Chapter Text
Nights like this are the only thing I still live for, these days. The dusky twilight whorls that flow through each other and across the cloud-filled skies creep faintly around the edges of the closed blinds. Pointless, because even as they escaped the heavy curtains – a recent addition to the room that He had added swiftly after I once offhandedly mentioned that the early-morning sunlight gave me headaches – those rays are gobbled up by the harsh yellow beams of the aging, artsy ceiling lamp.
For just a moment, I break my eyes from the television and thoughtfully gaze up at it. For the four hundredth time, probably, as it reminds me so much of Him in so many ways. Like Him, one day it just appeared in my life; He brought it home from a yard sale or something the morning after one of my sleep-overs. And also like Him, its tactful signs of aging and open, familiar aesthetic instantly set my mind at ease. The lamp carried the air of having always been a part of my life, steady, stable. No matter how many different ways I ask, He never tells me why He brought something so highbrow and out of His interests. I bet if I were to ask Him right now, "I just like it" is all that He'd say.
A sudden bout of light giggling plays at my shoulders as I turn my attention back towards the TV, earning me a small upturned corner of His lips and the gentle brush of His fingers running through my hair. We're watching one of our shared favorites. The four prank-loving friends had such sweet chemistry that it shined through no matter how personal the pranks and punishments would go. Mindless, harmless fun that always brings out the shrieking laughter in both of us.
But tonight all it manages to draw out of Him is the occasional amused grunt, and somber silence from me. Still, even that morose quiet is a step up and a far cry from the shuddering, wet, sobbing disaster of smeared makeup and tangled hair that landed on His porch with all the frenzied force of a downed passenger jet. Without a word He took a firm hold of my hands and pulled me into the small foyer of His home, immediately enveloping me in the private warmth of His arms. I know that I broke down at that point and couldn't stand on my own anymore, but I don't remember much of the specifics now. Eventually He gave up on trying to tease the source of my ragged state out of me and tenderly laid the both of us down on His plush couch while He wrapped those powerful arms around my waist and held me with all the gentle compassion of a lovesick Father.
We've stayed like this for hours and another episode winds down into its credits. I feel His Hand slowly rubbing my tummy in circles to massage the stony plates of anxiety that had formed in my guts. Heavenly. Whispering my relieved gratitude for His care, I feel the tickling heat of His breath spill down across my exposed ear as He slides a few errant strands of my hair behind it to answer me in a whisper of His own.
"My usually bubbly, happy-go-lucky Princess has shed an awful lot of tears tonight. Do you feel any lighter, now? Would you like to work through anything with me?"
God, He knows how to handle me so well. There is no ultimatum in His words, no unspoken, imperious demand that I crack myself open at the seams for Him. The rumbling tenor of His voice is thick with the sweet edge of genuine, unconditional compassion. Waves of gentle concern roll off of Him like the sticky heat of a lazy Summer evening and it's all I can do to just close my eyes and let the tide of it sweep my away into a sea of my rural memories. It's almost enough to break me down into another round of brutal sobs, but I hold fast to myself this time and cling onto His wrists for dear life. Slowly, fragments of the day start to rise up through the soupy miasma of my brain and bob along the surface.
"...I don't want to talk about the details..." My eyes avert sharply from Him and fall to the carpeted floor. Slowly scanning across it, following the marbled pattern where our footsteps are still visible, helps to ground me and quiet some of the chattering in my teeth. "I thought today was going to be good. It was supposed to be good. I did everything good! I did everything good, so why did it turn out like this!?"
Scalding wetness flares up in the corners of my eyes and I know I'm far closer to the verge of tears than I want to admit. He hurriedly brings His lips to the back of my head, burying them in my still untamed hair, and peppers me with soft kisses of encouragement while I shake violently against Him and choke on the acidic taste of the day's memories. Still, even here in my own little private sanctuary of Him, it takes me more than a few minutes to collect myself again and continue – even then, my voice shakes.
"...They said I was an 'experiment,' and that you were gonna' get rid of me when you could get a re-" My voice cracks, falling down an octave because the pain is overwhelming all of my senses and I can't concentrate on keeping my voice up where it's not ugly and harsh and mannish. I hate myself for it because it makes me realize just how right they were. "Better. A better girlfriend."
Behind me the firm warmth of His form snaps rock solid. The change is so immediate that it dazes me for a moment. I'm suddenly acutely aware of the sheer size of the arms locked around me, holding me still, and the current of anxiety and rage I can feel coursing through them to the rest of His body. Sharp, icy knives stick their points into the skin of my small breasts and digging through the flesh and bone until they penetrate my racing heart. Why won't He answer me? I can feel the boiling heat of His gaze on the back of my head, did I make Him angry? Oh God, I should have kept my stupid mouth shut, I should know there's no way He'd want damaged goods, I should just be grateful for what I have, I should have-
Shattered fragments of my broken reverie fall in a heap around me when His fingertips dig inito my arms, turning me around on the couch until I'm facing Him, at which point His touch is suddenly enveloping my jaw. His grip is unquestionable and imperious, but there is a gentleness I do not deserve in the methodical way He wipes the fresh line of tears from my cheeks and slowly raises my face to meet His gaze. Those gorgeous, crystalline eyes of His are boring deep into my soul with barely restrained rage, but I recognize the look before my anxieties can so much as utter a peep. It's the Look, and the anger in it is never reserved for me – it's a quivering, impatient hound with slavering jaws desperate to sniff out whoever hurt me.
