#kc ronin x reader

[vandme12]

our serials (kc) with a reader with glasses? :3

Reader who is always forgetting to wear their glasses, making CONSTANT typos in the server, or the characters catching them squinting. Just curious to how that would go ^~^'

V

At first, he assumes your typos are some kind of code. He spends an embarrassing amount of time trying to decipher the nonsense until you admit you just... forgot your glasses.

“You should be more careful. Words matter.” He says this like you’re committing war crimes every time you accidentally call him “Vurghilante.”

Eventually, he starts proofreading your messages. If you send something particularly chaotic, expect him to correct it with the same energy as a disappointed English teacher.

He absolutely notices when you’re squinting at something. If you resist putting your glasses on, he will silently place them on your face like you’re a stubborn child. No words. Just the weight of his judgment.

The one time you squint at him, he deadpans, “I’m not blurry.” But there’s a hint of amusement when you still refuse to wear your glasses.

Once, you mistyped his name so badly it resembled a rare plant species. He spent the next 24 hours sending you obscure botany facts as punishment.

Misaki

Oh, she thinks it’s hilarious. Your typos? Screenshot folder. Your squinting? Material for endless teasing. They calls you “Mole-ey” and won’t stop.

If you try to defend yourself, they just leans in uncomfortably close to your face like, “You sure you can see me, sweetheart? Or am I just a mysterious blur?”

Constantly quizzes you on random distant objects. "What does that sign say? No, no, don't squint. Use your powers."

Steals your glasses when she’s bored and wears them, claiming they're smarter now. He calls himself “Professor Misaki” while pushing them up the bridge of their nose.

If you lose your glasses, prepare for them to find the worst replacements. He once handed you pink heart-shaped sunglasses and insisted it was an upgrade.

If you squint at them, they wiggles his eyebrows and says, “Careful, if you keep looking at me like that, I might start thinking you have a crush.”

Angel

She immediately appoints herself your “Seeing Eye Babe.” If you squint for more than a second, she takes your hand and narrates the world around you like you’re in a dramatic audiobook.

When you make typos, she just rolls with them. Whatever weird word salad you send becomes canon. You once typed “I need a hug pls” as “I need a hog pls,” and now she periodically sends you piglet pictures.

If you’re squinting in her direction, she just tilts her head and teases, “Sweetheart, if you wanted to check me out, all you had to do was ask.”

If you lose your glasses, she will find them immediately. She has a sixth sense for misplaced items and is smug about it every time.

When she catches you struggling, she pulls your glasses from your bag and slides them onto your face with a fond smile. “I like your eyes better when you aren’t torturing them.”

She once bedazzled your glasses case without telling you. You open your bag and suddenly it’s glitter city. “Now you’ll never lose them again,” she winks.

Ronin

Oh, he lives for your mistakes. Every typo is ammo for his endless mockery. He purposefully misreads them to make things worse.

“What do you mean, 'I’d like to grab a dork'? Bold move. Keep talking.”

If you squint at him, he just smirks and leans in too close. “Better? Or do you need me even closer, baby?”

Constantly calls you “Blind Bat,” but somehow it sounds weirdly affectionate. Like you’re his favorite helpless disaster.

If you lose your glasses, he will absolutely hold them hostage until you grovel for them back. And, oh, he will make you grovel.

When he sees you straining at your screen, he dramatically sighs and tugs you onto his lap. “If you won’t fix your eyesight, I guess I’ll just have to keep you close so you don’t wander off and die.”

Despite all the teasing, he memorizes where you usually leave your glasses. He never admits it, but when you panic because you can’t find them, he always knows exactly where to look.

[moonlitchimes]

Today - Ronin x G.N Chronically Ill Reader

First time writing for this fandom as well as fanfiction itself in over a decade so please excuse any grammatical errors, oocness, etc dhsdhh. Might come back to revise it later, hope you enjoy it nonetheless!!

