hi! this is my first time requesting to you so I hope this isn't too much to ask but can I request on the housewardens + Jamil who has a s/o telling about their past, who survived as a victim of human trafficking and has a branding tattoo on their neck that they hide and finally showed it to them(like those lines we can see on our items or products, idk why they're called) and can you pls make it angst to comfort 🙏
I hope my request isn't too much to ask you but my advance tsym if you made this 🫶
Housewardens+Jamil X human trafficking survivor!reader
Warning: Human trafficking (mentioned), trauma, survivor's guilt, implied PTSD, branding/tattooing, dissociation,dehumanization, ends in comfort and support.
It started with the wind.
You were sitting outside in Heartslabyul's rose garden, long after most students had gone to bed. The wind was soft tonight, brushing over the treetops and weaving through the hedges like a whispered lullaby. Riddle had come out to find you, his coat over one arm, wearing that concerned look he got whenever you were out alone too late for his liking.
“You should be sleeping,” he said gently as he approached. “You’ll catch a cold.”
You offered him a small smile. “I know. I just… needed air.”
Without asking, he draped the coat around your shoulders and sat beside you on the bench. He didn’t push for more. Riddle had learned, over time, that when you needed to talk, you would. That silence wasn’t always something to fix.
So he just sat there with you, your knees brushing slightly. Quiet.
After a long stretch of listening to the breeze, you finally spoke.
“Can I tell you something?”
He turned toward you, already nodding. “Of course.”
You picked at the edge of his sleeve where it rested over your hand. You weren’t quite sure how to begin. So you didn’t look at him when you said it, just kept your eyes on the night sky.
“I have a tattoo,” you murmured. “On the back of my neck.”
Riddle tilted his head slightly. “Alright…”
“It’s not decorative,” you continued, voice softer now. “It wasn’t my choice.”
You felt his attention sharpen, though he stayed quiet, letting you go on.
“I don’t really show it. Most people don’t know it’s there. But sometimes I forget it is here too. I forget until someone stares, or until I see it in a mirror and-”
You stopped. Took a breath.
“You know how there are those lines on packaging? Like a barcode? That’s what it is. That’s what they gave me.”
You glanced at him then, half-expecting shock or horror but instead, he just looked… pained. Not at you. For you.
His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. “Who…?”
“It was years ago,” you said, not wanting to go into the details yet. “I was younger. Vulnerable. I got taken, not here, not in this world. Another one. I try not to think about it too often, but it’s always kind of there, in the back of my mind.”
You gave a soft, almost bitter chuckle.
“They treated people like items. Like things to be bought and sold. And the branding? It was a way to keep track of us. To remind us we didn’t belong to ourselves anymore.”
There was a heavy silence between you.
“I escaped eventually. Got help. Got out. I’ve come a long way since then. I’ve healed a lot, I think. But… there’s always this part of me that wonders if people would see me differently if they knew.”
“I guess I’m telling you because… you matter to me. And I didn’t want to keep hiding. Not from you.”
Riddle was quiet for a moment longer, then reached for your hand.
His fingers were a little cold, but steady.
“Thank you for telling me,” he said simply. “That must have taken so much strength. I can’t imagine what you went through, but I’m here now. I want to be someone you never have to hide from.”
His grip tightened gently, grounding.
“And just so you know,” he added, voice firmer now, “Nothing about that mark changes how I see you. It doesn’t make you less. If anything, knowing what you’ve survived..what you’ve endured,it makes me admire you more.”
You felt your throat close slightly, and you nodded, swallowing hard. “Sometimes I still feel… stained by it. Like I’ll never be entirely clean.”
Riddle’s brows drew together, his voice soft and unwavering.
“You were never dirty to begin with.”
You blinked, not expecting that.
“You were hurt. Taken. But never wrong. The people who did that to you were wrong. And it’s over now. You’re free.”
“If you ever want to show it to me,” he added carefully, “you can. But you don’t have to. That’s yours, and no one else’s.”
You hesitated, then slowly reached up, brushing your hair aside.
“I’d like to,” you said. “If that’s alright.”
He nodded once, seriously, then shifted behind you slightly. You lifted your collar just enough to reveal the thin, black lines etched at the base of your neck,sharp, clinical.
For a long time, he didn’t say anything. You didn’t feel watched. You felt… witnessed.
