I Love Leon So Much 😞

New ren/redacted fanart bc I love him 😭

"I could explain more about the Laplace Demon concept if you, dear readers, are interested but that would be for another occasion. Another essay hehe."

Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease 🛐

Explaining Laplace's Demon tehory in the context of 14dwy.

Thank you so much for giving me an excuse to talk about this dear anon!

In this post i'll elaborate further about something i said in the end of this super long post. As always TW for 14dwy spoilers!

(Joke's on you, sir, i DID come here for the tales of old)

And this tale in specific is really old. Around two hundred years old to be specific. In 1814 a man known by the name Pierre-Simon de Laplace wrote an essay about a deterministic concept known later as the "Laplace's demon" (although he already seemed to be exploring this concept since 1773)

We may regard the present state of the universe as the effect of its past and the cause of its future. An intellect which at a certain moment would know all forces that set nature in motion, and all positions of all items of which nature is composed, if this intellect were also vast enough to submit these data to analysis, it would embrace in a single formula the movements of the greatest bodies of the universe and those of the tiniest atom; for such an intellect nothing would be uncertain and the future just like the past could be present before its eyes.

(Pierre Simon Laplace, Philosophical Essay on Probabilities.)

But what does this all mean? Well basically this man spoke about a hypothetical "intelligence" (he didn't precisely used the word "demon") that, knowing the precise location of every particle in the universe and where they were headed, they would be able to guess the past and future values for any given time. In other words, we would be referring to an almighty hypothetical "thing" able to see the past and future of every single thing in the universe.

Of course this is all a model, a theory, an exploration on what would happen if something like this existed in the first place. After all, it was all a philosophical essay in the first place, wasn't it?

"Une intelligence ... Rien ne serait incertain pour elle, et l'avenir, comme le passé, serait présent à ses yeux."

Of course, Mr. Laplace wasn't the only one to explore the idea of an almighty intelligence since other philosophers like Condorcet, Holbach and Diderot also wrote about it.

Now there are several theories (some more modern than others) to explain why an intelligence of this nature will never be possible to exist but there is one that might ring a bell for some people "The Chaos Theory"

Or as some might know it: The butterfly effect.

This theory basically poses that minor variations between the starting conditions of two systems can result in major differences. That's why you say that "A butterfly flying in certain direction today can lead to huge catastrophes tomorrow" it's not something (so) literal but it is useful to illustrate how small can be the variation and how huge can be the result. Of course the change doesn't have to be huge. It can be a minor change, but a change nonetheless.

Btw chaos theory is applicable when knowledge of the system is imperfect, whereas Laplace's demon assumes perfect knowledge of the system, therefore the variability leading to chaos in chaos theory and non-variability in the knowledge of the world Laplace's demon holds are noncomparable.

But, What does this all has to do with 14dwy?

Glad you ask. Actually a lot.

Starting off with the idea of how perfect is this game integrating even its genre (Visual Novel) to the theory. I believe there is no bigger example of the butterfly efect than a Visual Novel, where choosing (or not) certain options can lead to certain results (big or small). Very much like the butterfly effect. And funnily enough, it's us, the player, the embodiment of this umpredictability, since we are the ones that make the choices in the game. We are the antagonists of a hypothetical Laplace's Demon. We are it's antonym. We are an angel. The idea of a change that the system cannot predict. Of course this is questionable. Because as much as we have certain "freedom" we still need to abide by the choices that the very game gives to us.

This takes us back to the question of who is the entity that speaks to us in this cryptic messages on day four? Who is this (allegedly) Laplace's Demon? and what are my personal arguments on why i don't think it's [REDACTED].

Let's start by breaking down the messages. I have them all decoded in my previous post along with a really easy (i hope so) explanation on how the cipher works.

"...ATTEMPTING TO REWRITE WHAT HAS ALREADY BEEN ORDAINED SINCE THE BEGINNING"

Here, the entity mentions the certainty of the past, but not the certainty of the future.

"...ATTEMPTING TO DIG UP THE ROOTS OF FATE AS THOUGH IT WERE A WEED AND PLANTING YOUR OWN CORRUPT SEEDLING IN ITS PLACE"

Here, the entity presumably refers to the idea of our (very limited) free will and how we're pushing the limits of the system (in this case by attempting to keep advancing on a route that supposedly leads nowhere else). To make this more clear, this entity speaks to us when we load the save file multiple times trying to keep advancing down that path when the course of action contemplated is that we should just stop and load another save file. We're persistent creatures, after all.

