The Scrunkly (`ω`)

Flooding tl with new ren artus~

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

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

Genre: G.N Reader (Angst!)

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

Trigger Warnings (TWs):

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

Mental Instability – Implied unhinged thoughts, intrusive urges.

Obsession & Fixation – Thoughts circling around a past encounter.

Content Warnings (CWs):

Dark Poetic Themes – Romanticization of violence and chaos.

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

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

You're a killer.

Not just any killer—a serial killer.

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

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

You're a killer.

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

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

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

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

And yet.

You are a fucking liar.

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

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

Turn the page. Who’s next?

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

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

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

It’s fictional. STOP.

And it gets worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then.

Someone’s watching you.

The air shifts. The hairs on your neck rise.

What the fuck.

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

Eh.

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

Footsteps. Yours. Handprints. Also yours.

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

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

And then—he arrives.

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

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

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

Because it seems like you left.

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

But you didn’t leave.

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

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

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

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

“Talk.** Now.**”

You keep him pinned.

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

But then—his breathing.

It changes. Too heavy. Too shaky.

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

AH—????

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

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

Oh.

Oh, what the fuck.

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

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

But he’s still fucking flustered.

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

Almost makes him faint. Almost does.

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

Oh.

What the hell was he trying to clean up?

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

He goes limp.

You sigh, irritated. Tear the mask away.

And pause.

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

And his face?

...Pretty.

Too pretty.

And somewhat familiar.

What the fuck.

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

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

Hah.

Darlin’, he was being nice.

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

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

Nah.

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

And wouldn’t that be interesting?

Too hot to kill.

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

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

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

Oh, Y/N.

You showed sympathy.

You’re a saint, aren’t you?

Why the fuck was he trying to clean the mess?

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

You don’t care. You won’t care.

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

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

You need to sleep. For your work.

You had… a dream.

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

Innocent. Loved you.

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

You can’t see his face.

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

His voice—soft, bright, hopeful.

You don’t get to answer.

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

He’s crying.

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

You couldn’t say anything.

You didn’t.

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

And you watched.

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

Your older self watched.

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

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

Then—

A sound.

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

Yeah. You woke up.

Congrats.

You’re the beauty of gore.

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

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

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

What a fucking name.

Hideous.

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

And this case? This crime?

It’s years old.

What the fuck.

Maybe people are just dumb.

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

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

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

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

And the dumbest part? This case is years old.

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

But you know the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

Grey bubble. They’re typing.

Moth

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

Moth

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

You scoff. Baby stays the same.

You type back so fast your screen almost cracks.

"HHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE"

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

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

Moth

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

…Oh. Oh, shit.

FUCK.

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

WHY?

Fuck it. You’re emo.

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

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

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

Oh shit.

Work.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

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

…You wink at yourself in the mirror anyway.

"Time to cause problems."

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

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

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

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

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

"New plant?" you ask, because duh.

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

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

"Nice."

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

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

You snort. "You wound me."

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

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

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

Then she dropped a bomb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Violet hums, unconvinced. "Weird. "

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

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

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

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

…Unless—

Oh.

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

They were stupid. In which case, easy kill.

They were a detective.

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

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

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

Oooooh. Fuck.

Yeah. That’d be fun.

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

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

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

And then—

“Oh!”

Elanor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—again.

Elanor.

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

“Looks like he’s back again.”

Your fingers freeze on the paper in front of you.

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

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

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

Pause.

“Because he was staring. A lot.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

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

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

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

Aisle 8.

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

Of course.

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

And then—there he is.

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

You clear your throat. “Ahem.”

Flinch.

He turns.

Stops.

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

Pink.

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

You stare.

He stares.

Somewhere, distantly, reality stirs.

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

“Woah… You look…”

A beat.

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

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

Why he what?

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

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

And you—oh, you—

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

How’s that?

Not about this. Not about him.

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

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

He takes a breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This the one?”

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

Then he flips through the pages, scanning, searching—

And stops.

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

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

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

Your heart stumbles. Your lips part—

“…What?”

His expression shatters into pure, unfiltered horror.

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh, shaking your head. “Sure.”

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

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

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

Your stomach twists.

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

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

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

“Haven’t I?”

A pause.