Then his fingers gently grazed the skin beside it ,not touching the tattoo directly, just close enough to say I see you. I’m here. I’m not turning away.
“I won’t pretend this didn’t happen to you,” he said. “But I promis—no.I swear it,as long as I’m with you, you’ll never be treated like a thing again. You’re a person. You’re important. You’re mine ,not in a possessive way. Just…”
You smiled faintly. “Like family.”
Then he leaned forward and pressed a light kiss just beneath the mark, not claiming, not romantic, just grounding.
The wind whispered through the garden again. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like it was passing you by. It felt like it was carrying something away.
Maybe a piece of the past that you were finally ready to let go.
Riddle sat with you a long time after that. He didn’t ask any more questions. He didn’t rush you to move, or speak again, or be anything other than what you were in that moment.
And for the first time in ages, the mark on your neck didn’t feel like a scar.
It was a lazy afternoon in the botanical gardens, the kind where the sun filtered through the glass in gold beams, pooling warm light on the floor. Leona had claimed one of the quiet hidden corners, all mossy stone and climbing ivy.He was half-asleep with his head in your lap, his arm slung over his eyes like usual.
He always liked the silence, but you’d come to learn it wasn’t the same kind as yours.
Leona’s silence was a defense, a way to keep the world at arm’s length. Yours, sometimes, was a shadow, something that grew around the things you didn’t speak about.
You ran your fingers gently through his hair, slow and repetitive, grounding yourself as much as him. You weren’t sure why the thought came to you just then. Maybe it was how still he was. How safe it felt.
“Can I tell you something?” you asked quietly.
Leona grunted, shifting his arm slightly. “Hn. You’re talkin’ already.”
“I mean… something real. Something I’ve never told anyone here.”
His hand slid down enough for one eye to peek out at you, sharp, attentive, now fully awake.
He sat up slowly, stretching but not leaving. He leaned back against the wall beside you, one knee up, resting an arm on it. Waiting.
You looked at your hands. “I have a tattoo on my neck. It’s hidden, most of the time. Not many people know about it.”
Leona blinked once, then arched a brow. “You wanna show it to me?”
“Not yet. I want to explain first.”
“It’s not a choice tattoo,” you said, voice soft. “It’s a brand. Like the ones they put on products. It looks like a barcode.”
You watched his reaction carefully. He didn’t move but his eyes narrowed. Not in judgment. In calculation. In the kind of anger he saved for things he knew were wrong.
You continued, voice steady.
“Back in my old world, when I was younger, I was taken. Trafficked. Sold like a thing. Treated like something people could own. The brand… it was their way of marking me. Like I was inventory.”
“I got out eventually. And built something new. But the mark,it never really left. It’s a part of me. Even now. Even after everything.”
There was silence. You didn’t fill it. You didn’t need to. You just waited.
Leona exhaled slowly, then leaned his head back against the ivy-covered wall.
“You know,” he said, voice low, “a lot of people look at me and see a second son. A spare. Someone who’s got everything and does nothing. They don’t see what’s under it.”
You blinked at the sudden turn, not sure where he was going.
“I’ve been called a beast. A failure. I’ve had expectations shoved down my throat and kicked off every pedestal they threw me on. But nobody ever tried to strip me of my basic right.”
He turned his head, looking you in the eye.
“What they did to you,that wasn’t just cruelty. That was erasing. Trying to turn you into something you’re not.”
You swallowed hard. The truth of that hit somewhere deep.
“I still have nightmares sometimes,” you admitted. “There are days when I forget it’s not happening anymore. And even though I know it wasn’t my fault, some part of me always feels… marked.”
He studied you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he reached out,not to touch your neck, but to lift your hand gently into his own.
“I can’t undo it,” he said quietly. “And I won’t pretend I understand what that felt like. ” He turned your hand over, thumb brushing your palm. “But this stays yours. All of you does. No one else gets to claim it.”
You let out a shaky breath.
“I’ve been scared to show it to anyone. Not because of what they’d think… but because it still feels like something I have to hide.”
“Then don’t show it yet,” he said simply. “Or show it when you’re ready. Not for anyone else. Just for you.”
You hesitated. Then, quietly, you reached up and pulled your collar down slightly, revealing the lines at the base of your neck.
It was quick. You didn’t let it linger.
