DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN WINX CLUB.

Helloooooo, my favorite people of FanFiction! I hope you guys are doing amazing and having a good day so far! 2022 is almost at a close and I hope you guys have had a good and safe year!

I've recently been loving Musa and Riven a lot, and one of the sad things for me in the fandom is to see Riven being hated. Now I'm definitely in full favor of everyone having their own perceptions and headcanons, but it's nonetheless really sad to see him get a lot of hate. Granted it doesn't help that he's an obnoxious a-hole who's in some serious need of anger management therapy, but I also think he has so much potential to be better. You know? Normally, I get a little annoyed at people when they're being mean, but a lot of that goes away when I see that they have a reason (to an extent) to be that way. I'm definitely in no way condoning such attitudes, but I still think it's important to understand them and why some people behave the way they do.

So this one-shot partially came from that and I just wrote it for fun. I thought the idea was really cool, and I've never really written a "story" for M/R, so I figured why not.

Warning: The language in this is a little too crass for me, but…so is Riven, so whatever. There's also going to be some swearing and some possibly disturbing themes that I'm still not sure of. But I will warn appropriately for each chapter, so you will have the choice to skip ahead if needed.

Riven braced back against the cold and hard concrete wall, barely able to squeeze himself under the holed shelter of the small overhanging roof. Grumbling, he pulled out a cigarette from the wrinkled packet he'd shoved into his jeans pocket earlier, and a silver-grey lighter to accompany it. Murmuring curses under his breath as the rain made it difficult to light the smoke, he turned his back against the wind and cupped his free hand around the lighter to protect the shivering little flame from going out. It was pouring down again, bucketing his clothes to the bone and plastering his slick red strands flat against his forehead. Thick raindrops pearled from the ends of his hair, trickling along his cheeks and neck, and falling straight onto the collar of his shirt, where they rolled down his back and disappeared into the waistband of his jeans. His entire body trembled under the rush of the sky falling down around him, and his thin merlot-colored jacket did little to ease the discomfort. Pulling it tighter around him anyway, he nuzzled into whatever slim to none comforting warmth it gave.

Riven raised his eyes as a car slowed down in front of him, and he hopelessly wished for the sexy black beast to stop for him already so he could get into the heat and dryness inside. Maybe he'd even get a scrap or two to eat, if the owner was feeling a little generous. The mere thought of food made Riven's stomach growl with anger. He hadn't exactly eaten since yesterday afternoon, after a generous client had invited him for a little snack and then…gotten down to business. Thinking of what the man had made him do—leaving no maneuver or position unexplored—Riven knew he would've much rather done it all without the half a dozen pork belly rolls. He shuddered and took another deep drag of his cigarette and breathed in the relaxing smidgeons of nicotine. Absentmindedly squinting past the foggy puffs of smoke that he exhaled, he caught glimpses of a lady in the slowing car; a blonde maybe, perhaps a decade or two older, most likely somewhere in her mid to late…thirties. Or forties, was it? He couldn't tell; she looked rich enough to be deceptive.

Despite his high hopes and clear interest, the car didn't stop. It simply...moved on, the owner's gaze on him being about as significant as a window shopper's fleeting glance. He sighed, him too breaking contact away from the bitch. He expected that honestly. His entire night had been like that; why would one crack whore make an exception?

All night, the heavy rain and cold winds had been deterring potential customers away, much to his chagrin. His regulars especially, the few that he had at least, didn't go out in ill-tempered weathers like this. No, most clients preferred to stay at home when it stormed, hiding away in their cushy little bungalows and chalets, pretending to be the loving husband, the caring mother, the family girl…and whatever the fuck else they masked themselves as. They'd much rather play dress-up in their cutesy little pajamas and sip their cozy mai tais and tropical vodkas. The weather simply wasn't worth it to them, no matter how cheap the fuck was.

And Riven was a cheap fuck indeed. A good one—a willful one—but very cheap nonetheless. And despite the hardships, he had a good enough reason for it.

For years, he'd been selling his abused body for dearthly wages, letting someone else feel the changes in his growing body first, yet still earning hardly enough to scrape together for a living. It was an additional struggle to endure through nights like this, but his woeful need for money nonetheless forced him to stay put. He didn't have any other choice. He needed to push through, for himself, for the hope that his future might eventually take a turn for the better, and to eventually show his fucking whore of a "mother", the m-word bitch—m-bitch—that he was just fine without her, especially after the way she littered him on the streets on a similar rainy night many years ago.

