#Conditional Self-Esteem

[honestkindlereviews]

A Survivor’s Guide to Overcoming People-Pleasing and Building Authentic Self

A Survivor’s Guide to Overcoming People-Pleasing and Building Authentic Self-Esteem – Rooted in Childhood Emotional Neglect Recovery

Do you ever find yourself nodding enthusiastically when every fiber of your being screams "No"? Do you instinctively offer help, even when your own plate is overflowing, leaving you simmering with silent resentment? Perhaps you spend your days calibrating your words and actions, constantly scanning others' faces for approval, desperately trying to preempt any flicker of disappointment. It’s a familiar tightrope walk, isn't it? A performance where the spotlight is always on you, but the applause never quite feels earned, and the real "you" remains hidden behind a carefully constructed façade.

This relentless urge to please, to conform, to make yourself palatable to everyone around you, is far more than just "being nice." I've seen it devour lives, leaving individuals feeling hollowed out, exhausted, and utterly disconnected from their own desires. It’s a silent epidemic, often masquerading as altruism, but at its heart, it’s a deep-seated craving for validation, a desperate attempt to earn love and acceptance that often stems from a wound so subtle, it's rarely spoken about: Childhood Emotional Neglect.

A Survivor’s Guide to Overcoming People-Pleasing and Building Authentic Self-Esteem – Rooted in Childhood Emotional Neglect Recovery : BUY EBOOK CLICK HARE

For years, I've walked alongside countless individuals on their journey from this shadow world of people-pleasing back into the vibrant light of authentic self-esteem. My own path, too, led me through similar landscapes of self-doubt and external validation. What I've learned, both personally and professionally, is that to truly dismantle the architecture of people-pleasing, we must first understand its foundations. And more often than not, those foundations are rooted in the emotional climate of our earliest years.

Unmasking the People-Pleaser: The Silent Scream of the Soul

Let’s talk about what people-pleasing truly looks like, beyond the polite smiles and helpful gestures. It’s the friend who always agrees, even when they vehemently disagree on the inside. It’s the colleague who takes on extra work, then grumbles privately about being taken advantage of. It’s the partner who suppresses their own needs to avoid conflict, only to explode later from bottled-up frustration.

The people-pleaser lives in a state of hyper-vigilance. Their antennae are always up, scanning the emotional atmosphere around them, trying to anticipate what others need, what they expect, what might make them happy. It’s a constant self-editing process, a meticulous curation of self, designed to minimize friction and maximize acceptance. The internal dialogue is often a whirlwind of "What if they get mad?" "What if they don't like me?" "I can't disappoint them."

This relentless outward focus comes at an enormous internal cost. You become a chameleon, changing your colors to blend into every social landscape. But chameleons, despite their adaptability, are ultimately camouflaged, losing their distinct identity. You feel a creeping resentment towards others for "making" you do things, when in reality, it's your own inability to say "no" that's the culprit. There's a gnawing sense of emptiness, a whisper that asks, "Who am I, really, beneath all this effort to be what everyone else wants?" This internal whisper can, over time, swell into a roar of anxiety, depression, and a profound sense of self-alienation. The well of your own energy runs dry, leaving you utterly depleted.

A Survivor’s Guide to Overcoming People-Pleasing and Building Authentic Self-Esteem – Rooted in Childhood Emotional Neglect Recovery : BUY EBOOK CLICK HARE

The Hidden Wound: Childhood Emotional Neglect (CEN)

When I work with clients trapped in the labyrinth of people-pleasing, we almost invariably trace the thread back to a common, often invisible, origin point: Childhood Emotional Neglect (CEN).

CEN isn't about abuse in the conventional sense. It's not about being hit, yelled at, or overtly mistreated. In many cases, CEN survivors grew up in homes where basic physical needs were met, where parents were well-meaning, and where, from the outside, everything might have appeared "normal." This is precisely why CEN is so insidious; it's the absence of something crucial, not the presence of something overtly harmful.

Imagine a child with a vibrant inner world, full of feelings, thoughts, and needs. In a healthy emotional environment, when that child expresses sadness, anger, joy, or curiosity, a parent responds. They might say, "I see you're upset," or "You seem excited!" They mirror the child's emotions, validate their experience, and teach them how to navigate their internal landscape. This isn't about fixing every problem, but about acknowledging the child's emotional reality.

In a CEN environment, this vital emotional mirroring is absent or inconsistent. The child expresses a feeling, but it's met with silence, dismissal, or even subtle disapproval. "Don't be silly," "You're too sensitive," "Just get over it." The parent might be preoccupied, emotionally unavailable, overwhelmed themselves, or simply unaware of the child's emotional needs. They might be physically present but emotionally distant, like a television turned off during a vibrant program.

The child, in this silent vacuum, learns a devastating lesson: their emotions are inconvenient, irrelevant, or even a burden. Their internal experience doesn't matter. There's a hungry void where emotional validation should be.

How CEN Fuels People-Pleasing and Erodes Self-Esteem: The Architect of the False Self

This emotional void creates a profound hunger in the child – a hunger for connection, for validation, for simply being seen and understood. And this hunger often leads to the development of a powerful coping mechanism: people-pleasing.

A Survivor’s Guide to Overcoming People-Pleasing and Building Authentic Self-Esteem – Rooted in Childhood Emotional Neglect Recovery : BUY EBOOK CLICK HARE

The Desperate Search for External Validation: If your internal emotional world is ignored, you learn that your value isn't inherent. It must be earned. The child, and later the adult, becomes a detective, constantly trying to figure out what external cues will bring a smile, a nod of approval, or a moment of acceptance. They become hyper-tuned to others' moods, adapting their behavior to elicit positive responses, because that’s the only way they learned to feel worthy or safe.

The Suppressed Self: To avoid causing a ripple, to avoid being "too much" or "too sensitive," the child learns to suppress their own authentic feelings, needs, and desires. They disconnect from their internal compass. If expressing sadness makes a parent uncomfortable, the child learns to push sadness down. If showing anger causes conflict, anger is locked away. Over time, this becomes automatic, leaving the adult unaware of what they truly feel or want, because they've practiced ignoring themselves for so long.

Fear of Abandonment and Rejection: At the core of CEN is a subtle, unspoken emotional abandonment. The child learns that their true self, their emotional self, is not acceptable or worthy of attention. This creates a deep-seated fear that if they ever show their true colors, if they ever set a boundary or express a dissenting opinion, they will be rejected, unloved, or completely abandoned. This fear drives the constant need to people-please, to maintain a perceived harmony at all costs.

Conditional Self-Esteem: When your worth is tied to how well you can please others, your self-esteem becomes a shaky edifice built on shifting sands. It's conditional. Every act of people-pleasing is an attempt to shore up this fragile sense of self. When someone approves, you feel a temporary surge of worth. When they disapprove, even subtly, your entire sense of self can crumble. There's no solid inner core of self-worth because that core was never properly nourished.

It's like a house built without a proper foundation. It might look perfectly fine from the outside, with freshly painted walls and charming windows. But every gust of wind, every tremor in the earth (every external judgment or perceived disapproval), threatens to bring it crashing down. The constant people-pleasing is the futile attempt to prop up walls that have no solid grounding.

The Path to Recovery: A Survivor's Guide to Authentic Self-Esteem

The good news is that you don't have to live in that drafty, unstable house forever. Building authentic self-esteem and dismantling the people-pleasing habit is a profound journey of recovery, one that involves compassionately re-parenting yourself and re-connecting with the parts of you that were left neglected. It's a survivor's journey, courageous and deeply rewarding.

Here are the essential steps I guide my clients through:

Step 1: Acknowledging the Neglect – Naming the Invisible Wound

This is arguably the most crucial and often the most difficult step. CEN is invisible, and many survivors feel guilty even considering it, thinking "My parents loved me, they did their best!" And they probably did. But love alone doesn't prevent emotional neglect. Acknowledging CEN means validating your own childhood experience: something essential was missing, and it affected you. It’s not about blaming your parents; it’s about understanding your own emotional history.

A Survivor’s Guide to Overcoming People-Pleasing and Building Authentic Self-Esteem – Rooted in Childhood Emotional Neglect Recovery : BUY EBOOK CLICK HARE

Practice: Reflect on your childhood. Were your emotions acknowledged? Did you feel comfortable expressing difficult feelings? Was there someone you could go to who consistently validated your internal experience? If not, allow yourself to acknowledge that void. Say it out loud: "My emotional needs were not consistently met as a child." Feel the truth of that statement, even if it brings a pang of sadness. This acknowledgement is the bedrock of healing.

Step 2: Reconnecting with Buried Emotions – Finding Your Inner Compass

For CEN survivors, emotions can feel foreign, dangerous, or simply "not there." Yet, emotions are our internal guidance system, telling us what we need, what feels right, and what feels wrong. Reconnecting with them is vital.

Practice:

Emotional Vocabulary: Start by building your emotional vocabulary. Beyond "good" or "bad," how do you really feel? Use an emotion wheel or list.

Body Scan: Practice mindfulness. Sit quietly and scan your body. Where do you feel tension, lightness, warmth, cold? Are there any subtle sensations associated with an emotion? Is that knot in your stomach anxiety? Is that tightness in your chest sadness?

"Name It to Tame It": When you feel overwhelmed or unsure, try to name the emotion. "I'm feeling frustration," "I'm feeling nervous." Just naming it can create a little space and reduce its intensity.

Journaling: Write freely about your day, your interactions, your feelings. Don't censor. Just get it onto the page. This helps externalize and process emotions that have been buried.

Step 3: Finding Your Authentic Voice – Setting Boundaries

This is the direct antidote to people-pleasing. Saying "no," expressing a different opinion, or stating your needs is terrifying for a CEN survivor because it threatens that perceived acceptance. But it's essential for reclaiming your self.

Practice:

Start Small & Low Stakes: Practice saying "no" to trivial things first. "No, thank you, I'm okay with water," instead of automatically accepting coffee. "No, I can't meet on Tuesday, how about Wednesday?"

"I Need Time": If you feel pressured, use a bridging statement: "Let me think about that and get back to you," or "I need to check my schedule." This buys you time to consult your internal compass rather than automatically defaulting to "yes."

The "No" Sandwich: When you do say no, you don't have to justify, argue, or over-explain. "Thanks for the offer, but I won't be able to make it." (Polite opening, clear "no," no explanation needed).

Expect Discomfort (and Guilt): The guilt and anxiety you feel when setting a boundary is a sign of progress, not failure. It's the old programming screaming. Acknowledge it, breathe through it, and remember you are protecting yourself. The discomfort will lessen over time.

Step 4: Cultivating Self-Validation – Becoming Your Own Best Parent

This is the heart of building authentic self-esteem. If you didn't receive enough external validation as a child, you must learn to provide it for yourself as an adult.

Practice:

Self-Praise: When you do something well, or even when you just show up and try, acknowledge it. "I handled that conversation well," "I stuck to my boundary," "I'm proud of myself for trying."

Internal Mirroring: When you feel a strong emotion, especially a difficult one, pause and say to yourself what you wish someone had said to you as a child: "It's okay to feel sad right now," "I understand why you're angry," "Your feelings are valid."

Trust Your Gut: Pay attention to your intuition. When faced with a decision, listen to that quiet inner voice. Practice honoring it, even if it goes against external pressures. The more you listen, the stronger it becomes.

Self-Compassion: Treat yourself with the same kindness and understanding you would offer a dear friend. When you make a mistake, instead of harsh self-criticism, offer yourself comfort and encouragement.

Step 5: Reclaiming Your Needs and Desires – What Do You Want?

When you’ve spent a lifetime focused on others' needs, your own can become utterly invisible, even to you. This step is about rediscovering what truly brings you joy, fulfillment, and a sense of purpose, independent of external approval.