Reader has an unspecified chronic illness and is experiencing flare-up symptoms in this, I tried to be as vague as possible to leave their diagnosis up to interpretation.

word count | 1133 no warnings for this one <3

Today you wake up cold.

Which is, by all accounts, a bit odd. Soft sunlight filters through the curtains, sleepily draping over your form and that of the strong frame curled around you. You should feel warm, but you don’t. Instead, it feels as if you’re standing outside in a winter storm—drenched in icy rain—and not wrapped in the arms of your furnace of a boyfriend. You drift for a while, taking a minute—or perhaps several—to bask in the rare calm that has settled as the sun begins its slow crawl over the horizon. 

However, the biting chill festering in your bones only becomes harder and harder to ignore. And as consciousness eventually creeps upon you once more, you become aware of a dull ache in the small of your back. 

That’s where it begins, anyway—it always does—before slinking its way up your spine and stretching itself languidly across your shoulders like an overzealous cat. It takes its time digging its claws into your skin, sharpening the ache into a searing that tears into your veins and blights your blood until all your body knows is pain and nothing else. 

You screw your eyes shut, doing your best to ground yourself: rough hands curled firm but careful around your waist, warm breath puffing against the crook of your neck, soft hair tickling your cheek. Some days, the easy repetition is enough to help you focus—to function with the pain. To ignore it—as much as it can be ignored—until you can stumble into some form of normalcy. 

Today is not one of those days. 

The torment that has been simmering throughout your body finally comes to a boil. A pitched keen escapes from your parted lips before you can stop it, and you stiffen as you feel Ronin stir from behind—no doubt roused by the sounds of your suffering. You bite down so hard on your lip to trap any more whines that you taste the sharp tang of copper on your tongue, another wave of agony wracking your hunched form. Wordlessly, you pray to whatever higher being that may be listening that he settles. 

No such luck.

“Darlin’,” mumbled against your shoulder, still rough with sleep. “Way too early t’be up an’ about, y’know.” 

His words are met with tense silence, the only sign of acknowledgment from you being a slight twitch in your taut frame. 

Ronin’s brows draw together, the teasing edge fading—if only slightly—into cautious concern. “Baby?” he tries again, more alert this time. “Look at me.” Firm—not a request, no matter how undemanding it sounds. 

You’re terse when you finally gather the strength to choke out a response. “It’s nothing, Ro.” A beat—your tone shifts into something more casual, an attempt at nonchalance. “Did I wake you?”

“It’s something, darlin’.” He’s always been able to see right through you. He exhales softly, shifting until he’s propped up on his elbows before repeating, “Look at me.” 

When you finally face Ronin and see his dark, knowing eyes—always so perceptive, always seeming to know you better than you even know yourself—you’re unable to hold it in any longer. Your facade crumbles like withered bone, pain etched clearly across your face.

Whatever composure you had been feigning, you are still only human—still unable to ignore your own suffering, no matter how hard you try.

It felt ridiculous, in a way.

All these years, you had walked this same road alone, time and time again. Never had you had someone to lean on; never had anyone—beyond some choice doctors—bothered to truly concern themselves with your condition. You had long since grown used to this—to saving yourself. 

The support of another had always been something foreign to you—a nice dream, but still a dream all the same. Back then, it hadn’t mattered that no one cared for you (but you had wanted it—god, how you had wanted it). You had come this far on your own, so why bother changing that now? Today you will smile—biting your tongue. You will grit your teeth and bear through the pain. There is no need to cry like some sort of child, to weep about how badly it hurts. You can get through this on your own. 

Alone. Always alone—

You’re shaken from your thoughts by a sudden brush against your cheek, eyes snapping open to meet dark ones—like a void, like oblivion. 

“You’re not alone,” he murmurs, catching a stray tear on his thumb from where it rests against your cheek—and oh, when did you start crying?—”So get out of that head of yours, ‘fore it swallows you whole.” 

He didn’t wait for you to answer, leaning back with all the self-assurance of a predator, his eyes as sharp as blades. “Shoulda woken me,” he drawls—low and smooth as sin—as he watches you. “You don’t gotta suffer in silence like some damn martyr, not with me.” 

