I need your honest opinion, because depending on what you say I’ll know whether to block you or keep you in check. You’re one of my favorite writers, but I hate when people ignore my opinions. do you dislike female OCs/sonas? Because I feel like they’re annoying in a community that isn’t gender-based I don’t want to constantly see boobs everywhere I noticed something in your writing. Why do you always make REDACTED so soft? It’s getting annoying. You can show more of his unhinged side.
just block me bro. I will answering TWO OF THESE ANONS QUESTIONS. I USED ONE FOR BLOCK, ONE TO ANSWER im so tired of this PLEASE ASK ME QUESTIONS THAT ARE FUN NOT LIKE THIS </3
seriously. my opinion’s gonna get me yelled at anyway, so let me just say it properly:
i don’t hate female ocs. i don’t hate female sonas. i don’t hate any of that. there is nothing wrong with fem oc/sona content. people are allowed to create whatever represents them, whatever makes them happy, whatever feels like them.
and honestly? as a nonbinary person, i actually enjoy seeing all kinds of oc/sona content masc, fem, and everything in between because it’s literally just people expressing themselves. it’s THEIR character. THEIR projection. THEIR comfort. not yours to approve or deny.
you finding it “annoying” doesn’t magically make it a universal problem.
the fandom being “gender-neutral” doesn’t mean everyone’s obligated to churn out neutral-looking ocs like it's a factory rule. that’s not how creativity works. that’s not how identity works. characters aren’t made for the fandom first they’re made for the people who make the oc/sonas
and about the writing thing?
i don’t “always make REDACTED soft.” i write them the way i see them, sometimes absolutely unhinged, sometimes switching between the two so fast it gives you whiplash. that’s how the character breathes.
i like fluff + in the past, when i had a different account. i was said if i write unhinged shit, it's fuckin angst stop. so i stopped and now???
if any of this annoys you that much, block me bro. i’m not adjusting my entire writing style or my opinions just to match someone else’s preferences.
secondly the yume thing.
idc about yume, bro.
honestly. people can yume whoever they want, that’s THEIR lane, THEIR space, THEIR comfort. i don’t do yume personally, and that’s not some deep moral stance it’s literally because of the toxic shit i watched happen to my friends offline.
like… real obsession.
real emotional spirals.
people getting jealous over fictional characters.
i watched that mess up actual people i care about, and it killed the fun for me completely. so i stepped out. i don’t yume anymore because it became stressful instead of comforting.
but that’s my experience not some universal rule everyone has to follow.
and just because i don’t do it doesn’t mean i’m out here policing anyone.
if someone yumes? cool.
if someone doesn’t? also cool.
people can enjoy characters however they want as long as they’re not hurting anyone around them. that’s it.
that’s literally all there is to it.
you asked.
i answered.
don’t act shocked now.
ANYWAYS ASK ONLY IF U HAVE REQUESTS/QUESTIONS! DONT ASK STUFF like this unless its respectfully asked.
Starting a Pocky Series with our dear Yandere boys, Give me suggestions for characters! Why not start with the emo !
POCKY WITH THEM!!
You didn’t expect it to start as a competition.
Honestly, you were just trying to enjoy your evening. The sun had slid halfway behind the horizon, casting your tiny living room in that soft, warm glow that made even clutter look pretty. A half-open snack bag sat on the coffee table, and you were curled up beneath a blanket when they wandered in from the hallway, barefoot and half-dressed like always.
Their hair was a mess — half pushed behind their pierced ear, half falling over their eyes and he looked at you like you were more interesting than anything else he could possibly be doing.
“’S'that Pocky?” they asked, chin tilting toward the box.
You nodded. “Yeah. Want one?”
They didn’t answer with words.
Instead, they padded over, dropped onto the couch beside you like they owned the place which, honestly, they did and plucked a stick straight from the box with their teeth.
Again, it was their house.
Then he looked at you.
Stared, really. Heavy-lidded. Mischief already simmering behind his lashes.
“…What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.
He chewed slowly, letting the chocolate melt on his tongue. “Nothin’,” he murmured, voice low. “Just thinkin’.”
“That’s usually dangerous.”
“Funny.”
He reached for another stick but didn’t eat it. No, he held it dangerously close to your lips, the end brushing your mouth.
“Angel,” he said softly, almost humming. “D’you wanna play a game?”
You blinked. “…What kind of game?”
Their smirk sharpened. “Pocky.”
You stared. “Seriously?”
“Mm.” He tilted his head, voice dipping into that soft, taunting note that always made you melt. “Unless you’re too scared. S’okay. I’ll jus’ eat ‘em myself.”
“Oh, you’re on,” you shot back, snatching the stick from their fingers. “What happens if someone wins?”
“Whoever wins gets t’ make the other do whatever they want.”
You paused. “…Anything?”
They leaned in, the metal of their piercings glinting when they smirked. “Yeah, Angel. Anything.”
A little rougher, almost whispering, “Say somethin’.."
You swallowed.
He noticed of course he noticed and their smile deepened.
“Let’s play.”
ROUND 1
You hold one end of the Pocky between your lips, heart already pounding.
He doesn’t rush. He never rushes.
Instead, he shifts closer, knees touching yours, thumb brushing your thigh like it’s an accident even though you both know it isn’t.
“Ready?” they murmur.
You nod.
They tilt forward, catching the other end between their teeth.
And then
He stops.
Just… watching you. Their pupils widen a fraction. Their breath brushes your skin.
You bite off a piece.
He bites back, matching your pace exactly.
Your faces inch closer, centimeter by centimeter, until—
They pull back.
You blink. “Hey....”
He taps your forehead lightly with a finger. “I win.”
“You didn’t win!”
“Sure did.” He twirls the remaining half of the Pocky between his fingers. “Pulled back first. You flinched.”
“I did not flinch.”
“You did.” Another smirk. Lazy, victorious. “Cute.”
Your cheeks heat. You shove his shoulder. “Rematch.”
“Yes, Angel,” they say with mock innocence. “Let’s.”
ROUND 2
This time he takes the stick between his own lips.
They lean in, murmuring through the chocolate, “C’mere.”
You do.
You bite.
He bites.
Your noses brush.
And then
Right when you’re about to break under how close they are
He snaps forward, breaking the Pocky instantly and pressing his mouth to your cheek.
“Win,” he whispers.
“That— That’s cheating!”
“Mhm.”
“That doesn’t count!”
“Sure it does.” He leans back, smug as sin, spreading their knees wider on the couch. “Two-nothing. Try t’ keep up, Angel.”
You swear you see the tips of their ears go pink, even though his voice stays steady.
You glare. “You’re doing it on purpose.”
“Obviously.”
ROUND 3
You’re determined.
Before they can grab another stick, you take one, scoot closer, and wedge it between your lips.
He blinks at you.
Then that grin turns slow.
“Aggressive today, aren’t you?” he murmurs. “Alright.”
He leans in.
You both bite faster this time, like it’s an actual competition. The stick dwindles. Their lips are dangerously close. Their breath fans across your mouth.
You’re not backing away this time.
Neither is he.
One inch left.
Half an inch....
A breath—
Then—
Snap.
The last piece melts against both your mouths, and your lips brush. Just barely.
Both of you freeze.
“…Tie?” you whisper.
“…Tie,” he mutters back, voice much lower than before.
You feel his hands slide up your waist, slow and warm, pulling you closer subconsciously.
You swallow. “Another round?”
Their throat bobs. “Yeah. Yeah— gimme the box.”
ROUND 4
He grabs two sticks this time.
“I’m winnin’ this one,” they mutter, clicking the sticks together like drumsticks.
“Cocky.”
They smirk. “You like it.”
You don’t deny it.
He places the Pocky between his teeth ... but not straight.
At an angle.
A trap.
You lean in, suspicious. “You’re up to something.”
“M’not.”
He absolutely is.
You bite.
He bites.
The stick shrinks evenly.
But then—
He tilts his head.
Just slightly.
Forces you to follow the angle or stop.
Your lips brush again, firmer this time. His breath shakes .... barely. You feel it.
One more bite and he’d be kissing you.
You freeze.
He takes the opportunity.
Snap.
He breaks the Pocky with two fingers and licks the chocolate dust off his thumb.
“Four to one,” he says smugly. “Get better angel...”
You shove him. “Stop cheating!”
“Ain’t cheating if you fall for it.”
ROUND 5 ..... FINAL ROUND There's no blink gone.
You snatch the box dramatically.
He laughs actually laughs head tipping back, bangs falling out of their face.
“You’re going DOWN.”
“Mhm, sure.”
You grab a stick and shove the chocolate end against his mouth.
“Hold still.”
He does. But he raises a brow like a challenge.
You bite first.
He bites.
You inch in.
He inches more.
Their hand slides to your jaw, thumb stroking your chin like they’re guiding you closer. Their breath hits your lips. Their eyes half-lid.
You take another bite.
He takes one.
There’s barely anything left.
Your noses brush again.
Their eyes flick to your lips.
The world feels slow.
The stick trembles.
You whisper, “Don’t you dare cheat.”
He smirks softly.
“M’not cheatin’.”
You bite the final piece—
—and your lips meet his fully.
Soft. Warm. Surprising him as much as you.
Both of you freeze.
Then he kisses you back.
Deeply.
Slowly.
He cups your jaw, pulling you into their lap, kissing you like they’ve been waiting all night for this exact excuse.
When he finally pulls back, your foreheads touch.
“…Who won?” you whisper, breathless.
He huffs a laugh through his nose. “Dunno. Don’t care.”
“You said the winner—”
“Don’t care, Angel.”
He leans in again, brushing his lips against yours.
“You can tell me t’ do whatever you want. I’ll do it.”
You blink. “…Even if I lost?”
“Mhm.”
He presses a slow kiss to your cheek.
“’Cause watchin’ you try t’ win—”
A kiss to your jaw.
“—might’ve been the cutest shit I’ve ever seen.”
Your face burns.
He grins, lazy and satisfied and a little shy even though he tries to hide it.
“You wanna know what I’d tell you to do?” he whispers in your ear.
You nod.
He murmurs, low and teasing:
“Tell me t’ kiss you again.”
You shove their chest gently, because you’re melting and he just laughs and pulls you back against their body, burying his face in your neck like he needs to stay close or he’ll combust.
“C’mon, Angel,” he mutters. “More rounds. I like watchin’ you.."
I was a little surprised by the drawing… um, of obsessive yanderes not with MC, but with each other. And let me say right away, so there is no misunderstanding, this is not homophobia, I'm just not a fan of RO/RO, so yeah… not a particularly pleasant sight. But oh well.
Let's talk about both games separately. Who is more jealousy type? Adam or Max?
I really dont undedstand why you felt the need to come into my inbox and say this anon.
And I'm highly disappointed in you for doing so.
As a creator, I am within my right to draw what I wish to.
If you dont like it? Fine. I have PLENTY of other content that doesn't entail this sort dynamic that you can still enjoy.
And I will continue making plenty of content that doesn't contain two canon characters together as a crack ship drawing.
But to come in here and say this about me doing something that is notibly me clapping back against the blatant homophobia I've been seeing online is, to put it bluntly, entitled.
okay but like, (sorry if i come across as rude i just felt angry with the anon) im gonna mean it in a neutral term as queer. this ask is actually super disrespectful and yeah, it is homophobic, no matter how many “this isn’t homophobia btw” disclaimers they try to throw in the anon's ask. saying “i’m not a fan of ro/ro” and calling 'queer' art “not a particularly pleasant sight” is literally the definition of being uncomfortable with same-gender relationships. you don’t get to say “not homophobic!” and then… be homophobic.
it’s also just plain rude to the creator. like, they made that art. they put thought, time into this, dismissing it because it’s not your preferred flavor of straightness is gross. yaoi yuri etc art isn’t something you get to tolerate “even though it’s unpleasant,” it’s something that deserves to exist just as freely as everything else.
and the “just not my thing” excuse? nah. we’ve heard that one too many times. it always means “i’m fine with queer people existing as long as they stay in the background.” if you can handle endless straight pairings without gagging, you can handle seeing two characters of the same gender interact romantically.
this kind of comment is the exact passive homophobia that makes queer creators feel unwelcome. if you don’t like it, scroll. don’t act like your personal discomfort is neutral it’s not. it’s harmful.
okay but also. the way they just casually tried to pivot at the end like, “anyway let’s talk about both games separately who’s more jealous?” is wild. like??? you just dropped a whole paragraph “not a pleasant sight” and then acted like we’re supposed to keep chatting normally after that??
it’s giving “i said something offensive but i’m gonna pretend it’s fine if i change the topic.” you can’t just disrespect stuff, undermine the creator’s work, and then try to talk like nothing happened. that’s not how basic respect works.
if you’re gonna comment on someone’s art, at least own your tone. don’t toss in a casual “oh well” like your homophobia is just a minor inconvenience before asking a cute fandom question. it makes the whole message feel dismissive and self-centered like the creator’s feelings don’t matter, and the only thing that does is your comfort.
so yeah. the “let’s talk about both games separately” part just adds insult to injury. it’s like watching someone make a mess and then immediately ask what’s for dinner. it’s tone-deaf, awkward, and shows zero awareness of how rude the first part actually was.
sorry, i just saw this floating around on discord and it honestly made me so angry i had to say something somewhere i didn’t want to flood the chat or derail anything, but i couldn’t just ignore it. this kind of comment really isn’t okay ;-;
We love yuri yaoi and straight everything is equal.
Summary: — After a small argument where Redacted refuses to get mad at you, frustration builds between you both. Despite your attempts to stay distant, their gentle persistence and need for closeness slowly wear you down.
THEN YOU SMASH!!
( Reader is a g.n!)
EXTRA: This was a request, from discord, They’re a good friend!!
Again, [REDACTED] just takes it. Doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight back—just ducks their head, lets their shoulders sag, and mutters, “M’ sorry.”
And fuck, that makes your teeth grind.
“Stop that,” you snap before you can stop yourself.
They blink, startled. “Stop… what?”
You gesture—at them, at their whole goddamn everything. “This. The—The whole apologizing thing. I’m mad at you, [YOU]. You can be mad back. You can fight me instead of just taking it like—like—”
“Like I deserve it?”
Your breath snags.
Soft. Quiet. Like they already know what you’re gonna say. Like they agree.
And that—that makes you want to throw something.
“No! No!” You grab their wrist—not to hurt, just to hold. To make them listen. “You don’t deserve it, and that’s the fucking problem! I can’t even be mad at you properly because you never—You never fight back! You never defend yourself! You just let me be angry, let me lash out, let me blame you, and then you say ‘m’ sorry’ like—like it’s all your fault!“
Their brows furrow, lips parting—like they want to argue. But they don’t.
And that’s when it really hits you.
They’re not ignoring you.
They just… don’t think they should fight back.
Your grip on their wrist loosens, fingers sliding down until they hook around theirs. “You can get mad at me,” you murmur. “You can tell me I’m wrong, tell me I’m being unfair. I want to fight with you if it means we fix things. But I can’t—” You swallow hard. "I can’t keep being the only one who raises my voice while you just—just take it and blame yourself.”[[MORE]]
A pause.
[REDACTED] stares at you—eyes wide, raw, something fragile flickering beneath the surface. Their mouth opens—then closes—then, finally, they speak.
“…I don’t wanna fight you,” they murmur. “I just—” They exhale sharply, shaking their head. “I don’t want to fight with you..“
And fuck—fuck—that’s what breaks you.
"You’re already hurting me, dumbass,” you whisper, voice cracking, fingers curling tighter around theirs. “Not because of a fight—because I feel like I’m hitting a fucking ghost whenever I argue with you.” You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. “I want the real you. All of you. Even the parts that get mad at me. Even the parts that fight back.”
Something shifts in their expression. Something wounded.
“…The real me, huh?” Their voice is rough, like they’re chewing on the words. “And what if the real me ain't… what y’want?”
You don’t hesitate.
“I want you,” you say, pressing their hand to your chest, right over your racing heart. “Only you. The real you.” Your voice drops to a whisper, raw and desperate. “I love you, [REDACTED].”
Their breath hitches. Their fingers tremble against yours. And for the first time, you see it—the crack in their armor, the fear behind their eyes.
Well, You’re still mad/j
You huff, sinking deeper into the couch, arms crossed tight as Attack on Giant blares from the screen. You’re not even watching—just pretending to, staring blankly at the fights while your thoughts rage louder than the explosions.
You hate this. You hate how you’re still mad, how he just lets you be, how he looks so fucking sad sitting across from you like a kicked puppy.
[REDACTED] isn’t saying anything. Just… sitting there. Shoulders slightly hunched, hands clasped together like he’s holding himself still. Not pushing, not begging—just waiting.
Like he always fucking does.
Like he always has.
It’s suffocating.
Minutes pass. Maybe an hour. You don’t even know anymore. The silence isn’t cold, not really—but it stretches long enough to wrap around your ribs, squeeze tight, ache.
