🧈!!

🇵🇭 hie! she/her pfp by @bruiseli < 3 iam writer. evilbutter

[g-joja]

empty rooms (may 27, grian!)

hi there!

day 27 is grian, and i am on time for once! that being said, i did kind of cheat with this one as it is a prewritten excerpt from my novel, with a few changes… uhhh enjoy!

—- —- -

—and all of a sudden, the apartment was empty. The house sighed, like it was taking the first breath it had in a long while. Creaked into the doorways, shifted its blinds to let the light in just right. The home wasn’t fearful, nor was it furious. It simply was, in the way many of the inanimate are.

Many of the lights were still on. The studio lamp in Grian’s room, the lantern candles lit in Joel’s. Jimmy was the only one who remembered to turn his off, the only one to think about the energy bill.

But the normalcy of routine was ruined, slightly, in the places where there should’ve been people. In place of Grian’s storm of sheets layered a bare, tidy bed. The closet drawers were jammed tightly, and even the dust was softly cleaned away, leaving alien surfaces in their place. Signs of guilt lay everywhere, a please-forgive-me and i-am-sorry. The most damning? A letter strewn on the desk, no return nor forward address, written in panic and forgetfulness (despite the life cleaned sterile from the bedroom itself).

In contrast, Scar’s room sat destroyed: ransacked closets and paper balls, plants knocked to the floor and pillows in the wrong places, the door left ajar and the doorway itself chipped, as if someone had knocked into it before hurrying on his way. On his desk, there lay in precision a sheet of paper. a try again and again at writing everything, everything, resignation in the 8x11.5 space— even before you’d see the single blank paper, written not anything, anything at all.

And then, if you’d walk out of his room or Grian’s, floorboards creaking and walls whispering, you’d see the stone-granite counters, kitchen sink left full. Vase knocked over, still rolling on its side, wilted poppies drifting petals and that beautiful sunlight winking at it, that dutiful sun falling from the sky. There were only flowers in the vase, before; no need to bring it outside, let it sit among the storm, capture the rainwater and unbroken vows.

There was no levity, no room for softness anymore; not even room for flowers, however many were left. No, all of a sudden there was only room for reality. All of a sudden, they’d grown up and left this house all by itself, not to be furious or fearful but simply be.

All of a sudden, and not a moment sooner, the apartment was empty.

—- —- -

thank you so much for reading!

welcome to butter’s hermit-a-day may! i know this is pretty short </3 this is also a small descriptor of the bad boys’ base, far off into the future when scar has his own room (!!)

find me on ao3 @ evilbutter !

see you “tomorrow” <3

[g-joja]

dreaming of grief (may 23, friends!)

hi there! this is unfortunately late…

for day 23rd i wanted to try a quick dialogue exercise. this is a conversation between Grian and one of the last characters of this au! Grian’s dialogue will be in haiku form, while all of BigB’s syllables are coded in morse code (short = 1 syl., long = 2+). just wanted to try something new for an upcoming reference :)

enjoy!

—- - - -

“Things won’t stay the same.” Grian stared at the boy in front of him, both of them wavering in grip, their swords ponderous.

BigB’s eyes crinkled, the softness of the moment outweighing apprehension. “Maybe. You’d think so, right? That—“

“That nothing is permanent?”

“Nothing is permanent, yes. Life begets change. You. You transmute. Grian and Menores. Love, hate. Constant change… Impermanence ceaselessly thrives.” The swords disappear from their hands, and in their place are chains, heavy, rusted metal encircling their wrists. BigB stares at them, thinking.

Grian moves back. “Only change lasts, then.”

“Transformation grieving antiquity. Oh, how poetry lies.” The world moved around them, flipping through years like pages. The Wardwatch, the fire, the city. Grian refused to acknowledge the chaos around them.

He huffed. “You’re making no sense!”

BigB stared back at him, eyes watery, nostalgic. “Nothing’s sensible. Reason died after childhood.”

“What do you call the fire? Some hapless affair?” Glaring, Grian pulled at the chains. Like dust they dissolved, unearthing a familiar gold string underneath.

BigB turned away. The chains, the string connecting them… not something he wished to relive, even in his dreams. “The die was cast. We—“ He hesitated at the outraged sounds behind him. “The Wardwatch… could only Watch. Grian—“

“You and your Wardwatch!” He gripped BigB’s shoulder, forcing him to face him. “You never had a Blessing. By spite, you were Cursed.”

“By association? Surrender meant losing you. I chose to stay. We… we were kids.” His voice softened. “Only kids, together, afraid. Wardwatch didn’t matter. My friend mattered.”

Grian looked down, fingered the string tying them together. “Remember the bread?” He whispered.

BigB smiled. “And the sweets? Cookies, laughing together? Secret souls.”

“You would hide from your father.”

“Never wanted responsibility. Not from Wardwatch, no.”

Grian pulled on the string, slightly, pleading. “Then why return there?”

BigB’s eyes widened. Their surroundings froze, back to the desert they began in. “That I didn’t choose. The Listeners… You forgot to stay. You can’t know. I—“

Pain flared on his wrist, and BigB looked down to see the string around it burning. He cried out, trying to put it out, keep this bit of yarn alive, don’t let it die—“

“You’re right, I don’t know.” Even as the flame scorched him, Grian stood detached, speaking. “I don’t even remember. BigB is a ghost.”

“No, Grian, please don’t—“ BigB gasped, the string was blackening— “Secret soulmates, remember? Tied by string, forever— No!”

The yarn changed to ash, and with it, the desert around them. Walls shaking, sand scattering, and all the while Grian stared at BigB.

“Transformation, then,

Grieves antiquity,

For something since passed.”

—- - - -

BigB gasped awake with something akin to a sob. His heart hammered in his chest, blinking in the rising sunrays. It was only a dream. Just a dream.

BigB repeated the sentiments as he stood, greeting Ren and Etho from their neighboring bedrooms. He knew it was a dream. He shouldn’t listen to whatever dream-Grian said. It was only a dream.

Even as his words followed BigB out the door.

—- - - -

thank you so much for reading!

welcome to butter’s hermit-a-day may! bigb is a part of the wardwatch now, but what came before haunts him still, w/some cute backstory behind his character! honestly one of my favorites of this au

find me on ao3 @ evilbutter !

see you in a few minutes when i post day 27 <3

[g-joja]

back to sleep (may 22, mumbo!)

hi there!

may 22 is mumbo. and today is not may 22. that being said, i spent a while writing this, and enjoy some angst!

there are also major spoilers (!!) of my create me new au, just a warning! maybe don’t read if you’re waiting for the actual storyline lol

enjoy <3

—- —-

“Don’t fall asleep this time, Mumbo. I don’t like it when you do.”

Mumbo faltered, his grip on the doorknob loosening. Crashing guilt and frustration rushed through him, as well as a familiar sense of exhaustion. He didn’t want to be having this conversation again. He didn’t want to look back and see Grian’s shadowed eyes, see the grownups watching from behind him. The grownups were always watching the Blessed kids, like they were waiting for him. He wished everything was as simple as sleeping or not.

“Don’t worry so much,” he whispers to his friend. “I’ll be fine, I always am.”

But Grian grabs his other arm, and Mumbo can see his eyebrows crease. “But you’re sleeping for longer and longer! What if…” his voice drops to a tremble. “… what if you don’t wake up?”

Not again. Though he loved his friend, this was the one subject he could never broach. His Blessing was one of the Wardwatch’s greatest strengths— he could spy on the dreams of others, and even change them if he tried hard enough. Such a power required sleep, and although Mumbo and all the Wardwatch thought it was an easy deal, Grian happened to think otherwise.

”Stop it, Grian. Seriously. My Blessing is the one thing I can do to help. Even if I can’t see you as much as I used to… it’s worth it, don’t you see? I’m fine.”

“But I never see you anymore!” Grian whined, and stomped his foot like a child. Well, they both were, anyways— “You were only awake for a few hours, and now you’re going back to sleep? For how long this time? How much longer will you be?!”

His voice rose, attracting the attention of the adults like flies. They rushed to him, and Grian pushed them away. Mumbo stepped forward, then hesitated.

Grian was shouting now. “N—no, can’t you see? You’re hurting him! You’re hurting Mumbo! You can’t just do this!”

Mumbo’s throat tightened. Gosh, he wish Grian wasn’t such a spoon sometimes. Couldn’t he see that his Blessing was a good thing? It didn’t matter if he was asleep for days and days— he was helping!

”Grian! You need to stop! I—“ Grian reached for him again, but he pulled away. Grief shown in both their eyes, the gap between them as large as a canyon. But Mumbo turned back to his room, stepping inside as his friend fought against the hands tearing him away.

”I’m fine. Nothing’s going to happen, I’ll wake up and see you, like always. Good night, Grian.”

Mumbo pulled the covers over himself and fell asleep.

He did not wake to the heat of his home burning around him. He did not resurface at the screams of his friends. He did not pull back the covers, not once open his eyes, as the flames reached him and his dreams.

Mumbo fell asleep for the last time.

—- —- - -

When he woke again, it was to bright fluorescent light and the smell of antiseptics. Without even opening his eyes, he chased the sensation of something and he knew, with dread strong and rolling, something was wrong. He tasted dust on his tongue, and his bones creaked as he tried to sit up. His arms felt too long, his body unwieldy and foreign. He was taller. And— he brought a too-large hand up, grabbing what felt like fur on his face— he had a mustache. A mustache? He dropped his hands, trembling.

Something was wrong.

Around him the room was sterile, white and remote and unlike the soft warmness of sandstone walls. This was unlike anything he’d ever known, there were no oaken details, no dusty shelves, only pale walls and metal appliances. It was silent, too— he couldn’t even hear his breath exhale. Wait.

Something was wrong.

He considered his curse, the sleep upon sleep that chased even his waking hours. Could he have really fallen asleep so long, that the Wardwatch turned into this? Could his friends be as strangely tall or hairy, could he have—

Mumbo’s throat tightened, apprehension and shame running deep in his core. Could he have fallen asleep so long that he missed everything? It was like— like time had passed him by, like he had slept so long everyone had simply… left.

He should’ve stopped using his powers, he should’ve stayed awake and not tried to push so far. He lost years, possibly, but more than that he missed the time he could’ve been spending with his friends. The taste of grief sat heavy in his mouth. Or maybe that was the lingering grit of dust.

He rubbed his eyes, despite the fact that no tears appeared to be producing, and heaved in, deep, the first sound he’d heard since awakening. He didn’t even remember what he’d done before sleeping, or his dreams that night. He was such a spoon, he fell asleep and woke up alone. Grian would have his head for this, if he ever found out.

He buried his face in his hands, wishing for something familiar, and like a wish the door opened. Steel screeched and the click of heels sounded as two people entered, striding in only to stare at him. He lowered his hands, adjusting to the sight of the two against the light.

The one who’d entered first caught Mumbo’s attention. Bright green eyes, freckles and firey, braided hair that he swore he knew. He opened his mouth, gulping down grief as he tried to reconcile that what he dreaded had occurred. What he hoped hadn’t happened. He stood on trembling, too-long legs, and stumbled to her— but not before the person next to her moved in front.

“Mumbo, is it? Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do,” They said, pale skin and copper hair blocking his view. He tried to move past them, for a second, before he caught their eyes and stopped cold. He didn’t know this person— even as he searched his memories, he knew this to be true— yet he they were familiar, deeply, somehow.

“That’s right. You know me, don’t you? Now, do me a favor…” They reached for his forehead, the sudden movement jerky and unsettling, like a zombie. Before he could react, they had latched on, five fingers gripping his forehead.