He doesn’t touch you—not wanting to cause you any more pain—but he stays close, waiting with all the patience of a darker saint. 

Something in you comes loose at the sight, your breath shuddering as you acquiesce, “I’m sorry—” But he doesn’t let you finish, huffing in fond exasperation as he inclines his head. “Not wantin’ an apology, darlin’, just let me take care of ya.” 

Because that’s what he always does, isn't it? 

Ronin—who, despite all his threats and talk, had seen you, a no-name writer in need of inspiration, and become your muse.

Ronin—who had placed a knife into your hands, lips against your ear, who had given you a choice of how you wanted your shared story to end.

Ronin—who had kissed you in a blood-soaked alleyway with a wolfish smile, like he had known what you would choose all along.

Ronin—who had barged into your life with a wild grin and bloodstained teeth—planted himself firmly by your side and refused to leave, like he belonged there. Like you belonged to him.

(He did, you did.)

Ronin—who knows you better than anyone else, who has slasher movie marathons with you just to have an excuse to hold you close, who stayed up all night researching your condition when he found out just so he could take better care of you.  

Ronin who loves you.

“You don’t have to.” 

“Wasn’t askin’ for permission, sweetheart.” His voice is quieter now—not quite soft, because what part of Ronin is?—but gentle. Warm, despite the teasing edge. “‘Sides, what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?” 

For once, you don’t meet his banter with your own.

“I love you, Ro.”

A pause—his eyes soften. A small breath. His voice dips into something more genuine, more real. “Yeah. I love you too, darlin’.”

Tomorrow, you hope to wake up warm. But if you don’t, Ronin will be there.

And maybe that’s enough.

[spiderlilywritings]

Ronin Beaufort Boyfriend Headcanons

Trigger Warnings: mentions of blood, murder, gore

Well. You're in for a wild ride with Ronin Beaufort as your lover. He's not a green flag by any means, but he cares and genuinely loves you, even if he shows it in twisted ways sometimes. (Hearts drawn in blood, maybe giving you an aorta, sending pictures of his gruesome murders in #killer_shit with the caption "this for You, baby" and oh would you look at that, it's the guy that's been harassing you yesterday—)

Never runs out of nicknames for you. Will probably come up with the cheesiest/sappiest nickname just to see your reaction. It cracks him up. ("Baby. Sweetheart. Darling. Pookie. Sweet apple crumble pop with strawberries—")

If you own a vehicle like a car or a motorcycle, he's your go-to mechanic. He'll take your money and maybe a little bit extra later. ("Aww, don't give me that look, darlin'. I just wanted a kiss 's all. Hahaha!") Shows off a little bit of that muscle if you hang around while he's working. His sweetheart's there, gotta impress them right? (And if you're the type to get embarassed easily, it's more fun for him.)

Speaking of vehicles, I'm not sure if Ronin owns one, but if you do, why not take your little Devil for a late night drive? I think he'll enjoy them. Just you and him, enjoying the night air, letting the scenery pass by.

We've already seen it in the games; he's perceptive and if there's something troubling you, he'll know. He's all ears if you wanna talk about it. Or if you don't, he might think of a way to get you to open up. It's not healthy to bottle everything up after all. He's had to deal with his own issues and being stuck in your own head can be... a lot.

Sometimes, you may have impromptu late night talks with Ronin. Trading secrets and all that. Sorting out some feelings and traumas of the past. Those talks can get heavy but things always feel a bit lighter at the end. That's good, isn't it?

He's supportive. He lets you do your own thing, lets you enjoy yourself and indulge in what you love. As long as you take care of yourself too. He might even join you. ("Aren't you a cutie with that smile on your face. Come onnnnnn, show me more, baby.")

I think he'd like those silly couple shirts. The ones with lines like one shirt has "If lost, return to the bastard" and the other is "The bastard" Or just matching things in general. Maybe you want matching plushies, or jewelry, etc. He's down for it.