And yet, he doesn’t complain.
Doesn’t demand.
Doesn’t even shift closer.
He just watches you, quiet and patient, like he’d wait forever if that’s what it took for you to stop being mad.
Like he’d wait another decade if it meant you’d finally reach for him again.
And fuck, that realization makes your throat burn.
Because it’s sad. It’s fucking sad at this point.
You grip the blanket tighter around yourself, teeth clenched. You don’t want to be mad anymore. You don’t want to give him the silent treatment. You don’t want him to just sit there, drowning in his own regret, waiting for a love he already fucking has.
You don’t want him to think you’re really pushing him away.
So you shift. Just barely. Uncurl your legs.
It’s subtle, but he notices instantly.
His shoulders tense—not in fear, but in hope.
Still, he doesn’t push.
He just waits.
You take a breath, exhaling slow, forcing yourself to relax.
And then—without looking at him—you grab his hand.
He freezes.
And when you finally glance at him—just a quick, fleeting look—you swear he’s shaking.
You’re stacking the dishes when two strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you back against a firm, familiar chest. His warmth seeps into your skin, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as he sighs—a low, content sound that makes your stomach flip.
“You really…” he murmurs, voice a lazy drawl, “…are a softie.”
Your hands still. The dish towel crinkles in your grip.
You huff. “Hmph.”
You act annoyed. You act like you hate it. Like this whole affection thing is just too much, too clingy, too Redacted.
But your hands betray you.
Because instead of pushing him off, you reach up—fingers threading through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.
And god, he melts.
His breath hitches, grip tightening as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. You feel him smile against your skin, feel the way he relaxes, like this—you—is all he’s ever needed.
“…’S not fair,” he mutters, muffled against you.
You arch a brow. “What’s not fair?”
“You act all mean,” he murmurs, voice slow and sleepy, “‘n’ then you do this…”
You roll your eyes, still scratching lightly at his scalp. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”
You cross your arms, leaning against the counter, glaring at him. “You’re not getting near me.”
He stops mid-step, blinking at you like a confused puppy.
A pause. Then, hesitantly—softly—"…Still mad at me, huh?“
You huff, looking away. It’s stupid, honestly. The argument wasn’t even that big, just one of those things that built up over time—him never defending himself, never even trying to fight back, just letting you steamroll him with nothing in return but sad eyes and quiet apologies. It makes you feel awful. Like you’re the bad guy every single time.
"At least ask for something,” you mutter, not looking at him. “I made you sad. You always just take it. If you can’t get mad at me, at least say that it hurts instead of going silent.”
You feel him move before you see him.
Warmth presses against the side of your neck—a slow, lingering kiss right below your jaw. His breath is warm, his lips impossibly soft, and your heart does a fucking backflip.
Your fingers twitch at your sides. Your whole body stiffens.
“You always do this,” you grumble, cheeks heating up.
A small chuckle against your skin. “What?”
He laughs, low and fond, arms winding around your waist again. “S’ not cheatin’, Y/n. Just know what works on ya.”
You scoff, feeling your resolve start to crumble. Your body still buzzes from the way his lips lingered against your skin, from the warmth pressing up against your back.
Then, in that same casual, lazy drawl, he asks—
“Wanna make up?”
…Oh.
Your heart stops.
You blink, heat creeping up your neck. “…Eh?”
He leans down, lips barely brushing the shell of your ear. “Y’heard me.”
And fuck, your whole body burns. The way he says it—so blunt, so confident, so fucking casual—has your brain short-circuiting. Your fingers curl into fists, gripping at nothing, trying so hard to play it cool despite the way your pulse is pounding.
You swallow thickly. Cross your arms tighter. Try to keep your face neutral.
“…Sure,” you say.
Expression blank.
Voice flat.
Trying desperately to ignore the way your ears are on fire.
He grins. He knows. He sees through you.
And before you can blink, you’re on the bed.
Pinned.
His lips crush against yours, his hands sliding up your sides, warm, slow, possessive. You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue teasing at yours, dragging you into something slow and dizzying and hot.
The kiss is rough, almost desperate—like he’s trying to prove something, trying to make you feel what they won’t say out loud. Their hands grip your waist as they push you back, guiding you until your legs hit the bed.
Then they shove you down.
Not forcefully, not like they’re trying to overpower you—just firm, controlled, the way they always are. Like they’re claiming you, like they’re saying you’re mine without needing to use the words.
Their weight follows, pressing you into the mattress, their breath warm against your lips as they hover just above you. They’re looking at you—God, they’re watching you—like they’re searching for something in your eyes, something they’re too much of a coward to ask for outright.
“You still mad at me, You?” they murmur, voice low, teasing—but there’s a flicker of something real underneath it.
You scoff, tilting your head away, acting like you don’t feel the way your body reacts to them. Damn them. “Maybe.”
They chuckle—soft, breathy—then press their lips to the curve of your jaw, trailing lower, nipping at the sensitive skin of your throat until you gasp.
“Y’sure?” Their voice is thick with amusement, but their hands say otherwise. They’re firm where they grip your hips, grounding you, holding you close—like they’re afraid you’ll slip through their fingers.
You’re still trying to be stubborn, still fighting the way your heart pounds when their lips graze your collarbone. “If you think I’m just gonna forgive you—”
“I know.”
The words are quiet, barely more than a whisper. And when they finally look at you, their eyes are dark—heated—but there’s something else there too. Something softer, something unspoken.
Then they kiss you.
And it’s deep this time—slow, lingering, the kind of kiss that steals the breath from your lungs, that melts into you like a promise. Their hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing against your skin, holding you like you’re precious.
And that’s what finally breaks you.
You grab at them—pulling them closer, wrapping your arms around their neck, threading your fingers through their hair. You’re kissing them back just as desperately, pouring every ounce of your frustration, your longing, your love into it.
You don’t even know when they settle fully between your legs, don’t even register the way their hips press against yours until they groan against your lips, grinding into you.
“Fuck,” they rasp, burying their face against your neck. “Y’don’t—You have no idea what y’do to me, You…”
Your breath stutters, and for a moment, neither of you speak. The argument still lingers in the air between you, unspoken and unresolved, but this—this—is how you make up. Not with words.
Their breath is warm, teasing against your skin before they dip lower—trailing kisses down your neck, your collarbone, lower still until their lips hover just above your chest.
Then—fuck.
They bite.
A sharp little nip against your nipple before their tongue soothes over the sting, slow and deliberate, sending a jolt straight down your spine. You gasp, arching into them, but they don’t stop—not yet. They flick their tongue over the sensitive bud, watching your reactions, listening to every little sound you make, before latching on properly, sucking just hard enough to make your head spin.
“Sensitive, huh?” Their voice is thick with amusement, teasing but hungry. One of their hands drags down your stomach, fingers ghosting over the waistband of your clothes, slipping just beneath—so close, so fucking close, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
You squirm beneath them, frustration bubbling up, but they only smirk against your skin. Their other hand comes up to your neglected nipple, rolling it between their fingers, pinching just enough to make you whimper.
“Mm. Y’really gonna stay mad at me?” Their voice is low, husky, vibrating through you as they switch sides, lavishing the same attention to your other nipple, sucking and teasing, leaving you breathless.
Your hands fly to their hair, gripping tight—like you can force them to stop teasing. “Shut up,” you manage, but it’s weak, a little desperate, and they love it.
They chuckle, the sound rumbling against your skin.
“Guess I’ll have t’fuck the anger outta you, then.”
And with that, their hand finally slips lower.
Their fingers trace slow, feather-light circles over your clothed heat, barely pressing down, just teasing. It’s infuriating—your body is aching, burning, needing more, but they won’t give it to you. Not yet.
“Still mad at me, huh?” Their voice is mocking, low and amused, but there’s something else beneath it—something dark, something possessive. Their fingers dip lower, almost slipping under the fabric, but then they pull back, just enough to leave you frustrated.
You whine—actually whine—and the sound makes them smirk.
“Aw, poor thing.” Their lips graze your ear, warm and teasing. “Want somethin’?”
You try to grind against their hand, desperate for anything, but they pin you down, using their weight to keep you still. Their fingers barely press against you, just enough to make you twitch, make you gasp, make you ache for more.
“Y’gotta tell me, baby.” Their voice is thick with amusement, but their breath is ragged against your skin. They’re enjoying this just as much as you are—dragging it out, making you want it, making you need it.
You grit your teeth, refusing to beg. Refusing.
But when they pull away entirely, hands leaving you completely, you snap.
“Fuck—just touch me already!”
Their smirk widens, and fuck, they love hearing you like this—frustrated, desperate, barely holding on.
“That’s more like it.”
And then—finally, finally—their fingers slip beneath the fabric, sliding against your heat, pressing deep, stretching you open, giving you exactly what you need.
Their fingers curl just right, pressing deep, slow, deliberate—just enough to make you feel it, but never enough to satisfy. It’s torture, this agonizing pace, this teasing, feather-light touch that only fuels the fire burning inside you. Your breath is ragged, your body trembling, every muscle tensed as you claw at the sheets beneath you.
“Redacted—!” Your voice is caught between a moan and a plea, frustration boiling over as they refuse to give you what you really want.
They chuckle—low, deep, full of amusement as they press an open-mouthed kiss to your throat, their lips trailing slow, lazy heat down your skin. “Mmm… somethin’ wrong, Angel?” Their fingers withdraw almost completely before sliding back in, shallow and teasing. “Y'sound a lil’ worked up.”
You whimper—a sound you wouldn’t have let anyone else hear, but with them? They pull it from you so easily. Your hands fly to their wrist, gripping tight, trying to force them to move faster, deeper, more, but they don’t budge.
“Please,” you breathe, half-growling, half-desperate. “Stop—teasing.”
They click their tongue, shaking their head as if you’re being so unreasonable. “Steam’s gotta be let off first, Angel,” they murmur, their voice a smooth, teasing drawl. “Ain’t that right?”
You let out a frustrated whine, hips jerking as you try to meet their touch, but they tut softly, keeping you pinned, keeping control.
“Y'know I’ll never deny you, Angel…” Their lips brush against your ear, voice dark and sweet, and then—finally, finally—they snap.
Their fingers plunge deep, their pace turning from lazy and teasing to devastating, working you open without a shred of mercy. The pleasure slams into you, white-hot and overwhelming, and you cry out, head falling back as the heat coils tight in your core.
Their free hand grips your chin, tilting your face toward them, forcing you to meet their gaze—eyes dark, intense, locked onto yours like they own you.
“That’s it,” they murmur, voice thick with hunger. “Let me hear you, Angel.”
Their grip tightens—steady, unrelenting—keeping you right on the edge without letting you fall. Your body trembles beneath them, muscles twitching, every nerve alight with unbearable heat. It’s too much—too good—but they won’t let you go.
You choke out their name between ragged breaths, your hands clutching at their arms, their shoulders, anything to ground yourself, to plead for mercy. But all they do is smirk, dragging their fingers slowly out, only to press them back in at an achingly controlled pace.
“Aww, listen to you,” they murmur, voice dripping with dark amusement. “So needy, Angel…” They lean in, lips brushing your ear as their free hand smooths over your stomach, your chest—trailing slow, teasing circles over your heated skin. “You sound so pretty when you beg, y’know that?”
A frustrated whimper escapes you, a shiver wracking your body as you fight against their hold, desperate to move, to chase what they keep just out of reach.
“P-please,” you gasp, back arching, toes curling. “Please, I—I need—”
They hush you, their fingers plunging deeper, curling just right, sending an electric shock of pleasure straight to your core.
“Shhh, Angel… I know.” Their voice is soft, almost mocking in its sweetness. “But y’gotta hold on for me, yeah? Y’can do that, right?”
You shake your head, gasping, voice breaking. “No! I—I can’t—”
They chuckle, their grip tightening, keeping you still as your body shudders beneath them.
“Sure y’can,” they murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips, voice thick with affection. “Y’just don’t know it yet.”
Before you could get another word out, they pushed in.
A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your fingers clawing at their back, nails digging into heated skin as your body arched against them. Your head tipped back, a broken, helpless sound spilling from your lips, pleasure crashing through you in waves.
“Fuck—”
They groaned against your neck, their breath hot and ragged, their own body trembling as they sank into you, inch by inch. Your arms wrapped around them on instinct, pulling them impossibly closer, your chest pressed flush against theirs, your pulse pounding in your ears.
“Shit… Angel—” Their voice was low, strained, barely holding on, but the way they said your name—like they were praying—sent a shiver down your spine. They needed this just as much as you did.
You barely had time to breathe before they bit down—hard—right against the curve of your neck.
A high-pitched cry escaped you, your body jerking in response, heat coiling in your gut, winding tighter—too much, too fast. The sting of their teeth melted into a dull, throbbing pleasure, and when their tongue soothed over the mark, you whimpered, shivering as they left behind a deep, dark hickey.
Their hands slid down your sides, slow, possessive, fingers pressing into your skin as they pulled back just enough to meet your eyes—half-lidded, desperate, barely restrained.
“Gonna keep you right here,” they murmured, voice thick with need. Their hips rolled forward, their hold tightening. “Gonna make sure you feel me—”
Another thrust. Deeper. More intense.
Your vision blurred, your breath catching, body twitching as pleasure surged through you like fire.
“Fuck— please—” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, couldn’t even think—just clutching at them, holding on as they fucked you through the dizzying, overwhelming sensation, keeping you right on the brink of explosion.
And then—
They kissed you.
Slow. Deep. Possessive.
And you fucking broke.
Your whole body shattered beneath them.
A choked, shuddering gasp tore from your throat as the pleasure hit—blinding, overwhelming, knocking every last thought from your head. Your legs clenched around their waist, hands grasping at their shoulders, their hair—anything you could hold onto as wave after wave of white-hot bliss crashed through you.
They swallowed your cries, their lips moving against yours in a messy, desperate kiss, like they were trying to devour every sound you made, feel every tremor in your body as you unraveled beneath them. Their name spilled from your lips like a prayer, half-whimpered, half-moan, and fuck—
They loved it.
“That’s it,” they groaned, voice rough, breath hitching against your mouth. Their grip on your hips tightened, strong fingers digging into your skin as they thrust into you, chasing their own release, dragging you through the aftershocks. “God, Angel—feel so fucking good—”
Your mind was spinning, body still trembling in their arms, overstimulated and aching in the best way. But you still wanted more.
“More,” you gasped, voice barely above a breath, hands tightening in their hair, pulling them closer. “Please—”
They swore under their breath, something low and guttural, before burying their face in the crook of your neck, hips snapping forward with a deep, needy groan.
“Fuck—fuck—”
And then—
They came, shuddering against you, their whole body tensing as they spilled inside, breath hitching, hips stuttering in the aftermath. A low, wrecked sound left their lips, barely held back, and you swore it was the sexiest thing you’d ever heard.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Just breathing. Holding each other. Feeling the warmth between you, the way their body pressed against yours, how they fit against you so perfectly.
Then—
A slow, satisfied exhale, their lips ghosting over your temple before they nuzzled into your hair.
“S’good,” they murmured, voice thick, lazy. “Too good, Angel… y’ damn near killed me.”
You huffed out a breathless laugh, still reeling, but you felt the way their arms tightened around you—how they refused to let you go, even as exhaustion started to set in.
Their hips didn’t still for long.
Even as you were still trying to catch your breath, still reeling from the way they had just ruined you, they were already moving again—slow, teasing rolls of their hips against yours, letting you feel just how much they still wanted you.
“Tsk, look at you, Angel,” they murmured against your ear, voice thick with amusement and something darker beneath it. Their lips brushed your jaw, your cheek, your neck—each kiss deliberate, possessive—before they nipped at the sensitive skin, making you gasp. “Still twitchin’ for me. So sensitive…”
Your breath hitched as they ground against you again—slow and lazy but purposeful, their length dragging through the mess between your thighs, rubbing against every oversensitive spot that had you whimpering into their shoulder.
“R-Redacted…” you gasped, fingers clutching at their back, nails digging in, desperate to ground yourself against the pleasure. “Too much… I—I just—”
They shushed you, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple, their voice a low, affectionate drawl. “I know, Angel. S’alright… I got you.”
But they didn’t stop.
Their hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips, holding you firm as they rocked into you, slow and deep—not enough to overwhelm, not yet, but enough to make you feel them, to keep you on edge.
“Gotta make up for makin’ you mad, don’t I?” they murmured, teeth grazing your ear, sending a full-body shudder down your spine. “Gotta show my Angel how much I love ‘em…”
Their fingers found your jaw, tilting your face toward them, their lips hovering just over yours—so close, so teasing.
“You still mad at me, Angel?”
You wanted to glare at them. Really, you did. But the way they were touching you, the way they were looking at you, their breath warm against your lips—fuck, you couldn’t think straight.
