🪩🪼| [REDACTED]

i can't take back my vote can i have the angst please many thank

ᴅᴇᴀʀ ꜱᴇᴀ ꜱᴀʟᴛ - ᴋᴏɪ! ᴍᴇʀ! ʀᴇᴅᴀᴄᴛᴇᴅ x ɢ.ɴ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

14 DAYS WITH YOU is a 18+ visual novel Minors don’t interact!-

Words: long

Genre: Angst

If you find mistakes I'm sorry I did not proof read

(Reader is G.N)

Summary : You were a sacrifice to the ocean, that consumed your friend then why is the Koi God's features and movements represent him?

Trigger warnings

Death & Dying:

Grief & Loss:

Body Horror (Implied)

Unreliable Reality:

Existential Angst:

Poisoning:

Religious Themes (Sacrifice):

Violence:

Hopelessness & Despair

Most of the Koi fish! Lore was insipred from Momo's lore? It's there in discord I don't know if I'm good with angst so hehe...I hate this tho

A fairy tale’s supposed to end with something golden, something soft. Right?

Maybe.

…Oh my lord, Koi God.

Corland Bay is a town stitched together with salt and superstition. The sea takes, the sea gives back. Drop something screaming into the waves, and maybe—if it's feeling kind—it’ll spit out a miracle. Gills for lungs. Scales for skin. A promise that you'll keep breathing, long after you should’ve sunk.

You hate it. Have always hated it. But that's not something you say out loud. Violet chatters enough for the both of you, fills the silences you leave behind, swears she’s only doing it to keep you safe. Eleanor too, tucked behind her scripts, pressing the words into your hands so you won’t have to say them yourself.

But the village knows now. The weight of their eyes is a tide all its own. They ask why, but the answer’s got nothing to do with them. It never did.

You hate the Koi God. Always have. Always will. The village whispers it now, lets your name rot in their mouths like fish left too long in the sun. Blasphemy, they call it. Ungrateful. Foolish. But what do they know of grief? Of standing at the edge of a boat, wind cutting like knives, watching someone else drown in your place?

It was supposed to be you.

Not him.

But the sea doesn’t care for fairness. The village even less. They pried your hands from the wooden rails, from his wrist, from his shirt, from the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, and they let him go. You didn’t see him hit the water. Didn’t see him sink. Just the look in his eyes—blue, blue, blue—before he vanished into the maw of the waves.

He asked, once. Why the sea had to take. Why it couldn’t just be enough to live. You had no answer then. You have none now.

It’s nothing. You tell yourself that even now, with his name a ghost on your tongue. It’s nothing, nothing, nothing.

But you loved him.

Or maybe you didn’t. Maybe you couldn’t. Maybe love isn’t the right word, because it feels too soft, too breakable, too far from the raw thing gnawing at your ribs. But you liked him. You know that much. And now he’s gone, and you’re still here, and the only thing left to hate is the god that took him.

The only thing left was the wedding bands. Small, golden, imperfect in the way only a child’s hands could make them. He made them for you—back when you were just kids, back when the ocean was still a place to play, not a thing to fear.

You never wore yours. Not the way it was meant to be worn. Just looped it through a chain, let it rest against your chest, where no one could take it from you. Where it stayed, long after he was gone.

Gone. Because his father gave him up.

Because the village needed someone, and a child was easier to swallow than a guilty conscience. Because when the hands dragged him to the boat, when the chants began, when he cried for someone—anyone—to stop it, his father didn’t. Didn’t fight. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even flinch.

You still remember the way he looked at you. Not at the village. Not at the sky. Not at the water that was about to devour him. Just at you.

Like he was asking something.

Like he was waiting for an answer you never found in time.

And maybe that’s why it still hurts. Because you were supposed to be the one to go. Because he should have had a choice. Because you still feel the weight of his band against your skin, heavier than it should be.

Because his father didn’t feel anything.

And you feel everything.

The morning felt heavier than usual. Like the air itself had thickened, pressing against your skin, making it harder to breathe.

You had to get ready. Today was… one of those days.

The village had its ways—its rituals, its rules, its sacrifices. And today, like every season before, someone would be chosen. Someone would be taken. Someone would be swallowed by the sea, and the rest of them would call it a blessing.

You pulled on your clothing with stiff hands, the wedding band against your chest warm from your skin. Too warm. Like it still held something of him, like it still remembered.

A knock at the door.

Violet stood there, cradling a potted plant in her arms, its leaves swaying with the breeze. She tilted her head. “Y/N…?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. She already knew.

“Today’s…” She trailed off, but you could hear the rest of the sentence in the space between her words.

Yeah.

You knew.

Your throat tightened as you swallowed. The whole village knew what today meant.

Violet shrugged, shifting the plant to one arm. “You should just stay inside,” she said, too casual, too light. “Call it a sick day. No one would blame you.”

You shook your head.

She sighed through her nose, giving you that same small, apologetic smile she always did. “Of course, Y/N.”

She didn’t push. She never did. Just glanced at you one last time before stepping off your porch. "Take care," she said, already walking away.

And then she was gone.

You were alone again. The silence pressed against your ribs.

Outside, the village was waiting.

Work was exhausting.

Today was one of those days—the kind where the air felt too thick, where everything reeked of seawater and incense, where magic scripts stacked high on your desk made your head pound. The village didn’t just throw someone into the waves and call it a day—no, it had to be done right. The words had to be written. The offerings had to be prepared. The ritual had to be perfect.

And you had to work through it.

You groaned under your breath, slamming your forehead against the desk, wishing—just for a second—that you could not care. That you could be like the rest of them, scribbling their prayers onto parchment with steady hands, believing the Koi God would keep them safe as long as they fed it enough bodies.

“Y/N…”

A soft voice. Gentle. A little nervous.

Eleanor.

You turned your head just enough to see her. She was right beside you, as always, a sunball of warmth wrapped in clumsy hands and hesitant smiles. She had ink on her fingers again—smudged across her palms, dotting her cheeks like freckles. She probably didn’t even realize it.

She fidgeted with her sleeves, eyes darting to the stacks of scripts. “It’s… a lot, huh?”

You groaned again. “Understatement of the year.”

She giggled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I—I could help! If you want…”

“You are helping.”

“Oh. Right. I just—” She tripped over her own words, biting her lip before trying again. “I just mean, um, I could take a little more. So you don’t have to do as much.”

You sighed, stretching your arms over your head. “You’re too nice, El.”

She turned pink. “I—I just—! It’s not—!”

You smirked. “Relax. You’re my favorite clumsy workmate.”

That only made her blush harder. She grumbled something under her breath, but you caught the tiniest smile tugging at her lips.

Yeah.

Eleanor was shy, fidgety, and a walking disaster when it came to handling anything fragile. But she was also your friend. Your workmate. Your gossip partner when the rituals were too much and you needed something—anything—else to think about.

suddenly, you heard a voice.

Its time?!

The village reeked of incense and salt. A hundred voices murmured their prayers in unison, a tide of empty words washing over the docks, begging the Koi God for another season of safety.

At the center of it all stood the village chief, old and bent but still carrying himself like his word was law. You hated him. Hated the way he grinned through yellowed teeth, the way he lifted his hands like he was something holy, the way he spoke of death as if it were a gift.

“This is a day of sacrifice and rejoicing,” he declared, voice carrying over the crowd. “One life given—one thousand lives guaranteed.”

A family stepped forward. A mother clutching her husband’s arm, sobbing into his shoulder. A father who looked away, jaw tight, unwilling to meet the eyes of the child standing between them.

A small thing. No older than seven. Wide, terrified eyes, choked-back sniffles, fingers curled into shaking fists.

Something in you snapped.

“That’s a child.”

The words were out before you could stop them, sharp and cutting, louder than the chief’s speech. The crowd turned. The chief turned. And when his eyes landed on you, they twisted in disgust.

“Oh,” he sneered. “It’s you.”

The crowd rustled with whispers. You knew what they were saying. Knew what they always said.

The God’s disrespecter.

The miracle that you were even still alive.

“Keep your mouth shut.” The chief’s voice was steel. A warning. A threat.

