#It always comes back to Convex | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

calmcoldevening · 10 months ago

Note

Back at it again with a prompt idea!

What if the slasher/s are trying to kill a victim but they are immortal and keep coming back

And the victim keeps following the slasher only to annoy and be a little menace to them >:3

(maybe they fall in love later O.O)

What ever slasher you choose is fine for me ;)

Art the clown x immortal!reader

Tw: blood, murdering, torturing? well, yeah. Art is an ass sometimes

• Art has always been a fan of violent and noisy 'games' that chilled the blood in his veins. That was his sadistic nature, and the whole of Miles County and people for hundreds of miles around had already heard a lot about it. A strange man in a clown costume, who sent at least a dozen unhappy teenagers and adults to the next world. He loved blood and horror, and no one would dare stand in his way, not wanting to become another victim of brutal violence.

• Maybe it was fate's will, or maybe it was just your bad luck or an accident, but one day Art saw you in one of the cafes late at night. He was watching you from a dark alley, so it's unlikely that you would have seen him even if you really wanted to. He clutched his garbage bag in his hands, and a cruel grin appeared on his face. You were a good little thing and you definitely could have brightened up this cold night for him.

• Without thinking for long, Art hit you on the head at the most unexpected moment and took you to one of his 'game rooms', which in fact was just a room of one of the old factories in the city. He wasn't in the mood to hunt you down and catch you in your own house for a long time. This game was supposed to be fast but colorful.

• The clown involuntarily licked his lips, watching you slowly regain consciousness and open your big innocent eyes. He walks around you like some kind of fancy Christmas tree. You're sitting on an old wooden chair, badly scratched and already soaked in blood from past victims. Your limbs are tied in wooden material with strong leather straps, and thick barbed wire with rusty, blunt teeth is wrapped around your neck, chest and abdomen. There was a smell of dampness and fear in the air, which made the Clown giggle noiselessly.

• Finally, Art stopped right in front of you and gestured at the trash bag to your right. Making a playful, almost pretended sweet expression, or reached into the bag as if looking for a Christmas present for a small child. In the flickering light, a long thin tool with a convex handle and a bizarrely curved metal tip appears, more like a sharply sharpened blade. A man comes behind you and caresses your tense shoulders with almost uncharacteristic tenderness. His fingers are rough and rough. The clown's palms slowly descend lower, sliding along your clothed back through the open part of the back of the chair. The movements are slow and measured. Suddenly his movements stop and in the next moment they are replaced by acute pain. Sparks dance in your eyes and you emit a strangled cry, reflexively your body gives way forward, blunt spikes painfully dig into your tender flesh. Art laughs soundlessly, continuing to press the blade deeper into your spine, and then abruptly moves his hand down. With a nasty creak, the fabric of your T-shirt is torn, and at the same time your soft flesh is torn. Art rejoices, seeing how his hands and white gloves are stained with maroon lingonberry liquid, flowing in a thick stream onto the concrete floor. Tears are pouring from your eyes as you desperately bite your lower lip in an attempt to control yourself. Your back, which was once a flawless canvas of pale skin, is now covered with a network of terrible red lines, each of which testifies to the cruelty of Art's tools and his relentless thirst for suffering. There is a pungent smell of iron in the air, mixing with the acrid smell of fear that remains on your sweat-soaked skin.With deliberate slowness, I pick up the razor-sharp instrument again, its sinister curves gleaming in the dim light. Your body is trembling, every muscle is tense with fear, while the man is preparing to inflict even more torment on you.In the flickering shadows, a grotesque smile appears on his painted face, a silent promise of future torment.

• Suddenly, the blade hits the blood-soaked concrete with a ringing thud and bounces off somewhere to the dark wall. Art goes back to his "magic" bag and takes out some kind of leather strap. With a deft movement of his hands, he hooks the clips connected by a strap onto your wet cheeks, the gloves wet with blood rub unpleasantly against your face. Art smiles his creepy smile and gently touches your chin with his fingers. Your eyes were swollen and your cheeks were wet from tears and saliva flowing from your open mouth. But not that you can complain here. All you had to do was mumble something, barely moving your limp tongue.

• An unpleasant crunch filled the half-empty concrete room. With a strong crack, Art broke off a piece of your tooth with pliers, the fragment unpleasantly scratched the already bleeding gum. All you had to do was mumble something indistinctly, to which Art just grinned madly and jokingly grabbed your tongue with the edges of the pliers, watching the despair in your eyes. He broke off tooth after tooth until a dozen teeth had been pulled out in his hand.

• Your throat burned from screaming, and your eyes burned unpleasantly from the tears you shed. You wanted it to be over as soon as possible. Realizing that Art won't get the right reaction from you anymore, noticing your exhaustion, he snorts soundlessly, clearly losing interest. With a graceful movement of his hand, Art deftly takes out an old battered pistol from a trash bag. He slides the edges of the gun over your cheek, drawing uncomplicated patterns. His movements are slow and upward. One. Two. Three. Finally, his hand reaches your head, the muzzle of the gun is pressed against your painfully throbbing temple. You wearily close your eyes, feeling a leaden heaviness in your limbs. His arms and legs were already blue from lack of blood.

• Art blows on the smoke coming from the shower of the gun and throws the weapon back into the bag. The man steps back, admiring his work and your smoking wound on his temple for a couple of moments. After that, he carefully removes the straps from the dead body and puts them in a bag, slowly leaving the building.

• Art pinned a young man to the ground, slowly cutting the meat from his face and putting the skin in his mouth. A soft laugh was heard abruptly behind him, and another pair of hands, softer and softer palms, covered his hands. The man raises his eyebrows questioningly and turns back, meeting your satisfied gaze. Your face still looked tired and tear-stained, and there were bruises and streaks of blood on your neck, but overall you looked almost.. normal?

