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nappingnai · 1 month ago

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A day to remember

( killer chat ) wedding day ronin x reader ... angst ...

trigger warning:

gore

The sky was a smear of bruised red and deep violet, the horizon bleeding into the earth as if the heavens themselves had cracked open. The field of spider lilies stretched endlessly before you, their crimson heads swaying in a silent, hypnotic rhythm, like a thousand whispered prayers to gods long forgotten. You had come here by instinct, drawn to the place where life and death seemed to tangle, where beauty thrived on the precipice of decay.

Ronin stood in the centre of the field, his dark figure stark against the sea of crimson. He was waiting, as he always seemed to be, his presence magnetic yet unnerving, like the pull of gravity before a fall. The wind caught in his hair, the strands wild and black as a crow's wing, framing his face in shadows that moved with unnatural grace. His eyes met yours, sharp and glinting with a light that didn't belong to the dying sun.

You moved toward him, your steps hesitant at first, as though crossing a threshold into another world. The air thickened with each stride, heavy with the scent of iron and something sweetly rotten, as though the flowers themselves were bleeding beneath your feet. It was a beautiful kind of wrongness, a paradox you couldn't resist, just like him.

When you were close enough to see the sharp curve of his jaw and the smudge of dirt on his cheek, you stopped. He tilted his head, a predatory motion, the corner of his mouth curving into a smile that promised both tenderness and ruin. In his hands, he cradled something wrapped in linen: the white fabric stained dark, the edges fraying as if it had been torn from something larger, more violent.

He took a step closer, and you could see his boots crushing the spider lilies beneath them, the petals breaking apart like bloodstains against the black leather. He was unstoppable, a force of nature, and he owned this moment.

"I have something for you," he said, his voice low and rough, a sound that enveloped you like smoke. He unfolded the linen slowly, deliberately, revealing what lay within. Your breath hitched, the sight arresting in its horror and grotesque beauty.

A heart.

It was heavy in his hands, its surface slick and glistening, veins still pulsing faintly as if defying the reality of its removal. Blood dripped from its edges, staining the white linen and then the ground below, mingling with the crushed petals. The sight was visceral, primal, a gift torn from life itself, and yet it didn't repulse you. It mesmerised you, much like the man holding it.

"For you," he murmured, his tone soft and reverent, as though he were offering up a piece of himself. Perhaps he was. His hands trembled, just barely, betraying the emotion he rarely let surface. "Because you are the only one who could hold it without breaking it further."

You didn't reach for it immediately. Instead, you stared at him, searching his face for some hint of cruelty, of mockery. But there was none. His expression was raw, unadorned, and unguarded. This was no joke, no twisted game. It was a declaration, a vow.

Your hands lifted instinctively, trembling as they approached the bloodied offering. When your fingers brushed against the slick surface, warm and alive, Ronin's breath caught, his chest rising sharply. His gaze never left yours, as if he were committing every second of this moment to memory.

"You always said I had no heart," he said, his voice breaking slightly, a thread of vulnerability woven into the words. "Maybe you're right. But if there's anything left of me worth giving, it's this."

The weight of the heart in your hands felt heavier than expected, the blood seeping between your fingers, warm and thick. Yet, holding it felt like claiming something ancient, something sacred. The spider lilies seemed to lean toward you, their petals trembling as though in witness.

Ronin stepped closer, his hand lifting to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. His touch was careful despite the blood smearing your skin. His eyes softened, the sharpness dulling into something warm, something achingly human. "I would give you everything," he said. "I would give you everything, even the parts of me that I don't deserve to keep."

The field held its breath, the world narrowing until you and he were alone, the bloody heart between you a bond forged in the fire of something neither of you could name. You felt tears prickling your eyes, not from sadness, but from the sheer weight of his offering, his love, his raw, unfiltered truth.

"Ronin," you breathed, his name a prayer, a promise, a plea. He leaned down, his forehead pressing gently against yours, his breath warm and steady, grounding you.

"Don't say anything," he said, his voice barely audible, trembling with restraint. "Just tell me you'll stay. That you'll take me, broken as I am."

You knew the answer without even thinking about it. It was already etched into your bones, carved into your soul by the way he had always seen you, always chosen you, even in his ruin. "I'll stay," you declared, the words a vow that spilled from your lips like blood from the heart you still held.

His eyes closed, his exhale shuddered, and you felt the tension bleed from him, the hard edges softening entirely. He took the heart from your hands, carefully and reverently, and placed it on the ground between the lilies, as if offering it back to the earth from which all life and death stemmed.

Then he turned back to you, his hands now free, and pulled you into his arms. The scent of blood and crushed flowers wrapped around you, but it was his warmth, his solidity, that anchored you. You pressed your face against his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear a comfort that no words could match.

In that field of spider lilies, under the fractured sky, the two of you stood entwined, your love forged in blood and beauty, in the spaces between life and death. You knew then that nothing, not even the weight of the world, could tear you apart.

