Work Text:
—1—
Several hours into a building session—just as Grian is totally about to take a break, honest—his communicator buzzes with urgency. He fishes it out of his pocket, nearly dropping it when it buzzes again, and checks his messages. He still has half a mind occupied with building, hence why it takes him a couple seconds to figure out why Mumbo would text him Pesky Bird twice in a row. The moment it connects, his project is all but forgotten and he is off on swift wings to take care of his friend.
Once more, his communicator buzzes, another Pesky Bird, but this one is more jumbled. Grian spams the rockets to get there faster. Two more, decreasingly literate messages later, Grian arrives at Mumbo's latest redstone project. The machine is huge and turned on, clicking and shifting merrily. It's in the middle of it where he finds Mumbo, red faced, mouth agape and drooling and whining needily— and deep in Redstone Drop.
The first time Grian witnessed a Redstone Drop, he had no idea what he was looking at and, after concluding that it was not in fact a comedic bit, he had rightfully freaked out, just a smidge. The term itself only entered his vocabulary weeks later, after he finally asked Mumbo what had happened that day and the other sheepishly explained it to him.
Apparently—and how should Grian, who is not a redstoner by any means, be aware of this—redstone has some hypnotic properties. Now, if you don't use the stuff regularly or only for small things, like doors, you would never notice, but if you build larger machines that require more intense attention— well, you can end up in a bit of a predicament.
But that's what Grian is there for, at least for Mumbo.
Pesky Bird is the codeword they developed after Grian caught Mumbo in Redstone Drop the first three times. It tells Grian that Mumbo is alone, dropping and in need of 'rescue'. In all honesty, Grian doesn't mind rescuing his friend out of these predicaments. He isn't too anxious about getting Mumbo out of Drop, now that he knows it's essentially harmless, he only prioritises getting Mumbo somewhere he can't hurt himself.
Grian lands safely close to the machine, carefully getting closer to it. He can see Mumbo somewhere in the middle of it and he swallows at the erotic sight of his friend. Upon closer look, Grian discovers that Mumbo's crotch is partially stuck to a sticky piston that is speedily pistoning back and forth while Mumbo's glazed over eyes are fixed on the flashing of redstone just beside it, mindlessly rutting with the piston. The machine is loud but it doesn't cover the noises Mumbo makes, the desperate whines, the needy whimpers, the filthy moans.
It's— It's very distracting. It is not the first time—not by far—that Grian found Mumbo like this. Redstone Drop does different things to different redstoners: some get sleepy, others get relaxed, all of them get very eager to be obedient, and yet some, like Mumbo, get very, very horny. It makes Grian wonder soemtimes what type of Redstone Drop he'd get. He shakes his head, he has higher priorities right now.
It takes a few minutes of looking, and three more increasingly incomprehensible Pesky Bird messages, for Grian to find the lever that turns the machine off. He climbs into the machine and reaches out for a whimpering Mumbo, who is shaking, eyes completely glazed over and teary with need and overstimulatoin.
"Hey, Mumbo," Grian greets softly, his fingers carding through Mumbo's sweaty hair and he wants to purr at the way Mumbo instantly leans into his touch, "Got a bit lost there, did you?"
Mumbo's only reply was a needy whine, his hips bucking and stuttering as if he is expecting the piston to be still moving.
"I'm getting you out now. How long have you been stuck here?" Grian gets behind Mumbo and wraps his arms around his friend's torso, holding on tightly, and pulling back. Mumbo isn't much help, out of it as he is, so it takes Grian a good couple minutes to get Mumbo unstuck and out of the machine.
Conveniently, there is a bed placed not too far away from the redstone machine and Grian sets Mumbo down more or less carefully on it. He doesn't want to jar Mumbo out of Drop, that's an unpleasant experience more than anything, according to Mumbo. Once he has him settled, Grian takes stock of anything out of place and notices both Mumbo's erection as well as the wetness surrounding it. Mumbo is shivering and shifting his hips restlessly, breathing heavily while his eyes slide shut.
"Hey. Hey. Mumbo. I need you to wake up for me, buddy. I know sleeping sounds really nice right now, but I need you awake for me more. Come on. Up you go." As Grian keeps rambling, Mumbo's eyes slowly open and he witnesses the progression from hypnotized to slowly waking up. "There we go, just a bit more. You can do it. Up and awake."
He knows Mumbo is with him when his friend groans and scrunches his eyes shut. Grian can't help but grin a bit at Mumbo's embarrassment, but he tries not to tease him about it right now. He eyes the white wetness of Mumbo's trousers again.
"Gonna get that off of you, that just can't be comfortable, okay?" Grian says and, once Mumbo groans his assent, takes off Mumbo's shoes, socks and pulls on the trousers and briefs until they're off entirely, revealing the sheer amount of cum seeping into the fabric. Grian swallows, his cheeks turning red. It's nowhere near the first time he has seen Mumbo naked, or aroused, but he still hasn't fully grappled with the feelings erupting within him at the sight. He must have cum so many times... "H-how long were you stuck there?"
"I think I finished building the machine this morning?"
"Mumbo, it's noon," Grian intones, a bit alarmed.
"I just wanted to quickly test it," Mumbo whimpers, a bit pathetically, "Goodness, I'm so sore now."
"I bet," Grian chuckles, though it's hard to hide the anxiety bubbling up, "Looked like a major workout. Must have felt really good, though."
Mumbo's eyes threaten to glaze over again. "Felt reaally good. Just back and forth and back and—"
Grian snaps a finger in front of Mumbo's face, startling him enough not to drop again. Mumbo groans again, shifting uncomfortably and Grian hisses with sympathy.
"Sore, you say?"
"Blimey, yes, like nothing else. I'm going to feel this for days. Definitely feels like a workout. It just wouldn't stop."
Even if this predicament could have been avoided entirely, had Mumbo just set an alarm or not tested the machine without telling Grian, it happened and Grian does feel for Mumbo.
"I hear massages can help?" It's an offer, if Mumbo knows to listen for it.
"Please?" Mumbo whimpers. The sound sends tingles through Grian's abdomen and dries his mouth like a desert. He can only nod in response.