Mumbo balked, trying to tear them away. What was happening? Surely he didn’t really know this person, did he? Behind the sudden attack, a voice sounded— so achingly similar to the girl he knew, it hurt— voicing concerns that Mumbo couldn’t focus on, for the grip on his head grew stronger and tighter.

Mumbo had a hard time thinking at all beyond the pressure and the confusion pounding through his skull. He stopped fighting— hands loosening, knees pitching forward— and through the sudden shift, the odd inability to move, the keen sense that this had happened before, he heard a voice. It wasn’t one he knew from his memories, yet it was one he recognized all the same.

“Sleep, zombie. It is not yet your time.”

—- —-

thank you so much for reading!

welcome to butter’s hermit-a-day may! may 22 is Mumbo, and honestly i had so much fun writing this! cleo and the zombies in wild life is so peak, and i couldn’t help but include it in my au <3

find me on ao3 @ evilbutter and see you tomorrow... maybe haha

[g-joja]

red dawn (may 19, etho!)

hi there!

may 19th is etho, the man, the myth and the legend! in my au, he’s very much a vigilante type, being seen as both a hero and a criminal in the eyes of the people ;)

enjoy!

-

“We aren’t peaceful. we aren’t strays, lost, confused. We are the fire of the people, we are the light and the fuse.”

The King’s voice rang over the crowd, eyes clinging to each syllable like gold to the poor. People stopped in their tracks, wandered from the alleyways and the shadows to listen to the man standing on cardboard boxes speak, call out to them as if they were his own. Ren had that effect— authoritative but human, theatrical yet personal in a way no other ruler could be. At least in Etho’s experience; he didn’t have much of it, to be fair.

His job wasn’t to listen, though. No, he was meant to scan the fields, employ his field experience in the busy streets of the city. Look for anyone shifty-eyed, lingering behind corners, reaching for sharp edges. And of course, as Ren had pleaded, look extremely intimidating when doing so.

So Etho stood tall, arms crossed, over the mass of people, doing his best to give a sense of danger while still maintaining focus. He was an instrumental part of the Red Ward, after all. Every outing, every piece of media shown with the famed Red King, Etho must be present as well. As the Ward’s White Night.

Even if the name originated long before their little militia team.

He thought back to his days before the Red Ward, before he had moved to the city and before everything had gone wrong. He was just a soldier, serving his time in the fortress that made up the capital of the South. As far as he knew, Ren was entertaining a career in Southern politics; but it’s not like he ever knew him back then, as foreign as their roles were to each other.

Etho had climbed the ranks of the military quickly— ribbons, medallions all a blur in his mind. He wasn’t even fighting with any sort of purpose; he simply knew the Wardwatch had a future he desired to protect. He shouldered his prizes, the greatest of all a fur coat given to him by a retreating Northern general, and wielded his sword.

The white of the fur, and the way he fought as if time were but a passing thought— that was what earned him the moniker of White Night. Not as a pseudonym to some sort of knight, though he guessed he might have appeared that way, but simply as what he was. A soldier. For the future of the Wardwatch.

Blinking back to the present, he watched as the crowd multiplied, people hooting and grinning in adoration. Etho thought of his former purpose, to preserve the future of a long-gone nation. He might have failed in doing so; he might have lost everything he worked for. But in meeting Ren, he found another way.

He glanced at his friend, gold crown shining as he gestured to the crowd. Faintly, Etho smiled to himself. Yes, he had found another way— not by keeping the future, perhaps, but by creating another light.

By giving dawn to another Night.

—-

thank you so much for reading!

welcome to butter’s hermit-a-day may! today we learned a little about the Red Ward, how the White Night came to be! very exciting woohoo

find me on ao3 at evilbutter !

see you tomorrow <3

[g-joja]

blurry stars (may 18, au!)

hi there!

i uhh don’t have anything written for today… I do, however have a prewritten short battle between Hotguy and someone I have yet to introduce ;)

enjoy <3

—- - —- -

“Quite the view, isn’t it?” Grian asked, refusing to look over his shoulder.

The voice behind him responded. “Do you mean the stars? They’re kind of blurry against all the smog.”

“Nah, I see them pretty clearly from here. If only you had an imagination; there’s all sorts of constellations.”

“I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”

”Like there, the broken square; above your HQ, you see it?”

”… There’s nothing there.”

Grian snorted. ”Surely you’re aware of the concept of clarity. I mean, even if all you lackeys don’t have an ounce of clear sight.”

That soft, contemptuous laugh. ”Had to ruin a pretty moment, didn’t you, Cuteguy?”

Grian heard the crunch of feathertips, the stretch of a bowstring pulled taut. He let out a breath, vicious anticipation zinging through his pink bracers, bouncing on the toes of his coral-laced boots. There he went again, souring the conversation. “What can I say? I have a talent for destruction.”

A pause, behind him. Too soft, Grian mocked. All he needed was that hesitation, the smallest second as he reached inward. His Blessing. He uncurled his fingers from his indented palm, baring his hand to the sky as invisible strings pulled on his knuckles. A second, that’s all he needed, to pull the blanket of shadow over his opponent’s eyes, lurch forward and push the small dagger into his shoulder.

But the archer caught his wrist, reflexes acting in place of sight. Grian was pulled forward, barely managing to duck a blow as he fought to pry fingers off his arm. No. He couldn’t be trapped, not like this. He slid another knife from his leg brace, lashing wildly, panicked when the knife followed through unopposed. Just one second, he begged. He only needed a second to create another illusion. He undid the shadows, the makeshift blindfold falling from his enemy’s face, and in the same second another filled the gap where Grian stood.

Concrete roof and railing— even his shadow disappeared under the gray, gray, gray, before his figure was obscured entirely. He clenched the knife and slashed the arm holding him, head light with relief when he was free. He stood for a moment, catching his breath as the lackey turned wildly. Normally, he would slip away in the confusion, let the memory of his barbed words and pink visor fade.

But Grian wanted this to stick. He didn’t want to slink past, leave this too-soft man forgetting him. The wound on his arm would leave a scar, but everybody had those. He thought back to the statement he made before— a talent for destruction. A dropaway thing, no real meaning behind it. But if emotional guilt had worked the first time, surely it would work again. So he shuffled to the railing, cradling his wrist, and glimpsed the fire escape below. He let his illusion drop.

”You really are blind, you know,” Grian called out. He caught the bewilderment in the other’s face before twisting, rose ribbons fluttering behind, over the railing.

”Don’t think us villains aren’t always watching, Hotguy.”

—- —- -

thank you so much for reading!

i know this is a huge circle back to day 4 of HaDM, but i felt bad that i did just leave Grian’s words entirely unexplained. that being said, there’s a good chance this work will be removed at some point because this was one version i had for chapter 1 of my main storyline </3

find me on ao3 at evilbutter !

see you tomorrow!

[g-joja]

rain in the tiles (may 17, joel!)

hi there! sorry, it’s been a while ʅ（◞‿◟）ʃ

i got invested in a new video game, so i went on an unexpected side quest, but we are going back to hermit a day with yesterday’s hermit— Joel!

this takes place in my hotguy au. flashback. once again. enjoy <3

—-

Joel shivered as he felt raindrops slide down his back. It was cold, the wind threatened to knock him off course, but stubborn he fought, stomping down the city streets.

He didn’t know where he was going. For some reason, he’d followed the Listeners back to the city; and now he was stuck in some random, stupid place.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He glared at the empty streets, lights flickering against the harsh hail. His only mercy was that nobody was outside in this weather— he knew there would be more than stares at some random kid in rags, walking alone. By himself.

Joel had never been by himself before.

To be fair, he was only a kid; kids weren’t supposed to be left alone, that much he could figure out. But even at the Wardwatch, in the sunny heat and sand, always someone had their eyes on him— whether it be his Family, the grownups, or his friends.

Joel hated being alone.

He sniffed, trying not to think about what had led him here. This moment, christened with solitude and rain. Wandering sullenly through a foreign city, no idea where he was, where he was going. He only knew not to think about them— his friends. He was here because of them, after all. He needed to find them.

Joel lifted his head, rain catching on his lashes as he spied a dim light in the distance. Not the bluish-green of the streetlights, nor the glint of moonlight in the puddles; no, this was a sign of life. Perhaps they could help?

He sped up, pushing his soggy hair to one side as he trained his eyes on the light. A storefront, striped curtains and checkered floors. He stopped at the door, fat beads of rain running off the canopy and falling onto his head. Joel gripped the cold metal of the door. Pulling it open, he slipped inside.

Strange, soft music played, like the copper tin of an old music player. Seats were arranged around wooden tables, a scratched display case lay empty and from behind the counter, and the fluorescent lighting of another room glowed. Despite the music, nothing moved; nobody entered upon Joel’s entrance, only the soft drip of his soaked clothes made any sort of motion. Joel hesitated— did this constitute breaking and entering?— before shuffling to the silver bell on the countertop. He dinged it softly.

“Hello? Is somebody there?” He heard a voice behind the counter. It was sweet, high-pitched, it almost reminded him of— no. Don’t think about them.

He peeked over the top of the counter. Behind it, a girl with bright pink hair and a toothy smile stared back at him.

“My name is Joel,” he said without a second thought.

Her grin widened, and she stuck out her hand. “I’m Lizzie! Grandma, come over here! We have a guest!”

- —- —- —-

thank you so much for reading!

welcome to butter’s hermit-a-day may! joel is one of my main watches, i love the whimsy of his base and his personality. he’s so silly <3

excuse the literary differences between this and past references to Lizzie i changed my mind; but i hope you enjoyed the small account of Joel and Lizzie’s meet cute!

see you tomorrow (hopefully)!

[g-joja]

red king, white night (day 13, ren!)

hi there!

yesterday we met a lot of the Listeners, including Martyn; so seeing as today is ren’s day, you can guess what this may be about ;) this is set near the time of “love didn’t shoot him, he swears”, and introduces our third and final team of my au!

YAOI GO !

enjoy!

- —- -

“Still writing?”

Ren looked up from his notes, squinted through the dim candlelight at Etho smirking at him from across the room. His fur coat was dirty and matted from the rain, and his headband had almost fallen into his eyes. He kept his eyes on Ren, even as he closed the front door and unlaced his boots.

”What happened to you, my guy? You’re looking worse for wear.” Massaging his writing hand, Ren stood up, pushing his desk chair behind him and moving to his friend. Like habit, he took the coat from Etho and hung it, as the man undid his headband and strode to the kitchen table.

”Yeah, and you’re looking so much better,” he retorted. He heaved the bag he’d been carrying onto the tabletop with a thud, and both of them watched as he undead the knots across the top.

”You sure it’s real?” Ren asked, reluctantly voicing his doubts yet needing to be sure, all the same. This was the first step of many. They couldn’t fail here.

Etho nodded, then pulled open the draw. Inside, a glittering powder sat, ashy and volatile. Gunpowder. Ren gulped, despite knowing it couldn’t hurt them. Not in this form.

“Job well done,” he whispered. “The source was right?”

”Yup,” Etho responded.

With both him and the gunpowder in place, Ren turned back to his desk, not the only haphazard mess of ink and paper in their dingy apartment. Sat everywhere were papers, maps, and bits of redstone— but unlike the rest of the mess, his desk remained the only essential.

Essential to the Red Ward, of course.

For strewn across newspaper clippings and scribbled notes, drafts of the same work repeated itself over and over, but with a few changes here and there. Ren’s next speech— the one that would matter, the one that would change the battlefield of the city— lay in front of him. If only he could write it. Instead, he’d been squatting on this current draft for forever, trying to think of a good alternative to ‘rectify’.