Then, smoothly: “Red- Ren.”

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

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

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

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

Until he tilts his head, expression sobering.

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

“I could watch your place.”

Your breath catches.

You blink at him. “What.”

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

You stare.

He meets your gaze, unwavering.

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

Instead, you hear yourself say:

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

Ren smiles. “Only if you say yes.”

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

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

You smile. Evilly.

Heheheheh.

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

Wouldn't lie… those blue eyes—

They’re similar.

That man.

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

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

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

Ugh.

Stop.

Ugh.

You smile a little.

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

And oh, how you love it.

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

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

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

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

hades x arcane crossover ⭐️

I just love how you're like "Rendacted is NASTY", "he is once again being nasty on main". Just like bruh not even your creator is trying to defend you 🤣😭😭

WARNING... minors/ageless blogs: do not interact. please read my pinned post before you send in anything !!

Ren the type to drop you home before 10PM, [REDACTED] the type to commit vehicular manslaughter before lunch <3

ignore the fact that ren doesn't have a reflection, hes a ~vampiree~

Un dibujo de mi wawa precioso Ren 🥹🩷🩷 Imagine como se vería recién despertado, abrazando un peluche de T/N / MC jshsjjs

[redacted] beloved

Ren 💕

I really wanna draw [redacted] next!

I love Leon so much 😞

This game is so fun i can't just not draw about it-

Sorry for the blue, sometimes is comfy to draw the lineart with a different color 🧍

Taken (Part 5/5)

Unedited, as all of these are. Took the easy way out bc I wanted them to reconcile lmao, ignore the fact that Ren would be fighting this way more. Ren and above image belong to @14dayswithyou

Summary: Angel and Ren have a heart-to-heart

4.2k words

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

I sit at the headboard of the bed, my chin resting on my knees as I consider the man anxiously perched at the opposite end. 

I let the silence simmer for a bit before breaking it, “Why did you drug me?”

Ren scratches at his jaw, “I didn’t want you to hurt yourself any further. Your stitches are still healing.”

I add, “Also it made it easier to transport me without having to deal with me struggling or alerting someone on the way back here, no?”

Ren shrugs, avoiding my eyes.

I roll my eyes, “Why didn’t you let me go into Violet’s apartment?”

He looks at me with a pout, “Like I said, you always take forever to talk to her, and I hadn’t seen you and was worried about you.”

I sigh, “That’s a great answer, Ren,” he seems to perk up a bit, “but now I want a truthful one,” and he slumps again.

He protests, “That is-!”

I hold a hand up, stopping him, “Ren, please, we’ve been over this. Are you really going to test the extent of my knowledge on every little thing? You’re great at gaslighting, but I’m not a canary in a mineshaft, I’m aware of what’s going on. And I swear to god if you say you’re not I’m going to throttle you.”

He looks at me, eyes welling with tears, “I- I don’t know what you want me to say, Angel. It’s like you already have this set idea of who I am and I don’t know how I’m supposed to convince you otherwise when you already think I’m a two-faced liar.”

He buries his face in his sleeves as his shoulders shake soundlessly. I watch with a blank expression, waiting for him to stop. He eventually does, sniffling and wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, smearing his mascara in the process.

I tilt my head, still expressionless, “Damn, you’re really good at that. I probably would’ve caved if I didn’t have a whole file of evidence against you.”

He looks surprised, “You- you have a file?”

I scoff, “Of course not, why would I write that stuff down? The only thing I know for sure you can’t break into is my head. Well, metaphorically speaking at least, I’m sure you could crack my skull like an egg if you so chose, but that’s not the point. Why didn’t you let me go into Violet’s apartment? I don’t need your whole thought process, just a concise, truthful answer.”

Ren’s voice lowers, “I thought you were gonna call the police.”

I smile and nod, “Better answer. I was. Really thought I’d be able to throw you off long enough too, but alas.  I probably would’ve been better off insisting than trying to be honest, but oh well, I’ll still hazard my health to tell the truth. But what I’m really confused about is why I’m the one who’s trying to gain your trust right now.”

I pause, considering my last statement before adding, “Was the whole ‘pretend to be anyone but yourself’ decision your own idea, or did someone else instill that lesson?”

