Hey! Sorry for taking forever to update. There was technical difficulties, plus my writer's block and creative procrastination attempts—I eventually gave up and just decided to rewrite the chapter because it wasn't leading in the way I wanted it to. This is the fourth chapter, which, according to a certain someone, is the chapter where sh!t gets done, in a matter of speaking, haha. That's not really happening in this chapter, because this chapter is mainly filler to introduce a few characters. But, yeah, hopefully you like either way.

The amount of support I've gotten for this story is overwhelmingly amazing! You all are, seriously, the best.

Now, there's a lot going on this chapter. HEED THIS WARNING: This chapter contains physical abuse, psychological abuse, mentions of recent and not-so-recent past-rape, Barge Day, Jay and his ladies, OC's, Protective Mal, Goblins, meeting the parents, and probably more that I'm forgetting.

Carlos trudged up to the nearly fifteen-foot front doors of his home, tugging his jacket closer to his body—the temperature had dropped lower than normal, and it didn't help the uneasiness he felt. His mother stood just behind those rickety doors, which, if they were to unhinge, would crush him like a bug under Jay's foot. This woman, this dog-expert, was, no doubt, going to be in a rather sour mood; her son hasn't been home two nights in a row, and his chores were never complete.

He swallowed rather audibly—he'd be lucky to get away with just bruises.

The de Vil mansion was a horrific place in his mind; it wasn't his home, it wasn't his safe place. His treehouse was too close for comfort, but, then again, anywhere on the Isle was too close for comfort. Cruella would always find him—and she'd mark him up just to get a reaction, before she'd force him on his hands and knees to scrub the entire floor of the mansion spotless, just so she could have another "business meeting". He wondered if Beelzebub had survived two nights without him, and with her.

The doors to the mansion were pushed open with some effort, and, once inside, he took in the sight of his prison. Other people, other villains called him lucky; his home was a mansion, his family line had, once, been rich and admired... He was, under different circumstances, the heir to a once-almighty fashion corporation.

They told him that he should thank his lucky stars for his heritage.

They told him that he didn't deserve the luxury of living in a mansion; that he was a flaw in the system; that he, of all the people on the planet, should not have been given this amazing life.

(His mother was often the one he calls "They".)

And think of the de Vil and she shall appear. Cruella spotted him quickly—his retched clothes and dirty skin were an eye-sore, compared to the extravagance of her foyer. Carlos should have known better than to show up looking like some dirty rat from a sewer. She gave her displeasing look, something he'd grown more than used to, and asked him where the hell he'd been.

She hardly cared, really. But her chores were adding up. He had some use, after all.

"I-I was... I was w-with Mal... a-a-and... and the oth-others." His eyes shot down at the floor, her shadow was tall and menacing, much like the real thing. Her displeased look turned into a glare; her brow scrunched, her lower lip tightened around her cigar, and her high-cheekbones seemed to grip and sculpt the active-anger she was experiencing and about to unleash.

Cruella stepped closer, her finger pointed out at Carlos—who's own eyes watched with dread. His body tensed at her words: "You do not deserve them!" And his body reeled when her hand struck into his chest, sending him backwards and into the giant front door. He released a audible "oof!" in pain, before clutching his pectoral and holding still. She wasn't finished, yet. Cruella gripped his shoulder, yanking him forward, and with a raspy-breath, uttered: "You don't even deserve the life you were given."

She popped the cigar from between her lips, held it tight, and sank it into the palm of Carlos' exposed hand.

He lurched forward, hissing in agony as the searing pain and smoldering ash spread across his skin—raw, red, exposed and bloody. Carlos yanked away after a few seconds, gasping and huffing while his eyes lingered on the sizzling-crimson dot in the center of his hand. The pain was already familiar, so the tears he thought about shedding just... didn't.

This was better—he has more marks—he got new spots often, and, soon, maybe his mother would take a look at his skin, and see some value in him. Just like she did with those Dalmatians.

"I know," his lower lip trembled, but not like his mother's. Her lips were taut, tight and red. His were puffy, pink, and pale. He remembered the lip-stick he tried on when he was four. Cruella's lip-stick. He also remembered the day after, when Dr. Facilier was treating him for the bleach he was forced to swallow—his mother hadn't liked her lip-stick on him. "I-I know, Mom. I know."