The days have passed in a haze of preparation, a feverish yet steady march toward the moment where vows will bind your life to Ronin's in a way deeper than blood. The air itself feels different; charged with anticipation and something heavier, something ancient, as if the world understands the gravity of what you're about to promise.

The house is quiet this morning, but not still. You have been awake for hours, moving between tasks with a focus that borders on obsession. Your hands are smeared with paint, or perhaps it's dried blood from the bouquet of roses you've been trimming, their thorns biting into your fingers like tiny promises of pain. It suits the occasion. Love has always been sharp.

A dress—or suit, or something neither—hangs on the doorframe, catching the soft, pale light that filters through the window. It's simple yet striking, a reflection of you in fabric and thread. Ronin hasn't seen it yet; he'd insisted on tradition, on the sanctity of first looks being reserved for the altar. You laughed at his insistence, but there was something endearing about his stubbornness, the way his hard edges softened in the name of sentiment.

The flowers were the hardest part. Ronin wanted spider lilies, the kind that bloomed in that strange and sacred field where he first laid his heart bare to you. You returned there together, plucking the blood-red petals with reverence, your hands brushing as you worked in tandem. Now, the lilies rest in glass jars on every surface, their fiery hue setting the room ablaze with colour.

On the table before you lies a small pile of invitations you never sent. They are like ghosts of what could have been, their edges curled slightly from neglect. Neither of you has many people to invite. You told Ronin it didn't matter, that the ceremony was for the two of you alone. He nodded, his eyes shadowed but warm, and the invitations remained unfinished.

The rings rest in a carved wooden box, their metallic sheen dull in the dim light. Ronin crafted them himself, his hands working tirelessly at his workbench for weeks. You remember the way he showed them to you, his expression a mixture of pride and uncertainty, the metal still warm from his touch. "I wanted them to be ours," he'd said, his voice low and rough. "Not something anyone else could give you."

You catch sight of your reflection in the window. It's faint and ghostly. There are smudges of ash on your cheek, remnants of the incense you burned earlier. The scent of incense still lingers in the air, thick and heady, mingling with the metallic tang of the lilies and the faint trace of oil from Ronin's workbench.

He's at the shop today, fixing engines as though the world isn't about to shift beneath your feet. You imagine him there, his hands blackened with grease, his jaw set in that familiar way that tells you he's deep in thought. He has been quieter these past few days, his silences stretching longer, but not out of reluctance. His silence is like the stillness before a storm, charged with meaning he hasn't yet found the words to express.

The knife you've been using to trim the flowers rests on the counter, its blade glinting in the light. There's a beauty in its sharpness, its precision, how it transforms chaos into purpose. You think of Ronin's hands, how they are both capable of destruction and creation, how they hold you with a gentleness that belies their strength.

The evening creeps in, painting the walls with shadows. You light another candle, the flame dancing against the encroaching darkness. The preparations are almost finished, but you feel a restless longing for the man who will soon stand beside you at the altar. You wonder if he feels it too, this quiet desperation to fast-forward time, to arrive at the moment when everything will finally, irrevocably change.

You glance at the letters again, your fingers running over the uneven script of his name on the envelope you'll never send. Your heart tightens as you feel the weight of what's to come pressing against your ribs. This isn't fear. It's a recognition of the enormity of what you're about to do.

The field of spider lilies flashes in your mind: vivid and raw. You see his figure there, dark and imposing, holding out his bloody offering with trembling hands. That moment feels like a lifetime ago, yet it's the thread that ties you to this one, the unbreakable line that brought you here.

The house feels smaller now, too quiet. You reach for the bouquet, its petals soft and fragile, a stark contrast to the sharpness of the thorns. You can picture Ronin's face when he sees them at the altar, his eyes softening, his mouth curving into that rare, unguarded smile that you live for.

A knock at the door abruptly interrupts the silence. You open the door to find Ronin there. His hands are streaked with grease, his hair is dishevelled and his eyes are heavy but warm. He looks at you like you're the only thing in the world, his gaze lingering on the flowers in your hands before returning to your face.

"I thought I'd stop by," he says, his voice low and gravelly. "Make sure you're not doing too much."

You smile, stepping aside to let him in. He moves with the quiet confidence of someone who knows he belongs, his presence filling the room like the tide returning to shore. He glances at the spider lilies, the rings, the unfinished letters, and you see the tension in his shoulders ease.

He pulls you into his arms without a word, his embrace firm and grounding. You press your face against his chest, breathing in the scent of oil and smoke and something indefinably him. His heart beats steadily beneath your cheek, a quiet rhythm that anchors you.

"Are you ready for this?" he asks, his voice lowered to a whisper against your hair.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your hands resting lightly on his chest. "With you?" you say, your voice steady despite the chaos in your heart. "Always."

He smiles, rare and unguarded, lighting up the shadows. In that moment, you know that no matter what lies ahead, you will face it together, bound by the sharpness of your love, the thorns and the petals intertwined.

