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carlosdevilz · 3 months

Text

and soon it’ll be spring

testing out some character voices. Set in a vague future timeline, fandom-typical discussions of child abuse.

Carlos hasn't seen his mother in years. Hasn't spoken to her since he left the isle. There's phones, and computers, and mail service to the isle, and sometimes the reception even works now, but he hasn't reached out.

Evie sends letters to her mother sometimes. She addresses them to her old castle, encloses herbs and chocolate and eyeshadow. She doesn't read the responses that come back, but her mother sends them anyway, and Evie keeps sending her packages even though she can't bear to see whatever her mother has to say back to her.

Carlos can't even do that.

He's a bad son, probably. An ungrateful brat. Useless. Worthless. His mother could have drowned him as a baby, killed him like an unwanted puppy, and they'd all have been better off without the bother. He's been a bad son since he was born. Weak. A vulnerability.

He breathes, keeps his voice steady. "Yup. That."

Diego moves in a flurry of violent motion. He's facing away, towards the river, but Carlos still has to suppress the urge to flinch. Diego wears heavy boots, steel-toes even though he's never been in a real factory in his life, and every Isle kid's seen the damage they can do.

The rock he kicked goes flying into the river.

"Fuck." his cousin snaps. "Fuck! I remember that."

Carlos can't laugh, but there's a sort of bubbling fear that's catching in his throat, and he can let some of it out. "Hah. Yeah. Um, I sort of — I cried a lot, that summer? It was hot and awful and you wouldn't come by the house, and I wasn't allowed to be at yours, so we started looking for a better hideout that year. D'you remember when Ivy found that place by the forest—"

"—the one with the metal roof, where we got trapped by Kaa and you rigged a crossbow out of guitar strings." Diego finishes. "Fuck. I knew we found a new hideout that year, but I thought it was 'cause we got those drums for Sierra and couldn't keep them quiet down in the warehouse."

Carlos shrugs. He's always been the little one, the tag-along. Diego's gang didn't tell him anything when he was a kid, and they still don't really talk. He's magicam friends with Sierra and Ivy, but Mia won't even accept his follow request. They didn't want him then, they don't want him now, and it's not even really a sore point anymore. He's got his own pack. No teenagers really want a little kid hanging around them, especially a kid who's already showing that he's a weak point. "Might'a been. I dunno."

"Nah, it was 'cause dad didn't want you hanging around the house anymore," Diego says firmly, shaking his head. "We found a new place so you'd have somewhere to go'n hide when your mom went ballistic. You were tiny, y'know."

It's sort of a logical leap, but sort of not.

"I'm still short." Carlos points out. "You don't feel compelled to protect me now, right?"

"Hah. Hah. Very funny, nerd."

"I'm just saying—”He ducks the hand that shoots out to scrub his hair into a rat's nest. Score one for Isle kid instincts. "I'm say-ing," Carlos continues, undeterred. "That you didn't have to protect me back then. I could've taken care of myself."

"You were a kid."

"And you were what, twelve? Thirteen?"

"Older," Diego says firmly. He's still looking out towards the water. "Old enough to protect my baby cousin."

"Mom didn't kill me. I'm still here."

Diego's arms are smooth and unmarked by the round cigarette burns that cover Carlos's arms, hands, chest, belly. Anywhere he was soft, she liked to burn.

"She could've," Diego rasps out. "She almost did. I wasn't big enough to stop her."

"The spell—”

"FUCK THE SPELL." he shouts. Too loud. People are looking at them. People in Auradon love to stare and judge VKs, even when they're dressed just like anyone else in the city, but shouting was a reason to stare even back home.

Diego notices, and drops his arms down, swinging the cup in his hand back and forth like a melting pendulum of coffee and sugar. "Fuck it," he repeats, quieter. "If Auradon wanted us alive so bad, they should've put in the work themselves instead of relying on the barrier to keep bouncing us back."