But when you looked back at Leona, his expression hadn’t changed. No horror. No pity. Just that heavy, grounded stillness he only showed when he was fully present.
He leaned forward a little, brushing your hair gently back into place. “Doesn’t scare me,” he muttered. “Doesn’t change a damn thing.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, “But if anyone looks at you sideways for it? I will make them regret it.”
You laughed.Alittle surprised, a little teary. “That’s… oddly comforting.”
Leona smirked faintly. “Good.”
He leaned against your shoulder after that, warm and solid, the way he always did when words weren’t needed anymore.
And for once, the mark on your neck didn’t feel like something to hide.
It felt like something you had survived.
And someone was there to carry it with you, not take it away, but honor it. Honor you.
The lounge was quiet after hours,the kind of quiet that only came when the last customer had left, the last glass was washed, and the only light was the soft glow of enchanted lanterns. Azul had let the mask drop hours ago, slumped on the velvet couch beside you, his sleeves rolled up and his tie undone. He looked like a boy instead of a businessman, which, in a strange way, always made it easier for you to breathe around him.
He had his glasses off, eyes closed, head leaning on your shoulder.
“This is nice,” he murmured. “No deals. No disguises.”
You nodded slowly. You’d been thinking. Turning something over in your chest like a stone that was almost smooth but still sharp around the edges.
“There’s something I’ve never told you. And I want to… if that’s alright.”
His head lifted immediately. He looked at you, really looked at you,searching your face for anything he should brace for. “Of course. You never have to ask.”
You hesitated, then looked away toward the empty bar, your voice steady but low. “Back in my old world… I was trafficked. Human trafficking. For a long time.”
Azul’s breath caught, the kind of quiet inhale that was barely there but unmistakable. He didn’t speak. He just listened.
“I was young. I don’t even remember how it started- just that one day I wasn’t a person anymore. I was a product. And they branded me like one.”
Your hand lifted, touching your neck instinctively, where the brand still lay, hidden most days beneath collars or scarves. “It’s still there. Like those barcodes you scan on packages. Except this one was on me.”
Azul’s hands curled slowly into fists where they rested on his knees, but he didn’t interrupt.
“It took a long time to get out,” you continued. “And longer to accept that it was over. I still struggle with it. The nightmares, the shame, the part of me that forgets I’m safe now. That thinks if anyone sees the brand, they’ll look at me and only see that.”
You finally turned to face him again. “That’s why I hide it. I’ve wanted to tell you for a while. Not because I wanted you to fix it. Just… because I trust you.”
Azul looked stricken. Not at you,never at you but at the idea of that kind of suffering, that kind of cruelty. His expression was unreadable for a long moment, and then very quietly, he said, “May I see it?”
You hesitated. Then, after a breath, nodded.
With a small movement, you tugged the collar of your shirt down just enough to reveal the brand,a faded, etched pattern of lines and numbers, still unnervingly clean and functional in design. Like it had never been meant for a human.
Azul stared at it. Not like he was disgusted. Not like he pitied you.
But like he was seeing something sacred,not the mark, but the weight of it. What you’d lived through. What you’d survived.
And then, without speaking, he reached up, carefully, and pressed two fingers to the space beside it. Not directly on the brand, just next to it. Like he didn’t want to touch the wound but wanted you to feel he was there.
“I can’t believe someone would do this to you,” he said finally, his voice trembling slightly despite how calm he tried to sound. “That they thought they could strip you down to something so… so empty. That they thought you wouldn’t fight your way back.”
He lowered his hand, folding it with the other in his lap. “I’ve always wanted power. Influence. A name people respect. Because when I was small, I didn’t have any of that. I thought if I got strong enough, clever enough… I’d never be helpless again.”
“But even then, I was just fighting ghosts. You… you looked them in the eye. And survived. You’re not weak. You’re not broken. And whatever that mark was meant to say.. It doesn’t get to define you anymore.”
You felt the words settle in your chest like a gentle weight. Not heavy,grounding.
“I don’t want you to see me as a victim,” you whispered.
“I don’t.” Azul said immediately. “I see you. The whole of you. And I’m grateful-so grateful that you trust me with this. That you’re here.”
You leaned into him, forehead touching his. And for a long time, neither of you moved.
Later, when the lanterns had dimmed further and Azul finally pulled a blanket around both of you, he mumbled sleepily against your shoulder, “You don’t have to hide anything from me. Not the mark. Not the memories. Not the shadows.”
