A snippet from the first Scar POV One Shot from the
Can I Bring You Home for Christmas?
Cause I’m really good at building suspense lmao
He was so completely, helplessly in love with Grian.
Had been for years.
Not some fleeting crush, not some temporary ache that would fade if he waited long enough or dated someone else or kept pretending it didn’t matter.
No— this thing had roots.
Deep ones.
It had started freshman year, quietly, before Scar had even understood what was happening.
A boy in an oversized sweater arguing passionately with a professor about architectural history.
Messy hair falling into bright eyes.
Hands moving when he talked, animated and alive, like words alone were never enough to contain him.
A laugh that cracked open something in Scar’s chest and made room for sunlight.
And then friendship.
Late nights studying.
Shared coffees.
Inside jokes.
Grian sprawling across Scar’s dorm bed like he belonged there, stealing fries off his plate, borrowing hoodies, touching Scar absentmindedly— shoulder bumps, hands on wrists, fingers brushing hair from Scar’s face like it was nothing— while it was everything to him.
Scar had spent years learning how to carry it.
How to tuck love into quieter shapes.
Into patience.
Into devotion.
Into being whatever Grian needed him to be.
Friend.
Safe place.
Now fake boyfriend.
That last one was both blessing and torture in equal measure.
Because pretending meant touching.
Touching meant kissing.
And kissing—
Scar exhaled sharply through his nose.
Christ.
Kissing Grian was ruining him.
Not because it was performative— though that had been the excuse at first, a laughable little practice makes perfect arrangement that neither of them had been normal about for even a second— but because Grian kissed like he meant it.
Like every touch was instinct derived from want instead of performance.
He melted close, warm and trusting, fingers curling into Scar’s shirt, breath catching softly when Scar’s hand settled at his waist. He sighed into kisses like Scar was something comforting. Something wanted.
Sometimes— when they pulled apart— Grian looked at him with this dazed, open expression that made Scar’s heart pound so hard it hurt.
And Scar had started noticing things.
The way Grian watched Scar when he thought Scar wasn’t looking.
The pink creeping into his cheeks after lingering touches.
The little stumbles in conversation when Scar called him love or baby too softly.
The way he always leaned back in.
Always.
Scar had a hunch.
A fragile, dangerous little hope he was almost afraid to touch.
That maybe Grian was into him too.
The thought was intoxicating enough sober.
Tipsy, alone in a motel room with Grian showering twenty feet away, it was catastrophic.
Because layered on top of love was want— hot and restless and embarrassingly persistent.
Hours on the road.
Nights of cramped motel rooms and shared beds and Grian half-dressed and sleepy-haired and soft with trust.
Weeks of makeout sessions that started as ‘practice’ and turned into something breathless and trembling and far too real.
Then stopping.
Always stopping.
Scar respected that boundary with everything he had.
Would keep respecting it.
Gladly.
But that didn’t stop the ache of wanting more— not even sex, not really, not in the crude shape of it— just more.
More closeness.
More kissing until they forgot where one ended and the other began.
More of Grian reaching for him because he wanted to, not because the script demanded it.
More honesty.
More truth.
He wanted Grian in every soft, impossible way a person could want another human being.
His hands ache with a hard days work as he steps into his previously empty base. The walls are now lined with his server mates blessings as each room has been carefully crafted and furnished to perfection. The base was cramped in a way that felt safe, that felt right.
Mumbo planned to expand up above the hill of his ‘humble abode’ as Gem put it. However his plans for something bigger could wait; he had some other things to take care of first. Dipping into one of the side areas that contained chests upon chests and grey and purple boxes full of goodies. One box stands out being stained with a pinkish almost glittery blood color.
His hands searched with familiarity as he rustled through comparators and bundles of wire to wrench out handfuls of purple crystal and sculk. His plans were for something significantly more organic. Or as organic as he can design, as no being is complete without a soul. A soul he did not have. Yet.
Mumbo distinctly remembers his ploy to grab a certain birds life force back in season 8 though he’s not ready for that step yet. Maybe all it would take was a little convincing and a few false promises to get what he needed. First and foremost, he needed to ready the vessel. The multitude of vessels. What he’s not aware of is this would backfire greatly.
Greatly enough that his devices would turn against him in a bid to get revenge for their now Watcher Warlord.