He asks me as much, quietly urging me to give Him a name. Violently shaking my head, I almost start hyper-ventilating along with a stammering denial. I'm begging Him not to do anything, not to say anything, not to anyone. It'd be obvious that I sicced Him on them and then they'd just escalate things when they retaliated. Right now, I can't even bear the idea of it. I just want Him to hold me in that tender way He does whenever I see a strange man leering at me from across the train station platform – a new specter for me, to be sure, and one that had recently started haunting me even on days when I see that all-too-familiar man in the mirror. That's all I want from Him
None of those words come to me, of course, not through the blubbering mess I've become, but He drinks them out of the desperate, imploring shudder in my eyes. Quiet thought overtakes Him as His assent rumbles deep and heavy across His chest and into my chin pressed tight against the muscles there. Staring into His eyes, I can see the drive to keep digging flash for just a moment – we both know that if He asked me again, I wouldn't be able to deny Him. But we both also know how fragile I am right now; we both know that I'd crack and break if He manhandled me that way. Instead He curls all that protective rage into a tight ball and files it away securely to revisit later, when the tremors in my limbs have fallen still and my skin no longer feels like it's about to crawl away from me. For now, the intensity in His gaze visibly shifts from a burning righteous indignation to an authoritative concern.
"Even if I wanted a 'better girlfriend' – which, let me tell you, I don't – but even if I did, fuck it, I'd be shit out of luck." The unexpected vulgarity as He closes His response shocks the last of my tears in swiftly flooding rivers as my eyes fall wide open. That's not to say that He's never sworn in my presence. No, He's always had a sailor's tongue when the mood was right. Usually because someone had fucked Him and He wanted to make sure they could feel the rage crashing off of Him in waves, or because He was fucking me so hard into whatever surface He'd pinned me to that all my higher brain functions had switched off and I responded to nothing more vanilla than "Little Cunt." For times when holding the floor up beneath everyone else's feet without any recognition finally proved too great a burden for my dumb little brain to handle, and I needed to have nothing – to be nothing – more than my responsibilities to the cock that owns me.
Always the clever god, He immediately pushes forward in my stunned silence. "You disrespect me, little one. Whoever these bad actors are, who are they to know my needs and desires better than myself? And who are you to strip me of my agency and reduce me to a reckless mongrel driven by a desperate need for a hole?" Quickly responding to the frightened shiver I just barely fail to keep out of my spine in response to His words, a razor edge I wasn't even aware had been present falls away from His eyes and His words come faster now to complete His thought before my anxieties can take over.
"You know who I am better than that, and I know what I am to you better than that." Enormous, rough hands quickly envelope mine in a firm warmth, blistered and calloused from the uncountable hours of intricate carpentry that afforded His home. Our home. Stark silver rings hold tightly onto my own eyes, a brown so burnt they easily masquerade as black in the right light, and the unyielding strength I see shining in them confuses me still. It's not for some show meant to puff up His own ego, it's for me. An unspoken but understood promise of stability, protection, and empathy.
"I would have hoped that by now, you would trust me enough to trust my intentions towards you even when I'm not in the room." His voice drops low, musing just loud enough for me to hear but clearly not expecting any actual response. "But your most intimate trust has been torn inside out by pretenders and abusers, hasn't it?" Feeling the weight of those hands that I love so much laying against my scalp and lightly scratching at my roots draws a near-primal moan out of my throat as my eyes flutter and I find myself leaning fully against His mighty person.
No answer at all is required from me. He knows all my stories, and even if He didn't the way I whimper piteously into His flesh would be a dead giveaway. As it is, my eyes are all but nailed shut and I desperately nuzzle my face deeper into the crook of His neck to surround myself in not only His heat but also His comforting scent. I'll need that scent, especially because I know what's coming next.
"But...that's not really what you want to ask me, is it? Because that's not really what they said to you, is it?" Another sob chokes out of me, my shoulders wracking, but it's lighter than the others. It still hurts, but suffering alone and suffering in His embrace are two distinct sensations. "Be honest with me, babygirl. You know I expect transparency from you." The words could easily sound demanding and harsh, but from His lips they carry only the open invitation to convalesce through open communication.
If I could dare to open my eyes they would probably be fixated on Him. But even though I know what His answer is going to be, I can't shake that mounting, prickling pressure that starts pooling in my gut. Opening myself up to the full gravity of His gaze is more than I could handle right now. Especially if there's even the smallest chance that my overwhelming anxiety, driven me to doubt His fidelity and honesty towards me as it has, becomes something offensive before it is reflected in that metallic stare. My voice drops to barely above a hoarse whisper.
"...Wouldn't you be better off with a r-" the words crack inside my throat, but I find the strength through His presence to hold them together long enough for them to tumble out of me and splatter grotesquely across the space between us, "with a real girl?"