The Pain - Blog Posts

All told I'm gonna be traveling for like 16 hours straight.

Okay I've slept off my edible and double-checked with 4CL. I am actually flying to Germany early July for work. God gives His silliest clowns His funniest battles.

My mouth is ON FIRE today 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥😁😁😁😁😁😁

ok can we agree that the WORST feeling is when you’re just sitting around consciously procrastinating and you’re just overly aware that each second that passes is more time wasted and you like watch hours pass and you’re STILL procrastinating and you CANT STOP and your panicked brain is trapped inside a body that refuses to be productive and inside you’re screaming but outwardly you’re just eating chips 

Okay, POSE ! 🫰✨️

Généralement je ne pleure pas devant les films/séries mais la j'ai fini comme ça sur mon canap' :

Moralité : ne jamais se croire invincible mdr.

Thinking about touch-averse Leon Kennedy gradually becoming comfortable with physical displays of affection.

Like after everything he endured in Raccoon City and Spain, I imagine he’d be quite… jumpy, to say the least: flinching when you touch him unexpectedly, stiffening when you wrap your arms around him from behind, sleeping on his side of the bed without ever crossing the invisible divide.

It’s not that he thinks you’ll hurt him. It’s not that he thinks he’s in danger. It’s not that he doesn’t love you — far from it, actually. He’s never before felt so close to anyone. He’s just… afraid.

What if he snaps?

What if he reacts a little to forcefully?

What if he hurts you?

You’ve said you’d be able to take it; he doesn’t want that. He wants to be normal. He wants to touch you, wants to hold you, wants to comfort and kiss and provide for you but he can’t. He’s all too aware of the physical and metaphorical scars littering his body and psyche.

He’s bruised. Battered. Damaged. Broken.

But to his surprise, you don’t run away. You don’t give up on him, even when he wakes up screaming, slick with sweat and fear and misery more often than not. You whisper soothing words in his ear. You place a cold towel on his forehead. You remind him that you love him.

You love him.

And as your relationship progresses, as you see the uglier, more brutal sides of his recovery, your love deepens. You show it in non-physical ways: cooking his favorite meals, buying him little gifts just because they reminded you of him, sending him sweet, affirming messages throughout the day. You respect his boundaries without question. His chest swells with affection; he feels undeserving. He wishes he could give you something in return.

So imagine Leon accidentally chokes you in his sleep. He’s inconsolable as he weeps and unleashes a relentless stream of apologies. They’re mangled, though, garbled by the asphyxiation of remorse. You’ve given him the world, and this is how he repays you? With violence and fear and sleepless nights? He’s worthless, he’s pitiful, he’s a sorry excuse for a partner. You deserve better. You deserve to leave.

But to his surprise, you stay.

And you comfort him.

And you tell him it’s alright; you’re not hurt. He didn’t hurt you. He’s okay. You’re okay.

And you turn on the lights and bring his hand to your throat.

See? Barely a bruise.

You love him all the same.

He swears it won’t happen again. You tell him that it might but it’s okay so long as he continues to work on himself. As long as he continues to go to therapy. He pales and cups your cheek. You nuzzle into his touch.

You’re healing, you tell him. It’s okay to heal. Healing is inherently imperfect.

There’s a shift in your relationship after that, a positive one. Leon adored the warmth of your cheek so he starts to ask if he can cradle your face. You giggle because it’s a little silly, but allow it all the same. Because his therapist instructed him to try and you’ve so longed to feel his touch again.

And then weeks later he asks if he can hold your hand. You try not to show too much enthusiasm — you don’t want to scare him away, after all — so you just nod in agreement. Your heart feels like it’s going to explode when he interlocks his fingers with yours. When you feel the gentle scrape of his calloused hands along your palms.

He asks to hug you four months later. He holds it for only five seconds at first. Then ten. Then twenty. And soon enough, you have to pry Leon off your body. You have chores to do, laundry to fold. But he won’t let go. And he’s so sweet and he’s come so far, so you allow it.

And as time passes, he stops flinching when you touch him unexpectedly. He stops stiffening when you wrap your arms around him from behind. His arms and legs are wound tightly around yours when you awake every morning. You move through life with a wall of muscle strapped to your body at all times.

As time passes, he heals.

hmmm

Hiiiiiii hope you are doing well on this fine night day :3

For the oneshots thing I was thinking perhaps... something related to a soulmate au? Redacted desperately trying to recreate the exact scenario or something passably close to how they first found out they were soulmates as kids so that Angel will think this new Ren person is their actual soulmate (assuming Angel forgot about their childhood soulmate).

The cruel irony of him having to fake being soulmates because they are so afraid that Angel will resent being tied to someone as unlovable as [Redacted] that they'd rather reconstruct the entirety of their bond on a lie yada yada yk the drill >:3

.... I fully intended to send in a fluff ask how did this turn angst lmao oh well. Something like that anyways, feel free to take creative liberties or ignore if it's not up your alley ofc <3

Genre: Angst to Comfort

Summary: — Decided to add a more realistic, to a soulmate au...I failed..

( Reader is a g.n!)

Did not proof read/Rushed.

I'm so sorry I THINK I FAILED THIS.... I'LL REWRITE THIS ONE DAY!!

May this be my timeless Love to you REDACTED.. X G.N Reader

“What is a soulmate?” The question echoes like a dirge through a hollow cathedral. He asked it once, long ago — when his hands were small, calloused from too much trying. He asked it before he learned that no one wanted the answers a boy like him could give.