You swallowed hard, trying to muster even the smallest amount of defiance. “M-Maybe…”
A slow, knowing smirk curled at their lips.
“Maybe?” they echoed, tilting their head. “Guess I’ll have to keep goin’ ‘til you forgive me, then…”
And then—
They thrust.
Deep. Slow. Purposeful.
And you—
You cried out.
They shushed you through the cry, murmuring low and soothing against your lips, but their movements didn’t falter. If anything, their grip on your hips tightened, keeping you right where they wanted you as they rolled into you again—deep, slow, letting you feel every inch of them as they stretched you open all over again.
“There we go,” they murmured, dragging their lips down your throat, feeling the way your pulse raced beneath their mouth. “Takin’ me so good, Angel. Y’always do…”
Your breath hitched, legs twitching where they were wrapped around their waist, toes curling with every slow, devastating movement. “R-Redacted—”
“Shh, I know…” Their voice was all honey and heat, melting into you. “I know, Angel. I got you…”
But they didn’t stop teasing.
Their hips moved at a pace that was infuriatingly slow, drawing out every sensation, forcing you to feel it—like they wanted to savor you, like they wanted to pull every last sound from your lips before they finally let you have what you wanted.
And you were—
You were so frustrated. So worked up and sensitive that it was too much and not enough all at once. You needed more, you needed faster, you needed—
“Damn it, Redacted, please—!”
They chuckled, low and warm against your skin, their lips curling against your shoulder. “Please what, Angel? Gotta be specific…”
Your face burned. They knew exactly what you wanted, they just wanted to hear you say it—to make you beg for it.
“P-Please, just—” You clenched around them, nails digging into their back, eyes squeezing shut as another slow thrust sent fire up your spine. “Just stop teasing and—”
“And what, Angel?” Their voice was syrupy sweet, mocking in the softest, most affectionate way. “Say it for me…”
Your pride was screaming at you to fight back, to bite back something smart, to refuse to give them the satisfaction—
But then they rolled their hips, slow and deep, and any resistance you had left shattered.
“J-Just fuck me already—!”
They groaned, deep and pleased, like that was exactly what they were waiting for.
“That’s my Angel…”
And then—
Then they snapped their hips forward.
Hard. Fast. Deep.
Their breath hitched, and then they growled—low, deep, vibrating through their chest and into you.
“More, huh?” Their fingers tightened on your hips, their weight pressing you into the mattress as they pinned you down completely. “Y'got no idea what you’re askin’ for, Angel…”
But they gave it to you.
They slammed into you, hard enough to send shockwaves through your body, hard enough to knock every breath from your lungs. The rhythm was relentless now—fast, deep, dragging you to the edge so quickly your head spun. Your body jolted with every thrust, fingers curling into the sheets, clawing at their back, at their shoulders, at anything you could hold onto—
“F-Fuck—!” You barely had breath to speak, barely had thoughts left beyond the heat, the overwhelming pleasure, the way they were stretching you, filling you, ruining you—
They buried their face against your neck, breath hot and ragged, groaning with every desperate snap of their hips. “S'good, Angel. So perfect—”
Their lips ghosted against your pulse, hot and open-mouthed, before sinking their teeth into your skin—hard.
You shattered.
Pleasure ripped through you, blinding, consuming, your body arching into them as you came with a cry, trembling beneath them as your vision whited out.
And they didn’t stop.
“C’mon, Angel—give me another,” they rasped, voice thick with praise, with possession, with love. “Bet you can, can’t you? Bet you can take one more for me—”
You shuddered, body trembling beneath them as waves of pleasure crashed through you, but they weren’t done—not yet.
“Again, Angel,” they murmured against your skin, voice thick, almost pleading now. “Let me feel you—let me hear you.”
You bit your lip, trying to hold it in, trying to keep your sounds from spilling out—
But then they thrust one last time, deep, grinding against you as they spilled inside, hot and thick, sending you spiraling into another sharp, helpless climax.
And that was it. That was the moment you broke.
A choked sob escaped your lips, your whole body tightening around them as pleasure wrecked you, as their name tore from your throat in a breathless, trembling moan—
“Fuck— that’s it, that’s it,” they groaned, arms locking around you, holding you close as they rode out the last pulses of pleasure, as they filled you to the brim.
It was overwhelming—too much, too deep, too intimate.
And still, they didn’t pull away.
Instead, they held you, breath hot against your neck, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to your damp skin. Their hands traced soothing circles over your hips, grounding you, keeping you close, like they couldn’t let go.
“You okay, Angel?” their voice was softer now, gentle, laced with something raw, something vulnerable.
You barely had the strength to nod, still shaking in their arms, still feeling them inside you, still coming down from that high.
They pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, their fingers tightening around yours as they whispered, “S’good. So good. Mine.”
And fuck.
Your heart ached.
They let out a soft chuckle, still breathless, still soaked in heat and the remnants of pleasure. Their arms curled around you, pulling you against their chest, their heartbeat pounding against your ear.
“Man,” they murmured, voice thick with exhaustion and something softer, sweeter. “That’s one way to let off steam.”
You scoffed weakly, burying your face against their skin, trying to fight the warmth spreading through your chest.
“Shut up,” you mumbled.
They just smirked, pressing a lazy, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Never.”
The room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing, the gentle hum of their fingers tracing up and down your back, soothing, steady—like they never wanted to let you go.
“Y’know,” they muttered after a moment, “if I pissed you off on purpose, d’you think—”
You pinched their side before they could finish.
They yelped—then laughed, burying their face in your hair, still cradling you like you were something precious. Like they couldn’t believe they got to have you like this.
“Love you,” they whispered against your temple, breath warm, tender.
And even though you were still pretending to be mad, still trying to act like you weren’t melting at their touch—
It happened too fast, too slow, exactly as it should’ve. That day—you saw past the lie, past the face, past the teeth bared in something not quite a smile.
And today, they’re yours. Almost. A heartbeat away from fiancé, a lifetime away from certainty. It took time. God, it took time.
You wore the ring that day, but not for love, not for promises, not even for the pleasure of peeling back the layers of REDACTED like rotting wallpaper. That’s a story for another day, sweetheart. For now—
You love REDACTED more than Ren, more than the mask they made to hold the world at arm’s length. You love the rot beneath.
Realistically? A few years. Maybe forever. Maybe never. Ren’s been rewriting himself since before he even knew how to spell his own name, shaving down the edges of REDACTED into something soft, something pliable, something digestible. Someone lovable.
Because Ren, as he is, isn’t enough. Can’t be. He learned that young, learned it deep, learned it so well it’s a reflex now, a gut reaction. A knee-jerk flinch into being whatever you want, whatever keeps you looking at him. But REDACTED—ah. They don’t care. They don’t need to. They know the truth, and the truth is cruel:
You like a lot of things. You like a lot of people. But you’ll never like him enough. Not really. Not the way he wants. And he’s made peace with that.
Ren is Haruko, and Haruko is sweet. Haruko stumbles over words and tries too hard. Haruko is a puppet carved from borrowed smiles and practiced stutters. But REDACTED—RED is sharp, cruel, jagged in a way no one wants to hold. Cold, empty, tired in the bones. If he ever learned love, it was an imitation, an echo—flat, distant, never quite right.
The blushing? Real. The sweating? Also real. The stammering, the nerves, the pathetic little slip-ups? All him, honest and raw, because fuck, he never expected to have this. Angel wasn’t supposed to see him. Ren was supposed to be background noise, an afterthought, a whisper of a person that never solidified. But fate had different plans, and now he’s in too deep.
And this? This is life now. A life built on strings and careful calculations, on the soft lie of Haruko and the hard truth of REDACTED bleeding through the cracks. And you—you don’t know if it’s guilt that keeps you here. If it’s sympathy, or pity, or something worse. You don’t know if he even wants saving.
He’s shit in the saddest way possible. But he doesn’t care. Never has. Never will.
It’s all just—ah.
You’ve accepted REDACTED now, right? Last time, they held you through it—your own personal shield against every jump scare, every flicker of something too fast, too wrong in the dark. You screamed, clung to them like a lifeline, like a fucking lifeblood, fingers digging in, breath caught, and they—cool as ever—just patted your head. Like you were some trembling stray curled up in their lap.
Now? You’re a pro. A veteran. An unshakable force of—no, fuck that, you’re still scared. Still clutching them like a goddamn koala, half-buried in their chest, gripping the fabric of their hoodie like it might save your soul. And they let you. One hand still in your hair, absentminded, rhythmically soothing, the other loose on your thigh like they aren’t watching people get gutted on screen.
Both of your rings—the rings, the childhood ones—sit snug around your fingers. Like wedding bands. Like something binding. Like something permanent. Ah. Cute.
“Scary f’ ya?” REDACTED barely glances at the screen, more interested in the way you’ve tensed up, knuckles white against the blanket. “Want me t’change it?”
“Shut the fuck up.” You don’t even look at them, eyes locked on the too-dark hallway stretching across the screen, waiting for something—anything—to lunge. Your fingers tighten in their sleeve like you’re bracing for impact.
They huff a quiet laugh, all amusement, all smug, before shifting. Heavy. Comfortable. Head dropping onto your lap like they belong there. “Suit yourself.”
Their warmth sinks into you, grounding. Distracting. You don’t relax, not completely, but you loosen just enough to card your fingers through their hair. They hum, pleased, tapping lazy fingers against your thigh.
You flinch at a sudden jump scare.
They don’t even pretend not to notice.
They hum again, but this time, it’s different—deeper, slower, something deliberate curling at the edges of their voice. The kind of sound that sends a shiver through you, pooling low in your stomach. Their fingers, lazy against your thigh, trace an absentminded pattern, dipping beneath the hem of your shirt, just barely grazing skin.
“Y’really that scared?” they murmur, turning their head just enough to glance up at you, half-lidded, half-smirking. “Ain’t even watchin’ the movie no more.”
“Maybe ‘cause someone won’t shut up,” you fire back, but your voice is softer than you meant it to be, breath catching when they press their face into your stomach—right there—like they know exactly what they’re doing.
“Mm.” They exhale slow, warm, lips brushing fabric. “Or maybe y’jus’ need a better distraction.”
Their fingers ghost higher. Their grip tightens, just a little. Your heart skips.
Yeah. Fuck the movie.
Their lips are warm—almost searing—the weight of them pressed against yours stealing the air right from your lungs. It’s slow at first, teasing, like they’re testing the waters, but the second you start to lean in, the second your fingers curl in their shirt, they take it as permission to devour.
“Mm—” You barely get a sound out before they tilt their head, deepening it, a slow, deliberate slide of lips and tongue that has heat creeping up your spine. Their hand finds the back of your neck, fingers pressing just firm enough to make you shudder.
“Y’kiss back real pretty,” they murmur, breaking away just enough to speak, their voice dipped in amusement, something smug curling at the edges. “S’good f’me, yeah?”
You barely get the chance to respond before their teeth catch your lower lip—a sharp little nip that sends a jolt right down to your gut. Your grip on them tightens.
Then your heel catches on the floor, and suddenly, you’re tilting back, balance slipping—
But they’re already moving, already got an arm wrapped around you, holding you steady before you can even process the fall.
They click their tongue, half-laughing, half-scolding, pulling you flush against them like you belong there.
“Clumsy,” they chide, and you can hear the grin in their voice, the way it stretches, smug and sharp. Their fingers trace slow circles against your lower back, dipping just under the hem of your shirt. “Y’like bein’ held this close, huh? Don’t even gotta ask—jus’ throw y’self at me next time, sweetheart.”
Your face feels like it’s on fire. The warmth creeps down your neck, settling deep in your chest, and you hate—hate—how easy it is for them to get you like this.
“I—shut up,” you grumble, voice barely above a whisper, but it comes out embarrassingly shaky. You’re still pressed against them, still close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of their breathing, and god, their hand hasn’t moved from your back.
They hum, tilting their head, eyes scanning your face like they’re drinking in every little reaction. “Angel, y’okay?” The nickname comes soft, almost reverent, but there’s something else in their tone, something knowing. They’re enjoying this—your flustered little stammers, the way you can’t meet their gaze for too long without feeling like you’ll combust.
“I—I’m fine.” You try to sound steady, but it’s hard when their fingers drag slow, featherlight up your spine. A barely-there touch, but enough to send another shiver rolling through you.
“Mm.” They don’t sound convinced. If anything, they sound amused. “S’that so?” A pause, and then—"Y’look real cute like this, y’know.“
You whimper. Actually whimper.
And they hear it.
Their grin stretches, slow and lazy, all dimples and sharp teeth. "That a little sound y’jus’ made? Cute.”
“Shut up,” you try again, swatting at their chest, but they just catch your wrist, bring it up between the two of you. Their fingers curl around it, thumb smoothing along your pulse.
“Y’really nervous, huh?” Their voice drops, honey-smooth, coaxing. Their grip is loose, easy to pull away from, but you don’t. You can’t. Not when they’re looking at you like that.
“…No,” you mumble, and it’s a horrible lie.
They chuckle, and before you can think, before you can even breathe, they bring your wrist to their lips, pressing the softest kiss against the inside of it.
“You’re adorable,” they murmur against your skin, and it’s unfair, unfair how easily those words send your heart into a frenzy. “Y’don’t gotta be shy with me, angel.”
You’re going to combust.
You barely have a second to catch your breath before REDACTED tilts your chin up, their lips grazing yours again—slow, deliberate, teasing. They’re watching you, gauging every little twitch, every sharp inhale, every way your body reacts to them like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
“D’you want more?” Their voice is low, a lazy drawl against your mouth. “Y’gotta tell me, angel.”
Your fingers clutch at their sleeves, grounding yourself. The way they speak—it’s like they already know the answer, but they want to hear it. Want to pull it from you.
You swallow, heat curling in your stomach. “Yeah.”
A quiet hum vibrates against your lips before they press another kiss there, just as slow, just as consuming. Their fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, gliding over your waist in a touch that barely lingers but leaves fire in its wake.
“That feel good?” They murmur between kisses, voice dropping an octave. “Tell me where.”
You almost forget how to breathe, arching just slightly into their touch. Their hands are so big, so warm, and when they drag their teeth along your lower lip, you can’t stop the way your fingers tighten in their clothes.
They chuckle, the sound deep and pleased. “Y’can’t even think straight, huh? S’cute.”
Your face burns hotter, and you bury it against their shoulder for a second, trying to compose yourself. But they’re not having that. Their hand slides up your back, pulling you closer, their lips brushing your ear.
“I don’t think y’can take all of me, angel.” Their voice is velvety, teasing, full of that patient kind of amusement that only makes it worse. “You’re practically stuffed full already.”
A whimper catches in your throat, and their hand tilts your head back, forcing you to look at them.
“Mm. Look at you.” Their thumb brushes over your bottom lip, and their eyes flicker down to where your lips are definitely a little wet from their kisses. Their smirk turns downright sinful. “You’re droolin’. Feels that good, huh?”
You can barely get a word out before their lips are back on yours, deeper this time, and—god—they’re not letting you go anytime soon.
REDACTED’s mouth is still warm on yours, their breath mixing with yours in a way that makes your head feel light, like you’re toeing the edge of something sharp. Their hands don’t leave you—not yet, anyway. A thumb tracing lazy circles at your hip, a palm firm against your lower back. Secure. Unmovable. Like if they let go, you’d slip away. Like they don’t want that.
But your brain is drowning, so you do what you do best: open your mouth and let words spill out like you aren’t just trying to distract yourself from the way they have you pinned.
“…You have a motorcycle.”
A beat. Then, a slow blink.
“…Yeah.” Their voice is still low, still rough, like they haven’t quite left the moment behind. But their brow lifts, bemused, like they’re trying to understand how this is what you’re thinking about right now. “What about it?”
“I wanna see it.”
They stare at you. Like you just asked them to pull the moon out of the sky and hand it to you on a silver platter. You don’t think you’ve ever seen them look so…confused.
“It’s just a bike.”
“It’s your bike.”
Another pause. You watch the way their mouth twitches, some unreadable thought flickering behind their eyes. “You’re not thinkin’ of ridin’ it, are ya?”
You scoff, dramatic. “What, you don’t trust me?”
“Not even a little.”
You gasp. They smirk. The moment is broken—mostly. Their hands are still on you, after all. Their voice still has that drawl, like they’re tasting every word before they let it leave their mouth.
“Fine,” you huff, shoving at their chest (not that it moves them).
“…Alright,” they say finally, giving you one last kiss—slow, lingering—before pulling back. “Let’s go.”
REDACTED takes your hand like it’s second nature, like they don’t even think about it—just interlaces their fingers with yours and leads you through the mess of their garage.
It’s a wasteland. A graveyard for things they once cared about and then didn’t.
You see the car first, buried under dust, the tires slightly deflated. You remember when they bought it—thought they drove one, figured they might need it for you. But you should’ve known. A car was too…normal. Too practical.
