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unrenderedwip · 8 days 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!

#MISTY #MISTY WHAT THE FUCK #THIS IS SO SWEET IM GONNA CRYYYY #THANK YOU FOR SHARING ALL YOUR WONDERFUL WRITING TO THE WORLD AHHHHHHH #And thank you for the birthday present I love it endlessly <3 #favorite #Redacted #birthday #fanfic #14dwy

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unrenderedwip · 10 days ago

Note

Hiiiiiii hope you are doing well on this fine night day :3

For the oneshots thing I was thinking perhaps... something related to a soulmate au? Redacted desperately trying to recreate the exact scenario or something passably close to how they first found out they were soulmates as kids so that Angel will think this new Ren person is their actual soulmate (assuming Angel forgot about their childhood soulmate).

The cruel irony of him having to fake being soulmates because they are so afraid that Angel will resent being tied to someone as unlovable as [Redacted] that they'd rather reconstruct the entirety of their bond on a lie yada yada yk the drill >:3

.... I fully intended to send in a fluff ask how did this turn angst lmao oh well. Something like that anyways, feel free to take creative liberties or ignore if it's not up your alley ofc <3

Genre: Angst to Comfort

Summary: — Decided to add a more realistic, to a soulmate au...I failed..

( Reader is a g.n!)

Did not proof read/Rushed.

I'm so sorry I THINK I FAILED THIS.... I'LL REWRITE THIS ONE DAY!!

May this be my timeless Love to you REDACTED.. X G.N Reader

“What is a soulmate?” The question echoes like a dirge through a hollow cathedral. He asked it once, long ago — when his hands were small, calloused from too much trying. He asked it before he learned that no one wanted the answers a boy like him could give.

This boy could (not) be called the Ugly Duckling. Not with laughter — but with a solemnity that could quiet the birds. He wore it as penance. For being too much. Too little. For being born under the wrong star.

Across the lake — the water that always seemed too wide to cross — there was you and him A child like something pulled from the pages of a dream: Pigtails, scraped knees, colorful bandages like mismatched prayers. And something gentler still... wounds dressed in laughter, pain softened by pretend...this was him..

He covered his soul in stickers and bandaids. You never called him ugly — but he hid all the same.

You cared for him.

He saw you. He saw all of it. And oh, how he adored you.

He had nothing — not love, not kindness — but he crafted a ring from wire and thread and the tinny promise of devotion. A symbol of a bond he believed the universe had to have carved between you. You were his soulmate — weren’t you? You had to be.

So, trembling, he stepped forward on unsteady legs. The playground was golden with dusk. And he held out the ring — Eyes wide, lips parted — waiting.

But before you could speak, before the miracle of “yes” or “no” could fall from your mouth, another hand — Larger, stronger, braver — wrong — Snatched you away.

“Weirdo!” the boy barked. “I knew you were bad news! Were you close to them because of this?!”

Your breath caught.

“Leon, wait—!”

But Leon did not wait. He grabbed your wrist like it was a leash, yanking you toward the trees.

"A-Angel!"

"LEAVE THEM ALONE, YOU FREAK!"

"Leon!" you pleaded, voice breaking like old wood. Stop stop stop stop—

But your feet obeyed his, and you vanished into the forest. The sound of leaves swallowing you whole.

The small boy stood, ring still in hand.

Crushed petals. Bent wire. The light... leaving.

And still, he smiled — small and broken.

“...It’s okay. I’ll try again.”

But he didn’t. Not then. Not for years.

And so, he became less.

He shed the skin of the duckling, and buried the boy who made rings. Buried him beneath names and costumes and personas that Angel might love.

He crafted some things but, The lies you would love..

A perfect lie in your image.

But you — you remained the same. Bright as ever. Still crossing the lake in his dreams.

To him, you are the light on the water. You are the laughter in the bruised boy’s memory. You are salvation in stickers and scabs. You are his Angel.

Hand worn like garlands; every scrape, every bruise, a verse in the ballad of his survival. He wrapped themselves in the myth of their own unworthiness. They called their soul ugly —

In you, He saw, he saw divinity. He saw home.

So the little duckling, trembling and unbeautiful, offered you the only beautiful thing he had ever made: A ring. Crooked. Fragile. Real. A token of a love too vast for his chest to hold. You were his soulmate. His answer. His absolution.

And what was your answer…?

You never knew.

Why was his vision twisted? Why is....

There was once a time, however fleeting, when the world still appeared vibrant to him—where the crunch of grass beneath small feet, or the glint of sunlight over a pond, carried a sort of naive beauty.

ONLY BECAUSE HE SAW IT THROUGH YOUR EYES!

Vanished like breath on a windowpane. What remained in their wake was silence, dread, and the long shadow of a man who should have been his protector.