You felt the weight of the gold pendant against your chest, warm against your skin. You clenched your fists.

And for the first time in years, you didn’t swallow the anger. Didn’t choke it down and let the ritual pass.

You looked at the child.

And you refused.

“It’s wrong,” you said, voice shaking, raw. “Killing them—it’s wrong. That’s a child. They have a future.”

The chief laughed, low and mean, like he was humoring something pathetic. “Still crying over that one, are you?” His eyes gleamed, cruel and sharp. “If you cared so much, why didn’t you offer yourself back then? When he was pushed off the boat?”

The words hit like a fist to the ribs.

You swallowed hard. The crowd was watching. Waiting. Like a pack of hungry things, eager to see you snap, eager to see you break.

“The ones we offer,” the chief continued, voice thick with reverence, “are the reason our village thrives.”

You looked at them all—faces you had known since childhood, faces that had never once flinched at the sight of someone sinking into the sea, faces that would go home tonight and sleep soundly while a child drowned in the dark.

Something inside you twisted. Made you sick.

You wanted to kill him.

You wanted to wrap your hands around his throat and squeeze until he understood what it felt like to be powerless. To be small. To be chosen by someone else’s hands.

But you didn’t.

You pressed your fingers to the pendant at your throat, gold warm from your skin, and you breathed.

“Don’t do this,” you said.

The chief smiled, slow and vicious. “What’s wrong? Would you rather take their place?”

You exhaled. Steadied yourself.

Then you met his gaze—steady, cold, certain.

“Yes.”

Silence.

“I’d rather be the one than that child,” you said, voice unwavering, fingers curled tight around the pendant. “I’m tired of this village. Tired of all of you. Except maybe…”

Your breath hitched.

Maybe some.

You heard Conrad’s voice and a few others...—sharp, calling your name—but it was already too late. The chief reached for you, fingers gnarled like old roots, but you swatted his hand away with a sharp tch and walked past him.

Laughter followed. Low, smug. Like they had already won.

"Today’s bad luck will bring us fortune," someone jeered.

"Let us pray to the Koi God," another intoned, voice thick with mockery. "That their death is peaceful and safe."

That they die believing.

The boat waited, rocking gently against the dock. The men stood ready. The priests trailed behind, draped in ceremonial robes, their eyes hollow with practiced reverence.

You stepped forward. Dressed in white. Your own funeral clothes.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

A part of you almost laughed.

Ahaha.

How sad.

The boat rocked, slow and steady, carving its path through the ink-dark water. The priests droned their prayers, low and rhythmic, a hollow chant that meant nothing. The air smelled of salt, of something old and watching.

You clutched the ring. Gold, small, warm from the press of your palm. The weight of it dragged you back—childhood, his hands, the promise that should’ve been yours to break.

It should’ve been you.

Not him.

The memory split open in your chest, raw and aching. The boy’s face, his black hair damp with sea spray, his blue eyes wide—scared. But smiling, just for you, like it was okay, like it didn’t hurt.

You almost cried. Almost let the tears slip down your face. But the sea churned, restless. The priests prayed. The Koi God loomed, unseen but there.

You swallowed it all down.

You hated this. Hated them. The god, the sea, these people who had never once cared.

You hated it all.

The plank stretched before you, slick with sea spray, creaking under your weight. The priests droned on, their voices weaving a tapestry of empty reverence, of worship born from fear.

One of them—face obscured by his hood—stepped forward, pressing a small cup into your hands. Hydrangea, moonflower, teardrop. The name meant nothing. The liquid shimmered inside, dark and still.

“Drink.”

You did. No hesitation, no question. Maybe you should have.

It slid down your throat like silk, like rot. Your limbs turned heavy. Your breath slowed. The world around you dulled—sounds stretched thin, the air too thick to breathe.

Your feet carried you forward. Slow. Unsteady.

The plank creaked again.

Your memories flickered, bursting behind your eyes like dying stars.

The boy. Standing where you stood. A step away from the edge, the sea roaring beneath him.

His face. His eyes. That look.

You blinked hard, the weight in your chest turning unbearable.

Ah…? Ah…?

You almost felt—

Sad.

The sea took you like it always meant to. Cold fingers wrapped around your lungs, kissed the back of your throat, whispered lullabies in the form of salt and suffocation. You sank, hair fanning, arms useless—until something moved.

A shadow. A shape. A tail, slashing through the dark like a blade through silk.

Then—hands. Not human. Not quite. Webbed, strong, dragging you upward as if you weighed nothing, as if you weren’t meant to die today.

Your lips broke the surface just long enough to suck in air—just long enough to see the boat above, to hear the shouts, to taste the panic before—

THWIP.

An arrow.

Your savior jerked, pulling you down so fast the water split around you. Your lungs screamed. Your throat burned. Not again. Not again. Not again.

The sea swallowed you whole, and for a moment, you thought—fine. Let it. Let it take what it was always owed. Let it carve out your lungs and replace them with water, let it bury you alongside the boy who should’ve never left—

Except he did leave. He left, and you stayed.

You stayed. And you hated the Koi God for it.

But this? The hands gripping yours? The pale, glowing eyes staring into you like they already knew all your sins, all your grief, all your ugly, rotting thoughts—

This was the Koi God.

Wasn’t it?

A laugh—soft, amused—bubbled through the water. And oh, weren’t you stupid, weren’t you pathetic, weren’t you just another fool in a long line of fools who thought they knew how the sea worked?

The sea—hungry, howling, a beast with no teeth but endless, grasping hands—took. It took like it had always meant to, like it had been waiting, like it had let them have their rituals, their prayers, their thousand blessings, only to remind them—

It was never theirs to command.

You gasped—sputtering, shaking—pulled half onto the boat, the wood slick with salt and sin. The wind carried screams, choked and desperate, of men who thought themselves gods but were only ever bones waiting to sink.

They went down.

Their mouths opened for breath, but the sea poured in instead. Their hands reached for salvation, but only found the cold, merciless grasp of the deep.

And you?

You curled into yourself, small and shaking, a thing that should not have been spared, a thing that should have gone with them. The ring—warm from your skin, wet with salt and sweat—pressed against your palm, a whisper of gold in a world of dark water.

Your throat tightened. Your chest heaved. The air came in ragged, ugly sobs.

"Ahhhhhhh!!!"

It tore from you, raw, ripped-out, half-cry, half-curse.

The boat rocked—tilted—mocked you.

The waves lapped at its edges, gentle now, as if the sea had already finished its feast.

You cried.

You cried.

The sound clawed its way out of your throat, ugly, jagged, raw—like something that had been ripped from you. Your breath came in panicked gasps, too fast, too shallow, choking on itself, on salt, on fear.

The screams were gone. Gone.

Only the water spoke now.

It lapped at the boat, mocking. Whispered in your ears, soothing. It had taken them—taken them all—just like it had taken him.

Your fingers dug into the wood—splinters driving under your nails—not enough, not enough to ground you. Your body trembled, useless, shaking so hard your teeth chattered. The night was warm. The wind was still. And yet you shook, bones rattling, lungs heaving, because you could still hear them.

The splashing. The struggling. The wet, gurgling gasps as their lungs filled with seawater. Their hands clawing at nothing. The moment their screams stopped.

You pressed your hands to your ears, shaking, shaking, shaking.

It didn't help.

The boat was too empty. The silence was too loud. The dark water stretched in all directions, vast, endless, and somewhere beneath it—they were still there.

Sinking.

Watching.

Waiting.

The ring dug into your palm, cold, solid, real. You clutched it so hard it hurt, biting into your flesh, as if holding it tighter would stop the way your body curled in on itself.

A hiccuping breath—too fast, too fast, too fast—you weren’t breathing right, weren’t thinking right, weren’t here anymore.

The waves rocked the boat, gentle now. Gentle.

Like hands lulling you to sleep.

The world was too bright.

Your eyelids peeled open like old paint, heavy, unwilling. The sky above you stretched vast and endless, blue as the ocean that should have swallowed you whole. It was too still. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that felt wrong.

You should be dead.

You weren't.