Carlos lifts one shoulder in agreement. He's pretty sure that the spell does a lot more than just keep them in their bodies, what with the healing factor and the way it won't kick you back in unless you've got a body to go back to, but it's a solid enough argument if you don't go into specifics. Claudine and the religious types at Dragon Hall had a whole rant on tap about how the barrier was being used to bounce their souls out of their path to heaven, so that they'd rejoin their bodies again and keep them alive even longer, but thinking about the concept of souls makes Carlos feel an emotion that Mal calls "stabbing" and Jay calls "a working bullshit sensor." Evie calls it "a rational emotional response to religious guilt-tripping bullshit", which sounds better than stabbing, but like, the point still stands that souls aren't real and listening to Claudine's lecture about them makes Carlos feel mostly doubtful, and also sort of like he's a shitty person. Which is probably the point of religion.

"S'not really bouncing," he says quietly, keeping his voice low and face turned down. People stare less if they're not obviously talking to each other, because Auradon has different standards for communication and watching VKs shout-talk directly at each other makes people stare. "It's not like we ever really die."

Diego levels a flat look at him.

"Okay, yeah, they should've put more work into keeping us alive," Carlos agrees, because it's true. Auradon locked them up and threw away the key, and didn't even bother to check on their island of villains once they'd settled down from the initial bloodshed and power scrambles. "But the scientific basis for being bounced back into our bodies by the spell just isn't there. If they're using the barrier to trap our souls or whatever in an impenetrable bubble, then how're new souls getting in for the kids born on the Isle? If it's a true closed system it doesn't make sense. And I know--" He sucks in a breath before Diego can get a word in edgewise, because he knows. The souls aren't the point. The magic isn't even the point. "It doesn't matter how they're keeping us there so long as there's still kids starving and being killed on that rock. I know. But I can't push the wheels of government any faster, because I'm not the fucking king, or a representative, or anything. I'm a testimony at best,and it's not like being born on the Isle gives me the power to do anything about it."

Diego snorts. "Wow, you can't fix twenty years of systematic disenfranchisement on your own? Call the presses, my genius cousin can't fix something in five years that took twenty to break in the first place."

The guilt that lives in the place where other people keep their feelings swirls up in Carlos's chest again. "I could've tried."

"In between what, surviving high school? Petitioning the king to listen to us? 'Cause it seems like we're a lot further than we'd've been without your crew's work."

"I built a machine to break the barrier," Carlos tells the river. "Back home. Before we left. It nearly worked."

Diego kicks another rock into the river. "I know."

Carlos feels his heart stutter-stop. "You—what?"

"I know," Diego repeats. "You built shit all the time. You'd talk about it in your sleep. I stopped by that treehouse of yours one time, and you had the whole thing torn apart. You were talking to your crew about it. I listened for a while."

"When?"

The cold bottom of his cousin's coffee cup bonks into Carlos's skull. "Before you left, genius. I dunno. You didn't have it working yet."

"I thought I was being sneaky about that."

"You were. I'm just sneakier. If you'd been reverse engineering the whole barrier, you'd've built it better right?"

"I would've given us the dignity of dying, if that's what you're asking."

"Yeah." Diego says quietly, and then. "Fuck. That's morbid."

Carlos shrugs. Maybe thinking about better ways to die makes them morbid, but it's still comforting to think that if he'd been the one to engineer their prison, that he'd've been able to give them the mercy of actually dying. "We're villains. It's our speciality. We're supposed to be all about death, and murder, and stuff."

Diego laughs. They laugh the same way, the two of them. More of a bark than a real laugh. There's probably some irony there, if they wanted to go digging for it. "Didn't you hear, little cousin? We're supposed to be good now. No more murder. We're reformed villains, no more claws and fangs."

They're reformed, but Diego still calls at 3am sometimes, just to make sure that he's still breathing.

"Damn, guess I'll have to return the axe I bought," Carlos drawls, hefting his cup up like it's a weapon. "And the rat poison, and the chains for the dungeon..."

"Kinky."

#fics #screaming crying throwing up #this is so good #descendants

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carlosdevilz · 6 months

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Two weeks late, but here's the Carlos and Haunted Hell Hall fic I wrote for Halloween! Also on Ao3.

