Being Overstimulated Is Such A Weird Thing To Explain To People. Like "hey Sorry, I'm Not Mad At You

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, [REDACTED]!!!!!!! <3

jumpscare

lmao kinda missing him so i take a break to draw this, now back to work again 🚶‍➡️ (it’s 2AM rn help)

🪩🪼| [REDACTED]

🪩🪼🪩🪼🪩🪼🪩🪼🪩🪼🪩🪼🪩🪼🪩🪼

So many (jelly)fish in the sea , but i only see you <3.

me showing my sweet and innocent and totally non-criminal spouse

original

Insomnia

Mer Ren au fanart! ( =^0^=) ❤️❤️❤️

.

Can u tell I gave up rendering the water (っ- ‸ - ς)

Little guys

You, Serial Killer - Ren/Redacted x G.N Reader part 1~

14 days with you! is a 18+ visual novel Minors don’t interact!

Genre: G.N Reader (Angst!)

Summary: You're the Corland Bay Butcher, The Serial Killer, you heard in the news, Bodies, dead, gone, You're nuts! What if, someone was helping ya back to keep you safe, Will you see through his act after all, You met him first. NOT HIM

Trigger Warnings (TWs):

Violence & Gore – Mentions of knives, blood, and killing.

Mental Instability – Implied unhinged thoughts, intrusive urges.

Obsession & Fixation – Thoughts circling around a past encounter.

Content Warnings (CWs):

Dark Poetic Themes – Romanticization of violence and chaos.

Self-Awareness of Morality – Internal conflict about killing/mercy.

Shakespearean-style Poetic Bullying – Intense self-deprecation with a dramatic, lyrical flair.

You're a killer.

Not just any killer—a serial killer.

Why? Could be justice. Could be fun. Could be nothing at all, just a way to kill time. Could be money—blood-soaked bills stacking up in your pocket like trophies. It’s on you. But no matter the reason—you’re a fucking serial killer.

A name whispered in alleys. A face nobody remembers. A shadow in the wrong places at the

You're a killer.

Not just any killer—a serial killer. The kind that gets headlines, Netflix docuseries, and edgy teenage fans who call you “misunderstood” while painting their nails black. Maybe you do it for justice (sure). Maybe for fun (closer). Maybe for nothing at all, because boredom is a worse death than whatever you dish out. Or maybe—just maybe—for money, ‘cause even murderers gotta eat.

You, though? You’re a special breed of fucked. You don’t just kill; you curate. A gallery of ruined bodies, each arranged with a shit bow and a shit-eating grin. You're the scum of the earth, and you know it. Flaunt it, really.

They’ll try to psychoanalyze you. Daddy issues, mommy issues, the whole trauma-riddled spiel. They’ll say you’re broken. That you snap at the world because the world snapped at you first. They’ll search for meaning where there is none. You don’t care to distinguish truth from the real—two entirely different beasts.

You probably fake-hate black holes because they’re cliché but would style yourself after one with a smile. Suck the light out of the room, leave nothing but a cold abyss.

And yet.

You are a fucking liar.

A cute little library assistant by morning, shelving books with a saccharine smile, whispering “shhh” to old ladies and college students. By night? You’re a fucking scary-ass serial killer in a raincoat, dripping something that ain’t just rain.

Crowbar, knives—hell, anything sharp enough to carve flesh from bone. Baby, it’s your choice of weapon. You love blood. Live it, breathe it, bathe in it like it’s a second skin. Your love language? JK, no. You don’t need love when you’ve got arteries splitting open like pages in a well-loved book.

Turn the page. Who’s next?

Also—sadly—an anime fan. A shit living show called Attack on Giant owns a piece of your rotten little heart. You know it’s bad. You don’t care.

And worse? You have a fictional husband. Haruki Haruko. The timid, sympathetic, air-headed (but in a good way), people-pleaser type. Cotton candy in human form. The kind of guy who’d apologize for bleeding on your knife.

How the fuck does a blood-soaked abomination like you love a walking pink marshmallow like him?

It’s fictional. STOP.

And it gets worse.

You and your online friend MOTH? Howling for Haruko like a couple of rabid fangirls. CAPS LOCK ON. ESSAYS IN THE GROUP CHAT. “HE DESERVES THE WORLD” “HIS LITTLE SMILE” “I WANNA PROTECT HIM” — all while your hands are still sticky with blood.

MOTH doesn’t know you’re a killer. Shut up. They think you’re normal. That you just have “dark humor” and a really convincing way of describing knife wounds.

“omg if haruko was real i’d die for him <3”

You? Staring at your body count. Thinking, buddy, I don’t even die for me.

Life was fine. Whatever fine means for someone like you.