The motorcycle, though—that fits them like a second skin.
Sleek black, polished even though they barely take it out. It suits them in a way the car never could. The sharp edges of it match the sharp edges of their jaw. The deep black mirrors the ink on their arms, the piercings that gleam under dim garage lights. And then there’s their eyes—blue, cutting through the dark like high beams. Jesus.
“I knew you’d be into it,” they murmur, watching you take it all in. There’s that teasing lilt in their voice again. The one that says they know what you’re thinking.
You roll your eyes, but your fingers twitch at your sides. You wanna feel it.
So you try to climb it.
And immediately almost fall on your ass.
REDACTED catches you like they knew you’d do that too.
“Whoa, whoa, easy there, angel,” they laugh, hands firm at your waist, pulling you up like you weigh nothing.
“I got it!” you insist, except you don’t because this thing is heavy as hell, and you don’t know the first thing about handling a bike like this.
“Uh-huh,” they hum, clearly not believing you at all, but still helping you settle onto the seat anyway. Their hands linger at your hips, warm, grounding. They lean in, just a little, just enough for their breath to brush against your cheek.
“Y’look real sweet up there,” they murmur, lips just barely grazing your ear. “Too sweet.”
You swallow. Your heart does something weird in your chest.
“…Are you gonna show me how to ride it or just stand there flirting?”
They grin, slow and sharp. “Can’t do both?”
REDACTED chuckles, low and warm, like they heard the sound you just made—like they felt it vibrate against their chest.
They climb on behind you, and suddenly, you’re caged in. Their legs bracket yours, their arms reach past your sides, hands covering yours on the handlebars. You feel the weight of them, solid and unshakable, and then—
Their hands slide to your waist. Adjusting. Correcting. But fuck, they don’t have to be this slow about it.
“S’posed to sit like this,” they murmur, pressing you back against them, firm, like they know you feel everything. Their breath is warm at your ear, their lips barely brushing skin as they lean in to reach the ignition.
The bike rumbles to life. You feel it first in your fingertips, then up your arms, then—oh. It sinks into your thighs, a steady hum between your legs, and you swallow down the noise that threatens to escape.
REDACTED notices. Of course they notice.
“You feel that?” they murmur, voice all honeyed amusement. Their grip on your hands tightens just enough to make your breath hitch. “S’nice, huh?”
You nod, maybe too quickly, because their laughter comes slow and smug against
You turn. Maybe too fast, maybe too eager, but REDACTED doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, they welcome it—because the moment you do, their hands are already there, steadying you, holding you like they knew you’d come to them.
And then—
Their lips.
Soft. So much softer than you expected, given everything else about them—the weight of their body, the roughness of their hands, the way they talk, lazy and deep, like they’ve got all the time in the world. But this? This is different. This is gentle.
Like they’re savoring it. Like you’re something to be tasted slow, something they don’t want to rush.
Your back meets the sleek body of the motorcycle, and they follow, leaning in, caging you in, their weight pressing into you in all the right ways. You feel them—all of them—towering over you, surrounding you, drowning you in their warmth.
And then their fingers curl under your chin, tilting your face just right, deepening the kiss, making you feel it, and fuck—
They break away first. Just barely. Just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to let you go.
“Y’taste sweet,” they murmur, thumb brushing slow over your lower lip. Their eyes are half-lidded, like they’re already thinking about going back in. “Knew you would.”
You’re breathless. Maybe a little dazed. Maybe a little—
Their lips ghost over yours, teasing, like they want to make you beg for it. Like they want to hear you say it, admit how badly you want them. Their hands? Firm on your waist, thumbs stroking slow, deliberate circles against your skin, like they’re mapping you out, like they’re memorizing the feel of you under their touch.
“Y’should see yourself,” they murmur, voice like a lazy drawl, all heat and hunger and patience that makes your skin burn. “Spread out on my bike like this. Look so fuckin’ pretty.”
The way they say it—like they own you, like they’re claiming you—it sends something hot curling low in your stomach.
Then their hands slide up, up, teasing under your shirt, knuckles dragging against bare skin, slow enough to make you shiver. “Feel good, angel?” They dip lower, fingers playing at the waistband of your pants, like they’re waiting for permission.
And then—fuck—their teeth. They nip at your jaw, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck, sucking just enough to leave a mark. You feel the way they smile against your skin, feel the way they hum in satisfaction, like they love marking you up.
“Want my hands on you?” A little squeeze at your hips. “Y’gotta tell me where.”
Their fingers press in slow, teasing, just barely skimming where you need them most. It’s intentional, the way they hold back, the way they make you feel every inch of the wait.
“Fuck,” you breathe, hips twitching, chasing the contact, but they don’t give in. Not yet.
They chuckle, low and dark, a sound that sinks into your skin. “So impatient,” they murmur, dragging their knuckles up your inner thigh, agonizingly slow. “Y’been thinking about this, huh? How long?”
Their words feel like a game—like they already know the answer but want to hear you say it anyway. You swallow hard, your breath uneven as you try to focus, try not to let them see how wrecked you already are.
Their lips return to your throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your pulse, while their hand—fuck, their hand—finally moves where you need it, fingers pressing firm and knowing. A sharp gasp leaves you, your head tilting back against the bike, exposing more of your throat to their teeth, their tongue.
“That’s it,” they murmur against your skin, voice thick with satisfaction. “Take what y’need, angel.”
And then they press in deeper, their touch turning slow and deliberate, coaxing out every little sound they can pull from you. Their other hand drags up your side, pushing beneath your shirt, fingers spreading wide as if they want to feel every inch of you.
It’s overwhelming—the heat of their body against yours, the steady rhythm of their touch, the way they watch you, like they want to memorize every reaction, every shudder.
“You feel so fuckin’ good,” they rasp, pressing their forehead to yours, breath warm against your lips. “Could keep you like this all day.”
And from the way they’re touching you—like they have no intention of stopping—you’re starting to think they mean it.
You’re not sure when you started shaking. Maybe it was the moment they first pressed you down against their bike, the cold metal sharp against the heat pooling in your stomach. Maybe it was when their lips barely grazed yours, teasing, promising, making you desperate. Or maybe—fuck—maybe it was when their hands started to roam, those strong, practiced fingers dragging slow over your skin like they were memorizing every inch of you.
And now? Now you’re undone.
They’ve got you caged in, their body flush against yours, their hands firm but patient as they press against your stomach, fingers spreading wide, palms warm as they pull you closer like they don’t want a single inch of space between you. Their breath is heavy against your lips, teasing, tempting, but they don’t kiss you yet. Not properly. They’re waiting. Watching.
They love watching.
“Y’know how fuckin’ pretty you are?” they murmur, dragging their fingers lower, pressing into the soft dip of your stomach, just enough to make you feel the possessive weight of their hands. “Could spend all night just lookin’ at you like this.”
Their words make something tighten low in your gut, an embarrassing whimper slipping past your lips before you can stop it. Their smirk sharpens, dangerous, and their hands move—one sliding down to squeeze your thigh, the other trailing up to your wrist, fingers brushing against your palm before lacing with yours.
Yeah. They love your hands too.
You feel the press of their lips against your knuckles, slow and deliberate, their tongue flicking out just slightly before they sink their teeth into the sensitive skin. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to mark.
“Mine,” they murmur, voice a little rough, a little distracted, as if the word just slipped out without them meaning to say it.
Fuck.
Your breath stutters as they lean in, their teeth dragging over your throat, nipping at the skin before soothing it with their tongue. They don’t stop there. They trail lower, their mouth finding your collarbone, then your chest, their hands still mapping you out, still pressing and teasing, like they want to touch everywhere at once.
Their grip tightens on your thigh as they spread you wider, their other hand still locked with yours, fingers squeezing tight. Their lips move lower, kissing a slow path down your stomach, mouthing at the sensitive skin, sucking, leaving marks, branding you as theirs.
“Y'feel so good,” they breathe against your skin, voice thick with something raw, something real. “So soft. So perfect.”
Their breath fans over your stomach, and they press another open-mouthed kiss there, their tongue flicking out to taste before their teeth sink in, leaving another mark—deeper this time. You shudder, a helpless moan slipping out, and they groan at the sound, their grip on your thigh tightening.
And then—fuck—then you feel it.
The cool metal of their piercing drags against your skin as they mouth lower, teasing, biting, before pressing their hips flush against yours, letting you feel everything. The sharp contrast of heat and steel makes you gasp, your fingers tightening in theirs, and they smirk, pleased with your reaction.
“You like that?” they ask, voice pure sin, hips rolling just slightly to let you feel the full weight of their arousal against you. “Y’like feelin’ how fuckin’ hard you make me?”
You whimper, head tilting back against the bike, but they don’t let you escape. Their grip on your hand tightens, grounding you, making sure you stay right here with them.
“Tell me,” they murmur against your stomach, lips brushing over each mark they’ve left, soothing, worshiping. “Wanna hear you say it, angel.”
Your breath shudders, your free hand moving to tangle in their hair, tugging just enough to make them groan. “EH- REDACTED? I love it.”
Their reaction is immediate. Their hips press against you again, firmer this time, more deliberate, letting you feel the piercing drag against you as they grind down slow, savoring it. Their mouth trails up, capturing your lips in a deep, heated kiss, their tongue teasing past your lips, taking, tasting, claiming.
“Good,” they breathe between kisses, pressing their forehead to yours, panting against your lips. “Gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, angel. Just lemme take care of you.”
Got it. Buckle up.
The metal of the bike is cold against your burning skin, but you barely register it over the heat of him. [REDACTED] has you spread over his lap, thighs trembling where they bracket his, hands gripping the handlebars behind you for balance. You can feel him, hot and thick, stretching you open inch by inch—again. Your legs are shaking, overstimulated from how long he’s been toying with you, but he just won’t stop.
“Y’make the most lewd fuckin’ sounds..“
His voice is a slow, honey-thick drawl against your ear, and then—fuck
You try to turn your head away, but his free hand is already gripping your jaw, keeping you locked in place.
“Nuh-uh, angel.”
He pulls you down hard against his lap, forcing every inch of him deep inside you, dragging that metal along your walls just like before. The sound you let out is shameless, and he groans at the way you squeeze around him.
“There it is,” he murmurs, smug as sin, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Knew I could make y’sing like that again.”
His hips roll slow, lazy, dragging out every second of your torment. You can feel every piercing along his cock, the cool bite of metal making you jolt, overstimulated and desperate, but he’s barely even paying attention to you—like he’s just using your body for his own pleasure.
“Look at how fuckin’ good y’look on my cock,” he drawls, watching your reflection in the mirror across the garage, watching your lips part and your lashes flutter as he thrusts up again. “You were practically droolin’ before. Y’must love bein’ stuffed full, huh?”
You whimper, but that’s not enough for him.
“Go on. Say it.”
He punctuates the command with a sharp snap of his hips, grinding you down so deep you feel him press against that perfect spot inside you, and your head thumps back against his shoulder.
“I—I love it,” you gasp, back arching, thighs squeezing around his waist.
His chuckle is low and dangerous, and then his mouth is on you—kissing, sucking, nipping at the base of your neck as he starts rolling his hips in earnest.
“My angel always does such a good job,” he purrs, barely above a whisper. His hands trail down your thighs, squeezing, teasing, spreading you open just a little wider. “Y’already know that, don’t you?” His fingers dip between your legs, pressing just where you need it most. “’Course y’do. Can feel you squeezin’ around me right now.”
Your fingers dig into his arms, nails leaving little half-moon imprints in his skin as you rock against him, chasing your high, but he tsks, stopping all movement entirely.
“Ah-ah. Not yet.”
You whimper, hips stuttering in desperation, but he just smirks.
“Be patient, angel.” His hands slide back up to your chest, pinching, teasing, making you whine. “Y’can cum when I say so.”
And if you start rutting against him for friction, panting and desperate, he just chuckles, smug and infuriating.
“Look at you. Y’just can’t help yourself, huh?” His breath is hot against your ear, teasing, taunting. “S’alright. S’what I made you for, ain’t it?”
And when you finally fall apart—when you finally shudder and break, crying out his name as your whole body trembles—he groans, dragging you down hard against his cock, pushing himself as deep as he can go.
“Fuck,” he rasps, breathless for the first time all night. His hands slide up, one tangling in your hair as the other grips your hip, keeping you locked in place, making sure you feel everything. “Y’took me so fuckin’ well.”
His lips press against the curve of your jaw, almost tender, before he murmurs, “Y’did so good for me, angel. So, I’ll let you pick.”
His fingers trail down your stomach, teasing, possessive.
His words curl around your brain like smoke, thick and intoxicating, clouding out anything but him. Your breath stutters—just enough hesitation for his smirk to sharpen.
“Aw, angel.” His voice is a slow, rolling drawl, lazy and smug. “Y’can’t even pick, huh?”
His fingers drag along your stomach, teasing, possessive. The motion sends a shiver straight down your spine, your overstimulated body twitching in his grip. You’re still stuffed full of him, stretched wide and trembling, but he waits. Like he enjoys watching you struggle to speak, to even think through the haze he’s wrapped you in.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, pressing his lips against your temple, deceptively soft. “Which d’ya want more?”
Your mouth opens, but all that escapes is a shaky breath. His fingers flex against your hip, gripping, kneading—waiting. And then, slowly, deliberately, he rolls his hips.
The noise that leaves you is barely human.
“Fuck—”
The sound of his chuckle is all teeth.
“There it is.”
His hand slides up your throat, tilting your chin so he can watch you—your dazed eyes, your parted lips, the way your body twitches at every lazy, deliberate grind of his hips. His gaze is half-lidded, burning, drinking in every inch of you.
“Feels good, don’t it?” His voice is syrup-thick, dragging down your spine like a physical thing. “Being stretched open like this, takin’ everything I give you…”
You swallow, barely nodding—too lost in the heat, the weight, the slow, devastating drag of him inside you. And he sees it.
His grip tightens.
“Y’can’t even fuckin’ talk, can you?”
You shake your head, eyes slipping shut, body keening against him. He hums, low and satisfied, kissing just below your ear.
“Don’t worry, angel.” Another slow thrust, dragging against that perfect spot inside you, making your whole body jolt. “I’ll decide for you.”
He shifts, pressing deep, locking you against him—and stays there, buried to the hilt, his breath warm against your neck.
“Be good,” he murmurs. “And take it.”
And then—heat. Possession. His arms tighten, his breath shudders, and you feel him let go—deep, slow, branding you from the inside out.
He groans against your skin, dragging his teeth along your pulse, and fuck—he doesn’t move away, doesn’t pull out, just keeps you there, completely filled, his cock still throbbing inside you.
“Guess we gotta keep goin’ till..“
His fingers trail down, smearing sweat across your skin, touching and teasing as he shifts beneath you—still hard, still inside.
And from the way his smirk curls against your jaw, he has no intention of stopping anytime soon.
His hands are everywhere—gripping, kneading, keeping you exactly where he wants you. Your whole body shudders as he grinds against you, still buried deep, his cock twitching with every shaky breath you take.
“Fuck, angel,” he groans, voice thick with heat. “Takin’ me so well—so fuckin’ deep—”
His hips roll, pressing just a little further, like he’s testing how much more you can take. The stretch is already too much, your body trembling against him, but the way he stays inside, stuffed to the hilt, makes you feel—
“Bet y’d look so good like this all the time.”
Your breath stutters.
He hums against your skin, slow and teasing. “All full of me. Carryin’ my cum inside that pretty little hole, leakin’ down your thighs…”
His fingers dip lower, just barely brushing over the mess he’s already made of you. A whimper slips out, and his smirk sharpens.
“Mm. Maybe I should make sure it sticks.”
You don’t even have time to process before his hands are gripping your hips tight, tilting you just right—before he thrusts up in one slow, filthy motion, grinding deep, making sure every drop of his cum stays right where he put it.
Your whole body jolts, overstimulated and trembling, but he just grins.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, dragging his teeth along your jaw, pressing lazy kisses to your flushed skin. “Think I wanna see you full of me all the fuckin’ time.”
He rolls his hips again, still slow, still teasing, but his breath is coming rougher now, his grip tightening.
“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” His voice is a low purr against your ear. “Let me fuck you open every night, make sure you’re stuffed full—”
His fingers trail down your stomach, possessive, like he can already see it, like he wants to see it.
“Y’gonna let me breed you, angel?”
Your whole body clenches around him, and his groan is pure sin.
“…Yeah,” he breathes, voice all heat and hunger. “That’s what I thought.”
And then he moves.
Slow, deep, pushing you down to take him as he fucks his cum further inside, groaning at the way you twitch and shake, overstimulated but still so needy. His hands roam, pressing you close, dragging his nails down your sides like he’s marking his claim.
“Gonna fill you up every fuckin’ time,” he murmurs, lips trailing over your pulse, your throat, the corner of your mouth. “Till y’can’t even think of anyone else.”
