#marlos

[bunny-lou]

Ben: “WHY IS THE SCHOOL ON FIRE?!”

Mal: “I sneezed as a dragon.”

Carlos: “We had an accident in the chemistry lab.”

Jay: “I dropped my latest mix tape.”

Ben: “Evie, please tell me what happened.”

(Flashback to Jay and Mal arguing with Carlos that it was impossible to light a fire extinguisher on fire.)

Evie: “I don’t remember.”

[finitevoid]

A Study in an Utter Lack of Regard for Personal Safety, featuring Mal Bertha and Carlos De Vil

“I don’t know why I agreed to this,” Mal says.

“Yes, you do,” Carlos replies, hefting the duffel bag over his shoulder. It clinks dangerously as he moves, and she eyes it with suspicion.

And, okay, he has a point. Mal may be the leader of this gang, but if Carlos said ‘jump’, Mal would say, ‘how high?’. It’s a side effect of all the gang activity; you learn to trust each other with things that normal people have never even thought to trust another person with.

“Okay, revise: I don’t know what we’re doing here.”

Carlos meets her eye, gaze as sharp as she’s ever seen it. He smirks like an Isle boy, wide and wicked, and says, “Science.”

“Science?”

“Just trust me.”

Without anymore preamble whatsoever, Carlos begins traipsing through the woods. With single-minded purpose, he stomps over the weeds and roots, directly into the belly of the beast. Mal swears, rushing to follow.

“I just don’t understand what kind of science,” she smacks at a branch before she can run right into it, “we’re going to be doing in the Enchanted Forest.”

“The magical kind,” Carlos says, not pausing in his trek. “That’s why I brought you.”

“Isn’t that a contradiction?”

He abruptly stops. She nearly runs into him from behind. He whirls around on his heel and says, “No, it’s not. There’s actually an entire field of scientific study here in Auradon dedicated to the way magic interacts with things like biology and chemistry. And cosmology, but that’s more philosophical… Anyway, you,” he sticks an accusatory finger into her face. “didn’t tell me that there’s a special magic lake that washes away curses!”

She blinks at him. His phrasing is very interesting, given that all she’d said was that it washed away the love spell they casted on Ben, all that time ago. “It doesn’t just wash away curses.”

He rolls his eyes. “Spells, then.” He huffs theatrically. “The point is, you’ve been holding out on me!”

“Okay, wait,” she holds a hand up. “You dragged me all the way out here so you can do some freaky science experiment—“

“It’s not freaky.”

“—on the Enchanted Lake?”

“Yeah,” he says, easily. “Are you coming?”

“Obviously.” She scoffs. “I’m just wondering what all the secrecy was about.”

“Revenge, obviously. For holding out on me. Now, can you just show me where the damn thing is?”

“You don’t know? Then why were you leading?” She groans. “Is this part of your ‘revenge’?”

He rolls his eyes. “I thought I heard water.”

“Well, you’re shit out of luck, because Ben made me close my eyes when he showed it to me.”

Carlos stares at her, genuinely scandalized. “And you did?”

“Ben is like if a kitten were a person. I wasn’t worried about it.”

He frowns. “Whatever you say, killer.” And, it’s like, yeah, on the Isle closing her eyes just because someone had asked would’ve been a fast way to get a switchblade buried in her gut, but she’d been playing the part of sweet-girl-with-a-crush, just the way Evie had taught her, so closing her eyes had just made the most sense.

“You gonna tell FG about those ‘Isle instincts’ you got going on right now?”

He smiles at her, all kinds of smug. “FG loves me. I don’t got any ‘Isle instincts’, didn’t you know?” He bats his eyes at her, expression suddenly the picture of shattered, wide-eyed innocence. “My mommy hurt me and kept me inside all the time. Gang violence? Oh, evil, I wouldn’t have been caught dead doing anything like that!”

“You know, puppy,” she laughs, reaching forward to ruffle his curls. “sometimes you scare me.” He ducks from the affection, shooting her a tilted grin.

It takes them the better part of an hour to find it. By the time they do, Mal is sweaty, dehydrated, and adorned with at least two scratches from thorny plants. They had run into a total of three (three) weird, fucky-looking creatures that Mal didn’t know forests in Auradon could have. Weird, lithe, rodent-like things with sharp teeth and too many eyes... She’d had to do some creative magic to avoid them. Overall, she’s not pleased with the experience.

Finally, though, they find it.

Just how she remembers it: granite arch on a silver dais. Ivy crawling up the sides, flowers dotting the bank. It’s... deeply picturesque. The sun hanging high in the sky above it, framed by mountains. Even the breeze smells like flowers, like this is some sort of fucking romance novel.

The fact that Auradon has places like these, just, sitting around, and nobody even bothers to visit them half the time drives her slightly insane. It makes her want to grip Ben by the back of his skinny neck and shove his face in the wild, freezing, rocky surf of the Isle. But that isn’t very ‘good’ of her, so she pretends the feeling isn’t there.

Carlos drops the duffel bag onto the dais, just by the edge of the water. He seems completely unaffected by the beauty around him, and truly, that’s half the fun of doing anything with Carlos; he’s dressed in Isle clothes like he doesn’t give a shit, an old ratty pair of studded combat boots, a shirt covered in patches and pins, hair haphazardly dyed. He breaks up the serenity of the fairytale image of this place, a smudge amidst all the pastels.

The inside of the duffel appears to be, almost entirely, small glass vials. He pulls out a thermos and dunks it into the water, twisting the cap shut.

“Is that legal?” She asks, plopping down beside him. He’s crouched over the lip, hands braced on his knees as he stares impassively down at the crystalline water. It’s reflecting the sunlight, and somehow the glittery light is shining off of it in hues of pink.

“Definitely not,” he replies, gently setting his thermos of contraband back into his duffel. “Technically, we aren’t even supposed to be here.”

“Wait, seriously?” She watches as he pulls vials of various liquids from the bag. “But Ben brought me here?”

“Special privileges. Those of royal blood are permitted to enter public property that would otherwise be restricted, providing it has substantial religious significance. And by ‘religious’, they just mean—“

“—fairytale-relevant.” She finishes. “I can’t believe you memorized that whole damn book.”

“‘S not a book.”

“I can’t believe you memorized the entire Constitution of the United Kingdoms of Auradon,” she drawls. “Still, it’s weird. Somehow I can’t imagine Ben doing something like that. He just, hates breaking the rules.”

Carlos finishes laying out his perfectly even line of glass vials, before selecting one carefully. “It’s easy to hate breaking the rules when the rules for you are so lax.”

“Preach,”

He hands her the vial. “Put a spell on this.”