Frowning, he pulled at the edge of the paper before coming to sit in the kitchen. Etho turned to him, holding two cups of steaming tea. He grabbed his— green tea with sugar, how he always had it this late into the night— and sipped it quietly. Next to him, Etho did the same.

He recalled Etho’s mission tonight. Rendezvous with their source at a nearby gunpowder factory, break in, and steal— not enough for the stockers to be suspicious the next day, not enough to slow him down considerably, but just enough— enough to power the weapons he’d been building.

There was a reason people called him the White Night. Etho was a genius, after all; He simply needed tools to fight.

Now, his friend looked up from his tea, steam obscuring his scarred eye as it narrowed at Ren. “So, Ren… where’d you go last night?”

Ren bolted straight in his seat, then cursed his lack of stoicism. “Oh, nowhere… why? Did you… hear the door close or something?”

Etho snickered, and Ren slouched in his seat. Of course he had. He’d been too excited leaving, he was probably stomping all over the place. ”No, ‘course not, just happened to hear you come home humming.”

Ren sighed. He could lie, of course, say he simply went for a walk… but a walk for a few hours was hard to believe. It wasn’t that Etho had suspicions about his commitment to the Red Ward; after all, he had been the one to start it. Instead, it was more his friend probably knew him well enough to know his feelings by now.

“I was out. With a guy.”

Now, Etho grinned, enthusiasm returned after the ordeal outside. “Really? You’ve never told me any of this! What’s his name?”

Ren rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth upturned. “He told me to call him Martyn. Dunno his last name, just met him a few days ago… but we really hit it off. I guess.”

”You don’t know his last name?! How are you meeting up with this guy without knowing who he really is? He could be a serial killer or something!”

At this, Ren snorted, and raised an eyebrow. “A serial killer? Really?”

Etho shot him a look, scoffing. “Don’t give me that! You know it’s different for us. It’s for the cause, anyways.”

“No, of course not, my dude.” Ren held up his hands, placating. “But I feel the possibility of two serial killers meeting to be a bit too high. Plus, he seems like a good guy! What’re the chances?”

”Whatever you say,” Etho laughed. “Where’d you meet him?”

Ren smiled softly. “We were seated next to each other in the theater. We talked before, then went out for drinks after. It was nice.”

Etho leaned back, staring at Ren. He hesitated for a moment, then spoke. “You like him.”

“…I do. It—it’s crazy, I know, but—“

“Does he know?”

Ren paused. Blinked at Etho, twisted his mouth before responding. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t give up everything we’ve worked for for him.”

“Do you want him to know?”

He thought about everything Etho and him had done to establish the Red Ward. The lives taken, goods stolen, past unchangeable, stained… Then he thought about the people they’d saved. The citizens they’d found, reached out to, called for as one of their own. He couldn’t take that away from them.

He shook his head slowly, tracing the image of Martyn in his head. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Etho looked at him sadly, at a loss for words. Then he lifted his mug of tea high above his head, staring at the chipped ceramic. “For the Red Ward. And its Red King.”

Ren gave a quiet laugh, feeling the weight of a crown as he raised his own mug. “For the Red Ward. For its Red King and White Night.”

- —- -

thank you so much for reading!

welcome to butter’s hermit-a-day may— and welcome to the Red Ward! consisting mainly of Ren, Etho, and another presently unnamed character, they are a group of ragtag rebels who picked up the fight after the Wardwatch but who do so very differently!

see you tomorrow <3

[g-joja]

rosebush thorn (may 12, pearl!)

hello!

welcome to day 12 of HaDM, and the next character in my Create Me New AU— Pearl! this is i fear another prequel… to the prequel, to the prequel, and occurs around the same time as the “before” in “if a tree falls”!

enjoy!

- —- —- -

Rosebushes. Pearl adored the sight of them, red blooms and green vines and that plum-purple the leaves shown. The flowers themselves were quite delicate, if she shook them too harshly petals would fall to the ground. She only wished the adorning thorns were as easy to remove. Too often had she cut herself trying to pull them out, frustration intermixing with confusion— for how could something so pretty have such sharp teeth?

She gasped as blood beaded on her thumb, a brighter red than the flowers, feeling slightly betrayed by the stubborn thorn. Frowning, she gripped the rose tighter as the prick began to itch. She could simply bandage it up inside, or…

She closed her eyes. Reaching inward, she imagined the rose and her thumb connected by a string. She felt the vitality of the rose, golden and pulsing, and the red of the wound, blood slowly dripping from it. She felt the string connecting the two, yellow turning crimson— and yanked on it. Hard. The string fell, disconnected from the rose.

Pearl opened her eyes. She felt the odd sensation of her skin stitching itself together, the last drip of blood falling to the ground under her. In her other hand, the rose had turned an foreign shade of brown, red petals withered into black. Now, when she shook the rose, the entire flower head broke off, tumbling to rest next to the bloodspots. Pearl sighed, frustration replaced by guilt. She probably shouldn’t have done that, traded a mere paper cut for the life of a plant.

Then again… it would’ve died eventually. She pivoted on her feet, skipping back inside.

‘Pearl! Where’ve you been?” Scott frowned at her, brows creasing in worry. He never did like it when she used her Blessing freely. Her brother crossed his arms, attempting to look firm despite the obvious height difference between them. Pearl tousled his blue hair, refusing to answer as she crossed the room into the kitchen.

Despite being taller than him, she wasn’t tall enough to reach across the counter yet; the other Listeners would taunt them both, telling them they’d never be big kids. Pearl wanted to be older, taller already. It wasn’t fair.

But you’re the one with the Blessing, she thought to herself, and smiled. Grabbing a leftover carrot, she munched on it, bouncing on a nearby chair as Scott watched unhappily. “If you want a carrot, go get one yourself, ya big baby!” Pearl chided.

Scott looked away. “I’m not tall enough,” he muttered.

“Oh, you two,” said a voice behind them. Both of them whipped around to see Cleo grabbing a handful of carrots. Despite being slightly younger, she was taller than both of them. “Here. You wanted these, right?” They huffed.

Pearl grinned. “Cleo! You’re back from training already? Is Martyn back, too?”

“No, the grownup Listeners wanted to talk to him. Don’t ask me, I wasn’t invited,” Cleo answered, crossing her arms.

“‘Course you weren’t invited, why would they want you there? He’s the Heir, after all,” Scott asserted.

“Well—“ Cleo sputtered. “Who asked you, anyways?”

“You’re acting like children,” Pearl groaned. Mentally, however, she was spiraling. Perhaps Cleo hadn’t figured it out yet, but Martyn was only called for when they wanted his help as Heir of the Listeners. And they only wanted such help when there was trouble.

“Are the grownups in the office? I’m going to go.” Pearl stood up suddenly, breaking the building tension.

Cleo scrunched her nose. “W-wait, you can’t just barge in there! There might be something, like, important.”

Scott scoffed. “Martyn? Doing something important? Have you met the guy?” He met Pearl’s eyes and smiled mischievously. “Lead the way. I’ll be right behind you.”

Pearl nodded, then turned, striding forward. At the corner turn, Pearl heard Cleo mumble. “Can’t for the life of me understand why…”

Another turn, another marble hallway, and they slowed upon seeing the office door. Although much of the Listeners’ headquarters was off-limits to the kids, this door was especially restricted. They shouldn’t be down this corridor at all, really.

Pearl turned to Scott. “Right, I’ll listen in and you guard the other end of the hallway. Tell me if you heard anybody coming.”

Scott nodded, then silently raced back the way they came. Pearl crept up slowly, before—

The door opened. A man in a white uniform, the Listeners’ general choice of clothing, stood above her. Pearl froze, heart quickening as she realized she’d been caught.

“Ah, the little Blessed of Correction. Normally, I’d ask you what you’re doing here, but…”

He crouched down, and through her fear Pearl caught beady eyes and a thin, sly expression. She didn’t want to know what it meant. “Thankfully, you get a pass this time. Come into the office, and— close the door on your way in, won’t you? We wouldn’t want anything getting in.” He looked at Pearl. “It’s drafty outside, after all.”

Pearl gulped, his meaning paralyzingly clear. She followed him inside to see another man and Martyn already seated. When his friend saw her, his eyes widened, and he gripped his seat as if fighting the urge to escape. The first man pulled out a seat. Pearl sat.

“Now, I’ve already explained a bit of this to Martyn, but you’ll be instrumental in the Listeners’ future, Pearl.” He settled in at the other end of the table between them. “See, we received intel on a Wardwatch settlement, all the way out in the South. It’ll be fortified, and filled with Blessed just like you— we know of their identities, at least some of them. We’ve arrived at a solution for how to deal with this… stain upon the continent.”

Pearl was sweating, heart sinking in her chest as she realized this wasn’t mere trouble at all. Whatever it was, she had a sickening sense this would change her, life would be unable to go back after this.

“You. You and Martyn, the Corrector and the Heir; a siege upon the fortress, and you two at the forefront.”

Pearl gulped. “But— but my Blessing has nothing to do with fighting! All I can do is heal; why would you need me?”

The man smiled, and Pearl wished she never saw such a thing. It was worse than his frown. “Exactly why we need you. The Heir can alter our prisoners as we desire; but you see, Corrector, we need to keep these prisoners. Your task is to keep them from… harm, let’s call it. The Blessed will be in dire stress after the siege; they’ll need someone to heal their wounds, at the very least, so that we can rehabilitate them later.”

Pearl knew there would be no rehabilitation. The Listeners didn’t keep prisoners out of mercy; they needed them for something else. And to keep a Blessed captive, no matter what powers they were endowed with… the Listeners must have a plan. Pearl didn’t like it.

“And if I were to say no?” Pearl asked. She had to.

The man laughed, deep and treacherous like he wanted her to say it. “Then you and your brother would be back on the streets, starving and alone. You think the criminals out there would be very kind to Blessed like you? They can’t even stand mention of the old Blessed. You won’t survive a day.”

Her heart pounded, her mouth went dry. Were they right? Would she be sentencing her and her brother to death? She didn’t want to have a part in whatever terrible plan the Listeners had, she knew the blood that ran between them and the Wardwatch was deep and dark; but what choice did she have? She had to protect her brother. At all costs.

“I’ll do it.” Something in her turned, some finality of the words shifted in place. She thought of Scott, of Cleo and Martyn; her quartet of friends.

She’d be the rosebush thorn. For them.

—- —-

thank you so much for reading!

before they met Scar and Grian, before everything occurred, the Quartet was a group of friends— a pair of siblings, a half-dying kid and the Heir. this story is probably the earliest one in the series, as after this moment everything goes wrong. but for now, it’s simply them— the Listeners’ blessed.

find me on ao3 at evilbutter!

see you tomorrow <3

[g-joja]

go home (may 11, scar!)

hello there <3

today’s story will be focused on the Scar from my hotguy au, which i am now officially naming Create Me New! (check the series out on ao3 for more details :D) this is him BEFORE the events in “love didn’t shoot him, he swears”, when he was first enlisted as Hotguy, in fact!

enjoy!

—- —- -

Soft, soft grains of wheat passed through Scar’s fingers, dancing with soft whispers in the wind. The fields blew to him, the earth itself caressing him in its soft grasp. Tranquility— the calm sensation of existence, as time slowed to a stop and all Scar needed was breath.

Yet the exhale rattled in his lungs, and he fought the urge to cough lest he break the transcendence of the moment. He glanced back to the old farmhouse, its peeling paint and thatch roof in various states of disrepair. He could tend to the cows, pull the chickens into his lap and stroke the feathers on each one. He could gather another bucket of water from the well, prune the vegetable garden out back, watch the fields of wheat wave to him in welcome. He could ignore the dull ache from his legs like he had a thousand times before, walk from the village to his home and back again in search of his farm cats.

