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Riddle never really got what he wanted, most of the time he would just hide away his desires to fulfil the role his Mother set, of course somethings about her set of rules he liked but he left the rest to dwell inside a rabbit hole in his heart.
After his overbloat, he was practically rushed by his friends to get some therapy, Riddle always knew he was different but his mother just didn’t want to admit that his particularities came not only with the benefits of giftedness so his needs were left behind. One of the many activities his therapist recommended was making a list of things he desired, not caring about the how or the reaction of others, so he did. He thought of the things he desired so bad it felt like there was a beast inside of him so hungry that it might eat him up. And there, right there in the deepest pit of his cardium, he had a thirst for being pretty. Not just any pretty but pretty in the aesthetics he wanted and commanded, the things his mother called dirty or unbecoming
Gathers, Fishnets, bralettes, Chokers, Chains, ultimately anything that he likes, that he feels... sexy or just good in general
He didn’t show that part of the list to anyone, not even Trey, who he trusted more than any rule ever carved into his spine. That desire, that longing to feel beautiful in ways he chose, felt too raw, too revealing, like showing someone the inside of a wound still beating. He wasn’t sure he even understood it fully; it wasn’t vanity, it wasn’t rebellion for rebellion’s sake. It was the ache of wanting to look in the mirror and see himself reflected without the ghost of his mother’s shadow curling behind his eyes. It was wanting softness on his skin, wanting metal resting cold against his throat, wanting fabric that clung to the shape he never allowed himself to recognize. It was wanting to feel… alluring. Desired. Someone’s.
Someone 's someone.
He didn’t even know where that thought came from, but the moment it crossed his mind, he felt a heat coil low in his stomach, mortifying and electric. Perhaps it came from those moments when Floyd looked at him with that lazy, predatory affection, as if Riddle was a glimmering thing caught between his fingers. As if being understood didn’t have to hurt. As if Riddle could be wanted without performing, without proving, without shrinking.
Sometimes he wondered what Floyd would say if he ever saw that part of him. If those sharp, tidal eyes would soften or darken. If Floyd would call him “Goldfish” in that slow, amused voice and touch the fabric of a choker like he was testing its strength. If Floyd would grin and say something absolutely, terrifyingly honest like, “I knew you’d look good like that.”
And the thought alone made Riddle press his knees together beneath the desk of his room and breathe out slowly, because wanting was dangerous, wanting was sloppy, wanting was a path his mother had always forbidden, but god, wanting made him feel alive.
For the first time in his life, desire didn’t feel like a crime. It felt like a secret blooming under his ribs, a quiet, private rebellion stitched from lace and hunger and possibility. It felt like the beginning of a life that belonged to him.
A life where he could be pretty. A life where he could be wanted.
A life where he could be someone normal, with desires, wants, needs, not only his achievements, not for his perfection, but simply because he existed.
And maybe, just maybe, he was allowed to want that too.
-
Riddle didn’t plan on saying it out loud. He really didn’t. It was supposed to stay folded inside him like the rest of his forbidden wants. But the list had been burning a hole in his pocket for days, each word heavy with possibility, and when Cater found him staring much too long at a fashion magazine someone had left behind in the library, something loosened in his chest.
“I… think I want to go shopping,” Riddle murmured, barely louder than a breath, fingers tightening around the edge of the table as if the confession could bite.
Cater’s head snapped up so fast a few of his braids bounced.
“Wait, shopping shopping? Like clothes shopping? Riddle, sweetie, are you finally letting your inner aesthetic blossom?” His voice came bright and sparkling, the kind that filled the whole space with glitter only he could see.
Riddle wanted to deny it. Pretend he’d meant something else. But the words were already alive, pushing forward, trembling but real:
“I want… different clothes. Things I haven’t been allowed to try.”
Cater gasped like he’d been waiting for this his entire life.
“Oh my Seven—YES! #havebeenwaitingforthis I’m taking you. I mean it. I’m taking you, like, right now. We’re going to the boutique district, and we’re gonna explore everything. Patterns, textures, silhouettes—”
Before Riddle could even process the growing whirlwind, a shadow fell across the table.
Vil.
Elegant, sharp, assessing Vil.
“I heard ‘silhouettes’ and ‘boutique,’” Vil said, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. “And judging by Rosehearts’s expression, this is not just a casual errand. Cater, why does he look like he’s about to faint?”