Shaking his head, he inhaled another deep drag and continued eyeing the cars and sedans that went by. He hoped for at least one to stop already, but he knew he'd need well more than that to call it a day—er, night. A trick in the trade he had learned over the years was to charge minimally—practically scraps—for certain first-time clients. Being cheap always attracted more of them, and more meant more business. It of course didn't come without its downsides, as it attracted all sick freaks in town too, but he nonetheless preferred the quantity over quality. There was a higher chance for strangers to eventually become regulars, and regulars, of course, would on occasion tip higher.

Most customers, on their good days, would also often tell him that he was also the cutest fuck out of all the boys who walked the streets in this particular lowlife district, but it was hardly ever flattering to him. Despite being supposedly "cute" and cheap, which was in itself a very lethally attractive combination, it still did nothing to help him escape his current predicament. This shitty trade was all he knew, and despite doing his best in it, "his best" clearly wasn't even enough to score a single job tonight. All the men and women who had passed would slow, stare, shrink, and then scatter off eventually. None had bothered to even ask how much he'd be willing to come home to. Granted, he knew even he didn't look his best at the moment. Aside from his current sopping wet look, his last client had also fucked him up with a bruised and battered face, making him look sick and blue. And he was grossly sore in places he didn't even want to think of. And new clients just didn't like that; they'd bang him up, sure, but they wouldn't take him banged up.

The irony really.

But even without it, the winter months were still always harsh and critical. Business slowed, so did his meager income from it, which eventually all boiled down to his lousy food intake. It was a chain reaction, a domino effect that he'd experienced over and over, in cycles, for years on end. He had already lost a few pounds this season, way more than what was good for business (or health, but not these fuckers gave a shit), and the season just started. There were over three more months left in this hellhole and it would only get progressively worse. Golly. He looked at himself in the reflection of the rain puddles, and he sighed as hollow, sunken eyes stared back, with a permanent scowl etched into them. Dark shadows and noisome blue-green veins swirled around those eyes—fuck, he looked so skinny and sickly. Some clients kinda digged that withered and emaciated look though, as it gave them a sick sense of domineering control, but most would cringe at it and walk along. Like they're doing now.

…

He sighed, taking another deep and slow inhale of his cigarette. He knew he wasn't helping himself with smoking of all things either, but it was the only thing he had to keep himself warm and numb.

All in all, the season was starting to take its toll on him, and it was starting to show. He felt wrecked through and through and he was desperate for a break. And he growled in heated frustration because that wasn't an option he could have; taking a break meant no money, and that wasn't an affordable road for him. Yet.

One day, man. One day.

His goal down the road was to take a break and not worry about getting his bank broke because of it. He had worked so hard this past year, sometimes taking up to six to eight clients a night, and it still wasn't enough to pay the annually rising rent for the tiny little shoebox he lived in, let alone afford him the delight of a full three-course meal or some warm new clothes.

And speaking of clothes. Damn, he even forgot his second jacket at home. Not that the layering would've helped much anyway. It was worn, thin, and a flimsy piece of fabric that didn't do its job right, much like most of his other stuff, but it would've at least kept his body a little warmer.

With the binary life that he led—rich and poor, sick and not, man and woman, hard and soft, predator and prey—where he only ever knew one half of it and his body lived the other, getting sick was simply not an option.

As he stood in the rain with only his little stick to keep him company, he quietly wondered if he'd ever leave these dingy streets and become something more meaningful than someone's willing slut. He wouldn't give up either way or let a predetermined destiny book write out his fate for him, but…the possibility of all this work and waiting nonetheless being for nought in the future…scared the absolute fucking batshit out of him.

"MUSA!"

With a gasp, Musa jolted upright and slammed the lid to the dusty trunk before racing up the stairs of the basement. Panting, she shakily closed the door behind her and ran to where the source of the sound was.

Which was of course…her own room.

…

She sighed. Great. "Yes, Dad?" she asked with a forced smile, though the tremors in her voice were as clear as day.

With a stern glare replacing the less stern one that was there before, Ho-Boe turned to his daughter. "Where is it, young lady?" he demanded the young girl, still towering over her by at least half a foot. Huh. She'll outgrow me soon enough. This method won't work anymore…he thought quietly.

She gulped. "W-Where is what?" she asked nervously, playing stupid. Which was a big mistake since he seemingly caught on. At least, if that's why his glare seemed to be deepening by the second.

"THIS," he hissed in irritation before pulling out the cursed object from behind his back. He ignored the way it burned against his hand like acid, and held back the urge to chuck it hard against the wall.

She fell still, staring longingly at the rustic wind flute he held. So. He found it. Again. And…he'll take that away from her too, won't he? Because this is what he always did. Snoop, search, find, rage, and then destroy whatever's left of the only thing that brought her comfort in this stupid world.