"Go. Your chores have nearly doubled, you ungrateful brat." His hand had gone limp, the pain essentially gone; his shoulder reeled from the tight grip of his mother's boney-hands, but burned with a passion as the hand-print reddened his skin underneath the fabric of his jacket. His mother's touches were "gifts", not "punishments". His mother's "love" was just a little more challenging to get—and the way she gave it was, simply, by marking her own; bruises don't hurt anymore, a burn's sizzle brings him life, cuts and scratches that draw blood are the most loving, and the weekly starvation tells him his mother cares about his figure.

She loved him, surely. Just... in her own unique way.

Carlos could live with that.

She was his mother...

...and boys are supposed to love their mothers, no matter what. (According to the cigar-smoker.)

Evie softened as her mother's voice filled her room.

The Evil Queen needed hours of beauty sleep—so she didn't notice Mal or Carlos' overnight stay at the Castle-Across-the-Way. She managed to make the two scatter before the sunrise woke up the plump woman, where she would then wander her chambers, the castle halls, and the former-throne room just to belt out nonsense of her magic mirror.

"Magic Mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest one of all? Magic Mirror, in my hand, who is the most beautiful in all the land? Magic Mirror, where'd you go, show me the death of the girl with skin as white as snow..."

It was soothing to the sixteen-year-old. Her mother's voice was heavy, granted, and belonged to the woman who'd kept her hidden away for a little over a decade—where she got pale, little-to-no social skills, and very good at alluring guys just from a little flaunting in her bedroom window. But Grimhilde wasn't, so to say, a terrible mother.

She wanted Evie to be beautiful, she wanted her to be a princess, to be the little damsel in distress for the prince to come and rescue. Grimhilde wanted her daughter to be what she, herself, couldn't be—the fairest of them all.

(But who's to say a girl can't have a little fun...?)

The bed she shared with Mal and Carlos were often littered with boys from night to night. Hell, she remembered some girls joining in on the fun. But Evie never submitted. Her role was on top for those of no-royal status. She rode those boys like a horse, pistoning herself and taking all the necessary precautions to make sure both he and she got the bang for their filthy buck. Evie wasn't worried about actual, physical protection—there were hardly any that would suitably work—she had her concoctions and potions, nothing actually magical, but not far from it.

She was a nerd, after all. (Her special perfume can draw in men for miles, if the overall stench of the Isle wasn't so overwhelming.)

"Evie, darling, I need you to run to the bazaar. Urgent eyeliner shortage." Grimhilde's voice was still heavy, still belonged to the woman who hid her away for more than half-her-life, and still belonged to the woman who loved her reflection more than her own flesh and blood, which can be understandable. Snow White was her step-daughter; Evie's step-sister, and Grimhilde wanted her heart carved out.

Oh, how Evie loved that story. She'd love it even more if that huntsman wasn't such a fucking baby and let the girl go.

But, hey, Snow White's now married to some pompous-prince that wore tights and living in some fancy castle. So, maybe, in the long run, Evie could get that kind of happy ending—she just had to continue to listen to her mother's soothing voice as it ridiculed her looks, called her ugly, blamed her for her mother's plump figure, and shouted at the top of her lungs about how the magic mirror had finally talked back, when it really had been Evie herself, who was asking for a mere apple slice of food.

As Mother always said: "Starvation gets you skinny. You should definitely try it."

Oh, how Evie just loved her mother's soothing voice; which quickly snapped her out of her little daydream.

"Completely understand," the sixteen-year-old perked up, she'd finally get to see the sun for the first time that day. Maybe catch Jay scoring some stuff, maybe Mal tagging the place up with her favorite insignia: the purple dragon. "I'll leave just as soon as I finish applying my morning blush."

"That's my darling, remember, no smiling. Wrinkles." The Evil Queen disappeared from the room after Evie's affirmative nod.

Jay shuffled across the living room, careful not to wake his father as he placed last night's scores on the table: a couple worn books; a bent, golden flute; some torn clothes; a few spare coins; he even managed to swipe a pair of worn-shoes from Clay Clayton—who's time was being well spent making out with one of the step-granddaughters, while one of the Gaston's kissed down his neck from behind. Jay wanted that image out of his head immediately. It'd been a long night, and it didn't help knowing his partners in crime were sleeping comfortably in Evie's bed. He imagined Carlos' chest rising and falling in his sleep, he remembered the almost-hypnotic sight of it...