A Survivor’s Guide to Overcoming People-Pleasing and Building Authentic Self-Esteem – Rooted in Childhood Emotional Neglect Recovery : BUY EBOOK CLICK HARE

Practice:

Needs Inventory: Make a list of your fundamental needs: rest, connection, creativity, quiet time, learning, adventure, etc. How well are they being met?

Desire Discovery: What are your authentic desires? What hobbies intrigue you? What books do you want to read? What causes do you care about? What kind of relationships do you truly crave? Start exploring without judgment or pressure.

Small Acts of Self-Nurturing: Start incorporating small things into your day that are purely for your pleasure or well-being, even if it feels "selfish" initially. A quiet cup of tea, 10 minutes of a hobby, a walk in nature. This signals to yourself that your needs matter.

Step 6: Building a Support System – The Power of Authentic Connection

As you embark on this journey, you’ll need people around you who can witness and support your authentic self, not just the people-pleasing façade.

Practice:

Seek Emotionally Responsive Relationships: Gravitate towards people who genuinely listen, validate your feelings, and respect your boundaries. These relationships are nourishing.

Practice Vulnerability (Selectively): Share a small, authentic feeling or boundary with a trusted friend or family member. See how they respond. This builds capacity for genuine connection.

Consider Professional Help: A therapist specializing in CEN or trauma recovery can be an invaluable guide. They provide a safe, validating space to process old wounds and build new emotional skills. This is not a sign of weakness, but immense strength and commitment to your well-being.

Step 7: Embracing Imperfection and Vulnerability – The Beauty of Being Real

The people-pleaser often strives for perfection to avoid criticism. Building authentic self-esteem involves letting go of this impossible ideal and embracing your beautiful, messy, imperfect human self.

Practice:

Challenge Perfectionism: Deliberately allow yourself to be imperfect in small, low-stakes ways. Wear mismatched socks. Make a minor mistake at work and don't obsess over it.

Practice Being Seen: Choose safe spaces to show a less-than-perfect side of yourself. Share a small struggle, express uncertainty, or admit you don't know something. See that the world doesn't crumble.

Acknowledge Your Value: Your inherent worth doesn't depend on what you do, how well you do it, or how much you please others. It simply is. Remind yourself of this truth, especially when old insecurities creep in.

The Transformation: Living with Authentic Self-Esteem

As you diligently work through these steps, something magical begins to happen. The internal landscape shifts. The relentless pressure to perform for others begins to lift.

You start to experience:

Reduced Resentment and Exhaustion: The constant drain of people-pleasing is replaced by a surge of energy and a quiet inner peace.

Healthier, More Fulfilling Relationships: Your connections become based on mutual respect and genuine emotional exchange, not just your performance.

Clarity and Decisiveness: With your internal compass recalibrated, decisions become clearer. You know what you want and can act from a place of integrity.

A Calm Inner Core: External opinions still exist, but they no longer shake your fundamental sense of self-worth. You are grounded in your own truth.

The Joy of Self-Acceptance: There's a profound relief in no longer having to pretend. You can simply be, in all your complexity, and know that you are enough.

It’s like coming home after a long, arduous journey. The air feels different, the light seems brighter, and there's a deep, abiding sense of belonging – not to a group, but to yourself.

Sustaining the Journey: Nurturing Your Authentic Self

Recovery from CEN and people-pleasing is not a destination, but an ongoing process of self-discovery and self-nurturing. There will be days when old patterns resurface, moments when the fear of rejection whispers in your ear. That's perfectly normal. The key is to respond with compassion, not criticism.

Remember the tools you’ve built: reconnecting with emotions, setting boundaries, self-validation. Use them. If you people-please, notice it without judgment, and ask, "What was I needing in that moment?" Then, consciously choose a different response next time. Every moment is an opportunity to practice.

The journey from the hidden wound of emotional neglect to the full bloom of authentic self-esteem is one of the most profound acts of self-love imaginable. It requires courage, patience, and a deep commitment to yourself. But the rewards – a life lived with integrity, genuine connection, and an unshakable sense of inner peace – are immeasurable.

Your authentic self is waiting to be seen, not just by others, but by you. Begin that tender, brave journey today.

A Survivor’s Guide to Overcoming People-Pleasing and Building Authentic Self-Esteem – Rooted in Childhood Emotional Neglect Recovery : BUY EBOOK CLICK HARE

[whump-place]

Whumpee is used to being the scapegoat. Whenever anything's wrong it's Whumpee's fault, and whenever people need someone to put the blame on, Whumpee is always there.

They are used to it by now, and it doesn't matter if they have a good excuse, or if they would never do half of the things they get blamed for. Whumpee is always the one to take the blame.

Whumpee gets to believe it is actually their fault.

Maybe if they were better. Maybe if they behaved better. Maybe if they could do a single thing right, they wouldn't be punished every moment of their life.

But what can they do? Whumper doesn't listen to their excuses. No one ever does. The best they can do is accept it.

It's their fault.

[s4nnyside]

i think one of the hardest pills to swallow that im still currently choking on is that it’s okay to be ordinary. and i mean as in you dont have to force yourself to be the next einstein or gretzky but just. do your thing as if no one is watching.

[cloudbends]

OH I AM INCONSOLABLE. DEVASTATED.

[uchiha-gaeshi]

Does anyone else automatically size themselves up with people their age and look for ways that you’re inferior to them? Just me? Ok….

[smiles-rambles]

I think girls should get more used to seeing their natural faces, and understand that they’re not slobs for not wearing any makeup

[neenarchive]

it's crazy how much medication effects me like. It's so frustrating thinking life could have been this easy

[abhainnwhump]

IMYM: Chapter 18 Guardian of Nothing: Ribbon

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It wasn’t Nightmare’s fault Ribbon suffered from graphic dreams that night. It was his aura and Ribbon’s over-creative imagination.

Ribbon wandered by himself in the castle gardens. The sky was cloudy and stormy, but that didn’t bother him. It was always gloomy in Nightmare’s AUs. The farther he walked, the more the flowers wilted. He wanted to turn back, but something kept pushing him forward. Everything was fine until he closed his eye sockets.

A hand shot out and covered his mouth with a chloroform rag. He struggled and screamed which only made him breathe more of the poison. Ribbon cried out. Whoever grabbed him had a rough grip and a strong smell of butterscotch. The doll couldn’t process it as he passed out.

Again, Ribbon blinked, and the next thing he knew he was in a bedroom. Wait, this place looked familiar . . . The Star Sanses’ Clubhouse, oh. He was in the guest room, which was one of the most boring rooms. The walls didn’t have any color but beige. The only furniture was a queen-sized bed, a nightstand, a mirror, and a lamp. Ribbon stretched and got off the bed. The poison in his lungs made it hard to breathe.

Ribbon walked through the familiar hallways. Something was different, but he couldn’t tell what. His memory of the full clubhouse was fuzzy, it’s been a long time since he was here. It was hard to explain, but despite that, something was off.

“We have no other options but this. What else is there to do? Wipe his memories and retrain him to be a hero? That doesn’t excuse what he’s done. We have to send him away. It’s the only way we’ll be safe. Ink deserves it for his betrayal.”

Ribbon froze when he heard Core Frisk’s voice. He peeked around the corner at them, Blue, and Dream. Dream had his face in his hands. Blue kept his hand close to him, but he looked away from him.

Blue spoke. “They’re right, Dream. We can’t trust Ink anymore. He’s not our friend, he’s a monster, I don’t care what he says. He worked for Nightmare! He murdered people! He left us for him! He abandoned his job! And he’s so dependent on Nightmare that he can’t even take care of himself!”

Dream moved his fingers aside so his left eye light was exposed. “Is that the plan? Leave him alone in the void to die? That would be torture!”

“I know, but we have to! What if Ink is spying for Nightmare? It’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone.”

Core put a hand on Dream’s shoulder. “Ink is dead, Dream. The person in the guest room is someone else. Someone evil. Someone who doesn’t deserve a second chance.”

Dream looked up at them. His eye lights flickered from upset to angry. It was too quick for him, or was Dream always like that? Ribbon couldn’t remember well. “Fine, if that’s what’s best for him . . . fine. I’ll tell him tonight and we can take him-”

Ribbon let a whimper slip, though he didn’t remember opening his mouth. The three turned in his direction. They looked angrier than he’s ever seen. Especially Dream, whose sympathetic gaze turned to fury.

“You were eavesdropping, weren’t you?” Dream stood up. “WEREN’T YOU?”

“I-I didn’t mean to . . .” Ribbon’s voice broke as Dream towered over him. He was taller than Ribbon remembered. “I’m sorry. Please don’t punish me.”

Dream raised a hand and Ribbon ducked. He would never even think about running from Nightmare, but Dream was different. At least Nightmare’s punishments were done out of love. Ribbon slipped beneath his arm and ran down the hall.

“Ink! Come back! That’s an order!” Blue shouted.

He didn’t listen and kept running. He made it to the entryway and pulled on the door. It was locked. Ribbon tugged on it until Dream, Blue, and Core showed up. Oh stars, what did he do? Maybe he could smash through a window?

Ribbon tried to break the window only for his left arm to nearly get yanked from its socket. Core and Blue grabbed them and kicked his legs so he kneeled. He fought to break himself free, but they wouldn’t budge. Blue crushed his left foot under his boot with a sickening crack. Ribbon bit his cheekbone to keep from crying. It hurt, it hurt, it HURT-

Dream stomped up to him and punched him in the jaw. Ribbon’s vision blurred as he struggled to stay quiet. His limbs tingled. He wasn’t sure if Dream liked begging the way Nightmare did and didn’t plan to risk it.

“We’re going to lock you away and there’s nothing you can say or do about it. You betrayed the entire Doodlesphere for a crush, my brother of all people!” Dream wiped his eye sockets. “I can’t believe you, Ink! Why would you do this? You were the good guy! And now you’re no better than Nightmare and his team.”

Ribbon cringed away. Don’t yell at me. Please stop yelling at me.

Blue summoned a bone attack and shoved it through his arm. Ribbon yipped and tears ran down his face. Why did he ever think they were his friends? Tsk, who was he kidding? A dumb toy wasn’t worth that kind of kindness.

Core twisted his wrist. The hurt was weird and distant, but he still felt some kind of white-hot pain. Ribbon looked over and nearly screamed. His hand, oh stars where was his hand? On the floor. Of course it was.

Ribbon couldn’t hold it in anymore and cried. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! Please give me one more chance! I’ll be a good doll! I’ll do whatever you want! Please let me go! Don’t send me away!”

“You don’t get a second chance, traitor!” Dream cursed. He punched Ribbon in the jaw again. “If you can’t even think of an excuse as to why you turned your back on everyone, then you don’t get . Oh, stop crying! You’re faking it!”

“I’m not! Please stop-stop!”

Another punch. Ribbon’s mouth filled with metallic-tasting blood. He “Dolls don’t say stop. You out of all people should know this,” Dream said.

Blue rolled his eye lights. “Ribbon’s not a person. Ribbon’s a toy. An it.”

“You out of all toys should know this. There. Is that better?”

“Yep!” Blue smiled innocently.

Core tied his wrists together with scratchy rope. Ribbon cried out when they tightened it; he couldn’t feel his remaining hand. He wasn’t a huge fan of Nightmare restraining him, but at least he did it with soft ribbons or his tendrils. “Everyone is going be better off without you. Even Nightmare doesn’t love you, he’s just using you.

“That’s not true! NIGHTMARE! NIGHTMARE HELP!” Ribbon screamed. He wanted his boyfriend so badly. Where was he? Why wasn’t he rescuing him? Were they right? Did he abandon him?

“See? You still choose him over us!” Blue said. He crushed his other foot. Ribbon bit his tongue. He didn’t have the energy to struggle. Everything burned. He couldn’t take this cruelty much longer. This stupid dream wouldn’t let him pass out.

Core stood taller and forced Ribbon to stand on his broken feet. He sobbed. “Okay, we’ve tortured it long enough. Let’s drop it in the void and we can start rewriting history and pretend it never existed! Everyone will forget it in a few years.”