"But, I- only think of you all the time..”
His grip tightens instantly. The second those shaky little words leave your lips, he stills—buried deep inside you, chest rising and falling against your back, hands locked around your waist like he needs to hold you there.
“…Say that again.”
His voice is lower now, rougher. Almost dangerous in how sweet it sounds—like he’s barely holding himself back.
You swallow, thighs trembling where they bracket his. “I—” Your breath hitches as he grinds against you, slow and deep, like he’s savoring the way you squeeze around him. “I only think of you—only you—all the time.”
That does it.
A sharp, ragged breath escapes him, his fingers digging into your skin. His control—his usual lazy drawl, that smug, taunting dominance—cracks.
“…Fuck.”
And then he moves.
Not slow this time. Not teasing.
This is needy.
Desperate.
Like you just shattered something inside him, and now he needs to prove it—to seal that claim inside you, make sure you never even consider anyone else.
His pace turns messy, all deep, rolling thrusts and ragged groans against your ear. He’s so worked up, so fucking sweetly possessive, whispering between every shaky breath:
“Mine.”
“You’re mine.”
“No one else gets you like this.”
“Fuck—no one else even knows you like this—”
His hands roam, clutching, nails scraping your thighs, your hips, your stomach, like he wants to mark you with every touch. His lips are everywhere—on your neck, your shoulder, pressed to the shell of your ear, murmuring between ragged gasps:
“You’re made for me.”
“Fuck—feel that? So deep inside you, fuckin’ claiming you—”
And then he loses it.
He slams into you, grip tightening, burying himself as deep as he can go—and he breaks, moaning into your skin as he spills inside, body shuddering with the force of it.
But even after he’s spent, even when his breath evens out, he doesn’t pull away.
He stays inside you, keeping you full, arms wrapped around your waist as he nuzzles against your neck, still murmuring in that soft, wrecked voice:
“No one else.”
“Only me.”
“You promise, angel?”
And when you nod—when you whisper, “Only you, always,”—he sighs, pressing a kiss against your pulse.
“…That’s my good fuckin’ angel.”
His breath shudders against your skin, lips tracing the curve of your jaw as he stays inside you, keeping you locked against his chest, filled, owned. His hands, still trembling from the aftershocks, roam your body—soft now, reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.
And then, in a voice so quiet, so wrecked it barely sounds like him, he murmurs:
“We belong to each other, don’t we…?”
His grip tightens, pulling you closer, like he needs to hear you say it—needs you to confirm what he already knows.
You nod, dazed and pliant against him. “Y-yeah…”
But that’s not enough.
He tilts your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes in the dim light of the garage—dazed, dark, utterly consumed by you.
“Mind,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against your temple.
“Body,” another kiss, lower now, lingering against your cheek.
“Soul,” a gentle bite against your pulse, like he’s branding the words into you.
Then, lower—his hands sliding down your stomach, possessive and warm, pressing against the soft swell where he knows he’s still buried deep inside.
“…Everything.”
He groans, grinds against you just to feel it again, to make you squirm in his lap. His voice turns desperate, aching as he breathes against your ear:
“Your hole—fuck—your whole self—”
He kisses you then, messy and hungry, like he wants to swallow you whole, drag you even deeper into him until there’s nothing left between you.
He’s obsessed with watching you. The way your eyes flutter, the way your breath catches, the way your body reacts to every little thing he does. It’s intoxicating. Addictive. He needs to see it—needs to know exactly what makes you shudder, whimper, beg for more.
That’s why his favorite positions always keep you close. Always let him watch.
Missionary, but with your wrists pinned above your head, fingers entwined as he rolls his hips slow, deliberate, drawing out every little noise you make. He’ll whisper filthy things against your lips, drinking in every reaction, every quiver, every desperate squeeze around him.
Lotus, with you straddling his lap, chests pressed together, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He loves the way you tremble in his hold, loves how deep he can go like this, how your body reacts so perfectly to every slow, deliberate thrust. Loves when you bury your face in his neck, whimpering, biting down to muffle the sounds—he always grins when you do, his voice a husky tease in your ear:
“Y'don’t gotta hide from me, angel. Wanna hear every fuckin’ sound y’make.”
And when you do let go, when you whimper his name in that breathless, wrecked voice—that’s when he loses it.
It’s never just about the act for him—it’s about you. About making you feel so thoroughly ruined that you never want to be anywhere else but here, tangled up with him, hands clasped, bodies moving as one.
His voice is a breathy, wrecked whisper against your lips:
“Look at me, angel. Wanna see your face when you fall apart for me.”
The second the words left your lips, the moment that trembling, breathless “I love you, [REDACTED]—” spilled from your mouth, everything changed.
His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering, chest heaving against yours like you’d just knocked the air from his lungs. For a second, just a second, he didn’t move—just stared, eyes blown wide, lips parted, the slow realization of what you said crashing over him.
Then he broke.
A shuddered breath, a groan, and suddenly his arms were around you, crushing you against him, face buried in your neck. His body trembled—he trembled. His breath came in ragged, uneven pants, and then—fuck—he was whimpering, voice cracking as he choked out,
“Say it again.”
His hands tightened—one gripping your waist like he never wanted to let go, the other threading through your hair, pulling just enough to make you arch against him. His lips pressed to your skin, open-mouthed and desperate, his breath hot as he begged,
“Say it again, angel. Please.”
Your fingers curled against his back, nails digging into his skin, and you gasped as he rolled his hips deep, so deep it sent white-hot pleasure curling through your core. And even though you could barely breathe, barely think, you still gave him what he wanted.
“I love you,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I—I love you, I love you, I love y—ahh—”
He snapped.
A sharp, choked sound spilled from his throat—half-groan, half-sob—and then he was fucking you like he was trying to ruin you, like he wanted to carve your words into his soul. He didn’t care about pace, didn’t care about teasing, didn’t care about anything except chasing that feeling, that overwhelming, all-consuming rush of belonging that had his vision going hazy.
“You—fuck, you love me—” His voice cracked, rough, wrecked, like he couldn’t even believe it. “You—you really—ah—”
You felt something wet against your shoulder, and that’s when you realized—he was crying. His body shuddered with every thrust, every ragged breath, every desperate whimper he tried to swallow down. His fingers laced with yours, squeezing tight, grounding himself in the feeling of you.
“I love you,” he rasped, voice breaking as he slammed himself deeper, dragging you closer, closer, closer. “Love you, love you, fuck—I need you—”
And then he ruined you.
The sheer desperation in his voice, the overwhelming emotion in the way he held you, the way his body trembled with each ragged thrust—it sent you over the edge so hard you screamed. Pleasure crashed over you in an electric wave, body convulsing against his, vision going white, mind shattering as he fucked you through it, chasing his own high.
The moment you tightened around him, he broke completely, moaning your name like a prayer as he buried himself deep, shaking, gasping, tears hot against your skin as he came hard, filling you with everything he had—everything he was.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just tangled bodies, heaving chests, skin slick with sweat, breathless, wrecked.
He held you through the aftershocks, pressing kisses to your damp skin, hands tracing soothing patterns down your back. And when his breathing finally evened out, when his heartbeat slowed, he exhaled shakily, voice hoarse when he mumbled:
“Gonna make you say it every time, y’know that?”
A smirk tugged at his lips as he nuzzled into your neck, voice still thick with tears, still so incredibly soft.
“Need t’hear it. Need t’feel it.”
Then, with a slow, teasing roll of his hips, he hummed,
“Think y’can say it one more time for me, angel?”
He came for the last time…
His cum is thick, dripping slow and warm from between your legs, and [REDACTED] watches with a lazy, satisfied smirk, eyes half-lidded as he traces a slow, possessive hand down your stomach.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, thumb dragging through the mess he made before pushing some of it back inside. “S’like your body don’t wanna let me go.”
His voice is deep, wrecked, still tinged with the aftershocks of pleasure. He’s barely moved, still pressed against you, still inside you, his cock twitching at the way you whimper from oversensitivity. And even though you can feel him softening, you know he’s not quite done with you yet.
Because when he finally pulls out, slow and deliberate, he groans at the sight of his release leaking out of you, thick and white, dripping down your thighs. His fingers spread you open just a little, just to watch, to admire the way his cum still clings to your hole, and he lets out a quiet, breathy chuckle.
“Bet y’didn’t know that was one of my favorite sights,” he drawls, smug and easy, but there’s a hunger beneath it, something darker and deeper that makes his breath hitch. His fingers tease at your entrance, gathering up what’s spilling out before pushing it back in.
“Gotta keep you nice ‘n full, angel.”
Your body jerks, overstimulated, but he just leans down, kissing your temple with something achingly tender.
“S’my favorite way to mark you,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue across your jaw, pressing another slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Better than hickeys. Better than bruises. ‘Cause even if no one else can see it…” His breath fans warm over your lips.
“You’ll know it’s there.”
His hand lingers for just a second longer before he finally sighs, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before rolling
“Stay put,” he orders, voice soft, indulgent, like he’s speaking to something fragile.
You hear the rustling of fabric, the quiet drip of water, and then—warmth. A damp towel glides over your skin, gentle and slow, as he wipes away the evidence of everything he just did to you. His touch is careful, reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of your body all over again. And when he finally deems you clean enough, he brushes his knuckles along your cheek, tilting your face toward him.
“Y’good?”
His voice is quiet now, searching, scanning your features for any hint of discomfort. And when you nod—when you lean into his touch, pressing a sleepy kiss to his palm—his lips twitch into something almost fond.
“Mm. Good.”
Your whole body feels like it’s floating—boneless, weightless—except for the ache between your legs and the warmth still pooling deep inside you. You’re barely clinging to consciousness, vision hazy, skin flushed, legs utterly useless after how hard he wrecked you. The bike’s cold metal bites against your overheated skin, but you barely notice—too busy trembling in his lap, still impaled on his cock, still dripping with him.
[REDACTED] presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, voice still thick and breathless as he rasps, “Look at that, angel…” His fingers trace slow, teasing circles over your stomach, dipping lower—just enough to feel the way his cum is seeping out of you, trailing down your thighs.
A low, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest.
“Still full of me,” he murmurs, like he can’t fucking believe it. His hand drags lower, gathering some of his release on his fingers, pressing it back in—slow, teasing, possessive. You jolt, over-sensitive and trembling, but he just smirks.
“Y’think you can walk?”
You shake your head, barely able to breathe, let alone move. Your limbs feel like jelly, muscles twitching in the aftermath of too many orgasms, and your hands are still gripping the handlebars behind you for dear life.
“Tch. ’Course y’can’t,” he murmurs, amusement curling in his voice.
And then, without warning, he lifts you.
A startled gasp tears from your lips as he scoops you up, arms firm and steady beneath your legs, cradling you against his chest like you weigh nothing. His warmth envelops you, his scent thick in your lungs—leather, sweat, sex—and you can feel the rapid thud-thud-thud of his heartbeat where your head rests against him.
He carries you effortlessly, his grip firm yet careful, keeping you close. And fuck—there’s something so intimate about it. The way his fingers flex against your thighs, the way he presses a kiss to your temple without thinking, the way his breath hitches slightly when he adjusts you in his arms—like he just loves holding you like this.
His voice is softer now, a low, affectionate drawl as he hums,
“Think y’need a bath, angel.”
You barely have the strength to respond, just nodding weakly against his chest. He chuckles, shifting you higher in his arms, pressing you even closer.
“Don’t worry. I got you.”
His lips brush against your forehead, tender, lingering.
“I always got you.”
The bath had been too warm, too soothing, and between the exhaustion settling deep in your bones and the way [REDACTED] had kept tracing slow, lazy circles on your thigh under the water, you’d nearly drifted off in his arms. He’d washed you—hands reverent, careful, like he was sculpting something delicate out of soap and steam—before wrapping you in a towel and carrying you back to the bedroom.
And then he’d leaned against the doorway, still damp from the bath, towel slung low on his hips, eyes dark
You’d barely had time to process before his hands were guiding you down, pressing you against the mattress, the cold air prickling against your freshly washed skin.
And fuck—he was so deep, stretching you all over again, hands gripping your hips as he fucked into you with slow, deep thrusts, dragging pleasure out of you until you were shaking beneath him, moaning into the sheets.
He’d taken his time—murmuring soft, possessive praise against your skin, watching the way your body took him, how it clung to him, milking him with every thrust until he finally spilled inside you again, filling you up just like before.
And even then, he hadn’t let you move.
He’d just stayed there for a moment, cock still buried deep, hands stroking down your sides as he hummed, pleased, murmuring something low and smug about “keeping you full for just a little longer.”
And only when you whined—utterly wrecked and oversensitive—had he finally pulled out, chuckling at the way you shuddered, at the way his release dripped from you.
Now—
You’re in the kitchen, barely dressed, legs still unsteady as you focus on the dessert you’re making. [REDACTED] is behind you, clinging—all broad chest and heavy warmth, arms wrapped around your waist as he nuzzles lazily into your neck.
“Y’ain’t gonna let me help?” he mumbles, voice still slow and drowsy with leftover satisfaction.
“You never help,” you tease, nudging him lightly. “You just stand there and hug me.”
A lazy smirk curls against your skin. “S’important job, angel. Gotta make sure you’re warm.”
You roll your eyes, but you don’t move to shake him off. If anything, you lean into him a little more, enjoying the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers flex gently against your stomach.
Then, without warning, you turn and press a kiss to his jaw.
His breath hitches.
Just a second. Just a tiny pause, barely noticeable—but you feel it.
And then he’s tilting your chin up, his gaze dark and unreadable as he leans in, pressing a slow, deep kiss to your lips. It’s unhurried, indulgent, his tongue teasing against yours as he takes his time tasting you. His arms tighten around you, pressing you closer, like he never wants to let go.
When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips.
“You’re so fuckin’ sweet, angel,” he murmurs.
His fingers drift lower, toying with the hem of your clothes, dangerous in their intent.
“…Y'ever thought about letting me have dessert first?”
[REDACTED]’s breath catches. Their fingers twitch slightly in yours—scarred, burned, rough in all the ways that tell a story they’ve never spoken aloud.
You don’t press. You never do.
Instead, you lift their hand to your lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to each calloused knuckle.
Their face is unreadable—staring down at you, something flickering in their dark eyes, something raw, something fragile. Like they don’t know what to do with the warmth of your touch. Like it hurts.
And then, as you shift closer, your ring glints under the dim kitchen light. The matching band on their finger catches, too—two small, simple things, yet carrying the weight of a lifetime.
Childhood lovers. Meant to be.
Their grip tightens around your hand, just slightly. Just enough to tell you they’re holding on.
“…If you hadn’t taken his hand that day,” [REDACTED] murmurs, voice rough with something unreadable, “…would you have still said yes?”
Your heart aches at the memory.
That day, years ago—small hands reaching, fingers brushing, the quiet promise sealed with a ring—before Leon’s sneer cut through the moment, before cruel hands tore you away, before [REDACTED] had been left alone with nothing but the sting of rejection and the echo of their own heartbeat.
You squeeze their hand tighter. Hold it against your chest, where they can feel the steady rhythm beneath your ribs.
“I don’t know,” you admit softly. “Maybe my childhood self wouldn’t have understood love the way I do now.”
[REDACTED] swallows, jaw tightening.
“But…” You smile—small, warm, certain. “I’m happy that life gave me another chance with you.”
Something in them cracks.
They look at you—really look at you—eyes shining, throat working around words they can’t quite say. Their lips part, but no sound comes out, and then—then they just press forward, pressing their forehead against yours, squeezing your hand against their chest like they’re the one afraid you’ll disappear this time.
“…You love me?”
A whisper. A plea.
You cradle their face, thumb brushing over the dampness clinging to their lashes, and you whisper back—
“I love you, [REDACTED].”
And finally—finally—they let go.
Not of you. Never of you.
But of everything else.
[REDACTED] shudders—a small, barely-there breath that stutters in their throat, like they don’t know how to take in the weight of your words. Like they can’t believe they deserve them.
But you just hold them closer.
“Only you,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to theirs. “The real you.”
Their fingers tighten around yours, almost desperate. You can feel it—the way their body tenses, the way their breath hitches, the way they struggle against something unseen.
“I’ll tell you this for the rest of my life,” you promise, voice steady, unwavering. “I’ll say it as many times as it takes. Just so you know.”
Their eyes flutter shut. Their lips part, like they want to say something, but no words come—just the smallest, strangled sound, like something breaking apart in their chest.
“You,” you whisper again, softer now. “The real you is the one I feel the happiest with.”
And that’s when they fall.
Not physically. Not in any way you can see.
But you feel it—the way their last defenses crumble, the way their breath shudders out of them, the way they just let go and sink into your arms, forehead still pressed to yours, fingers tangled with yours, body trembling as they clutch onto you like you’re the only thing keeping them together.
“…You’re not leaving,” they whisper, barely a sound.
