#non human hermits

[fromthedeskoftheminister]

Forgotten but not Lost

NOW ON Ao3

Unknown Life Series Season 4 sometime early march? Cubfan? Fwip? The bunnies are a goin folks. Have.... Whatever this is?

Unbetaed.

Forgotten but not Lost

They’re all just standing there. In a circle around a campfire. Its the first time that hes done this, Scar knows. It is not the first time he’s done this. He’s just as sure of that.

And yet, something here is wrong about the tableau before him. He’s never seen these people before in his life. Yet somehow he knows them. Not well, but still its stuff that he should not know about any of them. The werewolf? wolf hybrid? he doesnt know which and hes not sure why thats the questionable point when he knows the man is?was? royalty. Theres also something whispering in the back of his mind about frozen blood and an affront to good taste. To the wolfman’s right just where he should be is his right hand, the one who hears. The Fey is next, chatting quietly with a Demon no animosity present at all. The survivalist is blatantly listening to their conversation while he lightheartedly taunts an Omen whos trying to ignore him in favor of the conversation hes having with the Forge spirit. A Dragon gives him a smile or perhaps its the flash of a fang when their gazes meet.

He returns the grin, threat and greeting all in one before moving on. Theres the innovator, the timekeep, and his other half? former other half? his betrayer? his... The whispers are incoherent. Theres too much there and no time to piece through it at all. His gaze skips over a blank space, before landing on the puppetmaster, Fate’s favorite fighter, and completes the circle with a couple of people the whispers dont have much to say about at all. A glint, and Scar’s attention is drawn not to the pesky bird that the whispers have entirely too much to say about but to the blank space next to him. A space which is now occupied. A space which as always been occupied and Scar knows that this is what’s not... quite right. Black eyes with a spark of electric blue in their depths meet his own hazel evenly as they take each other in. The slightly rumpled young scientist across from him seems content to just study the strange company they both have found themselves apart of. Yet, something about the way he holds himself, the lack of surprise at his own presence here or the appearance of the others, suggests that he knows more than they do. And that the smug trickster finds it funny. And its just as obvious that he knows that Scar knows because he gets a sly half smirk directed his way the longer they stare at each other. It’s Scar who breaks first. “You have something of mine” he states, surprising himself. He doesn’t know how he knows this, he doesnt know where the other man got it, the whispers arnt talking. Theyve been strangley silent since their eyes met, and Scar knows that hes never met the man before in this life. Yet his statement, while attracting everyone elses attention, including a startled squawk from his former soulmate, is simply met with a widening grin that reveals far too many sharp teeth for the mouth they’re in. “I do.” Theres a pause while the rest of the group very loudly tries to figure out exactly when this blank space arrived but cannot to their vexation. “Did you want it back?” Scar almost nods and reaches out a hand before stopping abruptly “What happens if I take it back?” A shrug “You Know what you Are and you are Unfettered and Unbound in what you Can Do” Scar peers at him mulling that over. “I heard those capital letters Sir. What happens if I don’t take it back?” “I keep ahold of if until you decide you want it back” “Its not a limited time offer?” “Ehhhhhhhhh.” the noise is accompanied by a hand wiggle “It is a limited offer” “But not a limited time offer?” “No.” Scar hmms. “You keep it. I think I’ll have more fun figuring things out without it.” The other man nods and looks slightly wistful but accepting, as if he had already known what Scar would choose but had hoped otherwise. Their conversation is interrupted by a cough and the Instigator says from somewhere to his left “And with that cryptic conversation out of the way, lets get on with it shall we?” *****************************************************************************************************

Its later that same day and Scar has since learned that the blank space’s name is Cub and the one responsible is Grian, along with a host of other names which are frankly a lot easier to remember than the epithets that the whispers were offering when he stumbles across the pair of them arguing about something in the forest. “Listen, Grian” Cub says, clearly done with whatever is going on here. “We’re done. You’ve got resources to collect and so do I. But before I bounce, riddle me this; what is a watcher to a vex?” The words mean nothing to Scar, but Grian apparently does as do the whispers. He can feel their tension and can see just how tense and pale Grian has gotten, before he grits out a “I dont know” “Dinner and a Show” Cub answers before turning around and striding off deeper into the dark oak forest. “So step lightly, little watcher, before someone takes a bite”

[crafting-mojo]

oh that's just my bird don't mind him anyways-

[shatteredblueflame]

For @mothayoin's Hermitober prompts, day 3 Watching

Skyblings-centric with some lore sprinkled in :3

[kitsunespawz]

Them.

Artwork 4/11 - Done! I stared at a screen for 5 hours and now I have a headache.

Here's links to the other 3 artworks of dancing Hermits I have done so far:

xB & Keralis

Gem & Pearl

Etho & Beef

[epicfranb]

I think it's good if you can proudly say that your interpretation of a character is your favorite. My Etho is my favorite Etho. My Bdubs is my favorite Bdubs. My Cleo is my favorite Cleo. etc.

[khoshekh-blackwood]

I forced my friend to draw mumbo jumbo with no context

(they only had his skin to use as reference and they thought his mustache was some kinda freaky mouth)

(blank template below read more)

[diejager]

New Ownership

Pairing: Dark!Krueger + König x doll!reader

Cw: DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, possessive behaviour, magic?, death, heartbreak, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 1.2k

You used to watch people awe at you, expressing their shock, incredulous and pleasing, under the protection of your owner —your creator. You were an object of emotion; of melancholy. You were a life size doll made of porcelain and wax, of hohair and glass eyes, painted in the richest pigments and dressed in the finest fabrics, you were the epitome of treasure in your time. A doll made with utmost care and tenderness to heal a wounded heart. 

Your creator was a doll maker, building every doll with a special kind of affection, be it for his collection or for a client, he always loved his dolls. He made as much as he gave, the single joy of his life was the present his late-wife gave him, a daughter to call his own, someone soft and living unlike the cold bisque of his creations. You were a present for her coming-of-age, a mimicry of her person, made with love for the adoration he had for his daughter, and sadness for seeing her grow up and leave, to start a new life without him. Every stroke was perfection and every detail was imperfection, you were perfectly imperfect, a mirror to a human.

You were made as an object to remember him by once she left to live with her fiance, painted in the last moments before he saw her off. He dressed you up in a pretty dress, a voluptuous crimson for the passion and a deep black for the end of he past and the start of a new beginning. He made you into what he saw his sweet, precious daughter as, a dream that he was ecstatic to gift, but she was in an accident the week before her celebration. She died of it, passing in writhing pain and tearful agony. It broke the man who lived to care. Your tender creator who lived to love and give.

He drowned in the throes of sorrow and agony, paraliysed by his own fears and torn apart by his nightmares, and left the house you once loved to rot and waste away just as he was. Sobbing nights and depressing mornings, you were unable to do anything but watch as he spent his days rotting, his skin sinking, his hair outgrow and his complexity pale unhealthily, yet he still cared for you. Your creator —your father cleaned you, dressed you and incased you in a thin layer of wax and gel to protect you from the changing times. 

You gave him solace, something to live for after he closed his quaint shop and became a hermit, crazed and lonely, having nothing but you to talk to and spend his shortening time with. You wished you could tell him how much you cared, how much you shared his sorrows or how saddened you were to see him like this. And like his daughter, your father passed away, heartbroken and lonely, leaving you to watch over his cooling body dissolving in his bed. All the wasted years, spent seated in your chair, unmoving and unliving, never being able to reach out to him to show him how much you loved him. Life, however, ran its course, uncaring of any kind of self-sought fury or self-given agony, you were just a doll given conscience and memory. 