I see his eyes flash as I speak before returning to their carefully neutral state, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I sigh deeply, considering the man before me. Eventually I come to a decision, looking down and speaking hesitantly, “Y’know what, I’m gonna tell you about something you keep reminding me of. It’s an old, old memory, so it’s probably warped beyond all recognition at this point, and it’s from a point in my childhood I remember almost nothing from but- ugh, whatever, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t need to be perfectly accurate.”

I glance up at Ren to make sure he’s still paying attention. Luckily he was, while also mimicking my pose and staring intently.

So I continue, “When I was a kid, I don’t remember how old, my home life got progressively worse and worse. It got to the point where I dreaded going home every night, so instead, I would spend time in this dingy little playground between school and my house. There was a little red plastic tunnel I would hide in, helpful for when it was raining. Anyway, there was this other kid that seemed to do the same thing, they- no- he. He hated when… yeah, well whatever- he would kinda lurk around the playground way later than was normal too. I thought he was neat, and I dunno, I guess I related to him. He would leave little presents in that tunnel for me sometimes, he even gave me a jacket for when it was cold. So I started doing the same.”

I pause, slightly surprised at the emerging memory, “I even gave him one of my favorite stuffies, damn. That was some devotion for like, six-year-old me, don’t think I would do that for anyone now. Anyway, ugh I’m rambling, this has a point I swear. So we became best friends, in my opinion at least. I mean, I had Leon too, but I never wanted to tell him anything about home, so I would just pretend to be happy around him all the time. This other kid-”

I go off on another tangent, trying to remember his name, “Shit if I just had any sort of fucking memory space for names- why do I keep associating him with that goddamn carpet in the school? I know his name wasn’t fucking rug or ground or flower or some shit, but it was like, associated with those? I think??? I’ll just call him- uhhhhh… I dunno, Redacted I guess, heh.

“So yeah, Redacted and I could just chill together, y’know? It seemed like he had some shit he was dealing with too, definitely worse than mine from the few things I could pick up on, even as a child. I swear there were multiple times he had blood on him, but whether it was his or not was hard to say. But he was a sweet kid. Even if he wouldn’t really talk about his situation, I didn’t wanna talk about mine either. We just sorta understood that shit was fucked up, and it was so nice just to have someone there who got it without having to explain or pretend.”

I lean against the backboard, looking at the ceiling, “But all good things have to come to an end, right? Well that happened for us when he gave me a ring – proposed even, I think. Problem was, Leon also happened to be around at the time- Oh yeah- I forgot to tell you- I’m already engaged.”

I giggle, raising the back of my hand and wiggling my fingers as though showing off a ring, before dropping my hand and ruefully staring at it. When I look up, I see Ren clutching the fabric of his long-sleeve shirt in the middle of his chest. Seems like he got emotionally invested, ha, all the better for me.

I continue my story, “Anyway, I think Leon thought Redacted was harassing me, so he threw away the ring and dragged me to school. I argued with him the whole way, hell, I might’ve even hit him, I was so mad. I went straight back to that playground once they let us out of school, and I scoured that entire place for hours that night. Every day after I hoped I would find the ring, just nestled under a toy or stair somewhere I hadn’t checked. But I never found it; and Redacted never showed up there again.”

I pause for a minute, closing my eyes and composing myself, “Sorry, I’ve never told anyone this before, guess I’m not as detached as I thought I was.”

I take a deep breath, “…So after that, the few times I did see Redacted in school he would run away. It’s my fault too obviously, we were both kids, I didn’t do everything I could to check on him and make sure he was okay, but I figured he hated me and didn’t want to see me after the first few times I tried and failed. Every time I saw him after that, he just looked worse and worse, and I don’t know when it happened, but eventually I saw him for the last time. I don’t even know if he even fucking survived that goddamn place. Given what I knew about his family, probably not.”

At this point, tears are streaming down my cheeks as I stay stony-faced, recounting the story of my childhood friend. Once I had finally gotten out of my house and had room to breathe, I remembered the one who helped get me through one of the toughest years. I realized he probably never made it past childhood soon after but shoved the realization deep down and tried to forget about it, not ready to process it.