"I found this under your bed. Why?" he sternly asked, glaring at the aged musical instrument and even harder at the memories that came with it.

Better yet, why did you even decide to snoop in MY room? Bitter tears quickly stung the corners of her eyes as she stared back at him in confusion. No, really. What did he even mean by why? Was it that oblivious to why she did it? Why did she take the last six instruments that he got rid of later? Why did she get grounded because of them? Why did she—yeah, not even gonna bother. He'll just do it again. "Because it's Mo—"

"QUIET!" he yelled harshly, his eyes glinting with rage and causing her to jump back in fright. "I'm not done talking yet, young lady," he hissed.

But you just asked a ques—oh. Right. She had forgotten for a sec that even saying the 'M' word was forbidden in this household.

"How many times have I told you?!"

A bajillion.

"The basement is off. limits.! You ought to know that by now, Musa!" he yelled, fury evident in his gaze.

I don't.

And jeez, it's not as if she had committed an unspeakable atrocity. He won't talk about his wife, good for him, but she wanted to know her mo—oops, right. M-word. Censoring her own speech because her father was too crippled to handle otherwise. That's the way to go these days. Keep quiet, Musa; just keep quiet. He'll eventually shut up and go away.

He paused for a moment, noticing the baneful stares of hatred his daughter was giving in return. She was quiet, but her eyes spoke volumes of the disdain she had for him. He sighed quietly. See, this was the hardest thing about raising daughters. They've already decided on their own that dear old daddy was always the bad guy here if he didn't immediately say yes. But…this is for her own good. That wasn't him being a meanie or a despot; no, it was instead an objective truth, as true as every sunrise and sunset was, regardless of how she saw or felt. She'll eventually understand, he tried to assure himself. Hopefully. She was entering the typical tenacious teenage phase, after all; it's expected of her to be a deaf wall at this point. She won't listen to words for a while, and he'd be the villain no matter what. But…if he can't use conventional methods and make her understand how dangerous of a venture this was, he might as well choose the next best thing: punish her until she did, and punish her harsh. Taking a deep breath, he spoke again, in a much calmer but firmer tone. Ironically, that always did wonders too. "...Musa," he started quietly.

Thank god, she grumbled quietly to herself, knowing his raging monologues were almost over. She knew what would come next. He'd first take the flute away, trash it somewhere she'd never find, give her a curfew to come home by four for the next two-ish, three weeks, then finally tell her to finish up her endless algebra homework while he worked on dinne—

"You're grounded. That means outside of school, you are to be at home—"

Yup, no big deal. Sure, it killed her freedom a bit, but it was nothing she wouldn't handle. She'd just walk slowlyyyyyyy from school, take in the glorious splendors of nature, and maybe even get a dumpling or two on the way back for extra rebel points.

"The computer is off limits unless it's for school work. I'll be changing the password to it too, so don't go getting any ideas."

…Ouch. But…okay…? Was he threatening her now? Musa scowled but remained quiet nonetheless. This was typical of narcissistic and controlling parents. But she had long learned early in life that talking back would only make the punishment worse. And he didn't look like he was done yet.

"And you can also kiss that history trip goodbye," he concluded, keeping his face straight.

That caught her attention. She gasped in shock, her eyes widening madly in disbelief. "What?" she blurted in panic.

"You heard me," he firmly said, folding his arms across his chest. Yeah, she'll definitely learn now.

Her heart absolutely sunk and she opened her mouth to protest. "But you can't—!"

"I can," he corrected, curtly cutting her off and informing her calmly, "And I will." He quietly winced at the hurt and dejection that flashed across his little one's face, and it almost made him want to retract those words—almost—but…how else will she learn? He had always given her all the freedom she wanted in this world. Always. And he only asked for one thing in return, and that too was for her own good. She was, after all…all that he had left after Wa-N—he paused as the mere mention of his late wife's name was enough for the heartbreak to resurface in his eyes. "You're not going, I'm not paying, and that's final," he quietly said with a dejected sigh. He's already gone far enough anyway. Being the mean dad was one less thing to care about. So he didn't.

At least not to his daughter's face.

Musa blankly stared at him as he simply turned on his heel and left the room, his gait being about as harsh as his punishment. Knowing there was no changing his mind anymore, it wasn't long before hot, salty tears stung her eyes. While a part of her hoped that he'd return and retract those words, she also knew then and there that the conversation was over.