Carlos really did not like the glint in Mal’s eyes when she showed up on the stoop of Hell Hall, demanding access to the party happening in the rooms behind him.

The party was not one Mal usually frequented—it was more for the less-powerful descendants of the Isle. Those who didn’t belong to one gang or another, who weren’t children of “big” villains, rather those who were the children of sidekicks, loyal henchmen, and unnamed crew members. Those who made ends meet rather than made those meet their end, so to speak. Mal was the opposite of the current crowd. She was the leader of one of the biggest gangs on the Isle, was daughter of the literal Mistress of Evil, and had built a reputation to rival her mother’s.

Because of her mother, of her status, Carlos couldn’t deny her access to his party (his cousin’s party, more like, but still. He was playing host—and in charge of letting people into the party).

But there were two things about Mal as person that set Carlos on edge that night—one, the fact that she only did things for herself, which meant that; two, she wouldn’t respect the rules of Hell Hall that Carlos laid out for her like any other visitor.

Jay turning up a few minutes after Mal had been expected. He was Mal’s loyal guard dog, after all. Where there was one, there was always the other.

Carlos closed the heavy wooden door behind the Arabian boy with a heavy sigh, leaning against the frame and praying that was the last of the unexpected guests. He wasn’t prepared for a big party, hadn’t prepared the House for anything like that.

But people kept arriving, each of them more powerful than those on the original invite list, more influential than he was, and so Carlos was forced to allow them in, one gritted permission and reminder of the rules after another.

Then Evie arrived, a naïve smile gracing her face as she drank in the chaos of the mingling bodies and pulsing drumbeats. And she demanded entrance, as Mal had a mere hour earlier.

Evie, sheltered but genuine Evie, who had braved the cruel world for the first time in ten years just this week. Who had tasted and weathered the harsh realities of the Isle and still chose to hope for kindness. Who had been nothing but a friend to Carlos—she had given him his first and only pillow, after all.

And Carlos felt nothing but dread as he let her in, knowing something was being planned that he would inadvertently play a part in.

It took another hour for anything to happen. And, as he had expected, Carlos was too late to prevent anything.

Mal shoved Evie into Cruella’s fur closet, the closet at the end of the upstairs hallway, with a cackle that echoed through Hell Hall, sending shudders through Carlos’ bones.

There was only one rule about being a visitor to Hell Hall: do not go into the closet.

Carlos felt time sink into stillness. His heartbeat raced in his ears, each breath he drew ragged and sharp. He tried to talk himself through the fear, through the panic, but he just couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember if he’d done the one thing he needed to or not.

Had he fed the House this morning?

________________________________________________________

He had, of course. This was the one chore that Carlos never forgot to do, not even when he was stumbling around like a drunk from another concussion given to him by his Mother, not even when he himself hadn’t eaten in days, not even when the last thing in the world he wanted to do was visit the House and listen to it slurp down its meal with feral glee.

But it didn’t matter that the House had been fed, less than ten hours ago—the House was delighted by the delicacy that it had been offered. What a treat, what a treat!

The closet was the House’s mouth, its only way to feed—behind the row of pristinely preserved fur coats, the walls suddenly spongy and wet, saliva dripping from the ceiling like rain, the floor shuddering like a tongue testing each new flavor on its tastebuds. It swallowed, Evie spilling to her knees as the room drew her backwards, towards the throat, towards her death.

Carlos darted into the closet, jaw set so tightly he was sure his bones would shatter. He knew what the House preferred—the pouch of blood from a royal (Hans, this time) in his pocket; the soul of a fool (as provided by Dr. Facilier) trapped in the flickering green flame Carlos carried like a candle in the palm of his hand; and the flesh of a DeVil, his own knuckles scraped to the bone, the skin still hanging like ribbons (he had done this himself, snarling at Mal and Jay as they cowered from the noises coming from where they had trapped Evie). The only thing these three meal parts had in common was want—Hans for a throne, the soul to return to its body, and Carlos who, well, wanted Evie to live.

Even with the offering of its favorite meal, the House still resisted. It liked Evie, it liked her fear and her desires, the way to be something more than a girl stuck on the Isle, the way she wanted to live.