His father was not a man of love. Not a man of gentle correction or even stern but fair discipline. No, his father—Taylor— He was the kind of man who looked upon his own children and saw not budding lives but burdens. Parasites. Leeches draining his oxygen. The boy never got to be a child in the ways that mattered. Innocence was something torn away, not lost.

Taylor’s presence was a stormfront: unpredictable, ever-threatening. Some days, the silence was worse than the yelling. On others, the yelling was only a prelude to something darker. And always, the boy knew—no matter how quiet he was, how obedient, how small—he could not escape the slow corrosion of his father’s contempt.

He learned quickly that masculinity was a weapon in his father's eyes... But the moment that same masculinity appeared in his son? It became a threat. A competition. A problem to be down. And yet—when his father forced him into more fem, He was against it....—none of it was out of affection. It was a punishment. A mockery. A way to remind him who controlled the image in the mirror.

Taylor’s disdain was a constant mirror in which the boy saw not a son, not a person—but a mistake. A malformed, thing pretending to be worthy of love.

His mother couldn't

It was the slow, ceaseless erosion of every part of himself.

But perhaps one moment stands above the rest.

He had carved something. Not out of grand materials—he had no such luxury—but out of determination and trembling fingers. It was small, fragile, and shaped like a ring. Something to give. A symbol of devotion. Of innocent affection. Of hope.

He gave it to someone who mattered.

And he was rejected.

Not simply rejected, but humiliated—by someone who did not understand, by someone who took the offering and flung it away, calling him a freak....

He didn’t cry. Not in front of them.

Later, alone in the dark, he wept until the walls blurred.

No one would ever love him. That he was too broken, too strange, too wrong. And now, it seemed true. His emotions betrayed him. His instincts betrayed him. Even the things he loved most would not accept him as he was.

So began the great undoing.

He stripped pieces of himself away—not in a dramatic flourish, but quietly. Methodically. Each piece discarded was a memory, a feeling, a small quirk. The voice that wavered when he was scared. The softness in his eyes when he looked at someone he cherished. Gone. Gone. Gone.

He did not do it to manipulate.

He did it because the person he was had already been deemed unworthy. Because the truth of him was a wound too shameful to show. And somewhere deep within that shame was the rot his father planted long ago:

“You are not enough."

"No one will ever want you."

"Unloved, Unlovable."

He still followed the light.

Not in the tender, dreamlike way he had when they were children—no, now he followed it like a moth starved and frenzied, wings frayed, mind blistered by the ache of wanting. The light had become everything. The light was Angel. His Angel. The one who made him feel warm once, long ago. The one who smiled at him before the world taught him that smiles weren’t meant for monsters.

But after that ring.. a thing to be pushed away from someone precious—he couldn’t go back. Not as he was. That boy was ruined. That boy died the moment Angel let go of his hand.

Still, he watched.

He lingered in shadows and street corners, not out of malice, but mourning. How could he hate what he could never stop loving? How could he let go of the only thing that had ever felt safe, ever felt real?

He stayed away. For years.

Every attempt to speak up—to say, NOT “I remember you,” “I missed you,” “I never stopped thinking about you”—died before it left his throat. Because what would be the point? He wasn’t enough then. Why would he be enough now?

But he tried.

He tried so many times.

Different versions of himself. Different scripts. He smiled wider, laughed softer. He changed his posture, his voice, his tone. He mimicked people that Angel seemed to like. He studied them like sacred texts, rewrote himself in their image. One version too aloof. Another too eager. One too mysterious. Another too awkward. None of them stuck.

None of them were enough.

None of them worked.

Angel would pass him in hallways, brush shoulders in crowded spaces, maybe glance his way once or twice. But never with recognition. Never with that spark. That radiant, soul-shattering warmth he remembered.

He stood in front of mirrors for hours, tearing into his own reflection with furious eyes. What is it? What did they want? What did they like? Why couldn’t he get it right?

"What's wrong with me?" he whispered once, "What am I doing wrong?"

He copied the fictional characters Angel loved. Studied their voices, their mannerisms, their color palettes, their phrases. He practiced the way they tilted their heads. Memorized how they blushed, how they laughed, how they hesitated before saying something sweet. He kept notebooks full of quotes, annotated with where the character spoke and what Angel had said afterward. He watched, catalogued, obsessed.

And still—nothing.

Angel never looked at him the way they looked at him.

That fake character. That ideal. That Haruko.

It drove him to madness. A quiet, unraveling madness that crawled beneath his skin and whispered: You aren’t lovable. You aren’t enough. You will never be enough—not unless you become them.

He started building the Haruko persona from scratch—voice trembling, eyes wide, sleeves too long for his hands. He wore soft colors, soft words. Practiced the stutter. Practiced being innocent. Haruko was everything he wasn’t, everything he wished he could be. Haruko was perfect. Haruko was loved.

Now

Redacted is a ghost in his own body—an echo dulled by years of forced silence, a bitter thing carved by cruelty and stitched back together by desperation. If Haruko is sunlight, soft edges and delicate smiles, then Redacted is everything lurking in the shade: jagged, smudged, bloodstained. There is nothing soft about him. There never was.