Then two idiots fucked up. Bad dudes. Real pieces of shit. The kind that makes even God wanna look away. They got your eyes—metaphorically or literally, who cares—and suddenly, you had a reason. An excuse.

You were already a killer. Now you’re a haunting.

They go first. Before the others. Before the side quests and the casual bloodshed. You want them to know. To feel it. The way your presence clings, the way their shadows stretch too long at night.

They look over their shoulders. They see nothing. For now.

You don’t just kill them. You ruin them.

The first one goes slow. Too slow. You take your time, peeling back skin like wrapping paper, watching them twitch, eyes rolling like marbles in their sockets. You laugh. You LAUGH. It bubbles out of you, high and breathless, like this is the funniest shit you’ve ever seen. Because it is. Because they thought they were untouchable, and now they’re meat.

The second one? Screaming. Begging. Doesn’t matter. You’re an artist, and their body is just another canvas. You make something beautiful—ugly—perfect. A mess of red and twitching limbs. Your hands are soaked, your raincoat is dripping, and you feel fucking alive.

And then.

Someone’s watching you.

The air shifts. The hairs on your neck rise.

What the fuck.

You pause. The feeling lingers—someone watching, something just out of sight. But you? You just shrug.

Eh.

Not your problem. If they saw, they saw. If they didn’t, they’ll wish they had. You wipe your crowbar off on what’s left of them, let the sticky warmth seep into your gloves, and turn on your heel like this was just another Tuesday.

Footsteps. Yours. Handprints. Also yours.

If the police are slick enough to find you? Good for them. You’ll make it fun.

You’re gone. Vanished into the night like the walking crime scene you are.

And then—he arrives.

A man, moving like he’s got all the time in the world. A black hoodie, mask pulled up just enough to hide what matters. Black hair, messy but intentional, like he ran his hands through it one too many times. And his eyes—blue. Too blue. Like the kind you’d see in angel paintings before they ruined you. Too bright. Too sweet.

If you were still there, you’d think, No fucking way.

But you’re not. And he? He’s got cleaning supplies.

Because it seems like you left.

He starts to clean. Like it’s routine. Like he’s done this before.

But you didn’t leave.

You grab him from behind—hard. Slam him down, pinning him with your weight, breath hot against his ear. He barely fights back.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” you snarl, pressing down harder. “What are you, some undercover cop? Finally found the killer? Corland Bay’s sweet psycho serial killer?”

His eyes—too fucking blue—widen. Stunned. Mouth slightly open, like he’s trying to form words but forgot how. And something about the way his face flushes—**soft pink, creeping up his neck—**is wrong.

You don’t notice. You press the knife against his throat. Harder.

“Talk.** Now.**”

You keep him pinned.

Knee digging into his ribs, knife pressed against his throat, eyes narrowed. "What kind of detective—police—whatever the fuck are you?" You hiss, pressing just a little harder, feeling the faint hitch in his breath beneath the blade.

But then—his breathing.

It changes. Too heavy. Too shaky.

Like... ahhhh???!?!!?

AH—????

Your grip tightens. "The fuck is wrong with you?" You growl.

And him? His pupils are blown, his cheeks are flushed, and his breath is ragged in a way that’s not fear.

Oh.

Oh, what the fuck.

You press the knife a little deeper. Not enough to kill, just enough to scare. Or maybe to feel the pulse beneath the blade—fast, uneven, a little too eager.

"You’re gonna die here, you know that?" you murmur. Cute. Like this is just conversation. Like you’re talking about the weather. Another collection. Another body. You grin, sharp and mean.

But he’s still fucking flustered.

Still breathing all wrong. Eyes shining. Like he wants to say something. You peel his mask up, slow, deliberate. His fingers twitch, reaching like he’s gonna stop you—no. You shove his head back down, hard.

Almost makes him faint. Almost does.

You glance around. The mess. The streaks of red. The bleach.

Oh.

What the hell was he trying to clean up?

You look back down, and his eyes—too blue, too bright—are glassy, struggling to focus. He tries again to speak. You don’t care. You push his head down again—too hard.

He goes limp.

You sigh, irritated. Tear the mask away.

And pause.

Tall. 6’5”, easy. Sleeper build—lean but solid. Hands covered in marks. Scratches, burns—old, deep, childhood scars. Piercings that gleam under the shitty streetlights.

And his face?

...Pretty.

Too pretty.

And somewhat familiar.

What the fuck.

He was trying to clean up the mess. Your mess. The blood, the gore, the little bits of art you left behind like a signature.

A serial killer fan? A wannabe? Some poor, mentally ill fuck who thought you were some kind of idol?

Hah.

Darlin’, he was being nice.

Nice enough to clean up after you, to make sure your ass stayed off the radar. And you knocked him out.