The morning arrives in a surreal stillness, the air heavy and the light soft. The world is holding its breath for what's to come. You wake before dawn, your nerves tingling with anticipation. The small room has a strong scent of spider lilies and wood smoke, which is both grounding and disorienting. You look in the mirror. Your face is pale but steady, your eyes brighter than they should be.

Only a few are coming today—just the people who have wandered too close to the edges of your lives and found themselves drawn in. Friends is too simple a word for them. They are witnesses, chosen not for who they are but for their silence, their willingness to watch without questioning. They know better than to pry.

The ceremony is in the same field of spider lilies where Ronin gave you his heart – or what remained of it. The flowers look different today, darker somehow, their red petals nearly black under the overcast sky. The clouds above churn sluggishly, like a storm too tired to break. You arrive alone, your outfit simple but striking, chosen not for its beauty but for its weight, its presence.

Ronin is already there, standing at the makeshift altar. His figure is sharp against the sea of crimson; he is poised to cut through the air with his blade. Dressed in black, his silhouette almost blends into the shadows, except for the pale scar that runs across his jaw, a reminder of battles fought and survived. His eyes meet yours as you approach, and in them is that same mixture of softness and menace, the tenderness that exists only for you and the ferocity that would raze the earth in your name.

The officiant speaks, its words low and steady, but you barely hear them. Your eyes are on Ronin: his hands, scarred and calloused, twitching at his sides as if eager to reach for you; his breath, slow and controlled, but shallow enough to betray the storm beneath his ribs. His lips curve into a ghost of a smile as he holds your gaze, and the world around you fades into a blur of red and shadow.

When it's time to speak your vows, your voice trembles only slightly. The words you've chosen are simple but deliberate, each one a thread binding you to him. Ronin listens intently, his head tilted slightly, his expression unreadable save for the flicker of something ancient and raw in his eyes.

When it's his turn, his voice is rough, weighted with emotion he rarely shows. "You are the only thing that matters," he says, his words slow and deliberate. "The only thing that's ever mattered. I will give you everything I am, even the parts of me that are broken."

His hand reaches out, fingers brushing against yours, and for a moment, everything feels fragile and perfect, like glass balanced on the edge of a blade. You notice the others, the witnesses, who have remained silent but uneasy.

Then he moves.

It happens in a blink, faster than thought. His hand pierces your chest, his fingers slicing through fabric and flesh with the precision of a blade. The pain is immediate, searing, but it's eclipsed by the shock, the surrealness of watching his hand buried in you up to the wrist.

Your breath catches, your vision blurs, but you don't fall. His grip is firm, holding you upright even as your blood paints the front of your outfit in violent streaks of crimson. The metallic scent of blood fills the air, mingling with the spider lilies, their petals trembling as if in witness to this macabre act of devotion.

Ronin's eyes are fixed on yours. They are wide and burning with something indescribable – love, madness, reverence, all tangled together. His expression is raw, his usual hard exterior shattered, leaving only the vulnerability he shows only to you.

"You gave me yours," he whispers, his voice trembling. "Now it's my turn."

His hand withdraws slowly, and in it, cradled delicately as if it's the most precious thing in the world, is your heart. It's still beating, the rhythm weak but steady, its surface slick with blood that drips onto the ground below. The sight is grotesque, horrifying—and yet, there's a strange beauty in it, a reverence that makes your breath hitch despite the agony.

Ronin kneels, lowering your heart to the ground as though offering it to the lilies themselves. He rises, his bloodied hand reaching to cup your face, his touch impossibly gentle. You're swaying, on the verge of collapse, but he steadies you, his other arm firmly around your waist, holding you upright.

"You'll live," he says firmly, a promise and a command. "I'll make sure of it."

The crowd is silent, their faces pale and eyes wide, but they don't interfere. They know better. This is your ritual, your bond, something sacred and incomprehensible to anyone else.

Ronin presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your lips. His thumb traces the contours of your face, brushing away tears you didn't notice. "You're mine," he murmurs, his voice breaking. "And I'm yours. Always."

The pain fades, your body numb from the intensity of the moment. You nod, your hands clutching at his shirt as if to anchor yourself to him, to this reality. Despite the blood, the chaos and the surrealness of it all, you feel a peace settling over you, a sense of rightness.

The spider lilies lean closer, their red petals almost black, drinking in the spilled blood as though it's their lifeblood too. The air is thick with tension, as if the world itself is bearing witness to your union.

Ronin leans down and kisses you, his lips brushing yours. The taste is of copper and salt, of love and sacrifice. It's not gentle, not soft, but it's real, and it's everything.

When he pulls back, his eyes are steady, his expression fierce yet tender. "We'll finish this together," he says, his voice steady despite the storm in his eyes. "No matter what."

As the world spins around you, your blood mingling with the earth, you know he means it.

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nappingnai · 1 month ago

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Loving your perfections

( killer chat ) ronin x reader .... hurt/comfort

trigger warning:

self harm / mention of self harm

“May I kiss your scars?”