You were picked up by a relative, estranged and distant from yours. He was German, or Austrian from the rough tone he used, a deep growl as he appraised you, rough fingers caressing your face like he was admiring you. He was, this wasn’t admiration in his eyes, you knew it, that sick and twisted gleam in his brown eyes, it was obsession. It was a perverted kind of adoration, it made you fear what he would do to you.

And these fears, these demons that clung to your peripheral, weren’t unfounded, weren’t an illusion your conscience made up to fill the void in your empty core. You were carefully stuffed in a box, stored safely during the long move from your small town in Germany to a place in Austria, locked away in a loud and dark place and only brought out to be placed in another cage of gold. 

He laid you in a pentagram of sorts, a crooked thing painted in a dark red and terrifying runes that promised nothing but evil. He enacted this… ritual that would affect you in some way, his low chants and hisses while he stared you down with hungry eyes once he stripped you of all clothes, lathering your porcelain with markings. He scared you more, knowing that he had this planned out, and that he wasn’t alone. 

There was a shadow of a giant behind him, a man heads taller than most with cold eyes peeking through a fabric to gaze at you. He had broad shoulders and thick arms, seemingly swallowing the corner he stood from. He took up a lot of your attention, ripped between the chanting man and him from your chair, placed perfectly at the center of this ritualistic circle. You were a show to the giant and a project to your new owner, a spectacle to watch unravel and writhe in pain.

It hurt. Why did this hurt? Your skin tingled, an annoyance that grew to a boiling agony, this sacrilegious magic reworking your imperfect body to fit one of his whims. You shook in your chair, the red sinking into your skin, lining the inside of your precious porcelain with runes as your fingers and toes flexed, limbs jerking from the information overload on your new nerves, synapses snapping into place and building a circuit of sensitive system. You could blink and you could cry, tears springing from your fluttering lashes, lips trembling before you screamed, a shrill cry that wailed out of your lungs. 

Your chest burned, it felt heavy with an erratic pulse, beat after beat slamming into your calcified ribs, warm fat and strained muscles. You felt like you were drowning, your throat clogged with something sick and dying after you shriek, acidic to your tongue. It stole the air from your lungs and you had to fill it back, the nagging urge to do so. Your chest expanded with your first breath, it hurt - it burned, but you didn’t drown - but it seamed the first seed of life within you. 

You slumped forward, eyes rolling to the back of your head as the last words he uttered passed through your mind, a searing memory forever imprinted in your conscience. You fell into warm arms, a soothing warmth unlike the boiling pit of magma that raged over you, embracing you with a quiet coo from the man who brought you to life. He hoisted you up, wrapping an arm under your knees and another firmly pressing your naked chest to his. Yours limbs were strangers to you, new and uncanny that you couldn’t move or control just yet. You limply laying your head in the crook of his neck, burying your nose in a green veil smelling strongly of musk and metal, your legs too weak and arms too tense like a newly born fawn.

“Besorg mir etwas, um sie zu bedecken, König”

“Ja, bin gleich wiener da..”

“Welcome to the living, Rehkitz.”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

[hermitcraftheadcanons]

with so many non-human members, clothes shopping can be difficult (you'd be surprised how hard it is so find hoodies that won't get stuck to slime membrane.) as such it's become a tradition for the hermits to gift eachother handmade clothes. basically all sweaters on the server as grian's needlework, and ren tends to personally hand out costumes for whatever storyline he's running this season.

.

[lostloveletters]

Give Me Shelter, The Night Is Dark (Vampire!Michael Corleone x Reader)

Summary: Local superstition and a reclusive man offer you refuge when your parents grievously misstep in Sicily, putting your life in danger in more ways than one.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. This incredibly self-indulgent gothic romance-esque idea came to me while I was half-asleep, and the time period is intentionally vague, but it’s not a modern setting (here's a little aesthetic tag for this fic). Do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: Major canon divergence. Canon-typical violence. Emotional manipulation. Vampirism, including non-consensual blood drinking and compulsion (in the context of it being an ability vampires possess and can use on humans). Sexually explicit content involving elements of bloodplay. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

You couldn’t remember what had brought your family to the village of Corleone, only that your father had promised you and your mother an extravagant Sicilian vacation. Three days of beachside paradise in Mondello, eating fresh seafood cooked to perfection and entertaining the antics of handsome men with scars that stood out like bolts of lightning against their tanned skin were hardly enough to sate your voracious appetite for the weeks of bliss you were promised. 

Despite your attempts at bargaining to stay in Palermo on your own, your mother refused, insisting she’d be better off throwing you into shark-infested waters than alone with the men who came calling to your hotel. Some days of travel through the breathtaking Sicilian countryside later, you and your parents arrived in Corleone, a village that appeared all but frozen in time, as if decades had passed it by with no one any the wiser. 

To your dismay, you found the selection of eligible men to spend your time with far more limited than in Palermo. The working young men were too tired from their labor in the fields or their trades to engage in foolish antics with a vacationing foreigner. The rest were mafiosi, as you gathered from the veiled comments and numerous euphemisms the older villagers used. 

These elderly became your companions during your stay in Corleone, talking wildly with their weathered hands over coffee or wine. Filomena, a woman of nearly eighty years and fluent in English, lived in the house next to the one your family was renting. Her husband Gianni only left the house if absolutely necessary, and she considered him a burdensome hermit. Each morning, she fetched you to accompany her into town. Some days, you’d do little else than sit outside of a cafe on the sleepy main street, eating and drinking and gossiping. 

Your Sicilian improved immensely in the near month you kept up with their chatter. Those women always had their ears to the ground, as far as knowing more about your father’s business in Corleone than you did. The vacation he promised you was little more than a gesture of confidence toward Don Manusco, a man notoriously difficult to meet directly with. That your father achieved this naturally generated interest in the village, as no one knew of him. When pressed for more information about your own family’s line of work, you answered what you knew, that your father invested, mostly in stocks, but occasionally in new business ventures. 

You were privy to little else, much to the disappointment of your companions, who moved onto other topics of discussion. One woman’s son sought work in Milan and within three months of getting hired at a factory, married a Northerner, much to her displeasure. In contrast, Filomena’s daughter was cloistered elsewhere in the countryside, preparing to take her vows and become a nun. 

Their superstitions, however, intrigued you most of all. A curse and blessing existed for nearly every conceivable situation. The most striking tale they spun regarded an abandoned villa about a mile past the rental house. Foreboding and hostile, its faded facade peeking out from thorny vines, it was once the envy of the village. At one point in time, though no one could agree quite when, the Don of another family lived there. He took in a strange young man, reclusive yet polite, wandering the countryside with two armed shepherds as bodyguards. He married a local girl, but the marriage ended tragically soon after the wedding. In a sudden blaze of fire and betrayal, she was killed. The strange man vanished not long after, and anyone associated with the villa—including the old Don Tomassino—were soon found dead or had disappeared altogether. Thus, no one dared approach it for fear of the curse surely cast upon the place.

Some of the gruesome murders in the vicinity of the villa could have been attributed to the tradition of violence Don Manusco carried on following Don Tomassino’s death. It didn’t explain the livestock dying of unusual causes, an older woman interjected. Even the land surrounding it was cursed, and the local shepherds knew better than to let their flocks graze nearby, explaining the abnormally tall grass and overgrown foliage that surrounded the villa.

Yet another woman claimed to have seen a demon or ghost in the form of a man wandering the villa’s grounds at night. Of course, she didn’t get close enough to take a good look, instead uttering Hail Marys as she ran into the local church to take refuge until her husband found her some time later.