He doesn’t flinch at screams. Doesn’t shake at the sight of blood. He sees suffering the way a mechanic sees grease—part of the job, unavoidable, expected. But beneath that dead-eyed calm...

Never mind

But fragility doesn’t survive fire. It burns, warps, hardens. He learned to snarl where he once whimpered. Learned to lie, to hide, to pretend. Because being himself never worked. Being himself only ever earned him rejection...

So Redacted buried himself.

And Haruko was born.

Soft-spoken. Timid. Blushing. He smiles with teeth he files down every night just to make himself smaller, more harmless. Haruko listens. Haruko laughs. Haruko says “Sorry!” even when they aren’t wrong. Haruko is everything Angel ever wanted—or so he thinks.

But Redacted is what remains when Haruko’s mask slips. He’s not gentle. He’s not calm. He’s desperate. Desperately in love, desperately afraid. And he hates himself for it. Because no matter how many times he shifts, no matter how many personas he creates, he can’t escape the fear that the real him—the broken, twisted, violent him—is unworthy of love.

So he watches from the sidelines, always calculating, always performing. Haruko is sweet so Angel smiles. Haruko is shy so Angel leans in. He memorizes every reaction, every compliment, every laugh, hoards them like treasures. Because if Angel ever really sees him, if they ever peel back the carefully constructed softness and look at what festers beneath…

He doubts it.

That’s why he clings to Haruko. That’s why “Ren” exists. Because Redacted—he doesn’t get to be loved. He only gets to want.

But he plays the game anyway. Over and over.

Because if pretending is the only way to be near Angel, then he’ll play every role, recite every line, and smile through the agony.

One day.

He had seen you through the glass of the library windows more times than he could count. Watched you shelve books, tuck loose strands of hair behind your ear, smile at strangers. Always from behind the shelves. Always from afar. Like an old film reel playing on loop, his world paused the moment you walked in.

And today, he chose to press play.

He wandered in as Ren, dressed neatly in a layered knit vest over a button-down, the sleeves too long, covering the faint tremble in his fingers. Pink-purple? BLUE? hair tousled just enough to look effortless, the strands near his face curled to mirror him. Haruko. Your favorite. He knew because he listened, stalked—watched. Moth had mentioned it in one of your calls, and he memorized every timestamp, every laugh, every soft "God, I love him so much."

He wanted—needed—you to say that about him.

So he walked in, slow and deliberate, eyes low, pace measured. You didn’t see him at first. Of course you didn’t. Why would you? You weren’t supposed to. He was just the weird boy who always rented your display picks. You didn’t know he came in after hours just to press his fingers to the last book you'd touched. You didn’t know the lengths he went to just to keep breathing in your orbit.

But then you did.

He turned.

You looked.

And everything inside him snapped like a string pulled too tight.

You saw him.

And you didn't look away.

Immediately, your eyes widened. Not in fear. Not in disgust. Just... surprise. His heart skipped. No, it sprinted. You were seeing him. The soft curl of his lashes, the gentle tilt of his head, the nervous shuffle of his booted feet—you took in all of it.

You noticed the hair. His hair.

“Ahem! Hello..?" you whispered to yourself without realizing.

He heard it.

In his head, confetti burst. Sirens blared. Choirs sang. You noticed.

You turned fully, facing him with genuine curiosity. “So this was the guy who always rented out my recommended books,” you thought. “He definitely fit the aesthetic of a cozy literature-lover needing a good book…”

His chest squeezed. He wanted to cry.

You thought he fit.

The pink strands of his hair danced as he took one careful step toward you, then another. You could smell the faint vanilla clinging to him, sweet and warm, like library candles and anxiety. You tilted your head, smiling softly.

He tried to speak. Failed.

“I was just looking for… uh…”

His voice cracked. He hated that. He should’ve practiced more.

But you… you smiled.

A nod. A kind one. A real one.

Like he was safe.

Like he belonged.

“…I need some help. I-I’m looking for a specific book, you see, but…”

You nodded again, already turning toward the nearest catalog terminal, and in that moment—

His heart screamed.

YOU LOOKED AT HIM. YOU LOOKED AT HIM.

And God, if you looked again, he swore he'd never let you stop.

In his heart, he was exploding—like a child seeing fireworks for the first time, clapping his hands even if no one else did. You looked at him. You smiled at him. His mind spun with glitter and soft confetti, cheeks burning, heart thumping like a drum in a school parade. You saw him. Not a shadow. Not a ghost. Him. And you didn’t flinch. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging so fast he'd knock over the whole shelf. You looked at him you looked at him you looked at him! Over and over it rang, sweet and dizzying.

And when you looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time at the library desk, he nearly collapsed from the weight of it. The way your eyes met his and didn’t flinch. Didn’t run.

