16 Works by rlbcaged
Listing Works
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“Well,” Uncle Norman tapped Shelley's nose gently, “the Creeper Woman won’t get you if you just stay away from the woods.”
“But we came through the woods,” Roman said, winking at his sister.
“Yes,” Norm said, smiling. “Of course you did. Well, she wanted you here, didn’t she? But now… now that you’re…”
“She won’t let us leave?” Roman offered, remembering his uncle’s earlier words.
The man stared at him. “Exactly.”
Roman was relieved. Boogeymen he could handle. His mother coming after them, he couldn’t.
It's just a story. Just a fucking weird story.
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“You okay?” Peter asks.
With a deflating sigh, Roman answers, “Yeah, it was just a dream.” But something still lingers. He tries to put it into words. “It was so weird, though. Like… a dream inside a dream.”
Peter tilts his head in sympathy. “A nightmare?”
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A story where nothing is quite as it seems, and the living are much closer to the dead than they think.'The opposite of a haunting is something very lonely.' -Katie Maria
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The bone saw is surprisingly heavy in his sweaty, blood-slick grip- lightweight stainless steel feeling less light with the weight of what he’s doing. Dismembering a loved one is a lot harder than it should be. Roman takes a deep breath, and gets back to work.
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Or: Peter is being destroyed from the inside by the corruption of the vargulf. There's a magic spell that can cure him, but it involves cutting Peter apart, piece by piece. Roman ends up enjoying it more than he thought he would.
(i promise it's a lot more lighthearted than it seems)
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Roman is exactly where Peter figured he’d be. There’s a long lump underneath the covers on the bed. The door shuts with a soft click, and the lump doesn’t even twitch. Forty days ago, Letha was still alive. Forty days ago, Roman didn’t know what it felt like to have his sister’s blood splatter across his face. Peter stands there for a long while, his back against the green wall, his boots pressing dirt into the polished wooden floor. Doing nothing. Watching the lump breathe.
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Nothing outside of Roman’s immediate field of vision ever had reason to cross his mind, but he’s seen it now. He’s seen what people will do when they’re desperate.
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“How was the gym?” Peter asks, undeterred by the silence, knowing it’s only the product of Roman’s unexplainable whims. If it was anger, Peter would surely be made aware.
Roman pauses the movement of his hand for long enough to glance over at Peter’s reflection. He’s leaning his shoulder casually against the wooden threshold, his feet crossed at the ankles- too casual, Roman notes. Peter’s eyes are locked, not onto the mirror, but onto Roman’s body with such focus he’s barely blinking. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks that could be blamed on the steamy air, but Roman knows better.
Well, then. Game on.
Series
- Part 1 of gym playlist
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follow me into the endless night (meet me in the woods tonight) by rlbcaged
Fandoms: The Crow (2024)
27 Feb 2025
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“You’re really here,” Shelly says, still somehow in disbelief.
Eric’s expression softens, and he looks at her with such fond exasperation that her stomach clenches.
“I was always there, Shell,” he says. “You know that.”
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like ripples on a blank shore by rlbcaged
Fandoms: Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021)
27 Feb 2025
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How many times had Jayce’s hands become pools of light, shining as gold as the threads connecting the other trapped souls surrounding him?
Does it matter?
- An brief drabble on paranoia, confusion, and death-related questions.
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A cage is a cage is a cage. Roman’s ribs, Peter thinks, what a cage they would be.
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Peter knows that every time Roman’s eyes close, a faint blue glow flickers in the darkness.
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His body beneath Strahm’s has relaxed in increments during however much time has passed since the back of Hoffman’s knees first hit the edge of the mattress. All it took was a light push, both of Strahm’s hands on his shoulders to shove him, separating their kiss that was more teeth than anything as Hoffman sprawled onto his back. The huff of air that escaped him quickly turned into a laugh when Strahm’s stomach audibly grumbled. Breakfast and lunch sat heavily within him, like a boulder in quicksand. Heavy but not filling.
“Seriously? You’re hungry?
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Will tracks down Molly two years after the fall in an attempt to get his dog's back. She's been waiting for him to come back, and she's pissed.
or alternatively titled: the fic where Molly beats Will up for all the shit he put her through, reminiscent of the season 3 jack vs hannibal smackdown
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“ The passage of time meant nothing, not any more. The sun came and went, the breeze ruffled his sea-crisp hair and passed him by. He slept upright when he could no longer keep his eyes open, days later. Still he watched.
Will felt nothing.”or the au where hannibal dies in the fall and will doesn’t take it well.
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Will had seen the broken necks of his father’s empty beer bottles glinting in the moonlight, saw how sharp they looked. He heard his father’s snores through the walls separating them, felt the way they grated on his brain and made his stomach shift and his breath grow unbearably louder until it all matched the constant orchestra beat of his horrible blood flowing through his horrible body. Will knew it was all inside of him and he knew what sharp things did. He sat in the forest-field behind his house and tried to cure himself with dirty glass. Will just wanted silence.
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“He is injured, like you. His leg is severely broken, he has a few cracked ribs, a concussion, and a gunshot wound. He may not be the Hannibal you are expecting. When I first met him, he was in a similar state and if he wakes as he did all those years ago, he will not be your Hannibal for a while.”
Will didn’t understand why that meant he couldn’t see Hannibal yet, but he understood one thing with an absolute, sudden clarity.
“In whatever form he may be, he will always be my Hannibal.”
- In which Hannibal and Will are changed after the fall, in many different ways than they expected.
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Derek gets lost in the routine of watching the man’s hollow cheeks, his paper-thin wrists, and the dark blue crescents hugging up to his eyes. The way one bony hand lifts his spoonful of oatmeal to his mouth without shaking in the slightest, while the other occasionally taps a rhythm into his sweatpants-clad thigh. One finger lifting and falling, then the other, repeating the cycle until they’ve all tapped. Then he does it over again. It took Derek a long time to realize the man was counting his fingers.
Derek watches the man. The man watches him right back.