Learning first aid is recommended if you haven't already. At least, you'd know what to do when Ronin comes to you injured. Victims don't just lay down and wait for their fate. Of course they want to live and some will literally fight for their lives. Ronin keeps himself in shape, but some injuries are just unavoidable. He doesn't like seeing your worried face, so he's quick to ease your worries with his usual bravado.

Horror movie nights are a given. And if you're the type to scare easily (ironic since you're with a serial killer), prepare for some light teasing. Here's a not-so-secret though: Ronin loves it when you cling to him. He likes being able to feel you. Whether it's small instances like your hands brushing against his to you outright hanging onto him like a koala bear. Make him feel your warmth, that you're there. That you'll always be there. (Not. Not like— well, technically they're still— but not there. Not here. Not anymore. Just a memory now that will always haunt him. They left his heart bleeding. And then, an  "Angel" patched it up. He still bleeds a little. But it's bearable. And now. Now, you—)

Tick... tick... tick...

The sheets rustle. The clock continues to tick. Ronin hears your sleepy little murmurs as you frolicked in dreamland.

He chuckles, one of his hands moving to play with a lock of your hair. The sight of you curled up on his bed, in his damn shirt, "Darlin', if this is your way of killin' me slowly, it's working. Juuust a little."

In response, you unconsciously snuggle into his chest. Really now.

Sleeping so peacefully with a serial killer? Maybe he got rid of your sense of self preservation; maybe got some screws loose in that pretty little head of yours.

Ronin pulls you closer.

This was nice. Makes him remember those times when it was easier. As easy as it can get back in Angelwood anyway.

He left that place behind, danced in hell's flames like the Devil he is, letting rot and decay follow him. He didn't mind. Let 'em haunt him till the day he croaks.

When he closes his own eyes, he sees Ther; a reminder of what he had. Of what he lost. Feels like they'll always haunt him too. There, but not there. A spirit? An illusion? No. Maybe just that lingering love he's always going to feel for his childhood best friend.

Ther's gone.

After Ther, came Maria. Maria. Sweet, sweet Saint Maria helped him heal and move on.

And now he's got another angel in his arms. Ronin thinks that's hysterical. The Devil attracts angels it seems like. Wings and all. Letting them decay till those feathers fall and the wings are nothing but bone. It's like giving the middle finger to the good ol' god those old fashioned folks at Angelwood worshipped.

How's that for blasphemy?

[nikipuff]

Hii!! Could you please write Ronin x really really clingy and touch starved reader? Like they're constantly clinging onto him, kissing him, cuddling n hugging him, and when they can't do that theyre just messaging him like every 5 minutes? <33

Ronin with a Clingy!Reader (Headcanon edition)

warnings: none

pairing: Ronin x Reader

wc: 267

a/n: struggled with this one a bit, I think I may have another one? Sorry T-T

Ronin wouldn't really mind, at first. He loved being able to hold you, and it was something that he was set on doing regardless of if you wanted to hold him back. So when the two of you first met, he was pleasantly surprised to have you clinging onto him the entire time.

Sleeping alone was a big no. Even though you clung onto him during the day, it seemed like you weren't ever done. If Ronin even tried to move, you shot up in the bed, tears welling in your eyes. Although he knew you were being overdramatic, he couldn't decline you your midnight hugs.

And when the time came for him to return home? Constant messages. Even when he put on "Do Not Disturb", the second he turned it off, he was spammed with "How are you?", "Are you okay?", and "I'm worried" texts. At one point, he was terrified by the fact that you could send so many.

It became humiliating to murder while what remained of your kisses stained his face. But Ronin knew that if he wiped them off, you'd just place more when he got home. When the news heard of the famous Butcher murdering with love marks? Oh, they were ecstatic.

Many tried to claim the title, but they were typically greeted with the opportunity to see his crowbar up close, each one hunted down- sorry- found in a totally legal way.