"PERHAPS WE ARE THE SAME, THEN"

Of course fucking ✨not✨

"I TOO FIND ENJOYMENT IN DISRUPTING THE VINES OF KISMET AND WATCHING HIM STRUGGLE"

Now i swear i never heard the word "kismet" before this day. But it seems to be some sort of archaic synonim of the word "fate". Although according to Cambridge Dictionary it is actually "A force that (some people) think controls what happens in the future, and is outside human control"

Also, this entity seems to be having its fun with Ren/REDACTED's struggles. It doesn't really see our unpredictability (yet) as a threat.

"TWAS I WHO GAVE HIM HIS GIFT, AS I DID WITH OTHERS..."

AND THIS

This right here boy oh boy.

I gave him his gift: A rant about human deities through the holy act of programming.

(As pretentious as this title is, please hear me out)

There's a really interesting article named Embracing Λόγος: Programming as Imitation of the Divine that basically says:

The programmer must begin by defining things – material or conceptual. “We are unable to reason or communicate effectively if we do not first make the effort to know what each thing is.” (Rayside, Campbell) By considering the ontological questions of the things in our world, in order to represent them accurately (and therefore ethically) in our programs, the programmer enters into the philosophical praxis. Next, the programmer adds layers of identity and logic on top of their ontological discovery, continuing in the praxis.

But the programmer takes it a step further – the outcome of their investigation is not only their immaterial thought but, in executing the program, the manifestation of their philosophical endeavor into material reality. The program choreographs trillions of elementary charges through a crystalline maze, harnessing the virtually infinite charge of the Earth, incinerating the remains of starlight-fueled ancient beings in order to realize the reasoning of its programmer. Here the affair enters into the realm of Ethics.

“The programmer is attempting to solve a practical problem by instructing a computer to act in a particular fashion. This requires moving from the indicative to the imperative: from can or may to should. For a philosopher in the tradition, this move from the indicative to the imperative is the domain of moral science.” (Rayside, Campbell) Any actions taken by the program are the direct ethical responsibility of the programmer.

Furthermore, the programmer, as the source of reason and will driving a program, manifesting it into existence, becomes in that instant the λόγος σπερματικός (“logos spermatikos”) incarnate. The programmer’s reason, tapped into the divine Reason (λόγος), is generated into existence in the Universe and commands reasonable actions of inanimate matter.

Basically the programmer goes through each and every stage a deity would go through when creating the universe.

AND GUESS WHO IS A PROGRAMMER IN 14DWY???

(Ren/REDACTED in case you don't know hehe)

When the entity says "I gave him his gift" i believe this is exactly what he is referring to. While a Laplace's Demon knows every particle in the physical systems (and assumes it's knowledge of said system is perfect), a programmer works with Operative Systems (Windows, Linux, Ubuntu).

As for us, the angel, the antagonist of the demon of Laplace, we are the chaos theory, the one that conceives the knowledge of the system as imperfect.

Btw the person manipulating some choices in certain moments? Totally Ren/REDACTED. As they have the power of messing with the game and are totally self-aware of this being a visual novel.

But who gave Ren/REDACTED this power? Was Ren/REDACTED so skillful that they were able to defy the laws of worldbuilding? Picture this: the equivalent would be a programmer in the real world so skillful that they become able to defy the reality itself.

I believe the responsible is this "all knowing entity" since it just said it itself "It was I who gave him his gift". After all he is, and i quote, "THE PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE, COMBINED INTO ONE" really ominous shit.

There are obvious gaps in this theory but it's the best i can do with the limited knowledge i have. I am not a physicist so i can't really dwell in formulas and numbers as much as i would. Maybe i'll interview a professor in college in the future but for now i hope this is enough.

it's my birthday !!! (cropped out my irl name haha)

ren bday + valentine's day + my bday big fat combined art coming soon....

Showed me what my heart was worth

Ren+[REDACTED] \ GN Reader [NSFW]

Showed me what my heart was worth - Ao3

20k Romance OneShot - NSFW

Summary: Love, tenderness, and Ren -> [REDACTED]. Sai has said that, realistically & outside of game restraints, getting Ren to be anything like his actual self would take a long time. Here's a (thirsty and sickeningly fluffy in turns) take on that.