I push on now, needing Ren to understand, “To this day, despite everything else that’s happened to me, that’s my biggest regret: not even being there for him when he deserved that and so much more. And I’m not going to let that happen to a friend again. You remind me of that kid so much, Ren, and I don’t know if it’s that similarity, or the three months we’ve spent together, but despite all your insane bullshit, I do still consider you a friend. So whatever the fuck you have going on, I need you to tell me honestly. I will do whatever I can to help and support a friend, but my patience is running thin and I’m not even entirely sure what you are to me anymore. I’ve been taken advantage of before, and I won’t be letting that happen again either.”

Once I finish saying all that needs to be said, I finally look back at Ren. He’s wearing an expression I’d never seen before, filled with more conflicting emotions than I could puzzle through. His eyes were filled with tears that had yet to fall, and the clenched fist on his chest, I realized, was not holding onto his shirt, but the necklace he always wore around his neck.

He speaks in a choked whisper, “Y’didn’t throw it away?”

I stare at him, confused and concerned, but also wary of another guilt trip, “Throw what away?”

“The ring?”

My eyebrows furrow in confusion, “Of course not, why would I do that? That would be horribly cruel, and he was the only person I could really trust at the time. I also might’ve had a crush on him, but emotions are weird and we were kids and it’s been so long I don’t really remember. But that’s not the point, did you even listen to the whole point of that story?”

He stumbles on his words, “Yeah- no- I- I heard. I just- m’having a hard time believing it.”

I bristle at his words, “Are you calling me a fucking liar?!”

His eyes widen and he jolts backwards, “NO! No no nono, that’s not what I meant at all! I just can’t believe you remembered… everything… like that. I thought you hated m- um, him?”

I glare at him, “Ren, what the fuck are you implying?”

He shakily opens his palm to reveal the ring necklace laying there, “I took it back after you left, that’s why you couldn’t find it.”

I shake my head warily, “That’s not funny, Ren, there’s no way. Don’t-”

He jumps up off the bed, “Hold on.”

I sit, bewildered, as he runs off, not waiting long before I hear the light thudding of his footsteps returning. He breathlessly holds out a well-loved brown teddy bear to me, “He’s one of my most treasured possessions.”

I cautiously take it into my hands, looking over it carefully. Its fur was stringy and far ashier than I remember, as well as slightly bald in some places, but still has the same eyes invariably covered by fur, same construction, and clearly over a decade old.

I looked between the bear and Ren in disbelief before slowly shifting to meet him at the side of the bed. He looks back at me anxiously, backing up a step to give me room to stand. I close the gap, wrapping both of my arms securely around his waist and pulling him into a tight hug, grabbing handfuls of the back of his shirt like he would disappear if I let go.

I whisper incredulously, “You’re alive???”

Ren leans into me, resting his chin on my head with a small chuckle, “Last I checked, yeah. ‘Preciate y’worrying about me though.”

My face crumbles as the tears I had finally got under control sprang free again, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Ren pulls back slightly, confused, “F’what?”

I lean my forehead onto his chest, not wanting him to see my face as I speak, “For being a shitty friend, for letting you go, for not defending you better, for not being there for you, fuck, just- everything. I’m sorry, you deserved so much better.”

Ren shakes his head, pulling me back in and speaking vehemently, “No, Angel, y’have nothing t’be sorry about. Y’didn’t do anything wrong. You’re the only one who didn’t do anything wrong. M’sorry f’being a stupid kid and running away.”

I sniffle, “You weren’t a stupid kid, you were smart as fuck, even back then. Just insecure as fuck too, but I have a feeling I know the bastard who’s responsible for that.” My hands tighten as I remember the one time I followed him from the playground to a trailer park, only to watch as he waited for almost an hour, knocking intermittently on the locked door. When it finally opened, a man flecked with blood stepped out, already screaming, and yanked him inside by the arm. The horrible sounds I heard that night caused me to sprint all the way home, practically thankful for the father I had. A feeling I had never come close to experiencing before or since. Fury builds in me as I think of all that Ren probably dealt with at such a young age.

Until his voice pulls me out of my thoughts, “Are y’alright Angel? You’re shaking.”

I glance up in surprise and loosen my grip on him, “Oh, sorry, yeah, I’m fine just… plotting murder.”

Ren’s eyebrows raise, “Mine?”