That last sentence stung worse than his broken feet. No one would remember him? No! He didn’t want to be forgotten! Ribbon cried harder.

“Alright, let’s go!” Blue said. He sounded waytoo cheery for someone about to commit murder.

Ribbon, Core, and the Stars teleported to the Garden of Doors. They were all there at first, but after a blink, they disappeared. Only one door remained, the one that led into the void.

Not wanting to be shattered across time and space, Ribbon couldn’t help but try begging one more time. “W-wait! I can be good! You can train me to obey your orders, give me a new personality, rename me, and I’ll even let you treat me like an animal! Just don’t do this! Spare me! Please!”

They threw him into the void. The last thing he saw was Blue’s glassy, hate-filled eye lights.

“No! Come back! I’m sorry!” Ribbon called as they shut the door. He half-swam half-squirmed to it, but it was gone. All alone in the void. Again.

Ribbon’s hands began to crack as his emotions drained. How did he run out of emotions already? And it never hurt this much before. It felt like he had a vacuum on his chest, sucking out his bones and shattering them in the process. If he could, Ribbon would’ve screamed. Half of his ribcage was gone. His legs were ripped apart by an invisible force and crumbled to dust. His pelvis followed, and then his spine. It felt like he was being burned and frozen at the same time.

The doll screamed. “Someone! Anyone! Help me! I’m scared!”

Ribbon snapped awake, his body sweating. He was still in Nightmare’s bed. He turned to see him, but he wasn’t there. He panicked and shot up, only to realize he had a hand on his face. Nightmare was sitting up and studying him. He had to have heard his crying or felt his kicking. But why didn’t he wake him up?

Nightmare’s thumb stroked his cheekbone. “Are you okay, Ribbon?” he whispered. “It’s two in the morning and your aura is negative enough to give me an adrenaline rush. You were screaming my name and begging for mercy, and you’re still trembling.”

Ribbon hugged him as tight as he could. He wanted to make sure he was there and he wasn’t still dreaming. Nightmare held him, rubbing his skull and making shushing noises. The touch didn’t feel fake in the distance like with the Stars. Ribbon took a deep breath. “It was a really bad dream, but I’m a bit better now, thanks,” he said. The repeated motion was soothing.

“Would you like to tell me what it was about?”

Ribbon shuddered. “. . . I got kidnapped by the Stars. They took me from you, beat me up, told me no one loved or remembered me, and threw me into the void. I lost all my emotions and . . . and . . . I died alone. They hurt me!”

Nightmare didn’t stop petting him. Ribbon leaned into the touches, confused when he did stop and lay his hand over his foreskull. "I see. Your mind might be giving you a warning. Guardians can have dreams that predict the future. And if yours affected you this badly, well . . ."

Ribbon thought about it. He knew about the dreams thing already but . . . He looked at Nightmare's face, which was a weird mix of worry and something else. "They're actually going to hurt me?"

"That's right." He muttered something under his breath and a faint glow came from his hand. Ribbon shuddered as he felt a million cold needles in his skull. A glowing teal light shivered down Nightmare’s arm as he absorbed his emotions. He removed his hand. “There. As a thank you for the negative energy, you won’t have any more dreams for the rest of the night. Sleep well, I need you rested.”

Ribbon shifted and looked Nightmare directly in his pretty eye light. “Nightmare, do you get nightmares?”

“Constantly. But I’m used to them. Now no more speaking, go to sleep.” He brought them both down on the bed. Nightmare wrapped his tendrils around his body like an apple-scented cocoon. Ribbon buried his face in his chest, listening to the soft sound of his breathing. He felt a lot safer. Even though Nightmare sometimes hurt him, he would rather cuddle with him than be all alone.

==============================================================================

Like Nightmare said, he didn’t get any more dreams, which relieved him. But Ribbon couldn’t stop thinking about the one he had. In his head, it made perfect sense. Dream, Blue, and Core were all peace protectors. Ribbon worked with the biggest evil team in the multiverse. Maybe they’d been wanting to beat and banish him all along, but it was easier now that he was softer.

No wonder Nightmare wouldn’t let him leave the castle without him. The world outside was so scary, how did he never see it before?

But that was all a week ago, he was fine now. Ribbon stayed inside, busying himself with chores as he was told. He dusted off the fireplace and living room. When he was with the Star Sanses, he hated chores. He used to do them as fast as he could and called it a day. But this was soothing. Maybe that came along with embracing this new lifestyle.

He wished he could do more for Nightmare. He wanted to make up for his kindness. He was so good to him, much better than he should’ve been to a dumb little doll. Well, he did have another training session today, he could do a great job at that. Ribbon looked at the grandfather clock in the room. He had ten minutes to finish his chores since Nightmare wanted him in there at exactly one o’clock. Sharp. He wouldn't like it if he wasn't there.

And before he knew it, the time flew by and Ribbon was back in that training room. Nightmare held a thin flashlight up to his eyes lights, like a cat laser. They were working on his stillness again. Specifically on mastering a permanent slow blink and his head tilts. Etiquette lessons could actually be fun when he wasn’t messing up and needing punishment.

“Slower, slower, too slow. Try to put two seconds between opening and closing. That’s it. Good . . .” Nightmare said as flickered the laser between his eye lights.

An itch inside Ribbon’s head didn’t like this. He wanted to kick his feet or mess with his hands but he knew better. Good dolls didn't do either, they didn't even think about doing either! He had to fix that about himself. Ribbon kept his breathing slow the way Nightmare liked. The blinking was tricky, his eye sockets didn't want to comply and blinked on their own, but he got the hang of it.

“You have been doing so much better, my little lamb. I’ve been taking notes of your progress and your last month's record is so much worse than now. You used to never be able to sit still. In fact, you’re being so good, you're ready for a little test I had planned.”

Ribbon tilted his head and looked up at Nightmare. “A little test?”

Nightmare nodded. “Yes, you've proven you won't run away from me, so the next logical step is to see what you can do without my guidance."

"You're going to leave me?” Ribbon breathing caught as panic built up in his chest. What did he do wrong? He must have done something wrong!But he couldn't think of anything he did wrong.He squeezed his upper arms. “Why- why aren't you going with me? I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave me on my own, I won't last without-”

“Shh, did I say anything about this being permanent? No.” Nightmare tilted his chin up, covering up his neck charm so Ribbon wouldn't pull it again. “You're overreacting, it will be for no longer than a few hours. I have an assignment set up for Killer, Horror, and Dust and you will be going with them. You’re getting supplies because we're running low on medicine, then you're coming back home to me.”

Ribbon took a deep breath. Nightmare rubbed his cheek with his tendril and Ribbon leaned into it. He loved how cold it was, it was like one of those cooling packs wrapped in a soft blanket.

Once Nightmare saw he wasn't freaking out anymore, he continued to explain. “Three nights from now, you’re going to help them in a supply run. I have work to do, so I unfortunately can’t go along. It’s a simple enough task for you. You shouldn’t need to commit any violence unless someone attacks you first. But you must still bring your parasol. There won’t be an issue, will there?”

Ribbon shook his head. “No, there won’t be an issue at all. I’ll be good and listen to them, I promise.”

“There’s my good little doll. Oh, you still have your paints to take, don't you?” Nightmare pat his head. Ribbon nuzzled his head into his hand. Nightmare stood up and walked over to his vials. He took a glass and mixed all the colors together. He even added extra yellow as a treat. Nightmare came back and pushed the glass up to Ribbon’s mouth. “Open up.”

=================================

Ribbon waited on the castle step for the other three to take him. He adjusted his pink beret and drew pictures with Blossom on the ground, he decided that as the name of his parasol. He didn’t want to leave without Nightmare. All the other times, except the once when he was disobedient, Nightmare was with him. He never left on his own since then. He liked the MTT, but it wasn't the same as-

A loud boom snapped him out of his thoughts and he screamed. Ribbon ducked and hid his face in his parasol, peeking from the side. Killer held a red popped balloon in one hand and his knife in his other.

Killer stared at him in surprise, blinking his wide eye sockets. "Holy shit, he wasn't kidding. You are really easy to scare now." His shock turned into a weird laugh. Ribbon smiled and pulled his string to giggle with him. It had to be a little funny if Killer thought so. He was still shaken up, but he pushed the thoughts away.

Dust and Horror teleported behind him. Horror stared at the balloon in Killer’s hand and ripped it out. “Boss isn’t . . . going to like that . . . you did that.”

Killer mumbled something under his breath that Ribbon couldn't hear. Dust sighed at whatever it was he said and walked away.

Dust held something in his hand. It was a bottle with black liquid inside. Oh, Nightmare’s magic! Of course! He didn’t know he could do that, but Nightmare was really powerful. Ribbon wondered what else he didn’t know about his boyfriend.

“Boss gave us just enough of his magic to get us to Fellswap and back. We can’t waste anything.” Dust half-muttered half-told the group. Ribbon nodded, even if he didn’t like the idea of Dust being the one with the portals. He didn’t want to be anywhere he was when he was holding scary things. The vial looked too much like a syringe for his liking. Hopefully, Horror and Killer would keep him far away from him.

Dust measured out the vial with his finger and poured half of it onto the ground. The liquid churned until a darker swirling gap appeared inside the liquid. Ribbon looked back at the castle as Killer leaped in first. Horror was next. Ribbon looked into the portal and gulped. He hesitated. His team was safe, his team was good, nothing-

“Get in.” Dust said with a firm expression. Ribbon jumped in. He landed in Fellswap’s Snowdin. The cold snow soaked through his shoes and socks. Ew . . . .Ribbon jumped onto a rock to keep himself dry.

Killer and Horror brushed themselves off. Horror passed Killer an envelope. The murderer snatched it and opened it up to a list. Ribbon peeked over at it, but he couldn't read anything on it. A lot of the stuff looked fancy and specific too. Killer cocked his head.

“That’s how . . . Boss gave it to me. Don’t know, he’s fancy like . . . that.” Ribbon nodded in agreement to Horror’s words. But it did make him miss Nightmare already, even if they just left. He stared at the portal.

Dust jumped through the void and landed on the edge. He kicked snow and dirt over the portal until it faded away. He stared at it for a long time until he sighed and looked at the team.

“Come on, let’s make this quick.” Dust said. Killer summoned one of his red knives as defense and Ribbon messed with Blossom. The four began to walk through Fellswap's Snowdin. It looked almost exactly like Undertale, but in shades of gold and red. There weren't many citizens in the town-- most of them didn't like each other --but the ones that were there made Ribbon scared. They all wore leather jackets, spiked collars, and chains. Some of them glared and growled at the team, while others whispered and ran.

Horror held the blade of his axe on Ribbon’s side and nudged him away from the monsters. He was wandering too far off. That included Killer and Dust.

The shop was tucked behind most of the other ones. It was a run-down black building with almost no decorations, nothing but a scary sign with the word SHOP on it. He wouldn't be surprised if sharp claws scraped out the sign, or a rusty knife.

Ribbon pulled his string to talk, and his first sound was a small cry. "Is- is this the right place? It doesn't look right . . ."

Killer nodded. "Yep. Relax, it's not as bad on the inside! You're going to be fine."

It smelt like cigarette smoke on the inside. Ribbon stood out with his bright pink colors in the musty gold and black shop. Food and healing items covered an entire wall. Bottles of liquid lined the walls and weapons scattered across the ground and on hooks. Ribbon moved not to step on a spear tip. The entire building only had two lightbulbs and no windows. He wanted Nightmare more than ever. A single monster worked in the shop. Their entire body was covered by a cloak with only a scorpion tail and claws for hands. Ribbon stepped back.

"Different guy than normal . . . eh, it's fine." Killer walked straight up to the counter and slapped the list down. The clerk turned around and tensed up. Killer didn't budge and unfolded the paper. "Hello. I got a little order from Lord Nightmare Joku, ASAP."