Content Warnings:

Explicit penetrative and oral GN sex (includes all canonical piercings if that squicks you)

Mentions and themes of Ren's canonical kinks (eg cockwarming, marking, hand-holding)

Lots of issues with identity, self-esteem, and self-worth (because Ren)

Angel (Reader) is far too accepting of unacceptable behaviors (eg stalking, obsessiveness, possessiveness - but this is a yandere relationship)

Grossly fluffy. Like. You will get cavities. Ren is a yandere, this shouldn't be as meltingly, tooth-rottingly sweet even if he's the most dere of yandere... but it is because I am a simp.

Author's thirst for [REDACTED] is pitifully obvious

[I don't actually use Tumblr, I only have an account for scrolling purposes. But I am deeply proud of this love letter to 14dwy I've written, so I wanted to make sure others could also have this to fill the [REDACTED]-shaped hole in their hearts while we wait.]

[If I messed up tagging or any etiquette tell me please. I skipped Tumblr as a whole as a poster, so I'm just going by conventions in the fandoms I follow.]

Demon/Possessed!Ren is on my mind...

Angel was obsessed with demons and the occult. Of course, to get closer to them, and know his beloved better. Ren dove into researching it all too himself...even practicing it to become a professional at it all, just to help keep his Angel safe.

Though he then got curious, tempted by one demon who could possible assist him on getting his Angel closer to him. As well, give him the power to protect them. (As well to easily take out his enemies, those who dared to harm his Angel, or get between them and him.)

Ren decided to make a pact with a demon just for his Angel. Though his pact came with a deal to let the demon lend their power to him, and demonic abilities. A mix of possession and demonic turn for Ren, but one with a price (That being his humanity and sanity, since he has to keep battling against this demon for control. Since no demon really is going to just give things easily without a challenge.)

Though it'll all be worth it in the end. Anything to make his Angel happy and love him, right?

Anything for his Angel. 💕

renren again cause im pretty devoted to my wife

+extra my dumb ass trying to draw renren on roblox (ren so goofy there

(pls ignore my lil sister avatar on the corner

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?

I think that more fanfiction should be written with the aim to tackle the original meaning of hanahaki. Because when the concept of hanahaki disease was originally created, it was intended to be a metaphor for suppressing one’s feelings.

Your feelings are this beautiful garden of flora inside of your chest. When you express how you feel honestly, you allow for it to grow freely. But when you hide how you feel out of fear of rejection, and try to make it smaller and smaller, the flowers become cramped inside of you, until you choke on your own feelings. Every flower you cough up is something you’ve felt, but refused to say.

The whole “dying” thing is intended to be more symbolic especially. You’re killing off bits and pieces of yourself and how you feel, because you’re afraid to express yourself.

It’s not really supposed to be, “The one I love doesn’t love me back, and I’m dying from it.” Rather, it’s more along the lines of, “Repressing your emotions is bad for you, and it’s better and healthier to express them freely, even when it’s scary.”

Which is to say that, one, the cure for the disease should be telling the person that you are in love with how you feel. How the other person feels about the person afflicted should have nothing to do with it, as the trope is meant to be about feeling your emotions unapologetically.

And that, two, it’s not an inherently romantic trope. Obviously, it has romantic applications, but it can be written for any situation where a character is hiding how they truly feel. This can include a refusal to address a specific trauma, a desire to indulge in something that they’re ashamed of, and even really practical things, like wanting to ask one’s boss for a higher position.

Although (as an aromantic person myself) I don’t agree with this conclusion about the trope, this application would also avoid people calling it arophobic. When the thing killing the character is a refusal to be honest with themselves, rather than an unrequited love, it’s on nobody’s hands but their own to save their life.

There are a ton of ways that this interpretation of the hanahaki disease could be applied in new and interesting ways in fanfiction, and I’d love to read what things people could come up with!

So, I'm doing the hairstyle challenge with both Ren and Redacted. How does it look so far?

Taken (Part 1/5)

Uhhhh this is my first time posting a fic anywhere lmao, idk what I'm doing but enjoy ig? :D Ren and image belong to @14dayswithyou content warnings are in the tags

Summary: Angel runs into trouble after hanging out with Jae and Teo

2.1k words

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

“Get away from me!” I yell as loudly as I can, hoping to either get the guy to back off or get someone else’s attention. Of course the one time I decide to go to a bar and try to be social I get some creep trying to follow me home.

The man was swaying just a bit, clearly intoxicated, with shoulder-length black hair falling over their flushed face in greasy strands. I was pretty sure I could take him down if need be, but the fact that he was blocking the only way out from the alleyway concerned me. I had used the back exit specifically to avoid him, but he was a step ahead of me, probably not the first time he’s done this.