“I’m not leaving.”
Their lips find yours—not desperate, not rough—just deep. Slow. Like they’re memorizing the way you feel.
You giggle at the way [REDACTED]’s eyes soften when you press the small cake piece to their lips. “C’mon, try it,” you coax, voice light, teasing. “I made it just for you.”
They huff, but there’s no real resistance—just a tiny, reluctant smirk as they take the bite from your fingers.
A pause. Then, their expression melts.
“…S’ good,” they murmur, lips still brushing against your fingertips. Their voice is softer than usual, almost boyish in its honesty. “Sweet… tastes like strawberries.”
You beam. “See! I told you you’d like it!”
Their gaze lingers on you—eyes half-lidded, warm, fond. And then, in one slow, deliberate movement, they lean in and press a kiss right to the tip of your nose.
It’s so soft, so unexpectedly sweet, that your breath catches.
And when they pull back, licking the last traces of cake from their lips, they hum lazily, “Mm. You’re sweeter, though.”
Your heart does a stupid little flip.
“Cheer up, angel,” they say, voice dipping into that low, syrupy drawl. “Can’t have you lookin’ cuter than dessert itself.”
You’re definitely not blushing. Not even a little bit.
This one-shot is inspired from Chae Yul, Sian, The secret alliance stuff! Please check it out! This is a gift for his birthday!
Trigger Warnings:
Obsession & Stalking
Identity & Self-Hatred
Psychological Horror & Manipulation
Physical Restraint
Mental Breakdown & Trauma
Loss of Agency & Power Imbalance
Dark/Surreal Imagery
You spat.
The rats. The wretched, sacred rats. God’s vermin. Love incarnate. They fester in the walls, whisper in the dark. Their teeth are scripture, their hunger divine. They rot you from the inside out. FIRST YOUR MATTRESS, NOW YOUR BOOTS. You will give and give until there is nothing left. A sacrifice, unwilling but ordained.
They move in silence, except when they don’t. A chorus of claws, a hymn of gnashing teeth. They spread sickness like gospel, like prophecy fulfilled. Holy infection. Gnawing devotion. The plague of faith with pink tails and black eyes.
You will scratch. You will cough. You will kneel.
You’re done. Done with the walls that breathe, the floorboards that scratch back, the whispers in the vents. Done with the stink of decay seeping into your sheets, into your hair, into your skin. The rats can have it. The mattress. The boots. The whole fucking place.
You’re leaving.
Because of Ren. One kind man. Your boyfriend. Seven days, and somehow, you managed to talk it out. To say it. You liked Ren. You really did. Soft hands, soft voice, soft everything. What surprised you was how eager he was—with that. With you. The moment you said you liked him, it was over. He latched on, sticky-sweet, clinging like you might disappear if he let go.
You didn’t mind.
The hallway smelled like dust and something old, something settled. You wanted to say goodbye. Just a quick knock on Violet’s door, a small wave, maybe a half-smile if you were feeling generous. You didn’t even like her that much—she was just there, always outside her apartment smoking cloves, watching the world through heavy-lidded eyes like she already knew how everything would end. But she was nice enough. She was someone who existed in the same space you did, which had to count for something.
You shifted the box in your arms, fingers curling against the cardboard, and turned toward her door.
Then—
“Angel, are you okay?”
Ren.
You startled, nearly dropping the box, because you hadn’t heard him approach. He was just there, suddenly, like he had been waiting for the exact moment you thought of leaving him alone. Wide blue eyes peeking out from under the rim of a froggy hat—soft green, button eyes, covering every inch of his fluffy pink hair. Every inch. Not a single curl in sight.
You giggled. You couldn’t help it.
He tilted his head, smiling at the sound. But something nagged at the back of your mind. He never covered his hair. Ren was all about touch—he liked when you played with it, when you ran your fingers through it, when you tugged just a little and watched his lashes flutter. He liked being seen. But now it was hidden, every strand tucked away beneath thick fabric, like it was never there at all.
Before you could ask, he noticed the box in your arms and made a small noise. “I’ll carry that.”
You shook your head. “It’s okay.”
For a second—just a second—his lips curled, something smug flashing in his eyes before he laughed and ran.
“Who reaches first?!”
And like that, your thoughts scattered. You gasped, gripping the box tighter as he took off down the hallway, his laughter bouncing off the walls.
“Ren—!”
But you were already running after him, giggling as you tried to catch up, feet pounding against the floor. The weight of the box slowed you down, but Ren wasn’t even trying to win, just looking back at you with that too-wide smile, steps just fast enough to keep you chasing. He liked when you chased.
You didn’t realize you had forgotten to knock on Violet’s door. Didn’t realize you hadn’t said goodbye at all.
Didn’t realize that, maybe, Ren had planned it that way.
Outside, the air was cool against your skin, the last traces of evening pressing soft against the horizon. The world was quiet out here, the hum of streetlights blending into the distant chatter of a city that never fully slept. Ren slowed to a stop near the moving truck, turning to face you with a victorious grin, still cradling your box like a prize.
“You lose,” he teased, rocking on his heels. “That means I get a kiss, right?”
You rolled your eyes, breathless from running. “That’s not how that works.”
Ren pouted, but his eyes were still smiling. He tilted his head, the froggy hat slipping just slightly forward. “I carried your box. You should reward me.”
“You stole my box.”
“Carried.”
“Stole.”
He gasped, dramatic, clutching at his chest. “Angel, I would never. You wound me.”
You laughed, reaching for the box, but he shifted it out of your reach with ease, holding it high over his head. You huffed, stepping closer, and he took a step back, grin widening.
“What’s with the hat?” you asked, changing tactics. You squinted at him, stepping in just a little more. Close enough to touch. “You never wear hats.”
His smile didn’t falter, but something in him stilled for just a moment, just a breath. “I wanted to be cute for you.”
“You’re always cute.”
He blinked. Then laughed—soft, warm, delighted, like he hadn’t expected you to say it. The box lowered slightly. “Angel.”
“Ren.”
The space between you buzzed. He tilted his head again, letting you see just the faintest flush dusting his cheeks, exaggerated by the green of the froggy hat.
“…Do you like it?”
You hummed, reaching up to tug at the rim just a little. “I like you.”
His breath hitched. And then he melted, shoulders loosening, eyes softening into something devoted. Obsessed.
“I love you,” he murmured.
Your chest squeezed. “It’s been seven days.”
“So?”
You had no answer. And maybe that was an answer in itself.
You lost.
Ren beat you to the entrance of his building with that same smug grin he always got when he pulled ahead. He didn’t gloat, but you could feel it radiating off him, warm and sticky like honey in the sun. And you? You just huffed, breathless, grinning like an idiot as you caught up, half-wondering how he had the energy to sprint and look so unbothered about it.
Then he swiped his electronic key card.
WOAH.
Yeah, okay, you still said it. Loud, too. Like the first time. Like you hadn’t already visited this place, hadn’t already gawked at the sheer absurd richness of it. But come on—he had a whole damned foyer. In an apartment.
Ren laughed as the doors slid open with a soft, expensive-sounding click. “You really like saying that, huh?”
You shot him a look. “Well, sorry, not all of us live in a place where the elevator doesn’t creak like it’s about to collapse.”
“I’d save you if it did.”
His voice was light, teasing, but you didn’t doubt he actually meant it. And you? You just sighed, pretending to roll your eyes as you stepped inside.
Still ridiculous. Still overwhelming. Still unbelievably nice.
It smelled expensive in here, like something clean but not sterile, like whatever subtle scent they pumped through luxury hotels. The lighting was soft, the floors heated. Your shoes felt wrong stepping onto them, like you were dirtying something meant to stay untouched.
But Ren was already ahead of you, dropping your box by the entrance like it was nothing, then reaching into a small cubby near the wall. “Here,” he said, holding something out to you. A pair of house slippers, still neatly wrapped in plastic.
You blinked. “You… bought me shoes?”
Ren hesitated, his usual confidence dimming just a little. His fingers twitched on the plastic wrapping, and then, for once, he actually looked shy.
“You’re staying, so…” He cleared his throat, shoving them into your hands. “It’d be rude to make you walk around barefoot.”
What the hell.
What the hell.
It was still so insane to you. Not the apartment, not the foyer, not the money. Ren. Ren being this nice. Ren being so nice. To you. You had only known him for seven days and he was already like this, already so attentive, already ready for you, like he had been preparing for this from the start. It was a little weird. A little eccentric.
But you? You were an idiot. A dumb, lucky idiot.
So you took the slippers, sat down, and pulled them on. Bless this man.
Ren watched, his eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place, then exhaled, like he had just won some kind of internal debate. “Oh,” he said, suddenly fidgeting again. “And, uh. About that.”
You looked up.
Ren rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting to the side. “I, um. I gave you your own room. For now.”
For now.
You blinked again, slower this time.
“I just—” He hesitated, then smiled, small and careful. “I don’t want to overstep anything. Y’know, since we’re still figuring things out.”
…What the hell.
You stared at him, at this boy who had just beaten you in a race to his stupidly fancy apartment, who had already bought you house slippers, who had set up an entire room for you just so you wouldn’t feel pressured, and you just—
You didn’t know what to say.
So you did the next best thing: you thanked him. Earnestly.
Ren beamed. That stupid, boyish, sticky-sweet smile that made your stomach turn weird.
And then, finally, finally, you asked what had been itching in the back of your mind since he first popped up out of nowhere.
“…Why are you wearing that hat?”
Ren blinked. “Huh?”
You pointed. “The frog hat. It covers your entire head. I can’t see your hair.”
For a second, he didn’t say anything. Then, too quickly, he blurted, “I, uh. I kinda messed it up.”
You tilted your head. “Messed what up?”
“My hair.” He scratched his cheek, looking away. “Ordered the wrong batch of dye…” His voice dropped, muttering something too low for you to hear.
You squinted. “What?”
But Ren was already stepping away, already shifting the conversation like a well-practiced trick. “Anyway!” He clapped his hands. “You should change. The bathroom’s down the hall.”
You frowned, suspicious, but he only smiled.
Too easy. Too slick.
Ren sniffled. Just a little. A soft, barely-there sound, like he was trying not to make a big deal out of it, but you noticed. You always noticed.
“You okay?” you asked, eyeing him as he rubbed at his nose.
“Oh—yeah, yeah.” He waved a hand dismissively, his voice a little stuffy. “Just a little sick. Nothing serious.”
You frowned. “You should rest.”
Ren brightened, suddenly perking up way too much for someone who had just admitted they were sick. “Oh, but before that—” He rocked on his heels, looking almost nervous now. “I, uh. I wanted to tell you something.”
“…Okay?”
His fingers twitched at his sides. Then he cleared his throat, standing up just a little straighter, as if that would help get the words out properly.
“So, um.” He took a breath. “I already paid your rent.”
Silence.
You blinked.
“What.”
“For the whole year!” he added quickly. His hands shot up in some kind of panicked gesture, as if to soften the insanity of what he had just said. “I just—I thought it’d make things easier for you, and—”
“What.”
He stammered. Actually stammered. “It’s—it’s fine! You don’t have to pay me back or anything, I—”
“Ren.”
“I just—I want you to be comfortable! That’s all!” He was so frantic, so eager, so stupidly bright-eyed about it, like an overexcited puppy who didn’t quite realize he had just knocked over the whole table.
You just stared.
He paid your rent. For the entire year.
“What the hell,” you whispered, voice barely steady.
Ren flinched, and the sight of it broke you. He didn’t want you to be upset. He didn’t want you to think of it as a bad thing, didn’t want you to feel like a burden or anything other than happy. You could see it in the way he was fidgeting, his fingers curling and uncurling at his sides, his whole body practically vibrating with nervous energy.
It was too much.
And you? You almost cried.
You weren’t even sure what hit you first. The sheer weight of it, the overwhelming kindness, the way he was so eager to give, to do this for you, to take on something that wasn’t his responsibility just because he wanted to.
Ren made a tiny, startled noise when you stepped forward. He barely had time to react before you crashed into him, arms wrapping tight around his middle, pressing your face into his chest.
For a second, he didn’t move.
Then, suddenly, he almost jumped, body jerking before he practically melted into you, hugging you so tight, so fiercely, like he had been waiting for this.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you mumbled, voice thick. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.” He buried his face against your shoulder, voice muffled but earnest. “I wanted to, Angel.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deep. You didn’t deserve him. You really, really didn’t deserve him. He was too nice. Too nice. It almost hurt how nice he was.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, his face way too close, his arms still tight around you, warm and solid and real.
You kissed his cheek.
Ren froze.
A tiny, sharp inhale. A complete full-body reaction.
You smiled, pressing your forehead against his, barely able to see with how blurred your vision had gotten. “Thank you for coming into my life.”
He looked love-struck.
Actually, physically struck by love.
His lips parted, his pupils huge, his face so red it almost matched his usual hair color—except, well. You still couldn’t see his hair. Stupid froggy hat.
For a moment, you thought he might cry too.
Instead, he suddenly pulled back. Too fast. Too clumsy.
“I—I should—” He turned, stepping away only to trip over absolutely nothing.
“Ren!” You reached out instinctively.
He stumbled but caught himself against the wall, laughing—embarrassed, giddy, too many emotions packed into one person. “I’m okay! I’m okay.”
You frowned. “Be careful.”
He exhaled hard, shaking his head, still smiling like an idiot. Then, finally, he looked back at you, softer now. “Go sleep, Angel.”
You couldn’t quite place it, but something in his tone had shifted, as if there were a thousand unsaid things he was trying to hold back. You smiled, ready to retreat into your room for the night, the events of the day still swirling around in your mind like a fever dream.
Then, as you were about to close the door, he appeared again, holding your clothing box in his hands. He looked… almost nervous. His cheeks were tinged with pink, and there was a slight tremor in his fingers as he handed the box over to you.
“I—I almost forgot,” Ren said, his voice thick, like he was trying to control something. Something deep inside. He didn’t look directly at you at first, his gaze flitting to the floor, to the side—anywhere but your face.
“Thank you, Ren,” you said, still feeling a sense of warmth bubble up from the way he had cared for you, for everything he’d done. It felt… unreal, the way he had been so giving, so gentle. But then, Ren shifted again, stepping just a little too close. His breath caught, and you could feel his presence grow around you, suffocating in its quiet intensity.
“Angel…” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly, almost like he was afraid to even say your name. He moved your hair away from your neck, fingers brushing lightly against your skin, sending an electric shock through you. You froze, caught off guard by the sudden softness in his touch, but there was something more there, something heavier, something dark.
“I—” He hesitated, and you felt a weird knot form in your stomach. He wasn’t looking at you now, his eyes downcast, almost embarrassed. His hands were trembling, the clothing box in his arms like it weighed nothing compared to what was running through his mind. “Angel, I—I just need to ask you something.”
You blinked, your own heart racing now. “What is it?”
Ren swallowed, his voice barely a whisper. “Do you… do you love me?” His voice cracked as he spoke, the words torn between desperation and something else—something you couldn’t quite identify. He looked at you finally, eyes wide with need, with raw, unfiltered emotion. “Do you love me like this?”
You stared at him, confusion furrowing your brow. “Like this?”
He was visibly shaking now, his fingers tightening around the box. His face was flushed with embarrassment, but his eyes were clouded with a deep longing. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t pull himself back. “Like this. Just… me. The way I am. All of me.” He winced, as if the words were hard to get out, as if he had to rip them from his own chest. “I—I just want to know. If I’m perfect for you… in your eyes.”
There was a moment where time seemed to stretch, where everything felt suspended in the air between you two. You couldn’t help but feel a swell of something warm and protective, something that ached deep in your chest at how much Ren wanted this—wanted you to say it, wanted to hear you tell him that he was good enough.
You opened your mouth, but words failed for a moment. The emotional weight in the room was too much, too overwhelming for you to properly process all at once.
And then, with a deep breath, you spoke. “I love you, Ren.”
His eyes widened, and then his face—his beautiful face—was overcome with something so fragile and pure, it made you feel weak in the knees. His cheeks flushed deeper, and he suddenly pulled you into a tight, almost frantic hug. You could feel his heart beating hard against yours, his breath coming in uneven, desperate gasps.
“I love you, Angel,” he repeated into your hair, voice barely intelligible as he hugged you tighter, like he was trying to hold you in place, like he was afraid if he let go, you might slip away. He was crying, though you could barely tell through the small, stifled sobs. “I love you so much. I—I didn’t think you’d—” He cut himself off, his emotions overwhelming him, making him speechless.
You felt your own eyes well up, the overwhelming sense of affection filling you up until it hurt. “Ren, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
But you could feel his shaking, his entire body trembling with emotion. His hands clutched at you desperately, and he whispered, almost like a prayer, “Please, don’t leave me. Please… I can’t be without you. You’re everything. You’re everything.”
The desperation in his voice made your heart ache for him.