His hands ache with a hard days work as he steps into his previously empty base. The walls are now lined with his server mates blessings as each room has been carefully crafted and furnished to perfection. The base was cramped in a way that felt safe, that felt right.
Mumbo planned to expand up above the hill of his ‘humble abode’ as Gem put it. However his plans for something bigger could wait; he had some other things to take care of first. Dipping into one of the side areas that contained chests upon chests and grey and purple boxes full of goodies. One box stands out being stained with a pinkish almost glittery blood color.
His hands searched with familiarity as he rustled through comparators and bundles of wire to wrench out handfuls of purple crystal and sculk. His plans were for something significantly more organic. Or as organic as he can design, as no being is complete without a soul. A soul he did not have. Yet.
Mumbo distinctly remembers his ploy to grab a certain birds life force back in season 8 though he’s not ready for that step yet. Maybe all it would take was a little convincing and a few false promises to get what he needed. First and foremost, he needed to ready the vessel. The multitude of vessels. What he’s not aware of is this would backfire greatly.
Greatly enough that his devices would turn against him in a bid to get revenge for their now Watcher Warlord.
Holy body and anatomy. Barely a month ago you drew body’s a little similarly to how Gacha life body’s are(in the nicest way possible) and now there’s so much detail! I barely know you but by gods am I proud
Grian often called Scar late at night when he knew the hunter was meant to be sleeping. It had become a routine of sorts, a habit that morphed into a mutual secret between the two of them.
As usual, Scar picked up the phone despite the glaring time on the clock. It was impossible to ignore the obvious smile in his voice.
Hey there. So, this one gets dark. @angeart and I have been cooking this au for some time now, and I felt like sharing it.
Initially inspired by this oneshot from Ange, the AU follows serial killer Scar and very normal citizen Grian, with Mumbo coming into the AU later along with some other hermits. I suggest taking the content warnings for this one seriously.
Content Warnings: kidnapping, murder, torture, cannibalism, manipulation, self-harm, gun violence, illness, injury, horror, major character death (not of the main trio), minor character death (random unnamed characters)
Part One [you are here!]
Grian likes to think of himself as a fairly ordinary person. He lives alone, in an apartment just a little ways downtown from the city centre. He works in an architectural firm, but mostly works from home, only popping into the office on occasion to say hi to his coworkers - who mostly double as friends.
One of his few out-of-work friends is Scar, who has recently convinced him to go camping in the woods over the long weekend. Now, Grian is not a fan of nature. He complains the whole time - setting up the tent, gathering wood for the campfire, and so on. But he also has a big stupid crush on Scar, so he agrees to try out his favourite hobby. Whatever.
The problem starts, really, when they go out hunting on the second day of the trip.
Grian doesn't get the best night's sleep, bothered by insects and dirt and sleeping in an uncomfortable position that leaves his back aching. When Scar brandishes a hunting rifle and says they're going to practice shooting, Grian wants to curl up and die. He would rather throw himself off a cliff than shoot some deer in the head - probably missing and extending its misery.
But again, he has a stupid crush, so he says yes. They stalk out into the forest, further than Grian feels comfortable. He asks Scar if they can go back, but Scar brushes him off, and Grian drops it because he doesn't want to look like a wimp. After a certain point, there are no more paths. Grian swears he sees a sign warning hikers to turn back. The forest gets all overgrown and impossible to navigate. Grian stings himself on nettles more than once.
It's miserable. Scar is in his element.
He's heard, in passing, that there's a part of the woods that is forbidden, no one's meant to go there. He's heard that people go missing - they fall into ravines or get lost or maybe wolves eat them, whatever - they never come out once they go in. And, hell, Grian is a paranoid guy. He asks Scar if they're anywhere close to that patch of woodland.
Laughing, Scar waves his hand. "G, we're not even close! You sure don't know a lot about the forest, huh?" And it's enough for Grian's racing nerves to calm themselves a little.
It's not long before they spot some deer. A few large animals grazing in a little clearing. Scar crouches, then hands the gun to Grian, telling him to get on one knee, and showing him how to hold the weapon. It's not comfortable, holding such a dangerous thing with no knowledge of how it operates, but Scar makes it seem less scary, taking Grian's hands in his own to guide them to the right spot.