While trading massages is not entirely unheard of among Hermits, given how physically straining building and gathering materials for hours upon hours can be, Grian feels like this is an entirely different situation. He's sure that no other Hermits have given massages while the other is half naked, half hard, and about 10% covered in their own cum. Nonetheless, Grian wastes no time getting to work.
He starts at Mumbo's arms, because starting any lower just feels wrong, and he works and kneads the tension out of the muscles there. Mumbo sighs and closes his eyes, sinking into the mattress more and more as Grian continues on with the shoulders, chest, before skipping the middle section entirely and starting with the feet, but because Mumbo is ticklish there, he quickly moves on.
"You're a life saver, Grian," Mumbo moans, melting into the mattress. Grian swallows around the lump in his throat and tries to concentrate on Mumbo's legs, on the feel of his skin, the flesh underneath and— actually that might make it worse.
"I'll send you the bill," Grian jokes and earns an offended chuff of a laugh for his effort. It draws his eyes to Mumbo's face, and his brows furrow at the sight of the disheveled mustache, all covered in dried drool and tears and sweat, and he gets the tingling urge to lean down upon it and kiss him. Again, his mouth goes dry.
He barely notices when he gets to Mumbo's thighs, to his crotch. Only when his fingers dip into the sticky white mess that somehow hasn't dried yet, does he realise, and on top of that, he cannot help but notice that Mumbo is still hard. He swallows drily and looks up at his friend again, whom he really wants to kiss right now, but he has to stay focused.
"Do you want a hand with that?" he asks. His fingers are trailing the skin around the dick, not touching it yet, but close and teasing without meaning to.
Mumbo draws in a sharp hiss. "I think I'll die if I cum again. Sorry?"
He's apologising like Grian would be disappointed by that. He is, but he is also in denial about being disappointed by it, because he should not be, by all means.
"Don't worry," he says instead and continues with the rest of the massage.
Mumbo falls asleep not too long afterwards, snoring softly as Grian keeps working the tension out of his poor, abused muscles, until Mumbo is little more than putty in his hands. The thought is more enticing than it has any right to be. Looking down at him, hair and mustache a mess—everything a mess, really—the urge to kiss him returns full force.
He leans down without realising, almost mesmerized himself, but before his lips could meet Mumbo's, his breath hitches and he veers off, kissing his cheek instead. He tastes the salt of sweat and tears. It's divine.
He stays with Mumbo, guarding his sleeping body until he also nods off, eyes slipping shut and curling around his friend, who he really wants to kiss.
—2—
Redstone dust coats his fingers as Mumbo places and sets a repeater to the correct tick speed. It glows so prettily at him and he takes a step back and pulls out his schematics, checking and nodding to himself. Building redstone machines is such a calming process, when you do it right. You can lose yourself entirely to the mindless placing, checking, adjusting of all the components and the satisfaction is bone deep when he stands inside the guts of one of his contraptions and gets to watch it whir to life before his eyes, every part clicking and ticking and thumping as it should, the flashing of redstone pulsing rhythmically and illuminating the usually dark space.
Mumbo has to admit, to some embarrassment, that he gets rather quickly lost in the repetitive tick-tick-click and the thrum-thrum-shift of the machinery. It is frighteningly nice, in his defense, to simply let go of his mind and replace the thoughts whirring in his head with the whirring of redstone, to just become empty-headed and blank for a few hours and—
and...
Where was he?
He glances down at the schematics in his hands. Right. Right, redstone, circuitry. Pistons next. Pistons next? He checks the schematic again, nodding to himself and mumbling about paying attention. He cannot have a repeat of last time, when he got stuck to the sticky piston, stuck rutting against it until he came and came so much, dropping deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper and—
He swallows and places the piston. Thank goodness he has Grian. It's mortifying to be caught like that by anyone, but Mumbo is nevertheless grateful that it's Grian who would find him and not someone else. Not that any other Hermit would give him trouble over getting himself in such a predicament—in fact, Grian is the most likely person to tease him endlessly about it, and he does—but, well, Mumbo is happy to keep the amount of people knowing about this to a minimum. Redstone Drops are incredibly common, and they're downright expected for people who work as regularly with the stuff as Mumbo does, but the reaction he has during one of those Drops tend to be... more unusual.
Yet more redstone dust spreads over his fingers as he carefully lays a line of it between the repeater and the piston. The dust lights up, glowing brightly and emitting a familiar warmth, while the piston, powered, noisily extends its arm with a whoosh. It's almost done. Feeling his cheeks grow warm, Mumbo licks his lips, catching a bit of the redstone dust that somehow made its way there. That's the problem with his 'reactions' while in Redstone Drop, the association with finishing a machine and testing it and Dropping and becoming excited— well, it has led to him skipping the steps inbetween and becoming excited at the mere prospect of finishing.
It's a bit of a mess, really. Somewhat embarrassing to admit, but nevertheless too pleasant to bother doing anything about it. Regardless of how dry his mouth is and his dick already twitching and growing half-hard in anticipation, he places the last few components. And if he is stumbling on his way to the lever, eyes already drooping as he turns the contraption on, well, who is there to know? (Tick-tick-click. Thrum-thrum-shift.) No one is around to watch. Ah. Hold on. That reminds him. He's supposed to do something before he starts testing.
Pulling out the communicator is an action he barely registers doing, even pulling up Grian's contact requires so little thought at this point, ingrained into his muscle memory so deeply he could never forget it. Deeply. Deeply. He blinks, tries to get the haze to slow down its infectious spreading, at least long enough that he can type out a short message to Grian.
Going to start testing.
Send.
The communicator disappears into his pocket like a ghost as his focus immediately drifts back to the rhythmic click-thump-beat of the pistons, which seem to all be moving as they should, keeping a steady pace back-pause-forth, back-pause-forth, back-pause-forth, back-pause— and— and high click-clack of the dispensers, the plink-plonk of noteblocks that give the whole thing a strange melody that draws Mumbo's ear closer, lulls him into slipping his eyes shut just so he can better listen to it, which is when he hears the subtle hum-thrum-hum of redstone dust that adds depth to the cacophonous symphony much like a bass.