And he said it like a promise.
Like a contract without conditions.
Because this time, you weren’t alone.
It started with a question,innocent, like most things with Kalim.
“Hey! When we’re back from break, do you want to come to Scalding Sands with me? My family’s hosting this big celebration and I thought maybe you’d want to meet them!”
He beamed like he always did,excited, full of sunlight and life. The kind of joy that made people forget to look past it, to the parts of him that were observant, grounded, steady in ways most people missed.
You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Kalim…”
Something in your voice made him pause. His grin faltered not out of offense, but out of quiet concern. “Too soon?” he asked softly.
You hesitated. Then nodded. “Kind of.”
You both sat down on a shaded bench in the courtyard, away from the crowd and sunlight. A place where words could sit between you without being exposed.
Kalim leaned back, letting you take your time. He was good at that. Listening without pressing. Waiting without fidgeting. He only looked at you with that warm, open patience of his.
“I’ve never told you this,” you said after a moment. “And it’s not because I didn’t want to. I just didn’t know how.”
Kalim’s face didn’t change. He didn’t brace or worry. He simply listened.
“In the world I came from, I was trafficked. For a long time.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Still.
“People treated me like a thing. Branded me like one, even. "
You paused and hesitate slightly before speaking again. "..I still have the mark on my neck. It looks like a barcode, like I was just… inventory.”
You swallowed, heart tight. “I’ve hidden it ever since. Even here. Even around you.”
Kalim didn’t flinch. His eyes were full, soft, and very, very, very sad.Not for himself, not out of pity. But because you were someone he loved. And he hated that someone had hurt you like that.
You looked down at your hands. “I’m not telling you because I want you to fix it. I’m not broken. I just… I wanted you to know. The reason why I flinch sometimes. Why I get quiet around certain things. Why I don’t like showing skin around my neck.”
There was a beat. Then Kalim’s hand, warm and gentle, reached over and settled lightly atop yours.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
You looked at him ,surprised, maybe.
He smiled, but it wasn’t his usual smile. It was smaller. Deeper. “Thank you for trusting me with something that important. I know that wasn’t easy.”
You stared at him for a moment, the emotions tightening in your chest loosening just a little.
“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” he said softly. “It’s wrong. All of it. You deserved love and freedom and safety, not to be treated like that. But I’m really, really glad you’re here now.”
You felt your throat tighten, but his hand didn’t let go.
“I don’t care what they tried to make you feel like,” he added, more firmly now. “You’re not a thing. You’re not something that can be marked or owned or priced. You’re you. And you’re incredible.”
You breathed out slowly, and Kalim smiled again, a little brighter. “If it ever feels like too much, like the memories are creeping in, you can tell me. Or not. We can just sit and talk about stars, or play a game, or dance. But you don’t ever have to hide around me.”
A long silence passed. Then, voice quieter than before, you asked, “Would you… would you like to see it?”
Kalim didn’t hesitate. “Only if you want to show me.”
You slowly reached up, pulling your collar to the side, exposing the lines burned faintly into your skin. They were cruel in their precision, manufactured, sharp, deliberate.
But Kalim didn’t look at them like they were ugly. He looked at them like they were something you lived through. Not what defined you, but what you had overcome.
“Okay,” he whispered after a moment. “Okay. I see you.”
He reached forward, gently,asking permission with his eyes. When you nodded, he touched your shoulder lightly. Not the mark. Just the space near it. A grounding touch.
“Thank you,” he said again. “For being here. For surviving. For still being you.”
For once, the mark didn’t feel like it was burning through you.
For once, you felt held, not physically, but emotionally. Anchored by someone who saw all of you and still smiled, still reached for your hand.
Not because he didn’t see the damage.
But because he saw you, whole and living, in spite of it.
It wasn’t the kind of thing you planned to say. You didn’t sit down one morning and decide Today is the day I tell Jamil.
But that’s how these things go, isn’t it?
The conversation had started casually,something about plans for the winter holidays, your answers coming slower than usual. Jamil had noticed. He always noticed.
“You’ve been… quieter than usual,” he said, setting down the dish he’d been preparing with practiced ease. “Are you okay?”
You didn’t respond right away. Your hands were clenched a little too tightly in your lap. Jamil wiped his hands on a towel and turned to face you fully, brow slightly furrowed, not with annoyance but concern.