But it would hurt. And Scar had to choose. Pretend nothing was wrong, or go back home. He sighed. Then turned back the way he came.

Inside, he set the cane on the adjacent wall, falling back onto the couch and pulling his irritated legs towards him. The dim firelight wove its way through the small rooms, dust and the smell of sugar diffused throughout. The couch itself remained Scar’s prized possession— a “gift” from the villagers after he had successfully convinced them to let him stay. With his Blessing. Sniffing, Scar started from the tips of his foot, massaging in the balm he kept out for situations like this. He rubbed in extra dollops for each old scar he came across, knowing the phantom pains they stood for would be slightly relieved with the pressure.

An old, well-established mark that had sliced his left foot arose after a day spent training. Barefoot, as always, he had stepped upon a jagged rock. He still remembered the way his eyes blurred the world around him, the way his lip had bled after holding sobs.

The ring around his right ankle was nearly as old as the first. He was sparring with the Controller, and his ally— never so naive as “friend”— had used his Blessing of blood crystallization to turn a simple scrape into an exasperated mess of raw skin. Simply another fight for the Listeners to teach from, despite his inability to put weight on the leg for weeks after.

The one under his knee was most recent. A bullet graze scabbed over, not really a scar at all but something Scar refused to wrap in gauze. After it had stopped bleeding, he discarded the tell-tale white of the bandages as soon as he could. Wounds were easily traceable.

And anyways, Scar was well-used to the sensation of being shot. As a Blessed, it came with the territory, after all.

After applying the salve, Scar hobbled over to the nearby wooden chest. He opened it, taking out an assortment of dried beef and herbs. Waving it slightly, Scar called out, “Jellie! Over here… yes, that’s right!” He cooed as the furred thing padded over to him. Despite many of his residential cats being merely visitors, Jellie had attached himself to Scar from the beginning. Or perhaps it was the other way around.

Nonetheless, he threw the jerky to the cat, turning back around to close the chest. His eyes caught on something, and his grip weakened.

White clothing, threaded with gold and the telltale yellow eyes. The suit for his Listeners persona. Memories played in his mind, the silent obedience of his childhood morphing into something… other. His duty to defend the city became that of fear; the Blessing he was endowed by his predecessors broken in two, inverted into something he refused to recognize. Hands shook as he clasped the chest.

His responsibility as the Blessed of Majores Love was that of true love, loyalty: genuine adoration. As opposed to Menores Love— the false, corrupted love— his Blessing was made to appeal to the people, to give them a voice.

Not terrify them. Not turn the Listeners into a fear more bitter than the worst villains. It took a long time for Scar to realize that, to see the face of the people without the mask of Majores. The Listeners were no champions.

The Heir of the Listeners may have had a tough start, but didn’t they all? The Curse was as much of a burden to bear as the Blessing. The Listeners— the Controller, the Corrector, Satiation, the Heir, and him, Majores Love— were meant to keep the balance, however terrible.

Not invert the power.

Scar remembered the way he ran, body coursing with the Curse as his mouth spouted the Blessing. He remembered running, years of training pushing him forward, forward.

The bullet didn’t hurt. It was more so the person who delivered it.

He sprawled on the ground, chest heaving with fear. He looked up, expecting to see a Blessed or an ignorant Listener at the very least. Not the bright orange of braided hair, not green eyes sniffing as they left him sprawled on the cobblestone. His heart hurt from the look on her face, the finality of her actions.

Merciful as it may appear, there was a reasoning behind everything. The girl with the braids and the green eyes was the Heir of Listeners’ most devout follower. She didn’t shoot his leg and miss his heart merely from a stroke of goodwill— no, any bit of that would’ve died in the last seven years. It was an order; of that Scar was certain. And if he knew the Heir as well as he did…

It meant that Scar’s little escape from the Listeners was not an escape at all, but a vacation for Majores Love. Sooner or later, the doorbell would ring. Jellie would be left behind. He would be back in the city, as Majores Love once again.

—-

Thus when the doorbell rung, Scar was ready. He took Jellie into his arms, reminiscent of the daily choice he made between manning the farm and caring for his legs. Pretend nothing was wrong, or go home.

The doorbell rung, and Scar barely needed to glimpse outside before standing on two shaky legs, unfit to do anything more than hobble on their own. Pretend nothing was wrong, or go home. Those were his options.

He opened the door to find the familiar white suit, and the familiar man wearing it. Blue, streaked hair; a soft, ageless smirk; and rubies adorning him, rubies Scar knew weren’t gems at all, but stores of crystallized blood.

Pretend nothing was wrong. Go home.

Scar made his choice.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Controller.”

- —- —-

thank you so much for reading!

quite a bit of exposition in this one… especially for Scar and the Listeners! we meet the Controller, Scott (if you couldn’t tell), and all the Listeners have been named

ALSO if you notice some plot holes, especially what Scar says about bullet holes and the fact that he has never before mentioned Majores Love(??), don’t worry about it!

find me on ao3 @ evilbutter

see you tomorrow <3

[g-joja]

secret ingredient (may 10, doc!)

hello there!

day 10 is docm77, aka the goat! i don’t know a lot about him, so i have just capitalized on the silly relationship between him and joel <3

enjoy!

—- —- - - -

With a sigh, Doc placed the final block of blue ice. He stood back, admiring the adorning spikes, how foreboding they stood, high up into the sky. Out of all the bridges he’d built, this was surely one of his best. The paved iceways, soul lanterns and deepslate details created the intimidating atmosphere Doc strived for in all his builds. Nodding, he peeled a glove off his flesh hand, pulling out a pack of rockets with the others and jumping into the air.

From afar, his side of the bridge lost none of its majesty. His neighbor, however… his neighbor had barely started. Only the beginnings of a vibrant pathway were visible. Doc sighed, gliding downwards.

He spotted the distinctive top hat amidst fields of flowers. Flying down, his head began to pound from all the blaring saturation. Despite appreciating his neighbor, his base was another story.

“Joel! How’re you doing, my guy?” Doc asked, striding up behind him. He made sure to announce his presence, as he was sure anyone would feel intimidated upon encountering him.

“Oh— Doc, just the man I wanted to see!” In contrast to his words, Joel half-turned while stuffing something into a nearby shulker. “Saw your side of the bridge. Looking very cool, not that it’ll be better than mine or anything.”

Doc crossed his arms. “It is right now, though. Seeing as you haven’t built anything.”

“Ugh, no— don’t worry about any of that! I have everything under control. Got all my materials, my plans… just have to gather one tiny thing.”

“Oh— do you need help getting something?”

Doc’s ears perked up. Attaining quantities of any finite resource was his specialty.

But instead, Joel paled, inching away. “No— no, I don’t think you can help with this one. Don’t worry your little self over this, I’ve got it!”

Doc frowned now. He couldn’t deny Joel was… eccentric at the very least, but as his neighbor he had a duty to help in any way he could. “Well, I’m finished with the bridge now, so… I’ve got time on my hands. If you want it.”

“Oh, I’m perfectly fine! Everything is perfectly fine, actually, including the resource i have yet to, uh, gather. It’s my secret ingredient, you see… yes, yes, everything is fine, everything is normal, everything is—“

“O— okay!” Doc shifted. He should probably go. “Well, I’m going to go, I think…”

Joel didn’t respond. He turned back to the shulker, muttering under his breath, “…everything is fine. Everything is normal.”

Doc jumped, taking hold of a rocket as he soared upwards. Yet, something made him hesitate as he aimed towards home. His neighbor’s actions always left him perplexed; could he maybe, just a little, spy on him? Would it be so wrong, if only to make sure he didn’t need any help material gathering?

So instead of rocketing home, Doc simply glided, making circles around Joel’s house as he watched the man. He grabbed the same shulker as before, pushing it into his inventory before marching towards… a hole in the ground? Doc squinted, unaware of it when he had initially walked around. Joel looked around, still ignorant of Doc, then jumped into the pit.

Doc paused for a second before landing not too far away. His brows furrowed. As far as he knew, his neighbor’s builds only consisted of the house, farm, and lighthouse he fixed up early into the season. Truth be told, he was many times absent when Doc came around looking for him… but surely he wasn’t underground, right? He peeked into the hole. it was dark— Doc couldn’t see anything in it. He gulped. If he jumped, he’d be committing a greatly higher degree of trespass than before. Should he do it?

He thought for a second. It would be extremely goated of him to dabble in espionage. Nodding to himself, he jumped down.

—- —- - - -

He hit the stone floor with a thud. Looking around, his eyes widened. and his jaw slackened. What… was this? He was in a hallway— one lined with rainbow glass and slates walls. This was his neighbor’s work. He listened for footsteps, and after a second started down one hallway.

He entered into a deep cave with a similar palette as before— stone and rainbow shades, complete with orange and magenta concrete this time. He was overlooking what looked like a workshop on a small balcony.

He squinted. In the rainbow walls, something lay submerged. He couldn’t quite make out what the object— or rather, objects— were, however, and spying a water elevator he made descended to get a closer look.

He was reminded just how little he understood of his neighbor as the cavern sharpened in detail and size. If this wasn’t the only chamber, but one of several connected by the hallway he entered in… his neighbor had been hard at work building. But building what?

Doc shifted closer to the rainbow walls. What had appeared as colored glass before now looked like rainbow liquid, being pushed through the walls. He stepped closer. Closer. And barely smothered a scream of horror.

Horses. That was what his neighbor had been building, this was the terrifying reason he’d always been on edge. He was murdering horses— and not just murdering them, but displaying them proudly in this sick little cave. Doc took a shaky step backwards. Was this what Joel meant by “gathering resources”? How many did he kill? Doc couldn’t do this. His neighbor may have appeared benign, but he was surely a greater force of evil than even Doc himself. He needed to leave, he needed to—

A sharp clearing of throat interrupted Doc’s scramble. He turned sharply, blood turning cold at the top hat staring back at him.

“So I see you’ve found my secret ingredient. Didn’t anybody tell you, Doc? It isn’t nice to spy on your neighbors.”

—- —- - - -

thank you so much for reading!

welcome to butter’s hermit-a-day may! doc is a scientist who fights with hippies; joel is a force equatable to a nuclear warhead. they are not the same.

find me on ao3 @ evilbutter !

see you tomorrow <3

[g-joja]

plz help (day 9, event!)

hi there!

today’s HaDM fic is the wither takedown! although mainly the C-team, i do really enjoy the dynamic between them and the rest of the hermits, and the impromptu group outing lol

i’m also not sure why i write so much C-team, i don’t even watch them all that much but they are very entertaining??

anyways, enjoy!

—- - —- -

Mumbo woke with a heave. He groaned in frustration, raking his hair before leaning on the obsidian walls of their shelter. He couldn’t keep doing this. Surely hours had passed by now? Instead of scrambling out of the yellow bed, throwing open the shuckers next to him like he had the past twenty-something deaths, he took out his communicator with shaky hands. He gave up. He and the C-team needed help.

[MumboJumbo]: plz help

”You’re just going to— ‘please help us’.” Skizz laughed in defeat. “Oh, that’s amazing.”

[Skizzleman]: Calling All Hermits!!!!!

Mumbo snickered. “Yeah, I give up. Hopefully someone comes.” He sighed at the patches of broken ice and blasted holes. Thank goodness they were out in the middle of nowhere at the very least; doing this in the middle of the server would’ve been a terrible idea. In the distance, Ren was leading the Wither away from their little encampment.

“Yeah, False— if False comes, that’d be really nice. She’d wipe it out in no time!” Skizz said.

Mumbo checked his communicator. “Oh, Scar is coming too. And Cub, perfect!”