She takes it, raising her eyebrow at it critically. It’s clear, sloshing around in the sealed vial as she eyes it. “I don’t have any love spell cookies on hand.”

He rolls his eyes. “I already know it works on the love spell. Put another spell on it.”

“This seems like a very lax way to conduct an experiment,” she says. “Any requests?”

“I’m just satisfying my curiosity, not writing for a scientific journal. And, I don’t know. Make it sweet or something. It’s just water.” He pulls out a notebook and a pencil, opening it to a fresh page with confident, practiced motions. With ease, he makes a table with five columns. On one side, he writes, substance. Then, spell. Then, time submerged. Then, observations. Then, effects.

“Does anyone know we’re out here?”

“You think I would tell people we’re going to go flagrantly ignore Auradon’s laws regarding private religious property?”

“Fair enough,” she mutters. “Evie and Jay?”

“Yeah, I mentioned it.” He gestures with the eraser of his pencil. “Now hurry up.”

She rolls her eyes, but acquiesces. She doesn’t need her spellbook to do magic anymore, which is nice, because FG’s been way sweeter on them since they put the spellbook and the mirror in the museum. No, magic isn’t about some arbitrary collections of poems in a book; it’s about intention, power, the sleek possibilities of the meaning they’ve given to the things they say.

Power gathering in her clavicle and leaking hotly from her eyes, she says, “Sweet like candy, sweet like cake, make this water so sugary it aches.”

Words and rhyme schemes was how she learned magic, and so it is what her magic associates with power. The legends of fae and contracts and names speak for themselves, after all. Magic itself does not require words, but for her, half-faery she is, there is nothing more powerful.

“Did it work?”

“You doubting me, De Vil?”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s science. I have to be sure.” And then he yanks the vial from her fingers. He sets it down, twisting open the cork. He pulls an eyedropper from the bag and gently sets it inside, sucking up some of the water. Then, he sticks his tongue out, and drops a glob of it onto his tongue.

“Well?”

He smacks his lips. Holds up the eyedropper. Rolling her eyes, she sticks her tongue out for him. He lets another drop fall, and saccharine sweetness explodes on her tongue. It tastes like funfetti cake, which is exactly what she’d been picturing when she spelled it.

He takes it back and hands her a stopwatch. He holds his hand over the lake and says, “On three.”

He inhales, eyeing the lake with eyes that sparkle. With a wild, manic sort of excitement. In another life, she’s absolutely sure he would’ve been some kind of mad scientist. Maybe he’s already on his way there. “One,”

The water laps gently at the lip of the dais, perfect and undisturbed. It looks like an oil painting; the kind she’d see in Ben’s castle, ten feet tall and set into a gold frame. Pure opulence. “Two,”

It’s funny, she thinks, how all he had to do to get her to come with him was ask. He’d even made her drive. Yanked her phone from her back pocket and set the address into the GPS. And she’d done it, because she knows he hates driving. “Three,”

He dunks his hand underneath the surface. She clicks the stopwatch on.

“We’re going to do ten seconds to start. Then twenty. Then thirty.”

She groans. “When you said ‘science’, I thought we were gonna do something fun.”

“This is what you get for holding out on me—“

“Time.”

He pulls it from the surf. He goes through the motions of testing it again, before announcing, “I fucking knew it.”

“What?”

“It’s still sweet,” he shakes the vial gently. “The glass protected it.”

He makes her spell another vial, and this time, he pulls a dropper full of water from the lake. Then, he drops it into the vial. When he tests it that time, it’s not sweet anymore.

“Is it safe for us to be testing it like this?”

“Oh, it’s a flagrant violation of every lab safety rule ever made.” He’s not even looking at her, scribbling notes down.

Her eyes fall onto the water. Perfect. Clear. Gentle and glittering pink in the sunlight. Auradon. “What d’you think would happen if I drank it?”

He looks up from his notebook to deadpan, “What?”

“Like, if you drank it, it would probably just taste like water. But I’m a magical creature.”

He opens his mouth. Doesn’t say anything. Narrows his eyes in thought. Sets his pencil down with finality. Closes his mouth. Opens it again.

“Maybe it would make you, like, not able to do magic?”

“Like the barrier.”

He presses his lips into a thin line. “Yeah, like the barrier.”

“Or maybe it’d be like poison.”

“Didn’t you say you swam in it, when you were with Ben?”

‘Swam’ is a charitable word for it. She’s not going to argue, though. “Yeah, but I didn’t swallow any of it.”

He pauses for a moment, seemingly contemplating this. Then, he goes digging through his duffel, arms shoulder deep. He emerges with two empty vials. “You wanna find out?”

“Hell yeah,” she swipes one. Together, they fill their vials with the liquid. And together, they shoot them back like it’s booze.

It tastes like the way sunlight feels on her face, like the way the vines look where they climb up the granite. She hates it.

Gently, Carlos takes the vial back when she offers it, their fingertips brushing. He pulls his notebook into his lap, eye glittering as he pierces her with his gaze. “How do you feel?”

“Normal.” She says. “Well, I can sort of feel the water.”

“Feel it?”

“Like the way you can feel booze. Except it’s cool, not warm. It’s in my stomach.”

He hands her a vial. “Spell it.”

She does. It’s not sweet. She could tell as soon she said the words, though; the power didn’t gather in her, didn’t leak from her eyes like hot steam. He could tell, too. But that’s because the magic didn’t turn her eyes green, because there wasn’t any magic.

He scribbles furiously. She says, “You know, you should dunk the Anti-Magic Machine in here.”

The ‘Anti-Magic Machine’ being their awful, pre-teen colloquialism for the machine Carlos had once been developing to try and tear an exit in the barrier. He’d only just gotten it to work— put a teeny tiny hole in the sky, letting in a strange dot of unfiltered sunlight— when they were brought to Auradon. The excitement had been electric, she remembers. She’d really thought he was going to break them out.

He mumbles, “Possible effects: mind wandering,” and she snaps, hey! But then he digs around in his duffle again and emerges with a black box about a foot long and half a foot wide. It’s got ANTI-MAGIC MACHINE V3 written haphazardly one the side in metallic, silver sharpie. “I brought it to use as a control, but,” and then his eyes land on the water.

He drops it in.

It, predictably, explodes.

A fountain of water and sparks shoots upward into the air. Mal grabs Carlos by the shoulder, shoving him as hard as she can away from the explosion, jumping after him, shielding him with her body. The shockwave bursts past her, rippling through every inch and plane of her body. She gasps, heart hammering, body screaming in pain.

Then, all is quiet. Her ears pop painfully. They are laying on the riverbank, Carlos pressed into the dirt by Mal’s weight. Her arms are braced on the soil beside his temples, framing him. She attempts to catch her breath.

