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piolhosstuff · 2 months ago

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Jelly and a Wish - REDACTED x G.N Reader

Genre: Fluff

Summary: — It's your birthday, REDACTED wants to do something for you, (This is a gift for Render!!!) Thank you for being nice towards me since day 1! It means a lot to me!

Please everyone wish happy birthday to Render,

( Reader is a g.n!)

Content Warning : Nsfw jokes so </3

Did not proof read/Rushed.

It was 12:08 AM when you heard it.

The distinct, unmistakable clatter of something metallic hitting the kitchen tile. Followed by a very soft, very specific curse:

“…motherf—fuckin’ hell, that was glass—”

You sat up instantly, blinking into the dark. You weren’t exactly afraid of the dark. Not really. Just… mildly unnerved by the whole unknown-space-no-lights-possible-ghosts vibe.

But more concerning: the cold, empty space next to you in bed.

Your arm reached out instinctively, brushing over rumpled sheets. “...Redacted?”

No answer.

You frowned, grabbed the small heart-shaped pillow you kept by your side—for comfort, obviously—and tiptoed your way into the hallway. The floor was cold under your feet, and the glow from the kitchen spilled into the dark like some mischievous spirit.

You crept closer, pillow clutched like a weapon.

"Don't be a demon," you whispered under your breath. "Don't be a burglar. Don't be a—"

You turned the corner.

And froze.

There, in the middle of the kitchen, stood Redacted.

Shirtless. Hair messy. Covered—and covered—in streaks of dark, glossy chocolate glaze. Their tongue poked out the corner of their mouth as they tried, with one spoon and absolutely zero grace, to scoop what remained of a shattered dessert into a bowl.

They paused mid-scoop when they noticed you.

"...Shit," he muttered.

You blinked. "Are you okay?? What are you—?"

"I was bein' quiet." They frowned like you were the problem. "Y’weren’t supposed to hear that."

"I heard you drop a glass bowl."

"...It was ceramic. But yeah."

You snorted.

They stared at you, shirtless and sticky, chocolate streaked across their tattooed arms and torso like they had lost a very dramatic battle with a pastry. Even had a glossy smear on the curve of their collarbone, glinting in the overhead light.

You tried not to laugh. Failed. A giggle slipped out.

"Oh my god," you whispered. "You look like you got into a fight with a donut."

They deadpanned, a chocolate-smeared brow lifting. "Y’think this is funny?"

"Very much so."

That earned a low, boyish huff from them—the kind that was all fondness, no real heat. The kind that always made your chest ache a little because it was so them.

Still, his eyes didn’t leave yours.

They gleamed. Intense. Obsessive. That fierce, unmistakable affection he never quite hid when he wasn’t playing pretend as Ren.

You took a tiny step closer. "You okay?"

"I didn’t mean to wake you."

"You didn’t. The chaos did." You hugged your pillow tighter. "...If you needed something sweet, you could’ve, I dunno, ordered cake? Or woken me up?"

They smiled—slow, a little giddy. "I was plannin’ to."

"Waking me up?"

He stepped closer. "Eventually."

You tilted your head. "Then why are you already covered in—?"

"C’mere."

You blinked. "What?"

"Come closer."

"...Why?"

They grinned. "I’m not gonna bite you."

"That's a lie."

They laughed—low, dark, devastating—then crooked a finger at you. "Angel."

You sighed but stepped forward anyway. He met you halfway, plucking the pillow from your hands and tossing it to the counter with casual ease.

Before you could even ask another question, they kissed you.

It was soft at first. Slow. Sweet.

Then it deepened—sticky and warm, tasting of chocolate and midnight, the kind of kiss that made your toes curl and your head spin. Their hands slid up your back, tugging you closer, their mouth smiling against yours like they'd been waiting all night just for this.

When they finally pulled back, you were flushed, breathless, and very confused.

"...What was that for?" you whispered.

He brushed his thumb along your cheek.

"Happy Birthday, Angel."

You blinked.

"...Huh?"

Their grin widened, boyish and smug. "You forgot."

You just stared at them, dumbfounded.

They leaned in, voice a soft, sinful whisper against your ear. "It’s midnight, sweetheart. That means it’s officially your birthday."

Your jaw dropped. "I—oh my god."

"Yeah." They kissed your cheek, the corner of your mouth, the tip of your nose. "Was gonna surprise you with chocolate cake in bed. But, uh... gravity disagreed."

You laughed, burying your face in their sticky, chocolate-smeared chest. "You idiot."

Their arms wrapped around you, pulling you tight against them. "Guilty."

You sighed into their warmth, peeking up at their face. "So this whole mess was for me?"

"All of it." They cradled your jaw in one big, sticky hand and kissed you again, soft and slow. "Y’don’t even know the rest. There’s balloons in the closet. A playlist. I was gonna wear the ribbon."

You choked. "What ribbon?"

He smirked. "You'll see."

You shook your head, giggling. Unhinged. Completely unhinged. And so sweet it made your heart hurt.

"You could’ve just woken me up, you know."

He nuzzled your temple, murmuring against your skin, "Didn’t wanna ruin the surprise. Besides..."

He kissed the chocolate from the corner of your mouth, voice low and rough, almost a growl:

"...Wanted to see that look on your face when you realized."

You melted.

"You’re such a sap."

"I’m obsessed," he corrected, without shame. "Hopelessly. Helplessly."

You smiled, threading your fingers through their messy hair.

"Happy birthday to me," you whispered.

They hummed, pressing another kiss to your lips like they couldn’t stand to be away from you for more than a second. "Y’better make a wish."

You kissed them back, slow and sleepy and covered in chocolate, and whispered:

"I already got it."

You couldn’t stop giggling.

The sheer sight of them—covered in chocolate glaze, shirtless, smeared in sugar like a walking dessert disaster—was enough to send you into a breathless, joy-drunk fit of laughter. They stood there, eyes narrowed, watching you laugh with your whole chest, hands braced on the counter as they sulked dramatically.

"Y’really think this is funny?"

"You look like a feral toddler that broke into a candy factory."

"Wow," they deadpanned.

"Love of my life, everyone. Cutely covered in chocolate..!"

You were still grinning as you grabbed their wrist and tugged them toward the hallway.

"Where’re we goin’?" they asked, still trailing chocolate with every step.

You turned, walking backward, still holding their hand. "To the bath. You’re dripping.."

They groaned, low and theatrical. “But I had plans, Angel…”

You laughed again and kicked open the bathroom door, flipping on the light. "Yeah, well, now your plans involve hot water and soap."

“And you?”

You smirked. "Maybe."

They sat on the edge of the tub while you leaned over to start the water, steam already beginning to curl from the faucet. The water warmed, you turned back to them—messy-haired, Blue-eyed, looking more like them than ever.

Chocolate streaked across the ink on their chest, making the black lines of their Japanese-inspired sleeve gleam wetly. The “angel” tattoo on their neck peeked from behind a smear of cocoa, looking almost like it was inked there just for you. You caught sight of the binary code along their ribs, smudged with icing, and smiled as you reached up to brush a bit off their collarbone.

