you’re sentenced to death for betrayal of the kingdom.” The warlock lunges, lobbing the sphere of red energy at Grian’s now unbound wing. He just barely dodges, feeling the edges of his feathers singe as the wall behind him implodes.

“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, Martyn,” Grian mutters through gritted teeth, clenching his fists even tighter around his hooks and lunging forward, dodging the staff and hitting Martyn square in the stomach. The warlock grunts and flies backward, clutching his midriff and glaring darkly at the rogue who’d caused him pain.

“You’re asking for it,” he growls, assuming a powerful stance and spinning his staff, a whirlwind erupting from its end, tracing its way towards Grian. But Martyn’s underestimated the avian once again, and he leaps above the tornado, jumping nimbly around the room. If he can just lead it towards the glass case that holds the crown, the power of the wind will break the glass, and Grian will be home free.

He’s already gotten a good hit in on Martyn, and to be honest, he feels a little guilty about it. They used to be friends; there was a time before Ren cornered the enchantment market and took over the kingdom. There was a time when it was just Ren, Martyn, him, and Scar at the pub. Oh god. He stumbles, tripping up- and it nearly costs him his life. Focus, Grian. He can’t think of Scar right now. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

Glass is imploding all around him, and all of a sudden, his goal is met: the display case for the crown splits open, sharp shards flying all over, grooving scratches into his skin and clothes. Martyn’s eyes widen, realizing his mistake too late. Grian is quicker, grabbing the crown and turning quickly, aiming a swift kick to Martyn’s head. It connects, and he falls to the floor, momentarily dazed.

Grian could kill him, right here and now. It would be as easy as a quick snap of the neck, and for a moment, he considers the possibility.

But he’s a sentimental fool and he’s too soft for this, he still remembers the time when they were all friends. And so he leaves Martyn laying on the floor, growling quietly in his ear before he leaves: “Don’t forget this. I left you alive when it would have been so much simpler to kill you. You could leave, Martyn. Join me and leave. We could use your skills.”

And then Grian’s gone, jumping out the window and letting his wings flare out behind him, the king’s crown clutched securely in his hand, flying out into the stars, out into the sky that has become his home.

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