Foolishly, Grian tries to savour the moment. Scar's body pressed against his own, his warm hands manipulating him into a proper position... it's as close as they're ever going to get, so long as Grian keeps acting like a coward.
When everything looks correct, Scar moves away and tells Grian to aim at one of the deer. Careful, now, don't overthink it. Just breathe. Stay calm. Be ready for the noise, it's pretty loud.
But before Grian can shoot, there are shouts from the foliage nearby. The deer scatter immediately. Scar swears, snatching the gun from Grian's hands, knocking him to the floor in the process.
A group of campers, three of them, rush out from the bushes. They wield foraging gear - knives, shears - and their faces are painted with anger. One of them points at Scar.
Suddenly, they charge ahead. Two go for Scar, one for Grian. And Grian is stunned. Confused, terrified, he shouts at Scar. What's happening? Who are they? But Scar doesn't answer. Instead, he raises his rifle, and shoots.
The first camper is struck in the head. Grian screams, shuffling back in the dirt until he hits a tree. Scar just killed someone. He just killed someone. Someone is dead. Their brains are all over the floor.
And there's two left. They're still attacking. Still running towards Scar and Grian. It was self-defense. Self-defense. Of course. Okay. Right.
Another shot. The second camper pursuing Scar falls. Grian can't take his eyes off of the bodies, still twitching as life drains away. He feels like he's going to be sick.
There's still a camper rushing Grian. They're upon him in seconds, seemingly unaware, or too hyped up on adrenaline to notice, their friends are dead.
They slash at Grian with a hunting knife. The long blade glints in the sun. He leans away. His heart beats in his ears. It barely misses him. They raise their arm. Another swing catches his cheek, drawing blood. Grian closes his eyes. Thinks this is it. This is where he dies.
A shot, loud, echoing through the trees. The final camper falls to the ground, dead. Their blood sprays against Grian's clothes. Some of it gets on his face. In his mouth. He's frozen, staring wide-eyed at the corpse.
Silence, for a moment. Dead, complete silence. Not even birdsong through the trees.
"Wh- who were they? Why... what did they... Scar?" Grian can't pull together a full sentence after that, whole body trembling as tears start to build up in his eyes, the crash of adrenaline washing over him along with the horror at what they've just done. Scar is somewhere behind him, the body in front, Grian in the middle.
It's like the whole world stops moving. Grian's shaking breaths threaten to turn into sobs.
He hears Scar sigh. "They were probably mad about what I did to their friend." It's said so calmly, so nonchalant, that Grian doesn't register the words, for a moment.
Then it clicks. "What?" he says, frozen in fear. There is something burning against his back, some phantom sensation like he knows he's being watched. He knows Scar has a gun pointed at him. He doesn't even need to look.
Scar is pointing a gun at him. Scar is about to shoot him. Click.
He runs.
Scrambling to his feet, Grian runs for his life through the dense forest, each step pounding against the moist ground. His breaths catch in his throat, chest heaving, fear spiking through all of his senses.
Terror. A gunshot.
A bullet grazes past his feet. He screams. Sobs. Chokes on the sound. Stumbles, but keeps running, dodging roots and trees as best as he can.
Something in the back of his mind tells him he should weave in a zig-zag pattern. Like he saw on TV once. But he can't. He can't do anything but run. Faster. He has to be faster. How does he outrun a bullet?
Scar is laughing. Or he imagines it.
Then, another gunshot. It rings in his already aching ears. Panic explodes from his rib cage.
Everything happens so fast.
There's a popping sound. A pain in his ankle. Shocking burst of fire.
He's falling. Crashing to the ground. Putting his arms out to break the fall.
And the world goes dark.
---
When Grian wakes, he's disorientated. In the dark, inside, the smell of damp invading his senses. Something - maybe an old tap - is dripping, little watery sounds echoing around his buzzing head.
He's tied up, bound by rope to a chair. His ankle hurts. But it's a dull pain, something nonspecific.
Looking down, he discovers it has been bandaged, but he's bleeding still, deep red staining the white fabric. From the strange numbness, he figures he might be on painkillers.
When he remembers what just happened - how Scar just turned on him - he starts to sob, hyperventilating. Why would Scar hurt him like this? What did he do to those campers' friend? Where did he take Grian?
Is he about to die?
His thoughts spiral as he struggles to breathe, pulling against his bindings to no avail. It's unclear how long he's left like that, before a door creaks open, streaming light into the room.