Your thumb hovered over the tattoo on their hip—your name, delicate and lowercase, tucked just under the hem of their sweats.

They watched you the whole time. Quiet. Barely breathing.

You flicked a bit of chocolate off their cheek. "This is already the best birthday gift I’ve ever gotten, you know."

They huffed. “You say that, but I wanted to give you—fuckin’ hell, Angel—I had a whole thing planned. Music, ribbon, goddamn frosting roses—”

You giggled again and pushed at their chest lightly. “Into the tub, Birthday Disaster.”

They groaned as they stood, stripping off their sweatpants, still muttering curses under their breath. The piercings on their chest caught the light as they moved—both nipples adorned in silver hoops that glinted as you helped them step into the tub.

You caught a glimpse of more metal as they sank into the water—Jacob’s ladder, shining and wicked—and tried very hard not to get distracted by that particular detail.

“...Y’just gonna stare?” they teased, smirking up at you from the water.

You stuck out your tongue.

They grinned. “I’d die happy.”

You laughed again—really laughed—and knelt by the tub, dipping a washcloth into the warm water and gently wiping the chocolate from their arm. Their eyes fluttered shut at the touch, mouth parting just slightly.

It was 12:30 AM. The house was quiet. The world was asleep.

But here you were—carefully washing streaks of dessert off their inked skin while they melted beneath your touch like you were the warm water.

"Y’do this so easy," they mumbled, voice raspy. "Like I ain’t just been a fuckin’ mess since I met you."

You wiped the chocolate off their neck and smiled softly.

"You are a mess."

They snorted. “Thanks.”

You leaned in close, brushing your lips just under their ear. "But I still adore doing this for you."

Their breath caught. You felt it in their chest—tight, almost pained.

They cursed again, soft and sharp under their breath. "I wanted to do it right. Wanted to make it perfect for you. And here you are, takin’ care of me. Again.”

Your fingers trailed over their collarbone, over the silver ring in their nipple. They shivered, jaw tightening.

"You don’t have to be perfect," you whispered.

“But y’deserve it.”

"And you deserve to be loved exactly like this."

Their eyes opened, golden and glassy, staring up at you like you’d just carved your name into the stars.

You dipped the washcloth again, brushing it over their tattooed chest. "Besides," you added with a teasing grin, “I really like my chocolate-glazed feral donut lover.”

They choked on a laugh. “Angel.”

You kissed their cheek. “You’re sweet even without sugar.”

Their arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close against the edge of the tub.

After toweling them off and shoving a shirt over their head—one of yours, because they absolutely refused to wear anything clean when they could steal your scent—they flopped onto the bed with a dramatic groan.

“You should sleep, Angel,” they mumbled, already sprawling like a cat in a sunbeam. “I ruined your birthday.."

You, very calmly, threw a pair of socks at their face.

“You didn’t ruin anything. In fact,” you said, tilting your head playfully, “I think we should bake a cake together.”

They blinked. “...What.”

“Yeah! Like a proper celebration. You, me, some ingredients, maybe a fruit thing or like—an ice cream cake? Angel food cake?”

They squinted at you. “You just wanna see me set the oven on fire.”

“I want to beat you at baking,” you clarified, grinning wide. “And maybe rub a little whipped cream on your face if you keep looking at me like that.”

Their gaze narrowed, glittering. “That a threat, Angel?”

You leaned in, devilish. “That’s a promise.”

“...Fuck me.”

You smirked, grabbed their wrist, and pulled them out of bed.

—

The kitchen was quiet except for your soft humming and the distant whir of the fridge. The world was still dark, but inside this little bubble—just you and them and the chaos of your shared sleep-deprived energy—it felt like morning sunlight.

They sat on the counter, legs swinging, licking a spoon like it had personally wronged them.

“What kinda cake are we even making?” they mumbled around the spoon, still suspicious. “Can’t just say ‘angel food’ and expect me not to spiral.”

You turned, sticking your tongue out. “Vanilla base. Berries. Ice cream layer. Whipped cream. Something we can eat at 2 AM while watching trash TV.”

They tilted their head, thoughtful. “...You really are tryin’ to kill me, huh?”

You just grabbed the mixing bowl and handed them a whisk. “You’re gonna cream the butter.”

They blinked slowly, mouth twitching. “...You say that like it’s not the dirtiest sentence you’ve ever spoken to me.”

“Redacted.”

“Yes, Angel?”

“Whisk.”

They grinned and did as they were told, muscles flexing subtly under the thin fabric of your shirt. You didn’t look—okay, maybe you looked a little—but you mostly focused on cracking eggs and not falling in love all over again at 12:45 in the morning.

Eventually, the bowl was passed back to you, and you handed them the sifter with flour.

“Don’t you dare sneeze.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” they muttered, only to accidentally puff flour in their own face like a curse.

You snorted.

They looked at you, deadpan, face powdered like a failed Victorian ghost. “Y’think you’re real cute, huh.”

“I know I am.”

You reached up with a dollop of whipped cream and tapped it right on the tip of their nose.

They didn’t move.

Just stared at you.

Dead. Silent.

And then you leaned in, pressed a soft, lingering kiss to that same whipped-cream-smeared nose, and whispered, “Gotcha.”

Their exhale was audible.

Like a man trying not to combust on the spot.

“You’re testin’ me,” they muttered, voice low and fraying, “God, you’re testin’ me. You put a collar on me next-"

You giggled and turned back to your mixing, unfazed. “You can’t even beat me in baking, love. What makes you think you can handle me? Second, We will do that later! Not Now!”

Behind you, they groaned into their hands. “I can’t. That’s the problem.”

You poured the batter into the tray, already lined and prepped. Redacted helped—begrudgingly, like it was the most intimate act of worship they could perform—and then hovered behind you while you slid it into the oven.

“You’re warm,” they mumbled against your back.

“You’re clingy,” you replied, but you didn’t push them away.

Instead, you leaned into them, letting them wrap their arms around your waist.

Their chin rested on your shoulder. You felt their piercings brush your skin—cold against your warmth—and you smiled.

“You smell like sugar,” they muttered, kissing your neck. “You’re sweeter than anything we could bake. S’not fair.”

You turned in their arms and pressed your forehead to theirs. “Maybe. But I still like it when your hands are covered in batter and you sigh like I just sentenced you to death.”

They closed their eyes. “You did. A delicious death. My dignity’s buried in the flour bag.”

“Your dignity died when I caught you licking chocolate off the counter.”

They opened one eye. “Still tasted better than my soul ever did.”

You burst out laughing again—soft, helpless, in love—and their arms tightened around you like a reflex.

“You really mean it?” you murmured after a beat. “You’d bake with me every year? Even if..."

They looked down at you like you’d said their name in the voice of a god.

“Angel,” they said softly, “I’d bake with you every night, every year, every timeline. Even if it kills me. Even if it burns. I don’t care. Long as it’s with you.”

Your smile softened. “Then it’s already a perfect birthday.”