A hollow feeling curled in your stomach. Like something had gone wrong—like some unseen balance had tipped in your favor when it shouldn't have. The air felt too thick. Your breath sat heavy in your lungs.

You swallowed around the weight in your throat and dragged yourself upright, limbs sluggish, aching. The wood beneath you creaked as you stood, the boat rocking gently under your weight. The ocean stretched in all directions, gleaming in the morning light—so deceptively calm—like it hadn’t devoured an entire boat full of men the night before. Like it hadn’t taken them.

Like it hadn’t taken him.

Your hands curled into fists. You took a step toward the edge, knees unsteady, half-dizzy from exhaustion. You needed to see it. Needed to look. The water lapped lazily at the boat’s side, dark and endless and—

A ripple.

A shadow.

Then—eyes.

Pale. Ghostly. Blue as drowned lungs.

You froze.

The face that surfaced was eerily still, save for the dark strands of hair that clung to high cheekbones, waterlogged and dripping. A face carved from memory. A face shaped from nightmares.

A face twisted in anger.

Anguish.

The weight in your chest turned to ice.

You stared.

It stared back.

And for a moment—for one long, breathless second—you were a child again, standing at the edge of the boat, watching him sink..

The world spun in a blur of salt and storm.

You hit the water hard, the cold sinking into your bones like teeth, stealing the breath from your lungs before you could even gasp. The sea churned around you, dark and endless, clawing at your limbs with greedy hands. The emergency boat bobbed just within reach, but your arms felt weak—too weak. The weight of exhaustion dragged at your body, threatening to pull you under.

Then—hands.

Cold, smooth, unearthly.

They closed around your wrist, pulling, lifting—saving.

You thrashed on instinct, wrenching away with a strangled sound, kicking up a spray of seawater as you pushed yourself back. The storm raged above, but in the water, everything felt too still. The figure before you—half-hidden by the murk of the waves—watched in silence, their long, dark hair floating like ink in water. Red eyes burned through the gloom, glowing like dying embers, framed by fin-like ears that twitched at your rejection.

Ethereal. Alien. Unfamiliar.

And yet—not.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. You sucked in a sharp, ragged breath, your chest burning, your mind screaming at you to move, move, move—

And then they reached for you again.

Fingers wrapped firm around your wrist, gentle but unyielding, guiding you back to the emergency boat. You tried to resist, but your limbs were sluggish, the fight draining from your body with every second you spent struggling. The storm howled overhead. You gasped, choked on salt and air as you broke the surface again, your vision swaying, dark spots creeping into the edges.

The last thing you saw before collapsing onto the boat was their expression—soft. Sad.

Like they had been waiting for you.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, your body trembling from exhaustion, from salt, from something far worse. The boat rocked beneath you, the storm's wrath quieting into an uneasy lull, as if the sea itself was waiting.

And then—movement.

A head breached the surface, slow and deliberate. Pale skin, dark hair slicked back by water, eyes red like dying coals. Fin-like ears twitched, droplets sliding down the golden chains draped over his shoulders, catching the dim light like shattered stars.

"Angel… are you okay?"

The voice—human? No. No, it couldn’t be. It was too smooth, too soft, slipping into your ears like the tide, whispering something familiar, something dangerous.

Your stomach twisted. You pushed yourself up on shaking arms, glaring down at the figure in the water with a face twisted in revulsion.

"The fuck are you?" The words came out hoarse, scraped raw from screaming, from swallowing too much salt, from choking on fear you refused to name.

He blinked at you, unphased. His gaze—deep, all-seeing—held only concern.

"Angel?"

Your breath hitched. A cold chill coiled around your ribs.

"Who's Angel?"

The name clung to you, sticky, like something dredged up from the deep, something long forgotten. It wasn’t yours. It couldn’t be yours.

His brows knitted together, like you had just wounded him.

"You are."

A pet name. An endearment. A claim.

Your fingers curled into your palm, nails digging into the flesh to ground yourself, to keep from slipping further into the madness of this moment.

"Don’t call me that."

The command was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

But he—it—only watched you, unblinking, unmoving. As if waiting.

The creature—the Koi God, the siren, the whatever-the-fuck-it-was—didn’t flinch at your words. But something in its expression flickered. A quiet sadness, subtle, like ripples spreading across still water.

It stayed there, half-submerged, red eyes never leaving you. The golden chains on its shoulders shimmered with each slow movement, and when it finally spoke, the voice was softer. Careful.

"Are you hurt?"

You scoffed. "Am I hurt?" The laugh that left you was bitter, nearly a snarl. "You fucking drowned me. Your stupid ocean tried to eat me alive. Your stupid people threw me in like a goddamn offering. And now you wanna ask if I’m hurt?"*

Its fingers twitched. Like it wanted to reach out.

You glared, daring it to try.

Instead, it lowered its gaze slightly, mouth pressing into something close to regret. Still gentle. Still kind. Like it thought kindness could fix this. Like it thought kindness could change the fact that you wanted nothing more than to wrap your hands around its throat and squeeze.

"Do you need anything?" it asked instead, voice as steady as the tide.

You clenched your jaw, bile rising in your throat. The audacity.

"Yeah." You sneered, leaning forward. "I need you to fuck off."*

Silence.

It didn’t react—not in anger, not in offense. Just looked at you. Through you. The sadness lingered in its expression, quiet and endless, but it didn’t turn away.

You hated it.

You hated those fucking eyes.

Hated that it wouldn’t leave.

Hated that you were still here.

You felt it before you saw it. A dull, seeping warmth pooling around your ankle, trickling down in sluggish, sticky trails. Your leg throbbed—probably got cut against the wreckage or a sharp edge of the boat. Whatever.

You ignored it at first. Didn’t matter. You’d deal with it.

But then it spoke.

"Please... your leg."

The voice was quiet, careful, like it already knew you’d bite if it came too close. You froze. Looked down.

Blood.

Dark red, spreading slow.

You hissed through your teeth, already tearing at the hem of your clothing, ripping a strip of fabric to wrap around the wound. Your hands were steady, but the Koi God—the thing, the siren, the freak—reached out before you could tie it.

"Let me help."

You recoiled on instinct.

"The fuck do you mean, ‘let me help?’”

It didn’t answer. Just waited. Held its hand out, palm up, as if asking for permission. As if you owed it anything.

You hesitated. Only for a second. Only because the wound was worse than you thought.

Slowly, reluctantly, you moved your leg forward.

The Koi God exhaled—relief?—before lifting a hand to its own skin. Its fingers traced over the smooth surface of its arm, right where the dark, koi-like scales merged into its starry patterns.

And then—

It pulled one off.

You flinched.

The scale shimmered between its fingertips, reflecting a color you couldn’t name. The Koi God pressed it gently to your wound, and warmth surged through you.

Not burning. Not painful. Just—healing.

The bleeding stopped. The sting faded. You felt the skin knitting back together.

Your breath hitched.

Your stomach twisted.

Your eyes snapped up to meet its own.

The Koi God stared back, eyes heavy with something unreadable.

And in that moment, the realization slammed into you.

This wasn’t just some fish.

This wasn’t just some siren.

This was the Koi God.

The very thing you hated.

The very thing that shouldn’t be touching you.

Yet here it was. Holding you together.

"Go away."

You muttered it between bites, shoving a spoonful of cake into your mouth without looking at the Koi God. The chocolate melted on your tongue—dense, sweet, a little stale but still good. You barely even liked sweets, but this? This was cake. A rare find in the middle of nowhere. Probably belonged to one of the priests. One of the bastards who drowned you.

You chewed slower.

Tastes better knowing that.

Another bite. Then another. You ate like you had something to prove.

Then—

"Is that… c-cake?"

The voice wobbled. Soft. Hopeful.

You turned, spoon halfway to your mouth, only to see the Koi God’s head breaking the surface again. Wide, pale eyes flickered between you and the food.

"Must be delicious…"

He was floating, bobbing slightly with the movement of the waves, but there was something awkward about it—like he wanted to ask something but couldn’t bring himself to. Kept dipping below the water, then rising again. His tail swished beneath him, sending little ripples out toward the boat.