Dust held his gun up to the store clerk’s head as he hesitated. “And don’t even think about screamin’ for anyone to intervene. The only reason we’re payin' instead of robbin' is because Boss insisted us to.”

The clerk went pale and he took the list from Killer’s hand. He looked over it and skitted around the store, gathering things.

Dust turned from the clerk to Ribbon. He lowered the gun because he was getting what he wanted. He pointed toward the door. “Ribbon, go watch over the spot we came in through the portal so no one touches it. The magic works better when we're close to the original summonin' spot, it's sorcery memory."

Ribbon lit up at the order and nodded, anything to get out of this creepy place. He ran out the door and back to the spot. He made it there without trouble, and luckily without running into anyone. But that was probably because he spent the time sneaking through the shadows and alleys. He sat down on the same large rock as before, waiting for the MTT to finish the supply run.

As he sat, Ribbon spotted a movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked down. It was a stray piece of magic left over from the first portal. It must've escaped Dust, poor little guy. Ribbon crouched down and poked at it. It was the closest thing to Nightmare and the closest thing back home, so it made him happy.

His fingertips went cold with magic. Against his will, paint shot from out of his fingers and mixed with the goop on the ground. The two powers mixed until a small portal formed, which grew bigger until it was the perfect size for Ribbon. He jumped back and stared at his hand in confusion. Did he . . . influence the portal magic? How? And where? Ribbon had so many questions, but the biggest one was where the portal went.

Ribbon gently reached for the doorway and touched it. The colors got clearer and opened to a strange AU. The doll hesitated, but he stepped outside; his curiosity was too strong. He crawled through and looked around. Unlike Fellswap, this AU had a lot of colors, rainbow splatters covered the walls. The entire floor drowned in a layer of paper packets. Ribbon's eye lights immediately went to the shiny glowing ball in the center of the room. It was so pretty, but he could've sworn he heard whispering. It must have been the wind.

“What . . . what is this place? Why . . . no, it’s okay, it’s okay, it's alright. I’m okay. Someone will come for me.” Ribbon looked around. He was sure he could figure this out. It kept tugging at a spot in his memory, but he couldn't think of what. It was so close too . . .

He walked around the rainbow place. It was small, too small, and too colorful. The messy rainbows hurt his eye lights. Whoever lived here had terrible taste in colors. Wait, that was too judgemental. Ribbon didn't know who was here before. He touched the beanbag with his gloved fingertips.

Then there was the pile of papers for AUs, even though he wasn't sure how he figured it out that quickly. It overflowed and spilled onto the ground. Ribbon picked one of them up and flipped through the pages of drawings. Characters, designs, worlds they were pretty, but how was he supposed to bring them to life? He knew he needed Broomie, but Broomie was gone. Some even had notes scrawled on them such as 'Where are you? It's been 3 weeks and you haven't made a single new universe!'

That's when he remembered. This place was his doodle AU he made new AUs in! He used to spend so much time in here. He hadn't done this job for so long that he forgot how to do it. It was back when . . . oh. No, bad thoughts.

He kept searching the room until he stumbled across a massive pile of pictures. He picked up the top one off. It was of a skeleton who looked exactly like him. Ink flashed a peace sign in front of Horror, who was beaten up on the ground. Ribbon pressed his teeth together. He would never do that. Why was Ink so rude? Ribbon pushed past more pictures until he gasped at one. It was a drawing, a battle plan, and it was a plan to take advantage of Nightmare's sludge and freeze him alive. And Nightmare was . . . hurting. That had to be it.

This wasn't him. Ribbon had some of the memories, but they weren't his own. He wasn't part of the Star Sanses. He was on Nightmare's team! He was Nightmare's lover! Why was Nightmare the bad guy in all of these? Was he- no, no. It was a lie, a trap. The kidnapping was out of love, the pain was out of love. Nightmare made a terrible mistake by thinking he could be on his own. Ribbon couldn't, he couldn't, he

Ribbon shook, panicked, and tore the picture up, throwing the shreds on the floor. He grabbed another one of the AUs and ripped it too. It felt like the only way he could calm down and make it stop. He destroyed another, another, and another. The nasty feeling in his chest only got worse.

He wasn't Ink.

He was not INK!

Ribbon's attention went toward the magic glowing sphere in the center of the room. He could feel the power from here and it was calling out to him, wanting him to become a protector again. He couldn't, he wouldn't, he wouldn't be bad. It was all a trap. He was in trouble-

Ribbon screamed and stabbed the magic sphere with his parasol. “Come on, die, die, die! Stop it! Stop telling me what to do! Stop making AUs! I can’t help, just stop!”

With a loud crack, the sphere shook. Then it shattered into shiny translucent pieces across the floor. A shudder ran through Ribbon’s spine. The lights in the place began to flicker. He looked around. It was over. Ribbon shivered and closed his parasol up. Before he could process what he did (and the ramifications of it), the doll ran back through the portal. he landed back in Fellswap's snow. And right in front of the MTT. Dust was working on resummoning the portal and Horror held a massive sack bag. They all looked nervous.

Killer was the only one with his hands open so he grabbed Ribbon by the shoulders. “Ribbon! Where the hell have you been? We leave you alone for two minutes and you go missing! I thought boss was going to have our heads!”

Ribbon looked up at Killer and hid back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. Something happened and . . . " He looked behind himself. Something kept him from telling the truth. "I'm really sorry, but I'm okay. Can we go home . . . pretty please?"

==============================================================================

Later that evening, as Ribbon took off his beret by one of the castle balconies, then he paused. A sudden wave of weakness took him over. It wasn't sleepiness, no. It reminded him of his nightmare when he had that vacuum feeling, sucking his magic dry. His chest ached and he leaned against the wall. He saw two different archways swirling around.

Ribbon took a heavy breath of air. He tried to pull his string to ask for help, but he couldn’t. His nonexistent ears rang and he raised his shoulders to cover them.

"Ribbon, is- Ribbon!' Nightmare sensed the negativity and caught him before he collapsed. He had been walking down the hall before seeing him fall over. Ribbon shivered and clung to his suit. He coughed and shivered, having no energy to stand up. He was freezing cold too. Did he get sick? Poisoned? Cursed? How? Could he fix it? He had to know something.

"What's the matter with you?" Nightmare set his hand on his head and felt around. “You don't have a fever." He adjusted Ribbon and held him in a comfy bridal carry. Ribbon held onto Nightmare tightly. Nightmare didn’t even look down at him as he sighed.

Ribbon closed his eye sockets as Nightmare carried him. Having him around was enough to make him feel better. He tried to sit up and got dizzy again. Nightmare’s tendril nudged him back down. The doll didn’t fight.

Nightmare opened the door to Ribbon’s room Ribbon caught his reflection in his vanity mirror. He wasn’t as pretty as he was supposed to be. His pink eyes lights were dim, his breathing was labored, and his face was pale. The blush on his cheek bones stood out more.

Nightmare lay hum in his soft bed. He covered him up and Ribbon clung to the teddy bear Nightmare gave him. It was white and little with big black eyes. Ribbon coughed. It sounded too scratchy and raspy for a doll. He wasn’t even coughing right!

Nightmare looked around Ribbon’s walls as he put him in bed. His tendril touched the baby pink walls and the blue, purple, and yellow flowers Ribbon painted on. He wasn’t all done, but he had his entire front wall covered in flowers. All the side walls had were sketches, sketches of fuzzy animals, and more flowers. Ribbon still couldn’t decide what he wanted the back wall to be yet. But it already felt better than the boring and dark walls the room used to have.

“Do- do you like it? Is it pretty?”

Nightmare looked closer at the walls before focusing his attention on Ribbon. He traced his fingers along his chest and lay his palm down. “It is pretty. I enjoy this new side of you. Keep drawing like this. Now be quiet so I can find out what happened to you.”

Ribbon went silent. He even muffled his coughs. Nightmare summoned a bit of teal magic and held it in on his chest, close to where his soul would be. After a while, he hummed. Nightmare set his hand on his forehead, then on his cheek. “Oh, oh well that’s fascinating . . .”

"What is?" Ribbon took deep breaths and tried to stop his spinning head. “Am- am I going to be okay? What’s wrong with me?

“Your magic . . . it’s fading,” Nightmare said. His calm expression began to twitch. “Well, let me correct myself, your guardianship is fading. Your symptoms are similar to a normal monster's magic loss, but I never thought it could happen to you. I don't even understand why it happened now. Your team replaced you, Ribbon.”

Ribbon gulped, which turned into a cough. He groaned and leaned into his pillow. He hadn't seen the multiverse since the mission, was it really that bad? He hasn't told Nightmare about what happened in Ink's doodle AU, he was too scared to. "Am . . . am I going to be okay?"

“Oh, don’t fuss too much. It’s just like losing blood. If you lose too much, you’ll get sick and need rest. Most of your magic came from being the Guardian of Creativity. Without that . . . you may only be half as strong as you once were.” Nightmare looked away from him at that.

Ribbon’s eyes widened and he bit his lower jaw. He squeezed his bear tighter. “How . . . how bad is that? Can it be fixed? Am I broken?”

“Your guardianship? No, only if whoever they gave your powers away perishes or gives them back. I doubt either will happen. I once tried to do it with Dream, but I’ve never seen this happen before.” He looked down at Ribbon and sighed. “Yes, it can be fixed. I will give you a small transfer until you start healing yourself.”

Nightmare took a deep breath, held his hand to his chest, and rested it on top of Ribbon. Ribbon felt the tingling almost immediately, and it was good! Even better than good! His breathing steadied and he leaned into Nightmare’s hand. He rubbed his face in it, adoring his kindness.

With a sigh, Nightmare pulled his hand back. Ribbon could breathe easier thanks to the transfer. His head felt less cottony. He looked up at Nightmare. His eye darkened and he took heavy breaths to recover.

Nightmare saw him staring and sighed. “Rest. I’ll bring you water. You must stay hydrated, I can’t have you lose any more magic.” Nightmare covered him up with his blankets to make sure he wasn’t cold. “Don’t stand up, keep your movement to a minimum, and sleep. That's non-negotiable. ”

After giving him a little kiss on the head, Nightmare left the room. Ribbon lay back in his bed. He didn’t even try to stand up, instead cuddling with his teddy bear. He had his doubts, but Ribbon knew he made the right choice. Nightmare had been so much kinder since he had no reason to punish his dollie anymore. And Ribbon didn’t want to change a thing.

[bbael]

Need someone to come fix my life for me because I can't look at things objectively and without feeling deeply ashamed/embarrassed of every decision I ever took and how everything currently is but also nobody is ever going to do that so 🧍

[jennifersbod]

doctors appointment so bad that it sends you into a depressive spiral so deep you have to go to yet another doctor

[viviraptor]

one art thing that keeps making me want to pull my hair out is when ppl post a drawing and immediately call it bad/mention its flaws in the caption. whatever you think you're doing with that i can assure you it's not working

[theglowsociety]

[foone]

Hey you know that thing you're good at? That thing you think makes you valuable? The way you are, or the thing you do, etc?

You can be and deserve to be and will be loved and cherished even without it.

You're not worthwhile because you help, or you are good at making your art, or your skills at your job. You're worthwhile inherently, as a person, even without all that.

And I want you to internalize that because otherwise there might come a day where you can't do The Thing You Think Makes You Valuable. You'll get sick and can't draw, you'll burn out and can't do your job, you'll be emotionally unable to do your regular helpfulness for whatever reason, and you'll start to feel like you have no worth anymore.

But that's not true. You have worth, you deserve comfort and companionship and happiness, and that's not a conditional thing. You deserve that, even if you can't be Useful and Productive and all that shit.

It's an easy trap to fall into to justify yourself as "well, at least I help/make art/work hard" and have that be entirely too much of your self-esteem. Being proud of your work is fine. Being proud of yourself solely through your productivity is not, because you're making it conditional. And conditional on something that can change for reasons completely outside your control!