You were just placing the final swirl of whipped cream on top of the cake when you heard them rummaging behind you. You didn’t think much of it—he was always up to something weird in the kitchen. But then he turned around…

With a single candle clutched delicately between two tattooed fingers.

You blinked.

“…Is that from the junk drawer?” you asked, a laugh tugging at your lips.

“It’s technically birthday-colored,” they replied solemnly, inspecting the little pink-and-white wax stick like it was an ancient relic. “And not expired. I checked. S’got like—half a wick left.”

You almost lost it when he stuck it into the cake like it was a ceremonial sword. It tilted a bit, like it was too shy to stand up straight.

“Really went all out, huh,” you teased, grinning.

They lit it.

And then everything paused—soft candlelight flickering across his features, catching the metal of his piercings like tiny stars, the tattoo on his neck peeking out above the collar of your borrowed shirt: angel, inked into a crooked little heart.

His eyes glimmered.

Like you were something sacred.

He cleared his throat once, then said, voice almost shy, “Happy birthday, Angel.”

You laughed—but it caught in your chest, tangled up with something warmer, heavier. It wasn’t even the candle, not really—it was the way he looked at you. Like you were the whole sky and he would’ve kissed the ground you walked on if you asked.

Before he could say anything else, you crossed the kitchen and threw your arms around him.

They made a soft, surprised noise—like you’d punched the air out of their lungs—then immediately hugged you back, tight, strong hands splaying across your back like they could anchor you there forever.

You whispered into the side of his neck, “I’m glad I got to spend my birthday with you again.”

You felt them stiffen, just for a moment—like your words hit deeper than intended.

When he pulled back to look at you, his eyebrows twitched like he couldn’t decide whether to smile or fall apart.

“Angel…” he said, voice low and cracking, “y’don’t gotta—fuck, don’t say it like that. You’re gonna make me—”

He broke off, biting the inside of their cheek like it hurt to hold it in.

You were tearing up too, now.

It was stupid. It was just a cake, a candle dug out of a junk drawer, a night at 1 a.m. in a messy kitchen with your unhinged, obsessive, pierced-up weirdo who pretended they didn’t have feelings—but fell harder for you every damn second.

And it was perfect.

He kissed your cheeks—both of them—in quick, desperate little pecks that tasted like whipped cream and held back tears.

“No cryin’,” he mumbled against your skin. “Not tonight. Not on your birthday. Y’hear me? Don’t cry ‘cause then I’m gonna fuckin’ cry and then we’re gonna be pathetic and sticky.”

You giggled wetly. “That sounds kinda romantic though.”

“Tragic,” they muttered, eyes shining, “but so goddamn hot.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, still smiling. “Then let’s be tragic. But happy.”

“Always.”

You both ended up sitting cross-legged on the floor, cake between you. You insisted on cutting it—he insisted you shouldn't be trusted with knives, so naturally you cut it anyway.

You fed him first—because it was your birthday and you said so. He leaned forward obediently, mouth open like some bratty prince demanding to be served.

“Say ‘ahhh,’” you teased.

They rolled their eyes like you were the biggest nuisance alive, then bit the spoon dramatically. “Ahhh, fuck yeah.”

You snorted. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Tasted like heaven,” he said, licking frosting from the corner of their mouth. “Bet your fingers taste better.”

“Stop being needy for two seconds.”

“Genuinely impossible.”

You popped a bite into your own mouth—sweet, cold, melting—and he watched you like it was a religious rite he was privileged to witness.

And then—deviously—he dipped a finger into the whipped cream and booped your nose.

You gasped. “You did not.”

They grinned like a devil who absolutely would.

“Oh, it’s war now.”

You lunged, dragging a swipe of cream across his lips.

He licked it off without breaking eye contact. “You’re flirting with death.”

“You like it.”

“God, I do.”

The air between you changed—charged, heavy, slow. His hand cupped your jaw. Your fingers still sticky with sugar. He leaned forward and kissed you—soft, slow, sweet, tasting like frosting and sugar and something impossibly tender.

“I ever tell you I love you?” he whispered against your mouth.

You nodded, breath catching. “Every day.”

“Good,” he murmured. “Gotta remind you. You forget sometimes.”

You shook your head, smiling so hard it hurt. “I never forget. You’re unforgettable.”

He nuzzled your cheek, his piercings cool against your flushed skin, but his body solid and warm as ever.

“Still wish I did more,” he mumbled.

“You did plenty.”

He kissed your forehead. “I’m gonna do more. Every birthday. Every night. Every fuckin’ lifetime. 'Til you're sick of me.”

“Impossible,” you whispered.

You beamed up at them, warmth bubbling in your chest like sunlight.

Both of you—messy, covered in cake crumbs, sleepy-eyed—adored each other so hard it almost hurt. It was the kind of love that made everything else in the world irrelevant.

You barely made it to the bed before passing out. Redacted curled around you like a human blanket, arms and legs tangled in yours, breathing against your neck like you were the only oxygen they needed.

It was perfect. Until—

"Angel," they mumbled, nudging you insistently. You groaned, burying your face into the pillow. "Five more minutes..."

They snorted, low and amused. "Yeah, nah. Up y'get, sweetheart."

Before you could argue, Redacted just scooped you up—like you weighed nothing—and slung you over their shoulder like a smug, tattooed gremlin.

You shrieked, half-laughing, pounding your fists weakly against their back. "Put me down, you menace!"

"Nope," they said with way too much glee, "You forfeited your rights when you declared war with whipped cream last night."

You laughed so hard you almost slipped from their hold, but they caught you without hesitation, muttering, "Gotcha. Always gotcha."

You ended up perched on the bathroom counter, while Redacted—still looking far too proud of themselves—started running a warm bath.

"Supposed to be takin' care of you," they grumbled, fussing with soap and towels like it was serious business.

You just watched them with your heart melting into syrup.

When they turned back around, you smiled mischievously. "My turn to take care of you, dummy."

They scowled, but the tips of their ears turned pink. "M'not a dummy. S'posed to be pamperin' you. Birthday rules."

"Yeah? Well," you said, hopping off the counter, "the real rule is we take care of each other."

They stared at you—just stared—like you’d hung the constellations just to light their way home. Then they let you tug them into the tub without a word.

The bath was slow, dreamy. You traced their tattoos with soapy fingers—the chaotic art scrawled across their skin, from the massive Japanese sleeve inked down their arm.

You kissed the "angel" tattoo on their neck, nuzzled the wings inked low on their back, whispered your love against the curve of their hipbone.

And they just... melted for you.

Every brush of your hands, every glance of your eyes—they were falling apart and being stitched back together by your touch alone.

Later, after you’d managed to get dressed (despite their pitiful whining about "c'mon, birthday privilege"), Redacted muttered about "plans" and practically dragged you out the door.

The first stop?

The little cafe.

Your cafe.

The one you and "Ren" went on your first date into like two idiots pretending you weren’t already hopelessly, irreversibly entangled.

Redacted didn't say a word—just pressed a hand to the small of your back and led you in.

The second the barista spotted them, they lit up. "Hey, welcome back! Got it ready!"