The house is silent, yet it screams. Every room is filled with the weight of unspoken words, averted gazes, and unfulfilled hands reaching for you. The air is thick and heavy, pressing down on your chest and making it difficult to breathe. You move through the space like a ghost, your footsteps careful, your voice quiet, as though you know you're there and they'd better get used to it.

Their love is conditional and fleeting. It's like the faint warmth of a sunbeam on a cold day, there for a moment and then gone. You know better than to expect tenderness or hope for affection. Hope is dangerous here. Hope is crushed under the weight of their indifference, their biting words and their quick tempers.

The bruises may not always show, but they linger. Sometimes they leave ugly marks on your skin, a stark testament to their rage. More often, they take root in your mind, spreading like a dark vine that chokes out your self-worth. They tell you it's your fault – you're too loud, too sensitive, too much – and you believe them because they are supposed to be your foundation, your truth. But you know better.

The little cruelties are the worst. A sneer when you try to share something you love is unacceptable. A laugh at your tears is unacceptable. They dismiss your dreams as foolish, as if the very act of wanting is something to be ashamed of. You learn to bottle up your joy, to stifle your pain, to exist in a muted, half-formed version of yourself because you know that anything more is dangerous.

You have tried to make them see you and hear you. You've tried to be perfect, to earn their love through achievements, through obedience, through silence. And you will. But when their attention is finally given, it's like a spotlight burning you. It burns you with expectations you can never meet and leaves you feeling like it has slapped you across the face with disappointment.

Sometimes, you see what could be. You see it in the rare moments when their guard is down. A soft word, a hand resting on your shoulder for just a second too long. You cling to those scraps, weaving them into something resembling love, even though you know deep down it's not enough. It will never be enough.

You carry this with you: the emptiness, the ache. It becomes part of you, influencing how you see the world and how you see yourself. You recoil from kindness, distrust sincerity because you know love is a weapon disguised as a gift. You know you will feel whole again and you will be free of their shadow.

And yet, you endure. You build walls to protect what's left of you. You shield the fragile parts they couldn't reach. You find solace in the small things: the warmth of the sun on your face, the pages of a book, the laughter of a friend who sees you as you are. It may not be enough to heal you, not yet, but it's enough to remind you that life can hold more than this. There is a version of you that is loved, that is whole, that is free, and it exists beyond their grasp.

The walls of your home close in, suffocating you under the weight of words too sharp, too cruel. They echo in your mind long after they've been spoken, embedding themselves like shards of glass beneath your skin. The air is thick with tension, a poisonous fog that clings to every corner, every breath. You can feel it settling in your bones, heavy and unyielding, leaving you hollowed out and aching.

The voices rise and fall, but they never really stop. They lash out like whips, tearing through your fragile defences until all that's left is raw, bleeding vulnerability. You sit there staring at the cracks in the wall, your body motionless as your mind screams for escape. The urge to flee grows stronger with each passing second, but where would you go? This is your home - or at least it's supposed to be.

The pain begins as a whisper, a quiet plea at the back of your mind, promising release, promising control. It grows louder with every tear you swallow, every insult you endure, until it becomes deafening, a relentless roar that demands to be silenced. Your hands tremble as you reach for the blade, the cold metal biting into your palm like a lifeline.

The first cut is tentative, a thin red line drawn across your skin. The pain is sharp, immediate, but it's also grounding, a reminder that you're still here, still alive. You watch as the blood gushes out, bright and crimson, and for a moment the chaos settles. The noise in your head fades, replaced by the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, the warmth of the blood trickling down your arm.

But it doesn't last. The relief is fleeting, fading as quickly as it came, leaving only guilt and a deeper ache. The blade is no longer enough to drown out the storm, no longer enough to numb the pain. The cuts grow deeper, the blood flows faster, but the emptiness inside you only grows, an insatiable void that swallows everything in its path.

You know you can't stay here, not tonight. The walls are too close, the voices too loud, the blade too tempting. You reach for your phone, your fingers shaking as you type a message to your boyfriend. The words are simple, almost apologetic: Can I come over? I just need to get away from here.

Ronin reply comes quickly, reassuring in its brevity: I'll wait, darling.

You slip out of the house under the cover of darkness, the chill of the night air biting at your skin. The walk to his place feels endless, each step heavy with the weight of your exhaustion, your shame. You clutch your sleeve tightly, hiding the fresh cuts beneath the fabric, but the sting is a constant reminder of your fragility.

When you arrive, Ronin is already at the door, opening it instantly. Inside, the atmosphere is very different from the chaos you left behind. The air is calm, the walls free of tension, the silence soothing rather than oppressive. He leads you to the couch, his hand never leaving yours, and you sink into the cushions with a sigh that feels like surrender.

Ronin disappears for a moment and returns with a blanket and a cup of tea or coffee, their warmth a balm for the cold that has seeped into your soul. You take the beverage with trembling hands, your fingers brushing against his as you murmur a quiet thank you.