That night, you invited him home. Said your lock was broken. He smiled and told you he’d protect you. You didn’t know that he was the very monster lurking in the bushes before he became your savior. You didn’t know he was your past, contorted into a dream.

Each day was a...

Day 1: Your home. His heart raced as you offered him tea in mismatched mugs, as if it were love in ceramic form.

Day 2: A cafe. A soft, awkward almost-date. You laughed, and it sounded like forgiveness. Like maybe the past could be rewritten.

Day 3: Movie night at your place. A sappy romance you both pretended not to cry over. His fingers brushed yours and he swore the stars shivered.

Day 4: The aquarium. He "accidentally" showed up. You stood together at the glass, watching a jellyfish pulse with light. He asked if you saw a angelfish, you replied you saw a freakin clownfish.

Day 5: Moth arrived. You introduced them with a brightness he hadn’t seen since childhood. You were happy. And it was because of Ren. Not him. Not the boy with the broken ring and the monster's name.

So now he studies every gesture, memorizes your laughter, adjusts himself like clay in your hands. Slowly, carefully, perfectly—he molds himself into a soulmate you’ll want this time.

He can’t risk telling you the truth.

Because if you knew who he really was...

You might leave again.

And this time, he wouldn’t survive it.

You saw him.

You saw him kill someone—for you.

Not out of bloodlust. Not out of rage. But fear. That trembling, trembling fear that someone might hurt you, even slightly. And so, he silenced them. As easily as plucking petals from a flower.

Why was he doing all this?

Why did he look at you like you were holy? Why did his breath hitch every time your skin brushed his, like even the smallest contact meant salvation?

It was… sad. Sad and sweet in a way that twisted something deep inside you. The kind of sweetness that hides bruises. The kind that feels like a memory you forgot how to grieve.

Why did you feel pity for a stranger?

LIES DON'T LAST...

He can't recreate it.

They can't recreate it

[REVOKED]

[RETAINED] ?

[RED̴A̸C̵͍̔T̵̰̓E̸̘̽D̸̳̻͕́̒]̵̱̈́̋.....?

No matter how much they try, There's no results, The screen's empty.

Even if refresh, reboot, reset.

There is always some way to access memories.

And, that's what happened..

It doesn't matter how.

He didn't know if he should be happy, that his name fell out your mouth like a sweet melody to him, But Your reaction was all it took for him to know you're not happy to see...him why? would you be?

You remember. You went to the dark and the dark and "It" was bored, It gave you a answer

Not when the story began years ago—at a playground long forgotten, when a ring was offered and then thrown away. When a boy who called himself ugly carved love from his own hands and handed it to you. Only to watch it get crushed by another.

He never stopped chasing that moment.

He just wore a prettier face while doing it.

If you remembered—if it all came back in clarity and color—it wouldn’t just break your heart.

It would destroy his.

Because this "Ren" you’d grown fond of? The boy with soft eyes, clumsy kindness, and pink hair made for fictional dreams? He was a performance. A stitched-together mirage of everything you ever loved, rehearsed until the seams no longer showed.

And the cruelest part?

It wasn’t a stranger who lied to you.

It was him. The boy you left behind, the boy who never forgot. The one who hated himself so deeply he buried that child under a mask and called it love.

He wouldn’t beg for forgiveness. He wouldn’t plead. Because he’s convinced he doesn’t deserve it. Not when he’s sure—absolutely sure—that the moment you see the real him, the moment the illusion crumbles, you’ll turn away. Not because of what he’s done… but because of what he is.

A fractured soul. Obsessive. Haunted. Unworthy.

But you?

You’re not afraid of him. Not really.

You’re afraid of hope. You’re afraid of wondering which part was true. Of asking yourself if any of it—the laughter, the comfort, the late-night talks—meant anything at all.

And when your eyes finally widen with realization, with hurt, with disbelief—

It breaks him. Truly.

But,

Because even if you forgave, you tried to stay… love built on lies doesn’t fall gently.

It ruptures.

And the pieces? They don’t fit anymore. They cut.

You ruined. Him...

You stayed because you were guilty Not because you started to fell for him immediately...

I ruined you, didn’t I?

No—no, not just ruined. I unmade you.

God… all this time, I thought you were a stranger. A perfect mask. I thought Ren was someone new—a fantasy, a lie. But it was always you. It was always you.

That ring... that stupid little ring. I remember it now. Dirt-stained, scuffed, held in tiny trembling hands. You gave it to me once, didn’t you? And Leon—he threw it away like it was trash. Like you were trash.

And I didn’t stop him.

I didn’t even look back.

You picked it up. You picked yourself up. You took every piece of who you were and buried it. Shoved it down into something dark and cold, and from it… you built Ren.

Perfect, smiling Ren. Sweet, attentive, careful Ren. Everything I ever wanted, wrapped up in a stranger’s skin. But it wasn’t a stranger, was it?