…

She couldn't believe he'd go to such lengths to get what he wanted. She'd been looking forward to this for weeks at least. Months even. And he knew that. She couldn't bring herself to care about anything else. She and her class were supposed to go visit some of the most ancient and prestigious historical sites in the realm. The Tuning Fork of Harmony, Babbling Waterfall, Cave of Silence, Golden Auditorium (her favorite of them all), the Song Wharf (where she was supposed to see the Singing Whales, creatures that hold the whole of Melody together), and a few others. It was a week-long trip, one she had been on her best behavior for, all to make sure that she'd get his permission to go.

All that…for nought.

All the stories she had read, all the pictures she had seen, all the songs her mother sang from the memories of visiting these places, all the legends she had scared herself into sleep—they would be just that. Locked away in her books and dusty memories. She'd never be able to see them with her own two eyes.

The place that had excited her the most was the Golden Auditorium, a place where every song and sound that played within its enclosure would forever be remembered. She had hoped she'd mischievously sing a note too and get her name engraved amongst those walls.

She also hoped she'd get a glimpse of where the pandemonium sprites used to live. Legendary creatures of mischief that once lived in the underground caves of the auditorium and had a wide range of octaves but would use them for destruction instead. It fascinated her at how much music inspired her and how it provoked others instead.

And she wanted to see it all. She wanted to talk to students there, she wanted to sing, she wanted to read, she wanted to play—and now…she wouldn't be able to.

Tears filled her eyes as her dreams…all those precious dreams just fell…shattered.

But she still wouldn't cry. Not now, not in front of him. She wouldn't scream. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he hurt her. What's the point? He'd only see it as a weakness and weaponize it once more against her next time.

Musa glared after her dad as he disappeared into the kitchen. Cruel bastard.

Sometimes, he was really nice. She didn't deny that. She'd give credit where it was due. He'd take her to the local fairs, they'd go to their summer house every once in a while, they'd take long walks on the boardwalk, uphold their annual tradition of watching the singing whales, and just…have fun. Typical father-daughter fashion.

Yet sometimes…he was mean. Like this. As loving as he was, he could be just as hateful. She didn't know why. All she wanted to know was her mom. All she wanted was the love that she'd see older women giving to their daughters. Someone who'd also tell her how much she was loved. Someone who'd comfort her on a bad day. Someone who wouldn't yell or ground her for going on a treasure hunt.

She recalled all the times she was too young to tie her own shoes and her mom would help her put them on when she gave up out of frustration. She remembered running to the sound of doorbells and giggling as her mom would lovingly ruffle her hair in greeting. She remembered her mother singing lullabies at night and sharing all the songs she ever wrote. She'd be the first person her mother would sing to and write any notes for.

She didn't ask for much; she never had. But those memories were what she kept close and tight to her.

Joyous tears would fill her eyes every time she'd look at old, archived videos of her mother playing at concerts. Musa smiled, her shoulders relaxing as bittersweet tears replaced the hurt on her face. Her mother was so beautiful. She was so passionate in everything she did, and everyone seemed to love her.

But that beautiful woman today was reduced to…just an m-word. Not a mother, not a loving woman, but an m-word instead. Lost to the greed of time.

Musa took a deep breath. Even if her father forbade her to sing or play any instruments, she'd still find a way to do it. She'd join the ranks of those who came before her. Music was in her blood, it's what she was meant to do, it's what she loved. And he wouldn't be able to hold that love hostage forever. She'd find a way to break it.

She'd make sure of it.

Hey, guys! Thank you again for reading! ^-^ Personally, I was very much inspired to write this from one of my absolute favorite music artists named Anna Blue. She's this awesome German artist who kind of has an emo/pop vibe to her. She's on YouTube and she also often collabs with her boyfriend Damien Dawn. One of her songs, Silent Scream, is about being confined to a box of ideals and expectations, and to me, the lyrics just seem so relatable. And I thought that it would fit Riven and Musa to an extent, but I did write a slightly darker take with this chapter than my usual level.

It also is a canon fact that Riven's mother abandoned him, so I've had a soft spot for the guy for years. I know my boy has a lot of destructive tendencies but I also believe that he has a lot of potential to turn around. And as for Musa, I think that Ho-Boe may have also restricted her a lot during her childhood. He took Maitlin's death pretty hard, so it's definitely understandable that he wouldn't want Musa to do the same. (S2 also shows this.)

And just to be clear, this isn't to portray any one of the characters as bad people. I genuinely don't think they are and I actually love all of them, including Ho-Boe.

But anyways! I'm just rambling at this point, so I'll cut this off here. But I truly hoped you enjoyed this! Thank you so much for reading and Happy Holidays! ^-^