Killing him now? Sad. Kind of a waste. But it’s tempting. The way his throat is right there, the way his too-pretty face would look even prettier painted red.

Nah.

Life’s shit. He’ll grow out of it. Probably. Or he won’t.

And wouldn’t that be interesting?

Too hot to kill.

That’s the excuse you land on. Not the stupidest one you’ve made, not the worst, but damn if it isn’t pathetic. You. Showing mercy. Saint Y/N, patron of dumbasses who clean crime scenes.

You almost carry him—almost. He’s fucking heavy. Dead weight in every sense of the word, and your arms are not built for this. You drag him instead, yanking him into another alleyway, gritting your teeth at every awkward shuffle of his too-tall, too-pretty, too-stupid body.

He could wake up. Could see the sun. Could get scared, maybe. Maybe he’ll take the hint. Maybe he’ll run. Maybe he’ll get the fuck out of Corland Bay and out of your life.

Oh, Y/N.

You showed sympathy.

You’re a saint, aren’t you?

Why the fuck was he trying to clean the mess?

Weird-ass serial killer fan? Some freak with a savior complex? Someone worse?

You don’t care. You won’t care.

Your work here is done. Corland Bay sleeps. So should you.

You yawn, stretch, crack your neck. Good night, dumbass.

You need to sleep. For your work.

You had… a dream.

A little child. Small hands, soft voice. He tries to give you a ring.

Innocent. Loved you.

And you—you looked. You can’t remember your own expression, but your face felt warm, felt happy. Like he was everything. Like he was your darling. A sweet boy.

You can’t see his face.

"Do you wanna marry me…? Angel! I'll take good care of you…"

His voice—soft, bright, hopeful.

You don’t get to answer.

Because Leon, your ass of a friend, grabs your hand, pushes the boy’s away. The ring falls. The boy stumbles.

He’s crying.

"He's a freak! I told ya! Why did you hang out with him? Look!"

You couldn’t say anything.

You didn’t.

Leon—nah. He took your hand. You let him.

And you watched.

Watched the boy cry. Watched him pick up the ring.

Your older self watched.

Watched your kid self. Watched the way your little hands twitched, how your feet stayed planted, how your mouth—silent.

You felt something. Like you wanted to remember. Like if you just reached a little further—

Then—

A sound.

Loud. Jarring. A kick to the ribs of your dream.

Yeah. You woke up.

Congrats.

You’re the beauty of gore.

Coffee. Black, like your soul or whatever. Bitter, like your mornings.

You flip on the news. Same shit, different day.

"Yet another body was pulled from Bluemoss this morning. Authorities believe it was the work of the infamous Corland Bay Butcher—"

What a fucking name.

Hideous.

You hate it. If you were gonna be branded a legend, you’d at least give yourself a name with some style. But no. The public loves their sensationalist, overcooked horror movie bullshit.

And this case? This crime?

It’s years old.

What the fuck.

Maybe people are just dumb.

It’s like that one show, Dexter. The whole Bay Harbor Butcher thing. Lame. At least Dexter got a name with a little bite—this? This sounds like something a washed-up true crime podcaster would spit out between sips of pumpkin spice.

People should’ve named you something cool. Something with presence. Something that rolls off the tongue like a whispered threat.

You sip your coffee, scalding hot, burning the tip of your tongue. Whatever. You like the pain.

The news anchor drones on, their voice that usual mix of forced solemnity and thinly veiled excitement. Because that’s what this is, right? The public eats this shit up. Blood and bodies and mystery.

And the dumbest part? This case is years old.

They’re still talking about it, still digging up corpses like long-forgotten relics, still pretending they care.

But you know the truth.

People don’t care about the dead. They care about the thrill. The spectacle. The fear.

You roll your eyes and take another sip. Yeah, whatever.

You do like Dexter, though. Good show. But come on, at least his name had branding.

Moth texts. Buzz, buzz. Your phone screen lights up.

You flick open the keyboard, thumbs hovering. Moth is sweet. Thoughtful, even. Different time zones and all, but they still check in. You shoot back a quick "Thank you!" because you’re a saint.

Grey bubble. They’re typing.

Moth

"btwww! did u see the latest AoG ep?? i heard Haruko got an outfit change!!!!"

Moth

"spoil it for me. did he really change his hairstyle as well?"

You scoff. Baby stays the same.

You type back so fast your screen almost cracks.

"HHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE"

He didn’t. Still the same. Still cute. Still sweet. Still the most lovable little cutie to ever exist.

You hammer it into the keyboard like it’s gospel.

Moth

"LMAOOO bless. also. shouldn’t u be at work rn."

…Oh. Oh, shit.

FUCK.