It was you.

And I never saw you. Not really.

God, what did I do to you?

You changed your voice, your walk, your laugh—you built an entire person out of my silence. You loved me in the shadows for so long, until your love curdled, until it rotted into something that clung to me like ink. You swallowed who you were just to become someone I might finally see.

And I did see you. But too late. Too goddamn late.

That night—I didn’t know if I loved the boy you were… or the man you became.

But you were never supposed to become this.

You were supposed to be happy. Whole. Not… twisted by this ache. Not hollowed out and rebranded just to be deserving of love.

You were always deserving.

And now here you are—sleeping beside me, your fingers curled around mine like you’re still afraid I’ll vanish. Even now. Even after all of it.

You’re beautiful like this. Not because you’re perfect. Not because you’re Ren. But because you’re you. Scarred and real and terrified. And for the first time, I see you without the mask.

[REDACTED]… you didn’t need to be Ren.

You were enough.

You are enough.

And I’m sorry. For everything. For not seeing you, for not hearing you, for letting you rot in that silence. But I’m here now. And I’m not running.

Not from you. Not from this.

I can’t undo the past. I can’t unmake the monster that love turned you into.

But maybe—I can hold onto the boy who just wanted to be seen.

Maybe I can love him.

Maybe it’s not too late to start over.

Not with Ren.

But with you.

Maybe...let's heal together..okay..?

But, that when You put on the ring, You didn't talk, You didn't give him a answer..

You decided to quit your work, and just stayed with him.

You realized he was patient..

He waits for...

You.

You're the reason he waits.

Not just for days, not just for weeks—he's waited over thirteen years just for a chance to see you again. And not just to see you—no, that’s too easy. He wants to be near you. To exist in the same space. To breathe the same air. To build a world where he gets to stay by your side, even if it means burying who he truly is under layers and layers of someone else.

Ren.

That’s the name he wore. A soft thing. Harmless. Gentle. A version of himself crafted entirely for you—because somewhere along the line, he decided you wouldn’t love the real one. The one who bled. The one who screamed. The one who died waiting.

So he built this mask for you. Wears it with devotion. Every breath he takes as Ren is for you. And if it made you smile? He’d wear it forever. If it brought you peace? He’d never let it crack. Even if it means killing everything wild and real in him. Even if it hurts.

Because you’re worth it, right?

At least that’s what he tells himself, over and over again. That if he’s patient—good—you’ll come around. That one day you’ll stop flinching when he touches your wrist, or scowling when he says something too careful. That one day you’ll love him. Even like this.

And when you scream at him?

When you snap—Stop pretending! Stop acting like you’re some fragile thing! That’s not YOU!—it shakes something in him. But he never screams back. Never corrects you. Never tells you that this is him now—that in all the pretending for You. He just stands there, takes it, nods softly like he deserves the pain.

And then you cry.

Every time, you fall apart. You hate how much it hurts. You hate how much he waits—how patient, how still, how perfectly prepared he is for your worst days.

Because if you stop eating? He leaves food outside the door. Quietly. Every few hours. Never forces you. Never begs. Just places it there like an offering to a god he believe in.

If you scream? He waits.

If you break? He’s already made sure there’s nothing in the room sharp enough to cut, hard enough to throw, dangerous enough to hurt you. He padded the corners. Taped the mirrors. Hid the glass. You didn’t even notice until it was too late.

Everything was prepared.

Because he knows you. He’s studied every twitch, every tremor in your voice, every wall you build and destroy again. He’s the architect of your cage and your comfort. Your soft place to land and the reason you’re falling in the first place.

And it gets to you—how still he is.

How he doesn’t flinch when you hurt him. How he looks at you like you’re the one fading. Like every breakdown you have is his fault. Like he broke you. Like he infected you with the same obsession he’s been carrying for over a decade.

You see it in his face.

That grief. That guilt. That hope—the worst of them all. Hope that maybe one day, you’ll look at him like you used to. Or like he wishes you had. Hope that maybe the version of you who loved him still exists somewhere underneath all this hurt.

And what are you supposed to do with that?

When someone loves you like you’re the only real thing left in their crumbling universe? When they’d trade away their entire identity just to make you stop crying?

You. Needed a break, So you quit your job, Your Boss didn't question....

You slowly started and tried to understand what Redacted was..

[REDACTED] is the kind of person who could watch a man bleed out on the floor and not blink. He's patient to a terrifying degree—so cold, so detached, it borders on divine.

Because when [REDACTED] is genuinely pissed, he doesn't scream. He doesn't lash out....

No theatrics. No blood frenzy. Just a clean, quiet severance. And when it's done, he goes back to his day like nothing happened. He’ll sip his coffee. Read his messages. Hack into three security systems before breakfast. No remorse. No reaction. Just that faint, unreadable smirk curling at the corner of his lips, like it was all just part of some tedious to-do list.

But when it comes to you?