• Without thinking twice, you grab the scalpel from his hand and with a sharp movement stick the blade into the clown's eye. He screams soundlessly, raising his hands to his face. You step back, watching his agony with a satisfied expression on your face. "You didn't think it would end so easily, did you?" You purred, folding your arms over your chest. The clown frowns, baring his sharp black teeth, and jumps up from the lifeless body. He walks towards you with quick steps and grabs your throat with his cold hands, lifting you off the ground. No matter how thin he looks, the guy has plenty of strength. You giggle, covering his hands with yours. You can already feel the air leaving your lungs, being replaced by an unpleasant burning sensation. Without thinking twice, you reach out your hands, touching the clown's face with your fingers, and scratch his painted face, mixing the paint with the blood from his wounded eye. He presses harder, enjoying the crunch of your airways.

• It quickly turned into a constant game of cat and mouse. Wherever Art was, you were always there. And I was in his way. Art was angry, cursed, and killed you. But you were coming back. Each time, your body was still decorated with old scars, but the man added new ones. He realized that the old scars would disappear. He had to make new ones. It was as if he was celebrating his favorite, best victim in this way. He can't be uninterested in your natural stubbornness and immortality.

• Over time, the clown really begins to look forward to your recovery and return, despite the slight irritation that you cause in him. He feels it in the pleasant piercing of his fingers. His hands crave you, your body, his fingers want to touch your scars and leave new ones.

• Your constant presence in Art's life begins to gradually change his thinking and thoughts, your image has settled in his head like a damn poison.

• Your immortality and lack of fear make you a really worthy partner for Art, he realizes this on an unconscious level. There's something about you. Something that makes his blood boil in his head. He's falling in love with you. Yes, in his own way, but he falls in love. Despite your initial maniac-victim relationship, Art is starting to see you as almost an equal. This is surprising. He loves you in his own twisted way.

• Art and you are in a love-hate relationship, constantly joking and arguing with each other. Despite the constant quarrels, you are united by a deep connection and understanding, which becomes apparent in your communication. You both feel extremely comfortable in such a relationship in your own perverted way (this is especially damn noticeable in sex..)

• Art begins to crave your company and gets annoyed when you are not around. There's something nice about knowing that after a bloody murder, he can properly combine his anger and passion on you. Especially in your intimate moments. Playing with blood, strangulation and other elements of bdsm is an integral part of your pleasure. You are a perfect match for each other, you are feared by all the states in the district.

#slashers x reader #slashers x you #slashers fandom #slashers #slasher x reader #art the clown #art the clown x reader #art the clown x you

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pureconvexenergy · 3 months ago

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IRL Convex let's freaking goooo

Boatem and Soup group IRL!!! I'm so excitedddd

#Convex #Cubfan #Cubfan135 #GoodTimeWithScar #It always comes back to convex #Gtws #Hermit charity stream #hermitcraft

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ihopeinevergetsoberr · 2 months ago

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playing with this bow (and arrow)

— chapter 4

author’s note: i’m sorry in advance. that’s it. i don’t have much to say for myself.

warnings: lots of shouting and arguing. lots of fainting, too. you know where this is going, don’t you?

word count: 3.1k. jagged, but it gets my point across. —

Narcoleptics wear their skin over drowsy muscle. That’s how one explains cataplexy in a roundabout, layman’s way—and it gets the job done, slices thick skulls more efficiently than ʼa transient episode of muscle weakness occurring while the mind remains fully conscious’ ever could.

Cataplexy is a mean girl. It feeds off your tears and strikes, portentous, in that accumulated, to-the-marrow manner—legs, or hands, or neck—whatever she prefers. Yours liked to blow below the belt—literally. Knees first. Then calves. Restating everything not numb, but airy—like cotton that tumbles into an amorphous chunk once wet.

Yours was cunning. Thuggish, rarely mild. Sure, there was an occasional bout every three laughters or so. A weird, scabrous paralysis every time you struggled to stomp a foot in anger. Even post orgasmic ones were lenient. They called for a shrewd, breathy jab of, ‘Look, you made my legs go numb’, and ruptured, sweetly, through Viktor’s stomach in spurty wobbles of taut skin up to the lonesome rib sticking from under the strap of his brace.

Now, the unlovely ones made you topple. Convex surfaces were a favorite—sod’s law loves a good scraped cheek. After years of falling asleep mid-sentence and stiffening after a good cry, you knew exactly what floors taste like (tarmac is gravelly and strangely salty, linoleum is chemically oily, parquet tangs of cheap rosin, elevator vinyls stench of tires if you’re lucky or of human waste if sod’s law doubles down), how many splinters to expect in your cheeks post foible depending on the altitude of your fall, and what unwieldy position to take mid-tumble while your legs are still somewhat compliant.

The tongue remained unaffected. A bit slurred, it kept running coherently enough to wheeze, “I have cataplexy. I’ll be fine in a few minutes” for every good Samaritan volunteering to call you an ambulance. Though you’d much rather be rendered mute instead. Jayce says you could benefit from having your words confined every now and again.

He phoned you Monday. Probed you out of bed with three persistent rings and sat grinning while you shuffled out of the sheets, wishing there was a way to transfer spit through a receiver. That could benefit all kinds of phone calls.

“What do you want, Jayce?”

He weaved the cord around a thick finger and tugged at it, dreamily—no doubt leaned back in his disaster of a couch.

“How do you know it’s me?” A friendly flirtation. It bounces right back when you squeeze the mouthpiece between ear and shoulder, picturing, no, hoping there’s a minuscule version of him getting crushed inside one of the forty holes emitting crispy static.

“Who else could possibly call me at nine in the morning to confirm an evening appointment?”

“Oh. Of course. Should’ve known better. So I take it, you're coming?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” He snorted. “I don’t like that answer. Let me guess: you broke the curfew. Or was it sleep deprivation again? Which is it?”