Altogether, a display far to irresistible. Mumbo doesn't resist, he is even unsure if he is capable of it at this point. The machine is working, he knows because it's singing to him. Unsteady on his legs and sluggish in his movement, he drops down and leans back. A flashing-blinking, bright despite his closed eyes, grabs his attention and he drags his eyes open. The light of an observer is right in front of him, blinking, blinking, blinking. He swears he can hear it. Flash. The thought is gone. His mind is a little more empty. It's pleasant. Flash. The thought is gone. Even for him, he is dropping really fast. Flash. The thought is gone. Flash. Gone. Flash. Empty. Flash. Blank. Flash. Nothing.
He cannot stop himself, can only drool and watch the flash-blink and let it make him blank and empty. Not a thought in his head. It's so pleasant. So nice. It feels so nice. So good to just let go. Feels so good. He wants to feel so good. He wants that feeling to stay. Something interrupts the wonderful click-thump-beat-click-clack-plink-plonk-hum-thrum-hum, but he doesn't understands it's his own needy whimpering as his body reacts to the steady rush of pleasure, like it's trying to fill the empty space his thoughts left behind.
The pleasure peaks and it's so wonderful, Mumbo can't help but crave more and more and more, sinking deeper, deeper, deeper. His mind is gone, melted out of his ears and dripping out between his legs. It makes him squirm, makes him rub against the soft wool beside him, rut against the observer coaxing him to sink, deeper, more, melt.
Abruptly, everything halts, every wonderful noise, every beautiful light. Confused, whining, he sluggishly tries to find the reason why the pleasure suddenly stopped. His world is hazy and spinning slightly. And then something fills his vision. Bright and colourful and friendly. He has no idea what it is, but he knows so deeply (deeply, deeply) that it means safety. Something warm cradles his cheek and he melts into the soft touch.
"Deeper than usual..."
The words make no sense to Mumbo, but the voice, which seems to come from everywhere at once, makes him feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy. He wants to follow the voice, wants it to hold him and take his mind and fill the empty space with pleasure.
Mumbo is floating, yet he feels so very heavy, it makes him dizzy. The voice is so close now. It rumbles right into his ear.
"I'm getting you home. Can you even understand me right now?"
Mumbo hums and his eyes are so heavy, he can barely manage to keep them open.
A soft chuckle. "Wow, you're really deep, aren't you? Do you even know what's happening to you?"
No, but Mumbo doesn't need to know. It feels good. It feels very good and he is safe. That's all that matters. The way the voice says that word, deep, makes it reverberate around Mumbo's skull like a bell. He wants to be really deep. Yes. Deeper.
A moment of silence. Then, "Are you... you're sinking even more, aren't you? You're so deep and I— I'm just making it worse. You can't resist my words at all, can you?"
No, he can't. He can't resist. It's so nice, pulling him in, making him sink, sink, sink, deeper, deeper. He wants to be utterly submerged in the voice. It coils around his melting brain so tightly, squeezing and squeezing every little thought out of it, making him so empty.
"You don't want to resist. You want to obey me, don't you. It makes you feel so good to obey me. Look at you. Not a single thought in that head besides how you can't resist, how good it feels to obey, to be so blank and empty."
Mumbo whines, a needy, helpless noise in response. Pleasure thrums through him without direction. He needs the voice to guide him. He needs it. He needs.
"I could do anything to you like this." The voice pitches high with giddy before going back down, and Mumbo follows it down, down, down. "Imagine... Just imagine what I could do to you like this. Your mind is in my hands, Mumbo." And he feels it, his warm, melting mind, cradled so gently by the hands of the voice. "I could make you forget everything but pleasure. Make you mindless with it. I could- I could tell you- a word, like, like 'dust', and every time I, only I say the word 'dust', you'll feel a rush of pleasure like nothing before." The voice takes a breath, unsteady, excited. "And I'd repeat it as often as I could. 'You have dust on your fingers', 'I was hoping you could lend me some redstone dust', 'I don't want this to gather dust, so you can have it'..."
With every repetition of the word, Mumbo is electrified with shocks of pleasure surging through his core. He mindlessly bucks his hips, squirms to handle the overwhelming stimulation. "And I could- you're already so sensitive, Redstone Drop makes you so very sensitive, but I could make it more. I could make you so, so sensitive that every touch feels so, so good, every touch makes you more sensitive, feels even better than the last." Mumbo's skin lights up with sensation, fire-pleasure burning in all the places he is pressed against warmth, where hands hold him, where his face is buried against skin. He is becoming delirious with pleasure, it's so much, so good, so good, please, more, it feels so good— a whine erupts from him as the touch suddenly leaves, as he no longer floats, as his weight is set on something soft but very vividly not touch.
Squirming does nothing, gets him nowhere near that pleasure and it's terrible, the sudden loss. But the voice returns, and it alone brings so much comfort and calm to his rushing mind that it near instantly blanks again.
"Look at you. So needy. You're just a needy thing, aren't you? A pretty, needy thing." Mumbo whimpers and agrees so fast. He is just a thing, a needy thing, pretty and needy and a thing. "And pretty, needy things don't think. They don't need to think. No, they can't think. All they need to do is be pretty and needy and let me take all their thoughts away. All you need to do, is give in. And it's so easy, isn't it? So easy to give in and let me take control of your pretty, needy mind." Yes, yes, yes, Mumbo doesn't need to think, he can't think, he's pretty and needy, he can be pretty and needy and give in, it's so easy, so easy to give in, yes, so easy to just give in. He needs it, he needs to give in. "Come on, just a little deeper for me. It feels so good to obey, to sink for me, to drop deeper, to give in."
A hand on his cheek, a thumb stroking under his eye, he is so sensitive, pleasure ignites beneath his skin and has him moaning helplessly, bucking his hips and squirming, rubbing his cheek deeper into the hand, deeper, dropping, sinking, sinking deeper.