Your mind drifted to the villa sometimes, this forbidden and mysterious monument to grief and superstition that seemed to cast a longer shadow over the village than the mafiosos who ran it. Like Don Manusco, who your parents were joining for dinner one evening, and Filomena insisted you join her and Gianni instead of eating alone.

The scent of stewing summer tomatoes with garlic and mouth-watering spices invited you inside the house, its windows open for hopes of cool breezes moving through. Gianni offered you wine and a simple antipasto spread of cheese and oranges to snack on while Filomena cooked dinner. Despite his reclusiveness, he somehow knew that your father’s dinner with Don Manusco involved more business than a friendly visit, the final chance for your father to seal what he hoped would be a lucrative deal with the mafia boss.

Two hours later, you sat across from Filomena at the small wooden table in their kitchen, filling your plate with the delicious meal she prepared. You ate silence while Filomena spoke, bickering with Gianni every now and then. As the sun set over Corleone, unease crept over you, though you chose to attribute it to the heat of the day and eating too quickly.

Until a commotion erupted up the street, almost deafening as it approached, finally arriving outside of Filomena’s house. Frantic Sicilian shouting mingled with rapid pounding on the front door startled you into dropping your fork. Filomena and Gianni shared a worried glance before both getting up from the table to answer. 

Wailing. 

Screaming. 

Arguing. 

All you found yourself able to do was sit in confused silence. When they returned to the kitchen with a few other locals, panic truly set in.

“You have to leave!” Filomena cried, pulling you out of your seat by your arm.

“What’s going on?” you asked.

“Your father’s a fool–”

Gianni shook his head. “A dead fool–”

“Your father should have never brought you here if he were going to try to cheat Don Manusco!” an older woman said.

Another cursed. “Selfish bastard!” 

“Go! As far from here as you can!” Filomena implored.

A hard push toward the back door was the extent of the help you’d receive from the villagers of Corleone. 

Blood pounded in your ears, your heart beating in time with your feet against the uneven dirt path that nearly tripped you up in your desperate rush to the rental home. You opened the door, scrambling upstairs in a frantic half-crawl to reach your room.

You shoved clothes and essentials into a bag, hardly paying attention to what exactly you were packing, just knowing you couldn’t flee empty-handed and hope to rely on the goodwill of strangers. 

In the kitchen, you grabbed what you could from the pantry and shoved everything into a wicker basket. With just that and your suitcase in hand, you clumsily ran across the uneven countryside roads, hoping to find somewhere to take shelter for the night. Every rustle of leaves and animal cry sent chills across your skin. Just when you felt hopeless for a place to hide, you saw the abandoned villa's high walls, overgrown with vines and bramble in the distance. Superstition be damned, it was better than dying at the hands of a mafioso.

The iron gate was closed, but not locked. You held your breath as you opened it, sending out silent thanks to the universe that it didn’t release some otherworldly screech and announce your presence. Hardly visible in the dead of night, the villa peeked out from beneath the plants that had overtaken it. Even from a distance, it appeared as if the building were hollowed out somehow. It remained your best bet. 

Superstition offered you refuge, as masculine voices drifted above the villa’s high walls, the structure still sturdy despite the general state of disrepair.

“Should we go in?”

“You sound as much of a fool as that old man. That place is cursed. Even if she were in there, she'd be dead anyway.”

Their heavy, rushed footsteps against the rocky terrain fell silent after a few moments. You sighed in relief, allowing yourself to relax just the slightest bit. Until you glanced back at the villa again, a new sense of dread making your stomach turn at the prospect of having to go inside the place. While you didn’t believe all of the rumors you’d been told over the previous few weeks, being in its presence unsettled you.

Then again, feeling unsettled in an abandoned villa was preferable to whatever would happen if Don Manusco’s men got his hands on you.

After a moment of hesitation, you approached the shadowy building, hoping your luck wouldn’t run out when you got inside. 

To your surprise, the interior wasn’t as poorly maintained as the exterior. The furniture betrayed the wealth of whoever lived there previously, though they’d seen better days. Dark wood scuffed or splintered. Dull fabrics that must have been rich violets or crimson upon their initial purchase. 

You walked into the living room, freezing upon seeing lit candles around. Someone was living there after all. 

“Hello? Is anyone–” you gasped upon seeing a man standing on the other side of the living room, partially obscured by shadows.

Even in the cover of darkness, his features rendered you speechless as he approached. Handsome seemed too pedestrian of a word to describe him. His raven hair fell across his forehead with a deceptive boyishness. Brown eyes, almost black as the night itself bore into your own. His skin wasn’t nearly as tan as the villagers you’d met, but you supposed someone who lived in such a place was wealthy enough to not have to partake in the grueling manual labor typical of the area, the strong Sicilian sun giving its residents a healthy glow which he lacked. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked quietly.

“The men who were outside before—I think they’re going to kill me,” you said, panic overtaking your senses as his face remained unmoved by your explanation. “Please, I didn’t know anyone lived here.”

“Why do they want to kill you?”

“I think my father tried to cheat Don Manusco. I don’t know all of the details, but if they don’t want to kill me, then they’ll probably—“ Your voice caught in your throat. 

“You can stay.”

“I’ll leave tomorrow and find a way to get back to Palermo.”

He shook his head. “You have a vendetta out against you now. Getting back to Palermo so soon will be nearly impossible, especially if Manusco has allies there.” He watched in unreadable silence as hopelessness ate away at your resolve. “You can stay,” he finally repeated. “Don’t leave the villa. Not during the day, and especially not at night. You’ll be safe.”

“Thank you. I owe you my life.” You offered him your name, as a courtesy and as collateral. More valuable than anything else you carried with you, he could use it to betray you for his own gain whenever he wished. You prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

“Michael Corleone,” he said.

“Like the village.”

He smiled the slightest bit, his dark eyes shining an almost betraying crimson in the moonlight. Ethereal. That was the right word for him. “Yes, like the village.”

Your host led you upstairs, helping you with your meager belongings despite your insistence you could handle your small suitcase and a basket of food, which you left on the console table in the foyer. The villa had certainly seen better days, its plaster walls cracked, crumbling in some places. You would’ve used caution going up the stairs if Michael hadn’t been so confident as he ascended them. 

He paused at the top of the stairs, glancing at each of the doors along the hallway. After a few moments, he seemed to settle on one, leading you to a dark bedroom, full of odd shadows that made you pause. It seemed otherwise better taken care of than the rest of the villa you’d seen up to that point.  

“It’s just me here. I’m afraid I’m not the best homemaker,” he half-joked in response to your hesitation to enter the room. 

“No, I’m sorry. It’s nice. I can’t thank you enough, Michael.”

He nodded. “I have insomnia, so you’ll see more of me at night than during the day. The cellar stays locked, but you can have the run of the place otherwise.”

You bid each other good night. 

When he shut the bedroom door behind you, you collapsed onto the bed and cried into your pillow, both from heartbreak and exhaustion, until you fell asleep. 

The following morning, you awoke to fresh bug bites on your arm–inflamed and itchy, though perfectly in line with each other, oddly enough. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and you supposed you’d rather deal with mosquito bites than whatever Don Manusco and his soldiers had in mind for you. 

True to his word, Michael was nowhere to be found when you went downstairs to eat a breakfast of bread and hard salami. Again, not ideal, but you’d make do with what you brought with you. For the rest of the day, you explored the villa, acquainting yourself with your new albeit temporary home.