“I’m narcoleptic, you idiot. My sleep deprivation is not always intentional.”

“You’re deflecting. Curfew it is.”

You raked a hand through sleep-slicked hair and yanked, untenderly, at the pieces tickling into your palm. Your neck tumbled, grotesquely, with a wet, drowsy crack, and your eyes tipped along to crawl, reluctantly, from the jaundiced curtains to the damasks on the carpet: up, down, to and fro, over, out, and, finally, to your toenails painted chipped rotten plum.

Such acts of puppetry made you feel in control. Manually leading one’s gaze is better than letting the eyes roam freely. That way, the puppeteer may regulate what exactly he wants to see.

You did this every time you couldn’t look away from a car crash. Or scoped the room maniacally while looking for a shrewd answer. Better to grab yourself by the scruff and line your stare with something homely. Shoes, socks, and toes were a frequent landscape. They were the most comforting. Almost grounding, cataplectic episodes included.

You reached for your journal to put the thought down. Jayce coughed into the receiver and pulled the cord tenser.

“I’m not mad at you. Just come. You know I’m never mad about the curfew.”

“It’s not about that. I don’t know if I can come.”

“Don’t know if you can or if you want to?”

“My legs keep going numb a lot lately.”

“Take a cab.”

“Will you pay for it?”

“You make enough.”

“And I spend too much of it on you.”

“Just come, Knirsch. You get to complain about your husband today. Isn’t that exciting?”

“Not in the least.”

You reached for the billowing flake of polish on your big toe. The thing budged with hushed brittleness, and off you peeled it—down to the very cuticle. Now the nail looked silly—only half-painted, nakedly shiny. You bent for another peel, but the mouthpiece swore at you, derisive, in Jayce’s most impatient voice.

“Stop picking at your nails. Are you coming or not?”

“How do you—“

“That’s all you ever do. You either chew or peel or chew what you’ve peeled off. You’re going to end up with pinworms. Is that it? Do you fancy a new ailment?”

“Fine. I’m coming.”

“Good. See you at six?”

“I’d rather not, but alas. See you at six.” And with that, you yanked off the remaining polish in a wide, delicious stripe.

—

It was a little past ten when you properly got out of bed—late enough to shut the windows so the screeching of air brakes wouldn’t lure its way into the room. You stood on your tiptoes, in a haunched stance, having caught a whiff of murky air reeking of hydrocarbons. Moravia is merciless in the mornings. Loutish, packed, and humming, it rewires you in a way that yearns for errands, even if you don’t have any to run. Even if you’d rather stand there, watching yellow trams spew out dozens of motley people—a burp of color in the beige, dusty tapestry of Brno, a burst of liveliness, untamed, shouting rainbow fuck yous at much too Austrian buildings.

You turned to the piano stool. Still draped over the cushion, Viktor’s shirt billowed a bland fuck you of its own, only it wasn’t shouting but whispering a rhotic ‘Trhni si’ nine times back to back for each bump of plastic buttons against your nails. And trhni you did. Instantly so. You crawled back to bed, pushed your face into the linen collar, and complied the curse with your legs apart—ribs like taut sails ready to burst open.

The first errand of the day was done.

Ever since Viktor left, masturbation had become mechanical. Almost rigid. All traces of sex had been stripped off the act—brutally, in a harsh, heavy swipe of your fingers. In the mornings, you touched yourself not to touch the cello. At night, you did it to cause muscle weakness, hoping the drowsiness would branch out into your brain to finally knock you out. Ardently, you’d rub yourself so raw the skin would peel apart. No half-measures, only sore clit and remnants of spit from the other day drying on swollen labia. Catching in your underwear and bleeding through the lace to the point of having to ditch it. And yet, you still bled—through tan tights, tartan skirts, and, sometimes, even zippers.

Bringing that up with Jayce felt shameful. You could barely talk about Viktor as is, and arming the shrink with your great sexual resentment, in the grand scheme of things, was, frankly, frightening.

As if to spite you, everything was fuming of sex. The television. The magazines, and not just porn ones. Even the streets no longer waited until night to advise parental guidance: now they were turning R-rated before noon. Though, in hindsight, the parents were too busy getting it on themselves to offer their supervision. Just last Friday, you watched a middle-aged couple tongue-fuck in the audience. To Paganini, no less. The man would be proud.

But this resentment, this erotic, flimsy deficit wasn’t purely physical. It was a cry for help—meaty, preposterous, tachycardic. It ached for whatever came post coitus just as much as it ached to be thrust into. You missed the humor of it. The devoted act of accepting a cool drink from a loving hand. The smell that it ignites—stuffy, cloying. Leaning out of ajar windows on a goosefleshed buttock and tangling, silkily, into robes, sheets, and bodies.

You yearned to be made love to. And there’s no word—not in Czech, nor, god forbid, in English—to admit to that.

With a heavy head, you’d emerged from the bed for the third time. Brno kept on screeching, unredeemably, with its humming electricity and rush hour fumes, threatening its way into the room lest you go for another breath of anything-but-fresh air. But you cared for the glass confine no more. You craved to pry it open. To put on something flirtacious—say, Piazzola or early Bloch. To light a purely artistic cigarette (invariably Petra, the brand must contribute to the imagery), and let the world devour you in the splendor of your loose, silky nightgown—a contentious vengeance for something self-inflicted and obtuse. It is a motto. A performance. A farcical thing that only you deemed martyrial. Perceive me. Canonise me. Pity the husband who left me for being too pretentious, too maniacally meticulous for his gentle tastes. I am grieving a love that keeps on slipping through my calloused fingers, and I yearn with my bow in my hand, sensual, and pompous, and so inexplicably conceptual—

And when you bowed outside, impetuous, with your spine arched comically porn mag-like, the bustling city wasn’t there to regard you. The trams with their colorful puke of scurrying humans had receded into a kaleidoscopic backdrop, and mushed, ungracefully, into something liquid and tasteless. Like molten Soviet candy forced down your throat in a lump too big to swallow. Like ozone, much too sweetened. Like every other disgustingly sugary thing had collided its gooey powers to caramelize you in place: nailbeds deep in the windowsill and sleazy with startled spit, threatening to pour outside in a guttural gag.