You stared.

Your grip on the spoon tightened.

Something about it—about him—itched at the back of your mind. A memory. Distant. Small.

A tiny hand reaching out.

A piece of candy, bright red, pressed into a dirt-smudged palm.

A boy looking up at you, hesitating—before breaking into the widest goddamn smile you’d ever seen.

Your stomach twisted.

Before you could stop yourself, you grabbed a chunk of the cake—more than you meant to—and shoved it toward the Koi God.

His eyes went huge.

"Ah—w-wait, I—"

You hissed, turning away.

"Just take it before I change my mind."

He hesitated. Then, slowly, carefully, he took it from your hand.

Held it like it was something precious.

Took a bite.

Then another.

His expression lit up.

"Oh—" He covered his mouth, eyes practically glowing. "It's… really good!"

The way he said it—like it was the first time he’d ever eaten something sweet—made something crawl up your spine.

You scowled, shoving another bite into your mouth, pretending you didn’t just share food with the thing you were supposed to hate.

"When are you going to kill me?"

Your voice cut sharp through the silence, cold and flat, like you were asking about the goddamn weather.

The Koi God blinked. His chewing slowed. Then stopped.

"What?"

You glared. "Kill me. When?"

A beat. Then he swallowed the last bit of cake, tilting his head like you’d just asked him to solve the meaning of life.

"Why would I—?"

"Like you killed all those sacrifices." Your fingers dug into the edge of the boat. "Each year. One by one. You think I don’t know?"

The Koi God’s expression flickered, confusion melting into something deeper.

"Isn’t it the priests who drop the people into the water?" he asked, voice careful, measured, like he was picking his words piece by piece.

You scoffed. "What’s the fucking difference?"

"The difference is—" He hesitated, eyes flickering with something unreadable. "I never killed them."

Your blood went hot.

Bullshit.

"Oh, so they just drown for fun?" Your nails scraped against the wooden edge of the boat. "You think that makes it better? They die because of you, because of this stupid goddamn ritual—"

"Because of them," he corrected. "Not me."

Your breath hitched.

Your anger wanted to lash out, wanted to scream that he was lying, that none of this changed a damn thing.

But something—something—itched at the back of your skull.

You clenched your teeth.

"People still died because of you," you snapped.

The Koi God’s lips parted slightly. Not to argue. Not to fight.

Your fingers tightened around the ring. The metal was cold, almost biting against your skin, and the more you stared at it, the more the rage twisted inside you, hot and pulsing.

"His life was cut short." Your voice came out rough, barely above a whisper, but packed with every ounce of fury you could manage. "Because of you."

The Koi God didn’t flinch. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t defend himself. Just looked at you—looked—like he was sinking into something deep and silent.

Then his eyes flickered.

"What’s around your neck?" he asked, voice soft.

You exhaled sharply. "I just told you. A ring. One of the victims who died."

His expression shifted, something sad creeping into those pale blue eyes.

"What...features does he have?" he asked, hesitant, as if the answer mattered more than anything.

You scowled, barely thinking before answering. "Black hair. Blue eyes."

Silence.

Then—

"Angel?"

Your whole body locked up.

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a second, you swore the ocean itself stilled.

You snapped your head toward him. "Stop calling me that."

His gaze didn’t waver. His face was unreadable, but his lips parted slightly, like he was holding something back.

"Did you read my mind?" Your voice was sharp, accusing. "Is that it? You fucking with me?"

His hands clenched. He still looked so—so—sad. But then—

Then he giggled.

Soft. Delicate. A little broken.

"Ah, Angel... are you slightly dense?" he murmured.

Your chest tightened.

"It’s okay," he mumbled, half to himself. "It’s okay."

The Koi God looks at you like you are the moon, like you are a dream, like you are the answer to every question he never asked. It is sickening. It is cruel. It is fond.

And it aches.

It burns in the places where your anger lives, where your bones remember the weight of water and your lungs still scream with the memory of drowning. It burrows under your ribs, sharp and unbearable, because there is no reason—no reason—for him to look at you like that. Like you are his. Like he has found something lost.

Like he has missed you.

You want to spit in his face. You want to tear that softness from his eyes. You want to demand why—why, why, why—but your throat locks, because you already know he will answer in riddles and silence and that unbearable, aching gaze.

And gods, it is disgusting. It is unbearable. It is—

—making your eyes sting.

(And isn’t that the worst of it? That you cannot look at him without feeling something shake loose inside you? That his stupid, tender, infuriating eyes feel like a hand pressing against your chest, gentle and knowing and far too kind?)

Your nails dig into your palm. Your voice comes out raw, trembling on the edges of something ugly. "Stop looking at me like that."

But he just smiles, just tilts his head like the ocean is whispering to him, like your words mean nothing at all.

"Angel," he says again, like a promise, like a prayer.

And you hate him for it.

The words come out like knives, jagged and shaking, ripped from the deepest part of your chest.

"GET OUT! LEAVE ME ALONE!"

The air splits with your voice, raw and cracking, trembling with something too big to hold. You don’t know if it’s rage or grief or the sick, spiraling ache in your ribs—but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Because he’s looking at you. Looking at you like you’re something precious, like you’re worth something more than the salt in your lungs or the prayers that drowned you.

And that? That is unbearable. That is wrong.

"I’M DISGUSTED—" your breath shatters mid-scream, fists clenching so hard your nails bite deep— "DISGUSTED TO LOOK AT THE FACE OF YOU—OF YOU—"

The Koi God flinches. Just barely. A twitch, a ripple across the stillness of his face.

Then, quietly—softly, so soft it almost drowns in the waves—

"I’ll leave now."

The ocean shifts, the wind pulling at his hair, but he doesn’t look away. Not yet.

"If you want anything…" He hesitates, words caught like shipwrecks in his throat. "Please let me… know."

And then he goes.

Just like that. No fight, no resistance—just fading into the water like he was never there at all. Like he has always known his place. Like he has always expected this.

Like he always knew you would hate him.

And you—

You crumple. You break, shaking, gasping, collapsing in on yourself because you can’t—can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t stop.

And the name—oh, that name—

"REDACTED—"

It rips from your throat like a sob, like something torn straight from your soul.

"AHHHHHHHH!"

Your voice drowns in the waves. The wind. The space he left behind.

You curl in on yourself, clawing at the aching, empty hollows of your chest.

"I want to—"

Your breath shudders.

"I want to play again with you…"

And somewhere—deep, deep beneath the waves—

A boy with black hair and blue eyes stirs.

The words come out like knives, jagged and shaking, ripped from the deepest part of your chest.

"GET OUT! LEAVE ME ALONE!"

The air splits with your voice, raw and cracking, trembling with something too big to hold. You don’t know if it’s rage or grief or the sick, spiraling ache in your ribs—but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Because he’s looking at you. Looking at you like you’re something precious, like you’re worth something more than the salt in your lungs or the prayers that drowned you.

And that? That is unbearable. That is wrong.

"I’M DISGUSTED—" your breath shatters mid-scream, fists clenching so hard your nails bite deep— "DISGUSTED TO LOOK AT THE FACE OF YOU—OF YOU—"

The Koi God flinches. Just barely. A twitch, a ripple across the stillness of his face.

Then, quietly—softly, so soft it almost drowns in the waves—

"I’ll leave now."

The ocean shifts, the wind pulling at his hair, but he doesn’t look away. Not yet.

"If you want anything…" He hesitates, words caught like shipwrecks in his throat. "Please let me… know."

And then he goes.

Just like that. No fight, no resistance—just fading into the water like he was never there at all. Like he has always known his place. Like he has always expected this.

Like he always knew you would hate him.

And you—

You crumple. You break, shaking, gasping, collapsing in on yourself because you can’t—can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t stop.

And the name—oh, that name—

"REDACTED—"

It rips from your throat like a sob, like something torn straight from your soul.

"AHHHHHHHH!"

Your voice drowns in the waves. The wind. The space he left behind.

You curl in on yourself, clawing at the aching, empty hollows of your chest.

"I want to—"

Your breath shudders.