You throw the phone. You bolt. Clothes? Shitty. Aesthetic? Somewhere between 2018 emo-core and 'I let a Tumblr gremlin dress me in the dark.'

WHY?

Fuck it. You’re emo.

You catch yourself in the mirror. Oh. Oh damn.

You look hot. Like feral raccoon meets 2018 Hot Topic cashier meets 'I definitely bite.'

Self-confidence? SKYROCKETED. You are an icon. A menace. A walking, talking Tumblr sexyperson if Tumblr had any taste.

Oh shit.

Work.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

You can’t be feeling yourself this much and then drop a fucking uwu. That’s a war crime. That’s illegal. That’s—

…You wink at yourself in the mirror anyway.

"Time to cause problems."

Door swings open. The world outside assaults you with daylight. Gross.

"Oh! Hey there, Angel! Looking good!"

Violet’s standing there, all sunshine and soil-stained fingers, practically glowing in the morning light. Sickening. If it were anyone else, you’d gag. But it’s Violet. So you deal with it.

You flick your eyes to her hip, where yet another potted plant balances like a permanent attachment. Her whole apartment? Basically a jungle. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear she was growing a sentient vine army in there, plotting to take over the world with nothing but greenery and kindness.

You? Not complaining. The air always smells fresh, floral, and earthy as hell whenever she’s around—a perfect mask for the lingering traces of smoke and death clinging to you.

"New plant?" you ask, because duh.

Violet grins, fishing for her keys. "Mm-hmm! This one’s a rosemary bush! Thought it’d be nice to have something useful."

Useful? You know fifty different ways to kill someone with rosemary. You smile.

"Nice."

Violet eyes you up and down, her expression turning downright delighted.

"Loving the look today, Angel! Very... 2018 Tumblr emo."

You snort. "You wound me."

"No, seriously! I kinda wanna raid your closet one day." She nudges you playfully, still grinning like she’s just discovered a hidden treasure trove of goth fashion secrets. If only she knew.

You laugh, all teeth and mischief. "Sure, sure. One day."

One day. Which means never. Because the only thing your closet is full of? Knives. Knives, crowbars, and the occasional bloodstained hoodie. Hardly the wardrobe of an alt-fashion influencer.

Then she dropped a bomb.

You blink. "Nope. Nada. Never heard of him."

Violet narrows her eyes, lips pursing. "You sure? "'Cause he seemed real familiar with you.""

Your stomach does this weird little flip, like your instincts are tapping at your ribs, whispering, Hey, maybe pay attention to this one. But you shut that feeling down real fast.

"Violet, babe, I think you dreamed this one up." You flash a grin, all casual confidence, even as your mind works overtime, flipping through the mental Rolodex of potential problems.

Tall guy? Dark hoodie? Alternative fashion? Too many belts? Jesus, what is he, a Final Fantasy character?

"No clue who that is," you repeat, a little slower this time, letting the lie settle.

Violet hums, unconvinced. "Weird. "

You shrug, pretending your skin isn't crawling just a little. "Sounds like a him problem."

But in the back of your mind, you know damn well this is gonna be a you problem real soon.

"No worries, Vi. I got work now, I'll check later." You wave a dismissive hand, already stepping away.

Check later? Lmao, no. You didn’t give a shit. Who the hell would stalk you?

…Unless—

Oh.

If it was a stalker, then they were bold. And if they were bold, that meant either two things:

They were stupid. In which case, easy kill.

They were a detective.

And ohhhh, baby, wouldn’t that be fun?

You bite your lip, suppressing the grin creeping up. A detective? Hunting you? Now that was hot.

Hell, maybe you'd let them catch up just for the thrill. Let them get close, real close—close enough to think they had you—before you turned the tables.

Oooooh. Fuck.

Yeah. That’d be fun.

You hit send before you can second-guess yourself. Maybe it’s better to leave it at that. Maybe it’s better to pretend you don’t care. Maybe, maybe, maybe. You can stack those maybes like a house of cards, but it won’t stop the wind from blowing.

You’ve got bigger things to deal with. A shitty apartment. A shittier job. The nagging feeling that something off is creeping up behind you, but you? You walk faster.

You breathe deep, step through the library doors, and let the scent of old paper settle the static under your skin. It’s grounding. Familiar. The only thing that stays still in a world that never does.

And then—

“Oh!”

Elanor.

Sweet, doting Elanor, with her scatterbrained ways and her insufferable meddling. She’s already smiling, head tilting, eyes flicking you over like she’s about to say something that’ll make you regret showing up today.

“Sooooo?” She hums, teasing. “How does it feel to no longer be the one in charge of stacking books all day long?”

Before you can answer, she keeps going, because of course she does.