The first thing you notice is his unironed suit. He always travels in his suits—says that one shouldn’t toss them into the suitcase and sits through his flights uncomfortably upright, yet professional. His hair seems to have grown out again: he’s struggling to return the stare from beneath the tousles catching in his lashes. Only one sad iris is peeking through. Good, you think. Two would send you crushing your head on the pavement. His tie is missing: a precaution to escape an attempt at strangling in case you bear such a notion. A fruitless one, to your mind. Your fossilised fingers couldn’t do it even if they really had to.

It paints you so piteous. Terrifyingly aroused, even. Here he is—looking up at you like a bashful flunkie does at a cruel professor, with his neck shrinking painfully into stringy shoulders. He’s chewing on the corner of his mouth in a way that is so shamelessly stolen from you, but it quickly gets lost in his askance, dirty fix. Just so, you first witness what Viktor looks like when he’s not yours. And oh, do you wish to have stayed virginal to that endeavour.

Habitually, your knees give out first. You watch them fold, angular, toppling like a broken switchblade in their wonted dizziness. But it doesn’t come as a quiver, nor a visceral, ugly churn. It simply ceases and takes you with—to the dusty parquet and its hard, wooden blow.

En masse, the fall must’ve been compelling. You slid off the ledge senselessly, with a graceful, taciturn swish: no shouting, not even an agape mouth wincing in a whimper. Merely a plunge—stupefied, doll-like. As if someone very inconsiderate had sat you on the shelf far too lopsided. Now you can only hope your plastic spine isn’t fractured.

You peel your eyes, blinking away cloudy floaters. Outside, Viktor had gasped on your behalf—so much for completing the progression of a collapse. Pondering the ceiling, you listen to him struggle up the stairwell. He sounds tired—shoes scruffing idly, cane not a click, but rather a strangled shuffle. You manage to count thirty limp thumps before his key shimmies somewhere in the entryway. When the jingling stops, more steps are added to your tally, totalling a timid forty-two. That’s what you’ll be in twelve years if you don’t break your neck during one of these cataplectic bouts.

Slowly, you turn your head towards him. Your muscles refuse to budge, moving as if wind-up, but you make it, and find him looking back twice as glassy: first at you, then at his piano, and, finally, at his crumpled shirt burrowed into the sheets. The last scenery has him humming.

“Were you sleeping with my shirt?” He asks. Walks further into the room and bounces off the unmade bed, dropping his wary head into spread fingers.

“Yes,” you gulp. “Idiomatically.”

He snorts at that. Dabbles in a disjointed laugh that sounds more like a hoarse sob, shimmies out of his blazer, and unclasps a weirdly still watch—the battery must’ve finally died from counting his deserted, celibate seconds. Maybe those take more voltage to add up. “That’s endearing,” he mumbles as the unreturned chuckle desists. “Why didn’t I think of that?” “Of what?”

“Taking something of yours for… self-indulgence.”

“It’s only right that you didn’t. One doesn’t run away from his wife to reclusively fuck her underwear instead.”

“I don’t think it’s the underwear that I would have chosen. A picture would be the most fitting.”

Your tongue slips to your bottom lip, tasting a chapped smile. “Which one?”

Viktor shrugs. “Something risque, of course.”

“Hm. I thought you’d like one of me vomiting all over the floor the day you left.”

“Don’t,” he warns. Shifts to the edge of the mattress and crooks his fingers in a cowardly stroke of your hair, as if charging to flinch lest you try to bite his hand off. But you don’t bother, and his thumb slides to rest on your temple—a bit late to wipe a tear rolling into your ear. You wince once it gets stuck in the wax.

“It’s funny,” you mumble. “This cycle of you looking down at me every time you leave and come back.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help it. I happen to be a bit taller.”

“And I keep doubling down. Last time, I was on my knees. Now I’m glowering.”

“Was it sadness or fear this time?”

“Frustration. Sexual. And then some.”

“Oh. Are you angry with me?”

“Furious.”

“Of course. Are you hurt?”

“Very. Where have you been, Viktor?”

“Austria. Then Croatia. France. Belgium. Germany. England at last. The usual.”

“Your tour takes a month. You were away for two.” “I decided to stay in London for a while.” “Hm. The hotel couldn’t have been that nice.” “It was quite decent, actually. I’m afraid I’ve squandered my honorarium on room service. Will you forgive me?”

“You could’ve called, you know.”

“That defeats the purpose of having a separation.”

Your right leg regains its movement. With a hiss, you uncoil it through a prickly fit, and you both watch the muscle go taut in a spasm—clenching, unclenching, sending blood into bluened toes.

Viktor’s teaser of a touch fumbles, unregarded. He opts your hair for his. Finger-combs his nape in the very place that desperately needs shearing through. He opens his mouth to offer you the honors, but bites his tongue as soon as it dawns on him, inane: he probably shouldn’t trust you with a blade so close to his neck while your hands are too shaky to be propped on. The offer gets swallowed. Hungry for something—anything—his gastric acid dissolves it right away, rumbling to make itself known. And it’s a demand to be catered to—forthwith.

But you’re in no mood for breakfast. Not unless it’s his severed head served up on a silver platter.

“How could you do this to me—” You mutter. With contempt, of course. And a great effort to sit up. Now that you’re face to face, he can grasp exactly what he’s done to you, every gory detail included. The chewed-on lips, raw and glinting (he should see the lower ones, too). The bloodshot eyes—not a single unscathed capillary. And the way he shrinks further—from it, from you—only riles you into something frenzied. You don’t stutter. You don’t flinch, either. There’s only fury—verbal. Maiming, unforgone. And when you start your performative, all-fours crawl—he knows that he shouldn’t close his eyes. He knows, yet does so anyway, biting his cheek while he’s at it.