He began speaking again, slightly slurring his words, “Awww, c’mon, a pretty girl like you walking home alone? S’not safe, let m’come with you.”

I glare, “Listen, I’m not interested in anything you have to offer me, what I would appreciate most is if you got out of my way.”

He takes a step forward and I take a matching step back. He croons, “I’m not gonna hurt ya, stop being so paranoid.”

This time when he steps forward, I hold my ground, shifting my stance and holding my hands out in something between a placating gesture and a guard, “I’m warning you now, if you don’t back off…”

I don’t finish the threat as I don’t really have any leverage. My phone’s battery is dead so I can’t call for help, and my knife is in my bag, which I had forgotten to even bring. Sure, I knew martial arts, but that probably wouldn’t mean much to this guy.

So as he staggers closer, giggling, I follow his movements, recalling some of the simplest ways to take someone down. But just as he gets within range, his entire demeanor changes, his dazed look and swaying stance fall into a predatory glare and light-footed lunge. I catch the glint of what was probably a knife slashing from behind his back and sloppily swing my arm down to block it. I intercept his forearm, but don’t have the strength to hold back a full-bodied swing at a moment’s notice, so the blade catches my shirt and burns across my hip.

For a moment, the world freezes. I can hear a thousand thoughts and regrets flash through my mind, but they sound distant, detached. The man steps out of my reach and gives me a disgusting grin while I stand in shock. My hand shakily moves to cover the open wound, and I can’t help but look down at the thick liquid smearing on my palm. I try to step backwards, but the twisting of the wound sends jolts of searing pain up my side and I fall, holding my hip as hard as I can as I yell out expletives.

From my collapsed position on the ground I raise my head to keep track of my attacker, but he just stands laughing at me, apparently reveling in the first blood he had managed to take. What I didn’t expect to see, though, was a different figure, clad in all black and wielding a sledgehammer above their head, aiming at the black-haired stranger in complete silence. I can’t see their face clearly since their hoodie shadowed it, but I can feel their anger as the sledgehammer makes impact with the stranger’s head, flinging his entire body to the side with the force of the blow.

I stare at what's left of the man’s head as it makes impact with the wall of the alley and slowly slides back down. Red. Everything was red. The walls, the ground, the body that was laying crumpled at their junction, and the face of the person who undoubtedly just killed him. As I follow the trail of red, I notice its hue doesn’t stain their clothes, only turns it a richer shade of black. But their face…

It's twisted into an ugly expression, something between disgust, frustration, and utter apathy as they consider the body before them. The splashes of red sharply contrast their pale skin as it drips down their cheek. I shuffle backwards as best I can, fighting the morbid curiosity to look back to the silent body on my left, instead keeping them fixed on the cold face in front of me. I see a flash of blue as they turn away hurriedly, dragging a neck gaiter higher over their nose and pulling their hood low once again before approaching me.

I belatedly notice the tears running down my face and try to wipe them away, not wanting to appear weak before this new opponent, though there probably wasn’t much chance of that at this point. My efforts accomplish nothing but smearing my own blood and dirt across my face, but I have no time to worry about that as my back hits the dead end behind me.

I can’t hear anything except the roaring pain in my side and my heartbeat thrumming in my ears louder than any bassline I’d heard before. I glance behind me to confirm that there was indeed no escape before returning to the shadowy figure now crouching just out of my reach.

To my surprise, when his gloved hand returned from the depths of his pocket, it held not a weapon, but a phone. He speaks into it in a foreign language, and a million thoughts run through my brain, piecing together what I can from my shaky understanding: Fuck, he called someone. That’s Japanese. I know Japanese! Daijōbudesu? It’s okay? No the fuck it’s not! Is he even talking to me? Something about this place? Someone staying here? Fuck, is he calling in reinforcements? Who’s on the other line? Kudasai? This bitch is being polite??? Is it the police?

When he finishes speaking, he immediately turns the phone to face me. I read the displayed text:

‘All right. Called an ambulance. Please exist here and keep stress on the defects.’

Despite the situation, I let out a choked laugh at the shoddy translation, though luckily it managed to convey the pieces I hadn’t understood. The blue, red, yellow, and green logo in the top right corner confirmed my suspicions, “Google translate? Really? That’s not even close to what you said. Google sucks at translating Japanese; you’d be better off with Spanish or another romance language, if you know it,” I ramble out what comes to mind, whether he can understand me or not.