“Is it something I did?” he asked gently.
“No,” you said quickly. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
You hesitated, then laughed once, dry and small. “That’s actually part of why I wanted to tell you. Because you’ve been so… safe.”
He tilted his head, curious, waiting.
You looked down, then at him again. “Jamil… there’s something about my past I haven’t told you.”
He said nothing. He didn’t rush you, didn’t ask the wrong questions. Just waited, present and listening.
“I was trafficked,” you said softly. “When I was younger. For a long time.”
Jamil didn’t speak. But you saw his body subtly shif, tension coiling in his shoulders, not at you, but at the idea of someone hurting you. His eyes didn’t leave yours.
“They branded me,” you continued. “On the back of my neck. Like I was just another object on a shelf.”
You looked down, voice tighter now. “I know it’s not who I am. But it’s still there. I’ve spent years hiding it. Even here. Even from you.”
You weren’t sure what you were expecting, maybe discomfort, maybe sympathy that felt too heavy. But Jamil just sighed, slow and deep.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That that happened to you.”
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t hollow. Just steady. Grounding.
You looked at him, and he met your gaze without flinching.
“I know what it’s like to be used. To feel like your life doesn’t belong to you. It’s not the same, I know that, but… I understand more than you might think.”
Your chest felt tight. His words weren’t designed to compare pain, just to show he understood how betrayal can linger in your bones. How even when you're free, some part of you still feels like you're chained to a past version of yourself.
“I don’t want your pity,” you said after a beat. “I just want you to know. I’m telling you because you matter. Because I don’t want to keep hiding parts of myself from someone I love.”
He nodded once. “I get it.”
There was a long pause, then he asked, with absolute care in his voice, “Do you want to show me the brand?”
You nodded, slowly, cautiously. Then reached back and tugged at the collar of your shirt. The mark was still there, faint but readable, a barcode etched into flesh. Nothing about it was artistic or symbolic just clinical, cruel.
Jamil’s jaw tightened ever so slightly.
He reached up slowly and rested his hand on your shoulder, just beside the scar.
“I see you.” he said. “Not the mark. Not what they did. You.”
Your breath trembled in your chest. You blinked quickly.
“You’ve survived something most people couldn’t imagine,” Jamil continued, voice low. “And you’re here. You still love. Still laugh. Still fight to exist. That’s not weakness. That’s strength.”
You managed a small smile, your throat still tight.
“I won’t pretend I know how to fix it,” he said. “But I’m not going anywhere. If you ever need space, or silence, or grounding, I’ll be here. On your terms.”
You nodded, and he leaned forward just slightly, brushing his forehead lightly to yours.
“No one gets to own you ever again,” he said.
And in the quiet after his words, with the sun warm through the windows and the smell of cumin and cardamom still in the air, you realized something:
He didn’t look at you like someone broken.
He looked at you like someone whole, still healing, still burning, still fighting and worth every second of the wait.
Vil had always admired control of one’s appearance, one’s surroundings, one’s narrative. But what he admired more, secretly, were the quiet moments when someone chose vulnerability. Not performative openness, but the trembling, real kind. The kind you didn’t rehearse.
It happened on a late afternoon, the two of you tucked in his dorm room. He was seated at his vanity, removing the last remnants of stage makeup from a photoshoot. You were behind him, curled on the chaise, reading something you hadn’t actually absorbed for the past ten minutes.a
Vil glanced at your reflection in the mirror, brows lifting just slightly. “You’re somewhere else,” he said, voice gentle.
You didn’t look up. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
He nodded, not pressing. You loved that about him ,he never demanded you speak. He let you arrive at your own truths, your own time.
“I want to tell you something,” you said quietly, folding the corner of the page. “Something real.”
Vil turned on the stool, his expression softening. “I’m listening.”
There was a pause. Then you took a breath. “I was trafficked.”
His spine went straight in attention.
You continued. “It happened when I was younger. I was taken and… used. Sold like something you’d find with a price tag. It lasted years.”
His face didn’t change, but his hand tightened ever so slightly where it rested on his knee. That was all you needed,not a big reaction, just to be seen.
“They branded me,” you said. “Like I was a product. The kind of lines you’d see on an item in a store.”
Vil’s voice was quiet, but sure. “Where?”