As the night wears on, Ronin stays by your side, his presence a constant anchor in the storm. He doesn't ask about the cuts, though his gaze lingers on your sleeve more than once. Instead, he talks about small things - his day at work, a funny story about a mutual friend, though it is most likely a rant about V - filling the silence with a gentle hum of normalcy.

That night, as you lie in Ronin’s bed, wrapped in the cocoon of his warmth, you feel the tiniest glimmer of hope. It's faint, fragile, but it's there - a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there's a light waiting to guide you back.

In the stillness of Ronin’s room, the blade feels miles away, its hold on you weakened by the power of his love. And though the storm still rages within you, you take comfort in knowing you don't have to face it alone.

The night deepens, shadows stretching long across the room as you lie there, cocooned in the sanctuary of his presence. His breathing is a soft cadence, steady and grounding, and you cling to it like a lifeline. The silence here isn't suffocating; it feels wide and open, a space where you can finally exhale without fear of your vulnerability being weaponized.

Your fingers brush against Ronin’s, tentative at first, as if afraid to disturb this fragile peace. But as he moves closer in his sleep, his arm draped protectively over your waist, you feel a flicker of something you thought you'd lost: the faintest echo of safety. Ronin’s warmth seeps into you, chasing away the cold that has clung to your skin all day, and for a moment the weight on your chest lifts just enough to let you breathe.

But the darkness inside you isn't so easily silenced. It lingers at the edges, coiled and waiting, whispering its cruel truths in the quiet of the night. This is temporary, it hisses. It'll be tiring. He'll leave. You'll always be too much. The absence of the blade feels like a pain, its promise of releasing a ghost that haunts you even here.

You close your eyes, trying to drown out the voices, but they're relentless, their barbs digging deeper into your mind. A small sob escapes, muffled against the pillow, and you freeze, afraid to wake him, afraid to shatter the fragile peace of this moment. But then Ronin’s arm tightens around you, his hand brushing your back in a sleepy gesture of comfort, and the dam breaks.

The tears come in a torrent, hot and unrelenting, spilling down your cheeks as your body shakes with the force of them. The bed creaks softly as Ronin stirs, his warmth drawing closer in the stillness of the night. His hand brushes against your shoulder, tentative, like an unspoken question. Through the blur of tears, you feel the mattress sink as he sits up beside you, his presence steady, unwavering. The room is dark, but his concern is a piercing light, pulling you back from the brink, inch by inch.

Ronin doesn't rush, doesn't ask for explanations. Instead, he moves with the patience of someone who knows the fragility of this moment, as if one wrong word could cause you to crumble further. His fingers find yours, hesitantly but deliberately, and he gives a gentle squeeze, a silent I'm here. "Can I touch you?" Ronin murmurs, his voice a quiet anchor in the storm.

When you nod, almost imperceptibly, Ronin moves closer. His hands are careful as they guide you upright, his touch grounding, never forceful. Ronin watches you, his gaze soft but intent, as if you're the only thing that matters in this vast, uncaring world. His hands linger on your arms, not to hold you down but to steady you, to let you know you're not alone in this moment of unravelling.

The tears come harder now, spilling unchecked, but his presence doesn't waver. He stays with you, his hands a reassuring weight, Ronin’s voice a low murmur of comfort. "I have you," he says, not as a promise to fix you, but as a vow to stay, to hold space for your grief. In his steadiness, you feel the first faint threads of safety, a fragile reminder that even in your darkest moments, you don't have to face them alone.

The days blur together, a haze of pain and fleeting moments of comfort, but his presence remains constant, like the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. Every night, when the weight of the world weighs too heavily on your chest, you find yourself in his arms, seeking the solace you can't seem to find anywhere else. His hands are gentle, his voice a soft murmur, grounding you in the present when your mind threatens to spiral out of control.

One evening, after the storm inside you has left you hollow and trembling, he gently takes your hand in his. His touch is reverent, as if you were something fragile, something precious. "May I?" he asks, his eyes searching yours, filled with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. You nod, unsure of what he's asking, but trusting him anyway.

He slowly lifts your sleeve, revealing the lines etched into your skin, a map of your pain. For a moment he says nothing, his fingers tracing the scars with a touch so light it's almost ghostly. His brow furrows, not with disgust or pity, but with an aching kind of sorrow, as if he wishes he could reach back in time and pull you away from the blade, for he too understands that feeling.

Before you can react, he leans down, his lips brushing one of the scars, soft and warm. The kiss lingers, a silent promise, before he pulls away to meet your gaze. "You're still here," he says, his voice shaking with emotion. "You're still fighting. That's worth celebrating."

His words unravel something deep inside you, a knot of shame and self-loathing you've carried for far too long. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, but before they can fall, Ronin kisses another scar, his lips soft against the raised line. You want to protest, to tell Ronin he's wrong, that these marks are a testament to your failure, not your strength. But the way Ronin looks at you, with a tenderness that seems to reach into the depths of your soul, leaves you speechless.