You gotta stop thinking about it like you gotta justify the space you take up on the planet. It's great if all those things make you happy: just make sure they're not the only things that make you feel like you are justifying your existence, or you'll crater if they get taken away.

You are lovable and likable and you have value as a person and a member of society, even if you never can be productive again. You are enough.

[m0thmancore]

yknow it really bothers me that 95% of conversations i've seen about gifted kid burnout are neurotypicals talking about "oh these kids are upset they don't get to feel special anymore"

as opposed to "yeah these kids have severe self-esteem issues because the only thing they were ever praised for as children was how smart they are and how quickly they learn and now they can't do things if they don't know how to do it immediately because they're terrified of failure because their love always felt so conditional on their performance even if it wasn't"

[cursedcola]

Prompt: "It's a Zing not a Fling" :: The moment they realize you're the one. Masterlist: LinkedUP

Parts:: Heartslabyul (Here) | Savanaclaw | Octavinelle | Scarabia | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia

Leading up to each high-tea at Heartslabyul, its esteemed Housewarden found himself penning a singular invitation. One for a guest beyond his court, yet not his reach.

His cursive penmanship loops your name like so on restless nights in the margins of his notebook. One of the rare lapses Riddle's inner-self allows, despite still diligently studying his evenings away.

He seals each envelope with care, pressing out any creases that dare to blemish his hard work. Only the best can request your presence, even if Riddle is confident you won't deny his request no matter the condition.

A Queen cannot host without his King in attendance, after all.

Long before students rise and his duties begin, Riddle walks the familiar yet rarely-traveled path to Ramshackle dormitory. He places the envelope flat in the box, careful to angle it where no dirt could tarnish its white lace trimming. he releases the metal flap and raises the side-flag. All set for you to receive at your leisure, and for him to go on with his day.

That is - until his steps halt, with one foot already pivoted to turn back and release the letter flag.

Inner demons desperately want to delegate morning role call to his Vice, march himself into your dorm and take up whatever time he can before his role forces him to do otherwise.

To which Riddle's inner demons win each and every time, all on the reasoning that leaving an invitation behind is improper. That a proper courier must ensure a job complete with his own eyes.

Certainly not an excuse to cross your path before anyone else that day.

Another selfishness he lets slip through the cracks in his discipline.

Cracks that coincidentally began to arrive around the same time as you.

Three sharp knocks the main doorframe, one lace-trimmed envelope, and a free escort to breakfast make up in an all-exclusive Rosehearts mail service.

"Is there a reason I have to wear white?" your question hangs on a ribbon. The one wrapped tight across your chest, to be precise. One of Heartslabyul's second-years, a fellow in the most extravagant top hat you've ever seen, methodically wraps and lines measuring tape across your body.

Riddle looks up from his book, "Laws of Practical Magic in Medicinal Context," for nothing longer than a second.

"All members of the Queen's court must adorn themselves in the proper attire for ceremonies and gatherings. You are aware of this."

The hatted-student forces your arms up without a word. You jolt, startled, and he's too absorbed in his work to notice. Only muttering an apology when Riddle clicks his tongue.

"I'm still not a member of Heartslabyul - why does it matter now of all times?"

Another click of his tongue, this time for you.

"Tradition." He says, as if it's the most obvious answer.

"Tradition?" your brow crinkles, "I hadn't thought I was violating anything until now. Are there extended rules for outsiders?"

While not a member of the Queen's domain, you will forever remain part of his court. All receive invitations. All must attend in the proper attire, decked to the Queen's delight in red and white. He let it pass while you remained a friendly exception. Times have changed.

Riddle lets his book close, only when his underclassmen makes a hasty retreat with his collection of notes, fabrics, and measurements in tow. The hatter much too discourteous for Riddle's liking, but good at his job.

"I've been lenient up until now under the belief that your dorm would adopt an official uniform," Riddle sighs, albeit cracking a smile when you scamper off the tailor's perch to his side, "seeing as months have passed with no developments? I cannot excuse your attire any longer. You will wear white when at any Heartslabyul event from this moment onward."

"Don't you mean red and white?"

His thoughts halt, - "Again. Tradition dictates only white."

"Because I'm a guest?"

Riddle shakes his head, fingering the pages of his text to ignore the heat on his cheeks.

"No. Because you are the visiting Queen."

"Ramshackle needs something like this, don't you think?"

You sipped at a cup of lemon-chamomile, poured as a game of cricket began. Riddle's eye caught at your white gloves - they climbed from fingertips all to your bicep. The hatter did wonders with the roll of satin provided.

In a dorm of red, you were the sole dominator of white save for a rose brooch at the breast.

"Unbirthdays are tied to the Red Queen's rule," Riddle pulls himself from you, holding his attention on the game, "Ramshackle has no need for such things."

"That's not what I was eluding too - but thank you for the dismissal" you huff, and it's not the amused one he's learned to detect.

He allows himself a brief peek, just to catch you eyeing your reflection in the teacup. Your gaze nowhere near as enthused as his. Not at the black-heart over your lips, or shimmering silver crown sitting on your head.

"I want a tradition, Riddle. Something that makes my dorm special. Unique."

Something within him waivers at your admittance. For him these parties were routine - an obligation. Your presence made them more enjoyable, but he never cared too deeply.

Perhaps, he never allowed himself to care. Yearning for belonging. Home. That is an emotion he can empathize with.

Riddle is proud - no, he is positively delighted - to be one of the first to receive an invitation. His mailbox is forever cluttered with academic documents and professional communications. Yet he recognizes your writing on sight, and is pleased you'd not forgone a traditional physical invite. He handles it with delicate care, opening the seal like a single tear would be sacrilegious. You've settled on hosting for large holiday back in your world - one that you've mentioned a handful of times since snow began to fall.

Christmas, he recalls with ease.

Everything you say somehow stores in the main filing cabinet within his mind. For easy access, or perhaps he simply finds you far more interesting than leagues of text he's memorized.

You seem keen on twisting the original meaning of this holiday, bringing decorations, food, and everything in between to Ramshackle. Going so far as to place an appeal to the Headmaster, and with Riddle's aid, worming out a decently sized budget for dorm activities. Bless him for his way to move a room. Riddle might've preferred staying on the Headmaster's good wing, but couldn't turn down your request. Not when you are forthcoming so infrequently. In truth - Riddle has not been invited to a party before. Not as himself. Only formal gatherings that his mother arranged, hanging to her side as she paraded him like a prodigal trophy, or mandatory parties as Dormhead where preparations hung on his shoulders.

Riddle will honor your wishes; he'll selfishly relish in the fact that with a novel idea there is a lack of rules to maintain. Although your warming desire for tradition doesn't escape him, so he'll happily commission a new set of green and red to dress himself.

"You've done a wonderful job," Riddle sips at aclear flute glass, held proper at the stem between thumb and index, " I am thoroughly impressed that there is food to spare, considering Grim's gluttonous habits."

Riddle resists the urge to smirk, hiding his pleasure in another sip. He's used to others balking at his praise, yet it's different when you look at him so glowing. For once, he is not the one at table's the head seat, but you've well earned the highest spot for what he's witnessed this eve.

Ramshackle's main hall cleared for a long, expansive table decorated with broad cloth and long strands of cranberries. Candle light illuminates the hall in between platters befitting a feast. Garlands of red and green shimmered - all drawing attention to the brightly colored pine tree situated near the lounge hearth.

Riddle hadn't considered ornamenting a giant pine with twinkle strands and glass bulbs, yet its beauty stunned him nonetheless. Stockings hung on the walls, each with a student's name written in glue-glitter pen. Some messier than others, he noted. Grim's handwriting could do with work.

They'd been stuffed with little treats and ribbon - surely more that hid under their fluffy tops. Riddle wondered their purpose and how you managed to hang some well-beyond what a stool could help reach. He pictured you standing atop stacked boxes, tongue poking between teeth as you precariously leaned to hang those higher up.

For his sanity - Riddle dismissed the thought to the backends of his mind.

"Thank you -" your smile, eyes twinkling under candle-light "It surely wasn't easy getting the Headmaster's approval for all this - I'm grateful you were able to help, otherwise we might've all been eating instant noodles instead of turkey."

Riddle huffed, swirling his near-empty ice water "I didn't do much - regardless, I'm certain the evening would have turned out fine. This is a new tradition, one where you are in charge."

There's mirth in your eyes for a moment. A happy glint that he's proud to have brought back.

"I don't think Vil would've been happy eating canned tuna on the couch, but I'll take your word for it."

"Perhaps you have a point, yet it doesn't matter. Since we are not eating canned tuna and certainly not on a sunken couch." he hums, and watches closely as you pick up your glass to stand. Having postponed long enough with idle chatter, your spoon hovers near the glass rim, hesitant to clink for attention.

For reasons he is quite confident in - you look to him in a moment of hesitance, and he's prepared. As always.

Riddle nods when your eyes meet his, and then there's the familiar chime of a toast.

"Everyone! I'd like to thank you all for coming despite your busy schedules. This is the first ever event hosted by Ramshackle and I hope it's been as much fun for you as it has for me..." His attention is lost to your words, despite Riddle's attempts to nod along. It all fades out. His hearing. The feeling of his glass between his fingers, even as he rolls the stem between them. You glow.

It's nothing out of the ordinary. Yes, you've cleaned up for the evening - and he was not reserved enough to stay a compliment upon arriving. You had admired his suit in turn, fussing with his striped bow-tie even though it was already tied to perfection. He hadn't minded the slightest. Surely he'd taken ample time to admire you. What you've done to this shabby dormitory. How you are obviously trying to mimic his speech mannerisms from the countless he's given -

Yet it is not candlelight, fancy clothing or words that make you glow. It is something he cannot string words for, which is an oddity in itself.

Your earlier worry lingers, even if it is not worth dwelling on. Not with Schoeneheit here and clearly satisfied with the arrangements. He'd been the most critical about the building decor, after all. Although Riddle is certain he'd have made time to come regardless of what you arranged.

Vil is not the only one outside of Heartslabyul that you've managed to gather- Riddle notes. Students across all dormitories are here for this new tradition of yours. Ones he doesn't think to question, such as Epel of Pomefiore or Scarabia's party-hungry dorm leader. Others Riddle nearly balked at seeing, especially when Malleus Draconia of all people made an entrance just when seats were almost filled. For reasons unknown to Riddle, Malleus lingered long to admire his name-card and placemat. Even a prince was pleased with the bare minimum once entering this dormitory. Did you glow to them? He wonders. Unlike the Unbirthday parties - you've gathered these individuals out of desire. Not obligation. Ask him mere months prior and he'd think it impossible.

And yet.

Zing.

There's a yearning in your eyes - but this time not shrouded by a silver crown. It's a brilliant sparkle. An appreciation for what many would surely consider utter chaos - and he has no desire to scold you for stumbling over words or failing to follow his proper regimen for speeches.

You sit down, his ears still deaf but his sight not hindered to the adrenaline flush in your cheeks. To the tremble of your fingers as they tinker with your cutlery. How you smile for him, and he knows it's gratitude but Riddle's done nothing worthy of it this night.

As platters circle around, chatter rises - you watch, taking it all in. Not a bite taken from your plate despite minutes passing. Like you're somewhere unimaginable.

While it is considered impolite to ignore the person across you at a dinner table, Riddle is more interested in the one to his left. He understands that yearning. For friends. Family. Loved ones. To be as he wants, and accepted as he is.

Riddle reaches underneath the tablecloth, his hand finding yours in a subtle gesture. His fingers pry through one of your fists, lacing through yours like they'd been longing to the entire evening. "Relax," he whispers, soft enough that it surprises even himself, "This is the start of what is sure to be a wonderful tradition. I, for one, am immensely proud of you," he says your name with the highest reverence,praying his gaze is kind.