A gruff throat-clearing caught his attention. Jafar was in the doorway across the living room, with Iago perched on his shoulder.

"What'd you find?" Jay let out a breath of relief—his father seemed somewhat satisfied with the pile of junk. The distant thought of Jafar easing up a bit and letting Jay actually take a small nap before sending him for more scores popped into his brain, it didn't last long before Jafar had pulled the books, the flute, clothes, and shoes from the pile; leaving just the coins, for himself. "Go put these in the store. Get ready to head back out, today's Barge Day."

How the fuck did I forget that today was Barge Day, Jay thought, every second Tuesday of every month. How could I forget?

"R-right, right." Jay nodded, his hands kept his biceps warm by rubbing them, he didn't realize how cold it was going to be; Jafar was counting the coins, his face of disappointment had already grown back. "Right, okay. I'll see you later, then."

His father groaned.

Jay shuffled back out of the living room and into the store—another long day with no pay. Perfect.

Mal saw the kid from the night before. The boy.

The little boy she saw getting raped by that man in the alley. The little boy she left to finish getting defiled by the henchman of her mother.

His shorts were gone—replaced with loose-fitting, ripped, stretched, and stained briefs she'd seen dangling from his ankle the night before. She saw the marks across his thighs; the fingerprints decorating his skin, along his arms and neck, dark bruises on his wrists. She noticed dry bloodstains running down his legs. His hair was knotted, and littered with dirt and gravel.

Her stomach sank. Like a rotten pit in the center of her rotten core.

She found herself standing behind him; and, actually, talking to the kid. He flinched when her voice made contacts with his ears.

"Hi."

The little boy faced her, trembling—he was obviously freezing. He was wearing an unbuttoned-shirt, brown in color, that hung down to his waist. She noticed none of the buttons were even attached. His eyes were green, like hers.

"H-hi."

His voice was hoarse. She could only imagine what that man did to get it that way. "What's... what's your name?" She found herself asking.

The middle of the bazaar wasn't a place for little boys who just got raped—he was, obviously, lost. He was terrified, traumatized, even. Who wouldn't be, she thought, he's not even crying. She noticed the sprinkle of freckles across his cheeks. An instant reminder of Carlos. (That didn't help the situation.)

"D-Dillon. Dillon... D-Dillon de V-Vil."

(Now that seriously didn't help the situation.)

Evie noticed the clouds right away. She wanted the sun—she expected the sun, not the freezing temperature she met with once she walked outside. It looked like it might've been raining outside the barrier; she couldn't really tell, the barrier distorted the outside world when up close. From a distance, say, Bargain Castle, you'd be able to see Auradon in all it's glory. While here, next to the barge, it looked like nothing more than a slosh of tall buildings and bright colors.

She thought she'd swing by the barge shipment before heading to the bazaar. Who knows what potential beauty treatments or extra broken mirrors could be hidden underneath all the rotten food, torn clothes, and, mostly, garbage.

A gruff Goblin greeted her with a grunt. "I hate blue." He managed to spit just about a thousand times despite saying a mere three words. Evie grimaced—a few droplets landed on her boots, they were new (by Isle standards), and now she was pissed.

"I hate Goblins. Ugly beasts." The Goblin payed no attention to her, his interests now lingering on the rusty-iron poker sticking out of a pile of chunky-coal. Evie avoided a brown banana peel and climbed down to the lower section of the barge; the ship was nearly the size of a few De Vil Mansion attics, if she remembered Carlos' correctly.

Carlos. He'd been reluctant to leave. But she couldn't let him stay, her mother would have been up soon enough, and Maleficent knows what she would have done to the poor boy had she found him. The Evil Queen wasn't fond of boys in her castle. Evie managed a shudder, knowing full-well her mother's vials of poison would have made good use that morning had she woken up earlier than planned. Mal would have been let go—Maleficent's daughter got a free pass. Cruella the Crazy Woman's runt didn't.

She may have let them in the night before. But her mother was a different queen before noon.

(Evie remembered the boy she'd taken to bed for the first time; and what her mother later did to him after she'd walked in that morning to find his head between her thighs, and his hands cupping her breasts. She heard his screams for mercy for hours until nothing but dreaded silence filled the castle halls.)