Ronin continues, moving slowly, deliberately, his lips brushing each scar as if to seal it with love, with acceptance. "You are not your pain," he murmurs between kisses. The vulnerability of the moment is overwhelming, like standing naked in the middle of a storm. Ronin’s words pierce the darkness in your mind, scattering the shadows with their light. For the first time, you're not ashamed of your scars; you feel seen, truly seen, in a way that takes your breath away.

As he finishes, Ronin’s hands move to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that have begun to fall. "You are breathtaking," Ronin says, his voice firm but gentle, as if daring you to argue. "Every part of you, even the parts you try to hide."

The sincerity in his voice is undeniable, and it breaks something inside you. The walls you've built around your heart, fortified by years of pain and fear, begin to crumble, leaving you raw but free.

You lean into his touch, your forehead resting against his as you close your eyes. The words you've been too afraid to say, too ashamed to believe, fall from your lips in a whisper. "Thank you."

The night feels sacred now, the air between you charged with an unspoken understanding. His presence wraps around you like a warm blanket, shielding you from the cold emptiness that has so often consumed you.

As you lie together, Ronin’s arms holding you close, the scars on your skin no longer feel like a burden. They're part of your story, yes, but they don't define you. Not when Ronin looks at you like this, as if you're something worthy, something whole.

The night is still and quiet, but something inside you is beginning to shift. It's small, almost imperceptible, but it's there - a spark of hope, a flicker of light in the darkness. And as his arms tighten around you, you know you're not alone in fanning it into a flame.

Love, you realize, isn't about fixing what's broken. It's about holding the pieces, cherishing them, and reminding each other that even in the midst of pain, there is beauty. And in that moment, as his warmth surrounds you and his words linger in your heart, you feel that beauty for the first time in a long time.

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nappingnai · 1 month ago

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Hi!! Hope you're doing good! :) Can you write a mute MC x Ronin fanfic? (they had a lot of vc during the game, it would be nice to have them play truth or dare). Thank you <3

The Devil is your voice.

You were tapping a rhythm on your desk nervously. You have just received a invite to some wacky server on dark web. It was strange truly, you just wanted someone to tell you how killing with a crowbar worked, but now you were being invited to a community? Maybe people with interests similar to your would be there?

You sighed, one of the only sounds that ever left your mouth and didn't sound weird or muffled because of your disability. Yes, you're mute. You visited more doctors and therapists since your muteness was found out than any adult in your family ever had.

You didn't have many friends, not a lot od people wanted to speak to the weird quiet kid who always sat alone and had some form of special treatment. Solitude does strange things to people, for you it was hyperfixating on murderers and stories about them. You were in love with the gore, a murder didn't need voice to be gruesome and intriguing, that's what you loved the most about it.

You clicked the link. Filled in the password that the random person sent and a copy-paste version of Discord was in front of your eyes now.

goreboy: welcome new christanaised @user!

hitmeuppp: WELCOME TO HELL

More welcoming messages were sent by the server's members. You watched it all in confusion, no one was so welcoming to you before. It felt pleasant. Even if they were greeting you because they wanted to be polite, it made you smile a little bit. It's definitely the loneliness that made you so excited because of a few silly greetings.

user: Hello :)

goreboy: don't Forget to check #rules

goreboy: there's barely Anything there but yk

You clicked on the rules channel, it would be best to follow their rules especially after the wam welcome. You were expecting a long list of rules, but what you saw exceeded all your expectations.

goreboy: be a serial killer, First rule of fight club. oh yeah and don't Be transphobic, racist and other weird shit. or angel will Snipe you.

Angelic: And it's not a threat, it's a promise.

. . . What.

Serial killers? No, that has to be a joke. Right?

You spent weeks in the server, and it turns out that these are real serial killers. The Butcher, The Heartsick Angel and some more. You were positively horrified? Yes, they could discover you and kill you, but you could gain more knowledge to your book. The only risk you're facing is losing your life, and it's only if you won't play the game right.

The person who stuck in your mind the most was goreboy, also known as The Butcher, or Ronin. He held his surname as a secret, you weren't too angry about it, you had a secret on your own too, or more than one secret actually.

You decided to hide the fact that you're mute, you were worried that they would treat you like other people did. There was one big problem tho, the killers really wanted you to join voice calls with them and you couldn't just give them half assed excuses, right? To your surprise every time they wanted to call with you, Ronin appeared from nowhere to save you.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: Hey dude hop on call with us!!!! @user

hitmeuppp: yeah! we have to hear you :3

What the hell are you supposed to do now?

While you were struggling to find a new excuse, Ronin decided to come out and save you... again.

goreboy: sorry folks

goreboy: the devil Is on the Line rn

You were surprised every time he did that. Why would Ronin keep on saving you? What's there in it for him?