A light switch is turned on. Grian finds himself in a hallway, next to what could be a door to a garage, the kitchen somewhere to his right.
Scar stands in front of him, self-important smirk on his face, and a bowl of stew in his hands.
And, see, Grian is not stupid. He knows there is a greater than zero chance that this stew is made with people. It makes sense: creepy cabin in the woods, crazy serial killer, bowl of mystery meat. These things scream cannibalism, and he's not about to find out if people really do taste like chicken.
Scar is very, very insistent that he tries at least a little. He crouches next to Grian's chair and tries to spoon-feed him. Grian tries to bite his fingers and Scar laughs at him as if it's the funniest thing in the world.
After a while, Grian concedes to the killer, chewing a bit of a vegetable in the stew. Then Scar seems satisfied, putting the bowl to the side and levelling his gaze.
He tells it how it is. Scar is a killer. He does it for fun, and for the artistry of the kill. He's always been this way, and yes he does eat them, most of the time. As he explains himself, with all the casual cadence in the world, Grian finds himself getting increasingly nauseous.
"Just- just make it quick, okay?" he finally stutters out, interrupting Scar in the middle of a long rant about how to make the most of human remains. And to that, Scar looks almost surprised.
He smirks that terrible smirk, white teeth flashing under dim lights. "Oh, Grian, I don't wanna kill you! I want you to join me!"
Oh. Oh no.
Grian shakes his head, horrified, as Scar goes on about how Grian is the only person he's ever felt anything other than a hunter's instinct for. The only person he's ever truly loved. And if Grian stays they'll be so happy together, no one will ever be able to hurt them...
Then Scar tells him to think it over. He's going out hunting (and Grian knows, then, he doesn't mean for deer) and he'll be back later. And he leaves, keeping the light on for Grian's comfort.
There is nothing comforting about it.
---
It is an hour later that Grian's ankle starts to really, truly hurt again. The sharp burning buzzes all over, centring on the bleeding, broken part of him. His feet are bloody too, shoes and socks removed while he was unconscious.
If he moves his ankle, his vision starts to blur, and his stomach flips. So he keeps it as still as he can, ignoring the mess of dried blood coating his skin.
Two more hours, and there is a noise. A garage door stuttering open. Grian doesnt see Scar when he's hunting, but he hears what happens in the aftermath.
He hears Scar dragging a live victim into the garage, which is only one wall of seperation from where Grian himself is kept. Hears how Scar speaks and jokes in the same way he always does, talking and talking and never stopping. Hears the sound of metal scraping against stone. Hears the thud and crack of bones being broken. Hears the poor camper scream and beg. Hears them cry out in pain and anguish. And eventually hears wet choking sounds as they drown in their own blood.
The thing that upsets Grian the most is how Scar hasn't changed. He's still the same person in the way he speaks to the victim, with the same silly jokes and oddball personality that Grian knows. It just hammers home the fact that Scar has been doing this for who-knows-how-long and Grian never noticed. He's not some secretly evil monster using that personality as a mask, he is still the loveable, silly man Grian fell in love with, and a ruthless killer at the same time. Those identities just arent seperate.
They never were. That's the part that frightens Grian the most. The fact that he really did trust Scar, and love him, while the entire time he was killing innocent people in the woods somewhere.
That somewhere is here, and Grian has to get out.
He's been tugging at his restraints for hours. Ever since Scar left. To give him credit, they are sturdy. Thick rope that makes Grian's wrists bleed. But his legs aren't bound, and after hours of struggling, he's made progress.
Progress enough to slip one hand out of the restraints. Then the other is easy work. Scar is still cleaning up. He can hear the sound of running water and the slick thud and scrape of a saw cutting through meat.
He can see the front door from here. Just around a corner and down the hall. It's not far. He can make it.
Putting pressure on his ankle is agonising, but he has to get out. He has to run. Has to find society and tell someone and get out.
It's dark outside. Autumnal. Could be snowing, even.
Anywhere is better than here.
Grian steps quietly, painfully, to the front door. He's surprised to find it unlocked.
Pause. His hand on the door handle. Listening. Scar is humming to himself in the garage, completely unaware.
Okay.
Right. He opens the door. So quiet. Not even a creak.
And as soon as he slips out, bare feet making contact with the icy ground, he runs.