Ronin's used to it at this point. The constant hugs and cuddles were now something he looked forward to, and he would always give his own in return.

[lilygoofywritingcave]

Proposing to the KC! LIs

Finally, after a few months with the serial killers, it seems you have found true love with one of them! Are you brave enough to propose and bare the "consequences", or just curious how would they react?

Misaki Katsuo, the Silly and Chaotic Reaper

Misaki is an absolute gremlin, if you ever think that proposing to them will be romantic and graceful, you're dead wrong.

Places: A rooftop overlooking the city night. We all know Misaki loves the thrill of being high up, and with the city lights below, it feels like a moment stolen from a dream. You propose while they were laughing at some dumb joke, completely catching them off guard.

Reaction: The second you reveal the ring, Misaki completely freezes. Their chaotic, silly expression fades as their hands tremble, maybe even skipped a bit of heart. Of course, her entire life has been about survival, constantly running and killing for money. No one has ever asked her to stay before.

Putting on the ring: She would try to make jokes to calm herself down: "Damn, Y/N, you're really tryna wife up an assassin? Bold." But her voice cracks as you slipped on the ring and she’s crying before even realizing it. Misaki would insist they don't need a ring that fancy and will try to sell it. But if you got them a ring from a gacha machine? They would wear it everywhere, dead serious, just like the menace she is.

Answer: "You're a dumbass. But you're my dumbass now. So yeah… let's do it." (She definitely isn't hugging the air out of you while sobbing)

Sillies: + First text to SlaughterHouse? "LOOKS WHO'S JUST GOT CUFFED!!!" + "Babe, we gotta get a weapon matching this. A wedding-themed knife set?" + Expect a hyperactive Misaki for the next few days because if they stop they will cry again, oh and let's also mention the millions of marriage memes coming up

Angel/Maria de la Rosa, the Maneating Perfectionist

Angel is elegance, charm, and perfection wrapped in a gorgeous, deadly package. If you think you can propose without making it an unforgettable moment, think again.

Places: A special day, maybe she got promoted, you two went out for a fancy restaurant. You surprise her by slipping the ring into her champagne glass. She was probably thinking about her own proposal plans: “I’ll do it in Paris, or maybe under the northern lights…” when she noticed the ring, time just stopped.

Reaction: Every step of Angel's life has been carefully planned, dedicated to perfection and control. But this? This was never part of the script. She tries to speak, but for once, words failed her. She would try to stare at your face, searching for some signs of a cruel joke. But there's no deception, just you, offering her something she never dared to dream of, something real.

Putting on the ring: Angel trembles as she admires the ring, not for its value, but because you chose it, just for her. The moment it's slid onto her finger, a soft, breathless laugh escapes, like she can’t believe it’s real. She’ll insist she isn’t crying, but her ruined makeup says otherwise. And if the ring was custom-made? She’ll never take it off—because nothing has ever felt more right.

Answer: "Heaven exists, and it’s right here, in your arms. You’re the only person I’d ever consider going fully vegetarian for. So yes, mi amour, let’s give them something unforgettable" (She’s already planning the wedding down to the last detail.)

Sillies: + First text to SlaughterHouse: "Breaking news: I SAID YES! (And no, I will not be commenting on allegations of Y/N stealing my heart.)" + "I swear, if I ever miss a shot again, I'm blaming it on this ring. Too beautiful to not look at." + Casually flexes her ring in every situation, taking a sip of coffee? Ring in full view. Kissing you? Oh, she definitely tilts her hand just right for the perfect shot.

Ronin Beaufort, the Devil’s Poet of Purgatory

Ronin is a devil dressed in charm, a poet who spills verses like blood. A proposal to him isn’t just about love, it’s about defying god and fate themselves.

Places: "The Purgatory" of course, maybe after a gory kill and he's drenched, pumping with adrenaline. The place where his past sins linger, where the devil in him reigns. And yet, here you are, turning it into something sacred.