This boy could (not) be called the Ugly Duckling. Not with laughter — but with a solemnity that could quiet the birds. He wore it as penance. For being too much. Too little. For being born under the wrong star.

Across the lake — the water that always seemed too wide to cross — there was you and him A child like something pulled from the pages of a dream: Pigtails, scraped knees, colorful bandages like mismatched prayers. And something gentler still... wounds dressed in laughter, pain softened by pretend...this was him..

He covered his soul in stickers and bandaids. You never called him ugly — but he hid all the same.

You cared for him.

He saw you. He saw all of it. And oh, how he adored you.

He had nothing — not love, not kindness — but he crafted a ring from wire and thread and the tinny promise of devotion. A symbol of a bond he believed the universe had to have carved between you. You were his soulmate — weren’t you? You had to be.

So, trembling, he stepped forward on unsteady legs. The playground was golden with dusk. And he held out the ring — Eyes wide, lips parted — waiting.

But before you could speak, before the miracle of “yes” or “no” could fall from your mouth, another hand — Larger, stronger, braver — wrong — Snatched you away.

“Weirdo!” the boy barked. “I knew you were bad news! Were you close to them because of this?!”

Your breath caught.

“Leon, wait—!”

But Leon did not wait. He grabbed your wrist like it was a leash, yanking you toward the trees.

"A-Angel!"

"LEAVE THEM ALONE, YOU FREAK!"

"Leon!" you pleaded, voice breaking like old wood. Stop stop stop stop—

But your feet obeyed his, and you vanished into the forest. The sound of leaves swallowing you whole.

The small boy stood, ring still in hand.

Crushed petals. Bent wire. The light... leaving.

And still, he smiled — small and broken.

“...It’s okay. I’ll try again.”

But he didn’t. Not then. Not for years.

And so, he became less.

He shed the skin of the duckling, and buried the boy who made rings. Buried him beneath names and costumes and personas that Angel might love.

He crafted some things but, The lies you would love..

A perfect lie in your image.

But you — you remained the same. Bright as ever. Still crossing the lake in his dreams.

To him, you are the light on the water. You are the laughter in the bruised boy’s memory. You are salvation in stickers and scabs. You are his Angel.

Hand worn like garlands; every scrape, every bruise, a verse in the ballad of his survival. He wrapped themselves in the myth of their own unworthiness. They called their soul ugly —

In you, He saw, he saw divinity. He saw home.

So the little duckling, trembling and unbeautiful, offered you the only beautiful thing he had ever made: A ring. Crooked. Fragile. Real. A token of a love too vast for his chest to hold. You were his soulmate. His answer. His absolution.

And what was your answer…?

You never knew.

Why was his vision twisted? Why is....

There was once a time, however fleeting, when the world still appeared vibrant to him—where the crunch of grass beneath small feet, or the glint of sunlight over a pond, carried a sort of naive beauty.

ONLY BECAUSE HE SAW IT THROUGH YOUR EYES!

Vanished like breath on a windowpane. What remained in their wake was silence, dread, and the long shadow of a man who should have been his protector.

His father was not a man of love. Not a man of gentle correction or even stern but fair discipline. No, his father—Taylor— He was the kind of man who looked upon his own children and saw not budding lives but burdens. Parasites. Leeches draining his oxygen. The boy never got to be a child in the ways that mattered. Innocence was something torn away, not lost.

Taylor’s presence was a stormfront: unpredictable, ever-threatening. Some days, the silence was worse than the yelling. On others, the yelling was only a prelude to something darker. And always, the boy knew—no matter how quiet he was, how obedient, how small—he could not escape the slow corrosion of his father’s contempt.

He learned quickly that masculinity was a weapon in his father's eyes... But the moment that same masculinity appeared in his son? It became a threat. A competition. A problem to be down. And yet—when his father forced him into more fem, He was against it....—none of it was out of affection. It was a punishment. A mockery. A way to remind him who controlled the image in the mirror.

Taylor’s disdain was a constant mirror in which the boy saw not a son, not a person—but a mistake. A malformed, thing pretending to be worthy of love.

His mother couldn't

It was the slow, ceaseless erosion of every part of himself.

But perhaps one moment stands above the rest.

He had carved something. Not out of grand materials—he had no such luxury—but out of determination and trembling fingers. It was small, fragile, and shaped like a ring. Something to give. A symbol of devotion. Of innocent affection. Of hope.

He gave it to someone who mattered.

And he was rejected.

Not simply rejected, but humiliated—by someone who did not understand, by someone who took the offering and flung it away, calling him a freak....

He didn’t cry. Not in front of them.

Later, alone in the dark, he wept until the walls blurred.

No one would ever love him. That he was too broken, too strange, too wrong. And now, it seemed true. His emotions betrayed him. His instincts betrayed him. Even the things he loved most would not accept him as he was.

So began the great undoing.

He stripped pieces of himself away—not in a dramatic flourish, but quietly. Methodically. Each piece discarded was a memory, a feeling, a small quirk. The voice that wavered when he was scared. The softness in his eyes when he looked at someone he cherished. Gone. Gone. Gone.

He did not do it to manipulate.

He did it because the person he was had already been deemed unworthy. Because the truth of him was a wound too shameful to show. And somewhere deep within that shame was the rot his father planted long ago:

“You are not enough."