"So, so sensitive," the voice coos gently, happy, "So sensitive for me. It feels so good to be touched, doesn't it? So good to give in." Mumbo whimpers, pants breathlessly as the pleasure and sensitivity increase yet more. "And I don't even need to touch you for it." The hand leaves and Mumbo whines at its loss. "Yet you still feel my hands on you, touching you, rubbing and stroking your sensitive skin. More and more hands roaming all over your body, teasing you, making you feel so, so good." It's almost too much, all the hands, all the touching, his mind melting, dripping, drooling with all the pleasure, with how good it feels, it's divine. "Look at you, bucking your hips like the needy thing you are. You need more, don't you? Yes, you do."
Mumbo hears another voice, desperate and needy and it takes him a while to realise the mindless babbling of "Yes, more, please, please, I need more, please give me more," is actually coming from him. The realisation does nothing but make the words feel more true.
"You did this to yourself, really. I mean, you could have asked anyone to take care of you when you Drop, but you didn't. And I've been wondering if that means something. Do you want me to take control of you? Do you want me to keep you as a mindless, needy thing, incapable of thought, no free will of your own?" There is nothing that has ever sounded more or as enticing as those words and Mumbo babbles, incoherent words bubbling forth to try and convey just how desperately he wants that. "Just a needy, horny, mindless thing for me to use however I please—and I would take such good care of you. I'd keep you deep and blank and empty and I'd make you feel so good."
Mumbo nods and agrees and nods and agrees, it's the only thing he can do, besides enjoy the pleasure, enjoy how good it feels to give in, to obey, to sink, to be empty and blank and empty and blank and empty and blank—
"And not just in your handsome little empty head. I said I'd take care of you, and I will. Just imagine—I'd be between your legs, my hands on your thighs. I barely have to hold you down." And Mumbo imagines it, and he feels it, the hands on his thighs, how helpless and powerless he would be against those hands. "And your trousers—well, you would never wear anything anyway, I'd keep you naked for me, so I can always have access to your body. You'd be so aroused, so horny, you'd beg me to touch you, you'd beg me to take all I want from you." Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. "And I would. I want to taste you, I want to—I'd taste you, you'd feel my tongue lick up your dick, then tease your head—" Mumbo's eyes are rolling back into his head as he feels the phantom tongue do just that. His thighs are shaking, ungodly pathetic moans are plucked right from his throat. He is so close, so close, feels so good to sink, drop, obey, give in. "—swirl my tongue around. I would get impatient, I would— I would want to wait, but I couldn't. I'd have to— I'd have to have you now, and my tongue alone wouldn't be enough and I'd take you in my mouth—"
With a sudden shout, Mumbo is flung over the edge and pleasure explodes behind his eyelids, erupts from him, from his core like a volcano, spilling and spilling and spilling and it's so hot and so good and so right and everything he has ever wanted— his mind buzzes and is blank and empty besides the bursting pleasure peaking, peaking, peaking, leaving him numb and quaking.
"Oh— Oh! Err, I didn't think- Oh, wow. Um." A pause, a breath. "You did— you did so good for me, Mumbo. Sensitivity is going back to normal, back to what it is when you're awake. Slowly come up for me now. You regain control, first of your fingers," Mumbo wiggles his fingers, a layer of haze being removed, "Then feel control spread to your arms, your legs, until your entire body is yours to control again. Very good. Up for me, slightly more awake. Your mind is slowly clearing. One by one, thoughts are coming back, your free will, your control."
Mumbo blinks, the world is still hazy, but it is steadily returning to clarity until he can clearly make out Grian smiling down at him. Mumbo returns the smile.
"And fully awake now. How are you feeling?"
Blinking slowly, Mumbo takes stock of his current state. Everything is tingling pleasantly, and there is an underlying ache beneath it all but it is not at all unpleasant. "I'm feeling great," he answers truthfully, though his voice is a bit hoarse and his speech slightly slurred, "You did wonderful."
Grian's shoulders sag with relief. He doesn't let it show all that often, but Mumbo knows the whole Redstone Drop thing makes Grian nervous.
"That's— Thanks. I didn't think you'd cum that fast. I had a whole thing prepared," Grian switches over to teasing almost seamlessly.
Mumbo huffs, embarrassment coating his cheeks rosey. "There is always next time."
Grian perks ups. His smile turns cheshire. "Next time, hm?"
Rolling his eyes, Mumbo pulls Grian down to him and slots their lips together. Grian squeaks like a mouse before melting into the kiss, the feathers beside his ear drooping with calm. It's a soft thing, a balm on the ache in Mumbo's bones, and hopefully a balm on Grian's nervousness.
"Next time," Mumbo asserts. It's a promise.
—3—
When Grian asked Mumbo to give him a brief crash course on redstone components (emphasis on brief), he didn't think any one of them would catch his eye. Redstone has never been his thing beyond simple machines or using the components to add details to his builds. Mumbo was very excited to tell him about some of the newly discovered redstone components and what they can be used for. Among them was the 'calibrated sculk sensor', which is little more than a sculk sensor with an amethyst shard jutting out of it, but something about the way the plant-like tendrils moved and how the amethyst shard would light up at any noise—it intrigued him, it gave him ideas. Delightful ideas.
---
"Isn't it so pretty?" Grian whispers into Mumbo's ears, pressed against Mumbo's back and his hands trailing up and down the other's arms. Mumbo gasps, his eyes are fixed on the calibrated sculk sensor that sits innocently at the head of the bed in Grian's room, the amethyst and sculk lighting up and chittering in time with the noise. He is blinking rapidly every couple of seconds, trying to resist the pull that Grian knows is tugging at his mind.
"It— It is," Mumbo says, his words slurred just a bit, not nearly as much as Grian would like it to be. He turns his head to face Grian, the motion so slow and sluggish, it must be a herculean effort on Mumbo's part not to Drop. His eyes, nearing half lidded, find Grian's playfully sparkling ones, and his brows furrow. "But I thought you said you wanted to... ahem."
The blush on Mumbo's cheeks makes Grian want to do even more things to him, paint him scarlet all over, but all in due time. He gently takes hold of Mumbo's chin and leans up for a quick kiss.
He whispers against Mumbo's lips, "Oh, I still want to. You're still getting my mouth, don't worry your pretty little head about it. I just wanted to make it more interesting for you." Grian's grin is cheshire and he can tell by the furrow of Mumbo's brows that the other doesn't quite trust his tone.