The Evil Queen knew Evie knew of her actions. That's a reason Jay and Carlos, and, even Mal, were permitted into her chambers. Her mother wants another boy to rape and torture to her plump heart's content.

Evie felt flattered, if anything. It showed her mother cared.

"...Aye!" She jumped; feeling something push at her stomach and send her back into the ladder she'd just climbed down. "Watch it!" The voice was even more gruff than the grumpy Goblin up above.

She sighed, brushed the hair off her shoulders, and pushed the little mongrel of a Goblin back. "Don't. Touch. Me."

Her eyes sunk down to the Goblin a few feet in front of her. Half-her-size, black and beady-eyed, horned and winged, but both sets were broken or torn away, and his skin was crawling with dirt and filth. He was a particularly darker-Goblin. His teeth were also yellower than most she'd seen.

"Yuh' not me type," he spat, "yuh' tuh' pretty."

By the wrath of Maleficent, this Goblin's voice was deep and heart-pounding. Evie was quick to notice an arm was gone. His other, his left one, held an old helmet at his hip. He was struggling to hold the damn thing, rusted and iron and heavy. Little she could do to help him—not that she wanted to. He'd have a hell of a time getting the old thing up the ladder.

"Who are you?" She didn't know why she cared.

"Gogur," he huffed, "Gogur da' Goblin."

She glanced over him, she saw a pile of perfume bottles all cluttered together. Her interested piqued—but not enough. This Goblin amused her, oddly.

"One of Maleficent's?" Evie used to be scared to mention the old dragon's name. Mal taught her not to be.

"No." His answer was quick, "Jus' got grouped tuh-gethah with 'em. By orduh of da' King; all Goblin's mus' beh sent tuh dis' fuckin' place. Da' Isle of da' Lost."

Evie rolled her eyes. It was well-known the King had imprisoned people—non-villains—to the this goblinforsaken place. Most were dead now. Those who didn't belong here, didn't know how to survive amongst other villains. Women were raped and slaughtered, men too, and children who found themselves imprisoned under some misfortune found themselves as slaves, sex or work or both, it didn't matter. The King of Auradon was no good King. The King of Auradon is no good King.

Auradonian's didn't seem to understand that. Except for the dwarves. They at least tried to get their distant cousins, the Goblins, off the island. The King, often called "The Beast", denied all of it.

The villains who did belong here knew how to survive. Some thrived, those everyone knows and fears, and some died. Not physically, for most, but their legends, instead. Everyone knows who Maleficent is. Who the Evil Queen is. Who Jafar is. Who Cruella de Vil is... as many others... but no one knew who Madam Mim was, or Monsieur D'Arque, or Madame Medusa, or Morgana...

"Do you want to be here?" asked Evie—it was a stupid question to her. But some liked it here. Those who got it better than what they had before imprisonment.

Gogur chuckled, "I wanna slash da' King's throat."

"Then we have something in common, Gogur. My name is Evie—the Evil Queen's daughter." She bobbed a curtsy to the Goblin, who bent a knee to bow. He seemed kinder than most of the other Goblins. Particularly the one on the upper section of the barge.

She regretted what she said about Goblins and Ugly Beasts. At least for this one.

Cruella smirked, "Open the door," she commanded, and Carlos obeyed—the knocking was incessant and he struggled with the heavy doors. Gaston's grin was, seemingly, alluring to her. And himself. Gaston loved his own grins. Almost as much as he loved the hair on his chest, or the muscles on his arms, or the prick between his legs. Maleficent knows Cruella loved all those things just as much as he did, give or take a chest-hair or two.

His booming voice was an added bonus, too. Carlos could hear, then.

"Cruella," Gaston perked up, sliding his thumb down Carlos' jaw to show his gratitude. He always liked Carlos—one of his sons, he often forgot which, talked about the little runt and how they enjoyed toying with him.

"Gaston," she pursed her lips, "you're looking well."

He smirked at her, and trudged forward enough so Carlos could close the door behind him. "As are you, my dear... Business Partner." He cupped her breasts beneath her fur, to which she graced his ears with a pant and a purr. The de Vil woman trailed her hands down his solid sides, dripping her fingers beneath the buckle of his belt.

"Carlos," she called, "do keep your ears open tonight. You might learn a thing or two."