—- - —- -

As he neared the portal, voices filtered through to him.

“W-wait, is everyone here? Oh, this is really embarrassing,” Mumbo said with a laugh. Gosh, for a single wither, too… not a good look for the C-team.

“How’s it going?” Impulse asked.

Skizz admitted, “Not great, buddy. At least we’ve got backup now!” He put a hand around him.

Cleo caught sight of something in the sky. “Wait, is Cub up there?”

The hermits looked up to see Cub circling the Wither. “Oh, Cub’s just decided to kill it and not talk to anybody, I guess!” Mumbo joked.

A frown appeared on Skizz’s face. “Don’t kill it, Cub! Bring it down here!”

[FalseSymmetry]: bring it down cub

”These tryhards over here!” Scar said with a huff.

A flash of white flew by the group, followed by the three skulls of the wither. They cheered in celebration, patting Cub on the back. As the wither neared them, the group of very professional gamers strung arrows, unsheathed swords and prepared spears. Although three of them was perhaps too little, especially a certain trio, all together they were more than capable of dealing with the boss.

They charged— the C-team, Tango, and Scar taking the lead. They swung with newfound ferocity, steadily depleting its health. Unlike before, it thankfully didn’t try to fly from the range of their swords, nor regenerate its lost health; and with a final swing, Mumbo—

“Augh!” He woke up in the same yellow bed as before. Next to him, Skizz was in a similar predicament. Mumbo checked the chat.

[Skizzleman withered away while fighting Mumbo]

[Mumbo was shot by a skull from Wither]

He sighed. So close to victory! He offered a hand to Skizz, and together the two bounded over to the celebrating hermits.

”Who gave the final hit?” False asked, picking up the dropped items from the floor. The others shrugged, instead pulling the fallen members further into the celebration. Someone toasted, “All thanks to the C-team!”, and they cheered.

“Okay, now spawn the other two!” Skizz declared. Everyone laughed, and patted him on the back in defeat. One nether star would have to be enough today.

—- - —- -

thank you so much for reading!

welcome to butter’s hermit-a-day may! today was the favorite event, and although i wouldn’t say this is necessarily my favorite it was certainly memorable. i had a bit of trouble with the omniscient 3rd person viewpoint, and i’m also writing this super late so it is a lot shorter than normal; but yeah i hope it was fun to read!

find me on ao3 @ evilbutter !

see you tomorrow <3

[g-joja]

cut day! (may 8, xisuma!)

inspired by @mambodork’s Dispatch au!

i had a Dispatch phase a few months ago, so when I saw this au i was immediately hooked. all the characters and their Dispatch counterparts are in their au, so go check it out!

enjoy <3

—- - - —-

The coffee machine was broken. Again. Xisuma sighed, noting the similar burn marks on the nozzle and pot. He’d need to bring up company property next time he saw Tango.

Turning, he ambled across the small, industrial office that made up the Dispatch headquarters. Morning light filtered in through the windows, illuminating dispatch blue and cubicle beige. Around him, Dispatchers and heroes alike brushed by, preparing for their shift.

The ranking board, Xisuma’s pride and joy, sat proudly behind Pearl and Gem as they did each other’s hair. Pearl whispered something in Gem’s ear, and she rolled her eyes before blushing. He paused, watching them as a knot of guilt grew in his throat, before swallowing it and moving on.

In the corner, Feather Boy stood staring at a TV, sweeping the floor distractedly. Xisuma sighed, helplessly looking onward as more of his feathers fell with every swipe of his broom. Despite his ignorance, Feather Boy frowned every time he looked down, glaring at the broom as if reprimanding it.

Xisuma shook his head, speeding up to reach his office. At the rate this was going, he’d develop a headache by the end of the hour, let alone the rest of the shift. Yet at the corner of his eye, he caught someone— Impulse. His mind retracted back to yesterday, when he’d been staring at the rankings. Specifically, the bottom of them.

He neared the Dispatcher, who was talking to Bdubs, the manager. Both of them were leaning over… a cat?

“Aw, who’s this little guy?” He strode over, scratching its cheek.

“My name’s Luna, and I’ve got no clothes on!” Impulse said in a strange accent.

Xisuma laughed. “I very much doubt that is what he sounds like.” He paused, taking in a breath. “Impulse, you free for a moment?”

Impulse smiled at him. “Yeah, no problem!”

Gosh, he had no idea what was coming.

They entered his office. For Xisuma, this was his safe space— an oasis from the crazy of the cubicles, any outdoor drama muffled by the door and the dust. Waiting around on eccentric superheroes all day, he knew he needed the buffer.

He closed the door behind Impulse, before settling behind his desk.

“What’s up?” Impulse asked, eyes roving across the room. Heroic newspaper clippings, a few polaroids and of course, his Dispatch certificate were all hung proudly.

“I wanted to have a chat with you about something. Over the weekend, I was thinking it over, and…” Xisuma took a breath. Sure, he’d signed the release forms, contacted HR in preparation, but… saying it to the person responsible felt real, somehow. “I’m going to cut someone from the Hermit Team. Well, not me, but… you are.”

Their eyes met. Xisuma watched as Impulse absorbed the information, the act, the fallout, his eyes growing wider and wider. He swallowed again.

“I dunno if I’m just… hoping to motivate them, give them something to spur them on. I… what do you think?”

Impulse blinked, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. “… Are you sure about it? They all seem pretty close.”

Xisuma thought back to Pearl and Gem— the latter second lowest on the leaderboard. “Not as sure now, I’ll give you that. Is it not a good idea?”

Impulse was silent. Xisuma tapped his fingers. Was it a good idea? For one thing, the team was quite literally the lowest on the leaderboard, and theirs were becoming more and more an outlier. The warning of Cut Day itself would be a huge motivator for the team; afterwards, that motivation would help them be a little more… heroic, for lack of a better word.

Xisuma sighed. “The hope is that cutting someone at the bottom of the rankings will show people we’re serious.”

After a beat of hesitation longer, Impulse nodded. “I’ll let them know.” Xisuma met his eyes, and saw the dissonance within.

“Oh.” Xisuma coughed. “I already did.”

“This…” Impulse sighed, massaging his temple. “Thanks, this’ll be interesting.”

—- - - —-

As Impulse stumbled out of the door, pale and slouching, Xisuma cradled his head in his arms. He himself wouldn’t want to make this choice, much less a newcomer Dispatcher. The guilt of it all burned through him like the bitter coffee he never had a chance to drink. As a matter of fact, Tango’s actions were probably a result of the warning. Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea after all.

He shifted to the files he held on the side of his desk, flicking through the names before settling on three of them. He opened the first.

Gemini. With duplication powers and a past in assasination, Xisuma thought she’d be a strong candidate for the program; yet, his failure to teach her basic empathy— or at the very least, nonviolent tendencies— failed her as well.

The next folder. Grian. His ability to see anything within a certain range proved beneficial in ambush situations or even simple speaking events; but his powers were undeveloped and limited. If only Xisuma had tried harder to train him, even in simple Flight School, perhaps he wouldn’t be here now.

And with a sigh, he opened the last. Skizzleman. His file was the main reason the Dispatch researched Impulse at all; if a major crime boss turned himself in for the sake of a past connection, anything about such a person should be well-researched.

Yet, simultaneously, Skizzleman was the reason for much of Xisuma’s guilt. To confront one’s friend about past work experience, (even if the friend was the reason for many Dispatch mistakes)… Xisuma couldn’t imagine the act. Part of him pitied Impulse.

He closed the folder with a sigh. He knew it would be hard on Impulse, on the team in general. Yet even as reason after reason materialized itself against such a decision, one main reason stayed Xisuma’s choice.

The city was stained with crime— it was like a crime. It was Xisuma’s job to be admin. It was his job to ban those who couldn’t afford to help.

He looked up to himself, to the imaginary audience watching. “Anyoone else?”

—- - - —-

thank you so much for reading!

welcome to butter’s hermit-a-day may! this story is based on Dispatch’s Cut Day shift, in which Robert has to choose between firing Coupe (Gem) or Sonar (Grian), and that one time Xisuma banned Grian when Gem asked lol

I’m pretty sure Skizz is the counterpart of Invisigirl in this au, but correct me if I’m wrong! also if the dialogue seems a little familiar… yes i did find the Dispatch transcript online it was great inspiration

find me on ao3 @ evilbutter

see you tomorrow <3

[g-joja]

if a tree falls (may 7, skizz!)

hello there <3

we are back with hermit a day with Skizz! unlike before though, this story will be in the same world as the unnamed hotguy au, set in the ‘before’ Joel mentioned :>

enjoy!

- - -

The crunch of dirt and mud echoed in his mouth. He chewed his way around the hardest pebbles.

“Skizz, how have you managed this? Why are you floating midair?” Mumbo stared at him, exasperated.

“Aw, don’t worry, Jumbolio! I’m perfectly fine up here. Got tons of dirt, just doing some easy training…”

“But we’re right here, Skizz! Can’t you do it over the wall?”

Grian leaned over, trying to poke Skizz from behind the sandstone. His chubby fingers couldn’t enter his vicinity, though, and he threw up his hands in a dramatic fashion. “I give up! Mumbo, you’re taller, you try!”

Mumbo gaped at the friend next to him. “No! What if I fall?”

Skizz rolled his eyes. “I said, don’t worry! Plus, I look cool hanging around like this! I could be a superhero!”

“You’re going to get in trouble with the Wardwatch again, you know.”

”They’ll have to catch me first! And anyways, don’t act like you guys are all high and mighty, too! Kids aren’t allowed on the walls, either.”

Grian blustered. “I’m not a kid! I— I’m a ward. That’s what we’re called, innit?”

Skizz snorted, making swimming motions while scooping out another handful of soil. “Then why do I get to hang out with all the big kids?”

”That’s because they’re afraid of you flying off. Like this.” Mumbo crossed his arms. “You think they’ll be happy, either? ‘Cause they won’t.”

“Oh, you…!” Skizz makes a lunge towards Mumbo, and, for a brief moment in time the levitation breaks as they play-wrestle on the ground. Yet a second later, Skizz’s feet sweep up from under him and he is pulled upside-down with a yelp, swinging helplessly. Grian cries out in a panic, both of them pulling him back down as the effects of the Blessing wear off. With an “oomph!”, they fall onto a heap on the sandstone. Skizz feels the sting of the stone against his knee, and groans.

“Dang it! I thought I had it. This stupid Blessing…”

Mumbo laughs, extricating himself from the mess. “Nobody else can fly here, Skizz. Or eat dirt, or pickaxes for that matter. There’s a reason you haven’t learnt it sooner.”

“Yeah, but still…” He brings himself into an upright sitting position, his eyes catching sight of the sun setting below the desert. The dunes in the distance wafted in the heat, looking especially fanciful with the cactus flowers. “Pretty,” Grian said— the understatement of the century.

Skizz sighed. He liked it here, their sandy fortress in the middle of nowhere. If he could stay here forever, content with his best buds spanning the desert… a thought nudged at his mind, a saying he’d picked up from their textbooks. “Hey guys, do you remember reading chapter fourteen? In our books?”

Next to him, Grian wrinkled his nose. “Bold of you to assume I can read,” he muttered.

“No, seriously. I thought it was really interesting, very psychological.” Skizz leans back onto his hands, reiterating the passage to his friends. “But— but the question I remember best, it was something like… ‘If a tree were to fall with no one around, would it even make a sound?’”

The two were silent. For a second, Skizz worried he had bored them. Then Mumbo spoke. “Isn’t that, like, a common saying? One of those hypotheticals, along with Schrödinger’s cat?”