"Interesting for me?" Mumbo echoes, some clarity returning to his eyes now that he isn't staring at the calibrated skulk sensor, which pulsates in time with his words, clearly distracting him, enticing him. "What do you mean?"
"Well," Grian begins, and with his hand still on Mumbo's chin, he slowly turns the other's head back towards the sculk, "If you don't want to be in Redstone Drop, it's easy, isn't it? You just don't activate the sensor. Shouldn't be that hard, right?" Just as he says it, his other hand dips between Mumbo's legs and squeezes, eliciting a pathetic surprised moan out of him, to which the sculk reacts and lights up and makes it's chittering noise. Mumbo's eyes widen, realising his imminent predicament.
Grian watches Mumbo for any sign of actual discomfort, watches his face for any shift towards a frown or uncertainty, feels for any undue tension in his body, listens for any sound of anxiety. After a few seconds of quiet, Mumbo swallows, trembles a bit, and whimpers. In time with the noise, the sculk sensor reacts, lights up and chitters, the blue and purple glowing so prettily.
"What do you think?" Grian whispers hoarsely against the shell of Mumbo's ear, eliciting a shiver in the other. It makes him feel so warm, the ease with which he can get reactions like that out of Mumbo.
In response, Mumbo's right hand finds its way to the one Grian has over his dick, which has been twitching beneath the layer of fabric, and he presses Grian's hand harder down, grinds into it at the same time. Grian shivers and heat coils in his abdomen. He loves that Mumbo is chasing his pleasure and using Grian's hand for it. But— but he needs words. He is very close to reminding Mumbo to use his words if he wants something, but he doesn't have to.
"Please," Mumbo begs, covering his mouth with his free hand and muffling the sound, "Please, Grian."
"As you wish." He kisses the shell of Mumbo's ear and forces his hand on Mumbo's clothed dick to still to the other's needy protest. "I need you to undress. Then you lie down, on your back, and look up at the sensor. No looking away, no muffling yourself, that would be cheating."
Mumbo nods so quickly, Grian is briefly worried about his neck. He let's go and Mumbo sheds his suit within moments, carelessly discarding the clothing on the floor beneath him. It's hardly a show, but Grian stares with the same appreciation regardless. Mumbo is gorgeous, soft in all the right places—he reaches out and fondles Mumbo's chest with one hand, while the other trails over his stomach and plays with the hair leading down from his belly button. Their mouths find each other just as Mumbo's hands, trembling with excitement, settle on Grian's hips and pull. The feeling is wonderful, Mumbo in his grasp, pliant in his hands, eager and sweet, and their kiss is just the same and yet more—warm and close and safety and comfort.
Nothing, Grian thinks, Nothing could compare.
His thumb brushes over one of Mumbo's nipples, coaxing the small bud of sensitive flesh to full hardness, rubbing and flicking at it, swallowing the hitched breaths and sighs with the same greed as a dehydrated man gulps down water. He wants more, needs more, needs Mumbo to melt and become nothing under him. To that end, he pulls away just slightly, Mumbo chasing after him.
"Lie down for me," Grian says, rubbing Mumbo's stomach soothingly. "I'm going to make you feel so good."
Mumbo stares, rosey cheeked, and nods wordlessly, a bit breathless from the kiss. He looks so frazzled, like he is already close to dropping. Grian grants him another brief kiss and moves his hands to press on Mumbo's shoulders, guiding him onto the mattress. A finger under Mumbo's chin, Grian tilts his head up, so he is looking at the sensor.
"No looking away, no muffling yourself," Grian reminds softly, but this close, the sculk reacts to his voice and chitters and lights up. Purple and blue illuminates Mumbo's face, glitters in his mesmerized eyes, shadow accentuating his slack jaw. "No cheating."
And with that, the game begins. But Grian is in no hurry. He knows he will win, and he will make sure that Mumbo loves losing. He kisses Mumbo's cheeks, then mouths at the skin and trails down his jaw, slowing at the neck, sucking and licking until Mumbo's breathing heavily. Not yet enough to set off the sensor. Not yet.
Further down, reaching Mumbo's chest, Grian latches onto the nipple he teased earlier, his tongue rolling the bud around while he sucks at it, making it yet more sensitive. Mumbo's hands fly to Grian's head and bury themselves in his hair with a sharp gasp. The hold is nowhere near tight, rather more grounding. Grian closes his eyes and really focuses on the little hard bud in his mouth, giving it all the attention it deserves, kisses, licks, teeth grazing playfully. And, oh, the little sounds Mumbo is making. Grian can tell, Mumbo is trying to keep quiet, is biting his lips, but he fails to, little sighs and pretty gasps erupting from his mouth at Grian's ministrations.
With a soft, wet noise, Grian lets go of the nipple, though not without a kiss goodbye. He dares open his eyes, looks up at Mumbo, who is dutifully focused on the pretty amethyst and sculk sensor. His breathing is so heavy, it gets picked up by the sensor, its plant-like tentacles waving excitedly back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. Mumbo's head is subtly moving along to the motion and Grian can't help but grin a little. He leans up a bit, and heat coils in his stomach at the sight. Mumbo is so clearly struggling to resist Dropping, trying so hard.
"You're doing so good," Grian says, loud enough to be picked up by the sensor. "Resisting so well. It looks like it's really hard to resist. You look like you want to drop so bad."
"Not... fair..." Mumbo mutters sluggishly in protest. His half-lidded eyes are following the motion of the tendrils, the pulse of the light.
Grian hums, grinning. "You can resist, though, right? For me?"
Mumbo closes his eyes, his breath hitches, and he nods quickly. His eyes flutter open again, wider than before.
"Good. Such a good pretty thing for me," Grian praises and decides he was mean enough. His hands trail down Mumbo's body before his mouth follows, peppering the skin with kisses and little licks. He loves the taste of Mumbo, every inch of him, and he cannot explain why. It's hard to put into words, so instead, he lets himself feel. Instead of going for the main event immediately, Grian skips over Mumbo's erection entirely. He spreads Mumbo's legs and settles between his thighs. Like the rest of Mumbo, his thighs are soft in all the right places, despite the hard labour of his day-to-day. To Grian, Mumbo's thighs are a buffet table of his favourite desserts, and he can't wait to dig in, digging his fingers into the flesh, kneading it gently, as he begins.