"No one will ever want you."

"Unloved, Unlovable."

He still followed the light.

Not in the tender, dreamlike way he had when they were children—no, now he followed it like a moth starved and frenzied, wings frayed, mind blistered by the ache of wanting. The light had become everything. The light was Angel. His Angel. The one who made him feel warm once, long ago. The one who smiled at him before the world taught him that smiles weren’t meant for monsters.

But after that ring.. a thing to be pushed away from someone precious—he couldn’t go back. Not as he was. That boy was ruined. That boy died the moment Angel let go of his hand.

Still, he watched.

He lingered in shadows and street corners, not out of malice, but mourning. How could he hate what he could never stop loving? How could he let go of the only thing that had ever felt safe, ever felt real?

He stayed away. For years.

Every attempt to speak up—to say, NOT “I remember you,” “I missed you,” “I never stopped thinking about you”—died before it left his throat. Because what would be the point? He wasn’t enough then. Why would he be enough now?

But he tried.

He tried so many times.

Different versions of himself. Different scripts. He smiled wider, laughed softer. He changed his posture, his voice, his tone. He mimicked people that Angel seemed to like. He studied them like sacred texts, rewrote himself in their image. One version too aloof. Another too eager. One too mysterious. Another too awkward. None of them stuck.

None of them were enough.

None of them worked.

Angel would pass him in hallways, brush shoulders in crowded spaces, maybe glance his way once or twice. But never with recognition. Never with that spark. That radiant, soul-shattering warmth he remembered.

He stood in front of mirrors for hours, tearing into his own reflection with furious eyes. What is it? What did they want? What did they like? Why couldn’t he get it right?

"What's wrong with me?" he whispered once, "What am I doing wrong?"

He copied the fictional characters Angel loved. Studied their voices, their mannerisms, their color palettes, their phrases. He practiced the way they tilted their heads. Memorized how they blushed, how they laughed, how they hesitated before saying something sweet. He kept notebooks full of quotes, annotated with where the character spoke and what Angel had said afterward. He watched, catalogued, obsessed.

And still—nothing.

Angel never looked at him the way they looked at him.

That fake character. That ideal. That Haruko.

It drove him to madness. A quiet, unraveling madness that crawled beneath his skin and whispered: You aren’t lovable. You aren’t enough. You will never be enough—not unless you become them.

He started building the Haruko persona from scratch—voice trembling, eyes wide, sleeves too long for his hands. He wore soft colors, soft words. Practiced the stutter. Practiced being innocent. Haruko was everything he wasn’t, everything he wished he could be. Haruko was perfect. Haruko was loved.

Now

Redacted is a ghost in his own body—an echo dulled by years of forced silence, a bitter thing carved by cruelty and stitched back together by desperation. If Haruko is sunlight, soft edges and delicate smiles, then Redacted is everything lurking in the shade: jagged, smudged, bloodstained. There is nothing soft about him. There never was.

He doesn’t flinch at screams. Doesn’t shake at the sight of blood. He sees suffering the way a mechanic sees grease—part of the job, unavoidable, expected. But beneath that dead-eyed calm...

Never mind

But fragility doesn’t survive fire. It burns, warps, hardens. He learned to snarl where he once whimpered. Learned to lie, to hide, to pretend. Because being himself never worked. Being himself only ever earned him rejection...

So Redacted buried himself.

And Haruko was born.

Soft-spoken. Timid. Blushing. He smiles with teeth he files down every night just to make himself smaller, more harmless. Haruko listens. Haruko laughs. Haruko says “Sorry!” even when they aren’t wrong. Haruko is everything Angel ever wanted—or so he thinks.

But Redacted is what remains when Haruko’s mask slips. He’s not gentle. He’s not calm. He’s desperate. Desperately in love, desperately afraid. And he hates himself for it. Because no matter how many times he shifts, no matter how many personas he creates, he can’t escape the fear that the real him—the broken, twisted, violent him—is unworthy of love.

So he watches from the sidelines, always calculating, always performing. Haruko is sweet so Angel smiles. Haruko is shy so Angel leans in. He memorizes every reaction, every compliment, every laugh, hoards them like treasures. Because if Angel ever really sees him, if they ever peel back the carefully constructed softness and look at what festers beneath…

He doubts it.

That’s why he clings to Haruko. That’s why “Ren” exists. Because Redacted—he doesn’t get to be loved. He only gets to want.

But he plays the game anyway. Over and over.

Because if pretending is the only way to be near Angel, then he’ll play every role, recite every line, and smile through the agony.

One day.

He had seen you through the glass of the library windows more times than he could count. Watched you shelve books, tuck loose strands of hair behind your ear, smile at strangers. Always from behind the shelves. Always from afar. Like an old film reel playing on loop, his world paused the moment you walked in.

And today, he chose to press play.

He wandered in as Ren, dressed neatly in a layered knit vest over a button-down, the sleeves too long, covering the faint tremble in his fingers. Pink-purple? BLUE? hair tousled just enough to look effortless, the strands near his face curled to mirror him. Haruko. Your favorite. He knew because he listened, stalked—watched. Moth had mentioned it in one of your calls, and he memorized every timestamp, every laugh, every soft "God, I love him so much."

He wanted—needed—you to say that about him.