They handed over a small, perfect vanilla angel food cake—soft white icing, strawberries, and a single candle flickering like a tiny heartbeat.

Your throat closed up. Tears blurred your vision.

Because you knew.

You knew how much this meant. How hard they must have worked to pull this off, in the quiet, in the background, just to make you smile.

This wasn’t just a cafe. It was your place.

The place where they lied to you—and where you loved them anyway. The place where you learned the truth—and loved them even more.

They pulled out a chair for you, fidgeting nervously, tattooed fingers twitching.

You sat.

They sat across from you, that familiar crooked grin softening their sharp features.

The candle flickered between you.

"Go on," they said, voice rough with feeling. "Make a wish, birthday.."

You closed your eyes and whispered two wishes into the candlelight.

The first:

"Insert your wish!"

The second—

You opened your eyes, locked your gaze with theirs, and said it aloud:

"My second wish is to stay with you forever, Redacted."

They blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And then—

[REDACTED.EXE HAS STOPPED WORKING]

You watched him short-circuit, visibly struggling not to combust on the spot. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. Their piercings caught the candlelight like tiny, desperate stars. Their hands spasmed on the table like they didn’t know whether to grab you or worship you from afar.

They made a broken little noise—half laugh, half sob.

"You—you fuckin'—" they stammered, face flushing crimson from the tips of their ears down to the tattooed curve of their throat. "Y'can't just say shit like that, Angel, fuck—!"

You laughed, radiant, drinking in the rare sight of them absolutely speechless.

Redacted groaned loudly, dragging their hands down their face.

"You're gonna fuckin' kill me," they muttered. "Swear t'god. Death by Angel. Fuckin' death by love."

You stood up, circled around, and hugged them from behind, resting your chin lightly on their shoulder.

"I hope so," you whispered. "If I’m gonna kill you, it might as well be with love."

They turned their head, pressing a kiss into your temple, breathing you in like you were the first real thing they'd ever tasted.

"I love you so fuckin’ much," they rasped, voice cracked open and bare.

Together, you blew out the candle.

And somewhere in the spaces between heartbeats, you both understood—

You weren’t just celebrating another year alive.

You were celebrating every messy, beautiful, wild day you had survived to reach each other.

Every birthday after this?

Would only get better.

Because you weren’t just growing older.

You were growing together.

You cut a small piece of the cake first, hands a little shaky because Redacted was staring at you like you’d personally invented gravity.

You snorted under your breath. “Stop looking at me like that, weirdo.”

They leaned back in their chair, arms crossing lazily, smirk tugging at their pierced lip. “Can’t help it. Lookin’ at my whole fuckin’ world. Sue me.”

Your face heated so fast you almost dropped the fork.

"Shut up and eat," you muttered, cheeks burning, but gods, the grin stretching your mouth was unstoppable.

You held out the bite of cake to them, and Redacted—ever the menace—leaned forward, catching the fork between their teeth, humming low in their throat like it was the best thing they’d ever tasted.

“Mm. Good,” they said simply, but the way they looked at you, like you hung the stars crooked just to make them smile, nearly did you in.

“Your turn, Angel.”

They grabbed a piece—way too big—and shoved it toward your mouth with a grin so chaotic it should’ve been illegal.

"Be nice!" you gasped, trying not to choke, giggling around the mouthful.

"Was bein’ nice," they teased, flicking a smear of cream off your lip with their thumb—and then licking it clean without a shred of shame, like they wanted you to combust right there.

You fed each other back and forth, no hope of staying clean, laughing harder with every swipe of frosting across a cheek, every clumsy bump of noses.

At some point, you both gave up on dignity.

There you were—at this tiny, cozy cafe—feeding each other like absolute gremlins, icing on your faces, table rattling under your weight as you leaned too close, your laughter bubbling so loud it turned heads.

(You noticed the college kids trying not to stare. You noticed the old couple smiling fondly from the corner. You noticed the barista behind the counter giving a thumbs-up. None of it mattered.)

Because in that moment, Redacted wasn’t the figure from the shadows. Wasn’t the myth or the secret.

They were just yours.

Yours, yours, yours.

Your beautiful, punkish, messy partner, silver jewelry glinting in the warm light, tattoos curling along tan skin, their eyes crinkled up from smiling so damn hard.

"You’re so fuckin’ pretty when you laugh," they muttered, like it physically hurt to keep the words in. Their voice rough and low and wrecked in the way that made your stomach do dangerous things. "Swear, Angel. You fuckin' kill me."

You dipped your finger into the icing and dabbed it onto the tip of their nose.

They blinked at you, unimpressed.

“You gonna clean that, or am I wearin' it forever now?” they asked, all dry sarcasm barely hiding the absolute adoration bleeding off them.

You leaned in and kissed their nose—soft and sweet—and pulled back just far enough to see the way their eyes fluttered shut at the contact.

"There. Perfect," you whispered.

Redacted exhaled like you’d punched the air out of them—arms wrapping around your waist, dragging you into their lap despite the tiny table squeezing you both.

"...S'too fuckin' early for me to be this gone for you," they mumbled into your shoulder, nuzzling there like a sleep-drunk cat.

You laughed, heart splitting open inside your chest. "You're always gone for me, dummy."

After you finished most of the cake—and wiped about half of it off each other—Redacted leaned back in their chair, lazily draping an arm across the back of your seat. Their thumb brushed idly against your shoulder as they stared at you with a look that made your heart skip hard enough to ache.

Then they smirked. "Got somewhere else I wanna take ya, Angel."

You tilted your head, curious. "Where?"

They just chuckled low under their breath— sound that made your stomach flip—and stood up, ruffling your hair//

"Trust me."

(You did. Always.)

Outside, parked by the curb under the humming streetlights, was Redacted’s beat-up black motorcycle. The thing gleamed, battered but proud, the kind of vehicle you could tell had survived more chaos than it should’ve. (Kinda like him.)

He popped open the small storage compartment, pulled out a matte black helmet, and shoved it gently onto your head, securing it with exaggerated care.

"Safety first, Dear Angel," they said, tapping the top of the helmet. "Ain't lettin' you crack that pretty head open today."

You stuck your tongue out at them, and they laughed—full, rough, and delighted.

He looked so damn smug about it too, like he lived for these moments. Big, bad Redacted... spoiling you like it was built into their DNA.

They swung a leg over the bike, movements easy, confident, then patted the seat behind them.

"Hop on, Angel," he teased, flashing a sharp grin. "Unless you're scared."

You climbed on—only wobbling a little (which you would never admit)—and wrapped your arms tightly around his middle. You felt his quiet laugh vibrate through you right before the bike roared to life beneath you both.

And then— You were flying.

The city blurred around you, neon and headlights bleeding together, the wind clawing at your jacket and stinging your cheeks. You pressed closer against him, feeling the solid heat of his body through his layers, your heart hammering not from fear—but from exhilaration.

It was terrifying. It was electric. It was perfect.

At a red light, you caught sight of a few familiar faces on the sidewalk—people from before. People you used to know.

Their gazes snapped to you instantly, Wantin to talk, Especially your friend. But You got into a small fight..