Mumbo sighs and trembles briefly at the sensation of Grian's fingers on his thighs, spreading his legs apart so intently, and then his breath hitches so prettily when Grian's mouth descends on the soft flesh and starts trailing open mouthed kisses along the skin. It's warm, inviting, and Grian's head is getting a bit fuzzy with the emotions bubbling inside of him. He listens intently for every little noise, every little reaction, and there is nothing but sheer delight coursing through his brain whenever Mumbo's thighs tremble a little. Grian doesn't notice his eyes slipping shut, not until the grip in his hair grows slack and he opens his eyes to investigate.
Above him, Mumbo has relaxed considerably, almost all tension having left. He is biting his lips again and, when Grian props himself up on his arms to check, Mumbo's eyes are scrunched shut.
"Didn't I tell you, 'no looking away'?" Grian scolds, but there is no actual annoyance in his voice.
"I—" Mumbo swallows hard, throat bobbing, "I'm sorry. I want to- I want to be aware when you— Please. I want to feel it properly."
Grian's heart melts at the request. He reaches up a hand to gently cup Mumbo's cheek and brush his thumb soothingly under his eye. Mumbo relaxes under his touch, knows instinctively that he is safe, he is not 'in trouble', he is understood and appreciated.
"Open your eyes when you feel me around you," Grian says softly, ignoring the chitter of the sensor. He rubs a few more soothing circles under Mumbo's eye, before he slides back down, back between Mumbo's spread legs, where the main event is standing hard and proud and leaking pretty pearls of precum just for him. He licks his lips in anticipation. He grabs and guides Mumbo's legs until they're resting on his shoulders and cross slightly on his back.
It gives him the exact angle he wants. His face is so close to Mumbo's hard cock, his eyes cross just to be able to take it in properly. It curves up and slightly to Grian's left, thick in girth though not incredibly long, but it will fit so nicely in his mouth—he just knows it, and loves it more for it. Because he is terrible and knows it will drive Mumbo mad, he doesn't go all in yet, instead giving the cock in front of him an almost tender kiss. It twitches in response and Mumbo gasps, surprised. Grian swallows hard, there is already a lot of drool forming in his mouth, he is practically salivating at the thought of getting Mumbo's cock in his mouth.
His tongue drops out of his open mouth and he licks up the entire length of the cock, from base to top. The taste of it is already incredible and Grian's own dick is throbbing in his pants with all the blood rushing down to fill it to full mast. He does it again, taking his sweet time enjoying the taste, the texture, the way it twitches against his tongue. He laps at the head, sucks up the precum and lets it melt on his tongue, and he moans at the taste of it, salty and perfect. Mumbo whines and his thighs tremble. There is no way he can wait a second longer, it would be torment.
One last lick from base to top, and he closes his mouth around the head and swirls his tongue around it, then over the slit. Mumbo moans loudly, music to Grian, and his back arches and Grian takes it as encouragement and proceeds to slide his mouth down until Mumbo's full length is buried in the hot warmth of his mouth in a single fluid movement. He glances up—there is no way to tell if Mumbo's eyes are open as they should be, but Grian trusts they are. Mumbo is a good pretty thing, he wouldn't disobey so freely.
He can just imagine it so vividly as he bobs his head up and down, sucking, swirling his tongue at the head and moaning around the shaft: Mumbo's eyes open and fixed on the calibrated sculk sensor, his own noises setting it off, and with every whine and sigh and moan, the hypnotic flashing just pulls him deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper, dropping him further and further down, makes him sink, sink, sink until his head is so completely empty of thought, so blank and empty of everything but the pleasure Grian is making him feel. That's what Grian wants, he wants to erase everything in Mumbo's brilliant mind but pleasure—he want Mumbo's entire world to be nothing but mindmelting pleasure.
The legs around his shoulders go lax, nearly slip off Grian if he weren't holding them in place, needing the grounding pressure—and he moans, realising Mumbo is, in fact, dropping for him, losing their game. The heat in Grian's stomach coils and writhes and tears spring to his eyes, overwhelmed by the sheer need washing over his every cell. His eyes slide shut and he loses himself in the rhythmic up and down, the repetitive chitter of the sensor, the taste and texture and weight of the cock in his mouth—in fact, he wants that to become his whole world—and everything is so much and it's so good and Mumbo is being so good for him and Grian is making Mumbo feel so good and he never wants this to end—
A strangled cry disrupts the steady, mesmerizing beat of his thoughts, and then his mouth is flooded and a new need, desperate and pathetic, erupts and takes over: the need to drink up every last drop and let nothing go to waste. And go in for seconds.
Mumbo squirms and writhes when Grian's greedy mouth does not let up, when he keeps sucking, his tongue swirling devilishly over every sensitive vein, milking Mumbo's cock with nothing short of desperate devotion. Mumbo's throat freely expels moans and sobs, pathetic and ungodly needy. He tries to say something, but it only comes out as incoherent babbling and whiny pleas. The only word Grian can make out at all is 'more'. And who is he to deny?
Mumbo's second orgasm comes rushing soon. The third makes him lose all sense. The fourth shatters him.
In the end, Grian gets his fill, and he has no remorse, too high off it all to feel much of anything besides a pleasant buzz under his skin. He may have cum somewhere in the middle of that, but that is secondary. If even that.
Trembling, he lets the legs slide off him so he can reach up, wrap his arms around Mumbo, though not before taking his face and making him look at Grian, who shudders at the completely blank look staring back at him, and he kisses Mumbo, sharing his taste with him.
---
Grian removes the callibrated sculk sensor as soon as he comes back to himself. He decides that they have to do this again soon.
And then he reflects upon what happened, and his brows furrow. Sure, he really, really wanted to suck Mumbo off, but something about the way it became his sole focus—the way his mind became so empty of thought except for the cock in his mouth and the pleasure he was giving Mumbo—it makes him think. It makes him wonder.
It makes him want to try something...