Grian groaned. “What? Who is Schrödinger?!”

“Beats me!” Mumbo said with a laugh. “Must be some old philosopher.”

Skizz cracked a smile. “Seriously, though! If a tree fell, alone, did it ever make a sound?”

“Why don’t you ask Schrödinger?” Mumbo giggled. Grian erupted in laughs.

Skizz gave in, chuckling with them, and threw his arms around both of them. “I think— and hear me out! hear me out— that if a tree ever fell, it would make a sound. ‘Cause although nobody would be around to hear, someone would come. They’d see the little critters making their homes in the trunk of the tree, watch the fungi grow out of its branches. And they’d know, right? They’d know the tree had fallen.”

Grian snorted. “Well, obviously. If a tree fell, it fell.”

Skizz shouldered him playfully. “Not the point, Menores!”

Grian laughed, then paused. His face paled. “M-menores? Skizz, what did you just…”

The grip on Grian’s shoulders turned cold. Skizz turned to him now, eyes a sickly shade of purple. “You heard me, Menores Love. When a tree falls, somebody will know.”

Whatever wore Skizzleman’s face cackled, and Grian watched in horror as the sky turned red. “Someone will know, someone will know… but whether they remember, that’s up to them, isn’t it?”

—- - —-

Grian woke with a start in his apartment. The echoes of a scream ran through his veins. A dream. He’d had a dream. He soaked in the last dregs of nostalgia, before opening his eyes and scrambling to the notebook on his nightstand. Remember. That was what Skizz said— right? He scratched out the word, before writing his old friend’s name next to it.

What had happened? They were in the old Wardwatch hideout, Skizz and him and… who was it? Grian rubbed his eyes. Someone important, someone Grian shouldn’t forget.

Yet even as he strained to remember, eyes bolting around his room, he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t. He sobbed, kneading harder at his eyes like it would make the memories come back. The dream, the memories… they were leaving him. His ‘before’ was disappearing.

With a shriek, he threw his notebook across the room. Why was he like this? Why did he use his Blessing so wastefully, why did he have to forget every time he did so? Skizz and all his friends, the soft sunset childhood he had, Grian was the only one who still remembered but he. Couldn’t. Remember. He sunk to the floor, hands still on his eyelids.

Skizz’s words came back to him. “If a tree falls without anyone around, does it make a sound?”

But Grian had heard. He simply didn’t remember the fall.

—- —- - -

thank you so much for reading!

so i know it ends with Grian’s POV but we can let that slide right?? and i know it’s more Mumbo watching a sunset but.. i forgot okay

Skizz has an ability similar to the “eat everything” Wild Life ep. because i feel this is an especially iconic moment for him.

and the Curse that Grian has is, as said, forgetting :(

as always find me on ao3 at evilbutter !

see you tomorrow <3

[g-joja]

love didn’t shoot him, he swears pt. 3!

not doing keralis either, sorry… last chapter of hotguy au tho! had a lot of fun writing this one

psa: this one is a bit darker than the others, mentioning in a bit more detail captivity and childhood trauma; please be careful!

anyways, enjoy!

- - —-

Scar shifted, and his neck strained. He groaned, blinking away the sand in his eyes. He seriously needed some sort of pillow, his sleep schedule was hurting. He sat up, doing his best to alleviate the chafing on his wrists before sighing. At least Menores had turned the radio off.

The door slammed open, Menores himself stalking through the door. Scar had barely moved before his vision flickered, blindfold winding itself around his eyes. “Uh— Menores, what—“ he laughed nervously. “— what is this?”

“Nothing of importance!” Scar could hear the sinister glee. “Don’t you worry, you,” the villain continued.

“You’re not about to kill me, right?”

“You’ll be fine!” Wrists untethered from the bed but still cuffed, Scar was shoved through the door. After so long without the use of his legs, he almost collapsed, having to lean against the wall to stay upright. He obeyed, nonetheless. This was his chance! If he made it outside, he could call for help, he could…

The door clicked behind him. Simultaneously, the sharp cold of metal slid next to his neck. Scar broke out in cold sweat.

”Don’t be getting any ideas, alright? After all, no law-abiding citizen should ever have to see their favorite hero beheaded.”

Scar clenched his jaw, straining as far from the blade as he could. He walked sullenly, weighing how quickly he could move if given the opportunity. He didn’t like his chances.

He’s pulled into an elevator and into the open air. Menores’ grip on him tightened in warning, before a second set of hands yanked down on him. Panicked, Scar tripped, before falling onto… leather?

“What’s taking you nerds so long? Close the door, already!”

Wrathful? Confused, Scar racked his brain while he was squished into the backseat of a car. He recognized the feel of denim on the left of him, which only added to the racing thoughts.

Were all three of the Wardwatch— or, the Bad Boys, whatever it was— in the car with him? Surely they didn’t all want to watch his execution. Or perhaps they did. They were criminals, after all.

He opened his mouth, preparing to use this chance to escape regardless of whatever they had planned, before a sudden pothole sent him lurching in his seat. His knees clanged together, sending pain shooting through his body— a conspicuous reminder of how unstable his Blessing already was.

When the car brakes, the men on either side of him grabbed his arms. “W-wait a minute, what’s going on—“

”Not a word,” Menores threatened. Scar gulped.

Pulled back into the outdoor air, his feet hit sidewalk and a door in front of him clicks open. The sound is accompanied by a bell, almost like… a restaurant? Is he being dragged on a robbery?

The concrete turns to tile, yet his captors don’t stop as they stalk forward, opening another door and heaving him up a set of stairs. After so long without walking, with his already weakened legs Scar is huffing by the time they reach the top of the landing. He almost questions them again, before remembering Menores’ words.

”You got ‘im from here?” The one on his left, Chaos, asks.

”Yeah, no worries. Head on downstairs, I’ll be there in a minute.” Menores pulls him forward, out of the grasp of Chaos and down a small hallway. With his free hand, Scar tests the wall in front of him, measuring how far they walk in case of a quick getaway.

He is again manhandled through a doorway, brought to what felt like a wooden pole before Menores commands, “Sit.”

Scar frowns, reluctant to be bound to another piece of furniture; yet he folds his legs as Menores connects the cuffs to the bed with rope.

Without another word, the man steps away, before pausing. Hesitating? Scar hears the rustle of clothing behind him, before the binding of the blindfold is undone. His head whips around, surprised by the sudden lack of hostiity, but he’s not quick enough to catch Menores’ face before he strides away, only slowing at the doorframe to say, “Just wait. It’ll only be a couple of hours, anyways.”

As the door clicks behind him, Scar breathes, long and deep. It appeared he would not die today, at least not to this set of ‘Bad Boys’. He sniffs, wondering what exactly they were up to, before sniffing again. A strange scent was in the room. It reminded Scar of… yeast, like the bread he had with Chaos and Wrathful. His robbery hypothesis was gaining less and less traction.

He looked around the room, details sharpening in his mind. The bed frame he was tied to, the fuzzy pink blankets strewn on it, and the desk to the right of him. His eyes caught onto something, before growing wide. Scissors! He laughed in disbelief— escape was so close— before he remembered his hands were bound together. His laughter died.

A minute and several back-breaking attempts later, his foot hooked onto the scissors and he carefully maneuvered them into his lap. Awkwardly, he used his calves to push a blade into the small opening between his wrists and the bedpost; then it was only a matter of sawing away. Then, he was free! —Albeit still handcuffed. But escape was a simple window away.

He neared the window, preparing to unlock the hinge before he caught sight of himself in the reflection. His visor was still gone, but… seeing his uniform on with his face uncovered made Scar pause. Menores’ words echoed back to him. “Didn’t you hear, old man? You’ve retired.” If he went back now… he shivered to picture the look on the Heir’s face. He knew he wouldn’t be welcomed back. If he returned with insider information, though…

He took a step away, a single slow step away from freedom. He turned from the window’s soft city glow, and carefully stepped out of the bedroom. He gulped as his knees creaked. Espionage was not his, nor Hotguy’s strong suit. Yet he slowly made his way down the staircase, touching the same wall as before, footsteps light as he could make them. The walls were covered with all sorts of photos, many featuring an old woman and a young girl. As Scar continued slinking down the hallway, the young girl aged too, and a few boys— her friends?— made their way into the pictures.

Scar stopped at the stairway. He looked at the last painting. It featured the girl, now a woman, with her hair dyed a bright pink; she was surrounded by three boys and the woman— her grandmother, Scar thought— with a candled cake in her hands. What interested Scar most, however, were the boys; they looked familiar. Where has he seen those faces?

He blinked as the scent of baked goods wafted through once more. He walked down the stairs, gait clumsy and unused to the weight, before looking around the ground floor. He had stepped foot in a bakery, not a restaurant, and it looked well-kept and homely; lights were strung up above chalkboard menus, and the checkered floor was interspersed with tables and chairs. Hearing the sounds of muffled conversation coming from a kitchen, Scar crept up, keeping close to the wall.

”What’s the deal with your loaves, Grian? They’re so lumpy!”

“Oh, shut it, Jim. You know I make a mean loaf! Look, I can even put eyes…”

“Nah, but Jimmy’s right, I think. Your loaf is making me sick.”

”Like yours is any better, Joel! I might seriously puke if I stare at yours too long. Is it cancerous?”

Scar grinned. This was exactly what he needed to hear! Were those the names of the Wardwatch— Grian, Jimmy, and Joel? Although he was surprised to hear such… normal names from the trio, he couldn’t help but imagine the way he’d be welcomed back at HQ.

”Boys, boys! We all know each one of yours looks like a mess. No need to— oh, well, actually, speaking of a mess, what’s up with the guy you brought in? Was that Hotguy?”

Scar crept closer upon hearing his name. Though a bit miffed about being called a ‘mess’, he listened closer. This was a new voice. This he wanted to hear.

”All Grian’s idea. Saw him maskless and insisted on bringing him home.”

”Aw, Grian, did you get a little crush? Are you head over heels for a little Hot Guy?”

Scar made a face. Inside, he heard ‘Grian’ have a similar reaction. “No! That’s not… see, I recognized him.”

Scar’s brow furrowed. He recognized Scar’s face? Not Hotguy’s? He couldn’t say he had a similar reaction upon meeting any of the Wardwatch.

The kitchen had gone silent. ‘Joel’ spoke up. “Recognized him? You mean… from before?”

The tone of the man’s voice had dropped— as a matter of fact, the entire room had gone silent. It was like they were afraid of voicing something, something from the past.

“No, not… not that long ago, Joel. My memory’s worse than yours, anyways. It was, um… while I was there. In the hands of the Listeners.”

Scar gaped. The Listeners? As in, the group that had control of the entire city? Where Scar hailed from, where he had trained, where both his best and worst memories were created? Scar thought. For something to have happened in the past, that neither other Bad Boy knew about, it had to have been ages ago. He must’ve been a child.

Scar shivered as something clicked. He knew firsthand how miserable it was to be a child in the Listeners’ ranks.

In the kitchen, someone shifted. “Grian, y’know you don’t have to talk about it if you’re not very keen on sharing.”

”It’s fine, Jimmy. You were there when they took me, you deserve to hear what happened.”

The kitchen was silent.

”The Listeners, they didn’t know exactly what my Blessing was but they could make a guess. They kept me blindfolded and cuffed, for… I think it was days, don’t really— remember. When we arrived in the city, they stuffed me in a room by myself, and—“ He broke off.

Scar was shaking. He was shivering all over, memories bubbling to the surface like magma. Grian didn’t need to speak for Scar to relive what happened. He knew. He knew.

