#hermitcraft fic idea

[convexicalcrow]

come back skulk Cub my beloved come back

[theminecraftbee]

actually. you know what. i have a big blog. i have like, 11k followers. i can make fetch happen. i was just thinking "man i am so glad i've been catching more good fics while browsing the hermitcraft tag lately; fewer of them than normal are getting buried. i wish i had a way to get more fics faster." and then i realized I CAN MAKE THAT HAPPEN.

anyway so. what if we DID have a hermitfic tag. it can just be #hermitfic or #trafficfic for trafficblr, maybe? unless other community members have better suggestions i will boost that also. not as like... a tag for people to filter out, although i guess that's a side-effect too and it's totally fine if people use it like that, but because I WANNA READ MORE FIC ON TUMBLR DAMMIT. and if i have a specific tag to add to the tags i'm following that will be much easier.

whatever we decide on i'll start throwing on my fics too. and if people think this is too much of a pain i'm not gonna force anyone, but like.

imagine. a #hermitfic tag you could browse to find fics people had posted directly to tumblr. you see the vision, right?

[saphushia]

i read a wonderful little sickfic that had phantom!etho in it, and despite never even considering the concept before i now can't stop abt etho phantom mechanics and him just being silly with it <3

[countthelions]

"[..] but they’re not Etho. They can’t be.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because Etho never left my side.”

[the curse of deepfrost, ch14] by @capriciouswriter207

[summerhouseoutlet1]

Modern au scenario where Grian has relatively higher alcohol tolerance and out drinks everyone most of the time.

One day Boatem is having fun at a party and Scar decided to prank Grian by mixing just one more shot in his drink, just to see what happens.

Grian downs the shot before almost spitting the drink out, coughing sputter and furiously complaining about how concentrated the drink seems to be. Scar feels guilty and along with the party assures Grian that nothing is wrong.

Two minutes later, Grian face plants on the floor and has to be carted off to the hospital for alcohol poisoning.

Scar looks absolutely demolished that he cause all this and Impulse notices, and asks him what happened. He confesses his crime, almost breaking down in guilt (under the influence of alcohol) and Boatem folks just freezes up and simultaneously asks, “you too??”

Turns out everyone in Boatem had the exact same idea, and Grian downed 5 shots of tequila in a go that night.

[grailknightmonty]

"the moon will sing a song of chaos"

She had leapt down onto the fortress gracefully like a meteor having mastered its landing, and ran past them way quicker than either of the two could have reacted. Eyes ablaze, as Pearl ran past Skizz she scooped up the wither skull at his feet which he had just leaned down to grab.

"Wh-HEY!"

"Sorry mate, tasks's a task!"

She threw the Ianitee a salute and a wink as she took off in the opposite, soon being followed by both Skizz and Impulse who spun around to start chasing her down the crimson brick bridge. She could hear Impulse shouting something, but she was far too focused to make out exactly what. As she came to the edge of the fortress, she paused for a moment to brandish her dual scythes, giving Impulse a chance to swing at her, only narrowly missing as she parried his axe and knocked him slightly backwards with the swing of her other weapon. She swiftly turned and dived off downwards towards the lava- fire resistance pot already downed well before she had even approached the duo- trails of flames coming off the diamond blades, and her singed crimson cloak billowing behind her.

Skizz ran past Impulse to rush to the edge, and as he watched her fall, he swore he could see the outline of the god of chaos appear in between the strikes of flame, eyes judging, but ever curious at the player below.

Heard that Pearl is a Mianite enjoyer and I haven't looked back 👀 She would make the perfect Dianitee

[paradoxlemonade]

Nature of Curiousity

Fandom: Hermitcraft

Characters: Joe & Cleo

words: 1024

Warnings: very mild body horror (Cleo is embroidering on Joe, but he's made of fabric and does not feel pain)

Ao3: Here!

Summary: Joe Hills the puppet wants to make friends with humans. The humans do not want to be made friends with. Cleo puts him back together afterwards. [Abecedarian Prose Poem]

@mcyt-valentines gift for @therizino-ao3! Hope you enjoy :]

...

A sunrise the color of a bitter lemon tea beckons in the fresh morning scent of grass and dreams, soft around the edges and losing their remaining sharpness as sleep turns to wakefulness. Beneath an old willow tree, a corpse as fresh as the day it died rests in the dewy grass and embroiders artful designs into her best friend’s shoulder.