You found yourself with little to do to pass the time. Venturing out onto the surrounding grounds of the villa was hardly an option, most of it so overgrown you couldn’t take a proper walk. There were a few books in the house, but often you found your mind drifting to your parents, what their fate looked like and what could await you if Don Manusco found out where you were hiding. By the time you’d finally see Michael around in the evenings, you’d force yourself to stay up as long as you could to be in his company. Soon, your schedule nearly matched his nocturnal one.

Over the following weeks, you got to know Michael. At times, you couldn’t help but stare at him, but sometimes it felt as though you couldn’t do much else if you tried. He was a gracious host for how you imposed on him, showing concern for the bug bites you tried to hide from him. A good thing he noticed, as he brought you a cup of tea, a deep maroon color that he explained was a natural remedy from the village for the discomfort you were experiencing. A common occurrence that you’d been fortunate enough to avoid since arriving in Corleone.

“You’re not from around here either,” you said one night. “I can tell from your accent.”

“I’m from New York, but my father was born here,” he explained. “My last name is a mistake from when he immigrated.”

“Do you miss it?”

He was silent for some time, lost in thought before answering with a soft, “Terribly.”

“But you can’t go back.”

“No, I’m very sick. I wouldn’t survive the trip.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, your curiosity getting the better of you when you asked, “What do you have?”

“What I have is incredibly rare, there’s no word for it. Sunlight puts me in excruciating pain, and my appetite is abnormal.”

“How long have you been sick for?”

“Years. More than you’d believe.”

“You know, everyone in the village thinks this place is cursed. If you just talked to them, then they’d understand what was going on and maybe be able to help.”

“I can’t be around people. It’s not safe for them.”

“I don’t understand,” you said. “Are you contagious?”

He hesitated. “Not how you’d think.”

“No matter what you have, it’s not good to be alone,” you argued.

“You’re here now.”

“Only until it’s safe for me to go to Palermo and leave Sicily.”

He shook his head. “You won’t be able to leave. Not when a man like Don Manusco has a vendetta out against you,” he said, his intense gaze boring into you. Your chest grew tighter as he spoke. “This villa is the only place you’ll ever be safe.”

“Michael, you’re scaring me.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I just know what he did to your parents…he and men like him have done to many others on this island, too.” Your silence perturbed him. He grabbed your shoulders, squeezing them gently, though his eyes seemed to blaze with fury. “I’m keeping you safe here, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice nearly catching in your throat.

“Then what’s there to be afraid of?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s right, as long as you stay here.”

“I can’t stay forever.”

He hummed dismissively, not bothering to acknowledge your statement. You soon excused yourself to go to sleep, a sudden uneasiness settling in your stomach.

You awoke late into the afternoon the following day, judging by the amber sunlight that streamed through the broken shutters. Still, your limbs felt heavy, and your head pounded as if you’d hardly slept at all. A quick glance at your arm revealed twin bug bites on your wrist again, this time darker than the previous ones, leaving your skin tender to the touch. 

Dizziness turned the room over when you sat up from the bed, and you nearly considered going back to sleep, if it weren’t for the hunger that ached in your bones. 

You ventured down into the kitchen, relieved to find a pot of tea sitting out. You didn’t even bother reheating it, though the consistency was odd, thicker in its room temperature state. The texture didn’t deter you, as the more you drank, the better you felt, your dizziness and aches gone as the tea overflowed from the corners of your mouth and dripped down your chin, insatiable until there was nothing left. Wiping off your face, you went back up to your room and fell back asleep.

A knock on the door woke you up in the pitch black some hours later. You lit the candle on your bedside table before getting up to answer. You knew it was Michael, concerned about why you hadn’t joined him yet. 

Just as you got up to answer, he opened the door, letting himself into your room–except it wasn’t your room. It was his, and you supposed he could enter whenever he wanted. 

Frozen in place by his gaze alone, you stood still and silent as he approached, demeanor darker and more intense as his presence filled the room, as if his essence somehow intermixed with each breath you took. A citrusy sweetness with a bloodcurdling undercurrent of violence filled your lungs. Despite this, you felt no fear, but rather anticipation when he finally reached out and caressed your cheek, his hand freezing against your warm skin.

“Michael,” you whispered.

“Don’t fight me, sweetheart.”

And you couldn’t. Not even if you tried. His eyes took in your face with a softness that betrayed his fondness for you. His lips pressed against yours, a chaste kiss to start, but it proved to be insufficient for him, as he claimed your mouth with the fervor of a man long starved for affection. His desire for you tangible as you kissed him back, allowing his hands to roam your body above your nightgown until his fingers brushed your thighs, pushing the hem up to your hips. 

He laid you back on the bed, ridding you of your panties and slipping his fingers between your folds. “Tell me how it feels,” he said, his lips against your skin. “Tell me everything.”

Before then, you would have died rather than admit it to him, but at his urging, the dam broke. Of course your thoughts of him weren’t always innocent. Some nights, when you were sure he was elsewhere, you touched yourself to the thought of him. The confession slipped from your mouth so quickly that shame couldn’t catch you, not when Michael pushed his fingers inside you, the heel of his palm rubbing against your clit, denying you any sensation but absolute pleasure. 

“I’ve wanted you since I first saw you,” he whispered, pressing desperate kisses into your neck. “You have no idea how hard it’s been for me not to–”

Your whine interrupted his train of thought, and a knife-sharp pain jolted through you when he sunk his teeth into your throat, breaking the fragile skin. His fingers curled inside you, a moan clawing its way out of you as you came, ecstasy pulsing through your limbs in waves that threatened to drown you in it. Spots clouded your vision and breath evaded you, the poignant scent of copper mixed with your sex made your head spin. 

“Michael, I–” You passed out, though you awoke later, curled up next to him, your body sore and more fatigued than ever. You winced when you tried to move your head, a dull ache coming from your neck. “What did you do?” you mumbled.

“Sweetheart?”

“To my neck.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, petting your hair. “I got carried away. I haven’t felt this way in a long time.”

“Me either,” you admitted. 

He smiled, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. From then on, he was ravenous, and like a woman possessed, you gave in to him every time. Nights with him blurred together as thoughts of escaping Sicily and the danger that waited for you outside of the villa walls were almost nonexistent. 

Some time later, though you’d largely stopped keeping track of the days by then, you realized your food supply was running low. Michael would go out at night and get some for you if you asked, though he never revealed where exactly he went. Still unsure of your safety from Don Manusco, you figured the farm up the road would be a good place to swipe some fruit from the orchard and anything else they might have lying around and not exactly miss.

The sun felt especially harsh when you went outside. Each step brought about unimaginable fatigue that made your bones ache. You hardly made it halfway to the farm before you had to rest beneath a large tree’s shade to rest your tired limbs and eyes. 

“Excuse me, miss? Are you okay?” 

You jolted awake, surrounded by a handful of elderly villagers from around the countryside. You recognized at least one of the older women as one of your old cafe companions in Corleone.

“I’m fine.”

The woman in question squinted at you. “Where do I know you from?”

“We’ve never met before,” you said, voice tight with panic. “I have to go. Goodbye.” You forced yourself up, using what little strength you had to return to the villa, ignoring their calls for you to wait. Exhaustion swept over you by the time you made it inside, promptly collapsing in the foyer. They had recognized you, and surely they had seen you retreat into the villa and were on their way to let Don Manusco know of your whereabouts. They’d be foolish not to with the price on your head.

Michael was nowhere to be found, and you worried that by the time you finally saw him that night, it’d be too late to tell him what transpired. Tears rolled down your cheeks as fear and guilt crept up on you. Your carelessness had put Michael in danger, too.

With no way of knowing how long it’d be until word got back to Manusco, you considered the layout of the villa, which you knew like the back of your hand, and the best place to hide if he or his men intruded in search of you.