“Although… you’ll still have to work the front desk from time to time, unfortunately.”

You shrug. Offer a smile—if it even counts. Make your way past her before she can wring you into another conversation that leaves you tired before noon.

The familiar chime of the library door rings. Someone’s entered. Not your problem. You duck down, slide your bag under the desk, start pulling out your things. You focus.

The hum of the library settles you, slow and steady, like an IV drip to an addict. Bookshelves, faint ink-and-paper perfume, the distant murmur of people who still think this place is a sanctuary.

And then—again.

Elanor.

Her voice drops into something light, airy, knowing. Fuck.

“Looks like he’s back again.”

Your fingers freeze on the paper in front of you.

“You know, that new guy? The one who always checks out the books you put on display?”

She’s got a grin in her voice. It makes your eye twitch.

“And if I didn’t know any better—” (you don’t, Elanor, you never do,) “I’d say he has a little crush on you.”

Pause.

“Because he was staring. A lot.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

You shove her chair so it spins away from you, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck.

The universe, it seems, has chosen today to test your patience.

And now—because fate is cruel and Elanor is worse—

Aisle 8.

The red light above the shelves blinks. Someone needs help. Him.

Of course.

You sigh. Drag yourself up. Refuse to look at her. You don’t need to—her glee is practically a tangible thing, radiating off her in smug waves. You weave through the shelves, every step an exercise in reluctant inevitability.

And then—there he is.

A broad figure. Back turned. Wearing the comfiest cardigan you’ve ever seen. He hasn’t noticed you yet.

You clear your throat. “Ahem.”

Flinch.

He turns.

Stops.

And for the first time all day, so do you.

Pink.

Pink hair. Soft eyes. Tall—too tall. Looking at you like he’s just walked into a dream he wasn’t ready for.

You stare.

He stares.

Somewhere, distantly, reality stirs.

His jaw moves, something almost forming before it stumbles out clumsy and quiet:

“Woah… You look…”

A beat.

His eyes flick over you, unreadable, thoughtful, confused.

“But I thought you preferred softer clothing…? That’s why I…”

Why he what?

His voice dies. He clears his throat, face burning cherry-pink, matching his hair.

“Ahem! Um… S-Sorry, I hope I’m not bothering you.”

And you—oh, you—

You don’t know what the fuck is going on.

How’s that?

Not about this. Not about him.

But his voice drags you back, an anchor to the present, and you scramble to piece together whatever sentence just left his cherry-stained lips. There’s a kind of innocence in the way he struggles for the right words, tripping over them like a nervous actor missing his cue. It’s almost endearing. Almost.

You give him a slow nod, a silent cue to keep going.

He takes a breath.

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

And there it is. The sleeve-tugging hesitation. That stammer, that nervous shift, like a protagonist straight out of one of Moth’s favorite anime. They’re going to absolutely lose it when you tell them about this later.

The stranger tries again, steadier this time, his gaze catching yours with something just a little too sharp.

“…Do you have any books on native flora? The best I’ve found are on generic wildlife, but nothing on Corland Bay’s plants.”

Plants? Your first thought is to direct him to Violet—this is her territory—but instead, you let out a quiet chuckle and step a little closer, scanning the shelf beside him.

He twitches. Not away—closer. Just slightly. A shift so subtle it’s almost imperceptible, except for the way his breath hitches when your scent brushes past him.

“No, you’re in the right section,” you murmur. “They’re just… buried.”

Your fingers ghost along the book spines, slow, deliberate, until you find the one. You tug it free, turning it in your hands before offering it to him.

“This the one?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Not with words, at least. His gaze lingers—too long, too intense—before he finally reaches for it. His fingers brush yours, barely, but there’s a slight tremor in them.

Then he flips through the pages, scanning, searching—

And stops.

“Yes,” he breathes, triumphant. “This is perfect. Thank you…”

You barely have time to nod before he adds, almost too softly:

“Haha, you’re like an angel, you know that? So kind.”

Your heart stumbles. Your lips part—

“…What?”

His expression shatters into pure, unfiltered horror.

“Oh my God—” His face flushes, hands flying up as if he could physically shove the words back into his mouth. “I didn’t—Did I actually say that out loud? Oh, shit, I’m so sorry. That was—That must’ve been so weird—”

It’s adorable, in a train-wreck kind of way.

You bite back a grin, raising your hands in mock surrender. “Relax. Just caught me off guard, is all.”

His eyes flicker with something—relief? Embarrassment? It’s hard to tell beneath the flush crawling up his neck.

“R-Really?” His voice is softer now, hopeful. “Well, I meant it.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “Sure.”

And that should be the end of it. You should step away. Let him bask in his mortification. But he doesn’t move. Just watches. A silent, expectant sort of tension stretching between you.