"I want to play again with you…"

And somewhere—deep, deep beneath the waves—

A boy with black hair and blue eyes stirs.

"I want to steal those strawberry puddings with you… I want to play… I want to sob—"

Your voice is unraveling, spilling out in choking, gasping breaths, curling in the empty space where he should be.

"AHHHHHH—WHY—"

Your nails dig into your skin, knuckles white, trembling.

"WHY DID YOU DIE?!"

The ocean doesn’t answer. The waves don’t care. They keep whispering against the boat, lapping against the wood like hungry mouths, like greedy hands—like the same hands that pulled him down.

You remember—oh, you remember—the way his fingers had curled around yours, desperate, slipping, slipping—

"Please—"

You shake your head, bite down on the memory until it bleeds, but it doesn’t stop. It never stops. The salt in your throat tastes like prayers, like the ones the priests chanted when they held you down, like the ones they spat as they dropped him in.

(And the Koi God—he had watched. Hadn’t he? Hadn’t he watched and let it happen?)

Your chest heaves, a sob clawing its way up, twisting, ugly, raw—because you don’t know.

You don’t know if the Koi God had let him drown.

You don’t know if the Koi God had even touched him.

But you know this. You know that your friend is gone, and you are here, and there is no justice, no balance, no fairness in this wretched, drowning world.

Only you. And the monster in the water.

And the ring in your hand—cold, pressing, circling your finger like a shackle, like a memory, like the weight of the dead.

The dream comes slow, thick, like water filling your lungs.

It starts with a boy—black hair, blue eyes, a lopsided grin sticky with stolen candy. His laughter, bright and clear, tangles with the summer air, with the rustling of leaves, with the hurried footsteps of two little criminals making their getaway.

You had grabbed his hand—run, run, run!—and he had laughed like you’d just given him the world.

But then—

Then—

The grip of hands too strong, too cold, wrenching him away from you. The priests, faces carved from stone, voices thick with empty prayers. His eyes, wide, wild, terrified—

And you—helpless. Screaming. Thrashing. Watching.

The boat. The water. The way he had stared at you, betrayed, heartbroken, furious, as they pushed him off the edge and the sea swallowed him whole.

The way you had reached—too late, too late, too late.

Your chest jerks, gasping, choking on saltwater that isn’t there, on a name you can’t scream—

And then you wake up.

The boat is quiet. The ocean is still.

Your face is wet.

You touch your cheek. Tears.

Your breath comes in sharp, broken pulls. The dream is still clinging to you, crawling under your skin, sinking into the marrow of your bones. You shake, curling in on yourself, pressing your forehead to your knees.

It’s just a dream. Just a dream. Just a—

The water ripples.

A head slowly surfaces.

Dark hair. Pale blue eyes, glowing soft in the moonlight. A face you know, a face you hate, a face you—

A voice, hesitant, careful.

"Angel…?"

And suddenly, you can’t breathe.

Your scream rips through the night, raw and jagged, shaking the fragile silence. The boat rocks beneath you, but the ocean—calm, endless—does not care.

"No, no, no—" Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your hands clawing at your chest, your throat. The salt in the air tastes like the salt of your tears.

And him. Him.

Dripping, glowing, not quite human, not quite monster—familiar.

Too familiar.

Black hair, heavy with seawater. Blue eyes, soft, searching, too gentle for something that should not be. For something that cannot be.

"Angel…?"

The name scrapes against your ears, against your ribs, against the walls you’ve built inside yourself.

You shake your head, shaking, shaking, shaking. No. No, no, no.

"Don’t call me that." Your voice is barely a whisper, barely a sound, but he flinches like you’ve struck him.

But you can’t stop looking. You can’t stop seeing.

The curve of his face. The softness of his features, delicate yet sharp, familiar yet impossibly wrong. The way his mouth quirks—nervous, hopeful, aching.

The way he used to look at you.

Before the temple. Before the sacrifice. Before—

Before you watched him die.

You feel sick.

"Why do you look like that?" Your voice is shaking, thin, breaking apart. You can barely hold it together, barely hold yourself together.

He stares, eyes dark with something heavy, something ancient.

He does not answer.

And somehow, that tells you everything.

You wake with a sharp inhale, air burning in your lungs like you've been drowning, like you are drowning, like you never stopped.

The world is too still. The ocean stretches, vast and empty. The sky is too blue. The air is too quiet.

And he is gone.

"Koi fish…?" Your voice wavers, raw from sleep, from screaming. You push yourself up, hands clutching the boat’s edge, scanning the water. Nothing. Nothing.

"God…?" The word tastes bitter, acid on your tongue, thick with something you don't want to name. The waves lap against the wood, gentle, unbothered. The wind hums. No answer.

A breath trembles out of you, shaking your ribs. Your fingers dig into your palm, nails pressing hard enough to hurt. He's gone. He’s gone. He’s gone.

Why does that hurt?

Your grip tightens around the ring—his ring, their ring, the ring of someone who died for this wretched ocean. For him.

It isn't fair.

You swallow. Swallow the lump in your throat, the pressure behind your eyes, the horrible, gnawing ache in your chest. You try to force the words out. The name. The name you haven't said in years. The name you buried in the salt and waves, along with everything else.

You hold your breath. You whisper.

"REDACTED…?"

The ocean stills.

A ripple, slow, deliberate, breaking across the surface. The water shifts, something moving beneath.

And then— a head, breaking through the quiet.

Black hair, slick with seawater. Blue eyes, wide, unreadable.

Your breath catches.

"Ah… ah?" His voice is hesitant, almost uncertain.

You choke on the sound of it. Choke on everything crashing into you at once.

"You're…?" You can't finish.

You don’t know what you were going to say. You don’t know what you’re looking at.

The ocean between you feels like a lifetime.

You cry.

"Why…?" Your voice shatters like glass against the waves. "Why do you look like the Koi God…?"

Your throat burns, your chest tightens, and the world tilts—no, you tilt—your knees buckle, the boat lurches—

And you fall.

The cold slams into you, salt filling your mouth, your lungs, drowning the sob that rips from your throat. Your limbs feel sluggish, heavy, but before you can sink, hands—his hands—grasp you, steady, firm, pulling you up.

The ocean spits you both out, the sky spinning above you. His arms are strong around you, holding you as if you’ll disappear if he lets go. You wish he would. You wish he wouldn’t.

"Don’t cry," he breathes, voice so soft, so pained. Like your grief is a knife in his ribs.

But you do cry. You sob against his shoulder, choking on gasps and salt, and he just holds you, his warmth steady against your shaking frame.

You clutch at him, fingers digging into the damp skin of his back, real and solid. Not a memory, not a ghost.

And slowly, through the blur of your tears, you see—

His eyes aren’t the empty, soulless gaze of a god.

They are warm. They are human.

You weren’t crying in despair.

You were crying in salvation.

And he realizes it at the same time you do.

The arms around you tighten, and—hesitant, uncertain—he buries his face in your hair.

You cling to him.

And this time, he does not let go.

"REDACTED… REDACTED…!"

You choke on the name like it's something sacred, something broken, something you were never meant to speak again.

But you do.

And he is there.

Your body shakes, sobs wracking through you, curling inward like you're folding in on yourself, like if you make yourself small enough, you can wake up and this will all be some cruel trick of the waves.

But the warmth against you is real.

His arms around you are real.

"You—" Your voice splinters, breath hitched and gasping. "You didn't die…"

The weight of it crushes you, presses down until you're sinking, but his grip is strong. Keeps you afloat.

He doesn't speak. He can't.

But his hands tighten on you, holding, steadying, grounding.

He doesn’t let go.

And you sob into his shoulder, into the space where his name used to be.

You sniffle, wiping your tears with the back of your hand as you climb onto the boat, the wood slick beneath your trembling fingers. Your chest still heaves from crying, but there’s something lighter in it now—something warm.

Your eyes land on another slice of cake. Chocolate again. Maybe meant for that bastard priest, maybe not, but it doesn’t matter anymore. You grab it without thinking, turning back toward the water.