When it comes to Angel?

He’s not that person anymore.

He can lie to the world. He can wear a thousand faces. He can fake kindness, mimic charm, even build whole identities to get what he wants. But with you, there’s no mask. No apathy. No distance. You simply bring out the emotions in him after it is.

You’re the one fracture in his perfectly fortified armor. The only one who can bring him to his knees without even trying.

Because he’s here. You’re here.

He doesn’t hide his affection for you—not really. Not when he’s himself. Not when he’s not tangled up in Ren, pretending to be smaller, sweeter, quieter than he really is.

[REDACTED], he’s unfiltered. Obsession doesn’t scare him. Not when it’s about you. He’s never once felt ashamed for the way he needs you—only cautious. Only careful. Only pretending under the mask of Ren because he thought it’d keep you around. Because he thought he—in all his raw, jagged truth—would scare you off.

But not anymore.

Not when you’ve held him like this. Not when you’ve seen the way his voice shakes, the way his hands tremble when you whisper that you love him—not Ren, not the mask, him. He knows now, deep in his chest where it always ached the most, that there’s no one else you want. And yet—

He still struggles.

Not with you, but with himself.

Because even now, even in your arms, even with the warmth of your voice in his ear and the ghost of your kiss on his skin, he doubts. Not your love—he believes that, at least a little. But that he could be worthy of it? That’s harder.

He’s still learning how to speak up. About his wants. His needs. About anything that isn’t you. Because you’re always his first thought. His only priority. Everything else? It doesn’t feel important. But you tell it is important.

He looks at you like you’re the last light he remembers seeing. Like you’re the only thing that ever made this world worth crawling through.

No one else has ever seen him cry.

No one else has ever watched the infamous ghost of a man—this ghost who glides through shadows, this killer, this phantom in code and blood—shatter under the weight of your touch. That night when you reached out—when you finally crossed the space between you, wrapped your arms around him, and said nothing but stayed—he collapsed.

Right there. In your arms.

Quietly. Brokenly.

Tears slid down his cheeks like he didn’t know how to stop them. Like he hadn’t cried in years, not since everything fell apart. He buried his face against your shoulder like he was trying to disappear into you, like he was ashamed of needing something so human.

Because the truth is?

He’s still that boy you used to know.

Still that soft thing underneath the blood and code. Still innocent in that specific, painful way only someone who's been hurt beyond repair can be. Still desperate for affection. Still haunted by every moment he wasn’t enough.

But only with you.

To everyone else HE SHOWS, [REDACTED] is an apathetic executioner. The hacker who ruins lives from behind a screen. The killer who vanishes without a trace. The coldest person they've ever met, with nothing in his eyes but calculation.

But with you?

He’s human.

He laughs quieter. Smiles softer. He flinches when you’re hurt. He remembers what it means to be held. You make him feel—dangerously, completely. You’re his first and final tether to something real. To being real.

You’re the only person he ever lets see the cracks.

And you’re the only one who could break him, just by walking away.

Also learned, about someone's something. It changes your narrative...Doesn't it? Dear Angel?

Some time later..

It’d been months. You weren’t sure how many. Didn’t matter.

Time had turned to soup, thick and slow, days blending like bruises in the dark—warm, wet, and somehow… healing. Neither of you talked about it. The quiet was safer. The stillness helped.

You woke first. Not by much. But enough to feel their arms still draped around you, heavy like chains, comforting like ritual.

Their breath ghosted your shoulder. Warm. Uneven. You could tell they weren’t really asleep anymore—not fully—but they hadn’t moved either. Not even when you shifted.

You whispered, real soft. "Hey."

Nothing.

You squirmed a little, nudging your elbow back. Still nothing.

Then their arms tightened. Their chest pressed flush against your back, and they buried their face in your neck like they were trying to hide from the world.

A hoarse voice rumbled out of them, low and almost pitiful: “…Don’t.”

You froze.

"You’re awake." You smiled, tilting your head slightly. "I just need to shower, REDACTED.... I’ll come back."

A groan. Tired. Frustrated. "Y’don’t get it. I know what back means." Their voice was quieter now. Raspy. Vulnerable in that raw, sandpaper kind of way. "Means gone. Means not here. Means… ‘m gonna wake up and you’re not."

You turned, cupped their cheek, let your thumb glide over the warm, soft skin under their eye. “I’m not leaving. Just need ten minutes.”

They didn’t say anything. Just stared. One eye cracked open, bangs hanging in messy strands over their face, lip caught between their teeth. Then finally, a loose sigh. Their arms dropped.

You slipped out of bed and—without thinking—tucked a pillow in your place.

That should’ve worked. Should’ve.

But you didn’t even get three steps before a hand gripped yours.

“…Don’t like pillows,” they mumbled.

You looked down. “You used to.”

“They’re not warm like you.” Their fingers squeezed. “And they don’t kiss me good.”