Carlos blinks up at her, expression only mildly put-out. The ends of his hair are smoking, and she pats them out with a shaking hand. It smears ash over his forehead. He says, very calmly, “Interesting.”

It explodes again. They’re far enough away that the shockwave is only kind of painful, and they turn to watch it. Fire sprays into the sky, surrounded on all sides by a cacophonous shower of water.

It explodes a third time, this time less intensely. The shockwave still makes her ears pop and her eyes water, but it’s nothing she isn’t used to. She pulls herself from on top of Carlos, standing. She gives him a hand up, brushing dirt and grass from his clothes.

Together, they creep over to the dais. They peer over the edge at the water. Carlos drops to his knees and sticks his arm in the water, searching blindly; eventually, he pulls the Anti-Magic Machine from the surface.

As soon as it touches the air, it catches fire.

He yelps, throwing it to the dais like it’s a roach he caught crawling on him. He hops back, hissing in pain, waving his hand back and forth. She grips his wrist, pulling the wound to her face.

It’s a third-degree, but it’s on his fingers, which sucks. She says as much.

His eyes are on the AMM. “It’s soaking wet. Why the fuck did it catch fire?”

“Beats me.” She nearly casts a healing spell on the wound; she belatedly realizes that she’s still under the Lake’s effects.

His eyes are glittering with that manic excitement again. His staring at the fire with violent passion in his face, licking his lips like a predator sizing up its prey.

On the Isle, Carlos had always been hungry for knowledge. Starving, even. He had gripped whatever he could learn in greedy hands and put it all to use as soon as he could. But on the Isle, it’d been about survival. It was about keeping their enemies off their backs, finding creative ways to save food, making a machine to escape the island.

But as soon as he came to Auradon? It stopped being for survival and started being for sport. For fun. A game he plays. Hours spent in the library, late nights in the school’s lab, doing experiments he’s not supposed to be doing with materials he’s not supposed to have. She was wrong, earlier; he already is a bit of a mad scientist.

She kicks the AMM away with her boot.

He opens his mouth to argue.

She says, “Next weekend. You make a new AMM, I bring the spellbook.”

A smile breaks across his lips. Stretches wide over his face, crinkles his eyes at the corners, bells his cheeks, warps his freckles; his hair is singed and there’s that smudge of ash on his forehead in the shape of her thumb. They’re gonna have to dress that burn, but goddamn. He’s never looked so beautiful.

He may smirk like an Isle boy, but his smile is all his own. He says, “You’re on.”

“Am I forgiven for holding out on you?”

She cradles his burned hand. He says, “Killer, I was never mad.”

She knew that already. Still, though. For that smile? She’d do anything. Not that she’d ever tell him. His head would get too big.

[meviesdust]

been thinking about this ever since that pic that circulated years ago enjoy

[hexenwrites]

Mal: Carlos is a perfect cinnamon scone who’s never done anything wrong in his entire life! Diego: Never done anything wrong?! He's set a city block on FIRE!

[sparrowmoth]

Written in the Scars • [AO3]

Teen | 3.2K+ | Marlos-centric/OT4 | Heavy Angst, Devotion, Whump

A/N: More detailed notes on AO3, if you're interested, but here, I will just say thank you to my lovely friend Blake (@finitevoid) for talking through this fic with me and inspiring me to push the plot further, plus impressing upon me the image of an insanely tall Maleficent, which has now become secret canon in my mind dajkgsjdkg <3

CW: Heavy angst, verbal and physical child abuse, emotional manipulation, non-graphic usage of medieval torture implements, threat of self-harm, a lot of swearing, and a hurt/no comfort kinda cliffhanger in this first chapter (sorry).

Chapter One: Birdcage Religion

The knife isn’t dropped with a clatter to the stone floor. It is thrown at the feet of the Mistress of All Evil—Mal’s mother, her queen and, at a whim, her executioner. She’ll be that today, from the look on her face—the way her eyes flick to the knife and she tells Mal to repeat that.

“You heard me,” says Mal, stepping out in front of Carlos.

He doesn’t try to pull her back, though from the corner of her eye, she can see his hands twitch, like he’s thinking about it. His face has gone blank, but she reads fear in his quiet, the way he stands like a ghost, trying not to be seen. He thinks he’s caused enough trouble.

That makes Mal want to cause more.

She doesn’t shrink when her mother stands slowly from her throne, rising to her full height of seven feet and then some. Her horns add another foot and she’s standing on the dais. The candlelight behind her casts a shadow that much longer—a monstrous form, in all—

“So disappointing,” says Maleficent, voice dripping sickly sweetness. She takes her staff from where it’s leaning and takes a slow stride off the dais, almost gliding toward her daughter. “It seems your heart’s grown like a tumour in that precious little chest of yours.” Her words warp to a snarl as she lifts her staff up, spearing it forward, striking Mal hard in the sternum, sending her stumbling back into Carlos.

Mal grabs the end of the staff to keep from losing her balance, eyes flashing green as she glares at her mother, whose own burning gaze comes down the length of the staff. Only hatred there. No, intent—

“PROVE YOURSELF, GIRL,” roars Maleficent, wielding the staff in an arc as she kicks at Mal’s shin, sending her down and out of the way, leaving a path to Carlos. “THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE.”

Carlos, in a slight daze from having hit the stone floor—hard—recovers quickly at the sight of Maleficent encroaching, her staff poised to strike, coming down like a falcon, everything a blur—

Mal throws herself in front of him just in time to take the blow.

In some far part of his mind, still dazed, Carlos hears her ribs crack like a shot. He feels the part of a rabbit having watched the hound dog take a bullet for its prey, right from its master’s rifle—

Then, Mal is slumping across him, wheezing for breath, and he’s trying not to panic as he tries to sit up, tries to drag Mal away, tries to think through the thought stream of stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid—because he’s scared and he’s angry and he doesn’t understand. Why didn’t she just do it? Why didn’t she just hurt him? Why didn’t she…

“Ah, so it is a cancer,” says Maleficent, practically in a purr. She’s put the end of her staff under Carlos’ chin now, forcing his gaze up. She smirks when his open, vulnerable face turns quickly to something vicious. “You don’t fool me, boy. I can see your weakness…”

Mal’s arm shoots up and she grips the staff hard, pushing it away.

“Leave him alone,” she grits out, struggling up while half in Carlos’ lap still. “This is…” She coughs, blood speckling her lips. “Between you and me…” she manages, craning her neck to meet Maleficent’s eyes, high as a god’s above hers, staring ever down, down, down.

Maleficent smiles, something sinister, and she yanks her staff back easily out of Mal’s fist. “Do you know what I think?” she asks, the point of her staff hovering just above the stones. “I think… what’s between us are three little problems… and he happens to be one.”