You clear your throat. “Uh. You shouldn’t stare like that.”

His head tilts, almost curious. “Why not?”

Your stomach twists.

“Because I don’t know you,” you reply, words lighter than the weight pressing against your ribs.

His lips twitch, like he’s suppressing a smile. “Ah. A technicality.”

You exhale sharply, already regretting this entire conversation. “You haven’t even told me your name.”

“Haven’t I?”

A pause.

Then, smoothly: “Red- Ren.”

Ren. The name tastes unfamiliar, but something about it scratches at the back of your mind. The way he says it—like it’s borrowed. Like it’s just another book on a shelf, waiting to be picked up and put back down under a different title.

Still, you nod, forcing an easy smile. “Nice to meet you, Ren.”

His gaze flickers down—to your name tag. A quiet hum leaves him.

“Y/n,” he muses. “Or… Angel, maybe.” His grin sharpens. “Both suit you.”

Until he tilts his head, expression sobering.

“…You said you needed a new lock for your apartment.”

You blink, thrown off by the sudden shift. “Yeah?”

“Why?”

You hesitate. There’s no real harm in telling him, right? It’s not like he’s the one who broke in.

“Someone snuck in last night,” you admit, shrugging. “Didn’t steal anything. But still. Creepy.”

Ren hums again, thoughtful. Then, without missing a beat:

“I could watch your place.”

Your breath catches.

You blink at him. “What.”

He shrugs, casual. “Stay up. Keep an eye out. Handle it if anything happens.” His voice is smooth, steady, like he’s offering to water your plants while you’re away. “Wouldn’t be a problem.”

You stare.

He meets your gaze, unwavering.

It’s insane. It’s suspicious. It’s absolutely something you should say no to.

Instead, you hear yourself say:

“…You offering to be my personal bodyguard now?”

Ren smiles. “Only if you say yes.”

"You really want to protect a stranger like me, Who knows, You-" You went closer to his ear whispered "can't trust anyone...What if, I'm luring you for my own fun..?"

He flustered, almost fell down...You giggle and left.

You smile. Evilly.

Heheheheh.

He looks cute, won’t lie. Almost too cute. You’ve always wanted to commit a Haruko crime—sink your knife into something pretty, watch something lovely turn ruinous in your hands. Killing him would be fun.

Wouldn't lie… those blue eyes—

They’re similar.

That man.

The one from the alley. The first one you didn’t kill. The one you let walk free.

Your mind wrenches back to him, unbidden. That look in his eyes, the way he stood—different. He wasn’t like the others. He was… something else.

And maybe—just maybe—your poor, gutted heart…

Ugh.

Stop.

Ugh.

You smile a little.

Shitty. Yes. You’re fucked in the head.

And oh, how you love it.

A wretched thing, a beautiful disaster, a creature born to revel in ruin—you, a lover in the way fire loves to lick at the edges of a home, the way a knife loves the tender give of flesh.

What is it, then? This itch in your skull? This whisper in your bones? Some ghost of mercy rattling in your ribcage? How disgusting. How divine.

You let one go. One. And yet his ghost lingers like the taste of copper on your tongue. A memory dressed in blue-eyed regret.

You should carve it out. Bleed it dry. But oh, don’t you adore the ache?

Idk which one is better.

This time I didn't forgot his tattoo and piercing.

Taken (Part 4/5)

Unedited, as all of these are. If it seems like it ends abruptly that's because it does, I cut out the end to spare you my sad attempt at including sexual tension lol. Ren and above image belong to @14dayswithyou

Summary: Angel comes to terms with their new situation and Ren is a simp as per usual

2.2k words

14 Days With You is an 18+ Yandere Visual Novel. MINORS DNI

Warmth. It’s all I can process as I groggily wake in a bed with black sheets, clearly not my own, with sunshine falling almost spitefully directly on my eyes through a crack in the curtains nearby. As my memory slowly comes back to me, I shoot upright in the bed, Fuck I’m at Ren’s place. My hip flares in pain once again, stubbornly reminding me how I got here in the first place.

I don’t have much time to myself as Ren peeks in, timidly asking, “How are you doing, Angel? I made some pancakes if you want some?” I recall our second date, when we ended up stranded at his place due to an unexpected storm. He made pancakes then too, but the situation is vastly different now.

I stare at him incredulously, “What the fuck, Ren?”

He avoids my eyes, “What- What’s wrong, Angel?”

My eyes sharpen to a glare, “Drop the act. You know what’s wrong you piece of shit. You fucking kidnapped me?!”

He makes an uncertain gesture, “I wasn’t- I didn’t want to! You just wouldn’t listen to me, you were going to call someone. You have to listen to me first.”