—+1—
He forgets about it for a while. Other things keep demanding his attention, and the few times he finds himself with free time, he visits friends and causes mischief. Of course, one of his favourite targets remains one Mumbo Jumbo.
"Sure you want to do redstone today, Mumbo?" Grian says, his tilting tone teasing, "After last night?"
Mumbo goes red and crosses his arms, huffing, "I didn't expect you to keep a calibrated sculk sensor permanently on display in your living room! You know, it felt quite targeted."
The feathers on the side of Grian's face puff up a bit, delighted at the banter. "Not every redstone adjacent block is a ploy to get you to Drop, Mumbo. Maybe I just think they're pretty. Don't you?" He tilts his head to the side and grins teasingly.
"Well, coming from you, I wouldn't be surprised if 'every redstone adjacent block' you use is a ploy, Grian!" Mumbo puts a hand on his hip and points an accusing finger at Grian, who only laughs.
"In my defense, it's not like it's difficult to get you to Drop. I could probably set you in front of a moving piston and you'd Drop in seconds." Ignoring Mumbo's indignant exclamation, Grian continues on, "I don't understand how you can be hypnotised so easily by redstone. I could never."
Mumbo goes quiet. When Grian looks over, Mumbo's face is contemplative and he is worrying his lip.
"Actually," Mumbo starts cautiously, "Want to make that a bet?"
Grian brows shoot up and he blinks. "What?"
---
A warm and fuzzy feeling spreads in Grian's chest as Mumbo presents the machine to him. A machine Mumbo built especially for Grian. Nervously, he licks his lips. Mumbo is explaining, in great detail, what every piece and part does on a techincal level, but it doesn't make much sense to Grian, the explanations becoming more background noise. As they continue the tour of the machine, Mumbo guides Grian into its guts by the hand, to a spot where they are both completely surrounded by the machine. It's a bit daunting, the machine feels like it's looming all around him, trapping him. Mumbo's hand squeezes his reassuringly and Grian smiles at him.
"What do you think?" Mumbo asks, almost vibrating with excitement.
Grian looks around again, but he isn't really taking it in anymore. "I don't get redstone. But maybe, who knows, maybe this will help me get redstone."
Mumbo chuckles. "You know, maybe if you have the right—incentives—we'll make a redstoner out of you in no time."
"Likely chance."
"I'll go and turn the machine on then. Remember, you're safe and I'm right here. If it becomes overwhelming or uncomfortable, just say the word."
Grian appreciates the consideration. "And forfeit the bet? You're dreaming." He goes in for a grateful kiss, which Mumbo eagerly reciprocates. His stomach is fluttering with nervous energy, and some underlying excitement. Finally, Mumbo leaves him there, in the deep guts of the machine, and Grian is alone.
Not alone, Mumbo is still just a couple blocks away. Still, the machine isolates him pretty well, it's kind of intimidating. He hears the flick of a lever, and for some reason he braces himself.
It takes less than a second for the machine to start. At first, Grian is disappointed by the cacophonous noise erupting all around him and the random flashes of red from the dust, the torches, the repeaters and observers. The light is actually quite obnoxious and he decides to close his eyes against them and take a deep breath. The air fizzles with static and a strange taste lingers, but not unpleasant. He keeps his eyes shut to try and focus on it. It tastes familiar. Then he realises it: it tastes like Mumbo, after a long day of building and testing redstone machines. He swallows.
Another deep breath makes his lungs feel fuller, makes him calm down and really focus on his surroundings, or at least the sounds. Maybe he's imagining it, but now that he is really listening, really paying attention and not just dismissing the noise as, well, noise, he can make out a rhythm. The longer and closer he listens, the clearer it becomes. It's repetitive, the click-tick-click and the shift-umph-shift, accompanied by the hum-thrum-hum of the redstone dust activating and deactivating. Click-tick-click. Shift-umph-shift. Hum-thrum-hum. A steady, repetitive rhythm that bores itself into Grian's mind. The end of every repetitive sound drops in tone, goes down. Grian— Grian finds himself following. Click-tick-click—down. Shift-umph-shift—down. Hum-thrum-hum—down.
Down and down and down, he follows the dropping sounds down like a spiral, and soon, the world begins to spin like one, with him at its centre, being pulled further and further down, down, down. His head grows increasingly fuzzy, it's becoming harder and harder to think. He takes a breath, deep, deep, deep breath, feels his lungs fill up with the taste of redstone dust, and shudders. It's filling him. The dropping sounds are pulling him down, are emptying his mind by pulling his thoughts down, and then the redstone dust fills him up. So full. So empty. So full. So—
His body starts to feel heavy, yet another thing pulling him down. It's so hard to resist the pull. It's so hard to remember why he is resisting the pull down. Why is he resisting? It's so hard to resist. Why would he bother? He doesn't want to resist, he wants to go down.
Suddenly, the noises stop, leaving Grian disoriented. Everything is spinning, spinning down, down, down, and his head is so fuzzy and fizzling and so empty and so full and he needs— he needs— he—
A voice enters his mind, cradles it tenderly and sweetly coos, "Aww, look at you, Grian. Is it good? Do you feel good?"
Good? Good. Feeling good. Yes. Yes, he feels good. So empty and full and empty and good. A hand touches his cheek, warm and soothing and he leans into it, lets it keep him safe. A low noise rumbles out of his throat and the voice chuckles.
"I didn't want to leave you in too long, since we didn't know how you'd react, or how susceptible you would be. Turns out: very. Not as much as me, I don't think, but still decently so." Grian doesn't understand much of what the voice is telling him, but he tries really hard. It just leaves him confused, though. "Don't worry," the voice soothes, "You don't have to think about that right now. Actually, you don't have to think at all. Isn't that nice, Grian? Not having to think?" Grian nods mindlessly. It does feel really nice. It feels so very nice. So good. So good. "Oh? Gri-Grian? Are you— oh! You're— You're aroused... Oh my. Oh, you're really aroused, aren't you? Does it feel that good to be empty? To be blank?" Grian's eyes roll back behind his closed eye lids and a feather-soft moan escapes his lips without his input. It feels so good. Being empty. Being blank. It feels so, so, so good. "I bet you want to touch yourself right now. That's what I'd do in this moment."