It had eaten so many beings—well, mostly parts of beings, these days, though the House did appreciate eating regularly instead of whenever some unlucky bastard stumbled into its mouth—so many beings in the past decade that were so pathetic. All their desires focused on survival and base instincts, wanting nothing more than what they could reasonably attain. It missed the days where each meal tasted so sweetly of wanting more than they could ever have. And, well, having a live meal was always so much better than something dead.

It could taste two other meals in the hallway, their fear flavoring them so nicely. Maybe the DeVil boy would be nice and let it feast on all three of these beings tonight…

But no. The boy was determined, brave. It had been a while since the House tasted these emotions on the boy; he was resigned to his fate in a way the House despised. He wouldn’t be good to eat until he wanted again, and well…if he cared about the girl it wanted to eat maybe she would help season the DeVil boy. It was a long game to play, but the House had nothing but time.

Finally, it agreed and took the pre-assembled offerings and the flesh off of Carlos’ hand. But even then, it was touch and go to get Evie from the entry of the stomach to the front of its mouth, the House nipping at their retreating backs with hungry snarls.

Carlos hadn’t been sure he would make it. Of all the times he’d been in and out of the House’s mouth, he had never had to fight with the House so much about its meal. He had expected the House to give up Evie only in exchange for finally eating him, and he braced himself for dying.

But he hadn’t, and he couldn’t confidently say it was because his offering to the House had been a match for what it wanted. He was sure he owed the House something, and he was more than terrified to know what he was expected to provide later.

________________________________________________________

Getting Evie out of the closet alive—and unscathed—was no small feat. It was one Carlos would prefer to never speak of again, generally, except for the three rather unwelcome guests still sitting in the living room when he finally emerged from the bathroom were waiting impatiently for some kind of explanation.

He glared at the remaining guests as he finished tying off the bandage around his knuckles and picked up an abandoned bottle from a party guest, taking a long drink, ignoring the burn of semi-filtered rubbing alcohol running down his throat. As usual, the best thing to come from hosting a party were the leftovers. Food would have been ideal, but alcohol was what was going to keep him from having a breakdown.

He was beyond grateful that Diego truly understood the threat that Hell Hall itself posed to non-DeVils. As soon as Mal had shut the door on Evie, Diego had hustled everyone out of Hell Hall, efficiently shutting down the party with the false cry of “Cruella is coming!”. The House was worse than Cruella in actuality, but unless you experienced it, you didn’t know it was there. Fortunately, all the kids at the party had trusted Diego enough to flee the premises.

Except for the three who, unfortunately, had direct contact with the House.

Mal was sprawled in an armchair, her pose aiming for nonchalance, but her blank stare was as numb as Evie’s vacant expression. She hadn’t said a single word since Carlos had plunged into the closet after Evie, and Carlos was grateful for the lack of snarky or better-than-thou comments.

Jay was hovering over Evie like a fretful mother, face twisted with anxiety. He hadn’t stopped moving since Carlos had hauled the girl out of the closet, swinging between snapping at Mal and stalking the perimeter of the room like that would protect the three of them from the House. Figures that the guard dog would have a conscience.

Evie was sitting in a half collapsed state on the couch, her skin still as unblemished as it had been when she arrived—fully thanks to Carlos’ actions, and they all knew it.

It was almost satisfying to see the three of them so unsettled by what Carlos dealt with daily. No, it wasn’t almost satisfying, it was satisfying. He tried to ignore that part of him, the part that leaned a little too much towards Cruella’s behaviors, but oh, every warning he had given had been ignored and they had paid the price! Carlos was due for a little retribution.

“There is one rule for every guest that is not of DeVil blood at Hell Hall,” Carlos recited the speech for the three of them for the second time that night with tedious familiarity. It was the only family heirloom his Mother had ever given him. “Only one rule. One you break at your own peril. The only place you cannot go is the closet at the end of the upstairs hallway.”

He let that sink in for a moment, noting the grimaces on Jay and Mal’s faces.

“And now you all know why.”