You felt Redacted tense beneath you.

He noticed. Of course he did.

"Ignore 'em," he muttered over his shoulder, voice low and dangerous.

Still, you couldn't pretend it didn't sting a little—the way they looked at you, the whispers that seemed to curl in the back of your mind.

You shifted slightly, clutching a little tighter.

"You mad?" he asked, head tilting slightly toward you.

"...Little," you admitted, trying to keep it light, trying not to let it ruin tonight. "But I don't care. Not right now."

You pressed your forehead between his shoulder blades, breathing him in—leather, smoke, and that grounding, fiery scent that was just him.

"I just wanna be with you today," you mumbled against his back. "That's all that matters."

For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

Then his hand left the handlebar just long enough to find your thigh—fingers curling tight, steady, grounding.

"Y'got me, Angel," he said roughly. "Always."

And you believed it.

With every beat of your heart against his spine. With every mile tearing past under the bike’s tires. With every breath you dared to steal from the night sky.

You had him.

Always.

The light turned green. The world roared back to life.

He drove faster now, just a little reckless, taking sharp turns and speeding down empty roads until you were laughing breathlessly against his back, clutching him like a lifeline. (He loved it. You knew he did. You could feel it in how he relaxed under your touch.)

Redacted looked way too proud of himself. That smug little grin didn’t leave their face as they tugged you along the street, their hand warm and rough around yours.

"Keep 'em shut, Angel," he said, sliding his hand over your eyes as you giggled, stumbling a little, trusting him without question.

"Where are we going?" you whined playfully, trying (and failing) to peek.

He just snorted, steering you carefully. "You'll see."

You could feel how giddy he was. His steps were practically bouncing, like he couldn't decide between rushing or dragging it out just to hear you squirm a little longer.

He led you inside somewhere—cooler air, a faint sound like distant bubbles rising. The smell of salt, that deep, watery echo of a place full of life.

You realized where you were a second before he dropped his hand.

When your eyes adjusted— Your breath hitched.

The whole room shimmered in soft blue and purple hues. All around you, massive tanks glowed, full of drifting jellyfish—luminescent and ghostly, pulsing like slow, sleeping hearts.

Big ones with long trailing tendrils. Tiny ones, bright as sparks, moving in lazy spirals. The ceiling was mirrored, throwing a hundred more stars above your head.

It was like stepping into a dream.

A whole exhibit, just for jellyfish. Just for you.

You turned, overwhelmed—and found him already staring. Not at the lights. Not at the tanks. Only at you.

Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them, blurring the entire world into a wash of color and light.

He stiffened instantly. Panic flickered across his face. "Shit—Angel—? I—"

You grabbed his hand before he could spiral, squeezing tight.

He flinched, confused—but you just smiled through the tears, that helpless, wrecked kind of smile that cracked him clean open every time.

"You’re confused...?" you choked out, half-laughing. "I'm just—I'm so happy. You—"

You broke off, overwhelmed, and pressed a kiss to the back of his scarred, calloused hand. Right over all the little marks he tried to hide without even realizing it.

"You're beautiful," you whispered. "Even with everything. Especially because of everything."

He swallowed hard, their fingers twitching slightly against yours like he didn't know what to do with the feeling burning through him.

You saw it—that tiny, trembling crack in his armor. The one he only ever let you see.

He blinked fast, looking up sharply like he could force the emotions down if he just didn't look at you.

You laughed, wiping your cheeks clumsily—and they finally let themself smile. Crooked. Warm. So, so soft.

He reached out, lacing his fingers with yours and tugging you closer until your shoulder bumped theirs.

"Let's go, Angel," he said gruffly.

You wandered the glowing paths together, hand in hand. Jellyfish floated like dreams on every side of you, casting your joined shadows in strange, beautiful shapes across the floor.

Every so often, Redacted’s thumb would stroke absent-minded, slow circles into the back of your hand. Little soothing touches he probably didn’t even realize he was giving.

And every once in a while, you’d catch him sneaking a glance at you.

Like he couldn't help it. Like he needed to memorize you right here, glowing and real and holding his hand like you’d never let go.

You caught him once—and grinned. He immediately muttered under his breath, "'S your fault for bein' so fuckin' pretty," and refused to meet your eyes for a full two minutes after that.

(You smiled like a saint anyway. Like a fool in love. Like a fool who knew he loved you back.)

The jellyfish floated like a galaxy caught in water. Slow, deliberate pulses moved them through the glowing blue all around you. Some were tiny, no bigger than your fingernail, bobbing like fragile paper lanterns. Others had long, trailing tentacles like ribbons pulled along a gentle current.

You jumped slightly, a tiny gasp slipping out, full of wonder and joy. The sound made Redacted glance sideways at you, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth— but it was the kind of smile that ached with how much he loved seeing you like this.

The jellyfish changed colors, shifting from pale moonlight white to soft pinks and delicate lavenders, and then into deep, royal blues that mirrored the midnight sky outside. You stood there, struck silent, mouth parted in awe. Your hands tightened in his without even realizing it, squeezing, needing something to anchor you against how unreal it all felt.

Redacted leaned down a little, his breath brushing against your temple. "Y'know..." he murmured, voice low and rough, fond in a way they hardly ever let slip, "I coulda brought you anywhere, Angel. Anywhere in the fuckin' world. But you... you get like this over some floatin' fishbags."

You laughed, wiping at your cheeks again, still damp from earlier tears. "They're beautiful," you whispered, bumping your shoulder lightly against his. "You're beautiful for bringing me here."

He snorted, trying to act unaffected, but you caught the way his ears turned pink under the silver piercings.

("Fuck," he muttered under his breath, low and ragged, like even he couldn’t believe how soft he was for you.)

You let go of his hand for a moment and spun slowly under the shimmering glow. The reflections of the jellyfish swam over your skin—rippling blues and silvers along your arms, your cheeks, your lashes. You looked like something not meant for the earth.

And Redacted was ruined by it.

"Fuckin' ethereal," he muttered, rough and reverent. (Probably meant for you not to hear. You definitely heard.)

You came to a stop in front of him, smiling shy and warm, eyes still glassy with wonder. And he was just—looking at you. Like breathing hurt a little.

You reached out, curling your fingers into the collar of his jacket, tugging him closer. The corner of their mouth twitched up in something like amusement, but his gaze softened completely, molten and unguarded, and he let you pull him down to you.

The kiss was feather-light at first. Soft. Tentative. Almost like you both feared breaking the delicate moment spun between you.

His hands hovered at your waist, not grabbing, not demanding—offering. Waiting. Letting you lead.

You deepened the kiss just a little— And he melted.

Their hands slid over your hips, slow and reverent, their thumbs drawing tender little arcs against your sides. You parted your lips with a soft, unthinking sound, and Redacted shuddered against you like you’d pulled the air straight from their lungs.

When you finally parted, he leaned his forehead against yours, breathing rough, breathing you in.

"Happy fuckin’ birthday, Angel," he rasped, his voice scraped raw with feeling. "Hope it's not... y'know... too much."