In hindsight, the kitchen cupboard was a more obvious choice for a hiding spot, but it was the most your fatigued brain could come up with while you were panicked. 

Your instincts had been right, though. The inevitable intrusion did come.

The voices that echoed through the foyer were the same ones from the night you first arrived in the villa. You kept a hand over your mouth, the other with an iron grip around the kitchen knife. 

“Come on, Don Manusco isn’t angry with you. He just wants to talk,” one of the men called out.

“It’s a misunderstanding,” the other added. “He knows you didn’t have anything to do with your father’s schemes.”

You couldn’t take a chance on whether or not they were telling the truth. 

Footsteps approached, growing louder with each passing second. You readied yourself for attack, until you heard a blood-curdling scream rip through the night and you dropped the knife in shock. 

With all of the foolishness of your father, you opened the cupboard door. Blood pooled around the man’s head, a look of terror etched into his face, betraying his final thoughts. Your gaze lifted, and you stumbled backward, unable to comprehend the gruesome sight before you. If you hadn’t been watching Michael with your own eyes, you would have assumed an animal attack was responsible for the carnage at your feet. What more, after the initial shock wore off, an almost physical pull drew you to the spilled blood.

The villagers had been right. It wasn’t mere superstition, but reality, one more horrific than any of them could have fathomed. The unexplained murders, the livestock deaths, all by his hand. His illness a fabrication to conceal the true nature of his being, something unnatural that existed in the worlds between life and death with a hunger to match. He’d been feeding from you for weeks, allowing you to carry on believing lies. Of course you felt awful, constantly fatigued. You could only hazard a guess as to what was really in the tea you’d been drinking like a fiend.

You wished you could scream at yourself for your naivete, as if he’d help you out of the kindness of his heart and not expect something in return. Your willful ignorance of his odd behavior in exchange for refuge in the one place where you’d be safe from who you thought were the only men who wanted to harm you. But he saved you from Don Manusco and his men. He kept you alive. He could gain little from drawing out your death for so long. Unless…your eyes widened, and you looked at him in horror.

Michael spoke your name softly. “Do you understand now?”

“You–You’ve been making me like you.”

“I should have done it sooner. It’s the best way to keep you safe.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would you have believed me?”

“I guess not.”

He cupped your face in his hands, “Things won’t be that different. We’ll be together. No one will be able to hurt you.” 

“How–How much longer until I’m–”

“As soon as tonight, if you’ll let me.” Sensing your hesitation, he pressed a bloody kiss to your forehead. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whispered, overwhelmed by the urge to trust him, to commit to an eternity of all-consuming, reclusive violence with him. “I want to be with you. I want to be like you.”

His hands drifted down to your neck, his fingers digging into your pulse as he leaned in, his teeth grazing the half-healed wound he’d inflicted all those nights before. “I knew you’d make the right choice.”

[childotkw]

Oh oh! How would Tom handle a time traveling Harry who does not go to Hogwarts but instead lives in the Forbidden Forest?

Like Tom, to stay fit or something, regularly works out every morning since he was seven. (Maybe in a misguided attempt to be adopted if he was physically appealing) and saw Harry fishing at the lake right by the forest while on his daily run.

He looks eleven, too, but Tom can't remember him from the sorting. The camper waved at him and hurried back into the forest before Tom could get too close, yanking his giant set up tent into a backpack that could not have been possible without magic.

For years, Tom asks about the boy in the woods, but no one believes him because no one has seen this boy, least of all in the Forbidden Forest of all places. Tom decides to prove his real and gets distracted from his bloodline.

Meanwhile, Harry is happy being a Forbidden Forest Hermit.

cryptid!Harry lurking in the woods and becoming an urban legend that only Tom has ever actually seen? Hilarious!

Now, the important thing to understand is that Harry never meant to end up in the Forbidden Forest. It wasn’t on his to-do list.

(Not that Harry’s to-do lists were ever that well thought out, more momentous tasks distilled down into: ‘stop voldemort???’ or ‘figure out why Death is such a bitch’. But hey - at least he has a to-do list. That’s better than most people he’s met.)

Regardless.

Waking up as a tiny, underfed eleven year old in the middle of the fucking Forbidden Forest the year Tom Riddle was set to arrive at Hogwarts? Not explicitly in his plans but Harry can adapt. Harry excels at adapting to whatever bullshit situation he’s thrown into. Death thinks this little temporal hiccup will stop Harry from separating them completely and reversing the MoD stuff? ha. Fat chance.

Harry had always nursed childish fantasies of running away from the Dursleys and living in the wildness, and he’s got a year living on the run in a tent under his belt. He knows how to survive.

(He’s always known how to survive. Some days, it’s the only thing Harry thinks he can do anymore. Survive survive survive - he’s doing it so well nothing would ever kill him again)

So, setting up in the Forbidden Forest is nothing. It’s safe to live in (if you know where to go and what to avoid), and it’s protected (thanks to it’s horrific reputation), and there’s plenty of food (so long as you ask the plants before plucking their fruits and only go after non-sapients - which, honestly, is just an awful term, Harry hates it, humanity was a mistake).

Does he mean to let a baby!Tom Riddle spot him on the boy’s morning run one day? Well…’no’ sounds like a lie but it’s not the truth either. Harry was curious, okay? He’s allowed to be curious about the kid who will grow up to ruin so many lives. He’s allowed to mess with Riddle a little after all the shit he put Harry through.

It’s karma.

But. See. Harry’s not a planner (note: his to-do lists). Harry doesn’t think years and decades in advance. It’s just not how his brain works.

How was he supposed to know that the handful of times he dangled his presence in front of Tom Riddle would kick-off a small obsession in the boy?

How was he to know that Tom Riddle, tenacious bastard that he was, would take Harry’s existence as a taunt?

How was he to know that Tom Riddle would spend hours and hours thinking about him, and that the one time Harry actually got close enough for a conversation - they were both fifteen, by the way, and maybe he wanted to see if he could curb the imminent patricide, sue him - that it would ignite that small obsession into a wildfire that would burn them both?

It’s hardly Harry’s fault. He can’t be blamed. He’s the victim here!

[fromthedeskoftheminister]

Simulated doesnt mean without Consequence pt 2.

Its a quarter past midnight and we tumbl down the site, yeah yeah yeah, the feeds are finally resting, good times bad decisions. yeah yeah yea, Its a quarter past midnight, and fic is getting posted.

Part 1 can be found HERE

Part 2: Coming Soon to an Ao3 Series near you! Simulated dosent mean without Consequence   It’s a stinging ache in his hand that brings him back to himself. Tango blinks, absently notices the taste of ash in his mouth, a sharp pain in his throat, a slight ache in his wrist, a stinging pain in his knuckles and a mild headache. He blinks again. He’s lost time, but he doesn't know how much or why but there are more empty tubes than there were before and no one is around in the central bay which means getting everyone else out has been put on pause for a moment because....

  He goes down the line. Ah. Doc's out. And given the number of prosthetics and other cybernetics the man has? Well, the hermits on welcoming duty are probably having a time of it wrangling the good doctor away from his lab and or into medical. Depending. Ok. So, he's lost some time, but not as much as he thought but why did he?

  Frantic motion from the corner draws his eye and he turns slightly to see Jevin waving at him. Confused he waves back. Jevin goes formless for a moment, slumping slightly before literally pulling himself back together. It’s... relief? Tango thinks as he watches Jev pantomime breathing at him. Which is good if a bit weird, given that Jevin is quite literally a slime and breaths through diffusion and not with lungs on account of not having any? Tango himself is breathing normally, despite the weird taste in his mouth and the pain in his throat.