With that, her staff comes down in an almighty bang, cracking open the stones and ushering in the guards—a group of boar-headed men with wide-set, matte black eyes set in wiry, mud-brown fur. They are dressed in leather armour with a dragon scale design, and various weapons hang from their belts or are carried in their hands—

They need no instruction beyond the simplest nod.

Carlos bites down on the first hand that reaches past him, trying for a fistful of Mal’s hair to drag her up. He draws a crude noise from the guard he’s wounded, but another moves in quick enough—

Mal is grabbed tight around the waist, weakening her kicks as she gasps for breath. Carlos is hoisted by the scruff of his jacket, but he writhes so much that he slips out from it easily, landing light on his feet, where he would normally make a break for it, except—

“Carlos,” Mal chokes out, a note of pleading in her voice.

He knows what she wants, what she’s trying to tell him.

He knows, if she could manage, she would say it’s an order.

But he doesn’t try to run.

Mal’s desperate eyes are the last he sees before a guard comes up behind him, pulling a sack down over his head and drawing the string tight, making him reach for his neck before his hands are roughly yanked away and burly arms lift him off his feet again.

Thick as the bag is over his head, the noises around him are slightly muffled, but loud as his breathing now sounds in his own ears, he hears Maleficent sigh, like this is all some inconvenience—

“Prepare the birdcage,” she addresses the guards, “and some chains for the mutt. No food, no water.” She pauses, then adds with a dark sense of promise, “If even one escapes, there will be pork roast for dinner, do you quite understand? Good. Now, to the dungeon.”

Maleficent’s dungeon is not unfamiliar.

Mal, Carlos, Jay, and Evie had plumbed the depths of the castle when they were all children. That was different than this, being carried down blind, hearing the echoes deepen, feeling the damp press in, a chill like death’s hands, goosebumps spreading—

There is sobbing, screaming, quiet moaning, and pleas behind the first door that opens at the bottom of the stairwell. They pass on through without a word from the guards or Maleficent herself.

Several more doors open and all sense of presence in the cells fades away to nothing. Now, there is only the footsteps, the rattle of chains and the clank of metal, words exchanged between the boar men in a guttural language, and underneath it all, the faintest of whimpers—

“You see now,” says Maleficent, “what your defiance will cost you, so I wonder…” She trails off and Carlos hears some shuffling, feels the bodies shift around him, and a hand pressing down on his head—

He’s forced onto his knees.

The bag is ripped away to reveal Mal, standing in front of him, with her mother behind her, one clawed hand on her shoulder—the other holding a knife, offering it for Mal to take—

But Mal’s just looking at Carlos.

“Slit his throat,” Maleficent whispers into her trembling daughter’s ear, lips close enough that she must tickle the flesh, “and I may just reconsider your punishment.” She trails her hand down from Mal’s shoulder, grabbing her wrist and guiding her puppet-like to grasp the knife. “Go on,” she urges. “His life is yours. He belongs to you. That’s what you’ve told me. Now, I’m telling you… to prove it…”

“Mal,” says Carlos, barely audible. I’ll come back goes unsaid.

She knows that. She knows that. Why won’t she just kill him?

This is the closest to mercy she will get from her mother.

Mal’s fingers twitch and Carlos holds his breath. He watches, heart pounding, as she slowly takes the knife, and then—much quicker than he can process such a stupid fucking decision—she’s whirling around, poised to stab her mother’s chest, no hesitation at all—

But Maleficent reacts, too fast for Mal to land the blade.

Her wrist is ensnared. Her mother’s face is stony.

This time, the knife is dropped.

It clatters to Mal’s feet and lays there, abandoned.

The silence that follows seems almost unnatural, as thick as it is—like a spell that can be broken by only Maleficent. And she does, but at her leisure, first gripping Mal’s chin with a punishing pressure—

“Do you want so much to die?” she asks, voice low and predatory.

Mal just stares at her, breathing hard and ragged, a soft-edged anger in her eyes, like fear is threatening to resurface—

She has no time to react before Maleficent withdraws her hand and brings it back with a hard slap that echoes off the stone walls and almost seems to make the torches flicker. The force of the blow should send Mal to her knees, but Maleficent grabs her, fisting her jacket, yanking her up. She takes a fistful of Mal’s hair and whips her head toward Carlos, forcing her to meet his eyes again—

“ANSWER ME, GIRL. WOULD YOU DIE FOR THIS DOG?”

Carlos, holding Mal’s gaze, almost imperceptibly shakes his head.

Mal stares at him for a moment, eyes bright with unshed tears, then her expression hardens and she spits blood at the ground, a trickle of red spit dribbling down her chin as she strains to tilt her head back and look at her mother, saying everything with her silence—

Maleficent’s lip curls. Her knuckles whiten, paler than pale—as though her skin is translucent, showing the bones. “Very well.”

She stoops, bending down to Mal’s ear—

“But know that, this time, you will not be buried.”

Maleficent straightens to her full, monstrous height, shoving Mal to her knees before she commands her, voice thunderous, to surrender her weapons, her jewelry, her outer clothing and her boots—

Pridefully, Mal looks back up at her mother as she moves to comply, slipping out of her jacket to show the knives strapped to her arms.

She removes them, one by one, and simply tosses them aside.

Carlos watches, breathing ragged, red creeping in at the edges of his vision. She’s giving up—and for what? “FUCK YOU, MAL!” he bursts out, startling the guards on either side of him; their grip on him had slackened, so he slides easily to the ground. “I’m not fucking worth it,” he growls, staring dead into Mal’s eyes. She looks stunned, on the verge of anger; then, the knife’s pulled from his boot, and—

“NO!” She’s up on her feet, lunging for Carlos before a pale, clawed hand hooks her upper arm, dragging her back with an effortless tug.

Carlos’ knife is at his own throat, and the guards who, at first, had moved to disarm him, are melting slowly back away. Their eyes are ever on their mistress, who has one hand raised—a silent command.

“Carlos,” Mal gasps softly, straining hard against her mother’s hold.

His eyes are raised above her head.

Maleficent is smirking.

She… wants him to…

Carlos falters, lowering the point of the knife from his throat to his collarbone. He looks at Mal, takes a breath, makes his decision—

And plunges the knife into the nearest boar man’s knee.