Cleo huffs at him, “You know, it would’ve been nice if you had waited until at least breakfast to go galavanting around and get yourself shot by a humanfolk.”

Dauntlessly undeterred as per usual, Joe merely smiles serenely and says, “But I must watch them, as the rain must fall and snow must melt; it is in my nature, sewn into my skin.”

Even-spaced threads holding his innards on the right side of the felt are the only thing decorating his skin, by Cleo’s own observation.

“Fine as that may be, your ‘nature’ does not make you invincible to arrows.” Generally speaking, being made of cloth made Joe invincible to very little, save for perhaps pain and common sense. He would grow tired of his game eventually, and then he would stop attempting to consort with the humanfolk (at least, Cleo hoped he would tire of it).

“If I am endlessly repairable no matter my condition, is that not a form of invincibility?”

 “Joe, you can only be repaired if I have the pieces to put you back together; if the humanfolk decide it would be more fun to capture you instead of running you off, you would be in more pieces than magic thread could possibly hold together.”

“Killjoys—that being people who deny my innermost whimsy, that being you—” he gestured at her with the arm not being worked on, “should not judge how one chooses to express themself, especially when they are themselves of humanfolk blood.”

Less ever said about one Joe Hills’ innermost whimsy, the more sane one would be, as neither consistency nor thoughts of sound minds are facets of his being.

Minutes flow around them like a gentle brook as Cleo continues her stitchwork and pointedly does not give his comments the dignity of a direct response, at least until she thinks of one worth saying.

“No humanfolk,” she began slowly, “Would consider me possible by their understanding of the world, let alone ‘of their blood’; I have not been theirs for a very long time.” One day was all it took to lose everything that she’d built over the course of her entire life, as one day was all it took for the sickness that ravaged her village like a pack of wolves descending on a flock of sheep to bury her in an early grave that she didn’t stay put in.

“Perhaps that much is fair and you have no love left for them, but I have never been theirs; the humanfolk ways are unlike our own, and I find myself pulled in again and again despite all attempts to the contrary.”

Quickly fleeting curiosity would be too much to ask, she supposed, as temporary passion was also as antithetical to Joe’s nature as he claimed sedation to be.

 “Really, you can’t be all too mad at me for this, because if you were as upset as you pretend to be, you wouldn’t have offered to sew me back up, and you certainly wouldn’t have added these nice yellow flowers without me needing to ask.”

She glances down to her hands as if seeing them for the first time that morning, the hands that gently wove the thread in and out of his fabric skin with a practiced ease and the comfort of a close friend. This conversation—despite its distances—has still grown much too close to an uncomfortable shard of glass nestled deep into her chest, digging and poking into the soft tissue beneath her heart that she could not excise no matter how strong her will. 

“Unfortunately, we still live in a world where I need to sew you back up for reasons other than your own foolishness, and it’s not like I could simply let someone I’ve worked on walk around looking like I did the job carelessly.” 

Vexed enough by her candid response, Joe allows the conversation to wander along to more familiar territory by changing the topic with all the subtlety he could muster—that is, not a whole lot.

 “What type of flowers are these meant to be, anyway?” Joe asks, stretching to see Cleo’s handiwork.

“Xyris flowers, of some kind; they’re all over around here and you seem to like them well enough that I didn’t think you would mind if I put some on your arm.”

Yellow petals of soft thread cascade from the top of his shoulder down midway to his elbow, just shy of of meeting up with the dusky green vines—those were almost ready to come out, but the new stitches would have to stay for a few weeks so the fabric could knit itself back together. Zero weeks have gone in recent memory that did not end with one of Cleo’s friends needing stitches (usually Joe, and usually for silly and-or humanfolk reasons), but she never stopped pulling out her needle and thread before they could even apologize for bothering her.

And as Joe thanks her for the help and the flowers, she leads him back to her house for an early breakfast to cap off an odd morning, all the while dreaming of a world where the humanfolk and the otherfolk didn’t have to live on opposite sides of the veil, and Joe could make strangers into friends.

 Better worlds and broken hearts are playing cards of the same set, but a card for resilience is also shuffled into that same deck. Crisp toast and peppery fried eggs aren’t quite miracle workers, but they’re enough to bring Cleo back up to normal when combined with good company. Dreams weren’t going to come true on their own, but maybe Joe was onto something with his adventures.