  He sees the moment that Jevin realizes that he’s not comprehending. The slime pulls in on himself shrinking ever so slightly before wibbling and pointing to the pod kitty-cornered from him. The pod where all Tango can see is someone’s back from where they're splayed-out face down on the floor.

  Short term memory kicks in. It hits him.

               Impulse.

       Impulse collapsed.

  Impulse collapsed and Tango is trapped. He's stuck waiting for his tube to depressurize and THERE ARE NO HERMITS OUTSIDE THE PODS IN THE MAIN BAY.

  He breaths in, breaths out, ignores the little jet of flame that escapes through his clenched teeth. Jevin clearly sees it and pushes himself closer to the glass, watching unblinking with unmistakable worry.

  Ah. Ok. That's what happened last time. He lost his cool, lost control, and probably burned off the extra oxygen in his pod. Right. That tracks. It also explains his sore throat and mild headache. He breaths in again, holds it, and exhales a long steady stream that this time, thankfully, comes out flameless.

  He points at Impulse’s pod, cocks his head in question, and makes exaggerated breathing motions. Jevin nods and flashes him a thumbs up.

Right. Ok. He runs his clawed through filamentous blond hair, before tugging slightly on the strands as he thinks. Impulse will be fine, he tells himself. He's breathing normally, or so Tango is choosing to believe. Jevin would...well…probably notice if he wasn't. Hopefully.  Maybe?  Dang it, there has got to be something that he can do other than just waiting.

  Staring vacantly across the room Tango starts mentally running through his options, discarding most of them just as quickly as he thinks of them.  His eyes suddenly refocus on Impulse's Pod. Had Impulse moved?  Tango couldn’t be sure. Was what he thought he saw just the product of wishful thinking? No. There it was again. There was definitely movement in Impulse's Pod. Tango held his breath and leaned forward, hoping that it was Impulse pushing himself upright before jumping back as far as the pod would allow as the back of Impulse's shirt started writhing and roiling. As if something was trapped and trying to escape. Had Impulse somehow managed to pick up a bit of the void? Was that even possible?

  He waved at Jevin and pointed at Impulses pod, head cocked in a questioning matter. The shrug and mildly disturbed look he got in response did not fill him with confidence in the slightest.

  As suddenly as it started, the movement stopped. Tango held his breath. One, two, three... And when nothing happened, he let it out. Clearly whatever that had been, it was over. Unfortunately, it being over didn't seem to be bringing Impulse any relief however. Tango winced in sympathy as Impulse let out a full body shudder before rolling over, seemingly curled over his knees in discomfort or pain. The entire thing was hard to watch and Tango laid his hand upon the glass wishing yet again that he could do something.

 Another spasm from Impulse, this one accompanied by a visible wet patch  on the shirt had him throwing himself violently against the glass.  A wet, glossy black mass oozed out from under the shirt erupted from Impulse's back.  It collided against the walls of the glass tube with what was probably audible in the main bay, with a wet squelchy thud. The mass rose up and strained against the glass and hung suspended for a moment before collapsing inwards completely hiding Impulse from view.

  Startled red eyes met shocked black ones and Tango didn't need to be able to hear to hear Jevin's startled exclamation of "What in the Hels?"

  The black mass obscuring Impulse from view surged upwards yet again, this time punching through the glass as if it were mere paper. Glass and warped copper framing seemed to hang suspended in the air as time seem to crawl to a stop.  Tango was frozen in place as the scene advanced in fits and starts like bad stop-motion animation.  The dark mass continued to expand upwards. Flashes of light caught and rebounded off of the slowly falling shards reminiscent of torchlight on deepslate diamond ore or nether stars on black concrete. Despite being unable to hear through the tube Tango’s mind conjured the distorted chimes as fragmented metal and glass hit the grating on the floor one by one.

  Jerkily the darkness seemed to reach its fullest extent.  Instead of an amorphous mass it unfurled to reveal not some sort of void parasite but instead massive wings. The wings flexed slightly, a stretch of some sort. The odd angle and lighting of the room highlighted bones of gold, gilded claws and dark purple swirling patterns within the wing membrane. Tango can only stare in awe.  While he knew Impulse had wings, he’d never seen them like this. In fact, he can’t recall when he had last seen Impulse's wings at all, let alone shown off to their fullest extent like this.

  And then just like that, time snaps back to normal like a broken tripwire. Everything comes crashing down to the floor, glass, metal, wings and all. Tango stares, uncomprehending as he watches the wings fall, heading straight for the jagged edges of the pod and there's no visible attempt at all from Impulse to control their descent.

  He’s distantly aware of a shattering noise, a new ache across his knuckles and a momentary sharper pain in his foot as he scrambles across the room. Tango detours slightly by the central console on the way and slams his hand down on the very obvious emergency release button.  That takes care of the immediate danger to Impulse's wings.  It also has the side effect of releasing everyone else and the room is full of hissing as all the remaining active pods start to decompress, their glass enclosures starting to slide into the floor. He’s got no time to check on everyone else, as he rushes over to Impulse's pod as his friend’s wings crash to the floor.  Hopefully, the glass had retracted enough so that they won’t be cut by the jagged edges. Tango stumbles slightly over the lip of the pod and only a quick twist prevents him from landing atop his buddy. It’s the work of a moment to brace Impulse's head with his legs while using his clawed fingers to press themselves against Impulse’s neck, just below his pointier than normal ears.

  He waits, a moment, two, and there is nothing, nothing at all. But despite the lack of pulse Impulse lets out an audible whimper.  He pushes his head into Tango's hand and Tango almost smacks himself in the face. Right. Ok. Nonstandard biology. He shifts Impulse slightly before his other hand moves to the middle of Impulse's back, right between the wings and he tries again. He waits, steadying his own breathing as he focuses on the movement under his hands. There. Thud-bump. Thud-bump. Thud-bump. Heartbeat. Faster than normal, but steady. Breathing itself is also shallow, but unobstructed and regular and Tango hisses out a sigh of relief. Right. Now that he’s found it he can monitor the pattern.

  "That sounds promising, dude." Comes Jevin's voice from right beside him and Tango jumps. Or well as much as he can situated as he is letting out a splutter of sounds. He twists slightly, and there Jevin is, standing at the lip of the pod. "Sorry, dude. Impulse alright?"

  Tango shrugs and moves his hand, sketching a couple of glyphs into the air. "Probably not?" he offers as orange and blue sparks follow his fingertips forming two disconnected corners that he separates with a quick flick. He waits for the parallel lines to start to form between them before he continues. "I mean, he’s breathing and his heart rate is steady even if it’s faster than a one tick pulse but I mean this really isn't normal so clearly somethings wrong"

  "No kidding."

  There's a pause and when nothing more seems forthcoming Tango's attention returns to the floating design in front of him and the words spilling across it, scrolling almost faster than he can read them.

  "...thought he was human." someone else murmurs from behind him and Tango snorts at that.

  "Impy? Human? Well he does like his glamours." He says offhandedly then freezes. Glamours. Shit. Maybe? And scrolls back several lines. "Someone call Skizz." he demands, frantically scanning the code in front of him, all humor gone from his voice.

  "I got it" another voice says.