The soldiers had returned celebrating. They celebrated death they wreaked. The two Blessed that were chosen to go, the Heir and the Healer, returned with wide eyes, hands shaking. The other Blessed, like him, listened in from the shadows of their barracks. They weren’t allowed, they weren’t supposed to leave.

”Don’t remember how long I was in there either, heh. I— I don’t—“ He sniffed. “Thing is, I wasn’t alone. A boy came to my cell daily, tried to talk to me and cheer me up.”

Scar had left anyway. He had watched as a kid as tall as himself got pulled forward by a chain, sobbing quietly as bars locked behind him. Scar had seen himself in those eyes. He knew.

“And one day… one day he stole the keys to my cell. Remember the day you met me, Jim? That was the last time I ever saw him.”

Scar’s eyes burned, he had to keep himself from sobbing out loud. He tried his best not to remember his childhood, it… hadn’t been filled with much sunlight. The way Grian saw it, though… Scar’s stomach turned. Was Hotguy so sure he wanted to return?

“Bark!”

His mental storm was cut short. Heart pounding, Scar stared at the furred thing currently looking at him like an intruder. It barked again. Scar panicked.

Inside, someone sighed. “Sorry for bringing down the mood, guys. I’ll go get Meri.”

Scar jolted again, looking for somewhere to hide. There was nowhere.

“Come on, Meri, let’s get you— S- Scar?!”

Scar flinched, knowing he had been caught. (Part of him caught him use his first name). Eyes screwing shut, he sent a silent apology to his future self, and reached for his Blessing.

”Hey, Menores, I was just looking for the bathroom! My handcuffs, as you can see, are still perfectly attached to my wrists! Speaking of, if you ever need a hug or anything like that, I happen to know the perfect guy to talk to! And if you’re wondering if I caught any of what you were talking about, no, mister, I can assure you I didn’t! I—“

Scar hacked, deep, and his eyesight blurred in warning. But he looked at Menores— he was still gaping at him.

”I never had any plans whatsoever to escape! I actually really like the dynamic you Bad Boys have, I never had any of that with the Listeners! Also, the b-bread smells absolutely amazing over here, can’t think of anything better to eat, and… and your real name is G-Grian, isn’t it? Not that I would, uh, ever eavesdrop on a conversation! Just happened to remember you from somewhere… e-else…”

Scar’s vision flickered. The feeling in his legs buzzed away. The last thing he saw before careening towards the ground was Grian’s baffled face.

—- - —- —-

thank you so much for reading!

i know i got major sidetracked, i really do wish i had time to write both stories; however my goal this month was never really to write every hermit, but rather to use HaDM as an outlet with which to improve my writing ;)

this is the last chapter in the fic, with some cool Grian/Scar backstory (meet-cute not cute) and fun Bad Boy dynamic!

see you tomorrow! <3 we’ll be back with HaDM

[g-joja]

love didn’t shoot him, he swears pt. 2!

I’M SORRY HERMIT A DAY FANS BUT I AM NOT DOING JOE. LOVE THE MAN BUT UNFORTUNATELY I NEED TO KEEP UP MOTIVATION

anyways continuing with the good times because i fear i found my place in life

psa: this fic was initially planned to be one part of a series, so i apologize if there’s worldbuilding that doesn’t make sense! tried to explain a bit more here but. idk. also for the record Menores (full title Menores Love, tHE TITLE) is grian

enjoy! <3

- - - - -— —- -

Hotguy never expected to one day have a diplomatic dinner with his enemies.

In a way, it sort of reminded him of an awkward meet-the-parents dinner… not that Scar had ever experienced that kind of thing.

Yet here he sat, cross-legged on a stained mattress stuffing bread into his mouth. To its benefit, the bread was fresh. Tasted like its wheat had been shorn from a lifetime growing in high altitudes, on bridges or something. What was he saying? Bread wasn’t Scar’s specialty. He should be glad he was given food at all.

He looked up, awkwardly staring at the two men in front of him. Upon entering, they hadn’t introduced themselves, instead pulling in two folding chairs and unlocking his handcuffs. Of course, he immediately tried to escape— who wouldn’t?— but they overpowered him quite easily, given his injured state.

He shivered, still remembering the way one of them had all but growled at him to stop, lest they simply force the food down his throat. Now the man sat across from him, frowning from behind a dark visor. “Hey, what’re you looking at? Keep eating,” he huffed. Scar quickly darted his eyes away, as the other muttered something a lot like ‘blummin’ idiot’.

Scar blinked, turning his attention back to the food. If he remembered correctly, and he was sure Hotguy never forgot a face, he had been staring at Wrathful, the villain with the green streak in his hair and the ripped leather vest. The other one Scar took to be Chaos, then, in a matching denim sweater and pants. Two members of the Wardwatch Hotguy had only met in combat, the same being applied to Menores albeit last afternoon.

Or what he hoped had been just an afternoon. Time proved harder to tell when one was chained to a mattress, and especially after using his Blessing Scar had been left exhausted. Meaningless uses like the one Menores had pulled with the mirror left Scar fuming. To flaunt it so easily, like it was simply another tool…

He remembered learning about the Blessings as a child, before his was ever recognized. There were only ten of them, of course, five for the Wardwatch— like Menores, Chaos, and Wrathful— and five for the Listeners. The group responsible for defending the city, responsible for Hotguy’s resignation.

Each Blessing represented a legacy, passed down throughout the centuries not through blood but through a sort of spiritual connection to the Heart of the world. Being immaterial, though, had its consequences, and with every Blessing given also present was a Curse. They went hand-in-hand, maintaining some otherworldly balance by trading suffering for power. Personally, Scar believed it was a worthless trade.

Though, he most definitely was biased. After all, his Blessing was stronger than most, and thus his Curse was as well. He massaged his legs, imagining them strong and limber like they once were. The Curse had taken that from him. Or rather, his identity as Hotguy had.

Now he focused back on the situation at hand— one he wouldn’t be involved himself in if not for the same Curse. He chanced a peek up. “So… is Menores off terrorizing citizens?”

Neither one said a word, only glaring at him further.

“Oh, come on! Are you guys having a fight or something? What’s with the attitude, is the Wardwatch—“

“Don’t—“ The denimed man hissed. The green-haired stared at him in warning. Denim— Chaos— stared back, before turning back to Scar. “Do not call us the Wardwatch. We never chose that name for ourselves, it’s a stupid one anyways.”

Scar blinked. He did not expect this; but if he recalled, Menores had a similar outburst earlier. Maybe… maybe he could use this to his advantage? “Then… what name do you prefer?”

He heard Wrathful sigh as Chaos smiled proudly. “We’re the Bad Boys!”

Scar blinked. What? “The… bad boys?”

Chaos nodded, gesturing wide as if he had thought this through. “Exactly! We’re simply a little band of merry men- well, us and Li- mmrnph— !”

Wrathful shoved a hand over his mouth, hissing at him to keep quiet. “Shut up shut up! You and your big mouth! You were about to tell him about Lizzie, weren’t you? You—“

In an instant, both men stopped and stared at Scar with wide eyes. His mind caught up to the words, specifically the name Wrathful had given him. Lizzie? Could that be another Blessed?

Chaos panicked. “No, you did not just do that. You did not just— Urgh… Wrathful!”

Wrathful sputtered. “I— you— he—“

Scar needed to use this slip up in his favor— quickly. “Oh, it sure would be a shame to escape now, with these newfound details!” He raised an eyebrow at the two, who stopped to stare at him. “I suppose I’ll keep this quiet… that is, for a price.”

Wrathful furrowed his eyebrows. “If you think we’re about to uncuff you—“

“No, no! I respect your desire for safety, after all. No, I simply want… some form of entertainment? A phone, perhaps?”

He stopped when he felt himself instinctively reaching inward. He couldn’t let himself use his Blessing; if he slipped into unconsciousness now, who knows how much time would elapse.

Chaos snorted. Then considered his words. The two looked at each other, glaring in silent communication, before both stood up and started packing away the food. Scar gnawed at his lips— did he just waste a prime opportunity?— before Wrathful spoke up.

“No phone, mate, Menores would have our heads for that one. But entertainment… we’ll come up with something.”

Scar know what that meant. He could only watch as Chaos tidied up the area, folding up the chairs before stalking out as Wrathful recuffed his poor wrists. Scar released a breath as soon as the door had closed, laying back against the doorframe in defeat.

But then a sound came from beyond the entrance. Was that… music? He bolted back upright and watched as Chaos came in, holding… a radio?

“You said you wanted entertainment, right? Well, you got it right here!” He cracked a grin, laying down the device on the other side of the room and turning up the volume.

Scar gaped as rock music filled the small room. “Wait, wait a minute! I meant, like, something I could touch, not… not this!”

“What do you mean? This is prime! Menores’ll turn it off when he gets back, anyways, it’s not like it’ll be on throughout the night.” The grin widened. “Or maybe he’ll decide he likes it! I guess we’ll just have to wait and see!”

The door closed behind him— and with it, Scar’s chance for escape.

— — -

thank you for reading!

this is a silly little fic that was actually planned last november, but i just never got to writing it ;’) as you can tell, it encompasses part of both Hermitcraft (hotguy) and the Life series (bad boys). scar was never meant to be the main narrator, though, so this is just a quick chapter fic!

find me on ao3 @ evilbutter

see you tomorrow <3

[g-joja]

love didn’t shoot him, he swears

did i just write hotguy au? yes, yes i did.

psa: this fic was initially planned to be one part of a series, so i apologize if there’s worldbuilding that doesn’t make sense! also for the record Menores (full title Menores Love) is grian

enjoy! <3

- - - - -— —- -

In his shoulder. Underneath his ribs. Faint aches, irritated and itchy, not enough to wake him from slumber. The feeling kept growing, though, turning into pulses and waves of—

Scar sucked in a breath, gasping for air as his back burned. Swaths of pure magma attacking him in every way, slicking his skin in sweat and hurting his chest with every rasp. His eyes widened, blurred with tears as he struggled to breathe, just breathe— he pulled his arms up to his chest to alleviate the suffocating feeling, but—

Cold iron stopped him. Rings of metal chafing his wrists, he still couldn’t take in enough air but for a second he stopped struggling. What…?

He was handcuffed. He blinked, eyes finally clearing enough to think. He looked down to see his uniform— Hotguy’s uniform— and the pieces finally clicked. His heart dropped cold in his chest, chilled despite the fire still arcing up his back.

Scar needed to think. No, scratch that, Hotguy needed to think. He was handcuffed— that could mean captivity. His back hurt… not a typical breaking of bone, but specific points that drove uncontrollably deep. Two points, the middle of his left shoulder and right underneath his left rib. Did he get… shot?

His deep, navy armor was deliberately bulletproof. That came with the territory; although he had been grazed at times, it was never deep… never this painful. Somehow, someone had gotten past his defenses and shot him. Most likely the people who had handcuffed him, but…

He raised his head, blinking in disbelief. What kind of prison wardens held high-powered superheroes in residential bedrooms?

The room itself was dim, the single window blocked by what appeared to be cardboard. Hotguy refused to risk his back for a closer look. Nothing adorned the walls, the only piece of furniture the bare, stained mattress and bedpost he was chained to.

He squinted at the chains himself. From what he could tell, they weren’t particularly complex nor high-quality. On a normal day, he could use his Blessing to break them easily, but…

He glanced at his legs, the outline of his knee braces barely visible. He wouldn’t be breaking out of anything today.

The doorknob turned. Hotguy drew back, alert and ready to fight whoever it was, even as both his hands and his back lay useless. Yet as the door opened, his jaw loosened in disbelief.