Confusion returns and it's unpleasant. He's feeling so good, and he needs something, he knows he does. But he doesn't know how, doesn't know what. He whines, a needy, high pitched thing that earns him an amused giggle.
"You're so mindless and empty—you don't even know what to do about your arousal? Oh, poor Gri. I'll help you. I'll tell you what to do. Just like you need."
Yes, Grian can't help but eagerly agree. Yes, he needs this, he needs the voice to tell him what to do. Because he doesn't know, and he can't think, because he's so mindless and empty, he needs the voice to think for him, to make it make sense, to give purpose to the pleasure he's feeling. Warmth wraps around him, guides him, his legs—made of slime and honey—drag over the ground, his weight held and guided until he is set down, down, down, on soft and warm and comfortable.
"There you are. Nice and cozy?" Warmth, a hand, brushes over his cheeks, soothes, comforts. A soft sigh breaches his lips, happy, content, and then is replaced by something far more needy when a heat coiling in his lower stomach is making itself known. "Don't worry. I'll help you. I'll guide you every step of the way. First thing's first..." Hands shift and move over him, slides fabric off of him with no resistance, because Grian cannot resist, until he is bare. Need coils through him, but he cannot pinpoint how to grasp it, how to satisfy it. He doesn't need to, he remembers with relief, the voice will think for him. "There we go. That should make it easier. Now, I want you to focus on your chest. There's two spots there that will feel really, really good when you touch them. I want you to do just that. Touch them for me."
Grian's hands move as if possessed by a foreign will, trail over his chest and leave his skin tingling. When they reach and make contact with his nipples, electricity shoots through him and makes him gasp. He didn't know it could feel like this.
"Play with them. I want you to pinch them and— and roll them between your fingers for me." The voice lulls like a soft shawl around his brain, so cozy and sweet and caring.
His fingers obey the order before his hazy mind can even properly process it. Ungodly pathetic whimpers tumble from his lips, sweet and building pleasure mounting upon him without him being able to stop it, though the notion never occurs to him in the first place. The only thing he can think about—and it is really more a feeling than a thought— is the thrum of pleasure.
"I want you to keep one hand up there, keep playing, but the other one—I want you to slowly trail down your chest, down to your stomach, really take your time with it and focus on the way your skin feels. Every trailing touch just lights you up, makes you feel so good. You don't want it to stop, you want more, don't you? Rub up and down."
The order echoes and bounces prettily in Grian's mind and his body obeys. His left hand stays up, fingers keep idly playing with his nipple that is hard and red and sensitive, while his right hand slowly trails down, and his breath hitches with the sensation of it. It feels so nice, rubbing up and down over his stomach and chest. His body is so disconnected from his mind, it feels like someone else is touching him and it makes his skin light up with extra sensitivity.
"Oh, that feels good, doesn't it? Touching yourself like this feels so good. Lower now, to your thighs. Yes, like that, very good," the voice praises, and something hot and wild shoots through Grian. He really likes it. His hand on his thigh feels so nice, so good, every touch making them tremble slightly. "You obey so well, Grian. Who knew you could be so good for me? Obeying so, so well, like a— like a puppet." The way the voice says it is almost revelatory, and it fits so well, Grian loves it. "Are you my good little puppet, Grian?"
He hears himself respond, "Yes, yes, puppet, good puppet," though it's barely coherrent. The voice seems satisfied regardless, humming, pleased.
"Such a good puppet for me. Feeling so good for me. Obeying so well for me," the voice rumbles and it vibrates through Grian's bones, the words sparking in his lower stomach and the heat coils tighter. "Rub up and down, and don't forget to play with those wonderfully sensitive nipples."
Grian is losing himself in the sensations sparked by such simple movements, up and down and up and down and up and down, he instinctively follows the motion up and down and up and down, sinking more and more with every downward stroke.
"Beautiful, gorgeous—oh, you're doing so, so well, such a good puppet— so obedient, oh!" Grian moans and whines at the pleasure striking true with every word. He wants to be so good. "You're such a perfect puppet, look at you. Do you want to feel even better? Of course, you do, because you're my perfect puppet."
Grian keens. Yes, yes, yes, he wants that. He wants to be a perfect puppet. He wants to be so good, he wants to earn so many more of those wonderful words that make him feel like bliss and rob him of sense with pleasure.
"Touch yourself where you need it. Wrap your hand around your cock, nice and firm. Very good." Grian gasps when he obeys the order and white hot pleasure burns through his veins and blinds and deafens him. It's intense, it's wonderful, he needs more of it, just more, more, more. Tears well up with need and he whimpers. "Go on, up and down, just like before, stroke yourself nice and slow. Really savour the sensation. Let it spread, let it fill your empty little brain completely. It's filling your blank mind up so well, there is not even a speck of space left for thoughts up there, is there? Pick up the pace now, nice and steady. Look at how flushed you are, you're enjoying this so much. My perfect little puppet. You're doing so good for me, sinking so deep, so obedient."
The pressure around Grian's cock is divine—foreign despite it being his own hand—and the pace is driving him wild. This is his whole purpose, his whole world is narrowing down to that sparking, mindmelting pleasure throbbing between his legs. The fire on his nerves rises, spreads, fills him till bursting, and he feels close to erupting like a volcano, getting closer, closer, closer—
"So good for me, Gri. Come on, you can do it. Cum for me, Grian. Be a good, perfect puppet and cum for me."
Grian bursts. He is tumbling over the edge into an inferno that scorches away anything that may have been left in his mind, leaving him nothing, leaving him to be nothing. A scream, wet and high, tears out of him with the same intensity, though he barely hears it over the ringing in his ears. Mumbo is talking him through it, praising him and telling him how perfect he is being, how wonderful and gorgeous.
It's an eternity that Grian spends on the peak, and yet it is over in an instant. His mind is slowly returning to him, clarity invading his vision while he hasn't realised he opened his eyes.
Mumbo is smiling down at him, brows furrowed in some concern. "How are you feeling?"
For a long, uncomprehending moment, Grian just stares at him blankly, before, slowly, a loony grin spreads on his lips.
"I think," Grian whispers hoarsely, "I think I get it now."