You opened your eyes and stared at him. At him, this beautiful, feral, breakable thing trying so hard to be good enough for you.

You shook your head and smiled, radiant and aching. "It's perfect," you whispered. "You're perfect."

Redacted cursed again, low and almost helpless, like he couldn’t handle the way you looked at him like he had strung up the stars himself just to impress you. (And he had. In his own way. He'd given you a whole ocean tonight. Salt was not needed)

The two of you drifted through the exhibits for what felt like hours. You pointed out your favorite jellyfish—the tiny ones that looked like miniature fireworks, and the giant ghostlike ones that drifted by like slow, dreaming spirits. Every so often, Redacted would brush his thumb against the back of your hand, or bump his shoulder into yours—quiet little reassurances, little touches that said I'm here. I’m still here.

At one point, you leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder—and he just... let you. No teasing. No pretending to be tougher than he was.

He tilted his head to lean lightly against yours, closing his eyes for a moment like soaking in you was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

And honestly... It felt that way for you, too.

When you finally wandered out into the cool night air, hand in hand, you could still see the jellyfish behind your eyelids— like the whole world had been changed and made softer just for the two of you.

Redacted tugged you closer against their side, slipping his arm easily around your waist like he couldn’t help himself anymore.

You didn't even try to hide the grin breaking across your face.

"You keep lookin' at me like that," he grumbled, though there was no heat to it at all.

You laughed, soft and light as the night around you. You leaned up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, catching on the little silver hoop you always secretly adored.

"I do like you, dumbass," you said sweetly. "Love you, actually."

He froze. Just for a second.

And then he was tucking you tighter against him, nearly crushing you to his side, desperate and sure all at once.

"Yeah," he muttered into your hair, voice thick and shaking a little. "Love you too, Angel.

The day had been blessed—there was no other word for it. It felt like walking through a dream stitched together by Redacted’s own hands.

After the jellyfish, he hadn’t stopped. He just kept going, pulling you from one hidden gem to another—tiny cafes tucked between buildings, old bookstores with cracked spines and friendly ghosts, cozy little shops where you used to window-shop and dream about “someday.”

He bought you new anime merch you’d been eyeing—sneaking it into a bag behind your back with the subtlety of a gremlin—and picked out fresh drawing supplies, too, without you even hinting. He just knew. The right pens, the exact brand of sketchbook you always lingered over but never let yourself buy. You loved art

Every time you gasped or smiled or shyly murmured a "thank you," he just shrugged and muttered something like, "'Course I fuckin’ know what you like, Angel. Don’t act all surprised." But the tips of his ears still turned pink every damn time.

The day had been filled with laughter, soft teasing, stolen kisses you tried to sneak—and kisses Redacted didn’t sneak at all. He wanted it known. Wanted everyone to see: you were his, and he was yours.

Now, it was almost midnight. The motorcycle purred under the both of you, the city lights blurring into molten streaks of gold, violet, neon pink.

You clutched the back of his jacket, resting your forehead against his spine. Even through leather and fabric, you felt the steady beat of his heart. He didn’t ride fast tonight. It wasn’t about adrenaline. It was about being close—for every last second of your birthday.

You caught sight of a clock on a passing building—11:58 PM. Almost over. Your chest ached with the bittersweet of it.

Redacted must’ve felt it too. Because the next quiet overlook he spotted, he pulled over, cut the engine. The world slipped into a hush, nothing but the far-off hum of the city and the sigh of the wind.

You climbed off, legs shaky from more than just the ride. He followed, tugging off his helmet, silver piercings catching the moonlight, messy hair falling into his eyes.

He stared at you. A long second—like he was trying to memorize you. Brand you into memory so deep even death couldn't steal it.

Then he smiled. Small, crooked, a little tired. Overflowing with a love too big for him to carry alone.

"Happy birthday," he rasped, voice rough-edged with all the feelings he wasn’t good at naming. "Thanks for... y'know. Thanks for fuckin' spendin’ it with me."

You opened your mouth—ready to tell him there was nothing you would’ve wanted more—but he beat you to it, gaze flickering away like he couldn’t stand to see your face when he said it:

"I really don't fuckin' deserve you, Angel."

Your breath hitched. No. No way were you letting him think that.

You stepped close, cupping his jaw between your hands, feeling the rough scrape of stubble under your thumbs. Grounding. Real.

"Thank you, Redacted," you whispered, voice thick with everything you couldn’t fit into words. "I love you."

Something shattered behind his eyes. Like a dam cracking open.

You leaned up and kissed him—desperate, trembling, crying—and he kissed you back like you were the air he’d been choking for.

His hands gripped your waist, careful and reverent, holding you like you were something holy, something breakable and precious and his.

When you finally pulled away, his eyes shone in the dark. He wasn’t crying—he was too stubborn for that—but you knew. You saw it.

You pressed your forehead against his, breathing each other in as the clock ticked over.

12:00 AM. Your birthday was officially over.

But you didn’t feel sad. Because you still had him. And he still had you.

Maybe that was the real gift all along.

The city lights blurred in your periphery, a soft, pulsing halo. But nothing was brighter than the way Redacted looked at you.

You smiled through your tears and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, brushing against the little silver hoop you adored, then another kiss under his jaw, where a faint scar lived.

"You’re the best thing I got today," you whispered against his skin.

He snorted wetly, the sound rough and choked with barely-held emotion. He squeezed you closer, until it felt like you were pressed heart-to-heart, soul-to-soul.

"Fuck’s sake, Angel," he muttered, voice cracking just enough for you to hear it. "How the fuck am I s’posed to top that next year?"

You laughed—a bright, breathless sound—and wrapped your arms around him tighter, like you could stitch yourselves together if you just tried hard enough.

"I guess we’ll just have to keep trying," you teased, grinning against the curve of his neck.

Redacted chuckled under his breath—low and warm—and then kissed you again. Slow. Deep. Like a vow.

Again and again. As long as you’d let him.

Hey... Angel.

Happy birthday. I'm glad you're here.

I'm fuckin' lucky I get to see you smile, lucky I get to touch you, laugh with you... It means you’re here with me.

You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, y'know that? If it were up to me, I'd wrap you in my arms and never let you go. You deserve everything good, and better than good. You deserve heaven, Angel.

So... yeah. Happy birthday. Thanks for stickin’ around, even when I don't make it easy. Thanks for lettin' me love you the only way I know how—messy, loud, real as fuck. Thanks for choosin’ me, when you coulda had anyone else.

I ain't gonna pretend I'm good enough for you. But I am gonna spend every goddamn day tryin' to be someone you can keep smilin' at. Someone you can love without regret. Someone you can come home to and know—fuckin’ know—that no matter how fucked up the world gets, you got someone who’ll always, always choose you.

And if you ever want it, I'll build it for you. Brick by fuckin' brick.

Happy birthday. I love you more than I'll ever be able to say right.

-RENDACTED

Reblog is okay!

#THAT WAS SO CUTE im gonna die #the jellyfish sceneeee #i love jellyfishes #love redacted #14dwy

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piolhosstuff · 2 months ago

Text

Sweetness Overload? - REDACTED X G.N Reader (SMUT?)