So he walked in, slow and deliberate, eyes low, pace measured. You didn’t see him at first. Of course you didn’t. Why would you? You weren’t supposed to. He was just the weird boy who always rented your display picks. You didn’t know he came in after hours just to press his fingers to the last book you'd touched. You didn’t know the lengths he went to just to keep breathing in your orbit.

But then you did.

He turned.

You looked.

And everything inside him snapped like a string pulled too tight.

You saw him.

And you didn't look away.

Immediately, your eyes widened. Not in fear. Not in disgust. Just... surprise. His heart skipped. No, it sprinted. You were seeing him. The soft curl of his lashes, the gentle tilt of his head, the nervous shuffle of his booted feet—you took in all of it.

You noticed the hair. His hair.

“Ahem! Hello..?" you whispered to yourself without realizing.

He heard it.

In his head, confetti burst. Sirens blared. Choirs sang. You noticed.

You turned fully, facing him with genuine curiosity. “So this was the guy who always rented out my recommended books,” you thought. “He definitely fit the aesthetic of a cozy literature-lover needing a good book…”

His chest squeezed. He wanted to cry.

You thought he fit.

The pink strands of his hair danced as he took one careful step toward you, then another. You could smell the faint vanilla clinging to him, sweet and warm, like library candles and anxiety. You tilted your head, smiling softly.

He tried to speak. Failed.

“I was just looking for… uh…”

His voice cracked. He hated that. He should’ve practiced more.

But you… you smiled.

A nod. A kind one. A real one.

Like he was safe.

Like he belonged.

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

You nodded again, already turning toward the nearest catalog terminal, and in that moment—

His heart screamed.

YOU LOOKED AT HIM. YOU LOOKED AT HIM.

And God, if you looked again, he swore he'd never let you stop.

In his heart, he was exploding—like a child seeing fireworks for the first time, clapping his hands even if no one else did. You looked at him. You smiled at him. His mind spun with glitter and soft confetti, cheeks burning, heart thumping like a drum in a school parade. You saw him. Not a shadow. Not a ghost. Him. And you didn’t flinch. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging so fast he'd knock over the whole shelf. You looked at him you looked at him you looked at him! Over and over it rang, sweet and dizzying.

And when you looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time at the library desk, he nearly collapsed from the weight of it. The way your eyes met his and didn’t flinch. Didn’t run.

That night, you invited him home. Said your lock was broken. He smiled and told you he’d protect you. You didn’t know that he was the very monster lurking in the bushes before he became your savior. You didn’t know he was your past, contorted into a dream.

Each day was a...

Day 1: Your home. His heart raced as you offered him tea in mismatched mugs, as if it were love in ceramic form.

Day 2: A cafe. A soft, awkward almost-date. You laughed, and it sounded like forgiveness. Like maybe the past could be rewritten.

Day 3: Movie night at your place. A sappy romance you both pretended not to cry over. His fingers brushed yours and he swore the stars shivered.

Day 4: The aquarium. He "accidentally" showed up. You stood together at the glass, watching a jellyfish pulse with light. He asked if you saw a angelfish, you replied you saw a freakin clownfish.

Day 5: Moth arrived. You introduced them with a brightness he hadn’t seen since childhood. You were happy. And it was because of Ren. Not him. Not the boy with the broken ring and the monster's name.

So now he studies every gesture, memorizes your laughter, adjusts himself like clay in your hands. Slowly, carefully, perfectly—he molds himself into a soulmate you’ll want this time.

He can’t risk telling you the truth.

Because if you knew who he really was...

You might leave again.

And this time, he wouldn’t survive it.

You saw him.

You saw him kill someone—for you.

Not out of bloodlust. Not out of rage. But fear. That trembling, trembling fear that someone might hurt you, even slightly. And so, he silenced them. As easily as plucking petals from a flower.

Why was he doing all this?

Why did he look at you like you were holy? Why did his breath hitch every time your skin brushed his, like even the smallest contact meant salvation?

It was… sad. Sad and sweet in a way that twisted something deep inside you. The kind of sweetness that hides bruises. The kind that feels like a memory you forgot how to grieve.

Why did you feel pity for a stranger?

LIES DON'T LAST...

He can't recreate it.

They can't recreate it

[REVOKED]

[RETAINED] ?

[RED̴A̸C̵͍̔T̵̰̓E̸̘̽D̸̳̻͕́̒]̵̱̈́̋.....?

No matter how much they try, There's no results, The screen's empty.

Even if refresh, reboot, reset.

There is always some way to access memories.

And, that's what happened..

It doesn't matter how.

He didn't know if he should be happy, that his name fell out your mouth like a sweet melody to him, But Your reaction was all it took for him to know you're not happy to see...him why? would you be?

You remember. You went to the dark and the dark and "It" was bored, It gave you a answer

Not when the story began years ago—at a playground long forgotten, when a ring was offered and then thrown away. When a boy who called himself ugly carved love from his own hands and handed it to you. Only to watch it get crushed by another.

He never stopped chasing that moment.

He just wore a prettier face while doing it.

If you remembered—if it all came back in clarity and color—it wouldn’t just break your heart.

It would destroy his.

Because this "Ren" you’d grown fond of? The boy with soft eyes, clumsy kindness, and pink hair made for fictional dreams? He was a performance. A stitched-together mirage of everything you ever loved, rehearsed until the seams no longer showed.

And the cruelest part?

It wasn’t a stranger who lied to you.

It was him. The boy you left behind, the boy who never forgot. The one who hated himself so deeply he buried that child under a mask and called it love.