You glow.

Riddle squeezes your hand, striving to convey that this feeling you're experiencing is shared. His adoration might not be apparent to you just yet, but it is all consuming.

Trey is not one to snap easily or let his emotions guide his actions. He learned that he must think ahead at a young age, mediate, and it's carried him this far.

Yet this sense of control. This comfort. It is as much bane as much as it is a boon. And chaos is best experienced at a safe distance, he also figured out, like an active volcano. Enough to wow but not enough to burn. No matter what trouble comes across Trey's path, he will let it go in favor of finding a solution. Maybe he'll laugh about it later and enjoy the mischief in secret. Yet he always waits until it is safe. You are a volcano that never ceases erupting. Yet he lives on your island. Willingly. The warmth is worth each risked burn, yet he knows you'd harden yourself if he ever showed his skin. You'd turn from fiery magma into igneous rock.

You hadn't purposefully worked to agitate Riddle. No matter how much Heartslabyul's dorm-head was determined to atone for his childish behavior, change does not come overnight. Your mischief sometimes went overboard, earning a collar that had no use but to make a statement, yet it was always in good fun. Nothing a few days and proper apology could not fix. The dorm lightened up, there were upsides to these eruptions. Trey would be there to make you see.

You hadn't caused irreversible distress, like blowing up the kitchen or switching the sugar with salt right before he entered the culinary crucible. Even then, grime could be cleaned and he didn't care about winning anyways. What's a trophy when faced with your supposed 'revenge'. What for? He has no idea, but Trey knows you're capable of much worse and counts his blessings. A small dose of cortisol usually ended with a good laugh, and possibly some blackmail material that he would never get around to using.

So long as you were happy, healthy, and most importantly- present. Trey could ask for nothing else.

Yet even the most optimistic man alive couldn't remain so at all hours - and he wasn't an optimist. Merely an idealist, a mediator - a lover, in this case.

The things we do for love - he could make a list.

"Why aren't you mad at me?"

Trey busied himself scrubbing violet dye out of his forearms. On the off chance there was a cleansing tonic available, he doubts Professor Crewel would waste it on something that will fade with time. The problem more-so lies with Trey's uniform, which wouldn't be cleaned in time for the next lab showcase. He'd likely be docked points, even as a Vice Housewarden. It would be major annoyance, if nothing else.

Trey sighs, going in for the third round of deep scrubbing " - Because accidents happen. What? You want for me to scold you?"

You don't answer his teasing. Trey scrubs harder. His skin was beginning to burn and yet he continued with the futile effort. If anything to act like he's unbothered and keep you from touching what's contaminated in the sink. Protect your curiosity, dispel your guilt. "Listen to me -okay? This isn't worth getting upset over. So I'm a candied violet for a few days? It's definitely a conversation starter." Trey kept his tone light, even throwing a joke that would definitely fall flat -

"-but you should be mad. Professor Crewel is going to mark your point card -" Yes. He knows. You don't need to remind him, " - maybe we can get you a new uniform? Or...or I can come with you? We can tell him what happened together and maybe he'll show mercy?"

Mercy? At Night Raven? You're kidding.

He scrubs harder. Under the fingernails. Over his elbows. It does nothing to lighten the pigment.

"No, trust me on this. A few points off my card makes no difference to a senior," he sighs, rinsing yet again. This time with scalding water that burns his skin, "you have two more years in this lab. That's a long time to endure Professor Crewel's scrutiny - and believe me, he remembers everything. Let me talk it out with him."

A partial truth. Normal seniors couldn't afford missing marks. Trey has seniority as a member of the science club, and no past demerits. He'll have to write an accident report at best, and be on cleanup duty for the rest of the month at worst. It's easier to accept the punishment then have you be subjected to one of Crewel's lectures on lab conduct. He can practically hear the cogs in your head. They're mucking up, slowing to a chilling halt. His teeth grind together, trying to think up a reassurance but coming up flat.

He'll smooth things over with Riddle afterwards, make a strawberry tart, the one with chocolate cream you liked last week, invite you over once he's calmed down to show no harm done. It'll be fine.

"B-but that's not fair! What about your -"

Trey shut off the faucet.

"Enough already," he grit the words out, "You're not supposed to be in here after hours and Crewel isn't the sort of instructor to let transgressions go. Do you want to be barred from the lab indefinitely?"

There was not any yelling. If anything, he was too quiet. No directly hurtful words. Trey hadn't meant for his tone to come out so forceful, but the veins on his arms were starting to bulge under duress and you just weren't listening.

His skin was about to blister if he kept it under water much longer. Maybe he should have let it.

Trey will do whatever he can to keep you happy, safe - satisfied and exactly as he found you. His feelings aren't that of a wet doormat, but he's always gone the subtle route. Thought things through.

Damn it - you always made it hard to think things through.

Grabbing one of the hanging towels, Trey turns around with the tick in his neck hanging tight. Just waiting for you to go and leave him feeling strung. The lab always felt cold compared to the rest of Night Raven, you'd take your warmth but he wasn't doing a great job of protecting it regardless. His mind's already running the extra mile and looking for a way to fix this.

"I don't mind being banned if it's what's fair. You don't need to shelter me, Trey. I know when I've messed up, and I want to help if you'll just let me."

Zing.

You don't run out on him, leaving a mess behind. Leave him cold. Like when the oven turns off and the kitchen's aired out. There's no need for a step-by-step plan. His words stung - he knew by your fists bunched in the pockets of your lab coat. You dislike this as much as he does - and yet, unlike Trey, you don't run.

"Let me help. Please?"

Trey purses his lips together, taking a deep breath through his nose before letting it out in four counts. He finishes toweling his stained hands, sooths the sting, tosses the rag aside and steps into your space. Closer than needed but something he wanted.

His painted hand hovers over your head, his impulse to make light and ruffle your hair. Reign it all back in.

Except one look in your eyes stops him short, and he finds your cheek instead. His purpled thumb looks ridiculous against your reddening cheeks - utterly wrong yet you lean into him before he can change his mind.

"Alright," Trey relents, tone much softer, "You win. I'm annoyed- "

Trey pauses, his brows dipping. You wait.

" - and I'm sorry for just now."

You nod against his palm, "I am too. Let's...let's just take a bit. We don't have to tell Crewel together if you're sure, but I can at least help with Riddle. I've had plenty of practice."

That you did with the freshmen you hang around - and a success rate of zilch since they still walk away with collars more often than not.

You really couldn't protect Trey from Riddle's word, in truth. He'd scold the both of you without hesitance. Although maybe it won't be so bad, sharing a tart without the roundabout.

"That sounds good to me."

Cater Diamond calls maximum-level bullshit. Magic is definite. His split-card never fails to produce an exact replica of him down to the finest detail. The cowlick he combs over, right above his left ear. The slight downturn of his right eye - an unfortunate side effect of sleeping on his side, face scrunched tight between forearm and bicep. His freckle pattern is identical too, even the ones on his back! Every possible fluctuation of his voice, the slight lag in his gait, his superstitions about stepping on tile cracks - even as a duplicate, he won't risk that karma. Cater's unique magic was perfect. Which is why he calls bullshit when you claim to tell them apart.

No.

Tell him from them? All clones look exactly the same, act the same, but apparently they didn't replicate his 'aura'. Whatever that means.

The first time you were able to do it, he thought nothing. That maybe you were looking to feel special - especially when your only response to how was 'I can just tell'. Even though no one looked convinced, you weren't bothered.

Cater wasn't about to take it personally either. Not when you were a great source for magicam material, and one of the few people his dorm head seemed to tolerate. Definitely the cute underclassmen type his sisters would go crazy for, and he did owe you for...well, no need to keep tabs, right?

It's not like you were being rude about it either. If it was a slight against his magic ability, maybe he'd feel differently.

Except you did it again.

And again.

Again.

Oh? Another time too.

Enough times that he stops sending a copy to do his dirty work, because you'll know. Even if you don't rat him out, there's that way you try to bit down a smile that somehow gets his clones to have a looser lip.

Okay. Maybe he needed to work on that. Yet still. Risking everything on your whim just so he can cut class isn't worth the headache.

Yet he will not concede.

It's bullshit. You're bullshitting so far out that he'd sooner believe Trey skipped flossing for an entire week straight. No. A month.

But Cater can't cling to that simple, vulgar dismissal. Even if he's never said it out loud to your face. There has to be a reason. While he's not one to have it 'out' for his underclassmen, you have to be putting on some kind of front. He can't bring himself to be spiteful about it since 'Cay-Cay' doesn't exactly encompass all that makes Cater.

You have to be - because it's physically impossible for someone to be this ignorant. He can excuse your lack of Wonderland culture (and is working to remedy it) but social cues? No. You have to be doing something intentionally. Anything. To see more of him.

He respects the effort, but if you're so intent on seeing him? Well. He'd let you see all right. Just don't blame Cater if you regret losing 'cay-cay' in the process.

"Special delivery for you, Peepers. Curtesy of Heartslabyul's royal court!"

With a perfectly-wrapped gift basket on one arm, and his phone in the other's hand. Cater holds the front door to Ramshackle on his hip and outstretches the screen for your 'signature'. Aka. just for you to take some photo-evidence that he's done his duty so Riddle won't scold him for skimping.

"On god, are those my cookies? Did Trey actually do it?"

You happily take his precious phone and snap a quick picture. One of Cater on the front- stoop, and another with half your face in the bottom frame. Eyes squinted enough that anyone could tell you're smiling. He poses too on instinct, but once the classic *click* passes he's eagerly dropping the basket in your hands.

You open the wrapping and sniff the air. "It is! I could kiss that man. Just get me a step ladder and a bit of peer pressure."

Cater snorts.

"Over cookies? I admit, we do have the best baker on campus but don't make it too easy. We don't want lovesick boys raining down on Ramshackle..." he wiggles his brows with a cheeky smirk, "...or do we? So scandalous of you!"

No reward for the messenger? He almost wants to press for it, but you'd probably take him seriously.

Cater disregards the slight bitterness in his stomach, and pushes into your space to snag one of the 'special delivery' bites. He dangles the biscuit just over your head and holds it up to the sun.

You, of course, try to get it back. He relishes in the brief power imbalance.

"Aren't these just normal cookies? Wah - look how golden the edges are! Totally pic worthy, if you ask me," he jumps through the threshold and into the main hallway. The cookie just on his lips.

"Would be a shame if we just ate them all, right peeps?"

A bit of sugar is worth that expression. The front door slams on your heels as you make like a bull towards him.

"Annnnnnd that's my cue! Later, gator!"

He dips and spins at the last second, sweeping past for one action-packed getaway that leads straight out the door to the safe confines of Heartslabyul castle. Not with boisterous laughter, but his cheeks do feel extra stretched out. Cater isn't sure if he wants this feeling either.

Never mind before. That was a magicam worthy image. The 'harmless' Ramshackle prefect ready to commit murder over one cookie.

Eyeing his little prize, Cater takes a bite.

Still not a fan of sweets or chores...but he can admit that both the victory and visit are sweet.

"I have a question."

"LOL - is that why you look three-days constipated?"

"Do you always have to be such a - "

Dick?

"Yes," Cater flashed his teeth, tapping his phone against his cheek, "To you? Always."

Cater doesn't mind playing sitter for a bit. Not that you ever actually sat still. Nah. Kalim was all too eager for someone to come listen in on what the Pop Music Club was working on, and you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Now two-thirds of his club busied themselves fighting over if they'd sing a rock ballad, or some actual pop. Since they were technically the 'pop' music club, and their optimist leader wanted you to really catch the vibes.

Cater? Cater didn't mind all that much, but was real glad he chose today to attend in person. Not because you'd rat him out, but for these odd entertaining moments. It's not like he can poke all his little 'buds' this way.

He leaned against the back of Lilia's amp, attention flickering between your prattling and his doom scroll.