  Tango makes a noise in response, uncaring of who exactly is doing that as he rereads that last line of code. He vaguely notices a gentle be-doo-do be-doo-do comes from behind him, getting closer.  Tango still isn’t really paying attention, focusing instead on Impulse's spine as he gently taps down it.  He swears slightly as pale lavender and gold glyphs glimmer into existence. They look ragged and worn down. None of them appear to be at full strength with a few only barely visible. Some of the glyphs that Tango knows Impulse should have are either shattered or have disappeared entirely.  That’s clearly not good.  As he watches, another fades out, then breaks with a sort of audible snap, and Tango can feel Impulse's jaw start to rearrange itself from where its pressed against his leg. Crap.

  He breaths in, breaths out a steady stream of white blue flame. Tango reaches into the conflagration and twists a thread free. Tango looks at it for a moment "Devs beyond I hope this works" he mutters and brings it down, touching it to the weakest of the glyphs. Blue white meets gold, and the entire line flares. It pulses, once, twice as the lilac that should be royal purple is overwhelmed and replaced but now a regularly flickering blue as Tango feeds more of the fire woven thread into it.

  And just in time too, as a number on the display ticks over to zero, and an excited "PERALIEPOP" sounds right next to his ear.  "Whazzup Buddeh?"

 "Skizz." Tango all but growls cutting off any response Pearl, of course its Pearl, might give.

"Top?" comes the confused voice of Skizzleman from the comm next to him.

"Can you call Impulse?" He asks, watching the depleted number, waiting, hoping that it'll tick up.

"Dippledop? Sure, why? Isn't he with you?"

"Nonono, I mean Call Impulse," he says, emphasizing the last two words. He can almost hear Skizzleman's blink before what he has asked for clicks, "OH! Oh. Yeah. What's wrong with Professor Dippledop?"

"Best guess? Cascading Glamour failure? With," he squints at the lines he'd highlighted, "Aural exhaustion and a compounding geas? I think? I'm not fluent in this, man. His glyphs and mine are very, very different things."

"But are they holding?" Skizz asks over what sounds like chests or shulkers  being flung open.

"No. I'm holding them for him. He's out, Skizz," Tango mutters.  He breathes a sigh as the number he’s been watching finally starts to tick upwards.

"Right." The sounds of more shuffling comes over the line. "Ok. I’ve got everything. Give me 5 minutes to set up then drop your hold, unless you wanna come with him."

"Cant. Someone's gonna have to summonificate him to season 9 when we get there."

"Gotcha, gotcha buddy. Right, set a timer, I'm doing this on the dot, Catch ya later Pop n Top."

  There was a click as the call disconnected and Tango took another glance at the glyphs on Impulse's back. They were pulsing now, in time with to the slowing heartbeat.

"Ok." he announced to the room at large, "Now he'll be Ok." he looked up at the crowd of hermits who had gathered around him. "Or he will in 5 minutes. No one suffering decomp sickness? I didn’t bother to check what the levels were at before I hit the release."

Theres a general murmmer of all goods, and a couple of doing fines and he nods, attention dragged back down to Impulse who still isnt.

"I've set a timer," Said Pearl. "And we're fine, but you need some bandages, mate"

Tango blinked at her, "What?"

"I got it," said Zed, pushing through a group of hermits, carrying a small white box.

"But I'm fine?" Tango protested as Jevin gestured towards his foot.

"You're really not dude, you left a trail."

"I left a what?"

Jevin doesn’t answer, just gestures. Tango looks back at the rest of the bay. It’s more of a mess than he realized. Shards of metal and glass are scattered across the room, radiating outwards not only from Impulse's pod but also from his own. A strange colored goopy trail of footprints appears on the concrete by the central console and then disappears again on the grating. He squints at it, confused to see what looks like blood mixed with suspension fluid. "Who's bleeding?"

"You, Tango. Foot. Now!" Zed says.

Well that answers that question Tango thought. "Kinda attached to those Zed."

"And we're kinda attached to you. Foot. Now."

  Tango's prevented from answering as Pearl states, "Tango, let go whatever it is you’re holding for Impulse in 5... 4... 3... 2... 1" and an alarm goes off, shrill and right in his ear. Tango winces and pulls his hands back, swiping through the thread that’s now trailing off into nothing and it fades. The glyphs on Impulses back fade slightly, but no one gets a chance to see by how much because moments after he's let go, there’s a “vworp” and all that’s left where Impulse was is a shower of purple particles, redstone dust and a few gold nuggets.

  There’s a moment of stunned disbelief, and Tango can feel everyone’s eyes on him as he stands, scooping up the redstone and gold which he pockets. He'll figure out the enscryption on the gold later so that he knows where he’s gonna have to summon Impulse from, but his job is done now and he is very aware that his foot hurts. "Ow!" he says looking down at it, and at the smear of blood that is oozing out from under his right foot.

  It’s his ow that breaks the spell apparently, as the hermits around him start clamoring for answers as Zedaph tugs him to sit grabbing his foot and holding it hostage. Looking at this crowd of goofs that he calls family it’s all Tango can do to not laugh as most of them try to reign in their curiosity as they take turns making sure everyone else is all right some of them clearly itching to address the winged elephant which is no longer in the room. He knows he needs have to give some sort of answer for them eventually but it can wait, he thinks with a wince as Zedaph removes a piece of glass from his foot.  He just hopes he can come up with something reasonable explanation wise until he has a chance to talk with Impulse and figure out just how much his buddy is o.k. with the other hermits knowing.

[neo-my-geo]

It's migration season!

Certified spycrab factoids below the cut!

Did you know?

The wild spycrab's natural habitat is the shores of Banana Bay, but they summer in the alpine regions of the United States.

Unlike most species of crustacean, spycrabs typically prefer to reside on dry land. They become dehydrated very easily because of this, so they thrive near sources of water.

Spycrabs are technically classified as a species of false crab due to the fact that they have eight limbs instead of ten. Other species that fall under this classification include hermit crabs, porcelain crabs, and squat lobsters!

Spycrabs glow under ultraviolet light.

Spycrabs earned their name by being incredibly adept at using their environment to disguise themselves - some have even been seen hiding under cardboard boxes to ambush prey!

Despite typically residing in groups of five or less, spycrabs migrate in massive swarms twice a year. This is likely due to large numbers reducing the risk of individual injury or predation as they travel through unfamiliar areas.

While they are able to walk in all directions, spycrabs prefer side-to-side.

Spycrabs are covered in microscopic hair-like structures called setae - they help them perceive the world around them!

Due to not having a way to source cigarettes, non-domesticated spycrabs smoke the fallen cigarette butts left behind by wild spies.

Spycrabs have unusually long lives for crustaceans, with an average lifespan of 82 years.

Spycrabs don't molt as often as most species of crustacean; they tend to only do it every three to four years. This can be attributed to their long lifespans and slower growth rates.

The most common varieties of spycrab are red and blue; purple, green, and yellow varieties have been spotted in the wild, however!

Unlike the hermit crab, their closely-related cousin, spycrabs have eyes that are set directly in their faces instead of on stalks. This has been theorized to be because they are apex predators in their natural habitat.

Spycrabs are one of the only species of false crab that are legally classified as a group 1 carcinogen. They are not recommended for consumption by humans.

Have you been considering keeping a domestic spycrab as a pet? They are unique and challenging to care for, but there aren't many things more rewarding than a happy spycrab.

Spycrabs grow bored very easily and aren’t recommended for first-time crab parents. Make sure to keep them occupied with enrichment provided by decks of cards, books of a third-grade reading level or lower, and car magazines.

Spycrabs are social creatures! Never keep a solitary spycrab, as they can become depressed without company.

The spycrab’s diet consists of algae, small clams, caviar, small mammals, snails, and cigarettes. While a spycrab can survive just fine on bagged crab chow alone, the enrichment provided by these foods will keep them happy and healthy.