The three of them shuddered in unison, and again, Carlos tried to overlook the flash of pleasure that ran through him at their discomfort, though it warmed his bones in a way nothing else did. His home, the House, was haunted—aggressively and violently. But he had tamed it, as much as he could, and he had survived it, feeding after feeding. He was proud of that.

“Has it always…been like this?”

That was the first full sentence Evie had spoken since she’d been put in the closet. Carlos took it as a good sign. And since they’d already seen what’d they seen, he figured he might as well tell them. The only other person he could talk to about the House was Diego, and Diego was usually too creeped out by it to converse much.

“Always,” Carlos sighed. “I haven’t been able to figure out how it survived the transfer from the Mainland to the Isle, given the ban on malicious magic that was woven into the barrier, but yeah. According to my uncle, Hell Hall’s been possessed since there was a DeVil bloodline. That’s why they called it Hell Hall to begin with.”

“You mean, on top of Cruella,” Jay said in a frantic tone. “You’ve been living with that, too?!”

His gestures toward the closet were unnecessary since there was only one thing Jay could be referring to, but the movement startled Mal out of her stupor.

“You—that—fuck,” was Mal’s only statement about her experiences with the House.

Carlos agreed with that summation.

His first experience with the House had been nothing short of traumatizing, and he had only been two or so. His memories of that visit were hazy and shaped by limited concepts of the world. But he still had nightmares about that specific visit, even though he now considered himself on…neutral, maybe even friendly, terms with the House these days, since he kept it fed in a way its previous owners hadn’t in several centuries.

He saw no need to starve the House when its needs were obvious—he’d been starved by his own Mother plenty, and well. The House wasn’t exactly “sentient”, but Carlos didn’t wish his own fate upon anyone (or anything else). So visiting and feeding the House was something he did once a week. Even though the closet terrified him beyond anything else—even his Mother, which was saying a lot.

“What…did you give to it…so it wouldn’t eat me?” Evie asked, though Carlos could tell she both knew and didn’t want to know the answer.

“The House lives off of the energy of things. Blood, flesh, and soul, usually. Whatever it can take from its victim it transfers into its lifeforce. It would have been happy to eat all of you, but…there is certain offerings it prefers over others. I keep a stockpile of its favorites for emergencies.”

Evie glared at Carlos with a sort of…protectiveness? Or perhaps it was astonishment at how weird his life was.

“Your hand is a preference?”

“Unfortunately, one of its favorites is DeVil flesh. It prefers the flesh, specifically, because DeVil blood is…commonly spilt in these halls and thusly rather a mundane food choice. Flesh is harder to come by, and the…agreement the House has with the bloodline prevents it from consuming any DeVil souls.”

“Agreement?” Jay’s eyes flashed—in curiosity or perhaps fear. Carlos imagined he was thinking of the djinn contract his father had entered unwittingly, the one that had ended Jafar’s reign of terror and landed him (and eventually his son) in eternal, mortal imprisonment.

Carlos shrugged. He only knew so much, since he couldn’t exactly ask the House what its deal was. Carlos had a lot of theories about the House, though.

He knew there was some sort of binding agreement, but he’d only figured out the limitations by trial and error. Uncle Cecil had no idea where or what the agreement terms were, and well. Cruella was only coherent enough to acknowledge the House once a year. But that seemed to be enough for the House, so it left Cruella alone for the most part.

Mal huffed sharply and cracked her knuckles—more out of nervous habit than any approaching threat, Carlos gathered, starting from his thoughts.

“So, what? You fed a piece of your ‘flesh’ to some whacked-out entity, and that saved Evie? Gave it some extra blood, tucked it in, kissed it goodnight? Who cares?”

Before tonight, Carlos would have reacted defensively. Snipped back at her, played her game. But tonight Mal had met something that didn’t fear her just because her mother was Maleficent. And that, more than anything else, had shaken Mal to her core. It seemed to have affected the other two as well, based on the indignant faces they both sported.

“I care!” Jay snapped.

Carlos raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected any push back from Jay. Neither had Mal, her mouth gaping like a dying fish. But then she snapped it shut, and leveled a glare eerily reminiscent of her mother at the other boy.