My face could not possibly display the extent of disbelief I had at his audacity, “You’re insane. Get out of my room.”

I see his eyes light up just slightly and I guess why, “No- no. I’m not staying here, I’m not living here. It’s mine for now because I don’t want you in it, so I’m claiming it.”

He nods, “What’s mine is yours Angel, you can claim anything you want.”

Frustrated at his contradicting shifts between aggressive and passive, I throw a nearby plushie at his head, watching with some satisfaction as he makes no move to avoid it, and it nails him square in the face.

He tilts his head hopefully, “Do you feel better now?”

I turn to my uninjured side, pulling the covers over my head, “Fuck off.”

I hear his quiet response of, “Okay,” before the door gently clicks closed.

Only moments later, he reappears with a plate of pancakes and a glass water, which he sets down on the nightstand next to me. I glare at him, making full eye contact as I swipe the glass onto the floor like a petulant cat. I immediately regret doing so as the glass makes a loud shattering sound, spilling water, ice, and glass everywhere. I flinch and start shaking as less than pleasant memories from my childhood resurface, triggered by the breaking glass.

Ren reassures me as though I had not fully intentionally broken it, “It’s okay, I’ll clean it up, just don’t walk over here.”

I scrutinize his movements as he returns with a towel and broom, cleaning the mess. The worst part is that he doesn’t seem angry, not even irritated. When he catches me staring at him he just flashes a smile. I fully expected to die at his hands right then, and he’s smiling?

When he finishes, he asks, “Anything else I can do for you?”

Coming from anyone else, that would’ve sounded sarcastic as hell, but he genuinely meant it. I stare at him for a long moment before speaking, “I don’t understand you.”

He shifts his weight from side to side, “What do you mean?”

I pause, considering, “Take your contacts out.”

He picks at his cardigan sleeve, “What contacts?”

I glare, “Do you really think I’m that fucking stupid?”

He stutters, “N- No, sorry, I just- force of habit I guess.”

I nod, “We’re past this soft persona, aren’t we? All bets are off, you went far enough to kidnap me, so I imagine I won’t be leaving anytime soon. Might as well drop the act, yeah? Not like I can break up with you now.”

He shakes his head, “I still want you to be happy Angel, if dressing and acting like this makes you feel more comfortable, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

I glare, “It doesn’t, it sickens me. Stop it.”

He seems taken aback, “Wha- What would you rather have me to do?”

I shake my head, “Goddamnit Ren, just stop pretending. Stop pretending to be someone we both know you aren’t. Y’know, I always suspected, just never wanted to confront you. I didn’t think I could take the betrayal if I was right.” I scoff, “Turns out I don’t have to figure out whether I can or not since I don’t have a choice. Never did, right? This was the only possible conclusion, no matter what I did, the only difference was whether I was here willingly or not.”

Ren avoids my eyes, “I’m sorry.”

I smile at him, speaking in a saccharine voice, “Oh Ren, my love, no you’re not. We wouldn’t be here if you were. Now stop treating me like I’m dumb. You know me far better than you let on, right? If that’s really what you think of me, I’ll be hurt darling.”

Despite my biting, sarcastic tone, Ren’s face still reddens at the terms of endearment, “Angel, I really don’t know what you want me to do, I am who I am, but I’ll change what you want me to change. Just tell me what to change and I will.”

I sigh heavily, pinching the bridge of my nose, “Alright, since you keep acting like you have no fucking free will or personality beyond being obsessed with me, I’ll give you the orders you seem to want so desperately. 1. Take out your colored contacts, 2. Put your piercings back in, 3. Stop covering up your tattoos, I can obviously see them, you’re not slick. Oh and 4. Just fully get rid of the pounds of concealer you wear all the time, it makes me uncomfortable just seeing it, much less having it on. Those are currently the easiest things you’re using to manipulate my opinion of you, but I have plenty more theories.”

Ren hesitates, scratching his jaw uncomfortably, “But- but you prefer-”

I throw my hands in the air, “And stop stuttering, I find it incredibly hard to believe that you genuinely have a stutter. And if you do- well, guess I’m an asshole. The point is you’ve gone far beyond the point where pretending to be my type will appease me. If you start being honest with me now, you might be able to regain a sliver of my trust, but if you keep being deceptive and manipulative – keep in mind I acted oblivious for most of our relationship – all I’m going to do is make your life a living hell. I’m sure I can get you disillusioned with me pretty damn quick.”

Ren smiles fondly at me, “I assure you, you can’t. But feel free to try if that’s what you want.”

I scoff, “Sure, I’ll remind you of that when you snap on me. Only took two months last time, bet I can at least halve that this time around. Also remember that I have next to nothing I actually care about and have withstood psychological and physical harassment for years at a time, so you’re not special, and you will not fucking break me.”