Reaction: For once, Ronin is speechless, trying to process if this is real or some prank. He’s spent his whole life running from ghosts of his past, his sins, the shadows of who he’s become. But you? You’re standing there, unwavering, refusing to run. He would definitely get tensed, as if he’s afraid he might lose this moment, lose you: “Darlin’, I ain’t even dead yet, and you already tryna claim my last name?”

Putting on the ring: When you slide it on, Ronin would definitely smirsk: "A wedding ring, huh? Guess that means I’m officially off the market." If you got him a ring with a hidden blade or devil engraving? He’s obsessed but acts like it’s no big deal. He might wear it around his neck at first but when it's on, it's ON.

Answer: "Tsck… You really just tied yourself to the devil, darlin’. If this is a sin, baby, then let me burn for you. Hope you’re ready for a lifetime of crime and bad poetry, ‘cause I ain’t letting you go." (Then he yanks you into a kiss, rough and desperate.)

Sillies: + "Babe, hear me out, matching crowbars engraved with our anniversary date. Just think about it." + Will 100% lean against a wall, flash his ring, and smirk at strangers like: "Single? Couldn’t be me." + First text to SlaughterHouse: "It seems a certatin someone actually looked at me and said, ‘Yeah, I wanna deal with that forever.’ Wild. Also, taking bets on how long it takes before Y/N realizes they made a mistake. Place your wagers wisely."

Valentin Viljoen, the Vigilante with Ice cold Heart

Valentin is a man of structure, morality, and control. But love? Love is unpredictable. Love is terrifying. And yet, here you are, asking him to embrace it.

Places: A short walk near the forest together. Soft golden light shines through the leaves and the scent of flowers linger in the air, truly a part of the Garden of Eden brought alive, where love can bloom freely.

Reaction: Valentin freezes. His mind races, but for once, there is no logical path forward, no neatly laid-out plan. He doesn't react immediately. No sharp breath, no wide-eyed shock, just silence. His whole life has been spent carrying the weight of a protector, the unwavering force of justice. And yet, here you are, asking him to be something else. To be selfish. To be yours.

Putting on the ring: His hands have always been steady in battle and in every aspect of his life, except for now. They tremble as you take his hand, slipping the ring onto his finger. His breath goes unsteady as he turns his hand over, inspecting the way it fits: perfect, inevitable, like it was always meant to be there.

Answer: "Marriage isn’t just a promise. It’s a contract. A duty. A vow I will never break. And I would be honored to spend my life upholding it with you." (He has already acquired a legal marriage paper by now)

Sillies: + “Y/N, does this mean I have to plan the wedding? Because if so, I have prepared a highly efficient multi-tab spreadsheet.” + The first thing he sends: a picture of the marriage certificate, of course... + Has to resist the urge to immediately update his legal documents. ("Should I change my emergency contact to you? Do I list you as my primary benefactor? Actually, give me a moment...")

P/S: I hope everyone had a nice time proposing <3

[yuukskillsworld]

I was wondering if u could do headcanons of what summer would be like with all the killer chat love interests with a reader that HATESSS summer bc of the heat and all the bugs and if you don't wanna do all the li just ronin is fine!

“Hot, Bothered, and Yours: Summer" - Killer Chat LIs X Reader Headcanons

Hey, sweetheart—thanks for the fun request!

If summer’s your sworn enemy (ugh, the heat? the bugs? the sweat??), just know these killer love interests have their own... steamy ways of dealing with it.

Let’s get into it, yeah?

written by yuukskillsworld<3

WARNINGS: Mild swearing, flirting and suggestive language, heat-induced irritation

(No serious triggers—just vibes and summer suffering.)

Ronin Beaufort

Ronin finds your summer misery hilarious.

♡ The second he sees you flopped on the couch in a tank top and an ice pack down your shirt, he smirks: “Aww, what’s wrong, darlin’? Can’t handle a little sunshine?”

♡ He refuses to turn on the AC unless you threaten violence. “Heat builds character. Or were you always this dramatic?” (He’s already turning the AC on behind your back. He just likes watching you flail.)