"Yes, Mother." Gaston glanced back at the fourteen-year-old; his eyes wandering from Carlos' face down to his feet.

"My son was right. He does look better after Jafar's kid got a hold of him." Gaston sneered, turning back to Cruella, "Do tell me you've kept him innocent." She smiled back at him, nodding, before sharing a look with her son.

Carlos shivered. He always wondered why his mother didn't let any of her business partners touch him. Despite their efforts.

Jay didn't share Carlos' fortune. His father sold him multiple times in his prime—when he was more valuable. They returned the boy the next day, chipper as an Auradonian while Jay cleaned himself with the rags his rapist's provided. He lost his innocence at seven-years-old to Clayton. The man aimed a rifle at the boy's head the entire time his lips were wrapped around him—pressed into his bobbing head as it choked on his manhood.

"No teeth, girl." He'd said, pressing the metal into his scalp. His father forced him to grow his hair for a reason; the clients never complained, they paid well, and often came back for seconds, or thirds, or fourths...

Gaston came by every month. His sons got a rest once a day every month; and he'd been looking for a cute boy to fill their shoes. "Women for the sun," he'd say, "men for the night. Boys for the moon." He stopped coming after Jay's fourteenth birthday; when he got hair and more defined. Jay (and Jafar) didn't understand—Gaston was both of those things, as well as his son's...

But Jay didn't complain.

He'd taken his first girl, a woman, on his fifteenth-birthday.

And now he was taking another... he didn't catch her name; started with an H or maybe an A, he didn't know, nor care. The woman was squealing under him, as he pivoted in and out while her hands, her nails, tore into his leather vest. A shuck of his pants and she was his for the fucking. A crowd watched, a couple of boys, itchin' their junk and shrugging each other's shoulders.

A good few had a stray hand or two buried down their shorts. One or two of them whipped their's out and made love with their hands. Jay didn't notice—the woman's tits jiggled under his touch, under his hot breath, and her squeals filled the alleyway.

"Finish her" and "Knock her up" were flown around between the boys, a particular red-head dropped to his knees under the pressure and soiled his drawers. Jay, not so elequently, "finished her" and made his way from the alleyway while pulling up his pants. Another boy with big blue eyes woohoo'd him as he walked off.

His way to the barge may have been sidetracked, but not long. His schedule should still be the same—he should be home by the appropriate hour. Otherwise, Jafar wouldn't hesitate to beat the value of time into him.

He thought he caught a whiff of Evie's perfume while approaching the barge; but the gag-worthy stench of the barge drew his attention a lot more. (Evie had left merely a few minutes before—parting with Gogur as his master awaited him.) Jay was quick, snatched up a couple of worn slippers; a nice robe that'd probably been dawned upon a spoiled Prince who disliked the color and discarded the thing; a role of scrolls, stained and ripped; a few golden teeth (Maleficent knows how those got on the barge); a jade ring, most likely thrown away by accident; and a few pretty laces of colored thongs and lady panties. He managed to steal those last items from some teenager planting his face in a pair and wetting it with his tongue.

Now he was off the barge and heading for the bazaar. The bazaar, for most, was a place of work. They needed to sell—make the most out of the less-than-shitty life they've been reduced to. But to Jay... the bazaar was a playground. A place to frolic and do parkour, a place to swipe and steal and score, a place to flash his junk just to get a few extra coins for his father...

The bazaar was his heaven on this fucking island. The bazaar was his place. And everyone knew that.

When he arrived, carrying the barge-scores, he let his eyes wander—his nose led him to a warm piece of bread, something beyond value and more than rare... Jay'd only seen a warm piece of bread once in his lifetime. His father let him see it when he was ten, almost eleven, right before finishing the damn thing off while his starving son watched.

Jay only survived that year because of some woman who'd, for some twisted reason, given him a few rotten apples every few weeks. The poor kid didn't know why his father didn't feed him, not that there was much food anyway, but still... Jay was his only resource of income—his scores and his body earned Jafar a lot more money than he would have had if Jay hadn't come around.

Or if Jafar hadn't come.

(Jay couldn't help but chuckle to himself. His father may be horrible and deplorable and malicious and any other only-Carlos-knows word meaning Jafar was just a dick, but he was still his father. Still his flesh and blood. He didn't have the right to complain. He had the right to chuckle, though.)