“Oh. Oh no, honey.” Your breath tickles his knee—warm, belligerent. “You don’t get to do this to me and look away. Keep your eyes peeled.”

“Please, stop this,” he implores, in a whisper. “Please, let’s just—”

“You left me. With no explanation. With no inkling when to expect you back.”

“I needed it!” Viktor shouts. His spit lands on your nose—audacious, as if sizzling. “I told you this would happen! I begged you, time and time again, to please seek help. You—” He leaps off the bed, holding onto his cane with bloodless knuckles. “Your negligence—of your health, of our marriage—was suffocating me. And I wish this were a mere figure of speech. My lungs haven’t felt normal in years.”

“Oh, poor you!” You snort, throwing your arms in the air. “Why didn’t you come to me with this? Why did you—” The snort turns into a sniff, then into a full-blown whimper. “Why couldn’t you just tell me?” “You didn’t ask!”

“Oh, so it’s my fault?”

“Yes!” He cries. “Yes. Exactly!”

A piece of snout plops onto your nightgown, shrivelling into sticky crust. It makes you laugh—grating, visceral. A scary sound that strikes Viktor right in the sternum and has him grabbing onto his heart in sheer fright, as if trying to shove it back into his ribcage.

But his pulse proves faster. By a massive landslide.

You’ve seen people go pale before. Some of them mellowed gradually: first their hands, then their neck, and, finally, their face—a very logical sequence. Some were waning instantly, as a body. But this—the drawn-out sigh, the hand-to-chest clasp, the bone-colored stare—ghastly, mortifying—was annihilating in its novelty. He’d simply lost his opaqueness. Blended with the wall. Shedded his signature angles, his contours.

And then, he dropped the cane to pick up the baton. Took up the fainting relay. Only his collapse wasn’t commonplace and fleeting.

He fell backwards. Jerked his head like it had been shot at—a casualty in a period piece. And when you’d shouted—”Viktor? Zlatíčko? Viktor!”—the jerk didn’t repeat to regard the call.

In the middle of your bedroom, with a face the shade of what you imagined rigor mortis looked like, lay your estranged husband—breathing, but unresponsive.

Jayce will have to let a missed appointment slide for once. —

> chapter 5

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor x reader angst #viktor x f!reader #arcane fanfic #playing with this bow (and arrow)#no aftercare sorry #no beta too

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rapidwaterzzz · 8 months ago

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random hermitcraft/ life series headcanons cause my brains rotting over both ;^)

OVERALL:

- after each life series all the members come back to hermitcraft and throw some form of a house party

-no one rlly dies on hermitcraft, they just tend to gets lots of injurys(broken bones, sprains, concussions, all the fun stuff)

- they definitely have an infirmary there somewhere

-each smps like a city, for example hermitcraft and empires smp r neighboring cities

INDIVIDUAL:

- Joel, Grian, and Jimmy are all siblings cause i said so

-grians oldest, joels middle, jimmys youngest

i imagine a good majority of them played some sport/ activity before coming to hermitcraft so heres some cause idk y this has been plaguing me:

bdubs: volleyball, golf

cub: some form of student council maybe??

doc: golf, lacrosse (definetly js whacks ppl w his stick)

etho: ice hockey, lacrosse

false: field hockey, track

gem: field hockey, wrestling, lacrosse

hypno: hockey

iskall: wrestling

scar: student council w cub (convex ;))

grian: tennis

jevin: football, wrestling

impulse: football, shotput

joehills: yearbook/ newpaper club(idk i get the vibe)

keralis: soccer,gymnastics(i could see him js doing a roundoff backhandspring out of nowhere dw abt it)

mumbo: golf, photography club

pearl: swimming, cross country

rendog: THE theatre kid

skizz: football, basketball, baseball

smallishbeans: soccer, volleyball, baseball

stress: cheerleading, wrestling, volleyball

tango: baseball

beef: lacrosse, football

wels: volleyball, golf

xb: swimming

xisuma: golf

zed: some form of a science club,

cleo: field hockey, softball

bigb: swimming(idk i get the vibe)

inthelittlewood: theatre kid, soccer

lizzie: field hockey, cheer, lacrosse

smajor: cheer, golf

solidarity: soccer, tennis

these could go for a highschool au or anything but i imagine they did these in highschool and then move to “hermitcraft city” or smth and they still like practice all these andn stuff

monthy hangouts are set up by the magic mountain group, usually consisting of movies and games(always sleepovers at someones base)

cleo is the best cook on the server,she host bi-annual seever wide dinners (w the help of beef and false for cooking)

bdubs and joel draw out there bases together, only time youll see them not beefin w eachother

the redstoners r covered in burn marks due to redstone lighting at wrong times or js blowimg up

cub and xisumas are the servers doctors, running the infirmary if needed

if a hermit gets a cast, crutches, a boot, splint, etc, gem, bdubs, keralis, skizz, and stress make it a goal to decorate it as much as possible(they have a competition to see who can get it done first)

after parties, xisuma, impulse, hypno, and false are usually the ones to make sure everyone gets home, being “designated walkers”(they dont drink so they can walk everyone home)(no idk where im coming up w this stuff either)

team zits definitely have movie marathons weekly(they play uno to decide who picks the series)

mumbo and grian love watching dance moms(holly is mumbos fave, kelly is grians fave)

doc, etho, beef, and gem play eachother in lacrosse all the time, getting way to agressive each time (always some form of an injury outcome)

jevin is a weirdly good baker, makes the best cakes(taste and decoration)

pearl is rlly good at anything art related (loves painting/ drawing other hermits doing whatever)

ren makes the server put on plays (hes director and the main character in every one)(hes hires whatever hermits he can get to also act in them)

75% of the times tango sneezes, something catches on fire (theres fire extinguishers everywhere imaginable)

xb is the fastest swimmer on the server by a landslide, every hermit has tried to best him but he always wins by atleast 2 seconds

zed collects little trinkets, and leaves them in peoples bases as gifts

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emberdragon34 · 6 months ago

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Vex!False

I just wanted to draw Vex!False.