He wouldn’t beg for forgiveness. He wouldn’t plead. Because he’s convinced he doesn’t deserve it. Not when he’s sure—absolutely sure—that the moment you see the real him, the moment the illusion crumbles, you’ll turn away. Not because of what he’s done… but because of what he is.

A fractured soul. Obsessive. Haunted. Unworthy.

But you?

You’re not afraid of him. Not really.

You’re afraid of hope. You’re afraid of wondering which part was true. Of asking yourself if any of it—the laughter, the comfort, the late-night talks—meant anything at all.

And when your eyes finally widen with realization, with hurt, with disbelief—

It breaks him. Truly.

But,

Because even if you forgave, you tried to stay… love built on lies doesn’t fall gently.

It ruptures.

And the pieces? They don’t fit anymore. They cut.

You ruined. Him...

You stayed because you were guilty Not because you started to fell for him immediately...

I ruined you, didn’t I?

No—no, not just ruined. I unmade you.

God… all this time, I thought you were a stranger. A perfect mask. I thought Ren was someone new—a fantasy, a lie. But it was always you. It was always you.

That ring... that stupid little ring. I remember it now. Dirt-stained, scuffed, held in tiny trembling hands. You gave it to me once, didn’t you? And Leon—he threw it away like it was trash. Like you were trash.

And I didn’t stop him.

I didn’t even look back.

You picked it up. You picked yourself up. You took every piece of who you were and buried it. Shoved it down into something dark and cold, and from it… you built Ren.

Perfect, smiling Ren. Sweet, attentive, careful Ren. Everything I ever wanted, wrapped up in a stranger’s skin. But it wasn’t a stranger, was it?

It was you.

And I never saw you. Not really.

God, what did I do to you?

You changed your voice, your walk, your laugh—you built an entire person out of my silence. You loved me in the shadows for so long, until your love curdled, until it rotted into something that clung to me like ink. You swallowed who you were just to become someone I might finally see.

And I did see you. But too late. Too goddamn late.

That night—I didn’t know if I loved the boy you were… or the man you became.

But you were never supposed to become this.

You were supposed to be happy. Whole. Not… twisted by this ache. Not hollowed out and rebranded just to be deserving of love.

You were always deserving.

And now here you are—sleeping beside me, your fingers curled around mine like you’re still afraid I’ll vanish. Even now. Even after all of it.

You’re beautiful like this. Not because you’re perfect. Not because you’re Ren. But because you’re you. Scarred and real and terrified. And for the first time, I see you without the mask.

[REDACTED]… you didn’t need to be Ren.

You were enough.

You are enough.

And I’m sorry. For everything. For not seeing you, for not hearing you, for letting you rot in that silence. But I’m here now. And I’m not running.

Not from you. Not from this.

I can’t undo the past. I can’t unmake the monster that love turned you into.

But maybe—I can hold onto the boy who just wanted to be seen.

Maybe I can love him.

Maybe it’s not too late to start over.

Not with Ren.

But with you.

Maybe...let's heal together..okay..?

But, that when You put on the ring, You didn't talk, You didn't give him a answer..

You decided to quit your work, and just stayed with him.

You realized he was patient..

He waits for...

You.

You're the reason he waits.

Not just for days, not just for weeks—he's waited over thirteen years just for a chance to see you again. And not just to see you—no, that’s too easy. He wants to be near you. To exist in the same space. To breathe the same air. To build a world where he gets to stay by your side, even if it means burying who he truly is under layers and layers of someone else.

Ren.

That’s the name he wore. A soft thing. Harmless. Gentle. A version of himself crafted entirely for you—because somewhere along the line, he decided you wouldn’t love the real one. The one who bled. The one who screamed. The one who died waiting.

So he built this mask for you. Wears it with devotion. Every breath he takes as Ren is for you. And if it made you smile? He’d wear it forever. If it brought you peace? He’d never let it crack. Even if it means killing everything wild and real in him. Even if it hurts.

Because you’re worth it, right?

At least that’s what he tells himself, over and over again. That if he’s patient—good—you’ll come around. That one day you’ll stop flinching when he touches your wrist, or scowling when he says something too careful. That one day you’ll love him. Even like this.

And when you scream at him?

When you snap—Stop pretending! Stop acting like you’re some fragile thing! That’s not YOU!—it shakes something in him. But he never screams back. Never corrects you. Never tells you that this is him now—that in all the pretending for You. He just stands there, takes it, nods softly like he deserves the pain.

And then you cry.

Every time, you fall apart. You hate how much it hurts. You hate how much he waits—how patient, how still, how perfectly prepared he is for your worst days.

Because if you stop eating? He leaves food outside the door. Quietly. Every few hours. Never forces you. Never begs. Just places it there like an offering to a god he believe in.

If you scream? He waits.

If you break? He’s already made sure there’s nothing in the room sharp enough to cut, hard enough to throw, dangerous enough to hurt you. He padded the corners. Taped the mirrors. Hid the glass. You didn’t even notice until it was too late.

Everything was prepared.

Because he knows you. He’s studied every twitch, every tremor in your voice, every wall you build and destroy again. He’s the architect of your cage and your comfort. Your soft place to land and the reason you’re falling in the first place.

And it gets to you—how still he is.

How he doesn’t flinch when you hurt him. How he looks at you like you’re the one fading. Like every breakdown you have is his fault. Like he broke you. Like he infected you with the same obsession he’s been carrying for over a decade.