It seems like he understands me since he makes a surprised sound and shakes his head before turning the phone back to read it himself and letting out an irritated sigh. He pulls off a glove to attempt typing but I speak up again, despite my voice shaking and hitching so badly that he might need google translate to figure out what I’m saying, “I think I know what- what… you mean. Do you- do you- do-. You- FUCK,” cursing to dispel my stutter, I continue, “You want me to stay here for the ambulance and keep pressure on the cut, right? Thank… you?” It feels weird to thank someone who just smashed a guy’s head in, but staying on their good side was probably the best idea for now.

He nods and reaches out a hand toward my head, which I would have withdrawn from if my head wasn’t already against the wall, but since I couldn’t, I just squeezed my eyes shut, hoping whatever came next wouldn’t be too painful. When I feel a gentle ruffling sensation of my hair, my eyes pop back open in surprise. I clearly see their own eyes for the first time, looking at me far more softly than they had any right to.

My confused look seemed to shake them out of whatever reverie they were in, and he abruptly retrieves his hand, looking down again and mumbling, “ごめん, 目をそらす.”

To reinforce his meaning, he covers his own eyes before pointing at me. I hesitantly raise a hand over my eyes, but peek through a sliver to make sure he wasn’t going to try anything. He didn’t, instead turning and standing, approaching the dead man. I close the gap, not wanting to see what he did.

The swirling, sickening feeling in my gut only increases the more I think about the stranger’s eyes. A strikingly beautiful color, ocean blue with a hint of pink swirling through them if you looked closely enough. I was sure I had seen them before but couldn’t recall when or where. What bothered me more though, were their eyebrows. Pink. I only knew one insanely tall person with pink hair.

But of course it couldn’t be him, it’s not like pink hair is unheard of. And he would never be able to wield a sledgehammer like that, he’s always so timid… and those definitely weren’t his eyes. His are a much lighter baby blue. Plus he speaks English, he probably doesn’t even know Japanese. I reassure myself. Surely my partner could never kill someone with such ease.

Despite my conclusion, I can’t help but spread my fingers again, peeking out to see the person’s form dropping a half-full trash bag on the spot where the remains of the man’s head was, covering the worst of the remaining viscera. I couldn’t see the body anywhere, but the dumpster was closed now, and I wasn’t about to check it. I evaluate his height, placing it at about six and a half feet. The same as… No. But what if?

I see him pick up the serrated knife that was left on the ground, inspecting it closely, though for what I wasn’t sure. I drop my hand from my eyes, instead using it to brace against the wall as I try to stand up, but hiss in pain and slide right back down. This grabs the attention of the black-clad figure and he takes a few hasty steps towards me, gesturing for me to stay down.

I warily eye the knife in his hand, and he gets the message, tossing it behind him somewhere carelessly before opening his hands, showing that they’re empty. They then back away, glancing between me and the entrance of the alleyway a few times before turning to leave.

I call out desperately, “Wait!” I’d never be able to face my boyfriend if I didn’t confirm this wasn’t him now, but how could I do that? I continue in a timid voice, forcing a few more tears to roll down my face, “Don’t leave me, please. I’m scared…”

He hesitantly turns back to me but stays where he is, clearly uncertain.

I let my bottom lip tremble, “Could you just… could I hold your hand?” I cringe internally at the insane request, but to my surprise it seems to convince them as they return to my side, kneeling on one knee and offering his right hand to me.

But that’s not what I needed, so I winced and snatched both of my hands back to my hip. When he reaches for my hip with his left hand, I grip onto it as though it was the only thing keeping me from dying. To my shock, I feel what I was looking for. A ring on their ring finger, the same thickness and width as the one he always wore around his neck.

I freeze, not able to meet their eyes. Turns out I knew nothing of my boyfriend of three months. I pull my hand back as unobtrusively as possible, betrayal and horror coursing through my veins as I murmur, “Sorry, you probably should go before the ambulance gets here.”

I watch as they pause, clearly thrown by my sudden change of heart. But when we hear sirens closing in from the distance, they shoot to their feet and briskly walk out of the alleyway, casually grabbing the sledgehammer they had left standing in the middle of the path as though it weighed nothing. I shivered at the comfort he handles the weapon with.

When the ambulance arrives, they asked me a multitude of questions, most I didn’t know the answer to. When they asked me who was responsible for my wound, I just pointed a shaky finger towards the dumpster, “I think he’s in there…”

When questioned further about the second figure, I only gave vague answers, not anything that would be helpful in a search. Luckily for me, my swimming vision and pounding headache finally gave way to sweet unconsciousness, the blood loss finally catching up to me.