Ren pulled back slightly, his hands still on your shoulders, his eyes locked onto yours, that same intensity still burning. He smiled softly, though there was a hint of something frantic, like he was still trying to hold it all together. “I’m glad,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I’m glad you love me.”
He suddenly straightened, his posture almost rigid as he turned away, almost like he had just caught himself in something, a bit of control returning to his shoulders. “I’ll get the rest of your stuff,” he said quickly, trying to brush it off.
But you stopped him. “It’s fine, Ren. I’ve got it.”
“No, no. I—I want to,” he insisted, eyes shining with that same intensity. He gripped your hand in his, the small moment of affection making your stomach flip. “I’ll get it, Angel. Wait here.”
You nodded, but as he hurried down the hall, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was… off.
You entered your room, setting the clothing box on the bed. As you closed the door, you felt the faintest sense of unease gnaw at you, though it wasn’t something you could easily name.
Ren stood still in front of the mirror, his hand trembling as it pressed against his face, hiding the soft, self-loathing smile that spread across his lips. He was so close—so close to everything he wanted. To you. To having you. And now you were here. With him. You chose him.
You chose him.
In the quiet of the moment, his fingers traced the outline of his face, almost lovingly, as if to reassure himself that the person staring back at him in the mirror was truly who he had become.
The other REDACTED—the one who had never been enough—the one who was so weak, so pathetic—he was gone. Gone like the skin of an old, discarded self that no longer mattered. That person didn’t deserve you. That failure didn’t deserve a single thought from you.
The new Ren, though? The one standing before you, the one you called by name, the one who held your heart in his palm with trembling fingers? That Ren was the one you loved.
He closed his eyes for a second, letting the thought wrap around him like a warm blanket, soothing the gnawing, twisted feeling in his chest. No more pretending. No more hiding. He had transformed for you—because you needed him. You needed him to be strong. To be worthy of you. So, he became Ren.
A tiny laugh escaped his lips, soft but dangerous, like a secret only he would ever know. He could feel it. The ache in his chest, the way his heart swelled when he thought of you. The way he almost lost control at the thought of you being with anyone else. But that was all gone now.
He had you.
And you—oh, you would never leave him. Not now. Not after everything he had done. Everything he had become.
His fingers curled tighter around his face, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, as if trying to suppress the wave of emotion threatening to drown him. He was weak again, but this time, it wasn’t from lack of effort. No. This time, it was because he had finally given in—given in to the need to own you, to make sure that no one could touch you. No one could have you but him.
But then his thoughts twisted again.
He hated himself.
He hated REDACTED.
The one who had never been good enough for anyone, especially you. The one who never understood why anyone would care about him, the one who couldn’t even keep his hair the right color. That REDACTED was worthless. A failure. And in the pit of his stomach, he still felt that gnawing self-hatred, the reminder of who he used to be.
He didn’t deserve you.
He clutched the fabric of his clothes—his carefully chosen attire—and thought about the effort it took to craft this persona, this perfect version of himself. You wouldn’t love him if he was weak. You wouldn’t look at him the way you did now if you saw the truth beneath the mask. So he gave you Ren. This Ren. The strong, kind, loving Ren that you needed.
And somehow, it was enough for you. Enough that you would choose him.
The old REDACTED—the ugly, broken REDACTED—had no place in your life. That REDACTED would have only destroyed everything. But now, this new Ren—the one you needed, the one you loved—he would make sure you never left. He would make sure you belonged to him.
He lowered his hands, his reflection staring back at him, the soft pink hair still hidden beneath the frog hat, his body still just as delicate as ever. But beneath that surface was the raw, trembling devotion that would never let you slip away.
“You’re mine, Angel,” he whispered to the reflection, as if trying to remind himself of his purpose, his new self. “You are mine.”
And then the realization hit him: this was it. This was the moment.
There was no going back.
Ren gripped the edges of the counter, the dark, obsessive smile stretching across his face once more. He had crossed the line, and there was no one left to stop him. He had you now. And nothing would take you from him.
You leaned back against the cool, smooth surface of the couch, eyes staring into the nothingness of the wall in front of you as you spoke into the phone. Your voice was a quiet mix of frustration and fear, too many things you weren’t sure how to articulate.
“Yeah, Elenor… I’m still staying with Ren,” you sighed, your words coming out almost too tired. “I mean, I like him. I’ve always liked him… It’s just… it’s like he’s… always been there. So kind, so nice to me.” Your throat tightened slightly at the thought. “He does everything for me. I don’t know how he does it, but it’s like he’s… trying to make up for something.”
The weight of the last few days sat heavy on your shoulders. Ren’s soft smile, his gentleness, the way he watched you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked. It all made your stomach twist in both comfort and confusion. And it wasn’t just that. There was something else, something that made you feel like you were on the edge of a truth you couldn’t reach—yet couldn’t avoid.
"But…” you continued, almost whispering, your words faltering. “I think I’ve taken too much of him. He’s always doing things for me, always… offering his space, his time. It’s like, I don’t even know how to repay him, you know? And I don’t even know if I should be taking all of it. It feels wrong sometimes.”
The thought of too much—of overstaying your welcome in his space, in his life—felt suffocating. You had been around him for a week now, and it was intense. More than you could have imagined.
Elenor’s voice came through the phone, a soft but persistent murmur of concern. “Y/N, you’re not a burden. If you feel comfortable, then stay. But… what’s really bothering you?”
Your heart skipped, and you exhaled sharply. You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, a wave of worry crashing over you as you thought of that other thing—the stalker. The person who had been creeping around, sending odd messages, showing up in places they shouldn’t be. It had been escalating, and it terrified you more than you wanted to admit.
“It’s just… Ren,” you said, barely believing it yourself as the words left your lips. “I mean, he told me he would keep me safe from them. That one word… ‘safe’… He makes me feel like I trust him more than anyone else. And I… I do. I trust him. I trust him more than I should.”
Your voice dropped off at the end, an unsettling feeling in the pit of your stomach. That wasn’t what bothered you. What bothered you was the thought that maybe you shouldn’t trust him as much as you did. You had no real reason not to… but still, something gnawed at you. It felt like there was something more—something you weren’t seeing.
You stood, pacing slightly as the phone sat in your hand. “But… Elenor, it’s like… why do I feel like I’ve known him longer? Like I’ve been through this with him before? Maybe I’m just being dramatic, or it’s just a dream. But I can’t shake the feeling… that I know him—no, that he knows me in a way no one else does. It’s… it’s so hard to explain.” You stopped in your tracks, staring out the window with your breath caught in your throat.
You knew it didn’t make sense. You trusted Ren. You really did. He was so kind, so patient, but something about the situation felt off. You could feel it crawling beneath your skin, just waiting for you to acknowledge it.
“God, Elenor,” you muttered, “Why am I even thinking this way? He’s just trying to protect me… and I’m sitting here, suspecting him? What is wrong with me?”
The guilt twisted in your chest.
You hung up the phone, feeling the weight of everything press down on you. The stalker. Ren’s kindness. Your growing trust in him. It was all tangled up in your mind, making it hard to think clearly. You wanted to feel safe. You wanted to believe in him completely. But there was that other feeling. That whisper in the back of your head, telling you there was something you hadn’t seen yet.
And as much as you tried to push it away, it was growing louder.
But you couldn't… You couldn’t doubt him. Not now. Not when he’d done everything to keep you safe, to make you feel welcome.
But still…
Why did it feel like you were standing on the edge of something you couldn’t control?
You decided to sleep..
The world around you felt heavy, like swimming through something thick and suffocating. You weren’t sure when you had fallen asleep, but here you were—somewhere that felt both distant and too close at the same time.
You heard it first.
A voice. Soft. Gentle. A whisper floating through the void like a lullaby.
“Angel…”
Your heart squeezed. That name.
“Angel… where are you?”
You turned, eyes darting through the darkness, searching. Footsteps echoed, and you realized—you were running.
But why?
With every step, something felt off. Your body—smaller. Your legs shorter. The oversized sleeves of your favorite purple hoodie brushed against your hands, just like it used to when you were little. And then, through the haze of memories that weren’t quite memories, you saw him.
A boy.
His hair was black, not Ren’s familiar soft pink, and his blue eyes shimmered under the dim, dreamlike light. He stood there, small and hesitant, clutching something in his hands. He looked familiar—too familiar—but the name in your head didn’t quite fit.
Wasn’t this… REDACTED?
No.
No, it wasn’t.
Your breath hitched as you moved closer, feeling a weight settle deep in your chest.
“Angel…” The boy—who wasn’t Ren—spoke shyly, his voice so small, so fragile. “I-I… I have something for you.”
He lifted his hands.
A ring.
Tiny, gold, glinting even in the strange darkness. Not fancy, not expensive—just a simple little band. But he held it like it was the most important thing in the world.
“For tuu…” he mumbled, his voice laced with nervous excitement.
Something in your heart twisted. This moment. You knew this moment.
You reached out, almost touching his hands, when—
“Hey, what are you doing?”
A new voice.
Your head snapped to the side, and suddenly you weren’t alone with him anymore.
Another child. Taller. Leon.
His face was shadowed, unreadable, but you could feel his presence, his overprotectiveness. Even in the dream, even as a child, he stood between you and the boy like a wall.
He didn’t like this.
You knew before it even happened.
And then—he shoved him.
The tiny ring slipped from the boy’s hands, hitting the ground with a soft clink. His dark eyes widened in panic as he scrambled to grab it, but before he could—
Leon kicked it away.
“Stop bothering them,” Leon’s voice was sharp, almost possessive. “They don’t need weirdos like you.”
The boy froze.
Your chest tightened painfully, something screaming inside of you that this was wrong, wrong, wrong.
The boy stared at the lost ring, at Leon, then at you.
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t fight.
Instead, he bent down, picked up the ring with trembling hands, and held it against his chest.
Then, so softly you almost didn’t hear—
“…Okay.”
A whisper.
“…I’ll try again.”
His small voice cracked.
His shoulders shook.
And then—he was crying.
It shattered something deep inside of you.
You saw your childhood self hesitate, stepping toward him, but Leon pulled you back.
“Let’s go,” Leon muttered. “You don’t need to waste time on him.”
Your small hands twitched at your sides.
Your child self looked back.
One last time.
At the boy holding the ring like it was all he had.
At the pain in his eyes.
At his tears.
And then—darkness.
Everything twisted.
Reality snapped and distorted like a glitching screen, and suddenly, it wasn’t just the past anymore.
Suddenly—
You were falling.
Falling straight into those dark, familiar eyes.
A deep, obsessive gaze.
And then—
Hands grabbed you.
Clutching. Pulling.
“Angel.”
His voice.
“Stay with me.”
You couldn’t breathe.
“Angel.”
You saw his face.
The boy was older now. No longer a child.
No longer soft.
His black hair, his dark, blue eyes.
“You promised.”
Promised what?!
You tried to pull away, tried to run—
“Don’t leave me again.”
And then—
A SMILE.
Wide. Twisted.
Obsessed.
The dark eyes swallowed you whole.
And then—
You screamed.
You woke up.
Gasping. Drenched in sweat.
Your heart pounded against your ribs like it was trying to escape.
The room was dark, too quiet, too unfamiliar.
Ren’s apartment.
You were safe.
Right?
Your hands clutched the sheets, your breath shaking. The dream—the memory?—was already slipping away, but that feeling, that fear, still clung to your skin.
That boy.
That name.
Why couldn’t you remember his name?
But you knew—you knew.
This wasn’t just a dream.
It was something more.
Something you had forgotten.
Something you had lost.
And yet…
You turned, staring at the bedroom door.
Your breath was still uneven, the remnants of that dream gripping at your chest like unseen hands. You needed air. You needed… Ren.
Slipping out of bed, your feet hit the cool floor, grounding you back into reality. This was Ren’s apartment. It was safe. You were safe.
Right?
You cracked open the door, peering into the dimly lit hallway. The apartment was silent, but something in the air felt off. Heavy. Like it was watching you.
Ren’s room.
That’s where you needed to go.
Step by step, you moved, the floor quiet beneath you. His door was just slightly ajar, enough that the soft glow of a nightlight seeped out. But when you pushed it open—
Empty.
Ren wasn’t here.
The neatly made bed, the folded blankets, the plush frog sitting perfectly centered on the pillows—everything was untouched. It looked like he hadn’t even been here tonight.
Your stomach twisted.
Where was he?
And then—
You heard it.
A noise. Faint, muffled, but unmistakable.
A voice.
Ren’s voice.
But he wasn’t speaking.
He was panting.
Short, shaky breaths, almost strained. Like he was struggling. Like he was—
Your body tensed as you followed the sound down the hall.
To the one place he told you not to go.
The room at the very end.
You swallowed hard.
He had said it was just old stuff.
Things he didn’t want to look at.
Things that didn’t matter anymore.
And yet…
You stood in front of the door.
The sounds were clearer now, the sharp rise and fall of his breath, like he was working himself into something feverish. It was almost desperate.
Your hand hovered over the handle, but—
A password lock.
The glowing numbers blinked at you, blocking you from whatever lay beyond.
You shouldn’t be here.
You shouldn’t even be thinking about this.
Forget it.
Just go back to bed.
Trust Ren.
Trust him.
But…
Your fingers twitched.
Curiosity curled around your ribs like an eager whisper.
Why was he in there?
Why not in his own bed?
Why lock the door?
And why… why did the way he sounded make something in your gut churn with uncertainty?
You didn’t understand.
Your hands were clammy, your heart pounding so hard you swore it would wake Ren—wherever he was.
The keypad blinked at you, waiting.
You hesitated, fingers hovering over the numbers. You tried something random—some goddess’s name, something mystical, something obscure. Nothing.
You exhaled, gripping your wrist, willing yourself to be rational.
You shouldn’t be doing this.
But the dream still lingered like static in your skull, the boy’s eyes, the lost ring, the way Ren had always felt so… familiar.
You licked your lips, staring at the keypad, and then—
You typed in your birthday.
Just as a joke. Just to see.
You didn’t even know why.
It wasn’t like you’d ever told him.
Right?
And then—
Click.
The lock flashed green.
The door unlocked.
Your blood went cold.
No.
That wasn’t—
That wasn’t possible.
Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you just stood there. Frozen.
Because this was wrong.
This was so wrong.
You never told him.
You would have remembered telling him, right?
The thought sent a sick shiver down your spine.
How did Ren know your birthday?
You stepped back, every part of you screaming to turn around, go back to bed, pretend you never did this.
And yet—
The door, now slightly ajar, called to you like a mouth just barely parted.
A dark, waiting secret.
And from inside—
The sound of Ren’s breath, sharp, shaking, desperate.
You had a choice.
Walk away.
Or step inside.
Your breath was shallow as you stepped inside the dimly lit room, your fingers trembling as they pushed open the door just enough to let you slip in. The air was thick, oppressive, and something about it felt suffocating. Like you weren’t supposed to be here. Like the walls themselves were whispering turn back.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you took another step forward, your foot making the faintest creak against the floorboards. And then you saw them.
The pictures.
Lining the left-hand side of the room, pinned with precision, hundreds of them.
At first, they looked like ordinary photos—old, slightly yellowed at the edges. But the more you looked, the more your stomach twisted.
They were all of you.
You recognized some—pictures taken from your social media, old selfies, candid shots where you were mid-laugh or deep in thought. But others—
Your fingers clenched. Your breath hitched.
These were different.
A shot of you as a child, no older than five, in a park with a bright purple hoodie. A blurry image of you in middle school, sitting at your desk, eyes down, utterly unaware of the camera. You didn’t remember anyone taking these.
And worse—
They weren’t just old.
Some of them were before you even met Ren.
Your blood ran cold.
Your hand twitched at your side, fingers flexing, as if trying to ground yourself in reality. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe—maybe these weren’t what they seemed.
Maybe it was just a coincidence—
You turned, needing something—anything—to contradict the horror sinking into your bones.
But then you saw the right-hand side.
More pictures. More of you.
And these weren’t just old. They were recent.
You sleeping in your bed.
You sitting at a café, headphones in, oblivious to the camera.
You inside your own house, looking out the window, unaware you were being watched.
Your stomach churned. Your heart pounded, cold sweat forming at the back of your neck.
How?
You took a step back, swallowing thickly.
And then—
A sound.
Slow, ragged breathing.
It was coming from the farthest corner of the room.
Your head snapped toward the sound, your whole body frozen in place. And there, sitting hunched on the floor, shrouded in shadow—
A boy.
His back was facing you, his shoulders trembling slightly with every breath he took. His black hair fell in messy strands over his face, over his hands, over the bent curve of his form. It was long—longer than Ren’s. But the more you stared, the more a realization crept up your spine, slow and paralyzing.
The same eyes.
The same voice—when he had panted behind this door.
You felt your lips part before you even realized you were speaking.
“…[REDACTED]?”
The moment the name left your mouth, the boy flinched.