They squeal and the sound of it, so piercingly loud, rings in Carlos’ ears as the guards bear down. He thinks, for a second, somewhere through the din, that he hears Mal laugh—in spite of everything—

The thought is interrupted by a boot to his gut, leaving him winded. No time to catch his breath before he’s dragged up by his arms—and Mal is screaming now. He’s sure of that. He can’t focus on the words because there’s too much stimulation—the rattling of chains, the icy bite of metal, the hot breath on his face. He tenses under large hands checking over him for weapons, taking each as they’re discovered—

Carlos’ too-small boots are yanked off and he briefly feels the stone floor, burning cold beneath his bare feet; then, the chains hooked to his wrists are pulled up sharply toward the ceiling. The ground goes out from under him and he struggles not to flail, feeling panic swell up in him. He strains to touch the ground, but only manages on his tiptoes—and that’s only for a moment before a hard shove sends him swinging, shooting pain down through his shoulders—

The boar men snort with laughter as Carlos struggles, seemingly in vain. He gets a grip on the chains attached to his shackles and, with all the upper body strength he can muster, swings himself with legs outstretched—just when the guards have turned their backs to him.

He catches the nearest one around the neck, legs quickly constricting until the boar man starts to choke, clawing at Carlos’ skinny ankles as two of his fellows rush to assist him—

One grabs hold of Carlos’ leg and tries to pry it back, even almost succeeding—until his sweaty hands slip and Carlos’ leg snaps back with force, catching the choking man right in the snout. His tusks dig in to Carlos’ flesh, but the pain is distant from Carlos’ fury—

Until the weight of a spiked club connects with his hip.

He bites down on a cry as his legs come loose from around the boar men’s neck and heavily succumb to gravity. His shoulders ache and his hip throbs and he feels numbness in his fingertips.

Still, when a guard stoops to seize his good leg, Carlos spits down at their head and meets a snarl with a snarl. His ankle is shackled to a short length of chain, attached to an iron ball that’s set a little away.

His toes can touch it if he stretches, but it’s too heavy to drag nearer in any hope that he could stand on it, so he just glowers at the boar men as their numbers start to dissipate—

And Mal comes sharply back into focus.

She looks beaten down, quite literally, on her knees in front of her mother, wearing nothing but her thin, black underwear. There’s an open cage behind her, in the shape of a person much taller than her, albeit nowhere as tall as Maleficent, with her horns that scrape the ceiling. She is a god here on the Isle and she carries herself as one.

Huge, even at a distance, Maleficent’s stare turning suddenly on Carlos makes him feel like a lame deer in a grizzly’s line of sight.

“Still alive, I see,” Maleficent remarks.

Mal’s head jerks up and she meets Carlos’ eyes.

“There’s cruelty in you yet, child, to not have spared him this torture when I gave you the chance.” Maleficent smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “His pain will be immeasurable, and all because…” She tips forward, bending at the waist, one hand slowly extending until she cups Mal’s stubborn chin and forces it upward. “You are a sadistic, selfish little girl,” Maleficent coos, her voice like poisoned honey.

Mal tries to shake her head, but her mother holds her chin tight.

“He begged for a quick death, but you denied him…”

“SHUT UP!” Carlos bellows, writhing in his chains despite the pain that lances through him. He can’t listen anymore. He can’t just feel this helpless. “YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU KNOW?” He glares at Maleficent, all fear in him burnt up.

The air seems almost to coagulate, growing thick with a tension that holds the guards in their places, their eyes on their mistress as she rises to her full height, reaches out to take her staff, and—

“DON’T HURT HIM!” Mal bursts out, struggling up to her feet. She puts her arms out like a pair of spread wings—a feeble sort of shield.

Maleficent simply takes her staff in hand, face plain and unmoved.

“Speak again,” she says, addressing Carlos, “and I will cut out your tongue.” She looks at Mal, eyes dead of emotion, then lifts her staff and slams it down against the stone. “Enough of my time has been wasted on you.” She circles behind Mal, who turns to face her, wary as a mouse in the presence of Bastet. “Had I only known you’d be so human, so stupid and WEAK…” She takes a menacing step forward, backing Mal up to the birdcage. “This would have been your cradle.”

Maleficent shoves Mal and she goes stumbling backwards, right into the cage. Her head slams against the iron bars and she sinks dazedly down onto what feels like a stove with the switch just flicked on—

Her mother steps back and gestures for a boar man—one who shuts the iron cage, turns the key in the padlock, then—throwing his head back, jaws open to the ceiling—drops the key right down his throat and forces a swallow. He suppresses a cough before opening up his mouth again, presenting his throat for Maleficent’s inspection—

She perks an eyebrow, leaning over him, then gives a curt nod of approval. “Finish it,” she says with a snap of her fingers, and two boar men rush to operate a pulley made stubborn with rust—

Maleficent watches as the birdcage is raised several feet in the air—then higher still at her direction. Only when it is hanging out of the reach of any normal person does she utter, “There. Now secure it.”

Mal chokes down a whimper, just now starting to squirm.

Her mother regards her without any emotion, and somehow, that’s worse—worse than laughter or gloating or even… disappointment, because if Mal’s blood were pure, she would already be screaming.

“Mom.” The word escapes Mal as Maleficent turns her back—

She stops—and from his vantage point, Carlos sees her teeth flash.

It’s a moment, only, and then she’s icily calm. “Guards,” she says, and they come quickly to attention, awaiting her orders. She holds the room in silence uncomfortably long, slowly tapping her fingers against her staff. “You will inform Jafar and Evil Queen that I have withdrawn protection of their wretched whelps. Furthermore, that I will not tolerate any sight of the two in the shadow of my castle—and should they appear to darken my doorstep… I expect you will report to me with a body to be buried. Do you quite understand?”

She glances over her shoulder, then starts toward the door.

Mal stares after her wide-eyed, fists clenched tight around the iron bars. Her knuckles are bloodless, but her palms are reddening.

Her lips are parted, but she doesn’t speak.

Carlos is quiet, too—teeth grit so hard, his jaw aches. He’s breathing hard through his nose, glowering at Maleficent as she glides through the door, and all the boar men with her. The door slams shut and the jail keys jingle, locking up this cell that will, in days, become a tomb.

When all the footsteps have faded, Carlos finally screams—

Pure fury. Unspent anger. Hatred. Bloodlust. Wrath.

He’s not afraid. He will come back. He will come back. He’s not afraid. Death is familiar. He will come back. He’s not afraid. It isn’t that. It’s not the dying. Not the torture. Death’s familiar. So is pain.

It’s just that—if he hadn’t kissed her—

Thank you for reading! Reblogs are always appreciated. And feel free to subscribe on AO3 if you want to be alerted when the next chapter comes out. Kudos and comments are lovely, as well! ♥

[cracksh1pqueen]

Mal and Carlos would��ve been cute. Just saying

[animangalover-writes]

Sleep Deprivation

Ao3 version

A/n: So I'm gonna try something a little bit different and post my full fic on here. I don't normally do this cause I assume people won't bother to read it but yk, I think some people will appreciate it, so here it is. I'm choosing this fic cause it seems to be the most popular recently. Enjoy!