You bent forward, kissed their forehead, and whispered, “Wait for me.”

They made a tiny “hm” noise. Sad. Small. Let you go—barely.

In the bathroom, you brushed your teeth. Washed your face. Fast. Then pancake duty. Something quick, easy. Familiar.

They came out halfway through, dragging their feet, hoodie slouching off one shoulder, eyes half-lidded. They didn’t say anything, just slumped into the chair like it took everything in them.

You put a plate down in front of them. They stared at it. Then at you.

“You smell like mint,” they muttered. “And guilt.”

You exhaled a small laugh. “It’s not guilt. It’s Colgate.”

“Mm.” They poked the pancake like it might betray them.

“Hey,” you said, tilting your head. “I have to work soon. I told you, I was gonna go back But we’ve got time. Let’s shower, then eat.”

They didn’t answer. Just stood up slow. Looked at you like you were light they didn’t trust.

Then—finally—reached out, brushing their fingers against yours. Holding. Not gripping. Like if they held too tight, you might disappear.

You didn’t give them a choice. Not this time.

“You reek,” you muttered, nudging them gently toward the bathroom with a hand against their back. “Like sleep and resentment.”

[REDACTED] chuckled but didn’t resist. Just dragged their feet as you guided them, hoodie sleeves swallowing their hands, hair tangled and falling into their face.

“Y’don’t get to talk to me like that unless you’re gonna undress me too,” they muttered with a sleepy, lopsided grin.

You rolled your eyes. “I will.”

“…Oh.”

You peeled the hoodie off them like second skin. Damp with sleep, clinging to their collarbones. Underneath it—just them. The real one. Not Ren. Not Haruko. Just tired, raw [REDACTED].

The water was already running, steam curling around both of you like soft ghosts. You tugged them into the shower, and they slouched under the stream like it was heavy. Like it had weight.

Their eyes fluttered shut the second the warmth hit. “Fuuuuck…”

“Yeah, yeah,” you murmured, grabbing the shampoo and coaxing them down so you could reach their hair. “You always act like hot water’s a miracle.”

“It is,” they mumbled, half-lidded, letting you tilt their head back. “Especially when it’s you touchin’ me. Angel…”

That name still hit different. From them. Especially when said like that—hoarse, reverent. You swallowed and massaged the shampoo into their scalp.

Their hair had grown longer. black. The pink had faded, bleeding into natural brown at the roots. You could trace time in the strands. How long he’d been here. How long he’d stopped hiding.

“You were gonna dye it again, weren’t you?” you asked, gently rinsing the foam away.

“‘Course, If you wanted” he mumbled.

You tugged slightly at a lock of hair. Not hard—just enough to make a point. “You’re not dying it. I told you, it ruins your texture. And your scalp’s sensitive.”

He looked up at you, water clinging to his lashes. A faint smile ghosted over his lips.

“I do care,” you muttered. “You look good like this.”

“…Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You worked in conditioner, fingers slow and sure. He leaned into the touch like a cat, lips parted, eyes closed.

“Mm. You like touchin’ me now.”

“I always liked touching you.”

He let that sit in the air a second. Then quietly:

“I think you like my real hair.”

“I do.”

“…Even if I’m not Ren anymore?”

“I didn’t want Ren. I wanted you.”

He made a small, choked sound. Like he wanted to argue, but didn’t have the words. Maybe because he finally believed it. Or maybe because your hands kept moving, gentle in their hair, coaxing trust out of him with every pass.

No protest. No mask. Just a man learning how to be held without falling apart.

You rinsed them clean, let your fingers drift down to trace the slope of their neck. He shivered. Not from cold.

“Alright,” you said softly, “let’s get dry. And eat. You’ll feel better.”

“…Can I lay in your lap after?”

You smiled. “Yeah. You can lay there as long as you want. As long we have time."

“Then I’ll eat,” he said, letting you pull him from the water.

And just like that—he followed.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, plate balanced in your lap, cutting into your stack of pancakes while [REDACTED] blinked slow and lazy beside you—still towel-damp, shirt clinging slightly at the collar, hair fluffy from your brushing. He looked more alive than you’d seen in weeks.

He was still blinking at his own plate like it was math.

“You’re staring,” you said, smiling as you dipped a forkful in syrup and held it out.

“M’just not used to this,” he mumbled, leaning forward obediently. “Someone else makin’ me breakfast. Feeding me. I should be the one who do it for you..."

You snorted. “That was one time.”

His lips curled up as he took the bite from your fork. “I swear I can cook Angel.....”

You kept eating and slipping bites onto his plate, then into his mouth when he got distracted scrolling through whatever was on his phone. Something code-heavy, no doubt—symbols and commands no sane person could understand.

After a moment, he glanced up from the screen, licking syrup from his lip. “ I might go start up the motorcycle later. Get the engine goin’ so it doesn’t fuck up sittin’ too long. I'll drop you off..."