(As long as his father didn't see him, anyway.)

The bread felt gooey on his tongue, warm on his lips, and heated his throat nicely. The man selling the thing wasn't smart enough to watch it, especially when Jay came by—you're pretty much guaranteed to notice something missing after Jay walks by, be it your damaged-jewels, your rotten-food, your coins... fuck, people wouldn't notice their virginities missing if Jay was involved.

And Jay usually was, always, involved. Contrary to what his father says when some grubby villain argues that Jay stole something of his and his father's trying to sell it back for double.

Jay finished off the bread quickly, erasing the evidence, storing it away in his stomach for save keeping. "Sea-Bitch," he managed to call out while still chewing, eyeing the tentacle-beast of a woman who loved voices and eels and was missing a certain-necklace that Jay sold to Freddie the day before...

"Bastard," she yelled after. Another chuckle escaped his throat, and he sauntered off. She didn't notice he'd stolen a grub of sea-fries from her table; the bread may have been warm, but these goblinforsaken fries were hard as rocks and tasted like shit.

He fed a particularly greener one to some kid who gave him puppy-dog eyes. Carlos would have wet his shorts had the kid done that to him. Jay'd then teach that kid and his puppy eyes a thing or two about respect. Carlos deserved respect. Jay often thought Carlos deserved everything.

"Why can't people see that?" Jay found himself thinking at night. Carlos managed to worm his way into the teen's dreams far too often. That was something that made his nights in the closet (literally speaking, mind you) liveable.

It wasn't long before he's managed to stuff his pockets, vest, and beanie full of scores. He'd been quite proud of swiping a golden cufflink from one of the merchants when she was restocking the opposite shelf. Jay was just about to head back to his father's Junk Shop when a flash of blue entered his vision. The necklace around her neck drawed him close—remembering it; and easily remembering who he'd given it to.

Evie, letting her ocean-blue hair bounce off her shoulders with each strut, was letting her smirk earn her a nearly-empty vial of something for beauty. Jay knew the routine. Always cosmetics.

"Awfully early for Sleeping Beauty to be out of bed." Jay grinned—Mal would have skinned him alive for that comment.

The sixteen-year-old chuckled to herself, gazing towards her partner-in-crime. "Careful, Maleficent's not above removing your tongue just for the mere mention of her name."

"Gee, never mind." He rolled his eyes, "Clearly I got her sister, Sleeping Bitchy. My mistake."

"Clever, boy." Evie toyed with a strand of her hair, rolling her eyes like he was, "C'mon, Carlos wanted us to talk before going home. I'm glad I found you."

Jay scoffed, "I found you, first of all."

"Debateable."

Something about the kid through Mal off. He barely talked, she guessed that was just a de Vil boy thing. Carlos barely talked in times like this—strangers meant silence and awkward staring. She tried remembering a Dillon from the de Vil line... she tried remembering if Carlos had mentioned him. But she couldn't—Carlos never talked about his family.

She never even asked.

Her thinking face must have amused him; his small smile got her attention. "What?" She asked. It was then she noticed the strands of white hair tangled in the sea of raven-black—he was definitely a de Vil—and she just hoped this kid had somewhere to go. Hell Hall would kill this kid. It nearly killed Evie, and her and Carlos, once upon a time.

Mal didn't let herself think about what would happen if this kid accidentally ruined one of Cruella's coats. He'd be crippled and bleeding and Carlos would be tortured for letting it happen.

"Y-your cheeks, t-they're kinda g-gree-green." His little finger pointed up at her face.

She drew her own, longer, finger across her cheek, and she gave a matching small smile. "It happens."

He wanted to press further, she could tell, but he didn't. His throat must've hurt. Dillon, by then, had turned away and was ready to aimlessly wander through the alleys—his chances of getting raped, again, would nearly-double if he went the way he initially planned. Mal knew her mother's henchmen patrolled those alleys every Tuesday.

And she knew her mother's henchmen enjoy seconds. (Or thirds, or fourths, or fifths...)

"Wait," her lips barely moved. "No, wait—don't go that way."

Dillon seemed smart enough (he was related to Carlos, mind you) to listen. But Carlos was often prone to asking questions. And Dillon wasn't much different. "W-why not?"