♡ When the bugs get bad, he pulls out an old-school fly swatter like it’s a weapon and declares war. He’s unnecessarily aggressive about it. “This one’s for you, baby,” he says, smacking the air dramatically.

♡ If you’re grumpy, he gets handsy. Not necessarily helpful, but distracting. “C’mon, sweat looks good on you. And I’ve got a few ways to make you forget the heat…”

Maria de la Rosa(Angel)

Angel actually loves summer—but she loves you more.

♡ She notices how miserable you are and immediately adapts her plans. No more long hikes. No open fields. Just shaded walks, indoor picnics, and cool drinks.

♡ She gets you one of those handheld fans—and decorates it with your favorite colors or stickers. “Gotta keep my baby cool and cute.”

♡ If bugs come near you? She’s ready with the spray. “Not today, Satan,” she mutters, shielding you like a bug-slaying guardian angel.

♡ She brings you popsicles. She wears flowy clothes. She sets up soft pillows in the coolest part of the house so you two can nap together. “See? Summer’s not so bad when you’re wrapped up in me.”

Misaki Katsuo

Misaki doesn’t love the heat either, but they’ll never admit it. Their whole vibe is “adapt and cause problems.”

♡ They turn summer into a game. Every bug you swat earns you a point. Every time you complain, they tickle you.

♡ “You hate summer?” they grin, already dragging you outside with a squirt gun. “Then it’s war, babe.”

♡ They set up a kiddie pool and force you to sit in it with them like a pair of gremlins. “We suffer together. It’s romantic.”

♡ And when you finally snap and say, “I’m going to melt,” they grin and pour an entire pitcher of cold water on your head. “Better?” (They’re soaked right after, don’t worry.)

Valentin Viljoen(V)

V hates inefficient suffering, so he becomes your personal anti-summer strategist.

♡ Blackout curtains. High-end AC unit. Bug-repelling plants and scents. He has it all set up like a military operation.

♡ You wake up one morning to find the thermostat pre-programmed, your clothes chilled in the fridge, and the patio sealed from insects.

♡ When you say, “Ugh, I hate this season,” he just hands you a glass of cucumber water and kisses your forehead. “Then we make it tolerable. Together.”

♡ He’s surprisingly clingy when you’re hot and annoyed. Always brushing damp hair off your face or sitting close without touching unless you let him.

♡ And if you’re hiding in a dark room mid-heatwave? He joins you silently and reads aloud until you calm down.

Thanks again for the request, sunshine (yes, I said it).

Whether you're melting, swatting bugs, or just trying to survive the season—these killers have your back. And if not... well, they’ll at least keep you distracted. Hope you had fun reading, sweetie! <3

Credits:

-> dividers: @dollywons

-> photo: Pinterest

[mymelody58]

I LOVE RONIN?!!!!!??!!!?!

can you do some Ronin with a yandere mc? we need more of that, you can be as creative as you like!, lots of love! Ronins pretty princess!

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・☆・・・・☆

Sweet Killer Obsession

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・☆・・・・☆

Tw!!!

murder

blood & gore

yandere, possessiveness, obsession

a whole ass making out session

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・☆・・・・☆

Never once in your life would you think that blood would stain your hands again, but here you are a knife in your hand, blood all over your clothes and a massacred body right at your feet. it felt somewhat refreshing, especially after you got rid of that bitch who dared to flirt with your Ronin. Oh how much you enjoyed killing her, her screams and cries were like music to your ears.

This made you feel nostalgic. Long before you were known as Y/N and were an official citizen of America, you were known under a different name and lived in a small village in Japan. Why did you change your identity? Well... Being a well known serial killer who's real name could be revealed at any given moment wasn't a perfect situation, even if being found out felt exciting.

A few years prior to this situation you were known as ███████, a young Japanese high school student with a really tiny obsession about your previous crush. This obsession was so small that you killed him and seven other people who dared to breath too close to him. Well... no one said that you were normal, right? In any case, after brutally murdering your crush and his so called girlfriend - a whore who didn't deserve him. You lost all your interest in him, your feelings just turned off like light when you flick the light switch. Maybe it was because of how boring he was? You will never know.