 Everything considered, it took him an hour longer than last time to get run off.

[arc852]

It's been a while since I've shared an AU but I have a lot of thoughts about Skizz and Joel joining hermitcraft and I've decided to turn it into G/t.

So basically, Skizz and Joel are joining hermitcraft but something goes wrong. Everyone is starting in a circle for the start of the season but their two newest memebers are nowhere to be seen. Everyone is confused and more than a bit worried when messaging them yields no results.

Meanwhile, Skizz and Joel wake up in a field, only a few inches tall and with no memory except their names and a vague sense of familiarity towards each other.

Because of their memory loss, they reasonably assume they have always been that size and decide to set up a small base in a tree and try to avoid the giants of the server at all costs.

Of course, eventually they get found and caught and a lot of misunderstandings come about it. Because even though these people feel familiar, it's hard for both Skizz and Joel (mostly Joel) to believe they are telling the truth.

Have a little snippet of something I wrote for this! This takes place after Skizz and Joel are caught a second time. (Also, they refer to themselves as borrowers because that is what they believe they are).

 Joel held out his sword and as the giant hand came toward him he slashed at it, sending it reeling back. “Ow! Joel!”

 Before Joel could react again, Grian’s other hand came at him and knocked him over, holding him down against the dirt. Joel felt the wind get knocked out of him for a brief moment before he struggled to try and get away.

 “Grian! Stop, you’re going to hurt him!” Joel heard Gem cry as Joel realized he wasn’t able to get his hands or sword free.

 “It’s fine Gem, it’s not like I’m using my full strength.” Grian answered back and Joel froze in his struggle. Realization crashing down on him that, yeah, this wasn’t even close to the giant’s full strength. It was probably barely even any sort of strength to the giant. And yet, Joel couldn’t free himself, because even when the giant was barely using any of his strength, Joel was nothing against him.

 He deflated, knowing he was trapped. Knowing he was caught once again.

 “Are you done?” Grian asked from above. Joel didn’t dignify him with an answer but he felt the hand around him curl in on him anyway and soon he was being held in a fist and lifted high into the air. He gave a half attempt to try and pull out the arm holding his sword but it was still trapped within the grip.

 Joel tried to look at anything but the giants surrounding him, finally noticing that Skizz also seemed to have gotten caught. Though instead of being held in a fist like him, Skizz was being cradled between two hands by Impulse. The two borrowers shared a look, with Skizz looking sympathetic towards the situation Joel had found himself in. 

 “We really are just trying to help you. And Skizz.” Grian tried but Joel didn’t want to listen.

[tunastime]

Hey if your still doing the comfort fic thing can you do collection of hoodies with Ranchers? (You don't have to)

HI!! Took me a little to get to this one! Kind of based on the prompt rather than directly verbatim, but I hope you enjoy!

the collection of stolen hoodies (758 words) (x)

The slightly sticky, summer breeze blows warm across the rolling hills of the server. Despite the humidity, the wind offers a much needed reprieve from the still, stagnant air of the mines, and, shaking the water out of his hair still, is managing to dry Tango off as well. He easily rinsed a majority of the soot and grime from his hair and along his exposed arms, scrubbed black soot from his cheeks. Now, stripped down to his cargo pants and socks, Tango lies in the grass, his and Jimmy’s laundry out to dry. He’s spent a large portion of the afternoon clipping it carefully to the hastily constructed clothesline. It waved in the breeze, casting a shadow across his vision every now and again.

Despite this, Tango lies comfortably in the midday light, eyes shut. At some point he turns to dry his back, feeling the heat along his spine and the base of his tail. The grass is soft here, clover and fescue and dotted wildflowers over the hill, stretching further than what Tango can see with part of his face crushed into the soft earth. He lets his eyes shut for a moment, letting the wind and sun dry him off the best it can.

After a moment, Tango stretches, feeling his muscles pull as he twists his neck and pillows his arms under his head. If he’s going to get anything done today besides napping in the sun, much to his rancher’s chagrin, he should probably collect their laundry and give it a good shake before bringing it inside.

Peeling himself from the grass, Tango stands slowly. He stretches his arms above his head, twists back and forth to relieve some of the tension in his back. Scratching dully at his hair, strands still wet between his fingers, he wanders over to the clothesline, still padding barefoot through the soft grass and stepping stones. Most of the clothes are thoroughly dry as Tango begins to tug them from the line, but, notably, his sweater is damp at the fringes and the sleeves where chunks of shade block it from the midday sun. The humidity’s certainly to blame too, making the air ever so slightly damp as it blows through.