Redacted blinks up at you, hesitant. He hasn’t moved from where he’s floating, his hands just barely gripping the side of the boat, half-submerged. His long, dark hair fans out in the water, slick against his shoulders, the scales of his tail shimmering beneath the surface.

He looks at you like he doesn't quite believe this is real. Like he doesn't believe you are real.

You roll your eyes. Dumb fish.

Without a word, you tear off a piece of the cake and lean forward, holding it out to him. His eyes flicker between you and the dessert before he opens his mouth slightly, letting you place it on his tongue.

You expect him to take it carefully. Instead, he hums—a soft, pleased noise muffled by the food—and his cheeks flush. His finned ears twitch, and the way his tail flicks behind him is almost cute.

You giggle. Giggle. What the hell?

Redacted looks up, startled, mid-chew. You blink at him, then at yourself, then at the cake in your hand.

When you look back at him, his lips curl into the smallest, softest smile you’ve ever seen.

And just like that, for the first time in forever, you smile back.

"Redacted… Redacted…!" Your voice trembles, hands gripping the side of the boat as you stare at him, really stare at him. His face—so familiar, so achingly familiar—framed by dark, wet strands of hair, those pale, ethereal eyes full of something that hurts.

He doesn’t answer at first. Just watches you with that same look, something in his throat bobbing as he swallows. He looks afraid.

"I don't… know," he finally whispers, voice hoarse. "Before I—before I died, I felt something. And then…" He exhales shakily, looking down at himself, at the glistening koi tail where his legs should be. "I woke up like this. Maybe the other Koi God chose me. Maybe the ocean just didn’t want to let me go."

Your fingers tighten on the wood. "Then why didn’t you—" The words come out too sharp, too raw. You inhale. "Why didn’t you look for me?"

Redacted flinches, guilt flashing across his face. His lips part, but it takes a moment before any words come.

"I tried." His voice is so soft, so small. "I swear, I—" His throat tightens, and he looks away. "I wasn’t… doing well. With oxygen. I couldn't stay near the surface long enough to search. I kept blacking out. I don’t even remember how much time passed before I could move properly. But I tried, Angel."

That name—that name.

You glare at him through the burning in your eyes.

"Don't call me that."

His shoulders tremble. He bites his lip, nodding. "Okay." But he doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t apologize for saying it.

You watch him carefully, the way his fingers grip the side of the boat like he’s afraid you’ll push him away again.

"...You really tried?" Your voice barely makes it past your lips.

His pale eyes lift to yours, red-rimmed. "So much."

And for the first time, you wonder if maybe, just maybe—

The ocean stole him from you, too.

You hold his face in your hands, the cool dampness of his skin against your warm palms. He blinks up at you, wide-eyed, mouth slightly parted like he can’t believe you’re real—like he’s scared if he moves too fast, you’ll disappear again.

"You’re my best friend, Redacted."

For a second, something in his expression cracks. His breath stutters. His lips press together like he’s biting back a reaction. And then—gone. He smooths it over with a soft, too-soft smile, but you saw it. The way his shoulders tensed. The way his fingers twitched against the boat. The sadness that flickered through his face like a ghost.

Oh.

Oh.

Were you dense?

You stare at him. He stares back. Neither of you move, the ocean gently rocking between you, filling the silence with soft ripples.

Your gaze flickers down—to his hands, to the ring still looped around your neck. You remember how carefully he had made them. The way his fingers trembled when he handed them to you. The way he looked at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

You swallow. "Hey, um…" You clear your throat. "Why did you make these rings, anyway?"

Redacted stiffens. The tips of his ears—his **fin-like ears—**darken slightly, the gradient shifting warmer, redder.

"It's just…" He rubs the back of his neck, looking away, looking anywhere but at you. "I… wanted to."

Silence.

Just that? Just that?

His tail flicks beneath the water, his nervous energy bleeding into the surface ripples.

You stare at the ring in your palm. The realization hits like a truck. Oh. Oh. OH.

"IM SO SORRY, REDACTED!!!"

You explode into apologies, full-blown wailing, gripping his face tighter as you sob, forehead pressed against his.

"WAHHHHHHH, REDACTED, I’M SO STUPID, I’M SORRY!!!"

His ears are so red. His tail smacks the water. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

"Angel, w-why are you crying—"

"BECAUSE I’M SO DENSE, I’M SO—" You hiccup. "WAAAAHHH—"

He snorts. Actually snorts. And you—still sobbing, still hiccuping—squish his cheeks.

You’re an idiot. He’s an idiot. But at least you’re idiots together.

You throw your arms around him, burying your face against his damp, cool skin. Redacted freezes. Every muscle in his body locks up, his tail flicking wildly beneath the water, absolutely malfunctioning.

You don’t care. You don’t even notice. You’re just—happy. You sob into his shoulder, clutching him close like he might disappear if you let go.

"You’re really here," you whisper, voice shaking. "I—" You hiccup. "I thought I lost you forever."

Boom. Redacted explodes. Not literally, but inside? He is gone. Launched into orbit. He wants the earth to swallow him whole. He wants the sea to drag him under. He doesn’t know how to handle this—**you—**holding him like he means something. Like he’s real. Like you love him—no, no, don’t think about that. His tail flicks frantically, trying to vent the absolute wildfire inside his chest.

But then—your grip loosens. Your breathing shudders.

"Angel?" He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes darting over your face. You're pale. Too pale. A light sweat clings to your forehead, and—

You sway.

"Angel—"

You shake your head. "I’m just dizzy." A weak smile. "You should go for now. I’ll call you back later."

He hesitates.

He doesn't want to.

But you’re looking at him like that, with that same stubborn determination, and he’s always been weak to you.

"Okay." His voice is soft. Too soft. Like it hurts him to say. "I’ll come back soon, okay?"

You nod. He sinks into the water, those blue, blue eyes lingering on you until he disappears beneath the surface.

And then—

Pain.

A gut-wrenching pain tears through you. Your stomach churns. Your vision blurs. You stumble forward, gripping the edge of the boat as your throat tightens, burns—

You vomit.

The taste of metal floods your mouth. Red. Too much red. It splashes against the wood, thick and glistening in the dim light.

Your breath catches. Your hands shake.

Blood.

Your blood.

You cough, more spilling past your lips, your body rejecting whatever's inside you. And then—realization strikes.

The cake. The moonflower.

Your fingers tremble against your lips.

"No… no, no, no, no, no—"

Your vision tilts. Your knees buckle.

Somewhere beneath the waves, Redacted stills. Something is wrong. He can feel it. The ocean around him hums with unease.

And then—

A sound.

A choked, desperate sound that sends ice through his veins.

Your voice.

"No… no, no, no, no—"

You wipe your mouth. Your hands shake. Your body feels wrong—too heavy, too cold. But you force yourself to move, force yourself to clean up, force yourself to breathe.

You don’t sleep. Not really. Just crying until exhaustion steals you away.

And when morning comes, you wake up with a splitting headache, your throat raw, your stomach aching. The taste of blood still lingers in your mouth, copper and regret.

You don’t think about it.

You won’t think about it.

Instead, you sit up, take a deep, deep breath, and call out:

"Redacted?"

Silence.

You swallow down the bile, the fear, the everything.

"Redacted," you say again, voice steadier. "I wanna talk."

The water stirs. A ripple. A presence. And then—his head breaches the surface, those too-blue eyes locking onto you, scanning you, worried.

"Angel—"

You smile. Bright. Carefree. Fake.

"Aren't you gonna show me your new house?"

His expression flickers. Uncertainty, hesitation—hope.

You don’t let your smile falter. Not even once.

You just got him back.

You are not losing him again.

Even if your body is eating itself alive.

Redacted hesitates. His tail flicks beneath the water, slow, uncertain. His blue eyes search you, drinking you in, memorizing you, as if afraid you might disappear again.

"You can't breathe underwater," he says, voice gentle, almost apologetic.

You tilt your head. "Can I turn into a fish, then?"

He blinks. Startled.

"Like you."

He frowns. Lowers his gaze. "It’s... not possible."

"But you—"

"If you die," he interrupts, softer this time, barely above the waves.

Your breath catches.

"What?"