You nodded absently, chewing.

“Yeah,” he muttered, eyes flicking back to his phone." “Just got some backend server crap to clean up. "Thought maybe I’d chill at the library while you’re workin’. S’nice there. Quiet.”

You tilted your head. “You’re asking permission?”

[REDACTED] made a face, like he was caught doing something suspicious. “No. I mean. Yes?”

You sighed in mock exasperation and pinched his cheek. “You dork. Of course it’s okay. Sit in the corner like a gremlin. I’ll sneak you snacks. If Norie gives me."

He looked down and smiled softly, like he wasn’t used to that kind of answer. Then you said it.

“I love you.”

Quiet. No bells. No buildup. Just there, like it had always been true. Soft and honest, like the sun through a kitchen window.

He froze.

Like his system crashed.

You said it first..

This was the first time, You said it first..

You reached forward and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing his skin, watching as something crumbled in his expression—like a wall melting under heat.

“...I love you,” you said again, more gently this time, like it needed to be said twice so it would stick.

His mouth opened slightly, like he was going to say something. But instead—he hugged you.

Hard.

Like he forgot how. Like it hurt a little. His fingers dug into your back and his breath hitched in your ear, and yeah—he was crying.

Not loudly. Not brokenly. Just—tears. Soft and quiet. Like he didn’t know how to stop them.

“I-I’m sorry,” he mumbled against your shoulder, breath trembling. “F-fuck, I’m—I’m just—this doesn’t happen to me, Angel, y’don’t—fuck…”

You held him tighter. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

Because he always, always hugged you like this when you told him. And you’d tell him again tomorrow. And the next day. And every day after, if it meant he’d believe it one day.

Even if he cried. Especially if he did.

He held you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go—even with your breath warm against his neck, even with your arms around his back. His hands curled in the fabric of your shirt, fists trembling, knuckles pale. Like he didn’t believe you were real. Like he didn’t believe he was allowed to be.

You could feel it in the way his body shook—quiet, contained, not dramatic but deep. Like grief with nowhere to go.

Because you knew. You knew exactly what sat beneath that silence.

He hates himself.

[REDACTED]—not Ren, not Haruko, not the soft-eyed persona he built from dreams and scraps of what he thought you’d want—but him. The boy.. who grew into someone sharp and terrifying. The person who survived by splitting themselves in two: the mask, and the monster beneath it.

He doesn’t believe you could love him for who he is. Not really.

He believes you’re too good. That your love must be mistaken. That if you saw too clearly, if you stopped looking at him through rose-colored light, you’d change your mind.

That Ren is loveable.

But [REDACTED]?

He thinks [REDACTED] is the one you shouldn’t love.

It hurts. It hurts more than you want to admit, watching him twist himself into shapes that make them feel smaller and quieter and easier to love.

But it’s fine.

And when you cupped his cheek, when your fingers slid into the strands of hair he never dyed back because you said it was okay not to—he crumbled. Quietly. The tears slipped without sound. His eyes wouldn’t leave yours.

So you leaned in. Pressed a kiss to his forehead, soft and slow.

“If you want me to say it again,” you whispered, “I will.”

His breath caught.

“I’ll say it every damn day. Every hour, if I have to.”

You kissed his cheek.

“Until you believe it. Until it sinks in.”

Your eyes met his. Steady. Unshakable.

“Not Ren. Not Haruko. Not whoever you think you have to be.”

You took his hand and pressed it over your heart.

“It’s you. [REDACTED]. Only you. Always you.”

You watched as he crumbled again—like someone whose bones had turned to dust, like your words were the first thing to ever make it past his walls.

And still, through the salt of his tears, he smiled. Just a little.

“I don’t deserve you,” he muttered.

You leaned forward, touched your forehead to his. “Then stay long enough until you do.”

He laughed—wet and broken. “Y’really gonna make me cry again, Angel.”

“I know.” You smiled. “That’s why I keep doing it.”

He hugged you again. This time tighter.

This time, maybe—just maybe—starting to believe....

A little at a time...

The world has never treated you kind, It bruised your heart and clouded your mind. You were gentle — soft, and bright, But life turned that glow into quiet night.

Now you barely feel like you're real, Too broken to touch, too numb to feel. You search for something to make you whole, A reason to stay, a home for your soul.

And when you find it, you'll never let go, You'll hold it through fire, through storm, through snow. Because you love deep — and ache even more, You've lost so much you're always at war.

But listen now, and let these words stay: You're still a soul worth loving today. Even if you can’t yet see what I do, You are still light. The world just hid you.

Okay REDACTED..?

INSPO FROM!!!

What 14DWY Character are you? - Quiz | Quotev

From the official server!

#reblog not mine #AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH *breathes in* AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #THE PAIN #THE SWEETNESS #IM SOBBING AND SMILING #THANK YOU MISTY I LOVE IT SM #Redacted #fanfic #Ren #misty

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