Tango frowns. On the line is Jimmy’s overshirt. It’s dry at every edge, and aside from being stiff from its line dry, it’s in perfectly good condition, and much too large for Tango to worry about stretching it out. Tango runs a thumb over the seam at the bottom, worrying the hem between his fingers. A good shake would get the stiffness out. Surely Jimmy wouldn’t mind if it went missing for a part of the afternoon at the behest of Tango’s decency, right? 

Plucking it carefully from the line, Tango tugs the shirt around him. It keeps some of the wind off his back and the sun even moreso, despite the fact that he’s more littered with freckles than he’d ever though he would be in his life. It also smells, still, a little like wheat and grass and smoke, and Tango sighs against the shoulder he’s brought up to sniff and closes his eyes. 

He’s addled for a moment with the idea of Jimmy trying to fit into his sweater in retaliation, and blinks his eyes open. The image of him trying to weasel his big arms in and stretching the fabric out. Tango was by no means tiny, but Jimmy was. Broad. For lack of a better term. Fitting into Tango’s clothes would be a feat deserving of an award. Tango snorts, rolling his shoulders. Maybe one day he could make them a sweater that fit both of them. Which really meant it would fit Jimmy first and Tango by extension—but regardless. It could be theirs. He could make a whole collection of them. Then they could really be set, and Tango could live out his life stealing clothes from Jimmy whenever he wanted to. Yeah. That sounded like a good plan.

A cheesy one, but one he was letting himself have, because, hey, he was feeling sentimental, and Jimmy had finally come to visit, and he was allowed to be happy to see him again, just as he did anyone else. Sighing to himself, Tango folds the rest of the clothes over one arm. Satisfied with the state of their dryness, he takes them, and himself, inside. He should at least give them a good shake and a nice fold before he started thinking about making any new clothes.

[alittlebitofwonk]

Notes for a fic I don’t know if I’ll write:

Mostly follows Grian, who is secretly world renowned pop star Ari, trying to live a fairly normal life while also balancing the ups and downs that come with fame.

Only a few people know that Ari and Grian are the same person, and that’s Etho who is Ari’s bodyguard, Ari’s agent, and Gem who is Ari’s makeup artist and hair stylist.

Other people on Ari’s team include Bdubs, her backup vocalist and head of the dance team (who Etho totally isn’t crushing on), and Impulse, the lead tech guy.

On Grian’s side you have Scar and Mumbo, two of his oldest friends, and Jimmy and Pearl, Grian’s siblings. None of them know that Grian is Ari, but Pearl and Jimmy are beginning to have their suspicions. Etho also spends time with Grian.

Anyways, basic overview is that Grian does not want anyone finding out he’s Ari— he enjoys having a semi peaceful life where he can.

The problem is, Grian kinda hates being a popstar? It was fun at first, but it’s gotten so out of hand that he just wants to go back into hiding, back to making covers on a quiet corner of YouTube.

But his asshole agent keeps pushing him to keep up this image of the somewhat spoiled, confident, pink-loving Ari, the media sweetheart and pop music heartthrob.

Grian’s forced to try to work his way out of this situation, while also trying to maintain his cover and his changing relationship with Scar, who has no idea what his crush? Date?? Situationship??? Is actually dealing with.

A lot of shenanigans, too. Because shenanigans are fun.

[sillyfairygarden]

the first disciple

Summary:

Joel snorts. “I didn’t carry you out here to leave you to die, did I? You’re in no shape to go out there again, even if you are a stupid god.” He stands carefully, cursing at the noise his joints make. “So do me a favor: don’t die, mister Winter.” “It—It’s Etho,” the god says, feeling something settle in his chest that is not fear nor pain, not resignation nor the crushing cold of snow. “My name, it’s Etho.” Joel looks down at him, and now Etho can see the fire in his eyes, burning like a hearth instead of a man. “Alright then, Etho.” The knife catches the gold of the firepit, dancing with gold. “No dying, y’hear?”

