#hermitcraft fic idea

[convexicalcrow]

come back skulk Cub my beloved come back

[valeriapryanikova]

ominous

(itsy-bitsy fanfic concept/idea/? under the cut)

[A page ripped out of a journal; the owner’s handwriting is messy and barely legible.] 

february, 29th

i'm surprised i'm not dead now.

yesterday, in the late evening, as i was painting, it started storming. suddenly and hard. one second the dark sky is clear from any clouds, and the next moment the droplets are pelting me with a surprising force. i rapidly abandoned my easel and canvas (not like there would be anything lost—the piece was dull and not working out the way i desired) in favor of seeking cover.

i was still near the village, on its outskirts, but just a bit too far from my house to reach it quickly before my whole being was drenched through and through. so i ducked into one of the huts, all of which stand empty, desolate… or so i thought, at least.

only once inside did i spot the dim, ominous, red glow of the overhead lamp; the sound of a muted conversation; the overwhelming sense of “wrong”, like i was not meant to be here. abruptly silence fell and two sets of bright eyes stared me down.

terror froze my body. i felt like a prey caught in between two predators, i could practically feel their jaws snapping around my neck.

the dredger slowly smirked at me, barring her sharp, sharp teeth. (since when are they sharp? i may not have crossed path with her often, but i swear i would’ve noticed if she had shark teeth before.) i did not stay to see if the fisherman would further react to my presence too. the control of my body returned, allowing me to let out a panicked apology for interruption and bolt out of the hut, running home at full speed.

it’s been hours since then. i couldn’t fall asleep. i’ve been up the whole night, haunted by fear. the scene of those two beasts in the darkness, ready to snap me like a twig for overhearing something (i don’t remember what exactly, all the horror of the situation evaporated all my thoughts), got stuck in my mind’s eyes. so i’ve been doing what i know how to do best—painting.

[Attached to the diary entry is a typewritten note.] 

That painter fellow is an impressionable and imaginative type. Needless to say, the actual interaction with the two fish merchants was likely a lot less… Dramatic.

The painter was reluctant to show me the painting mentioned in the last paragraph, but after some convincing I did manage to take a quick look on their recollection of the witnessed scene: it seems mostly useless for my research, but I noted down some details that might be of use in the future (refer to “AudioLog#143” transcript for more information).

Collecting data on “The Fisherman” continues to prove itself annoying. The subject is allusive: there’s not many sources mentioning him, and folk around here rarely witness him out and about. Currently the only lead I have is finding that one old newspaper article about the docks that, if I recall correctly, mentions him in an interview with workers. Perhaps, when I have time, I’ll try asking the collector from the other side of the river if he has a copy of that newspaper issue.

However, for now, I’m significantly more interested in “The Dredger” subject. There’s more than plenty info about her—I would actually say there’s too much info about her, all inconveniently inconsistent. In an attempt to get more reliable data I’m getting in contact with Mined since they have done scientific observation of this area and the people of interest. My request for access to their data has gone unanswered so far and, if shoving my anthropology degree in the faces of those bumbling idiots won’t work, I’m sure that that city nearby has enough hackers willing to do some dirty work for a pretty diamond.

I will get the data I want, one way or another.

[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.

[theminecraftbee]

Mumbo, still trembling, closes his eyes and ignores everything he can see despite them being closed. He ignores the uncountable sensations against his skin, the mix of burning-cooling-itching that all blends together into something that is simultaneously so painful it’s numb and so indescribable it hurts. He ignores the howling, tending, tearing at his ears, and he most certainly ignores the scent of pure memories that pull him in and out of the moment every time he fails to.

He mustn’t think. He can only bear to think in the brief gaps between the noise. If he lets himself think too long, he will realize that he doesn’t have to have his eyes open to see, because the thing he’s trying to look away from doesn’t exist on that sort of plane of existence. He will realize he can hear the endless fractal shapes of wings and eyes around him. He can taste it. He can feel it. He does not need eyes.