"Did you know I was coming today?"

Pretty steep lead-up for a lame question.

"Nah,' Cater shrugged, but caught your disbelieving look, "whaaa? Do you think I can keep tabs on all my cute underclassmen? Don't be such a spoiled goober, peeps."

You still remained doubtful. He tapped his phone to his chin, setting a line out for you to catch.

"Alright, I'll cast. Why are you so sure I knew, huh?"

You wince, sucking some air past your teeth. He recognized that look. It's the same one Ace had every time he admit to a crime. Dang. A-Deuce really has you clutched.

"You just...I noticed you kinda avoid using your unique magic with me around. Kalim said it's how you three can make music that needs more instruments, but -"

You pause, isn't he supposed to be the skeptic here?

"Well. You're you right now. So I just thought - not to sound accusatory, mind you - that it's because of me.."

Well that's new. Not the calling him out part. Cater's let that grudge go over time. You were just too fun to mess with, and he settled for playing the cards set up. It's not like you were going anywhere.

He just didn't expect his little one-sided rivalry to make it through that 'aura' barrier, or whatever it is you called it before. Neither for him to actually show his hand, especially when he could deny it so easily.

"You want me to lay it straight with you?" Cater asks, his smile too wide for blatant kindness.

Back out man. What are you doing?

You, doe-eyed no more, nod along.

"You're hella creepy. That's why I give you special attention."

Part of Cater relishes in the startled expression on your face. In the discomfort of being seen that he's dealt with since the moment you met. Even if the feelings changed an now coated with something sickeningly sweet. A feeling he didn't want, but came regardless.

He continues without prompt.

"Did you ever think about where the name 'peepers' comes from? Sure, you're cute like a little chick. ADeuce sure Shepard you like one, and I'm sure it'd be the same if you were in Heartslabyul with the rest of us - "

You say nothing. Although Cater's not really being cruel, just honest. He knows there are better words to use here. Can think of them, but he doesn't want to.

"- but you don't really know boundaries, do you? Which can totally get you on the off-side, just saying. At first I did it to make sure you couldn't twist my clones into admitting something totes embarrassing - but now? Hmm....dunno. Just having fun."

The uncomfortable silence that follows is not fun. Although he's good at flipping back to scrolling as if he didn't just get as real as it gets IRL.

You don't stick around for practice. Part of Cater feels guilty that Kalim came back to an empty room, but he's not much in the mood for singing anymore. With you gone, he left behind two doubles.

Later, in his room, he wonders if it was 'Cay-Cay' talking or 'Cater'. They're not mutually exclusive. Either way, he doubts you'd be willing to chat casually with either again. Problem mitigated.

You were a good, if not rattling, experience.

So why's he not happy?

“I want to apologize. If you’ll hear me out.”

Now that’s not what Cater was expecting. Not at all. Two weeks without a Ramshackle resident in sight. For a bit he thought you decided to hate him for setting boundaries of all things. Ace and Deuce were your besties, but they hadn’t breathed a word about whatever you felt to him.

Either you were better at holding secrets than anyone else on campus, or those two had enough tact to respect their upperclassmen. Most likely the former, given past events.

Cater’s more interested in the cup noodle in your hands. Not even the good kind either.

“Is that supposed to be an offering? Did Acey teach you how to pull a kettle out of thin air too?” He’s going to need some hot water after all.

What would normally get those noodles thrown at Cater’s head - maybe a half-baked insult about them resembling his hair too - doesn’t work. You set the styrofoam cup on his desk and sit next to it.

“I’m sorry you felt creeped out by my ‘sixth-sense’ or whatever it is that my shared braincell friends call it. All this time I thought you were hanging out with me because we were friends or -“

You stop. Surely you wouldn’t leave him hanging, but Cater knows you as well as you know him. Too well. Blood rushes to your ears, as does words to your lips.

“- or, uh, more. Like - you didn't use the doubles since you liked spending time with me. Which is a bit conceited to think, I guess. I didn’t realize you were forcing yourself to be something you’re not. In the beginning I really admired you. Maybe that’s why I can tell the clones apart? It's a dumb reason but really all I've got. You always caught my attention. I’m not special, or psychic, or anything - I just really liked you.”

Zing

It’s not as if no one’s ever confessed their feelings to Cater. He’s an online presence. Cay gets five confessions a day, at minimum. A dozen fawning comments at every meal.

Except he never stole their packages, or drove them up a wall trying to find a hidden dirty sock in their dorm.

He was still ‘Cay-Cay’. Blessedly cute, to his sister’s delight and his honed weaponry. Although if he could be what they all wanted, he’d be at RSA. Maybe in another life.

No use on what-ifs after all.

“Could you say that with a mouth full of uncooked noodles? Raw emotions should equate raw stomach pains to show your sincerity” Cater wiggled the styrofoam cup before bopping it on your nose.

In this life, he was a melody of sinful cuteness. Maybe you saw that, maybe you didn’t.

The want for that little ‘more’ definitely left him with ammo for what was about to come.

You could be bullshitting that too. The vulgar conclusion somehow still coming back up after all this time.

The diamond on his cheek crinkles with a cheeky grin, and one of his doubles walks in with a piping hot cup of water. Then another with two bowls and chopsticks.

“JK I won’t do that to you,” he lets them set up for some real noodles, slipping the ones you bought away for later. You don’t need to know everything.

He’ll let you in on this much though.

You were trouble. A bit annoying and oblivious.

But deep down, so was Cater. Maybe he was the one bullshitting himself this whole time.

“You’re real lucky that I’m into creepy these days….say, could we maybe do a horror collab at your place for our launch?”

Deuce often wonders where he'd be if he hadn't come home that night. Good parents try to hide their feelings for the sake of their kids, but what if he hadn't overheard that phone call? What if his mother still felt such sadness? The Insomnia is well earned - if you ask him. Shame that he'll carry for the rest of his life. Her sorrow is his greatest regret, but he'll carry it. To move forward.

Would he still be part of the gang? Likely. There's no way Night Raven College would want someone with bruised knuckles as the only trophy on their name. Who's only redeemable skill was swinging a bat while pumping a wheelie.

Or would they? Floyd Leech received a letter and wasn't turning over any shells to become less...Floyd-like.

Maybe Deuce wasn't special. Just lucky.

Perhaps Night Raven would be better off with the old him. That prideful jerk who didn't think twice before throwing a punch. Who's greatest pride was his blast-cycle and rarely spared a thought on the people who really mattered. An absolute moron stuck in the wrong crowd, in the wrong place always at the wrong time.

In an abyss of what-ifs, there is one certainty.

You would not be a friend to Deuce.

He preyed on the magic-less back then. It's so easy to picture you as those faceless kids that he taunted. He thought himself better than them. Made them preach his superiority, and if they refused? Made their life hell. As did the rest of his gang.

What might he have said to you? What would he have done?

Deuce wasn't necessarily thrilled to be thrown on thin-ice during his first week on campus. He wasn't outright cruel towards you, but Ace? Ace was an asshole. Deuce heard how your meeting went. How he preyed on your ignorance, even though you couldn't help it.

Deuce can't give your group's third shit for it either.

Not when a bit of teasing was mercy compared to the bullying he used to do.

Not when he'd have gone further than Ace could attempt, and not when you'd have taken it without knowing any better. Your trust that he now held so dearly, traded away for a bit of momentary cruelty.

He would have got high off your misery, and been none the wiser to what he was ruining.

This ache is how Deuce tames that abyss of what-ifs.

Any life where you are not a friend to Deuce, is a life that he refuses to see possible.

Deuce is not special. He is lucky.

Lucky enough that you came into his life when he embodied the dignity to learn, and sense appreciate someone so wonderful.

Just like with his mother, Deuce can't ignore the thoughts. They will come, and he faces them with an imaginative force.

At the start of this new life, Deuce set out to become better. To be honorable. Sharp. Strong. Diligent. His mother's pride and tears fueled those ambitions.

Except he forgot one important factor. When he thinks of himself in this image, the desire brightens with your face in his day-dreams amidst hard work.

Kind.

Deuce wants to be kind.

"Finished?"

You stretch lazily across the library table. In the wee hours of dawn, with the sun just barely poking in with it's grey-toned light, Deuce scratches away at one of the many 'guides' Riddle loaned him for practical magic studies.

The word 'guide' must be used loosely, since the notes require endless sifting through textbooks for proper context. Leave it to his Housewarden to give just enough for any student to learn, but they'd need to exhibit excessive effort.

Deuce felt like the village-idiot, or rather the stooge of his academic year. They did this sort of gimmick back in the gang. Every batch of new-comers would come with a dud, meant to fail during initiation as an example.

Hell even Ace passed the last exam. Even if he just brushed by with a 70, it was still miles better than Deuce's 42. At the rate Deuce is going he might as well sign his soul off to Azul agai -

No.

"Urhm...I think? Just need to read a bit more," the words blurred, was it is eyes or did he literally erase the ink off?

The packet disappears before his retinas refocus. You start skimming over the shoddy work without asking. Now he's feeling frustrated and embarrassed.

"Two's wrong," you flip the page, his fingers twitch over the table rim, "five, six, eight, twelve, and fourteen too. Nineteen's short answer is technically right? Not by Riddle's standards, but Trein would take it."

You slide the packet back towards him with minor corrections made. He shouldn't hate red, it's his dorm's pride. Although Deuce wishes that for once he could get a pristine white paper back.

Just once. A sign that all this work was paying off. That he's doing something right.

What's worse is that he's dragging you down with him. A yawn builds in the back of his throat and he shoves it so far down it meets his intestines. Tired? At a time like this? He can't be tired, not when you're giving up a precious Saturday morning so he doesn't resort to cheating like before.

He ducks low, hiding in red ink.

"Sorry, prefect. I'll - I'll just have to start over. You should go get some shut-eye before Grim needs you."

Sorry for wasting your time.

"Why would we do that? You did good."

Huh?

A red pen with the cap just barely holding on pokes the big 65 circled on his paper. It leads up to a lifted blazer cuff, which leads to a stretched arm, which leads to a knotted ribbon which barely passes as a bow.

All to you, in his space with your seat long abandoned with his determination.

All to kind eyes. Indiscriminatory, with patience.

"Good? I missed seven questions."

"Yeah, that's a 65."

Deuce strains his eyes, squinting at the mark with hatred.

"That's not good. It's not even passing."

"Yeah, duh." You sigh heavily. Not like there's a librarian or nerd on duty to hush.

The red cap thumps against his forehead.

"65 is 23 points better than a 42. C'mon, juice-box. Don't tell me we need to study maths next."

You hold the cap there until he looks up from his burial in papyrus. His deprecation - his lapse- meets you in battle and with that one look? You kick its ass to the moon and back.

No judgement. No exuberant praise. No false promises.

Just you and him against the world. Or in this case, a bad grade.

Zing.

One bad grade that he refuses to let set a precedent for his day.

There's a sting to his eyes. It must be the dust.

No. It's a heavenly glow. In this moment, you weren't a friend. You were like a saint sent down from the heavens or wherever it is you come from. It might as well be heaven to him, since he can't go there and it's sent him an angel.

He doesn't want to disappoint you. He doesn't want to spit in the face of that kindness. The hidden bitterness that a magicless student understood practical theory vanished in an instant, as did his desire to trade this pen in for a good sulk.

All he wants is for you to stay with him. To make you proud. He'll work without rest for as long as he has to, if it means he has your faith.

"D-don't call me that! If that nickname sticks then I'll never make it as a proper honor student!"

He swats the pen off him with flushed cheeks, but little strength. Your laugh invokes this newfound confidence and it's like six shots of espresso all at once.

You slip into the chair across him, snickering.

"Sure thing....if you can score 70 by noon. I believe in you, juice-box."

The heat is sweltering. What dorm doesn't have central air in the middle of summer? Ace already knows the answer, but complains anyways. The whines fall off his lips like greetings. More of an obligatory thing.