"If you die and you’re... unsatisfied with it—if your soul still lingers, if you refuse to pass on—you can turn into something like me." His fingers ghost along the water’s surface, uncertain, nervous. "But if you die happy... you won’t become anything at all. Just... pearls. Salt. The sea takes you."

You stare.

Your stomach twists.

Not in fear. Not in horror. But in—something else.

"Angel," he says, voice steady, determined. "It's okay. We'll do something about you. I won't let you die."

A foolish, impossible promise.

And yet... you smile.

"You won’t?"

"I won’t."

"Then," you say, grinning despite the ache in your bones, "I guess I better spend as much time with you as I can, huh?"

He explodes.

Not literally. But visibly, wholly, entirely.

His face burns red, his tail flicks so fast it nearly splashes you, his hands fumble over absolutely nothing.

"I—" he sputters.

You laugh.

You laugh so freely, so lightly, so happily that for a moment, you almost believe you’re okay.

"Redacted? Can you show me around your new house..?"

"But Angel, you're a human.."

"Shit, I forgot-" Redacted tore a piece of his scale and gave you.

"Do you trust me Angel?"

"...Of course."

"Keep this scale to your heart...and think, you will entre your celestial soul form..." You just have to sleep and let your soul free..

The ocean cradled you like a lullaby.

Your body felt weightless, untethered, like drifting silk in a current. You reached out, and the water didn’t fight you—it embraced you, pulled you further, deeper.

And then—him.

Redacted stood before you, but not as the koi god you had known. His face was sharp, elegant, almost inhumanly perfect, with glowing, pale eyes that pierced straight through you. His long, dark hair swayed like it was alive, dancing with the water.

You stared.

Your breath (if you even had any) hitched.

His fin-like ears twitched as he tilted his head. The delicate gold chains draped across his upper body shimmered, catching the light of the deep sea like stolen stars. His arms, patterned like the night sky, flexed slightly as he reached out, and you caught a glimpse of the koi motif on his flowing attire. The reds, the whites, the blacks—it was beautiful.

"You're—" the words tumbled out before you could stop them.

His gaze flickered to you, expectant.

"Beautiful."

For a moment, he froze.

Then he huffed, sharp and flustered, before schooling his expression into something obnoxiously smug.

"Oh? Am I?"

You rolled your eyes, but grinned as you reached out, patting his head.

He sputtered.

"What are you—"

"Good boy," you teased.

Instant regret.

His eyes widened, his face burned, and he nearly choked on the water surrounding him. You had never seen a fish have a full-body reaction before, but you swore you just did.

His fingers twitched before suddenly gripping your hand. Firm. Unwavering.

Your chest squeezed.

"Let's go, Angel," he said, voice lower than before, quieter, yet no less full of feeling.

And then—the world opened up before you.

You turned, and for the first time, you saw the ocean as he did.

A vast, endless abyss of color and life.

Schools of shimmering fish swirled past like liquid silver. Towering coral formations stretched toward the surface like cathedral spires. Bioluminescent creatures pulsed with eerie, dreamlike light, guiding your path deeper and deeper.

It was magic.

It was unreal.

It was his home.

And right now, he was sharing it with you.

The ocean trembled.

Redacted's hand tightened around yours.

"I like dreaming with you," he had whispered—just moments before, just before your fingers had brushed, just before the world had torn itself apart.

You had been floating together, weightless and timeless, like the moon and the sun caught in a silent eclipse. He had tilted downward, his luminous gaze locked onto yours, and for a fleeting second, the ocean had felt smaller, quieter, softer.

Then—pain.

A pit of red bloomed from your arm, rupturing the moment like a knife through silk.

And the voices came.

"There's that koi god who betrayed us!"

"He didn't give us anything this year!"

"The sacrifice failed!"

You gasped, the sting in your arm spreading like fire. The surface above was dark with the silhouettes of ships, and the water around you was stirring with motion, with hatred, with something ancient and heavy pressing against your chest.

The first arrow shot through the water like a vengeful whisper.

You barely had time to register it—because Redacted moved first.

He was in front of you before you could even blink, a dark shape in the water, all sharp motion and unwavering resolve. The arrow embedded itself into his shoulder.

His body jerked. His grip on your hand slipped.

"RUN, ANGEL!" His voice was fierce, desperate. "DON’T LOOK BACK!"

You couldn't move.

Another tremor wracked your body, and this time, you coughed—a deep, wet sound.

Blood.

It spilled from your lips, dark and viscous, twisting like ink in the water.

"The priest gave the poison!" A voice sneered from above.

"They'll die soon enough."

And then—they turned on their own.

A single scream cut through the waves as one of them—**the one who had struck Redacted—**was seized by cruel hands and hurled into the sea.

He sank.

Fast.

The weight of the ocean swallowed him whole, pulling him into the endless blue below.

And just like that—the boats were gone.

Leaving only you and Redacted.

Your vision blurred. Your limbs felt heavy.

The poison was working.

"No," you whispered, reaching for him.

But he caught you first.

Your body shuddered violently.

Each cough rattled your ribs, sending fresh waves of pain through you. Blood dripped from your lips, curling like ribbons in the water.

And yet—you smiled.

"Angel—" Redacted's voice wavered.

You could feel his arms tighten around you. Desperate. Shaking.

"No. No, wait—" He pulled you closer, pressing you against his chest. His heartbeat was frantic, hammering like war drums beneath your fingertips. "Angel, don't—don’t do that. Don't smile like that."

Like this was the last time.

Like you already knew.

Like you had already accepted it.

You blinked slowly, warmth pooling in your chest at the way he held you like you were everything.

"I just—" You tried to speak, but your voice cracked. A new, violent cough tore through you, and Redacted flinched at the fresh burst of red.

Panic flashed across his face.

"W-What? Angel? Angel, stop—"* He sounded breathless, like he was forcing himself to breathe for both of you. He pressed his forehead against yours, his voice barely a whisper. "Why are you hugging me like that...?"

Like you were saying goodbye.

"I guess..."

Your voice was barely above a whisper, carried away by the water between you. You coughed again, more blood curling into the sea, staining the soft glow of Redacted’s scales.

His arms tightened. Desperate. Unwilling.

"Stop talking like that." His voice shook, but he tried to keep it steady. To keep you here. With him. "You— You’re not dying, Angel. You’re not—"

You smiled weakly.

"I thought I’d die with regret." Your fingers curled into his golden chains, gripping just tight enough to feel real. To feel something.

"I tried to feel regret." You blinked slowly, the edges of your vision softening like a dream. The ache in your chest felt far away now, drifting.

"But… there’s nothing to regret."

Redacted sucked in a breath. His pale eyes flickered, wide, frantic—his hands trembled as they held you, trying to pull you back.

"No," he whispered. "No, don’t—"

You let your head tilt forward, resting gently against his shoulder. His warmth, his presence.

"Your arms…" Your voice was so quiet, so soft, as if the ocean itself were swallowing your words. "Inside your arms feels safe."

He shook against you, his grip fierce.

"This is what peace feels like, huh?" A small, dazed chuckle left your lips. "Peace to know that you’re alive… I never expected that."

You felt him shudder. His nails dug into your back, as if holding you tighter could keep you from slipping away.

"Then don’t leave." His voice cracked. "Stay with me, Angel. Just— just stay."

You coughed again. This time, it left a sharp sting in your throat.

"To die in your arms..." Your breathing was slower now. Softer. Lighter.

"There’s nothing to regret."

"I can't feel regret."

Your voice was soft—too soft. Like the final breath before the tide carries everything away.

Redacted felt his chest tighten. His hands trembled against your skin, gripping, holding, as if he could keep you here, anchor you before the current stole you from him.

And then—

You kissed him.

A fleeting press of warmth—salted with blood and tears—a whisper of something that could’ve been, something that never got the chance to bloom. But it was real. Real enough that his breath hitched, real enough that he froze, real enough that it shattered everything.

"I love you...?"

It was a question. A dream. A confession that came too late.

Maybe—

"Maybe in another life."

His world collapsed.

You collapsed.

Your arms, once weakly wrapped around him, began to slip—disintegrate. Like grains of salt melting into the sea. Like foam dissolving against the shore.