Fandom: Descendants

Ships: Mal/Carlos, Mal/Carlos/Jay/Evie, implied Mal/Carlos/Jay/Evie/Ben

Tw: abuse mention, attempted sexual assault mention, porn mention(this makes the fic sound really intense, I promise it's not, these are all just mentioned in passing. Basically the isle was not a good place)

Word Count: 1881

Summary: "Couldn't sleep either?" She asks. He heaves a sigh, sitting down next to her, she lays her head on his shoulder.

"Nightmares." Is all he says and Mal hums.

Carlos had always had awful dreams. Worse even, because most involved Cruella and very real things she had done to him.

Or

Two isle kids can't sleep well in their new home.

---

It's odd how quiet Auradon can be. So unlike the isle that it makes her uneasy. Soft chirping crickets and Evie's steady breaths, that's all Mal can really hear in this place at night.

Nothing like the endless noise back home.

Mal remembers hearing screams on the isle, in the middle of the night. Out in the streets, with no castle walls to protect them. No walls in general. Not like the ones her mom provided for her. Large and sturdy.

Sometimes, when Mal was a little girl, Maleficent would threaten to throw her into those streets. With those wailing faceless strangers. She would tell her that one day, one night, those damned screams may very well be coming from her next. That way, Mal knew who was in charge. Who was really keeping her safe.

Her fists grip the fabric of the duvet that covers her, gritting her teeth. The almost quiet fills her with a jittery anxiety, worse somehow then the screaming on the isle. At least then, she could hear the chattering of busy late night markets to distract her.

Mal rips the sheets from her chest, sits up and swings her legs over the edge of her bed. Her foot bounces where it meets the floor, and she delegates, looking between Evie's sleeping figure and the too smooth too pink door to the hall.

Doors on the isle were always dark and splintered, nothing like the ones here.

She creeps to the door, desperate to get out of the stuffy Auradon bedroom she knows she'll never really be comfortable in. The sound of footsteps outside stops her from grasping the knob. Night staff, patrolling the halls to make sure everyone is in bed by curfew. She suppresses a groan, tapping her fingers lightly on the doorframe.

Cursing under her breath, she resigns herself, backing away. She doesn't want to risk getting caught so soon.

She worries her bottom lip between her fangs, knowing she can't stay cooped up like this, not with so much energy inside her.

Back on the Isle, she never had to worry about the restlessness. If she wanted to leave in the middle of the night, she would leave. Maleficent could be terrifying, worse then any threat the streets ever had. Sometimes she just had to get out.

Harsh words. Broken arms. Bruised ribs. Busted bloody lips.

Her lip is bleeding. Had she been biting that hard?

She looks around briefly, like she worried someone would catch her unguarded, and wipes the blood away with the back of her hand. Her eyes lock onto the window, an easy out, even if it is three stories high. They've jumped from worse on the Isle. Risk was a necessity if you wanted to survive.

"You're lucky it isn't broken." Evie had said to Jay, smearing salve around his ankle. It was only a sprain, but Mal still paced around the room like she thought he was dying. He'd only jumped off the roof because he was running away from some goons she had pissed off.

"I'm fine princess." He had said back, always aiming for nonchalance. Evie squeezed his ankle hard enough to make him wince, and then smiled all innocent-like. In a way only a princess could manage.

Mal had laughed at the time, stopped her pacing to smack Jay on the back of the head. But she was berating herself inside. Yelling and screaming.

She couldn't keep them safe.

The campus walls we're far too easy to climb. Why were there so many ledges? She hardly even needed to balance her footing. It's like they wanted students to sneak out.

She lands on the grass with a soft thud, barely even needing to bend her knees. She doesn't bother worrying about the open window, even when everything in her body begs her to go back and close it, to keep Evie safe. This isn't the Isle anymore, nobody has to worry about the wrong people sneaking in here. Hell, half the student body leave their windows open by default.

The Isle wasn't kind. Mal has a very brief, very clear, recollection of a man sneaking into her bedroom one night as a child, very nearly doing things to her she would never had been able to forget. Her mother and her goons had heard her scream, and the man was found dead the next morning.

It was still hard to forget his silhouette. His crooked smile.

She takes her time walking across campus, less staff outside to catch her. They're too pompous, too arrogant, to think anyone would manage to get past them.

Too trusting. She thinks, Far too trusting.

Their new hideout isn't really that. It's more of a dusty nook nobody knows about, tucked away in an old library nobody visits anymore. Behind bookshelves and old stained novels.

It was their safe space, they had established. A place to retreat to whenever things got rough. A place quiet and hidden and safe.

Except when she walks in and turns their corner, there's a knife pointing at her chest.

For a moment, no longer then a second, she has an internal battle. The Isle kid in her screams to fight. To hurt, to protect. To get that damned switchblade out of her face. The Auradon girl she was so afraid of becoming, felt a spark of fear, telling her to run, to tell someone, wondering how the hell someone snuck something like that onto campus.

Then, she realizes, as the knife lowers, that the blade is one of theirs.

"Sorry." Says Carlos, letting his body sag, "Didn't know it was you." He looks sheepish, lips bitten and shoulders hunched.

"Don't apologize." She says, letting the adrenaline fade, she makes her way over to their spot. The blanket laid out on the floor, surrounded by new Auradon pillows, is dusty and stained. An old raggedy thing that they had brought from their isle hideout. Something that smelled like all of them. "It's good to be alert."

"Yeah I guess." He looks as tired and restless as Mal felt.

"Couldn't sleep either?" She asks. He heaves a sigh, sitting down next to her, she lays her head on his shoulder.

"Nightmares." Is all he says and Mal hums.

Carlos had always had awful dreams. Worse even, because most involved Cruella and very real things she had done to him. He had always preferred to sleep in the warehouse, away from anything that reminded him of home. Sometimes, he'd wake up screaming. Those were the worst nights.

Mal grabs his hand gently, rubbing her thumb over one of the smallest scars Cruella had left on him, a long gash over his knuckles. "You wanna talk about it?"

He stays silent for awhile, twitching his fingers between Mal's.

"Same old." He says, which meant it was a very particular nightmare, memory really, he could never seem to escape. No matter how far away he was from his mother.

"There are no dog's around here," Carlos had said, voice hoarse. Evie was dabbing away his tears, drying them with an old rag they had found months ago. He had wiped his nose with the back of his hand, not yet scarred by Cruella. "None with spots." His eyes went hazy and distant, "But I have freckles you know? And mom needs spots for her new coat."