I laugh, shaking my head, “Ha! No, no, its- just ignore me.”

His head tilts to the side with a loving smile, “I could never.”

I lightly punch him, embarrassed, “Shut up.”

He laughs and pulls me back into a tight hug which I reciprocate. Catching a glimpse of his hair from my position, I hold a piece out with the arm still around him.

“Wasn’t your hair black? Why’d you make it pink?”

I feel him stiffen slightly as he seems to consider his options before answering quietly, “Thought you’d like it better.”

I squint at him, “Do you like it pink?”

He fires back, “Do you?”

I glare, “It’s your hair.”

He hums, “Mhmm, do you like it?”

I roll my eyes, pulling back so I can squish his face in my hands, “I think you’d look hot with any hair color and should choose what you like best.” Fuck. I really am a simp.

His face immediately flushes red and he mumbles, “But you like Haruko…”

I look at him in disbelief, “You really made a whole persona based on an anime character I liked? I mean, that’s what it seemed like, but I thought I was crazy for thinking that.”

He once again misses the point and focuses on an insignificant detail, “Liked? You don’t like him anymore?”

I sigh, “Do I really need to go get bread slices? Make an idiot sandwich? Of course not, I have an absolutely fucking insane boyfriend now, why would I want an anime character?”

Ren pouts at me, “M’not insane.”

I laugh, “Oh I don’t believe that for a second. That much trauma doesn’t create a healthily functioning adult, I would know.” I then realize how abrupt and harsh my words might sound and quickly course correct, “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like- uh, let’s talk about something else for now. Though actually, that does bring me back to an important point.”

I pull away, sitting back on the bed and bringing him to sit opposite me. I look him dead in the eyes, “How many people have you killed, Ren?”

He answers immediately, “Just one.”

I keep my eyes on him, “Ren, I am giving you the opportunity to come clean now. I won’t be so forgiving if I find things out on my own.”

He avoids my eyes, “Why? What would you do if it was more than one?”

I maintain an even gaze, “That would depend on who, why, and how you killed.”

There’s a long silence before he speaks again, “…Two.”

I insist, “Are you sure? You seemed very comfortable using that sledgehammer.”

He internally curses his carelessness for the millionth time but responds, “I use it in rage rooms a lot.”

When I realize that is the only answer I’ll be getting out of him, I pivot my questioning, “Okay. Who was the other person and why did you kill them?”

He side-eyes me, “Would you care if you didn’t know them?”

My eyebrows furrow, “Obviously? The reason would be the main factor then.”

He pauses for a long moment, “You did know them.”

I almost laugh at the pivot, but realize he’s still manipulating his answers based on my cues, which is sobering enough to maintain a straight face, “Okay, are you going to tell me who it was? Or when it was?”

He stares intently at his fingernails, picking idly at various minor hangnails, “About six years ago.”

My eyes widen, “You were sixteen?!”

He looks defensive, “And a half.”

I smother a smile of amusement and frustration at the pointless addition and gesture for him to go on. But before he can, I come to another realization, “Wait, then I was seventeen almost eighteen. Holy shit did you kill my stepfather?!”

He doesn’t respond, which gives me my answer. I immediately slap a hand over my mouth to cover the grin that was growing on my face. When my stepfather left that night and never returned, I had assumed he drunk himself either to death, or to do something that caused him to die. I suppose now the fact that they never found a body was suspicious, especially since he apparently never made it to any of his regular bars.

Coincidentally, that was the night I had resolved to kill him myself. I remember waiting by the door for hours with a kitchen knife, aching all over from my bruises and with blood dripping from the many cuts caused by him shattering a bottle against the table I was taking cover under. In the end, I had to give up and go back to bed before my mother woke up and started to make excuses for him again.

Now, as my grin grew wider and laughter bubbled up my throat, I had to add another hand to my mouth to keep it all in. I didn’t want him to see how dementedly happy I was about that man’s death or encouraging him to continue to do such things in the future. But when he saw me shaking with wide eyes and covering my mouth, he must have assumed the worst.