You see it in his face.

That grief. That guilt. That hope—the worst of them all. Hope that maybe one day, you’ll look at him like you used to. Or like he wishes you had. Hope that maybe the version of you who loved him still exists somewhere underneath all this hurt.

And what are you supposed to do with that?

When someone loves you like you’re the only real thing left in their crumbling universe? When they’d trade away their entire identity just to make you stop crying?

You. Needed a break, So you quit your job, Your Boss didn't question....

You slowly started and tried to understand what Redacted was..

[REDACTED] is the kind of person who could watch a man bleed out on the floor and not blink. He's patient to a terrifying degree—so cold, so detached, it borders on divine.

Because when [REDACTED] is genuinely pissed, he doesn't scream. He doesn't lash out....

No theatrics. No blood frenzy. Just a clean, quiet severance. And when it's done, he goes back to his day like nothing happened. He’ll sip his coffee. Read his messages. Hack into three security systems before breakfast. No remorse. No reaction. Just that faint, unreadable smirk curling at the corner of his lips, like it was all just part of some tedious to-do list.

But when it comes to you?

When it comes to Angel?

He’s not that person anymore.

He can lie to the world. He can wear a thousand faces. He can fake kindness, mimic charm, even build whole identities to get what he wants. But with you, there’s no mask. No apathy. No distance. You simply bring out the emotions in him after it is.

You’re the one fracture in his perfectly fortified armor. The only one who can bring him to his knees without even trying.

Because he’s here. You’re here.

He doesn’t hide his affection for you—not really. Not when he’s himself. Not when he’s not tangled up in Ren, pretending to be smaller, sweeter, quieter than he really is.

[REDACTED], he’s unfiltered. Obsession doesn’t scare him. Not when it’s about you. He’s never once felt ashamed for the way he needs you—only cautious. Only careful. Only pretending under the mask of Ren because he thought it’d keep you around. Because he thought he—in all his raw, jagged truth—would scare you off.

But not anymore.

Not when you’ve held him like this. Not when you’ve seen the way his voice shakes, the way his hands tremble when you whisper that you love him—not Ren, not the mask, him. He knows now, deep in his chest where it always ached the most, that there’s no one else you want. And yet—

He still struggles.

Not with you, but with himself.

Because even now, even in your arms, even with the warmth of your voice in his ear and the ghost of your kiss on his skin, he doubts. Not your love—he believes that, at least a little. But that he could be worthy of it? That’s harder.

He’s still learning how to speak up. About his wants. His needs. About anything that isn’t you. Because you’re always his first thought. His only priority. Everything else? It doesn’t feel important. But you tell it is important.

He looks at you like you’re the last light he remembers seeing. Like you’re the only thing that ever made this world worth crawling through.

No one else has ever seen him cry.

No one else has ever watched the infamous ghost of a man—this ghost who glides through shadows, this killer, this phantom in code and blood—shatter under the weight of your touch. That night when you reached out—when you finally crossed the space between you, wrapped your arms around him, and said nothing but stayed—he collapsed.

Right there. In your arms.

Quietly. Brokenly.

Tears slid down his cheeks like he didn’t know how to stop them. Like he hadn’t cried in years, not since everything fell apart. He buried his face against your shoulder like he was trying to disappear into you, like he was ashamed of needing something so human.

Because the truth is?

He’s still that boy you used to know.

Still that soft thing underneath the blood and code. Still innocent in that specific, painful way only someone who's been hurt beyond repair can be. Still desperate for affection. Still haunted by every moment he wasn’t enough.

But only with you.

To everyone else HE SHOWS, [REDACTED] is an apathetic executioner. The hacker who ruins lives from behind a screen. The killer who vanishes without a trace. The coldest person they've ever met, with nothing in his eyes but calculation.

But with you?

He’s human.

He laughs quieter. Smiles softer. He flinches when you’re hurt. He remembers what it means to be held. You make him feel—dangerously, completely. You’re his first and final tether to something real. To being real.

You’re the only person he ever lets see the cracks.

And you’re the only one who could break him, just by walking away.

Also learned, about someone's something. It changes your narrative...Doesn't it? Dear Angel?

Some time later..

It’d been months. You weren’t sure how many. Didn’t matter.

Time had turned to soup, thick and slow, days blending like bruises in the dark—warm, wet, and somehow… healing. Neither of you talked about it. The quiet was safer. The stillness helped.

You woke first. Not by much. But enough to feel their arms still draped around you, heavy like chains, comforting like ritual.

Their breath ghosted your shoulder. Warm. Uneven. You could tell they weren’t really asleep anymore—not fully—but they hadn’t moved either. Not even when you shifted.

You whispered, real soft. "Hey."

Nothing.

You squirmed a little, nudging your elbow back. Still nothing.

Then their arms tightened. Their chest pressed flush against your back, and they buried their face in your neck like they were trying to hide from the world.

A hoarse voice rumbled out of them, low and almost pitiful: “…Don’t.”

You froze.

"You’re awake." You smiled, tilting your head slightly. "I just need to shower, REDACTED.... I’ll come back."

A groan. Tired. Frustrated. "Y’don’t get it. I know what back means." Their voice was quieter now. Raspy. Vulnerable in that raw, sandpaper kind of way. "Means gone. Means not here. Means… ‘m gonna wake up and you’re not."