“You don’t care about anything but yourself, Jay, and don’t you tell me any different!” Mal retorted harshly.

“No, you’re thinking of yourself, Mal! You’re the one who doesn’t care about anyone but yourself.”

“Well because I have the brains to be a decent villain! Caring is for fools!”

“I care, Mal, because…you never look before you leap! You always expect something to be there to catch you and I just…I can’t always be there to catch you. To clean up your mistakes.”

“My mistakes?!” Mal hissed.

Carlos leaned against the door frame to the hallway, curious to see where this was going. Evie had been watching them like they were a sporting match, eyes bouncing between the two with a speed that told Carlos she truly hadn’t sustained any lasting damage—at least physically. Mentally, she would be affected by tonight for a long, long time.

“Your mistakes!” Evie joined in now, her eyes flashing in the same way Evil Queen’s did when Carlos slurped his soup by accident. “Like trying to feed me to an evil house! Or, maybe, I don’t know! Banishing me for ten years from the pathetic excuse that passes for civilization on the Isle!”

“Yes!” Jay picked up where Evie was going. “Do you even know why your mom quote-unquote BANISHED Evil Queen? It wasn’t because they didn’t invite you to the party! You were literally at Evie’s birthday party, Mal! I was there—and I was older than you, so I still have memories of it! You were there and you and Evie were getting along, as much as toddlers do!

“So no, it wasn’t a stupid birthday party! It was your mother’s jealousy, that Evil Queen’s kid was more behaved than her own, okay!”

Now that the three of them had started, it did not seem they were going to stop. All Carlos could do was sigh deeply, knowing why—that was another side effect the House had upon its guests.

The House loved to play with memory, make its victims admit to truths they had long forgotten. Its nourishment was not exactly from “energy” in its raw form—no, the House preferred live energy converted into greed. Sure, there were remnants of greed, of want, desire, yearning, lingering in the pieces of the dead that Calros fed it, but that wasn’t always enough.

It wasn’t enough tonight, which is why it had tried so hard to eat Evie, why Jay and Mal had only made it that much harder for Carlos to pull Evie out—because they were all so full of desire. If it was their own or it was passed down from their parents, neither Carlos nor the House cared. All that mattered was that the three of them wanted. Wanted for more than they could have on the Isle, for more than their parents had managed to accomplish. And that was what the House liked best.

“Well I’m sorry my mother cared enough to make me someone!” Mal shouted back. “Like your dad has ever cared about you beyond what profit you bring him!”

“Oh, because your mother treats you like a person rather than an overgrown puppet! She loves Diablo more than you, and he’s been a concrete statue for fifteen years!”

“Stop!”

That was Evie again, her hands pressed over her ears. Carlos was pleased to see that she had parsed out the House’s intentions.

Both Jay and Mal froze at her words, their chests heaving as they processed what they were saying. Neither apologized, but several significant glances passed between the two, and they both relaxed their stances. Neither apologized to Evie, Carlos noted. But that was not his problem—he’d gotten what he wanted, which was Evie out of the closet, and it was time to wrap things up.

“That’s enough,” Carlos said evenly. “The House is still hungry…and arguments like this make it hungrier. So. Get the fuck out, please.”

“Fuck your house,” Mal huffed, standing up stiffly and shuffling towards the door.

Jay and Evie both moved towards the entrance as well, glancing warily at Carlos.

“You’re free to leave. Just know if you visit again, I can’t promise the House will behave,” Carlos offered, as cooly as he was able.

Mal sneered and grabbed Jay by the shoulder, hauling him out into the dark. Evie lingered a moment, her hands trembling as she smoothed her skirt.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and then darted out of Hell Hall.

He closed the door behind them with a soft sigh and braced himself. The wooden boards of the manor trembled and groaned softly, indicating the House’s appetite had not yet been sated. He wasn’t keen on being alone with the House while it was so hungry.

But that was his life. Beholden to the whims of a mad woman and a possessed manor.

#descendants #fics #THIS ATE #ha

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