[solargeist]

not enough fics abt Grian enjoying being a watcher. Playing pranks. Spying on people. Even when the server is doomed and he gets to use so much TNT

[theminecraftbee]

okay so. hear me out. but. au concept--

joel is one of many people affected by a Vanishing. its a phenomenon sweeping the country--people simply not showing up for work, school, life one day, as though they've vanished from the face of the earth. it's almost possible to mistake for normal missing persons cases, if it weren't for the way a few of the higher-profile Vanishings have happened to people who shouldn't have been able to vanish at all, let alone in a way that wouldn't be noticed until too late. look at joel's hometown. the people monitoring the dam were supposed to be redundant, and yet--

anyway. not like he cares or anything, except for the fact this stupid disaster or whatever has left him without anywhere to live or anyone to live with, and he still has a year of high school left, so he can't just do whatever he wants. luckily there's this school in a town called new hermiton that agreed to give him a scholarship to finish his education in the name of recovery and solidarity or whatever, and it's kind of a shwankier school than he'd normally go for, but it's free and, more importantly, they're willing to pay for his lodging, and he can't really turn that down. and it's not like he has a choice but to upend his entire life now. so packing what few of his belongings survived into a bag and getting on a train and moving across the country to a new school it is, he guesses.

(he's been having nightmares that inexplicably feature swarms of blue butterflies. last time he checked, lakes don't have butterflies in them. although maybe it's a metaphor or something, on account of the butterflies saying stupid stuff about how people who are remembered can't disappear, and even a false world cannot be erased if it's watched over, and how fate depends on him holding people in his heart. thanks for saying the same stupid shitty platitudes his social worker told him, just more cryptically, butterflies. real cool.)

new hermiton, it turns out, is a small city. while new hermiton academy is a newer school, much of the city is older. he's moved into a nice enough flat in an older apartment building. he has another cryptic butterfly dream. he thinks he remembers someone trying to urgently warn him of something, but it's all... shaky. that morning, he goes to the school for the first time. he's greeted by a fellow transfer student, skizzleman, although apparently he already knows some of the other folks in town, and transferred here so he could stay with them. but it's at least someone else in a similar enough situation to joel, especially since joel can just tell by the way people are looking at him that skizz didn't have much of a choice but to be here, either, and best friends with impulse or not, he's on his own too.

so. a friend. maybe this school won't be that bad, even if joel keeps having nightmares, and even if the weather here is weirdly cold for july, and even if his new homeroom professor keeps on looking at him really weirdly. (aren't professors supposed to be better about stupid rumors anyway? what's that mr. hills's deal?)

and then, two days later, he waves skizz off at the end of the school day, and gets skizz's friend, impulse, at his door, desperate to hear that skizz had just come to stay the night in joel's shitty lonely apartment, because otherwise it looks like--come on man. joel's already having a shit time. the universe deciding to go after his one existing friend too? he promises impulse to help investigate that night, in the vain hope that Skizz isn't one of the Vanished. joel gets a splitting migraine trying to follow their path back, though, and they have to stop for the night.

skizz is reported missing the next morning. joel resigns himself to cutting himself off from the people around him, as per usual. then, strangely, mr. hills corners him as he goes home.

"you'll need this," he says, and shoves what feels like a cheap butterfly knife into joel's hands. "uh, remember, trust your heart! you'll know how to use it."

"what," joel says. "hold on. you're supposed to be a teacher. why are you giving me this. i know for a fact my file says i have like, ptsd or whatever, which is stupid, but you definitely aren't supposed to be giving me a knife, you weirdo?"

"you'll know how to use it," joe hills says again. "goodbye! believe in yourself!"

mr. hills sprints behind a building before he has to explain anything else. joel is left standing on the sidewalk holding a knife, staring after him.

so. that's weird as hell. joel shivers in the cold and continues on his way home. the butterfly knife feels heavy in his pockets. he should probably report that guy to his social worker or something, but actually talking to his social worker feels like conceding defeat. joel can take care of himself. he can prove he can take care of himself. just watch him. step one: go out to get ramen because he forgot to buy any food for his apartment.

he sees impulse putting up signs as he eats. impulse looks miserable. joel thinks about how skizz, just in the short time he'd known him, had sort of unintentionally given away that he felt isolated after his mother Vanished. that impulse was a great friend, but impulse didn't understand what it was like. he never really SAID as much, but--

it's not fair to impulse, for that to be the last thing impulse remembered of what was apparently a friend since childhood. and joel doesn't care about any of these guys, but he can still pay his check and go out and help impulse go looking. he's no good at comforting people and doesn't know this guy, but joel had been alone too, sitting on the roof and crying, when the helicopters came.

except when they go back to the path by the school, joel's head starts to hurt again.

he looks up and there's a butterfly.