You turned, cupped their cheek, let your thumb glide over the warm, soft skin under their eye. “I’m not leaving. Just need ten minutes.”

They didn’t say anything. Just stared. One eye cracked open, bangs hanging in messy strands over their face, lip caught between their teeth. Then finally, a loose sigh. Their arms dropped.

You slipped out of bed and—without thinking—tucked a pillow in your place.

That should’ve worked. Should’ve.

But you didn’t even get three steps before a hand gripped yours.

“…Don’t like pillows,” they mumbled.

You looked down. “You used to.”

“They’re not warm like you.” Their fingers squeezed. “And they don’t kiss me good.”

You bent forward, kissed their forehead, and whispered, “Wait for me.”

They made a tiny “hm” noise. Sad. Small. Let you go—barely.

In the bathroom, you brushed your teeth. Washed your face. Fast. Then pancake duty. Something quick, easy. Familiar.

They came out halfway through, dragging their feet, hoodie slouching off one shoulder, eyes half-lidded. They didn’t say anything, just slumped into the chair like it took everything in them.

You put a plate down in front of them. They stared at it. Then at you.

“You smell like mint,” they muttered. “And guilt.”

You exhaled a small laugh. “It’s not guilt. It’s Colgate.”

“Mm.” They poked the pancake like it might betray them.

“Hey,” you said, tilting your head. “I have to work soon. I told you, I was gonna go back But we’ve got time. Let’s shower, then eat.”

They didn’t answer. Just stood up slow. Looked at you like you were light they didn’t trust.

Then—finally—reached out, brushing their fingers against yours. Holding. Not gripping. Like if they held too tight, you might disappear.

You didn’t give them a choice. Not this time.

“You reek,” you muttered, nudging them gently toward the bathroom with a hand against their back. “Like sleep and resentment.”

[REDACTED] chuckled but didn’t resist. Just dragged their feet as you guided them, hoodie sleeves swallowing their hands, hair tangled and falling into their face.

“Y’don’t get to talk to me like that unless you’re gonna undress me too,” they muttered with a sleepy, lopsided grin.

You rolled your eyes. “I will.”

“…Oh.”

You peeled the hoodie off them like second skin. Damp with sleep, clinging to their collarbones. Underneath it—just them. The real one. Not Ren. Not Haruko. Just tired, raw [REDACTED].

The water was already running, steam curling around both of you like soft ghosts. You tugged them into the shower, and they slouched under the stream like it was heavy. Like it had weight.

Their eyes fluttered shut the second the warmth hit. “Fuuuuck…”

“Yeah, yeah,” you murmured, grabbing the shampoo and coaxing them down so you could reach their hair. “You always act like hot water’s a miracle.”

“It is,” they mumbled, half-lidded, letting you tilt their head back. “Especially when it’s you touchin’ me. Angel…”

That name still hit different. From them. Especially when said like that—hoarse, reverent. You swallowed and massaged the shampoo into their scalp.

Their hair had grown longer. black. The pink had faded, bleeding into natural brown at the roots. You could trace time in the strands. How long he’d been here. How long he’d stopped hiding.

“You were gonna dye it again, weren’t you?” you asked, gently rinsing the foam away.

“‘Course, If you wanted” he mumbled.

You tugged slightly at a lock of hair. Not hard—just enough to make a point. “You’re not dying it. I told you, it ruins your texture. And your scalp’s sensitive.”

He looked up at you, water clinging to his lashes. A faint smile ghosted over his lips.

“I do care,” you muttered. “You look good like this.”

“…Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You worked in conditioner, fingers slow and sure. He leaned into the touch like a cat, lips parted, eyes closed.

“Mm. You like touchin’ me now.”

“I always liked touching you.”

He let that sit in the air a second. Then quietly:

“I think you like my real hair.”

“I do.”

“…Even if I’m not Ren anymore?”

“I didn’t want Ren. I wanted you.”

He made a small, choked sound. Like he wanted to argue, but didn’t have the words. Maybe because he finally believed it. Or maybe because your hands kept moving, gentle in their hair, coaxing trust out of him with every pass.

No protest. No mask. Just a man learning how to be held without falling apart.

You rinsed them clean, let your fingers drift down to trace the slope of their neck. He shivered. Not from cold.

“Alright,” you said softly, “let’s get dry. And eat. You’ll feel better.”

“…Can I lay in your lap after?”

You smiled. “Yeah. You can lay there as long as you want. As long we have time."

“Then I’ll eat,” he said, letting you pull him from the water.

And just like that—he followed.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, plate balanced in your lap, cutting into your stack of pancakes while [REDACTED] blinked slow and lazy beside you—still towel-damp, shirt clinging slightly at the collar, hair fluffy from your brushing. He looked more alive than you’d seen in weeks.

He was still blinking at his own plate like it was math.

“You’re staring,” you said, smiling as you dipped a forkful in syrup and held it out.

“M’just not used to this,” he mumbled, leaning forward obediently. “Someone else makin’ me breakfast. Feeding me. I should be the one who do it for you..."

You snorted. “That was one time.”

His lips curled up as he took the bite from your fork. “I swear I can cook Angel.....”

You kept eating and slipping bites onto his plate, then into his mouth when he got distracted scrolling through whatever was on his phone. Something code-heavy, no doubt—symbols and commands no sane person could understand.

After a moment, he glanced up from the screen, licking syrup from his lip. “ I might go start up the motorcycle later. Get the engine goin’ so it doesn’t fuck up sittin’ too long. I'll drop you off..."