Genre: smut

Summary: —REQUEST COPIED angel and redacted agreed on a challenge that they will be eating a chocolate with aphrodisiac in it and have to hold in their pent up desires for as long as they can. whoever lasts longer wins and whoever loses their shit and tries to relieve themselves loses

( Reader is a g.n!)

EXTRA: This was a request, from discord, They're a good friend!!

This is the first out of 1/50, again request you can request!

Content/Trigger warnings

Explicit Sexual Content (NSFW)

Dom/Sub Dynamics (Teasing, control, and edging)

Praise Kink

Strong Emotional Intimacy

Light Roughness (Biting, marking, possessive touch)

Overstimulation

APHRODISIAC. CHOCOLATE

Did not proof read/Rushed.

The chocolate sat on your tongue like a dare.

It melted slow—rich, dark, spiked with something that coiled heat low in your stomach. You didn't even blink as you swallowed it, leaning back with a hum like you’d just tasted something divine. Across from you, REDACTED mirrored you with that practiced calm, expression unreadable… but that twitch in his jaw? That wasn’t nothing.

He licked the corner of his mouth, lazy. “Sweet, huh?” “Like sin,” you said. And he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Too dangerous. Too hot. Too interested.

His sledgehammer was in the corner, still flecked with red from a few nights ago. You’d teased him for not cleaning it. He said he liked the color. Now, his attention was all on you.

You crossed your legs just to mess with him. His gaze flicked down. Not subtle.

“You good?” you asked, feigning innocence. “You're awfully quiet.” He tilted his head, eyes half-lidded. “M’fine. Are you?”

“Peachy.”

“Mmh.” He leaned forward. Just a little. “Y’sure that chocolate didn’t hit you too hard, Angel?”

You didn't answer just looked away, Now it was already 20 minutes

It looked like a curse wrapped in silver foil. Deep, glossy brown—infused with something unspoken and forbidden. A custom aphrodisiac designed to test every ounce of restraint. You and REDACTED had agreed to the challenge half-jokingly, sometime after midnight, legs tangled from a movie neither of you finished watching. One piece each. No touching. No relieving. Whoever broke first, lost.

You’d thought it might even the playing field.

Redacted leaned back against the headboard, long legs stretched, hands on his thighs like this was a Sunday nap instead of the literal edge of hell. There was that usual lazy calm in the way he moved, like he had nothing to prove. But you knew better. You knew him. That softness in his grin? That wasn’t detachment. That was devotion.

You, on the other hand, felt like your skin didn’t fit. The chocolate hit like a whisper at first—sweet, heady, rich—but then it wound its way through your nerves like silk on a razor. Your clothes were too close. The air was too warm. Every heartbeat throbbed somewhere low and aching.

You shifted, biting the inside of your cheek.

“You alright over there, angel?” he asked, voice thick and sweet, like he wasn’t the real problem.

Your glare didn’t even have the heat to land. "fine.” He hummed. Not smug. Just fond. “You don’t look fine. Y’look like a match waitin’ to be struck.”

The worst part? He was completely unaffected. Not cold. Just... steady. The chocolate might as well’ve been a breath mint to him. He wasn’t sweating. He wasn’t squirming. You were halfway to melting, and he was watching you like a man in love at a funeral—silent, reverent, and a little bit ruined.

“You sure you wanna keep goin’?” he murmured, head tilting slightly. “I won’t tease if it’s too much. Jus’ say the word.” It was soft. Gentle. Genuine. And it made it so much worse.

Because he meant it. Because he always meant it.

Because he was always like this. Down bad. Horny. Obsessed. He didn’t need some fancy chocolate. You could sneeze in his direction and he’d be halfway to planning your wedding. This wasn’t a challenge to him—it was foreplay for a game he’d already lost the moment he laid eyes on you.

“I’m good,” you mumbled, even though your whole body felt like live wire.

He nodded like he believed you. “Brave thing.”

You groaned into your hands. “How are you so calm?”

He blinked, confused like you’d asked why the sky was blue. Then that soft grin pulled at his lips, lazy and loving. “Angel. M’hard all the time.” Your breath caught. “Anything you do—anything—you could eat soup and I’d be fightin’ for my life. This? Chocolate? Please. You’re just givin’ me permission to watch you come apart. Ain’t no punishment in that.”

Your jaw dropped. “So you’re—what? Not struggling at all?”

“Oh, I’m strugglin’,” he drawled, adjusting where he sat. “Just not from the chocolate.” He looked you over—slowly, deliberately. “M’strugglin’ because you’re sittin’ there all flushed and breathin’ hard and makin’ them soft little noises, and I gotta pretend I ain’t already in love with every twitch of your pretty mouth.”

You stared at him, heat licking up your spine.

He leaned in slightly—not close enough to touch, but just enough that you could feel it. The tension. The devotion. The ache.

“I don’t need help wantin’ you, angel,” he murmured, voice dipping low. “I wake up wantin’ you. I go to sleep wantin’ you. I breathe wantin’ you. Chocolate ain’t got shit on that.”

You made a strangled sound.

Redacted grinned.

“Still wanna win?” You glared. “I was winning.” “Oh? You sure? ‘Cause you’re lookin’ awful twitchy over there…” “You’re cheating. You’re always like this.” “Mmh,” he said, all smug affection. “Then maybe you should stop givin’ me reasons to be.”

You were panting now. Shallow. Soft. Embarrassingly loud in the quiet of the room. And him? That bastard looked normal. Effortless. Like he hadn’t just dragged you into the devil’s personal endurance trial.

It wasn’t fair.

He could control their desires—hold them tight in that iron vice grip of his while you sat here melting like wax under a steady flame. He could talk like that, touch like that, and look like that, all without breaking a sweat.

And now?

Now you were in his lap.

Somehow—when did that happen?—he’d pulled you in close, casual as breathing. You were facing forward, back against his chest, and his arms were draped around your waist like you were just settling in for a nap, not squirming in a hell of your own making. His chin rested lightly on your shoulder, breath warm against your neck.

And the way he spoke?

It wasn’t just teasing anymore.

“Feelin' a little warm, angel?” he murmured, voice low and syrup-slick. “Can feel you breathin’ through your skin.”

You shivered. “You’re the one who pulled me over here.”

“Mm,” he hummed, nuzzling lazily against the crook of your neck. “You were twitchin’ so much. Thought I’d help you settle. Thought bein’ close might calm you down.”

He knew what he was doing. He knew. Every word came out like honey laced with sin, soft and indulgent and wicked in a way that made your stomach curl.

“You know,” he continued, tone thoughtful, hand splayed against your thigh with no movement, “I think I like you like this. All flushed and restless. Tryin’ so hard not to grind down on me.”

Your breath hitched so violently it turned into a whimper.

He smiled against your skin.

“Shh, angel,” he cooed, and that hand—fuck—that hand gripped. Just for a second. Just one, solid squeeze.

You almost squealed.

He chuckled low in his chest, and you felt it rumble against your back. “Sorry, that too much?” he whispered, not sorry at all.