You decided to send him a dm, it's time to face the devil.

user: Why are you doing this?

goreboy: doin' what?

goreboy: saving your ass? well it's not fun to watch you think of a Magical excuse

goreboy: Unfortunately they stopped working, killers are ready To attack

goreboy: and trust me, Eight murderers at your ass? that's not fun.

You read his messages, it made sense right? But wait... how did he know about the excuses being lies? His style of texting infatuated you too. Why the capital letters in the middle of a sentence?

You remembered Angel saying something about Ronin hiding messages like that. You decided to follow it and read the four capitalized letters.

Mute.

oh.

oh no. He knows.

goreboy is calling.

You didn't even have time to panic, Ronin didn't wait around, he just called. Well it's good to see the person who can be a serious threat to you, how the saying goes; keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

You picked up. A guy with plum coloured hair hidden under a beanie with red horns was looking at you. His eyes black and empty, like two black holes ready to swallow you.

< Hey darling. >

He signed. It was slow, like he tried t be careful about his movements. It felt like he was fairly new at this, the floppiness was there.

Wait.

He did what?!

Well, that was a shocker to say the least. You were looking at Ronin, your eyes widened.

< You sign? >

You signed back, sharp and fast, matching you anxiety, the first shock slowly left You were looking at Ronin's face, he was focusing his attention on your hands, then he just chuckled and shook his head.

"I assume that you asked if I know sign language? Well, I started to learn after I discovered your little issue."

He admitted, a smirk glued to his face. He was amused. You were amusing to him...

You sighed, guess you'll have to type most of your questions.

user: How do you know about this?

He read your message and then looked back at you.

"Wasn't hard. You should be careful about the links your click, Y/N."

So grabbing your IP wasn't just a joke. Does it mean that he knows everything? No, if he did you would be dead, he would know that you are not a serial killer.

user: Why are you keeping my secret?

He didn't answer your question. He just looked into your eyes.

"Why do you?"

And with that he hang up. Great, that's definitely a good sign. A good sign to look for a coffin.

Before you could notice two months had passed since you joined the server, Ronin was now officially shipped with you by half of the server, and he didn't argue with them. He messaged you and called you, he did some progress with his sign language, even invented some unique signs just for the two of you.

"Hey, let's play truth or dare."

He said while the two of you were on call, you raised your eyebrow at him and he just chuckled.

"Don't give me that look, I won't dare you to confess your deepest darkest secrets darling."

You sighed and shook your head in disbelief.

< Fine. Truth or dare? >

Your hand movements were slower than usual. Yeah, Ronin could understand some of the language, but your usual pace was too fast for him to catch up with it. You weren't going to give him the upper hand here, so you asked first.

"Truth."

There were a lot of questions you wanted to ask him, about his work, motives, reasons, but one question in particular was above all of these.

user: Are you and Angel a thing?

That question was boiling in your mind. You needed to know, inspiration or not, you didn't want to write about or romance anyone who is dating, especially when their partner is a dangerous serial killer.

Ronin frowned at the question, looking away with a slight blush.

"Hah, so you noticed... Yes and no. Yeah I used to date Angel, nah we're not a thing. She taught me a lot, gave me love... closure too."

He looked back at you and smirked.

"Don't you dare tell her this sappy bullshit or you'll be fish feed."

You nodded. His answer lifted a wight off of your shoulders. Not like you had any chances with Ronin, you doubt that someone like him would like you, someone who can't talk.

"My turn. Truth or dare darling?"

He asked, you signed < dare > in response.

"Go to main, and tell'em you're obsessed with me."

Well that was an unexpected dare, but who were you to not indulge the devil in his schemes?

#main:

user: I'm obsessed with Ronin :3

Aaand sent. Time to watch the hell's gate open.

hitmeuppp: OMG WHAT

Angelic: Even I wasn't so shameless

felicite: @goreboy someone left a confession for you

goreboy: guess my Devilish charm is Working heh

"Hah! That's a good one."

He said.

You played two more rounds before the final one.

"So, 's the last round. I'm going for dare."

You thought for a second, something silly and stupid, no need to stay all serious.

user: made me a server mod ;p

"Oh hide that smug-mug."

He chuckled once he looked at your proud smile. Ronin really took pride in watching your expressions, how your mouth was forming into a smile or a scowl, your nose wrinkled when you were thinking or annoyed, or your eyes lit up when he was showing the signs the learned.

"Done."

And he hang up.

You checked and holy shit! You really are a mod now.

That was a shocker, but you couldn't expect Ronin to act rationally or be predictable, so it wasn't that weird to receive that role from him.

Ronin was really into playing his little mind games with you. Trying to irritate you to see different emotions on your face, getting you so angry that you will make sounds like groans and loud sighs, it was satisfying him. He knew that pushing you to say words would be too much, he didn't need you to speak anyway. Learning other ways to communicate or read you were a challenge, and the devil never backed away from any challenge.

December. A time for Christmas and what not. You were sitting by your desk, adding finishing touches to one of the reports you had to send back to your boss soon, at least as a news writer you didn't have to worry about talking.