Menores. His metaphorical counterpart. One of the most infamous villains in the city, not only for the historical weight his name dealt but also the terror he’d inflicted on its people. This was wrong. In all of the continent’s history, archetypes like Menores weren’t supposed to win; they weren’t supposed to be any more than shadows in the first place! “Y-you…” Scar stuttered, blinking in anger— surprise.

Menores raised an eyebrow from behind dark sunglasses. “Me,” he answered. He sauntered over to Hotguy, the buttons on his black leather jacket flashing in warning. “Your worst enemy.”

Hotguy’s disbelief broke with these words. No matter how shaken he was, he still had rank. He scowled, clearly this man didn’t understand the importance of priority lists. “You and your stupid jacket are nowhere near my worst enemy.”

”Really, dear prisoner? Surely by now, you’ve realized?” With a snap of his fingers, a mirror materialized in front of Hotguy, levitating above the bed. Hotguy glared back at Menores, eyes refusing to do his bidding, however petty it was. For him to use a Blessing so excessively… a stupid power move. It would only weaken him further, only help Hotguy’s escape.

Sighing, Hotguy looked in the mirror. Aside from a few wayward scrapes and the usual undereye bags, nothing appeared out of place…

His eyes grew wide. His brown eyes, unhindered by the blue-green of a visor. His visor was gone.

His hands started shaking. Without his visor, they most definitely had his face recorded. They could trace him anywhere, he could never head back to headquarters with his confidentiality compromised… There was no way out of this. His eyes burned. This single slip-up, and his entire life was over. No matter that it was before this whole ordeal, anyways.

“Aw, don’t cry! Don’t act like you never saw this coming. We all wanted to see it, the face of the perfect Mr. Hotguy! Or… should I call you Mr. Goodtimes?” Menores smirked, tapping on his leg brace.

Hotguy— Mr. Goodtimes— Scar sighed, looking away from the stupid mirror. Of course it had been too easy to find his identity after removing his visor. The leg brace was probably no help.

Still, he had to survive. “Who cares about my identity? It’ll only improve my trust with the public.” He smirked, despite wanting to sob inside. “You and the rest of the Wardwatch will disappear eventually.”

Menores frowned at the moniker, like he refused to answer to his own crime ring’s label. “Don’t—“ The frown disappeared. He leaned in closer. “Are you talking about the Listeners? Hah! You can forget about a rescue from them. ‘Way things are going, you’ve probably lost access to HQ.” He flicked the brace with a malicious smile. “Didn’t you hear, old man? You’ve retired. They’re probably the ones that shot you in the first place.”

Scar drew back. That couldn’t be right. No, the night patrol was going smoothly. He remembered heading back to headquarters, meeting up with his boss (the very affluent Heir of Listeners) and… he sucked in a breath. Right, the termination letter. True to his threats, the Heir deemed Hotguy uncompliant and unfit for active duty. No matter the leg braces, the public persona, the tireless use of Scar’s Blessing… none of it was enough. The last thing Scar remembered was walking away from HQ, a cardboard box in his hands and his uniform on for the very last time. Freshly washed and repaired, the last grace given to him.

Then he woke up, bullet wounds and all. So much for the clean suit.

Wait— what had Menores said?

“What? Y-you’re trying to tell me you didn’t shoot me?”

Menores looked at him, disgusted. “You think I would be so cold as to shoot without pride? I… hm, to be fair, I would’ve shot you regardless given the chance. But I’d rather leave a calling card; don’t think so highly of me.”

Scar leaned back, then gasped as another wave of pain washed through him. Scar shouldn’t be consorting with the enemy, much less one taking him captive. He needed to escape. He needed to use his Blessing.

Sighing, Scar ignored the pain, keeping a monotone face while mentally reaching inward. Using his Blessing was never much fun, especially as of recent. The counter effects were starting to far outweigh its use. Still, he reached for the familiar feeling, at the same time gauging Menore’s face. Say what he wanted to hear. That’s all Scar needed to do.

The words bubbled out of him like blood, thick and sweet, even as he gagged on them. “You’re right, the notorious Menores Love would never be seen without his famous token. The Listeners shot me. Don’t you want to guard outside, make sure they won’t finish the job?”

To his credit, Menores looked briefly confused, but turned to leave— but not without a final remark. “Oh, old man?”

Scar looked up, panicked, afraid the Blessing hadn’t worked after all. “What?”

”Don’t think I can’t guess who your supposed worst enemy is. After all, there’s only one man… cute enough for you.”

— — -

thank you for reading!

welcome to butter’s hermit-a-day may! i will be writing short stories about every Hermitcraft hermit + a few extras, hopefully for every day this month.

that being said, schedule is crazy, but i love writing and i love sharing my work!

find me on ao3 @ evilbutter

see you tomorrow <3

[g-joja]

repost! i’m lowk proud of this i might honestly write this instead </3

[g-joja]

love didn’t shoot him, he swears

did i just write hotguy au? yes, yes i did.

psa: this fic was initially planned to be one part of a series, so i apologize if there’s worldbuilding that doesn’t make sense! also for the record Menores (full title Menores Love) is grian

enjoy! <3

- - - - -— —- -

In his shoulder. Underneath his ribs. Faint aches, irritated and itchy, not enough to wake him from slumber. The feeling kept growing, though, turning into pulses and waves of—

Scar sucked in a breath, gasping for air as his back burned. Swaths of pure magma attacking him in every way, slicking his skin in sweat and hurting his chest with every rasp. His eyes widened, blurred with tears as he struggled to breathe, just breathe— he pulled his arms up to his chest to alleviate the suffocating feeling, but—

Cold iron stopped him. Rings of metal chafing his wrists, he still couldn’t take in enough air but for a second he stopped struggling. What…?

He was handcuffed. He blinked, eyes finally clearing enough to think. He looked down to see his uniform— Hotguy’s uniform— and the pieces finally clicked. His heart dropped cold in his chest, chilled despite the fire still arcing up his back.

Scar needed to think. No, scratch that, Hotguy needed to think. He was handcuffed— that could mean captivity. His back hurt… not a typical breaking of bone, but specific points that drove uncontrollably deep. Two points, the middle of his left shoulder and right underneath his left rib. Did he get… shot?

His deep, navy armor was deliberately bulletproof. That came with the territory; although he had been grazed at times, it was never deep… never this painful. Somehow, someone had gotten past his defenses and shot him. Most likely the people who had handcuffed him, but…

He raised his head, blinking in disbelief. What kind of prison wardens held high-powered superheroes in residential bedrooms?

The room itself was dim, the single window blocked by what appeared to be cardboard. Hotguy refused to risk his back for a closer look. Nothing adorned the walls, the only piece of furniture the bare, stained mattress and bedpost he was chained to.

He squinted at the chains himself. From what he could tell, they weren’t particularly complex nor high-quality. On a normal day, he could use his Blessing to break them easily, but…

He glanced at his legs, the outline of his knee braces barely visible. He wouldn’t be breaking out of anything today.

The doorknob turned. Hotguy drew back, alert and ready to fight whoever it was, even as both his hands and his back lay useless. Yet as the door opened, his jaw loosened in disbelief.

Menores. His metaphorical counterpart. One of the most infamous villains in the city, not only for the historical weight his name dealt but also the terror he’d inflicted on its people. This was wrong. In all of the continent’s history, archetypes like Menores weren’t supposed to win; they weren’t supposed to be any more than shadows in the first place! “Y-you…” Scar stuttered, blinking in anger— surprise.

Menores raised an eyebrow from behind dark sunglasses. “Me,” he answered. He sauntered over to Hotguy, the buttons on his black leather jacket flashing in warning. “Your worst enemy.”

Hotguy’s disbelief broke with these words. No matter how shaken he was, he still had rank. He scowled, clearly this man didn’t understand the importance of priority lists. “You and your stupid jacket are nowhere near my worst enemy.”

”Really, dear prisoner? Surely by now, you’ve realized?” With a snap of his fingers, a mirror materialized in front of Hotguy, levitating above the bed. Hotguy glared back at Menores, eyes refusing to do his bidding, however petty it was. For him to use a Blessing so excessively… a stupid power move. It would only weaken him further, only help Hotguy’s escape.

Sighing, Hotguy looked in the mirror. Aside from a few wayward scrapes and the usual undereye bags, nothing appeared out of place…

His eyes grew wide. His brown eyes, unhindered by the blue-green of a visor. His visor was gone.

His hands started shaking. Without his visor, they most definitely had his face recorded. They could trace him anywhere, he could never head back to headquarters with his confidentiality compromised… There was no way out of this. His eyes burned. This single slip-up, and his entire life was over. No matter that it was before this whole ordeal, anyways.

“Aw, don’t cry! Don’t act like you never saw this coming. We all wanted to see it, the face of the perfect Mr. Hotguy! Or… should I call you Mr. Goodtimes?” Menores smirked, tapping on his leg brace.

Hotguy— Mr. Goodtimes— Scar sighed, looking away from the stupid mirror. Of course it had been too easy to find his identity after removing his visor. The leg brace was probably no help.

Still, he had to survive. “Who cares about my identity? It’ll only improve my trust with the public.” He smirked, despite wanting to sob inside. “You and the rest of the Wardwatch will disappear eventually.”

Menores frowned at the moniker, like he refused to answer to his own crime ring’s label. “Don’t—“ The frown disappeared. He leaned in closer. “Are you talking about the Listeners? Hah! You can forget about a rescue from them. ‘Way things are going, you’ve probably lost access to HQ.” He flicked the brace with a malicious smile. “Didn’t you hear, old man? You’ve retired. They’re probably the ones that shot you in the first place.”

Scar drew back. That couldn’t be right. No, the night patrol was going smoothly. He remembered heading back to headquarters, meeting up with his boss (the very affluent Heir of Listeners) and… he sucked in a breath. Right, the termination letter. True to his threats, the Heir deemed Hotguy uncompliant and unfit for active duty. No matter the leg braces, the public persona, the tireless use of Scar’s Blessing… none of it was enough. The last thing Scar remembered was walking away from HQ, a cardboard box in his hands and his uniform on for the very last time. Freshly washed and repaired, the last grace given to him.

Then he woke up, bullet wounds and all. So much for the clean suit.

Wait— what had Menores said?

“What? Y-you’re trying to tell me you didn’t shoot me?”

Menores looked at him, disgusted. “You think I would be so cold as to shoot without pride? I… hm, to be fair, I would’ve shot you regardless given the chance. But I’d rather leave a calling card; don’t think so highly of me.”

Scar leaned back, then gasped as another wave of pain washed through him. Scar shouldn’t be consorting with the enemy, much less one taking him captive. He needed to escape. He needed to use his Blessing.

Sighing, Scar ignored the pain, keeping a monotone face while mentally reaching inward. Using his Blessing was never much fun, especially as of recent. The counter effects were starting to far outweigh its use. Still, he reached for the familiar feeling, at the same time gauging Menore’s face. Say what he wanted to hear. That’s all Scar needed to do.

The words bubbled out of him like blood, thick and sweet, even as he gagged on them. “You’re right, the notorious Menores Love would never be seen without his famous token. The Listeners shot me. Don’t you want to guard outside, make sure they won’t finish the job?”

To his credit, Menores looked briefly confused, but turned to leave— but not without a final remark. “Oh, old man?”

Scar looked up, panicked, afraid the Blessing hadn’t worked after all. “What?”

”Don’t think I can’t guess who your supposed worst enemy is. After all, there’s only one man… cute enough for you.”

— — -

thank you for reading!

welcome to butter’s hermit-a-day may! i will be writing short stories about every Hermitcraft hermit + a few extras, hopefully for every day this month.

that being said, schedule is crazy, but i love writing and i love sharing my work!

find me on ao3 @ evilbutter

see you tomorrow <3