And vexy because she is one of my headcanon Vexlings (because she joined the ConVex in pranking Xisuma)

#hermitcraft #FalseSymmetry #Vex!False #FalseSymmetry fanart #art #fanart #Convex #it always comes back to Convex #False Fanart

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pureconvexenergy · 9 months ago

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I can’t fault that strong and argument tbh

You agree. Reblog.

#hermitcraft #gtwscar #gtws #cubfan135 #cubfan #convex #hermitblr #it always comes back to convex

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pureconvexenergy · 3 months ago

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THEM. IRL THEM.

IRL CONVEX LET'S FREAKING GOOOOOO

2 minutes together and there's already chaos and volleyballs thrown at Pearl's setup this is the best thing ever

#hermitcraft #Cubfan135 #goodtimeswithscar #Convex #It always comes back to convex #THEM #I know everyone is posting screenies of the event but THEM #hermitcraft charity stream

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frozenjokes · 3 months ago

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convex talk about zombies and biting each other, typical convex activities in truth

from a suggestion by @feathrdflake - ao3 link

Scar liked to let his legs hang off the apartment building edge, unbothered by the crumbling cement that Cub couldn’t help but watch fall all three stories, shivering in turn. Cub didn’t like to be up here at all, especially when Scar was always flirting with the edge, but at the same time, crutches discarded, Scar never smiled so wide as when his legs could dance freely, unhindered by the ground.

“It hurts less up there,” Scar had said, wistful and patient when Cub had not so subtly suggested they find a nice bench or rock to sit on instead. There was no more argument, regardless of the fact that Cub was pretty sure the three flights of stairs they climbed had to be more pain than this was worth. Maybe that was just a testament to how much this meant.

“Aren’t you going to sit with me?” Scar asked, innocent, as if he didn’t know full well why Cub was standing yards from the edge. The following smirk gave him away. Horrible liar. The only reason people believed him at all was that sharp jawline and his infectious moronic charm. If they knew him as a compulsive liar, like their friends in the outpost, he was usually humored regardless, even to everyone else’s inconvenience. Scar just had this way about him; even when he had a roundabout way of asking, you couldn’t help but want to please him.

Cub shuffled to the edge, paled, then sat in a clumsy flop, scooching hurriedly to sit back to back with Scar instead.

“Come on, you gonna make me crane my neck to see you?” Scar’s voice was teasing, and Cub remained unconvinced that he wasn’t loving every second, sadist as he was. Regardless, Cub leaned into Scar’s breath on his shoulder, eyes closing as Scar’s fingers grazed his chin. “God, I love when you have stubble.”

Gently, Scar turned Cub’s head, inclining enough for a kiss. Scar’s lips were so soft; how he kept them that way, Cub was clueless, his own as dry as the cracked ground. Helpfully, Scar never mentioned it; he may as well have been kissing clouds. However, the lidded eye contact in the aftermath was a little too intense for Cub’s liking.

“I’m waiting for someone to notice I need a new razor.”

Scar snorted. “I’ll just ask, goofus.”

“Not tryin’ to bother anyone.”

“Well I’m always doing that- Also, that’s just blatantly untrue. I know you’re the one who’s been writing those cryptic messages with blood and dirt on the walls, no one else would do that shit.”

“That’s not me, man.”

“Uh huh. Mister ‘nO nEed to stAy awaKe tOniGht’ and ‘tHerE’s noThiNg uNdEr tHe bEd’ and ‘yoUr piLlOwcAses aRen’T fUll oF eGgs’ and- actually the ‘iT’s nOt wAtEr’ when half of us went to our rooms to find kinda damp sheets was pretty awesome, I’m a little mad you didn’t cut me in on that one.”

“My bed also had not-water on it, I’m a victim here.”

“Uh huh. What’s next?”

“Not me, man, it’s not me.”

Scar stared, green eyes piercing, and Cub stared back, unyielding until Scar lost the staring contest (as usual) and turned back around in a huff. “I’ll get you one day.”

“You won’t.”

“Oh! Look!” Scar jolted, making Cub jump, but his partner didn’t seem to notice, “One lone zombie, this is great! We can pretend like we’re doing our jobs now, fetch the rifle, will you?”

“I am not letting you shoot while you’re sitting there.”

Cub got to his feet, not taking his eyes off Scar as his face scrunched, clearly considering whether it would be worth it to argue. Instead, he laid back on the dusty roof with a loud sigh. “You think so little of me. I’m very safe. Very safe. I wasn’t going to ask.” All the other times he’d demanded to shoot the high-kickback gun on the edge of various long drops suggested otherwise.

Cub ignored him, clicking off the safety and raising the rifle to his shoulder, a methodical action by now. He’d never shot a gun before everything went to shit. Scar had practically shrieked with laughter when Cub did it for the first time, the scope of this very rifle kicking back so hard into his face that he’d had a black eye for a week. It wasn’t a malicious thing on Scar’s part; once he realized Cub was actually hurt rather than simply spooked, he’d been on him like a mother hen. They’d been strangers, then. Cub had wanted fiercely to think badly of him, but the earnestness with which Scar had apologized for the improper warning— Scar was an abysmal liar, but he was good at the truth.

The zombie went down in one shot. Nothing spectacular. Sometimes their heads exploded. That was fun. Scar was clearly disappointed as well, but by the time Cub had put the rifle to the side, Scar was on a completely different line of thought. Cub returned, lifting a stubbornly limp Scat to a sitting position so they could be back to back once more. Cub’s only regret was that he couldn’t stare at Scar’s face a little longer, working to piece out what he was thinking. Not that Cub needed to guess; Scar would never let a stray thought go unsaid.