A violent, shuddering jolt, like you had struck him with a knife.
Slowly—so, so slowly—he turned his head.
And then—
You saw his face.
It was Ren. But it wasn’t.
The same eyes. The same face. But his pink hair—gone. In its place was jet black, stark against his pale skin, and his expression—
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t Ren.
It was raw. Wild. Desperate.
“Angel…” he whispered, voice hoarse, thick with something you couldn’t name. His wide, glistening eyes locked onto yours, his breath coming in uneven gasps. His lips parted, but no more words came out—only small, broken sounds, like something inside him was fracturing, shattering before your very eyes.
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
It was him.
The boy from your dream.
The boy who called you Angel.
The boy who once held out a ring for you, years ago, only to be crushed by another’s cruelty.
The boy who never stopped chasing you.
“N-No… no no no no…” he whimpered, shaking his head violently, hands grasping at his hair as if trying to pull himself apart. “Not yet. Not yet, Angel, it wasn’t—It was supposed to be perfect.”
You took a step back, your entire body trembling. Ren never stuttered. Never lost control. But this—this was not the Ren you knew.
And then, like a dam bursting, he sobbed.
He sobbed.
Not soft, not quiet—loud, broken, shaking cries. His hands clawed at his face, his breath ragged and uneven. His shoulders shook as he gasped for air, like he was trying to breathe you in.
“It was going so well…” he choked out, curling into himself. “You stayed, you were happy, you—you loved me. You loved me, Angel. It was supposed to be okay, it was supposed to be—”
His voice cracked. His hands gripped his arms, nails digging deep, too deep.
“You weren’t supposed to see this.”
A shiver ran through your spine, your feet frozen in place.
You tried to understand. Tried to process.
Ren—no, not Ren.
[REDACTED] had always been there.
Watching.
Waiting.
The sweet, gentle Ren you knew—the one who kissed your forehead, who held your hand, who laughed with you—that was him, too.
But it wasn’t.
Because this was Ren.
A boy who had shed his old self like dead skin.
A boy who had erased every trace of the past that Angel—his Angel—might not have loved.
And now, you had seen it.
Now, you knew.
His wide, tear-streaked eyes found yours again, and in that moment, the madness swirling inside them was as clear as a mirror.
He smiled.
Soft. Devoted.
His lips curled, his entire body trembling with emotion, and then—
He crawled toward you.
“Angel…” he whispered, voice quivering, thick with tears. His fingers reached for your ankle, barely brushing against the fabric of your pants. “Please… don’t run.”
You stumbled backward, your breath hitching as your vision blurred at the edges. Panic clawed at your throat. No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. Your body screamed at you to run, but your legs barely moved—jelly beneath you, wobbling as you reached for the door.
Your fingers fumbled with the handle. You wrenched it open. A burst of cold air, freedom, just a step away—
A force yanked you back, slamming the door shut with a resounding thud. You gasped, air cut short as an arm wrapped tight around your middle, pulling you flush against a trembling chest. His breath was hot, uneven, panting against the shell of your ear. The scent of him—familiar yet foreign—invaded your senses. His grip was suffocating, his presence engulfing, an inescapable cage.
Your phone clattered to the ground. No chance of calling for help.
His hand pressed over your mouth as you tried to scream. His whole body shook against you, but whether it was from anger or desperation, you didn’t know. You struggled, nails digging into his skin, but it only made him hold tighter.
“Don’t,” he whispered, his voice cracked, raw with something unreadable. His forehead pressed against your shoulder, his entire body tensed like a string about to snap. “Angel, don’t—don’t run from me.”
You thrashed. You elbowed his ribs, stomped on his foot, anything to break free. His grip loosened just enough for you to twist away, for you to stumble toward the window, toward anything, anywhere but here. But he was faster.
A tangle of limbs, the sensation of falling. The impact knocked the air from your lungs as you hit the floor, a sharp pain shooting up your spine.
And then—
His weight pressed down on you, his knees caging you in.
His hands trembled as they found your wrists, pinning them above your head.
He was shaking. His breath hitched like he was trying not to sob.
You squeezed your eyes shut. You refused to look at him. You didn’t want to see whatever expression he was wearing—
“Look at me,” he whispered, voice barely holding together.
You refused.
“Please.” His voice cracked.
Slowly, hesitantly, your eyes opened.
His face was streaked with tears. His lips trembled, his expression raw, vulnerable, broken. And there, around his neck, a chain hung, glinting under the dim light.
A ring.
A ring you had seen before.
Your stomach twisted.
His hand curled around yours, and your breath hitched when you felt something cold against your finger.
Another ring.
It looked like a wedding band.
Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out everything else.
His fingers, scarred, burned, holding onto yours so tightly it hurt. His tattooed neck, the ink forming a heart, your name embedded in his skin like a permanent scar.
His lips trembled as he whispered, “You were always mine. From the start.”
You felt your world tilt, reality fracturing at the edges.
And then, finally—
You screamed.
Around his neck, dangling from a delicate chain, was the same ring from your dream. The ring that little boy—no, REDACTED—had once offered you, the ring he had picked up from the dirt after Leon had tossed it away.
“I kept it,” he choked out. “I kept everything. I waited. I changed. I—I became someone you could love. Because the old me—he wasn’t enough, was he?”
His fingers curled around yours, forcing them to touch the wedding band on his hand.
“But this time… I made sure. I made sure you’d stay.”
You gasped, your breath catching in your throat, but he wasn’t done. His entire body trembled, a shuddering breath escaping him before his hands dropped to his sides, clenching into fists. His eyes darkened, an unhinged, broken sort of despair creeping into them as his lips parted. His entire frame shook.
“LOOK AT ME!” he suddenly screamed, his voice breaking apart, desperate, raw, aching.
You flinched, but he wasn’t stopping. His breath hitched, and then, like a dam bursting, he sobbed—loud, uncontrollable, a pitiful noise that clawed through the space between you.
“I ruined it! I—I ruined everything!” He collapsed against you, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as his body wracked with silent cries. “No, no, no… It was perfect, it was all going to be perfect, I just needed more time! More time to fix it, more time to be him! But you—You had to come here! You had to—!”
His hands gripped your arms like a vice, as if he were terrified you’d disappear the moment he let go.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he whispered, his voice raw, his words frantic. “I—I was supposed to be like Haruko. I was supposed to be good for you. Someone you could love. But I can’t—I can’t be him all the time! I can’t—”
He hiccupped between words, his fingers curling tighter. “I tried, Angel. I tried so hard. But it wasn’t enough, was it? You still found out. You still see me as that… thing.”
His nails dug deeper into your skin, and you winced.
“But I had to do it,” he continued, his voice turning frantic, desperate. “Because you—” He swallowed hard, his breath shaky. “You never loved me before. You never even looked at me.”
A trembling hand reached up, tracing the line of your jaw, down to your collarbone, resting against your hammering pulse.
“But you love Ren, don’t you?” His grip tightened. “You love the one I made for you.”
Your mind was screaming. Your body was screaming. And yet, your voice refused to come out.
“Say it,” he pleaded. “Say you love me. Say you won’t leave. Please, Angel—just say it.”
Tears streamed down his face, raw emotion cracking through every fiber of his being. His chest heaved with every shaky breath, his heart pounding so loudly that you swore it echoed against your ribs.
“I need you,” he whimpered. “I need you more than you could ever know.”
kept it,“ he choked out. "I kept everything. I waited. I changed. I—I became someone you could love. Because the old me—he wasn’t enough, was he?”
His fingers curled around yours, forcing them to touch the wedding band on his hand.
“But this time… I made sure. I made sure you’d stay.”
His voice cracked, the carefully constructed facade of Ren trembling at the edges. His breathing hitched as his grip on you tightened, not with force, but with a desperation so palpable it left you breathless.
“Angel, do you know what it’s like? To be invisible to the one person who mattered? To watch from the shadows, to shape yourself into something they might finally see?” His voice rose, frantic. “You see me now, don’t you? You’re looking at me now. You know who I am. Not just Ren, not just some stranger you met in a library—ME. The real me. The one who has always, always loved you.”
His expression twisted, the manic gleam in his eyes sharp enough to slice through you. His breath came in uneven gasps, hands shaking as he clutched onto you like a lifeline.
“It was supposed to be perfect!” he shouted suddenly, the sheer anguish in his voice sending chills down your spine. “I did everything right! I became someone you could love! Haruko, Ren, whatever you wanted—I gave it to you! So why… why do you l look so scared?”
Tears welled in his eyes, though whether they were of frustration or heartbreak, you couldn’t tell. His whole body trembled, his forehead pressing against yours.
“Angel,” he whispered, voice a broken plea. “Tell me it wasn’t all for nothing. Tell me you love me. Like this. As I am.”
His fingers curled around the ring on his necklace, the metal cold against your skin. And in that moment, you realized—you weren’t looking at Ren anymore. The mask had finally, irrevocably cracked.
You were looking at REDACTED.
Ren’s breathing was ragged, uneven. His fingers trembled as they curled into fists, then released, then clenched again. His shoulders shook, his entire body wracked with something dark and ugly that he couldn’t contain any longer.
“Look at me!” he sobbed, voice breaking apart like glass shattering on concrete. “Please… just look at me, Angel. I’m sorry… I’m sorry I ruined it… I’m sorry I’m like this!”
His face was twisted in anguish, an expression so raw it cut deeper than any knife ever could. His tears fell onto your skin, hot and desperate, as he gripped onto you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
But you couldn’t move.
Something cold and thick was creeping up your legs, winding around your ankles like tendrils of ink. It climbed, higher and higher, latching onto your waist, then your arms. Panic overtook you as you gasped, thrashing wildly, but the more you struggled, the faster it spread.
“S-Stop! Stop it!” you shrieked, clawing at the darkness consuming you. “This can’t be happening!”
Ren’s arms tightened around you, but it wasn’t a comforting embrace. It was desperate. It was suffocating. His breath hitched as he felt you shuddering in his hold, your sobs turning into choked screams.
His praise became a fevered mantra, his lips moving against your temple as he whispered worship, obsession, madness.
The ink coiled around your throat. Fingers. Hands. Clutching, grasping, squeezing. It seeped into your mouth, into your lungs, and you gagged as the taste of rust and rot filled you from the inside out.
Your screams were muffled.
Memories—they came flooding back, crashing over you like a tidal wave.
A boy, small and quiet, his black hair hanging over his wide, fearful eyes.
A ring, tiny and glinting, held out to you with shaking fingers.
“Angel, it’s for you…”
A rough shove, a cry of protest. Leon’s voice, sharp and cruel.
“Get lost, freak!”
The ring, tumbling through the air, swallowed by the grass, lost.
And the boy—
[REDACTED].
He had picked it up.
He had picked himself up.
He had tried again.
But not as himself.
Ren collapsed inward, a hollow shell of the person he had tried to become. His hands trembled, gripping at his own arms as if trying to claw himself out of his own skin. “I didn’t deserve you,” he whispered, the words cracked and broken. “I never did. I never could. I’m filth. I’m nothing compared to you, Angel. You're— you’re light. And I— I was never meant to touch you.”
But he had touched you. His entire being had wrapped around yours like a parasitic vine, feeding off the glow that you barely recognized in yourself. And now, it was suffocating you. The air grew thick, tangible as black ink seeped into your skin, curling up your arms like coiling veins of tar. Your body twisted, recoiling, but it didn’t stop. It climbed higher, reaching your chest, your throat, your mouth—
You couldn’t breathe.
Hands. It felt like hands. Hands grabbing your limbs, your face, your throat, prying your lips apart. The ink curled inside you like a living entity, pulling, pulling, pulling. Your screams gurgled in your throat, strangled by the suffocating black.
“STOP!!! NOOO!!!” You writhed, thrashing against it, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. The hands held firm, yanking you down, burying you in a nightmare made flesh. You sobbed, fists slamming against Ren’s chest, clawing at him in sheer desperation.
Ren held onto you, his grip firm, but it wasn’t controlling. It wasn’t possessive. It was desperate. “Angel—” he choked, voice cracking as his forehead pressed to yours, his tears mixing with your own. “Please, don’t— I didn’t want this, I never wanted this—”
But you didn’t hear him. You couldn’t. Because suddenly, it wasn’t just his voice— it was another. A voice from a long, long time ago, buried deep beneath years of missing memories. A boy’s voice, timid and small.
“Angel, this is for you.”
A ring, held out in tiny, shaking hands.
The child’s black hair was unevenly cut, his eyes the same dark abyss you now feared. Your younger self reached out, almost hesitantly—
Until Leon’s hands appeared, shoving him back. The ring tumbled to the ground, lost in the dirt.
“Get lost, Don’t bother them.”
You gasped, your whole body convulsing as reality lurched back into place.
Ren— [REDACTED]— clung to you, his whole body trembling as if he were barely holding himself together. You stared at him, your vision blurred with tears, your breath coming in ragged, choking gasps.
“WHY DID LEON THROW THAT RING AWAY?!” The words ripped out of you, raw and furious and agonized. “WHY DID YOU BECOME LIKE THIS?! WHY?!”
His eyes widened, lips parting, but no words came out. Only a silent, broken sob.
Memories slammed into you like a wrecking ball, each one hitting harder than the last. The boy from your dreams— he wasn’t just some shadowy figure from the past. He was real. He had always been real.
And he had always been right there, waiting. Watching. Loving you in the only way he knew how—
Even if it ruined him.
Even if it ruined you.
You screamed again, but this time, it wasn’t just fear. It was grief. It was rage. It was heartbreak, the overwhelming weight of it all crushing down on you like an avalanche. Your body convulsed, your nails digging into the floor, into your own arms, as if trying to rip your own skin open just to make it stop.
Ren— or whatever was left of him— cradled you against him, rocking slightly as tears streamed down his face. “I ruined everything,” he murmured, his voice fractured. “I—I wanted to be perfect for you. I wanted to be someone you could love. But I was never enough, was I?”
You sobbed into his chest, your body shaking uncontrollably. You wanted to hate him. You wanted to scream at him, to push him away, to run. But something in you cracked at his words, something deep and ugly and tangled with guilt. Because you had known him. Because once, a long time ago, you had been friends.
And now, both of you were broken beyond repair.
The ink around you dissipated, but its presence lingered, staining everything it touched.
Including you.
Including him.
He ruined everything.
No.
You ruined him.
He was never supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be happy. He was supposed to be someone else, someone whole, someone untouched by obsession and pain and a love so twisted it devoured everything in its path.
And yet here he was.
Crying.
Crying for you, for himself, for the past that could never be undone.
You screamed, throat raw, body trembling as you pushed against him, nails digging into his arms, shoving with every ounce of strength you had left. “GO AWAY!! GO AWAY!!” The words left you like a desperate exorcism, like if you said them enough, you could banish him, the ink, the past, everything that led to this moment. But nothing changed. He was still there. Still looking at you with that broken, pleading gaze. Still holding you as if letting go meant losing himself entirely.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…!” You sobbed, body wracked with uncontrollable shudders. The ink, the memories, the suffocating weight of it all crushed down on you until the world blurred, until your head spun and your breath stuttered—until there was nothing but blackness.
When you woke up, your body ached. The room was eerily silent, save for the faint rhythm of breathing beside you. You turned your head, heart seizing at the sight of him—[REDACTED]—asleep, curled up just inches away. His fingers were loosely laced with yours, gripping even in unconsciousness, as if even in sleep, he was terrified of losing you again.
You stiffened, breath caught in your throat. He looked… so different like this. Not the monster you had screamed at. Not the obsessive shadow that had haunted you. Just… him. His face, usually sharp with desperation and unchecked emotion, was peaceful now. Vulnerable. His long lashes cast shadows over his pale skin, and his lips—so often trembling with unspoken words—were parted slightly, his breath warm against your wrist.
A choked noise slipped past your lips before you even realized it. You had ruined him, hadn’t you? You had left him behind, and he had chased you into madness. If you had just looked back—if you had just seen him, really seen him—maybe it wouldn’t have come to this. Maybe he wouldn’t have had to carve out a new identity just to be near you again.
Your eyes drifted to his chest, to the thin silver chain around his neck. There it was. The ring. The one he had once held out to you with trembling hands, the one Leon had tossed away like it meant nothing.
You hesitated only a moment before reaching out. Your fingers curled around the ring, carefully sliding it from the chain. The metal was cool against your skin as you turned it over, inspecting the worn edges, the faint imprint of time. And then, without thinking, without knowing why, you slid it onto your own ring finger.
It fit.
Tears welled up again, burning hot trails down your cheeks as you laid back down, curling up beside him. Not on the bed. Not in the safety of the blankets. But here. On the cold floor, next to the boy you had abandoned.
You didn’t care anymore.
You had ruined him.
You wanted to fix him.
And maybe, just maybe… you could tell him what you should have said all those years ago.
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
titsay
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
tangentwithtanner
turnnoffyourmind
areudirty