You lifted the back of your collar and tilted your head forward, revealing the faint mark burned into your skin, clinical, dehumanizing. You felt air brush against it, and then silence. He didn’t rush to touch it. He didn’t try to look too long, either. He gave you space.
“I spent a long time hiding it,” you admitted. “From everyone. Even myself. I thought if no one saw it, I could pretend it wasn’t there. But… you deserve to know. Not because I want you to fix me , but because I don’t want to keep hiding from someone I trust.”
Vil’s eyes held yours, steady and full of something you couldn’t quite place, not pity. Not sorrow. Something warmer.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
Your breath hitched slightly.
“I know you didn’t tell me this to be praised,” Vil continued, his voice a soft hum. “But it does take immense strength to say what you just said. That strength… is beautiful.”
You blinked, startled by the sincerity. He didn’t say it like someone trying to be poetic. He said it like someone who saw your scars and still thought you were the most breathtaking thing in the room.
“I don’t see you as damaged,” he said. “And I don’t want to erase what you’ve been through. That’s not love. I want to walk beside you, knowing what paths you’ve taken to stand here now.”
You felt yourself soften. Like you could finally exhale. Like maybe, just maybe, this moment wasn’t something heavy anymore. Just real. Just yours.
Vil rose from the stool and crossed the room, not reaching to touch until you nodded. Then his hand cradled the side of your neck not near the mark, but near your jaw, fingers warm and sure.
“You aren’t a product,” he whispered. “You are art. Living, healing, radiant art.”
You let your head fall against his shoulder, and he held you there, neither of you speaking for a while. The sun dipped low outside, casting long shadows over the floor and for once, those shadows felt safe.
No stage. No act. Just you.
And the one person who looked at your truth and called it beautiful.
You didn’t plan to say it. Not that day, not that way.
But it was late, the kind of late where the quiet of Idia’s room made your thoughts feel louder. Blue light casting slow shadows, and you were both sitting on the floor in the mess of blankets and pillows you'd built over weeks of sleepovers-turned-permanent.
He was rambling about something,patch notes, maybe, or a theory about a boss fight — when he glanced over and paused. “You're zoning out again,” he said gently. “Brain battery low?”
You smiled a little, tired. “Not really. Just… a lot on my mind.”
His posture curled in a little, cautious. “Uh… I mean, no pressure to info dump, but I am listening. If you want.”
You looked at him.You'd come to know his tells: the nervous tug at his sleeves, the shift in his voice when he was trying to hide how much he cared. And he did care. That was the whole reason you were ready to say something.
“I’ve never told anyone at NRC,” you said slowly, “but I think I want to tell you.”
The flicker of blue flame dimmed for a second as he straightened slightly. “Okay.”
You took a breath. “When I was younger, I was trafficked. For a long time.”
He didn't move. Didn’t flinch. Just stayed very, very still, flame softening in color.
“They treated me like I wasn’t a person,” you said. “Just something to be owned. Sold. Used.”
Idia’s expression twitch before trying to get his composure back.
“They branded me,” you added. “Here.”
You reached up slowly and pulled your collar aside, revealing the faint, barcode-like tattoo just at the curve of your neck. It had faded with time, but the shape was unmistakable. A mark made to strip you of identity.
He didn’t stare. Didn’t say a single word.
Just… reached out, hesitantly, like you were a rare artifact that deserved reverence not because you were fragile, but because you were important. He didn’t touch your neck, only let his fingers hover nearby, letting you guide him.
You smiled softly. “You can touch it.”
His fingertips brushed your skin, careful and warm despite the slight tremble. You could feel the heat of his presence more than anything else.
“I wanted you to know,” you said. “Not because I need fixing, or pity. Just… because I don’t want to hide from you anymore.”
For a long moment, there was only the hum of his computer fans and the quiet pulse of LED lights.
Then, in a voice quieter than you’d ever heard him use, Idia said, “That was real-life final boss level. What you survived. And you're still here. Still you.”
You laughed, and something wobbled in it. “Yeah.”
His voice broke a little as he added, “It makes sense now. Why you flinch at certain sounds. Why you always need to see the exit. Why you freeze when someone touches your neck without asking.”
You nodded. You’d always thought you were hiding it well. Of course he noticed.
“I’m so proud of you .” he said, and it wasn’t performative, wasn’t big,it was just honest.