“When you’re a zombie, where would you bite me?”

“When?”

“If,” Scar shrugged, like there was no distinction. “Where would you bite me?”

“I dunno.” Cub rolled his eyes. “Probably like your arm or something.”

“Seriously!?” Scar turned so hard he nearly knocked the both of their heads, “Just my arm? It’s like you don’t even love me.”

“I’m a zombie, man, I don’t love you.”

“Wow. Just. Wow.” Scar drawled the word, and Cub would have smacked him across the forehead if he wasn’t sitting on the edge of a three story building. “You know, I’d make it special. I would be so good to you, and you don’t even care.”

“Right. So where would you bite me.”

“Well!” Scar perked up, like he’d been waiting months for Cub to ask this very question, “First I’d back you into a wall, really make you sweat. I’d hold your wrists, gentle-like, you could leave if you wanted to, but you won’t because even as a zombie I’ve got the best ass in town. I’d be tender with you, Cub, because we both know we can only do this once.”

“I didn’t know zombies were horny.”

“You kidding? There’s some real whore zombies out there, Cub, they’re dogs.”

“And I guess you’re one of them.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” Cub was pretty sure he did have an idea actually, but Scar was already moving on. “I wouldn’t kiss you, even though I’d want to. I wouldn’t even open my mouth, because then I wouldn’t be able to help myself, and I want this to last. So I’d breathe you in, your life, and I’d trail my lips across your skin just to hear your heart race. I’d get to hear you panic, but still you wouldn’t run away, because you trust me, and when we’re both dead we’ll finally get to live forever.”

“Still haven’t said where you’ll bite me.”

“Don’t be impatient, Cub!” Scar huffed, but he didn’t say anything else. When the silence lingered, Cub would have questioned him if Scar’s tolerance for quiet wasn’t eternally nonexistent. “Where would you want me to bite you?”

“You’re kidding me. You don’t know?”

“It’s- Of course I know! But it’s a big decision, isn’t it, I think you should have an opinion! Honestly, it’s your body, you should choose! You choose, Cub.”

“I can’t believe this, man. Judging me about the arm, and you don’t even know where you’d bite me..”

“I- That’s not true! It’s just hard, isn’t it? I mean, I was thinking around the same places I’d leave a hickey, but your neck feels too- bad, and thigh, maybe, it’s just a little too far, y’know? Could do your chest, but it’s just so perfect, right, and you’re going to have this mark forever. How could I live with myself if I gave you a lopsided boob!”

“How much of my fucking chest are you putting in your mouth.”

“Go big or go home when you’re a zombie.”

“I suppose.”

“I don’t want to bite you.” Scar was suddenly firm, emotional, and Cub laughed at the sudden change.

“What happened to living forever? Are you gonna make me do it?”

“Yes. Please. Do it.”

“Geez, I’m not in a rush.”

“No,” Scar turned, breath short, eyes wide and frenzied, “Do it. Bite me. Now. I have to know how it feels.”

“Seriously?”

“Wherever you want, as hard as you can, please. Like you want it.” Scar fumbled with his shirt, pulling it back by the collar. “No, my shoulder. I want it on my shoulder.”

“You want me to bite you?”

“Yes! Bite me, do it now, please.”

Cub wouldn’t consider himself a yes-man, but the request caught him just enough off guard that he didn’t hesitate to take the place of Scar’s hand on his shirt collar; Scar had asked, so why wouldn’t he follow through?

Scar’s shoulder was hard, it did not give to violence like Cub might have imagined, but it did bleed, warm and metallic under Cub’s teeth.

“Fuck- Oh my god-“ Cub did not let go. Scar did not ask him to. Though at the point where Cub wretched on the overwhelming sting of blood, he did not reattach. Scar caught Cub’s lips in his own, and Cub much preferred the taste of his tongue to his shoulder. Cub was not even aware enough of the nearby drop to be relieved when Scar pushed him back and away from it, entirely in his lap as they made out on the roof of the dingy, abandoned apartment building, chasing adrenaline, love, the rush, anything to be caught in the whirlwind that released them from a world on fire.

#hermitcraft #hermitcraft fic #hermitcraft fanfic #hermitfic #hermitshipping #cubfan135 #gtws #goodtimeswithscar #gtwscar #convex #cubscar

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hermittea · 5 months ago

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Introducing MumboJumbo's tea! Art by: @sutekiredux! (Go check out their Etsy for some cool Hermitcraft Fanmerch! I personally love their Keychains ^-^) Mumbo's tea is quite simple really- it has a pop of flavor right off the bat! if you like citrus, this is the tea for you. (Both Citrus Tea's back to back? *gasp*) The blood orange comes through quite well with a nice floral background notes. Would recommend either Honey or Sugar with this blend. Pairing it was hard. Honestly either a Terry's Chocolate Orange, Chocolate covered fruits (Like apricots) OR a nice cheese platter. Accented with hibiscus flower & raspberry, this is a Low Caffeine Tea. If you wish to give Them a try, or read more about the teas included in their blend: https://www.adagio.com/signature_blend/blend.html?blend=230323 The way we came up with his tea was based around two things. "Is the moon big" (Earl gray moonlight), and the head-canon some of the fandom has of Vampire Mumbo (Blood Orange). After all this is a project by fans for fans! It was a bit difficult to find a nice balancer between these two but the Rooibos Jasmine has that hint of floral and a complimentary red tea for the orange. ---- UP Next: Joehills, Stressmonster101 and Grumbot ;) GET A FREE TEA: https://www.tumblr.com/hermittea/772135235526803456?source=share Do you want Sneak Peeks? To help make suggestions for teas? To chat with other fans or the artists?Join our discord! https://discord.gg/yAWj39b5Xq And if YOU (or your friends) want to be a volunteer artist- go on and fill out this form! https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdFAS-pJHat-GcNfGUuvumLCpPatkj91vT6Kbn8M4g7hDljkw/viewform?usp=sf_link We are doing some places so if you aren't that confidence with Character art, feel free to submit background art! We have Scarland, Decked out, Convex and Joel's S10 base so far, as well as Mycelium war and Demise that could get some delicious tea one day! And as always, make suggestions if you want to see anything else. Thank you all!