He could head back to Heartslabyul. Where it's a steady seventy-two degrees and hopefully some shaved ice in one of the freezers. He could sneak you in? Twist Riddle’s nickers even when the guy was across the sea.

Not just Riddle, but everyone else too. Ace hadn't seen another face on campus in nearly two weeks. Deuce was the last to leave, seeing as his 'new image' meant helping mommy dear out with a summer job.

There wasn’t anyone around this time of year. Just the upkeep staff. Needless to say that Night Raven morphed into one odd ghost town.

Oh. Let's not forget himself and the two lone residents of this dilapidated dormitory.

Zzzzz-

"It's not fair you always get the bed. What ever happened to basic hospitality?" he groaned, cheek pressed into the hard floorboards.

You scoff from where he can't see before going back to whatever it is you were rambling about. He wasn't fully paying attention. Something about this game franchise starring a pink gumball that eats things to get powers?

What a dumb idea. He'd say as much, if he wasn't becoming one with the ground. Banished to below after kicking you in the chin while laughing at his comics.

Sweaty, uncomfortable, clothes sticking to his skin and said comic too far out of reach. The pages spit every time the slightest gust of wind comes in from outside. Grim's knocked out-cold on the recliner, occasionally stirring awake to tell you both to shut up.

"Ace? Are you even listening anymore?"

You peer down over the bedside. Hair ready to host rats and a bit of cheese dust on your cheek. Beads of sweat smeared it into a junk food lipstick. Vil’ worst nightmare, honestly.

Zzzzzz-

Ace barely peels his body off the ground to smack his hand over your mouth. Your weight is nothing to stop him from climbing back over the crumpled duvet. That’s right. Scream under his sweaty grip. No one to save you now.

"Never was - now move over already before I become a puddle and melt all over your floor"

The bed is just as, if not more, sweltering and uncomfortable. Ace grins apathetically as you flail to escape his noogies. Only to give up and go back to rambling on. This time letting the heat suffocate you together rather than apart.

He could fall asleep like this. Will fall asleep like this. It’s his earned right for the entirety of summer. Whatever it is you’re on now, he doesn’t care. Not fully. Just keep talking and don’t get up.

Ace thinks the world doesn’t give him enough credit.

The sun, the sea, the sand - it’s all too perfect. A vacation away from endless classwork and his house-warden trying to rip him a new one? A dream.

That’s what this was.

A dream.

With you right at the center of it all. Again. This isn’t something he’s buried deep down. His mind’s eye didn’t need to work hard for his desires.

Ace knows what’s up. He knows that if he sits up on his elbows, reaches over to poke your ribs and taunts out a vengeful swat - that he’ll get more than just some sand in his eyes. He’ll be done for. He’ll be blinded.

He’ll fall into the sweetest nightmare.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz-

It’s buzzing in him. He’s walking such a fine, a dangerous line. This isn’t forever. He just wants you to be happy without the expense of his own. Is that so much to ask?

Where the hell are the adults? The professors? Why is he even in this position?

When will he wake up? How long until the fantasy is gone? He doesn’t want to give it attention.

Since he will wake up. You'll come for him. It's a matter of when, not if. If he gives in, then the fantasy will become just that until it's gone. He'll blink and it will all be gone.

Ace knows that the only way is for you to walk along in-between, but it’s impossible. Ace is well aware of the inevitable cracks better than anyone else. He doesn’t need convincing.

…

Fine.

Ace falls asleep willingly. He keeps his hands to himself, lays upon the shore, and lets the tide wet his feet.

Dreams are far more forgiving than reality, and the world can withhold its credit. He doesn’t want the knowledge.

“I thought I was changing your mind!”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m in love with you, idiot!”

Ace felt his teeth crack together. He said it. It took months of trying. Months of pulling himself back as far as he could.

He said it. You heard it. He’s glad you heard it because it’s unfair that he’s the only one about to get his chest ripped out. It’s not fair.

“I’m in love with you,” he breathed out, “I’m in love with you and I want you to stay.”

It's not real. It can't be real. Since all he could see now was that person from the very beginning. The one he taunted on an off chance on his first day. He was such a dick back then. All he had to do was keep walking, but he was too cruel for that. He just had to go mess with the person who’s day was already at an all time low, stuck cleaning old statues while everyone else got on with their lives.

If he just kept walking. If he didn’t let his ego get the better of him. Then he never would have experienced any of this. He wouldn’t know you.

He wouldn’t love you.

Zzz-

And what burns the most, is that he wanted to love you. Even if it meant this frustration. This abandonment.

“I'm sorry."

I can’t do this.

“WAKE UP ALREADY -"

“Ace?“

He rest his forehead against your pulse. Nose nestled into your collar, body draped over your front like a blanket. His bones felt like pudding after running for so long.

The end of this nightmare wasn't close. Nowhere near. Even though he was ripped from one dream - no, a nightmare. A twisted, willing nightmare. It wouldn't be over until the dragon sung.

Even then. There were sill hidden cards within his deck. The ones Ace held close to his chest.

You came for him, because of course you did. He wants to say that he'd not do the same. That you're an utter dumbass for going against Malleus Draconia of all people. Except he'd be lying to himself.

"We need to get going," you tapped his shoulders urgently, "Ace? C'mon, you're freaking me out man...we need to help -"

"Just give me a minute."

He held you tighter. Not by much. His own subconscious drained life like Riddle at a party. His head was still buzzing. What was dream melted with what was reality.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" you asked, wary.

Idiot.

Ace held you at arm's length.

Zzzz-

"How much of that last part did you actually see?" he asked.

Your concern morphed into sympathy. Of course it did.

"Don't worry about any of us judging you, okay? Those dreams don't accurately reflect our hearts. If anything, more of a pleasant nightmare. Like our hearts giving us a weird case of Stockholm Syndrome with our desires"

That's not what he asked, but alright.

"So all of it," he concluded and clicked his tongue, "damn it....this is so not cool."

Whether you took his sulking as something to be pitied or not. It didn't matter. Twisted desire or not, it didn't matter.

He wouldn't let it matter. This card could hold until he made the dragon sing.

"C'mon," Ace pulled you forth to convene with the others. His head clear and the buzzing louder than ever. His fingers laced tightly with yours.

This is real. He can do this. He won't wait for another sweet nightmare or promise of power.

"You and I? We have words after this is over. I've been through seven layers of hell because of you, and there won't be an eighth."

Zing.

[hyperlexichypatia]

As I keep shouting into the void, pathologizers love shifting discussion about material conditions into discussion about emotional states.

I rant approximately once a week about how the brain maturity myth transmuted “Young adults are too poor to move out of their parents’ homes or have children of their own” into “Young adults are too emotionally and neurologically immature to move out of their parents’ homes or have children of their own.”

I’ve also talked about the misuse of “enabling” and “trauma” and “dopamine” .

And this is a pattern – people coin terms and concepts to describe material problems, and pathologization culture shifts them to be about problems in the brain or psyche of the person experiencing them. Now we’re talking about neurochemicals, frontal lobes, and self-esteem instead of talking about wages, wealth distribution, and civil rights. Now we can say that poor, oppressed, and exploited people are suffering from a neurological/emotional defect that makes them not know what’s best for themselves, so they don’t need or deserve rights or money.

Here are some terms that have been so horribly misused by mental health culture that we’ve almost entirely forgotten that they were originally materialist critiques.

Codependency What it originally referred to: A non-addicted person being overly “helpful” to an addicted partner or relative, often out of financial desperation. For example: Making sure your alcoholic husband gets to work in the morning (even though he’s an adult who should be responsible for himself) because if he loses his job, you’ll lose your home. https://www.nytimes.com/2022/07/08/opinion/codependency-addiction-recovery.html What it’s been distorted into: Being “clingy,” being “too emotionally needy,” wanting things like affection and quality time from a partner. A way of pathologizing people, especially young women, for wanting things like love and commitment in a romantic relationship.

Compulsory Heterosexuality What it originally referred to: In the 1980 in essay "Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence," https://www.journals.uchicago.edu/doi/abs/10.1086/493756 Adrienne Rich described compulsory heterosexuality as a set of social conditions that coerce women into heterosexual relationships and prioritize those relationships over relationships between women (both romantic and platonic). She also defines “lesbian” much more broadly than current discourse does, encompassing a wide variety of romantic and platonic relationships between women. While she does suggest that women who identify as heterosexual might be doing so out of unquestioned social norms, this is not the primary point she’s making. What it’s been distorted into: The patronizing, biphobic idea that lesbians somehow falsely believe themselves to be attracted to men. Part of the overall “Women don’t really know what they want or what’s good for them” theme of contemporary discourse.

Emotional Labor What it originally referred to: The implicit or explicit requirement that workers (especially women workers, especially workers in female-dominated “pink collar” jobs, especially tipped workers) perform emotional intimacy with customers, coworkers, and bosses above and beyond the actual job being done. Having to smile, be “friendly,” flirt, give the impression of genuine caring, politely accept harassment, etc. https://weld.la.psu.edu/what-is-emotional-labor/ What it’s been distorted into: Everything under the sun. Everything from housework (which we already had a term for), to tolerating the existence of disabled people, to just caring about friends the way friends do. The original intent of the concept was “It’s unreasonable to expect your waitress to care about your problems, because she’s not really your friend,” not “It’s unreasonable to expect your actual friends to care about your problems unless you pay them, because that’s emotional labor,” and certainly not “Disabled people shouldn’t be allowed to be visibly disabled in public, because witnessing a disabled person is emotional labor.” Anything that causes a person emotional distress, even if that emotional distress is rooted in the distress-haver’s bigotry (Many nominally progressive people who would rightfully reject the bigoted logic of “Seeing gay or interracial couples upsets me, which is emotional labor, so they shouldn’t be allowed to exist in public” fully accept the bigoted logic of “Seeing disabled or poor people upsets me, which is emotional labor, so they shouldn’t be allowed to exist in public”).

Battered Wife Syndrome What it originally referred to: The all-encompassing trauma and fear of escalating violence experienced by people suffering ongoing domestic abuse, sometimes resulting in the abuse victim using necessary violence in self-defense. Because domestic abuse often escalates, often to murder, this fear is entirely rational and justified. This is the reasonable, justified belief that someone who beats you, stalks you, and threatens to kill you may actually kill you.

What it’s been distorted into: Like so many of these other items, the idea that women (in this case, women who are victims of domestic violence) don’t know what’s best for themselves. I debated including this one, because “syndrome” was a wrongful framing from the beginning – a justified and rational fear of escalating violence in a situation in which escalating violence is occurring is not a “syndrome.” But the original meaning at least partially acknowledged the material conditions of escalating violence.

I’m not saying the original meanings of these terms are ones I necessarily agree with – as a cognitive liberty absolutist, I’m unsurprisingly not that enamored of either second-wave feminism or 1970s addiction discourse. And as much as I dislike what “emotional labor” has become, I accept that “Women are unfairly expected to care about other people’s feelings more than men are” is a true statement.

What I am saying is that all of these terms originally, at least partly, took material conditions into account in their usage. Subsequent usage has entirely stripped the materialist critique and fully replaced it with emotional pathologization, specifically of women. Acknowledgement that women have their choices constrained by poverty, violence, and oppression has been replaced with the idea that women don’t know what’s best for themselves and need to be coercively “helped” for their own good. Acknowledgement that working-class women experience a gender-and-class-specific form of economic exploitation has been rebranded as yet another variation of “Disabled people are burdensome for wanting to exist.”

Over and over, materialist critiques are reframed as emotional or cognitive defects of marginalized people. The next time you hear a superficially sympathetic (but actually pathologizing) argument for “Marginalized people make bad choices because…” consider stopping and asking: “Wait, who are we to assume that this person’s choices are ‘bad’? And if they are, is there something about their material conditions that constrains their options or makes the ‘bad’ choice the best available option?”