He keeps them shut. Grian had told him, once, that if he ever got confronted with his true form, he must keep his eyes shut. Mumbo is doing that now.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles. “It’s okay."

He gets the scent of someone saying 'Mumbo', a shout, panic, pain, not pain. He screws his eyes shut tighter. An overwhelming sensation that he should flee courses through him for a moment and he nearly runs into one the walls of their cell. Unfortunately, those walls are designed to hold in Grian, so Mumbo just bruises his nose.

"We can't leave. They drugged you and locked us both in, remember?"

The sensation is overpowering for a moment. For a moment, Mumbo loses hold of whatever sanity he's holding on to and every part of his body screams fear. He needs to leave, he needs to leave, he needs to leave, he can't leave, he doesn't know what to do, it's a deep and true sensation of doom and panic and then--

Acceptance. Mumbo finds himself curled on the ground.

Something apologizes.

"You were drugged," Mumbo mumbles. "You can't help it."

Mumbo hears the sound that happens when he's dying, he thinks. Then he hears sadness.

"I won't. You told me what to do. All, all I've got to do is hang on until, until either whatever they gave you gets out of your system, or, or someone rescues us. I mean, the other hermits, they'd certainly be rescuing us, right? I imagine they're already tearing, um, wherever we are? They're already tearing it to pieces. Skizz and Impulse are nearly as frightening as you, and, um, we both know what Doc is like angry, and it's okay, it's okay."

Mumbo does not want to have to be the reasonable one. He keeps his eyes shut and lets the feeling like hundreds of sharp feathers cross his skin as Grian tries harder to simultaneously surround and not surround Mumbo, tries to figure out how not to hurt him.

There is not a way for Grian not to hurt Mumbo. Mumbo has known this since they were first shoved in the same cell and Grian lost control.

He can't say that, though, because the moment Grian panics, he will actually kill him. He won't mean to. That's the truly terrible part. Grian will not mean to. He will not try to. He will try not to, in fact.

It's just. A god and a mortal should not be held in the same cage.

So Mumbo has to be the reasonable one. Just a little longer. Or Grian will never forgive himself.

Mumbo breathes. It makes his lungs feel like they're full of blue and purple and syrup and needles. It makes him feel like crying again. It also makes him feel like curling up and feeling nothing, which is the particularly dangerous bit.

"We'll figure this out. It's okay," he lies in his most soothing tone of voice. Somehow, he doesn't think Grian believes him.

They've just got to both pretend a little longer.

[k1tty5]

sketches (and one not sketch but i didn’t want to post it by itself,)

[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

[inkieflame]

Okay so like what if (completely unrelated to my Lab AU).I write a fic where Joel and Lizzie are in an open relationship and Joel also has a crush on Etho, and Lizzie is so for it the whole time she proceeds to invite Etho on a trip to Japan with them. So the three of them hang out in Japan and Joel has to deal with his crush and also his wife teasing him about his crush. And what if I make them share a bed. What if. The possibilities are endless.

[misswifi]

Imp and Skizz moments:

The imp Skizz summoned, standing amidst the destroyed kitchen:

How? How were you able to summon me?!

Skizz, flipping through a cookbook as fast as he can:

I don’t know!! You were supposed to be chicken soup!

[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

[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.

[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.

[max05nb]

War of hearts (but if they were signing about their past)

I can't help but love you,

Even though I try not to,

I can't help but want you,

I know that I'd die without you.

I can't help but be wrong in the dark

'Cause I'm overcome in this war of hearts

I can't help but want oceans to part

'Cause I'm overcome in this war of hearts

(YHS, Evo, Xequla, Grian)

(So basically idea is you can't live without your past and no matter how much you hate it you can't help but appreciate it, it made you, you, for better or worse. Was it bad? Yeah. But you can't help but love your past self at the end of the day. No matter how hard you try not to. You survived, you should be proud of that.)

[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.

[skippbuttr]

this came to me in a dream

fantasy empires/traffic/hc au where flower husbands are in an arranged marriage except grian is a witch who flies around on a broom and pranks people then runs away to other empires to avoid consequence

[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.

[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