He had stopped there, but the bandages wrapped around his shoulder made them wish they had asked a lot sooner. Jay paced back and forth, jaw set and fists clenched, like he wanted to hurt Cruella in all the ways she had hurt their pup. Mal gave him a warning glare and Jay only grunted in frustration. He wanted to punch something. Someone. But loud noises and sudden movements scared Carlos when he was like this, so he settled for pacing.

"Normally I can take care of it myself." He said, "But it started getting infected, and I didn't know what to do." There was an unspoken apology in his words, like he was sorry he didn't tell them sooner, but Isle kids never said sorry. No matter how much they cared about each other.

Jay paced faster, trying desperately to stop himself from going and killing Cruella himself. Mal would stop him if he tried of course - couldn't risk both their boys being hurt by that bitch - but she was bleeding with just as much rage herself, really only reigning it in because Carlos was more important right now.

"Its ok Pup." Mal had said, "We're here now. She's not gonna hurt you while we're around. I can promise you that." She wouldn't let that woman get anywhere near him.

Carlos shifts uncomfortably, the bookcase behind them digging into his back at all the wrong angles, in all the worst scars. Mal lifts her head from his shoulder, and sighs, "Lay down."

Carlos raises a brow, breathing out a laugh. "What?"

She pats her lap, "Lay down."

He eyes her dubiously, like he thinks she's gonna try something while he's down. She would never, of course, not when he's so vulnerable, but the hesitance is still there, might always be there. Effects of the Isle, she supposes.

He lies down anyway, because he trusts her - because he knows her - and she cards her fingers through his curling hair. His whole body goes slack, and he sighs.

They sit there, indulging in each other, not saying anything for a good while. Honestly Mal thinks he'd finally fallen asleep until he speaks again.

"So what about you?" He finally asks, fingering one of the strings in Mal's sweatpants. "Why are you up?"

Mal laughs, "It's too fucking quiet here."

That pulls a grin out of her boy, "Yeah. Makes everything else so loud."

"I can actually hear myself think. It's awful."

This time, Carlos actually snorts. "Must be hard for you."

Mal flicks at his forehead. He laughs harder.

"What were you doing here this whole time?" She asks.

He points over to his laptop and a box of metal scraps and wires by the window, "Trying to upgrade some stuff."

Mal hums, "Trying to watch porn without getting caught by the school?"

Carlos smacks her arm, laughing. "God shut up."

They dissolve into a giggling fit, sleepy and half delusional, wrapping around each other at awkward angles until Carlos pulls at her to lay down with him.

"We really should try to sleep." He says, pulling a pillow under them "I can play some music so it's not so quiet?"

Mal huffs out a laugh, shuffling around until she's clinging and wrapping around him. "That sounds nice."

He grapples for his phone somewhere behind her, playing some song soft enough to distract them both. He wraps an arm around her like he always does, just as needy as she is. Though, that's not something Isle kids ever admit.

And just like that, they finally fall asleep.

-

The others find them the next day, Evie cooing at the way they hold onto each other. Jay taking pictures that he can mock them with later. And Ben, who was watching the four of them with something akin to awe, something a little too close to envy.

Carlos and Mal skip class that day.

[prismaticflare]

Huma (Harry Hook/Uma) is also a fan favorite. Uma and her sidekick Harry are often seen together on the Isle, and have a very close relationship. Harry will do basically anything she says, which is very out-of-the-ordinary for Harry, implying something else there.

Marlos (Mal/Carlos), while not having much canon support, is quite popular in the fandom. Mal and Carlos’ fandom relationship is often seen as Mal being somewhat cold to Carlos, but having feelings deep down. To be fair, though, I haven’t read much Marlos, so this may not be perfectly accurate.

Which is your favorite? Vote now!

[aroace-polyshow]

im but a little creature with so so so much love in my heart

[lostattheedge]

Marloes Horst

[myoldboyfriends]

Marlo Nolen

[bunny-lou]

Ben: “We call that a ‘traumatic event’.

Ben, turning to Jay: “Not a ‘bruh moment’.”

Ben, turning to Evie: “Not a ‘major L’.”

Ben, turning to Carlos: “Not a ‘shit fest’.”

Ben, turning to Mal: “And definitely not an ‘oof lmfao’.”

[finitevoid]

these prompts are so fucking funny and I absolutely MUST know your answers to the following for any of the Core Four (or if another character speaks to you, go for it)....... 13, 16, 22, 24, 29, 34 and 38

@sparrowmoth THANK YOU SPARROW <33 THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN. i threw some twst in the mix for spice, but its mostly various combos of the rotten ot4. i, uh. wrote a bunch of little drabbles. bon apetit

13. Who would smoke weed in a confessionary?

"I mean, does she have a rule against it?" Ruggie asks, wiggling his fingers. His hair is mussed-- artfully, though Riddle is loathe to admit it-- and his clothes are rumpled. Likely from the manhandling Riddle gave him as he dragged him outside by the wrist a few minutes ago. Ruggie's chin is balanced on his palm, elbow leaning on his bent knees, looking for all purposes like the patron saint of not-giving-a-damn.

"Well--" Riddle puffs his chest out, before deflating in defeat. "No. Not that specifically. But--! You got thrown out of a church!"

Ruggie tips his face towards the sky, squinting in thought. His legs are splayed over the church steps, and the stained glass behind him is bathing him all kinds of colors. It's beautiful; it makes him understand the artists of yore, trying to capture their muse. Riddle hates it with a passion.

"Worth it."

"You are such a bad influence!" Riddle cries. "I mean-- drugs! Illicit substances! In a place of worship!"

"I'm s'possed to confess my crimes, right? What better way than by showin' him exactly what I've been doing?"

Riddle shoves at his shoulder. "You're the worst!"

"Yeah, but Queenie," he sways into Riddle's space, filling the air in front of Riddle's face with warmth, with the smell of him. "Which one of us is out here with me?"

Riddle smacks the back of his head. Ruggie just laughs.

16. Who would be best at drag?

Jay poses dramatically in the mirror, the eyeliner and glitter covering his eyes anything but tasteful. He buries a hand in his hair, fluffing the ends up, pursing his lips in a mockery of coyness.

Behind him, Mal cackles like a hyena. Evie is surveying her work with a critical eye, sweeping him over. Stepping closer to him, she grips him by the straps of his remarkably stupidly short dress. When he's standing still enough for her tastes, she sweeps a necklace from her pocket, glittering silver.

It's cold around his neck. He turns to survey himself again, eyeing the way it brings out the warm tones in his skin. "Oh, yeah," he says, cocking a hip. "I look hot!"

Mal buries her face in her pillow to muffle the hysterical screams of mirth she's giving out. But what does she know, anyway?