“Because he wants a #makeover,” Cater answered, vibrating with excitement.
Vil’s eyes softened in a way very few people ever got to see.
“Well,” he murmured, “it’s about time.”
Riddle’s throat tightened. He didn’t know whether to hide under the table or run away.
“I don’t need a makeover,” he tried, though it came out half-hearted. “I simply wish to… try things. For myself.”
Vil nodded once, serious now. “Then we’ll help you choose things that make you feel like yourself. Fashion can be powerful and expressive.”
Cater clapped his hands. “Come on, come on! The shops close early and Vil’s already in #mentormode. Let’s go before he starts scheduling fittings.”
And just like that, the three of them were heading out: Riddle walking a little behind, heart pounding against his ribs, Cater buzzing beside him like he is about to explode, and Vil gliding ahead with that determined stride that meant no insecurity would survive under his watch.
They took him through racks of mesh tops, distressed knit, structured harnesses, pleated skirts, velvet bralets, oversized jackets dripping with chains, rings and chokers displayed like forbidden fruit. Riddle’s fingers brushed over fabrics he’d never let himself touch before. Soft, sheer, rough, cool metal, warm leather, each sensation blooming across his skin like secret fireworks.
Riddle didn’t know how Cater managed to pull that outfit from the rack so fast. One moment he was staring shyly at a wall of tartan patterns, and the next Cater was holding up a black blouse with a massive red-plaid bow, a tiered skirt with lace and frills, striped socks, and shoes that looked like they could crush a man’s ego. Vil examined the set with a critical but approving hum, fingers brushing over the fabric.
“This,” Vil said, tone final in that elegant, immovable way he had, “is dramatic, structured, and expressive. It has bite. Try it.”
Riddle hesitated. The bow felt too bold. The skirt felt too daring. The whole look felt like a rebellion sewn into cloth — the kind of thing his mother would have destroyed on sight. Which was exactly why Cater smiled at him with warm, steady encouragement.
“Relax, Rids. Clothes aren’t rules. They’re choices.”
And for once, Riddle wanted to choose.
Inside the dressing room the world felt too quiet. He unbuttoned his uniform blazer, folded it with automatic precision, then pulled on the blouse. The fabric hugged his shoulders in a way that felt surprisingly grounding. The skirt was soft and heavy, brushing against his thighs like the whisper of a secret he wasn’t supposed to have. He tied the ribbon in place, fingers trembling, not with fear, but anticipation.
When he stepped out, Cater actually froze mid-sentence.
Vil’s eyes subtly widened, but enough that Riddle noticed.
The mirror behind them showed a version of himself he had never seen before. A Riddle who wasn’t small or controlled or sharpened into obedience. A Riddle who took up space. Who allowed softness and edge to coexist. Who looked like he belonged to himself.
He approached the mirror slowly, breath catching at the sight. The blonde wig felt strange yet thrillingly liberating, the tartan bow framing his face, the frilled skirt bouncing with every tiny shift of his weight. The striped socks, the leg warmers, the cross necklace, each detail felt like a tiny rebellion stitched with intention.
He looked… pretty.
Not in the delicate, clinical way his mother idealized, but pretty in a way that made his chest ache. Pretty in a way that felt like he’d carved a door into the world and stepped through it.
Cater broke the silence first, voice soft with awe.
“Riddle… you look #incredible.”
Vil nodded, no teasing in his tone, only sincerity. “This suits you. Not because it’s fashionable. Because it aligns with your sense of self. This is an expression, not an imitation.”
Riddle’s throat tightened. His reflection stared back at him with new eyes, eyes that seemed to say this is who you could be, if you let yourself.
And for a fleeting moment he imagined walking into class like this. Hair styled, legs wrapped in stripes and lace, bow bright enough to set the whole hallway ablaze.
The thought alone sent heat crashing up his neck.
He turned his face away from the mirror, only to realize he was smiling.
For the first time in his life, Riddle wasn’t wearing something to please someone else or to keep up appearances.
He was wearing something that made him feel alive.
Something his mother would never approve of.
Something that, maybe, he could build a future out of, a future where he wasn’t trapped by rules, but guided by choice. A future where he could be happy.
He exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the weight of the skirt, the tightness of the bow, the delicious strangeness of feeling beautiful to himself.
“I… like it,” he said, voice small but unwavering.
Cater beamed. Vil gave a satisfied hum.
-
The walk back to campus was supposed to be quiet, at least that’s what Riddle hoped for. His arms were full, three bags, each one packed with pieces of a version of himself he wasn’t sure he was brave enough to wear outside a dressing room mirror. Cater kept humming happily beside him, swinging his own bag like this was the most natural outing in the world, while Vil walked with that satisfied, composed posture of someone who had just completed a full makeover and approved of the results.
Riddle was still processing.
Still feeling the ghost of the skirt against his thighs.
Still seeing the stranger in the mirror, the one he liked.
He was mid-thought, cheeks warm just remembering the look on Vil’s face, when a shadow dropped beside him. Then a hand, cold from a canned drink, slid across his shoulder.
“GOLDFISHIEEEE~”
Floyd’s voice curled around him like sea foam swallowing a rock.
Riddle stiffened immediately; Cater choked back a laugh; Vil’s eyes flicked upward in resignation.
Floyd leaned down, peering at the bags like a cat discovering a suspicious movement in the bushes. His grin stretched slow, sharp, too knowing.
“What’s thiiiiis?” he drawled, tapping one of the handles with a finger. “Why’s my goldfish carrying so many bags? Hm?”
Riddle’s throat clicked. He tried, really tried,to keep his composure, but Floyd staring at him like that made his brain short-circuit just a little.
“It’s—” he cleared his throat, straightening up, “just… clothes. New ones.”
Cater and Vil exchanged a glance. A single glance.
Instant understanding.
They would get nothing out of staying here.
Floyd was already curling around Riddle like gravity itself preferred it that way.
Vil adjusted his sunglasses even though the sun was practically nonexistent.
“Well,” he said, tone clipped, “I believe this is our cue to leave.”
Cater snorted. “Yeah, I like living. Bye, Riddle! Message me pics later!”
Riddle sputtered, “C-Cater—!”
But they were already gone, the two of them walking off with the speed of men escaping a crime scene.
And then it was just Floyd.
Floyd, who tilted his head, reached out, and tugged one of the bags up so he could peek inside. Riddle swatted his hand away instantly, cheeks burning.
“Don’t look at my purchases without permission!”
Floyd’s grin widened, shark-lazy but electric.
“Oooh, so it’s stuff I’m not supposed to see? Even better.”
“It’s nothing like that,” Riddle said, hugging the bags closer to his chest. “They’re just… clothes. Different clothes.”
Floyd blinked, very slow, very deliberate.
“Different,” he repeated, voice dipped in something low. “Pretty clothes?”
Riddle’s ears burned. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Floyd murmured. He stepped a little closer, enough that Riddle could smell the salt from his hair, the faint sweetness from the drink he’d been sipping. “I wanna see.”
Riddle’s heart actually stumbled.
Floyd’s voice wasn’t mocking.
It wasn’t teasing.
It was hungry the way the tide is hungry — persistent, inevitable.
“I—I just bought them,” Riddle said, desperately trying to sound firm. “I haven’t decided when I’ll—when or if I’ll wear them.”
Floyd leaned forward, nose almost brushing his cheek.
“Wear them for me.”
Riddle’s breath caught like a snagged thread.
His mind flashed back to the mirror: the bow, the skirt, the weight of the lace.
He imagined Floyd seeing him like that, really seeing.
His face went red so fast it nearly hurt.
“M-Maybe…” he managed, gripping the bags tight. “Maybe one day.”
Floyd’s smile softened, not the dangerous grin, but the one that made Riddle’s chest feel too warm.
“‘Kay. I’ll wait.”
And he meant it.
Riddle could hear it in the way his voice dropped, strangely gentle.
The kind of gentleness that made Riddle feel like maybe… maybe the world wouldn’t collapse if he showed Floyd the person he wanted to be.
Maybe someone would look at him, chains, lace, rebellion and all,and say he was wanted.
Riddle looked away, flustered and fragile in a way he didn’t hate.
“That’s all I’m saying,” he whispered. “Let’s… go back.”
Floyd fell into step beside him, humming, matching his pace without being asked.
And Riddle’s bags felt lighter.