Then he looked down at your neck again and added, “I hate that it happened to you. If I could backtrack time and delete the whole damn timeline, I would.”
You touched his hand, still resting near your neck. “I know. But I’m not broken. Just… healing.”
He smiled ,a rare, quiet smile. “Well, you’re way cooler than any character arc I’ve ever seen, just so you know. And if anyone tries to make you feel like less than you are… I will hack their soul. Figuratively. Unless-no, never mind. Figuratively.”
You laughed again, for real this time. “I believe you.”
You curled up beside him, forehead against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around you, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence. Holding you like you were something precious, not fragile. Something meant to be protected not pitied.
That night, he didn’t say much else. Just stayed close. Quiet and warm and real.
And in that safe little pocket of the world, under flickering blue lights and piles of shared blankets, you felt like yourself, no longer a product, no longer hiding. Just you.
And for once, that was enough.
You’d gone out walking with Malleus again, as you often did on nights when your thoughts wouldn’t settle. There was comfort in the quiet of the campus after dark, the flicker of fireflies, the distant rustle of trees and in the presence of the fae prince beside you. He never demanded conversation, never filled the silence with small talk. He let you exist beside him, gently curious but never invasive.
Tonight, though… your silence felt heavier.
“You are quiet, child of man,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful. “Quieter than usual.”
You hesitated. “I’m thinking. But I guess that’s obvious.”
He smiled faintly. “You know I do not require explanations. Yet I welcome them, if you wish to offer.”
There was a pause. You looked up at the sky,a thousand stars watching silently. Malleus stood beside you, tall and still and waiting. You had always wondered how he made the world feel so slowed down, so breathable.
“I was trafficked. When I was younger.”
There was no reaction of horror, no gasping intake of breath. Just stillness. The wind suddenly shifted stronger through the trees.
“For years,” you added, voice quieter. “I was passed around. Bought, sold. It wasn’t… violent all the time. But I was treated like an object. Like I didn’t have a voice or a will.”
“I see.” Malleus said quietly.You could've sens that he was trying to keep his cool but the shift in the air betrayed him.
You exhaled slowly. “They gave me a mark. A brand. Here.”
Your hand went to your neck, that spot you always kept covered, even in your sleep. “It looks like a barcode. Or a product label. Just something to keep me catalogued.”
“May I see it?” he asked, gently.
You nodded, and slowly pulled back your collar. The night air touched your skin as the mark was exposed,faint now, healed long ago, but still there. Still real.
He didn’t reach for it. Didn’t crowd you. Malleus only gazed at it, a furrow between his brows.
And then, after a long moment, he asked, “May I speak freely?”
“I do not understand the cruelty of humankind,” he said, voice low and heavy. “To mark a soul as a possession… to reduce a living being to a commodity… it is beneath even the foulest of our kind.”
You smiled, a little bitter. “It took me a long time to believe I was more than that.”
“You are,” he said, with a certainty that startled you. “You are light forged from shadow. You have carved your own existence from the ruins left by others. That is power, (Y/N). And no brand can steal that.”
Then, softly, you asked, “Do you think… they’ll ever see me as someone whole? Not just someone surviving?”
His eyes met yours, green glowing gently in the moonlight.
“They may not,” he said. “But I do.”
That was the thing with Malleus. He didn’t overpromise. He didn’t say it would all be okay, or that the pain would disappear. He offered something better: honesty, reverence, and unwavering presence.
“I am proud of you,” he added, voice almost a whisper. “Not as one might be proud of a soldier or a survivor but as one is proud of a star that endures through storm, refusing to be dimmed.”
You felt yourself shake, just a little. Not from fear but from the sudden release of tension, of years spent hiding and hoping to be seen.
He stepped closer,slowly, giving you time and cupped your cheek with the gentlest touch. His thumb didn’t brush the brand, didn’t touch it at all. It lingered near your temple, grounding you, letting you decide how close was safe.
“You do not have to hide any part of yourself from me,” he said. “Even the scars they left behind. I will not look away.”
You pressed your forehead to his chest, heart beating hard beneath your ribs. And for the first time in a long, long while… you believed you were more than the mark on your skin. You were not what they made you. Not anymore.
Malleus’s arms wrapped around you carefully, protectively, not to fix, but to shield.
And under the stars, you let yourself be held.
English is not my first language !
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