I see anger build behind his eyes as I speak and feel the familiar dread rise in my chest equally, but steel myself against it. I’ve dealt with worse, and I’m tired of being the victim. I will die before I’m chained up again. I hold onto as much determination and righteous fury as I can muster, preparing for anything he can throw at me.

But then he steps toward me, and suddenly I can’t move. It’s like with him all over again, I talk big to get him to back off, but then it backfires, and I just freeze, cowering in a corner and waiting for it to be over. My fists clench the sheets as I will myself to do something, anything. But I don’t, I can’t, helplessly watching as the tall figure looms ever closer, somehow not any less intimidating despite the pastel persona.

He reaches out a hand towards my face and I watch it closely, heart beating faster the closer it gets. Fuck fuck fuck, what do I do? I could bite him, but that would just make him angrier, I could run away, but he’d catch me easily. All I can do is glare and try to hide my shaking as much as possible. So I just sit and wait for the inevitable.

But when his hand reaches me, it’s gentle. Barely grazing my cheek with his knuckles before carefully cupping my face in his hands and guiding it to face his. I see only warmth in his eyes, empathy and understanding combined with an all-encompassing devotion I had never experienced before. Or maybe I had, it felt so distantly familiar…

His voice is as gentle as his touch, but somehow carries more weight, “My angel, I have never, ever, wanted to break you. The only thing I have ever wanted is to be by your side, to support you and make you happy for as long as I am able. I’d sooner break myself than hurt you in the slightest. All I ask is to stay with you and I will become anything you could ever want. I am yours, completely and unconditionally, forever.”

I stare at him in shock as he plants a light kiss on the top of my head and leaves with one last lingering glance behind him. As soon as he closes the door I slump over, my heart racing. Holy fuck, what was that? He was… kind. Creepy and overly devoted, sure, but words don’t mean all that much anyway, I’m sure he won’t be able to keep that up for long. More importantly, he genuinely doesn’t seem to want to hurt me. I honestly can’t believe he didn’t hit me. Even after I broke the- ugh shit, and I was so rude too, now I feel bad.

Wait no- he literally kidnapped me. He’s crazy. Why would he even act so obsessed with me, I didn’t do anything? Does he think it’ll get me to drop my guard? Or maybe… what had he said before? I can’t let you go again, not now that I finally have you? Something like that, right? How long has he been stalking me? What happened before? No, it doesn’t matter, I need to figure out how to get out, or just contact someone. How closely is he monitoring me?

I look up and around the room, looking for cameras. I saw a few suspicious places, but it would probably be better if he didn’t know that I knew they were there, so I couldn’t directly inspect them. Instead, I walk over to the closet, stepping inside and closing the door behind me before crouching in the far corner. As usual, it was a very comforting sensation, the walls of the closet around me as I felt invisible in the dark. A helpful quality.

But it wasn’t long before I heard the door to my room open and footsteps immediately approach my hiding place. So there are cameras, knew it. Light floods the closet and I flinch away from it. Outlined in the light I see Ren, crouching to my level.

He looks concerned, “Why are you in here, Angel?”

I drop my head down to rest face-down on my knees that were drawn up to my chest, “Cause I can. You gonna drag me out like he did?”

His eyebrows lower dangerously, “Like who did?”

I scoff, “Surprised you don’t already know. Guess you didn’t stalk me until after I turned 16 then. Either that or you weren’t very good at it.”

Ren doesn’t respond to that, instead turning and sitting at the opposite end of the closet with me. As my eyes adjust to the light, I see that he actually listened to me. His eyes were the same as that night, and he had two sparkling silver spikes below his lips. He had changed from his usual jeans and double sweater combo to the grey sweatpants and dark green long-sleeve shirt he wore the first time I stayed over at his place. His hair was pulled back into a small ponytail, showing the piercings in his ears as well. He looked self-conscious… and hot. I shake my head, Shut up, no, not the goddamn time.

All of a sudden, I notice something on his neck, “Holy fuck.”

He immediately responds, “What? What’s wrong?”

I crawl slightly toward him, squinting to make sure I saw it properly, “…When on earth did you get my name tattooed on your throat?”

He hesitates, touching the tattoo, or perhaps trying to cover it, “Uh… I dunno, recently.” He sounds defensive, “You told me to get rid of the concealer.”

I shift within arm’s length, “I did, thank you. I do genuinely appreciate you listening to me. But define recently. It’s completely healed, so clearly not that recent.” I reach out, slightly brushing the skin with my thumb to check the texture, confirming, “Yeah, that’s gotta be at least two months old.” I smirk, pulling back slightly, “You’d think I’m the yandere, claiming you like that.”