When caring for a domesticated spycrab, consider supplementing extra chitin in their diet to keep their exoskeleton strong and healthy.

When not encouraged to exercise, spycrabs will become lazy and lethargic. Consider keeping their cigarette carton at the top of an incline that they must traverse to reach it.

Spycrabs are prone to sudden bouts of aggression, especially when they feel personally wronged. Remember that most threats made by a spycrab are empty ones, but it’s still important to get to the root of the issue and understand why they feel upset.

Spycrabs lack the ability to digest alcohol the way humans can; it is not recommended that owners give them wine, no matter how hard they ask. Consider substituting it with grape or cranberry juice, as most of them can’t tell the difference.

[shatteredblueflame]

For hermitober day 6, moon!

Pearl-centric, set before hermitcraft season 6 but before, during, and after Empires season 1. It makes sense, trust me

[theminecraftbee]

so in the smallishsona au, I think I’ve mentioned some of this, but joel’s velvet room situation is as follows:

his velvet room itself takes the form of a small yacht, fording its way across an endless sea of souls. obviously, as is the case with most persona games, he mostly only sees the inside, but there’s an unnervingly endless blue sea outside. sometimes, joel swears the sea foam looks like butterflies—or maybe faces. joel has to say, if igor and jimmy aren’t lying, and the form the velvet room has taken says something about its guest—well, this has gotta be someone else’s, right? because joel’s not a big fan of water at the moment. (it is not someone else’s.)

speaking of igor and jimmy: igor is just igor, and the only canon persona character in this au (with a BIG asterisk for. the butterflies). for the non-persona fans: igor is the mysterious master of the velvet room, and helps our protagonist fuse personas. he is offputting in appearance, but despite his seemingly evil aesthetics, he is genuinely at heart a polite and kind entity who wants what is best for his guests.

helping igor is his attendants, a different one for each guest. joel’s velvet room attendant is jimmy, the only non-hermit in the au (rather intentionally, even; the fact jimmy isn’t a hermit is a fun nod to his other worldly nature). jimmy helps keep track of joel’s deck of personas in the compendium and, through joel, is going to learn about humanity. he’s also MEANT to be helping guide joel in the trials of being a wild card… but he IS jimmy.

I think joel gets to form a direct social link with jimmy and i think that link is the hanged man, pending that I don’t think of a better arcana here.

as for fusion itself: I’m going back to the “personas on tarot cards” aesthetic, except instead of forming magic circles/spreads to do fusions, the fusion ritual is shuffling a deck. for fusions, jimmy hands igor a deck, then igor takes it, shuffles the cards to fuse in, lets joel cut the deck, then pulls the top card to give to joel. other persona rituals involve other games you can play with cards… even if those games are being played with tarot cards here.

the aesthetic of jimmy having a big book for the compendium remains, though.

and those are my velvet room thoughts for the au! as I continue to formulate things…

[riacte]

So like, are we gonna talk about how there is a problem in this fandom about some creators, mostly female ccs, being critized by fans whenever they "overshadow" the more famous hermits? No shade to any of the hermits, they are wonderful and i am sure this is the last thing they wanted to happen, but i am starting to notice a pattern. And it s always with the same excuses! "They did not play by the rules" "Someone else did the work for them" "It was boring and anticlimatic". And although I can think of some cases of this happening to male ccs (well, one case, and it was to a non-hermit), women have to deal with a looot of shit every time they score a victory, and it s terrible that this is just a routine at this point. And like where do the critics come from? Are these ccs supposed to lose in purpose and act as secondary characters to those who have more views or subs? I just don t understand

Oh yeah there's definitely a misogyny / popularity problem. It's always been around, got a bit better, and now post-Covid, it's getting worse.

Women can do everything and anything and they'll be criticised by some assholes. If False was proactive and killed every reaper who came near her? She would be "mean" and "a bully". If False kept her distance? She would be "barely online" and "not deserve a win". If False was on all the time, "the trappers wouldn't have time to lay traps". If False wasn't on because of work purposes (the meeting) or to EAT (because women are human beings who LIVE), "she wouldn't have a chance to die". I found it sad to see False explain herself and justify her jokes and actions. AND that is wholly dismissive of any irl things that may or may not have been going on.

Also... the popularity gap is getting worse. Some hermits have stagnating or even negative growth in terms of viewership and subs. It's unfortunate because everyone is free to watch who they want, work with who they want, everyone has limited time and attention span, so there's no real solution. Which is why I'm all for spreading propaganda. And I feel like my mains False and Ren are in the middle in terms of this— not the most popular, not the least either, so they kind of get left out when it comes to "underrated hermits" discussions. Idk. I know this has been a problem since the birth of Hermitblr and I know from the pov of a fan I do have it much, much better than some other fans who main other people. My main duo interact alllllllll the damn time. And I know I am guilty of sticking very closely to my main povs.

We have to drown out the trolls. Be vocal about what we love. I love seeing all the nice comments on vids. <3

[crystaldoodler]

A very long post of doodles relating to @theminecraftbee ‘s smallishsona AU (sorry for the tag again). I think of this AU while wandering Tartarus, so, I’ve had a lot of time to think. This post is really long and has a lot of rambling so, I’m putting it all under the cut. I’m sorry world I have too many words and rambles in me

First up, character designs!

I used primarily their mc skins for design, with only a few rl things thrown in. But, I didn’t bring them up so the colors are off a bit.

Starting off with Joel:

He’s following the persona protagonist tradition of mostly wearing the school uniform correctly, but with some minor embellishments. I’m still debating whether or not to add more, but w/e. His signature color is green.

Then Skizz and Impulse:

The greatest dichotomy of time to design, Impulse I knocked out on the second go, but I’ve done many iterations of Skizz and I still am not satisfied with this design. The ripped sleeves looked too out there (to me, at least) but nothing else seems to work so I settled for the shirt under uniform shirt look. Something I struggled with that these two emphasize is making them look like teenagers, and what they look like, and also keep to the anime style, and also my own incompetence with drawing facial features so It’s something all of these lack in. Impulse is yellow, and Skizz is blue.

Scar and Grian are next up, Scar’s facial Scar is from summoning his persona, because he stabbed himself in the face lol. Not much to say about these guys, I settled on orange for Scar and red for grian, which I am still struggling with beacause mumbo:

is ALSO red. So I guess they are just, both? red? If you look at the party select screens in persona though, the characters have pretty strong color coding, so I guess I’ll figure something out. If anyone is still reading: help. Anyway, mumbo wins the award for wearing the uniform the most normal (except for the tie)

Last but not least, Gem!

She’s wearing a longer skirt than the usual uniforms and also some big-ass boots. Also, she’s a sea monster thing? So, I was thinking, staring at SEES cool new uniform things and thinking about the Phantom Thieves and how cool their outfits are and realized the persona games have at least some design change to separate their daily looks from shadow hunting. Even if it is only glasses in p4 lol. So, I thought maybe weapon holsters? but, that seemed a little too generic. So! I decided to combine how I normally draw the hermits (and a lot of the fandom does) as having non-human traits as the big things setting their combat looks apart. It is both a) fun to draw, b) creates an eye catching and distinctive design for combat and c) is really funny. I thought it was funny so I drew a comic about it:

and here’s a sketch of what everyone looks like and also the transformation gives them very distinct eyes, for no reason other than I think it looks cool:

mumbo is a normal human btw (or at least, he appears to be)

Welp,that’s all I got. If I look at these drawings any longer I will hate them so here they are, yippee. Also, Bee/OP, sorry for exploding; I am into persona and hermitcraft right now so this AU is like a perfect storm to give me brain rot.