22. Who lets the intrusive thoughts win constantly?

Evie eyes herself critically in the pitifully small screen of her phone. She has the camera on, pointed at herself, squinting past pixels and smudges to get a good look at her appearance. She curses herself for forgetting her compact; she's in the trenches at this very fancy, very Auradon party without it.

Well, she needs to reapply her lipstick, that much is obvious. And she should probably excuse herself to the little girl's room to re-do her hair. It's starting to look a little... frizzy. And oh, God, is that a pimple--?!

Carlos shouts, with the kind of rage that levels happy little kingdoms like Auradon, "Oh my God, you did not just drop your fucking pickle into my drink!"

Mal laces her hands behind her head, smirking in self-satisfaction. "Well, you said you didn't want to eat it."

"I don't want to drink it either, you little shit--"

"I can always feed it to you like a baby bird?"

Carlos stands, grabs his water glass, and dumps it over Mal's head. She gasps, her perfectly curled and style hair plastered to her skin. Her eyes are flaring, but she's stifling laughter, even as she launches herself over the table with a shout of, "De Vil--!"

Evie sighs into her hands. Well, at least she's not worried about how she looks, anymore.

24. Who goes to a haunted place only to start yelling at the ghosts to try to challenge them?

"Come on out, little ghosties!" Mal shouts. Jay presses a palm over her mouth, trying and failing to quiet her. She merely grips his palm and yanks it away from her face. "The big, mean, evil faerie is here! Come and get me! I'm not scared of you! My mom's the mistress of all evil, bitches! You're nothing!"

"Big?" Jay asks, raising an eyebrow.

Mal whirls on him, jabbing a finger to his chest. "Say that again, and I'll turn you into a ghost."

He holds up his hands in surrender, but his grin gives up the game. "Girl, you like me way too much for that."

"Girl?"

"What, you want me to call you pet names in front of the ghosties? What would you prefer? Baby? Sweetheart?" He slowly wraps his arms around her middle, nosing against her cheek as she hisses putridly at him. "Honey-bunches? Schnookums?"

She guffaws, shoving his face away with her hand. "You're gonna wish you were a ghost by the time I'm done with you, asshole!" She squirms, but he holds steady. When a ghost-- an actor in a morphsuit, as far as he can tell-- jerks out at them, she jumps about a foot in the air with a two-toned, piercing shriek.

She calms, cheeks blazing pink as she stares at the actor in embarrassment. As if it's, like, cringe of her to fall for the whole game of a haunted house?

"Come on, miss evil-faeirie, let's not get thrown out of the haunted house, yeah?"

She snarls at him again, but holds his hand all the way to the end.

29. Who gets arrested the quickest?

Worth it, Evie mouths. She's visible through the window of the cop car, cheek spattered with a splash of dark blood. She looks utterly at home, sighing in lazy contentment. Then, with a start, she sits up, opening the door.

"Puppy? Take my bag, will you?" She says, handing him her blue, sequined purse. He takes it, nearly pitching forward from the sheer unexpected weight. He let's out a loud, annoyed groan, hefting it up. It clinks audibly.

"How many knives?"

"In there? Oh, honey, too many to count."

The cop comes around the corner, slamming the door shut. Evie laughs into her palm, eyes little half-moon circles of mirth. He says, "I don't want to see you again, Grimhilde."

Sickly sweet, Evie drawls, "Of course not, officer."

34. Who’s been accused of murder?

The lunch table goes deathly quiet. Jay meets Evie's eyes first, then Carlos', then Mal's. As one, they turn to face Chad Charming. He's holding his lunch tray defiantly, sticking his chin out with an arrogant swagger.

"Dude. You realize nobody can die on the Isle, right?"

Chad balks at them. "Really? Oh, thank God. So you haven't killed anyone! I was starting to get worried."

"What?" Evie says. "Worried?"

Mal says, "Do you really think a bunch of Villain Kid's wouldn't take advantage of the fact that corpses don't last?"

Chad's starting to go chalky white.

Evie balances her chin on her hand, sighing wistfully. "I miss being able to get kill the creepy men. It was cathartic, you know?"

"One time I threw Harry into the sea," Carlos adds, tapping away at his phone.

Chad's eyes are shuttered with open fear. Swallowing visibly, he manages, "But not you, Jay?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Why do you think Carlos threw Harry into the sea?"

38. Who accidentally ate 400mg worth of edibles?

"I'm fine," Carlos slurs, sinking into the couch. It's a considerable feat, considering that, before, he'd been sunk so far into it that you could barely see him. He's dressed in one of Jay's sweatshirts, hood pulled up over his head and drawstring tight. His cheeks are flushed and his pupils are blown wide, and he keeps blinking, slowly, and then startling up.

"Yeah, I'm gonna be honest, you really don't seem fine." Mal replies. "Why does it smell like weed? Is that why you're like this?"

"Did you know," Carlos says sharply, with the kind of abrupt cadence of someone deeply inconvenienced, "that cannabis can be cooked into baked goods?"

"Uh oh, you're being a smartass." She presses the back of her hand to his forehead, and he whines. "Very ominous. Never a good sign."

"Shut the fuck up," he mutters, yanking the nearest blanket over his head.

Mal leans over the back of the couch, pitching herself forward. The couch digs into her stomach, her feet hovering off the ground as her face lands in the mess of blankets and pillows on the couch. It's almost nestlike, honestly. She pulls herself up onto her elbows, legs dangling free.

"Did the puppy eat too many pot brownies?" She cooes, reaching out to tap condescendingly at where she thinks his cheek is. He snarls wordlessly. She snorts. "Stay here. I'll get your dumbass some water and food. It'll sober you up."

As she turns toward the kitchen, so weakly she can barely hear it, there's a soft hiss of, "Thanks."

[pissfizz]

I should be allowed to sit next to my online friends and cuddle them. This screen is a prison

[hexenwrites]

Diego: Carlos has no survival skills, his need to win has replaced it entirely. Mal: That can't be true! Diego: Watch this. Diego: Hey Carlos, race you to the bottom of the stairs! Carlos: *Throws himself out a window*

[sparrowmoth]

Marlos-centric WIP Teaser

I've been working on something of a sequel to my oneshot A Heart is Not a Plaything. It's already twice as long (not yet finished) and mmm probably five times angstier, so...... to avoid an absolutely devastating ending, I've decided this is going to need a Chapter Two, but anyway!

Carlos’ knife is at his own throat, and the guards who, at first, had moved to disarm him, are melting slowly back away. Their eyes are ever on their mistress, who has one hand raised—a silent command. “Carlos,” Mal gasps softly, straining hard against her mother’s hold. His eyes are raised above her head. Maleficent is smirking. She… wants him to…