You nodded absently, chewing.

“Yeah,” he muttered, eyes flicking back to his phone." “Just got some backend server crap to clean up. "Thought maybe I’d chill at the library while you’re workin’. S’nice there. Quiet.”

You tilted your head. “You’re asking permission?”

[REDACTED] made a face, like he was caught doing something suspicious. “No. I mean. Yes?”

You sighed in mock exasperation and pinched his cheek. “You dork. Of course it’s okay. Sit in the corner like a gremlin. I’ll sneak you snacks. If Norie gives me."

He looked down and smiled softly, like he wasn’t used to that kind of answer. Then you said it.

“I love you.”

Quiet. No bells. No buildup. Just there, like it had always been true. Soft and honest, like the sun through a kitchen window.

He froze.

Like his system crashed.

You said it first..

This was the first time, You said it first..

You reached forward and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing his skin, watching as something crumbled in his expression—like a wall melting under heat.

“...I love you,” you said again, more gently this time, like it needed to be said twice so it would stick.

His mouth opened slightly, like he was going to say something. But instead—he hugged you.

Hard.

Like he forgot how. Like it hurt a little. His fingers dug into your back and his breath hitched in your ear, and yeah—he was crying.

Not loudly. Not brokenly. Just—tears. Soft and quiet. Like he didn’t know how to stop them.

“I-I’m sorry,” he mumbled against your shoulder, breath trembling. “F-fuck, I’m—I’m just—this doesn’t happen to me, Angel, y’don’t—fuck…”

You held him tighter. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

Because he always, always hugged you like this when you told him. And you’d tell him again tomorrow. And the next day. And every day after, if it meant he’d believe it one day.

Even if he cried. Especially if he did.

He held you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go—even with your breath warm against his neck, even with your arms around his back. His hands curled in the fabric of your shirt, fists trembling, knuckles pale. Like he didn’t believe you were real. Like he didn’t believe he was allowed to be.

You could feel it in the way his body shook—quiet, contained, not dramatic but deep. Like grief with nowhere to go.

Because you knew. You knew exactly what sat beneath that silence.

He hates himself.

[REDACTED]—not Ren, not Haruko, not the soft-eyed persona he built from dreams and scraps of what he thought you’d want—but him. The boy.. who grew into someone sharp and terrifying. The person who survived by splitting themselves in two: the mask, and the monster beneath it.

He doesn’t believe you could love him for who he is. Not really.

He believes you’re too good. That your love must be mistaken. That if you saw too clearly, if you stopped looking at him through rose-colored light, you’d change your mind.

That Ren is loveable.

But [REDACTED]?

He thinks [REDACTED] is the one you shouldn’t love.

It hurts. It hurts more than you want to admit, watching him twist himself into shapes that make them feel smaller and quieter and easier to love.

But it’s fine.

And when you cupped his cheek, when your fingers slid into the strands of hair he never dyed back because you said it was okay not to—he crumbled. Quietly. The tears slipped without sound. His eyes wouldn’t leave yours.

So you leaned in. Pressed a kiss to his forehead, soft and slow.

“If you want me to say it again,” you whispered, “I will.”

His breath caught.

“I’ll say it every damn day. Every hour, if I have to.”

You kissed his cheek.

“Until you believe it. Until it sinks in.”

Your eyes met his. Steady. Unshakable.

“Not Ren. Not Haruko. Not whoever you think you have to be.”

You took his hand and pressed it over your heart.

“It’s you. [REDACTED]. Only you. Always you.”

You watched as he crumbled again—like someone whose bones had turned to dust, like your words were the first thing to ever make it past his walls.

And still, through the salt of his tears, he smiled. Just a little.

“I don’t deserve you,” he muttered.

You leaned forward, touched your forehead to his. “Then stay long enough until you do.”

He laughed—wet and broken. “Y’really gonna make me cry again, Angel.”

“I know.” You smiled. “That’s why I keep doing it.”

He hugged you again. This time tighter.

This time, maybe—just maybe—starting to believe....

A little at a time...

The world has never treated you kind, It bruised your heart and clouded your mind. You were gentle — soft, and bright, But life turned that glow into quiet night.

Now you barely feel like you're real, Too broken to touch, too numb to feel. You search for something to make you whole, A reason to stay, a home for your soul.

And when you find it, you'll never let go, You'll hold it through fire, through storm, through snow. Because you love deep — and ache even more, You've lost so much you're always at war.

But listen now, and let these words stay: You're still a soul worth loving today. Even if you can’t yet see what I do, You are still light. The world just hid you.

Okay REDACTED..?

INSPO FROM!!!

What 14DWY Character are you? - Quiz | Quotev

From the official server!

intro post perhaps? 👀❓❓

maybe idk I'm lazy and yeah words are hard

you’re laughing. they’re horrifically misinterpreting my favorite character’s personality and you’re laughing

Projectile puked these scribbles onto my tablet after reading The Maze of the Sphinx. I am in so much pain. Spoilers.

"There were two figures in silhouette next to the terrifying figure, with their backs turned to him. One looked like a kid. Garmadon stared, transfixed.

Is that future guy... me? Is my father right? Is there really evil inside me? And those people- why are they turned away from me?

A feeling of utter loneliness and despair swept over him. He couldn't take his eyes off the image.

"NOOOOOOOOO!" he wailed."