You noticed how some of the killers were less active in their murderous escapades, maybe other than Angel and Ronin, Angel dropped six kills one day and Ronin, well you could feel how his murders were more of an anger outburst? Like he was hiding something in the massacred bodies.

user: Ronin are you free to talk?

You rarely asked him to call, it was mostly Ronin who did that, he called you out of the blue and talked, showing you the new signs he learned and followed your "instructions" when you noticed that one of the sign was floppier than the rest.

He got really good with signing now, you didn't have to type as much as you did before, his learning source must've been really good or expensive, or both, for him to get this well so quickly.

He wasn't replying for a while, but you could swear that he was burning a hole in his computer screen with his stare. Finally the devil graced you with a reply.

goreboy: oh you're Asking for a Call?

goreboy: how can i Ever say No to this?

user: Srs? A Hamilton ref?

goreboy: jus call me already darl

And you did. Ronin's face was in front of you now. He didn't look so himself? That devil-may-care attitude was less noticeable, maybe for a regular person he would look the same, but you learned to notice small details in people's body language and expressions.

< Are you okay? >

Your hands moved smoothly, still slower than normally but you didn't have to be so careful about every sign.

"Jus the season."

He said with a shrug. His eyes showed exhaustion, and just how upset he was.

"Nah, I don't want to talk about that."

It's like he read your mind, you wanted to ask about it, but his answer made you drop it.

"What'dya wanted to talk about?"

He asked, titling his head to the side and looking at the mask in his hand, some fresh blood was on it.

< You just killed someone, haven't you? >

"And what if I did? That fucking pastor deserved to die anyway."

You heard it, there was anger laced under his act. He was angry, but it wasn't the pastor, no. It was something way deeper than that.

You were jealous of Ronin, or rather of anyone who could speak freely. Yeah, you're used to not talking, but expressing yourself through more than how your hands moved or what kind of expression you had was something you desired.

"Thinking how much you yearn to speak, hm darling?"

Ronin asked, his chin resting on his palm as he looked at you, His gaze was knowing, like he could read you like an opened book.

< I just want people to understand me better Ronin. >

Your hands were shaking a little bit, your emotions were guiding you to spill everything out.

< I don't want to hide myself anymore, but what if they won't understand? What if I won't be accepted? >

The rest of your killer friends were on your mind, you hated refusing the voice calls, you hated hiding this secret. Okay you were lying about being a killer, but this was something that you had to do in order to survive.

"Then spill your guts."

Ronin's voice broke through the barrier of your mind and brought you back.

"Jus spill it. If they like you they will understand, and if they don't accept then they're assholes. You're not the only disabled one here."

You could guess who he was talking about. A sigh left your lips. He was right.

< Thank you Ronin, I hope that you will be willing to tell me whatever you're dealing with one day too. >

This call was short, but it was helpful. You saw a more raw side of Ronin and he helped you make up your mind...

On the New Year's Eve you decided to confess your disability to the server, so maybe now they would understand why you were avoiding the calls so much.

user: Hey guys. I wanted to tell you all something. I can't hide it anymore. The reason why I never agreed to the voice calls is because I am mute. I'm sorry for not saying sooner, I had some unpleasant situations with people after my confession.

You sent the message and in nerves started to look at other chats to see if you didn't miss any messages... Then the first ! showed up next to #main and you had to click it.

goreboy: they're not lying folks

Well at least Ronin took your side here.

K9: I understand.

Ah yes, the simple answer from V, no excitement or disappointment, just a simple sign of acceptance coming from the vigilante.

Angelic: I'm happy to know that you trust us enough to share this <3

After three more encouraging messages you broke down, tears running down your cheeks. It was the first time anyone has shown you this much acceptance and encouragement. Hell, they even apologised for pushing you so much. You wanted to thank them so much, but your vision was too blurry to type.

You calmed down after a while, the first thing you noticed was an unread message from Ronin in your chat with him.

goreboy: see? told Ya they would accept.

You smiled at the message and replied.

user: Thanks Ronin, I mean it.

goreboy: anything for you darling

His answered got you to roll your eyes and smile a little. What an annoyingly sweet asshole he was.

Headcanons <3

Ronin will rile you up, he wants to see your expressions and body language change. Maybe he can't hear you but he will for sure watch and read you.

If you use a notebook to communicate he will take your pens away and nudge your head with it, a proud grin stuck to his face.

If someone acts like an asshole to you because of your disability he sure is ready to send their heads flying. "They can't speak, but I fucking will."

He learned sign language since the moment he found out that you're mute, but he is still not perfect with it, to make his life easier you agreed to make some signs just for the two of you.

Since you can't use words, you use different way of showing Ronin your care and love, his favourite is touch - him being touch starved.

He would never push you into learning saying any words, be it his name or anything else, he knows that it's a struggle and he won't put you through that.

I hope you liked it <3

Sorry for not updating as much :(

Love you pookies <33

- N ;p

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