“Angel, I’m sorry, I had to! He was a danger to everyone around him, especially you, he-”

I choke out a quick, “Shut up,” before returning to the increasingly impossible job of keeping my mirth in. Eventually I fail, as a violent snort comes out unbidden. After that I surrender entirely, shifting my grasp from my face to my stomach as I tip over and guffaw into the sheets of the bed. I lay there laughing for almost two minutes, probably sounding increasingly more insane, before it finally levels off and I begin to calm back down.

I continue laying face down until I have fully stopped and only then sit up with a straight face, “Okay, ignoring that, how did you kill- ugh no, don’t ask that. Violence isn’t the answer. Violence isn’t the answer, violence isn’t the answer.” I repeat the words over, trying to make them stick.

Ren seems confused, “Are you telling that to me or yourself?”

I temple my hands in front of my face with an expression of restraint, “Yes.”

Ren hesitantly asks, “So… are we good?”

I raise an eyebrow, “About the murder? Yeah, if you’ve told me the truth I don’t really care about either of those- well, you probably didn’t need to kill that other guy, but meh, I don’t really blame you. Glad you’re discerning about it at least.”

I see the corners of his mouth quirk upwards and I make a quick amendment, “That doesn’t mean I condone murder. It’s technically wrong most of the time, so you can only resort to that in life-or-death situations.”

His mouth turns downwards again and I scoff, “Hey, if I don’t get to murder then you don’t get to murder. Consider yourself lucky that you managed to get to that bastard of a man before I did, otherwise we’d be even right now.”

I sigh, bringing my fingers to massage my temples from the massive headache that had been building this whole time. Ren immediately perks up, “Are you okay? D’you need painkillers? Water? Food?”

I bring my hand up, “Quiet, preferably.”

I immediately regret my words as Ren falls quiet, not protesting or yelling as I was used to from others. I amend my words, “Sorry, that was mean, I’m just- ugh my fucking head.”

Ren nods and leaves the room. I watch him leave with widened eyes, not expecting them to just abandon me like that. I want to call out, but my pride seals my throat, choking me from voicing my desires as per usual. After all, that would just reveal my own weaknesses. So I sit and stare blankly as tears well up in my eyes, increasing the pressure in my head even more.

I furiously blink them back, cursing myself, whether for making Ren leave or wanting him to stay, I wasn’t sure. I pull the glossy sheets over my head and collapse back into the mattress, burying my face into the pillow in an attempt to beat back my headache. Only to have my hip spike in pain as well. Just my luck.

It doesn’t take long before I hear footsteps walk into the room, somehow spontaneously sounding at the entrance to the room as if he spawned in at the doorway. I don’t move, not wanting him to see the tears in my eyes. Stupid.

A soft, familiar voice inquires quietly, “Angel? I got you some water and advil.”

A hand gently rests on my shoulder blade, carefully sliding up and down in a comforting pattern. I stay still, enjoying the feeling I hadn’t felt since I was a very young child. Being cared for, safe. Crazy how this murderer was capable of making me feel more secure and loved than my “parents” ever did.

I groan, turning my head and bringing the sheets down enough to look at Ren blearily. Their eyes are full of sympathy as they hand me the painkillers. I take them, evaluating the pills to make sure they matched the container before downing two with a gulp of water. From the same type of glass I had shattered earlier, I notice with another twinge of guilt.

Ren gives me a soft smile, “Why don’t you go back t’sleep for now? It’s about bedtime anyway, and you’re recovering from a multitude of things.”

I mumble, “Mostly y’fault. We arn’ done talkin’.”

Their eyebrows furrow, “I know, m’sorry. But we can finish tomorrow, okay? I don’t think y’really in a state t’continue. I’ll leave the water here, just yell if y’need anything.”

As they stand to leave, I act without thinking, reaching out and grabbing their wrist. He turns, confused, but patiently waits for me to form my words.

“…Don’t…leave me.”

His eyes light up and he kneels next to the bed, getting to eye level with me and grasping my hand tightly, “I’ll never leave you, Angel. Never again.”

I pull them towards me, and after confirming my intention, they instantly succumb to my request, joining me under the covers. They pull me into their chest, both of our arms wrapped around the other securely, our legs tangling as we attempt to get as close as possible. I push all of the red flags out of my mind, I could deal with those in the morning. For now, we indulge in the feeling of comfort and safety we couldn’t find anywhere else in the world.