Your face was burning.

“Don’t worry, I’m good,” he said, brushing a kiss behind your ear like it was nothing. “Ain’t even hard, really. Jus’ enjoyin’ myself.”

You gasped, scandalized, twisting halfway in his lap to glare at him—but your body betrayed you, again. The twist pressed your thighs right over his, and now you were grinding down before your brain could stop it.

He sucked in a breath, sharp. His hands flexed.

“Ahah—fuck this,” you breathed, and before you could think twice, you kissed him.

Hard.

Immediate.

Hungry.

You felt him freeze for a split second under you, lips parting in soft shock—and then that slow, smug grin pulled across his mouth like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. He chuckled, low and amused, and it made your heart punch against your ribs.

“Well,” he whispered against your lips, voice rough and way too pleased, “guess that means I win.”

You almost wanted to cry.

But then—his hands cupped your face so gently, and he kissed you again. Not greedy. Not filthy. Sweet. So sweet it tasted wrong against the haze buzzing in your skull.

What the hell? Why was this—why was this sweet?

Your brain was acting like it had been put through a blender full of sugar and sin and you couldn’t stop. You clutched at his hoodie, mouth dragging back to meet his again and again, needy now—messy, frantic, chasing the softness like it’d vanish if you let go.

And he let you.

He matched you.

Groaned softly when your lips moved fast and wet and desperate, and when your tongue slid out to taste him again—oh god, his hands gripped your hips tight, fingers digging in like he needed to ground himself.

But this wasn’t him losing it.

No.

That was you.

Because the chocolate—oh, fuck, the chocolate—this wasn’t just heat anymore. It was need. It was sensation overload. It was everything good and unbearable twisted into one drugged haze that made his every sigh feel like a goddamn prayer.

And then—

“Whoever breaks first, loses,” you whispered against his lips.

He paused.

Then, with zero hesitation, he pushed you back onto the bed.

Soft, slow. Like laying down treasure.

And he followed, crawling over you with that same lazy ease he always carried—but now it was laced with hunger.

"You kissed me first,” he murmured, eyes blown wide and dark with want. “That’s losin’.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to sass, to anything—but then his hand slid up under your shirt and landed against your skin, warm and reverent, and your whole body arched.

"Ah—Redacted—!"

He leaned down, whispering against your ear, “Don’t worry, angel... I’ll help you feel better.”

And when his hand moved again, slow and precise—

“A—AHHH—!”

Challenge? What challenge?

You were done for.

And judging by the groan he let out when you moaned his name, shaky and broken—

So was he.

Your back arched, fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt like you could anchor yourself to his body—like he was the only solid thing in the world, and everything else had melted away under the heat flooding your veins.

“Redacted,” you whimpered again, and damn if he didn’t flinch like it physically hit him.

His breath hitched against your neck, his lips brushing there—soft, barely a touch, like he was trying not to go too fast. Trying not to devour you.

"You don't get it, do you?" he whispered, his voice all frayed silk and smoke, dragging down your spine like a kiss. “Ain’t the chocolate makin’ me like this, angel. You walk into a room and I’m already gone. You breathe too pretty and I’m ready to fall apart.”

Your whole body trembled under him. It wasn’t just arousal—it was too much in the best possible way. Every word, every look, every brush of his hand was lightning on your skin.

“Y-you’re already—” you gasped, eyes wide when you felt the pressure of him through his jeans. Holy hell. “You—you’re already hard?!”

He groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, voice muffled but wrecked. “Been like that since you made that first little noise. The one you tried to hide. Thought I was gonna lose my goddamn mind.”

He kissed your collarbone, then lower—then lower still. Soft, reverent, starving.

You couldn’t take it.

“Touch me,” you gasped, voice nearly breaking.

Redacted looked up, eyes blown wide, pupils practically swallowing his irises whole. There was worship in that gaze. Like you were something unholy and beautiful all at once. Like he was scared to break you and desperate to try anyway.

“Say it again,” he murmured, dragging his knuckles up the side of your thigh. “Just like that. C’mon, angel, lemme hear you beg for it.”

You swallowed hard. “Please. Please touch me.”

That did it.

His mouth crashed into yours again, fierce and sweet all at once, and his hands were everywhere now—up your sides, over your hips, dragging up under your shirt like he could memorize every inch of you with his palms.

"You're shakin'," he murmured, kissing your jaw, your throat. “Can’t tell if it's the chocolate or just me.”

“It’s you,” you gasped, and his growl vibrated against your skin.

"Yeah? You’re all worked up just 'cause I'm here, huh?" he teased, but there was no cruelty in it—only adoration, thick and hungry.

"Y-you talk so much," you managed, voice trembling.

His grin burned against your skin.

"You love it," he said, just as his hand slid down, finally, finally between your legs—hovering, not yet touching. Teasing. Waiting.

"Angel," he whispered, like a sin and a promise all in one, "I want you to come undone on me. I wanna watch every second of it. I’ll be so good to you, angel, just say the word.”

And when you gasped his name again, all desperate and wrecked and soaked in wanting—

He moved.

And you saw stars.

His fingers slipped past the barrier of your clothes like he’d done it a hundred times in dreams he’d never dared confess to—slow, tender, practiced, knowing. Like he was reading your body like a sacred text. Like he knew exactly what page to kiss.

Your hips jolted at the first touch—warm, soft, deep—and you choked on your breath, whimpering into his throat. It wasn’t just that he was touching you—it was how. Gentle, reverent, maddeningly slow.

“Shhh,” he cooed against your ear, voice thick with affection and something darker. “You’re bein’ so good, baby. So damn pretty for me.”

And then—fuck—his mouth was on your ear. Hot breath ghosting over the shell, and then his tongue. He licked the curve of it, slow and deliberate, and your whole body bucked beneath him like you couldn’t stand the contact.

You whined, openly now, your voice cracking from the sheer pleasure slicing up your spine.

“Sensitive here, huh?” he murmured, then sucked on your earlobe just to make you cry out again. “I’ll remember that.”

His fingers moved in perfect rhythm—each stroke deeper, smoother, more devastating than the last. He never once looked away from you. Eyes hooded, half-lidded, drunk on your reactions. Like every shudder and gasp you gave him was the only thing that mattered.

“You gonna fall apart for me?” he whispered, mouth brushing yours again. “C’mon, angel. Wanna feel you break. Wanna see what you sound like when I make you lose your fuckin' mind.”

You were already close. Too close. Everything felt hot and full and unreal. Like the chocolate, the challenge, the restraint—it had all been a trap, and you’d walked right into it, needy and aching and so ready to lose.

His voice dropped lower, a tease and a vow all in one.

“Let me have you. Let me ruin you soft.”

And stars weren’t enough anymore. You were seeing constellations.

.......................

Pretty sure, You and Him stayed up so late doing yoga poses while clapping

SIKE, OKAY YOU SIMPS I'M CALLING YALL OUT STOP SIMPING.

SAY HOLY AND STAY HOLY.

MISTY OUT!

SEA IF YOU SEE THIS LAUGHS

#absolutely obsessed with this

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