"hey, impulse, are butterflies common here?" he asks, a little desperately.

"i mean, not really, why?" impulse says.

"uh," joel says, and gestures. the two of them stare as the strange yellow butterfly circles in place.

"okay, so that is kind of weird," impulse admits.

"right?" joel says. "the only way it would be weirder is if it were blue." impulse gives him a look. joel does not explain.

it starts to fly away.

"we should follow it," impulse says, his voice getting a little dull. "yeah. we should follow it."

"what? no! no we should not follow the haunted butterfly, are you nuts?" joel says, but it's a bit too late. (maybe this is what the knife is for: stabbing impulse. it would be an effective method of stopping him!) he chases impulse down, down to the river, where yellow butterflies are swarming. impulse, as though possessed, simply steps into the swarm and falls through them to the water.

joel's, uh, freaking out more than a little bit? he'll admit he's freaking out. he dives forward to try to grab him, only to realize that he doesn't see impulse anywhere.

a single blue butterfly lands on joel's shoulder. "do you hold his heart next to yours?"

"i'm going insane," joel says.

"no heart is meant to be completely alone. do you hold his next to yours?"

"this isn't happening," joel says. "this is like a stupid manga or something. it's not happening."

"there is still time to save them; you must hold your heart strong, or the consequences will be dire. i believe in you."

the butterfly vanishes.

"fuck it," joel says. "if i drown then it's nothing people haven't expected of me anyway."

he steps through the swarm of butterflies.

that night, he drags both impulse and skizz out of the river. they're all freezing cold. shadows and strange, yellowy liquid still cling to all of their skin. also, joel stabbed himself, which like, glad to know that's what the knife was for, apparently, and the scar is warm and comforting. he can feel his--persona, and don't ask him how he knows that--shifting under his skin, under the mark on his hand. it said its name is pygmalion; it says it is a piece of joel's soul.

this is all patently insane. but skizz and impulse are alive and NOT eaten by shadow monsters, so even if they're both a little unconscious, joel takes that as a win.

they lie on the ground outside the river. someone stumbles across them. "well give me some teeth and call me an alligator. you got out on your own," breathes a fellow student clutching a dagger. joel thinks he's in the class across the hall. also--

"what are you talking about," joel wheezes.

"you found it on your own. you can find them?" the student says. his eyes are wide. something in joel's soul recognizes something in the student's. something in joel's BRAIN puts two and two together and realizes why mr. hills gave him a knife.

"no. no, go away, i don't want to be involved in this," joel says.

"well, don't you think it's too late for that?" the student says, and joel passes out. he's pretty sure the butterflies have to be laughing at him. in fact, as though to mock him further, after passing out, he doesn't even get to avoid it forever, because he wakes up in a glowing blue boat. there is a man with white-blonde hair, blue eyes, and a blue outfit leaning over him, poking him.

joel takes no responsibility for punching him. he'd do it again, too, as the long-nosed man sitting next to the unmanned steering wheel welcomes him to the velvet room.

(this, joel realizes later, all rather sets the tone for what the next year of his life is about to become.)

[arson-is-chill-actually]

I had a single thought about how Mumbo K. Jumbo kind of reminds me of the Doctor and my brain worms said that this thought will be what my mind is solely focused on developing for the next 5-8 business days.

Anyways, Hermitcraft AU set in the Dr. Who universe with Time Lord Mumbo, human anthropologist Grian who is very confused as to how he got wrapped up in time travel shenanigans, Grian’s sister Pearl who is very concerned as to why her brother keeps disappearing for several days at a time, and the rest of the ensemble as various Whoniverse natives that live on a giant spaceship together called the Hermit Craft.

[letthe-skyfall]

Sky's incredibly stupid fic ideas: Gempearl edition

A Gempearl fic with transfem deer Gem :D

One day Pearl accidentally stumbles across Gem, and accidentally learns that the deer hybrid is transgender. Gem makes Pearl promise not to tell anyone because she isn't ready to have all the hermits know her preferred pronouns. Pearl agrees and visits her a lot to help her out of her shell, and they might also fall in love in the process.

Meanwhile, all the other hermits are wondering and trying to find out why Gem has started wearing dresses and flowers in her antlers.