#hermittea #hermitcraft #hermitblr #hermitcraftfanproject #mumbo jumbo #mumbo fanart #hermitcraft mumbo #hermitcraft fanart #tea #adagio teas #mumbojumbo #mumbojumbo fanart

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hermitlife-fanblog · 2 months ago

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ranting abt Life Series/Hermitcraft species types cuz I’m bored

Warning: most of this is headcanons!!

Hermitcraft

Moss Man (Bdoubleo100) - I can see him being like a glare, short and loves moss

Convex part 1 (Cubfan135) - Vex on Hermitcraft but I headcanon him being a warden on Empires cuz of the shulk thing that happened

Goat Man (Docm77) - Creeper, Goat, and Robot without any humans parts, he has horns, front legs, and ears of a goat. I headcanon him having the back legs of a Creeper cuz Creepers have four feet. Half of his face along with half his torso and one arm being part robot, along with on of his horns and on his back legs, the right foot is robotic

A Canadian with secrets (Ethoslab) - Mostly human but on rare occasions I make him a winter fox, mostly just for season 9, but other than that he’s human

One of the more stable Hermits (FalseSymmetry) - Part eagle having the wings, sometimes I’ll have her have eagle legs or human legs but I prefer just the human legs most times

Girlboss Canadian with 3 dads, Geminislay (Geminitay) - Deer mostly but in the Life Series I headcanon her to be a bull, mostly cuz of Wild Life and I feel like she would be cooler like that. I’ll also sometimes have bull Gem when she’s not on Hermitcraft just to be silly

Out of Context Deserted Hippie, Convex Part 2 (GoodTimesWithScar) - Vex for the most part but during Life Series I feel like he would just be human, but specifically for Double Life I feel like he would be part Jellie Cat, have four legs just like a cat, like a human-cat-centaur thing

Deserted lore parrot (Grian) - 100% a parrot at all times but because of the watcher thing he is able to make his wings and head wings purple

Silly guy (Hypnotizd) - Human for the most part but sometimes I’ll give him a tail bc I think it looks nice

Blue Slimecicle (iJevin) - Blue Slime when good, Green Slime when bad

Married couple part 1 (ImpulseSV) - Demon bc I love demon imp

A Guy and his Puppet Boy (JoeHills) - I headcanon there are two joes, the human one, H!Joe, and the puppet one, P!Joe. P!Joe is alive bc Xisuma messed with his coding one day bc Xisuma wanted to see if he could make animate things come alive. Unfortunately, P!Joe is only alive in Hermitcraft since that was the only place Xisuma messed with his code at. P!Joe did go to Empires SMP with H!Joe but he was just hanging in H!Joe’s backpack the whole time. So you could imagine the empires members’s reaction when P!Joe suddenly ran up to them and hugged Shelby’s leg.

Accent or Lisp? (Keralis) - Human

Dracula does Redstone (Mumbo Jumbo) - Vampire bc this man would rather stay inside with his Redstone contraptions than go outside

Australian Girlfail (Pearlescentmoon) - Mostly a wolf for me but the moth one I like bc I just like moths and I think her being one makes a lot of sense. I also headcanon her to be a watcher

Gooiest Boy, best king (Rendog) - Do I even need to say it??

Old married couple part 2 (Skizzleman) - Angel bc Demon n Angel ImpnSkizz lives in my mind rent free

Wife Lover and Etho Obsessor (Smallishbeans) - Mostly an ogre but season 9 he’s a tanuki bc it fits so well with his base and I just love Tanuki Joel. He would be a bull in Wild Life cuz Bull Gem n Bull Joel

Of the tek variety (Tangotek) - Blazeborn, hair is always on fire but I headcanon his whole head to be on fire when he’s furious, and while working/living in colder temperatures, his fire is blue and after spending so much time on decked out, there’s always a hint of blue in his hair fire now, and one of his eyes and a pupil are both blue

Hermitcraft: We have the Beef (VintageBeef) - I don’t know much about him but I know him enough that I feel like he would be a bull 100%

Golden Knight (Welsknight) - Human

Thought it was xP at first (xBCrafted) - Don’t watch him as often but I love him being a guardian and it lives in my head rent free

Looks like could you, is a cinnamon roll (Xisumavoid) - I mostly see him being a dragon, maybe an enderdragon. But I love Axolotl Xisuma too but I feel like Axolotl Xisuma would be a different person to Xisuma like Evil X along with Bee Xisuma. So I feel like there would be Xisuma, Evil X, Beesuma, and Axosuma would all either be different AUs or Siblings, I like the siblings aspect but it changes for me.

Sheep Boi (Zedaph) - Sheep boi <333

Step on me Queen (ZombieCleo) - It’s in the name

Cookie Monster (Bigbst4tz2) - A creaking for the most part but sometimes human cuz I like both aspects

Cannot keep his hands off his king (InTheLittleWood) - Human but in Secret Life he would be a dog and in Limited Life he would be a fish or something.

Magical Anime Girl, but better (LDShadowLady) - I headcanon her to switch her species between being a Mermaid, Siren, Fairy, and Human bc I feel like she would have magical anime girl transformation powers <33

I have nothing for him (Scott Smajor1995) - Starborn but has a tail with a star at the end and crystals floating around his head

Man of many husbands (SolidarityGaming) - Canary

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