He made an effort to show he wasn't as scared as he really was. He put on a brave face. Like Carlos. (Some of the time.)

Damn, this kid reminded her of her partner-in-crime more than she cared to admit—which resulted in her caring for this kid more than she cared to admit. Why should she care about kids? The adults on the island certainly didn't. Maybe that's it, she thought, we need to stick together. The kids. All of us. Then reality struck, the fuck? This isn't Auradon. Goddammit.

"Look, kid, I know your cousin, Carlos? Yeah, he's my—" Mal didn't want to say friend. "—buddy."

That didn't sound any better, she cursed to herself mentally, this kid was supposed to fear her, and she was actually thinking about helping him. It's not about him, she thought, it's about Mother. I'm doing this to spite her. Her henchman raped this kid who-knows-how-many-times, and he's still standing, albeit, awkwardly and looking like he's in pain, but still. Mother deserves my spite.

Dillon's eyes—unusually green, for a de Vil—flickered up towards her own. Damn, this kid was pulling her in. She didn't like that.

"Y-you know C-Carlos?" He stepped closer, "W-what's your name?" This kid had guts, he even narrowed his eyes up at her. Almost like he wanted to make sure she was good enough for his cousin. That little inkling made her step forward, too. Just to spite him.

"Mal."

He couldn't have scurried back to his original standing place faster even if he tried. His eyes were downcasted, and Mal could tell he was berating himself for actually making himself known to the daughter of Maleficent. He looked like he was readying himself—either to run away, or face the brutal death he would surely recieve for freely talking to Princess of Hell.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," Mal added. "Why would I hurt my buddy's little cousin?"

His stiff appearance softened—but nothing close to the way he was just a minute ago, before he knew who she was and who she was related to. The bruises scattered across his skin seemed more noticeable, now that he started to wince in pain at them. She guessed shivering while layered in hand-marks wasn't a good combination. He gazed back up to her after spending so many seconds staring at the crumbling pavement beneath their feet. Mal could see the fear in his emerald-green eyes, which, as seeing only hate and pure evil come out of green eyes for so many years, was an odd change.

They also reminded her of the prince who inhabits her dreams every night; the one that gets her dragon tattoo to itch every time she thinks of him.

"W-where is-s-s Car-los...?" He flinched, like he was ready for her to smack him, punch him, or worse, just for asking the question.

"Hell Hall. You know the place, right?" Dillon nodded, absentmindedly tugging at his torn, button-down shirt, he even let his fingers pick at the spots where the buttons should be. Mal stuck out a hand, "Want me to take you there?"

He shook his head, "I-I'm fine. I'm f-f-fine. I d-don't need any help-p."

Her hand lingered, though. She didn't expect him to take hold of it, so she didn't know why she let it hang there. Mal had a twinge of hurt over it, this must be what it feels like for Jay when Carlos ignores his "up-high's", she thought. Dillon's eyes locked onto the hand—and she was genuinely surprised he decided to take it.

"B-but it w-would b-be-be-e nice." He added, with a small smile. (Which did absolutely nothing to thaw out Mal's frozen heart of pure evil, mind you.)

With that, Mal chose the safest route to Hell Hall, not that she'd need it, she was Maleficent's daughter, and everyone knew that, or they would know that when she was done with them. Dillon didn't know that she would stop all brutal things that'd happen to him—all the unspeakable acts that no one should ever have to deal with. Mal was kind of shocked. This kid, Carlos' cousin, was making her protective, and there were only four people that ever got that feeling out of her.

She guessed Dillon was just lucky number five.

Now, I know what you're all thinking. WHERE THE HECK HAVE I BEEN?! The answer is: busy, writer's block for every single story, and very creative procrastination. (I'M SO, so, sO, SOOOO SORRY!) Oh, and there were technical difficulties and I had to start this chapter (along with two other story chapters) over.

Hopefully my funk is gone, and I can get back to my regular scheduled updating schedule—which is literally anytime.

So we'll see. But I'm working on it! :)

So, hopefully you didn't hate this chapter too much. I'm SO grateful for the fantastic feedback this story has gotten, and I can't wait to see what you guys think of it. Alright, be safe, kjay15 out! Peace!

(Oh, and I'm working on my other stories, if you're wondering. So watch out for them. Hopefully.)

Okay, bye!