"No—"

His breath hitched—his hands clawed at you, desperate, shaking, trying to hold you together. Trying to stop what was already happening.

"Angel—!"

But you were slipping—breaking apart.

His hands closed around nothing.

His arms, once wrapped around you, were suddenly empty.

He gasped, choked on his own breath. His eyes burned. His vision blurred.

He looked down—his hands trembled. Nothing. Nothing.

The water around him shimmered, glistening under the light—not with blood. Not with pain. But with something soft, something almost beautiful.

Sea salt.

The ocean had taken you, swallowed you whole, made you a part of itself.

You were gone.

Redacted’s body trembled as he let out a shaking breath. His throat was raw, his chest a gaping wound that no blade had caused.

And then—he sobbed.

He sobbed harder than he ever had.

His arms curled around himself, holding nothing, and he let the waves crash into him.

You didn't die with regret. No, you cradled peace like a prayer, let it kiss your throat and call it mercy. Not a tragedy, no—not a tragedy if you chose it, if you embraced it, if you let the sea sink its fingers into your bones and name you soft, name you gone.

What a love it is. What a love to die in the arms of someone who trembles. To leave behind tears that taste like salt and let them pretend it’s the ocean. To press a final breath into his lips and watch him break apart, piece by piece, like a slow-burning housefire.

You didn’t die with regret. You died knowing he would carry you. Died knowing he would scream your name into the deep and wait for the echo. Died knowing he would call for you, call for you, call for you— and the only thing that would answer is the tide.

But did you realize, oh dear you, that the man you left behind would never move on? Did you think, in your final breath, that peace was a gift you could press into his hands like a parting favor?

You died gently. Softly. Like a whisper into the tide. But for a man who only ever loved you, only ever saw you, moving on isn’t a possibility. It’s not even a concept.

He still reaches for you. Still calls for you. Still sinks in the same ocean where you crumbled into salt, into nothing, into something he cannot touch.

He isn’t alone. Not really. Because if he’s alone, then you’re truly gone, and that—**that—**is the one thing he won’t allow.

You were supposed to be safe in his arms. Alive in his arms. But all he has left is the phantom weight of you, the ghost of your warmth, the cruel reminder that he held you only to lose you.

"Maybe in another life..."

And then— a voice.

Soft, uncertain. Cutting through the salt-heavy air like a dream you’re not ready to wake from.

“Excuse me? Are you okay?”

He saw his Anel, He signed a deal with the Witch for this moment/j

The world rushes back in, too bright, too loud. Water clings to your skin, the last remnants of something— someone— slipping away. And before you, a man.

He’s staring at you, wide-eyed, breath catching like a fishhook in his throat. His hand trembles as it touches his face, fingers ghosting over his cheek like he’s checking if he’s real. Or maybe if you are.

You know that look. Recognition.

Like he’s seen you before. Like he’s held you before.

And then, under his breath—so quiet you almost miss it—

“I won’t lose you this time.”

The words drip like a curse, like a promise, like the first notes of a song sung at the bottom of the sea.

And when he looks at you again, there’s something in his eyes—something deep, something ancient, something that remembers.

You don’t know why, but your heart beats like a wave crashing against the shore.

Like it knows.

"Are you looking for any books?"

---

Jelly and a Wish - REDACTED x G.N Reader

Genre: Fluff

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

Please everyone wish happy birthday to Render,

( Reader is a g.n!)

Content Warning : Nsfw jokes so </3

Did not proof read/Rushed.

It was 12:08 AM when you heard it.

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

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

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

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

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

No answer.

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

You crept closer, pillow clutched like a weapon.

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

You turned the corner.

And froze.

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

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

They paused mid-scoop when they noticed you.

"...Shit," he muttered.

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

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

"I heard you drop a glass bowl."

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

You snorted.

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

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

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

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

"Very much so."

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

Still, his eyes didn’t leave yours.

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

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

"I didn’t mean to wake you."

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

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

"Waking me up?"

He stepped closer. "Eventually."

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

"C’mere."

You blinked. "What?"

"Come closer."

"...Why?"

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

"That's a lie."

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

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

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

It was soft at first. Slow. Sweet.

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

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

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

He brushed his thumb along your cheek.

"Happy Birthday, Angel."

You blinked.

"...Huh?"

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

You just stared at them, dumbfounded.

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

Your jaw dropped. "I—oh my god."

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

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

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

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

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

You choked. "What ribbon?"

He smirked. "You'll see."

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

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

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

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

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

You melted.

"You’re such a sap."

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

You smiled, threading your fingers through their messy hair.

"Happy birthday to me," you whispered.

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

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

"I already got it."

You couldn’t stop giggling.

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

"Y’really think this is funny?"

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

"Wow," they deadpanned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you?”

You smirked. "Maybe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stuck out your tongue.

They grinned. “I’d die happy.”

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

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

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

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

You wiped the chocolate off their neck and smiled softly.

"You are a mess."

They snorted. “Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

“But y’deserve it.”

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

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

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

They choked on a laugh. “Angel.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

They blinked. “...What.”

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

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

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

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

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

“...Fuck me.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Redacted.”

“Yes, Angel?”

“Whisk.”

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

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

“Don’t you dare sneeze.”

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

You snorted.

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

“I know I am.”

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

They didn’t move.

Just stared at you.

Dead. Silent.

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

Their exhale was audible.

Like a man trying not to combust on the spot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With a single candle clutched delicately between two tattooed fingers.

You blinked.

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

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

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

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

They lit it.

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

His eyes glimmered.

Like you were something sacred.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were tearing up too, now.

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

And it was perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

“Always.”

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

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

“Say ‘ahhh,’” you teased.

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

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

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

“Stop being needy for two seconds.”

“Genuinely impossible.”

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

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

You gasped. “You did not.”

They grinned like a devil who absolutely would.

“Oh, it’s war now.”

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

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

“You like it.”

“God, I do.”

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

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

You nodded, breath catching. “Every day.”

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

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

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

“Still wish I did more,” he mumbled.

“You did plenty.”

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

“Impossible,” you whispered.

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

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

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

It was perfect. Until—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You just watched them with your heart melting into syrup.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And they just... melted for you.

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

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

The first stop?

The little cafe.

Your cafe.

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

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

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

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

Your throat closed up. Tears blurred your vision.

Because you knew.

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

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

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

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

You sat.

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

The candle flickered between you.

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

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

The first:

"Insert your wish!"

The second—

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

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

They blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And then—

[REDACTED.EXE HAS STOPPED WORKING]

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

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

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

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

Redacted groaned loudly, dragging their hands down their face.

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

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

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

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

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

Together, you blew out the candle.

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

You weren’t just celebrating another year alive.

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

Every birthday after this?

Would only get better.

Because you weren’t just growing older.

You were growing together.

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

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

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

Your face heated so fast you almost dropped the fork.

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

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

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

“Your turn, Angel.”

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

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

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

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

At some point, you both gave up on dignity.

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

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

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

They were just yours.

Yours, yours, yours.

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

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

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

They blinked at you, unimpressed.

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

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

"There. Perfect," you whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

You tilted your head, curious. "Where?"

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

"Trust me."

(You did. Always.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then— You were flying.

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

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

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

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

You felt Redacted tense beneath you.

He noticed. Of course he did.

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

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

You shifted slightly, clutching a little tighter.

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

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

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

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

For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

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

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

And you believed it.

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

You had him.

Always.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When your eyes adjusted— Your breath hitched.

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

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

It was like stepping into a dream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Redacted was ruined by it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He froze. Just for a second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12:00 AM. Your birthday was officially over.

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

Maybe that was the real gift all along.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey... Angel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-RENDACTED

Reblog is okay!

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✅✅✅

(animation by the fantastic aimeryaa again 🥰🥰🥰)

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my old redacted wip

decided to post this bc i love how i rendered his face 🥹 but i’ll let it stay wip for now

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Whatever he did I'm on his side <3

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angel's theme earrings

+ alt version with kisses below :3!!!

chu chu <3

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"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.

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fountain in italy