After asking nicely - threatening - one of your criminal friends to give you a fake name and register you as an american citizen studying journalism, you faked the death of your past self and moved on. It took you a few years to get adjusted to the new lifestyle, but you didn't hate it. You had a somewhat stable job and a new interest in writing.

The rest of the story of how you met the killers and started a romantic relationship wasn't something so interesting, Ronin added you to his server after your interesting question on the dark web, then teased you and played with you, only to make you fall for him and corrupt your "innocent little mind".

At least you stayed innocent in his eyes until you started following him like his shadow, or breaking into his house to "borrow' something that belonged to him. Ronin wouldn't get too angry if one of his clothes or accessories went missing, how could he ever get mad at such a cute partner?

Ronin wasn't blind, he saw just how possessive and obsessive you were, and he enjoyed it, he basked it in and was intrigued about how far you would go for him. He didn't have to wait long.

One day you sent a picture on #killer_shit, a picture of a massacred body. Ronin recognised the body's owner, it was a man who asked Ronin to fix his car some time ago. On the same day he tried to ask him out on a date, his try wasn't successful when suddenly you emerged from behind his car and clung onto Ronin, if looks could kill then that guy would be laying dead next to his car at least that's how Ronin saw it.

"Guess your look really killed him." He said to himself, a dark chuckle left his mouth as he looked at your fresh kill.

Something didn't add up in Ronin's head for a while, especially with the new pictures that were flooding the server. They all seemed like they've been done by someone with a lot of experience, but you weren't a killer before. There was nothing on you when he looked up your name.

One day he decided to ask you about it while you and the other server members were on a call.

"Hey darlin', what did you say your killer name was?" Ronin's voice caught your attention and his question caused everyone to get silent,

"(Killer name), why?" You answered in that sweet tone you used when you were confident about something. What could possibly make you so confident?

Well, the answer was fairy simple - there was nothing on the name you gave him, but that name wasn't fake. It was your actual killer name from your dark past but in the English language, and the Japanese authorities made sure that your existence was a secret for the rest of the world. How would the country's reputation look if the rest of the world found out that a murderer from a small village went missing right under their noses?

"There's nothing on you, I checked it many times." V's stern and cold voice reached your ears and you chuckled.

"Aw, that's so cute that you're trying to find me out, but I'm not lying. You just have to look deeper." You answered and hang up, leaving the killers hungry for more knowledge.

Well, V took that challenge very personally. He searched the whole internet to look for any hint about who you truly were, and that's when it hit him... that name was a translation! He double checked the "works' of art" pictures that you shared with the server and then he found it.

<@K9>: https://japanessepolicecases.net

<@K9>: Found you @Y/N.

You checked the server after you heard some notifications coming from the media channel. You laughed uncontrollably. Yes, finally! Something to make Ronin see your true colours.

<@h1tmeupp>: oh fuck! You were the (killer name)?!

<@h1tmeupp>: you're a mystery even today and this was like seven years ago!!!

<@Y/N>: What can I say? I always liked being a walking mystery ;)

Almost everyone replied to the news. Everyone, but Ronin. His lack of attention made you uneasy. He was online when V revealed who you are, so why hasn't he replied? He should be proud right? You proved that you're interesting. So why the fuck isn't he replying?!

While your head was full of chaos and the images of different scenarios of Ronin betraying you, there was a sudden noise in your kitchen. You stood up from your chair and grabbed the knife from your desk. Holding it behind your back you left your room and quietly went to see who dared to break into your home.

You weren't worried about yourself, but what if someone saw your small and beautiful altar made for Ronin? No one other than you was allowed to see just how handsome he was on those pictures you worked so hard to take unnoticed.

When you reached your kitchen there was no one, not a single open window or moved piece of kitchen equipment. As you were about to turn around and leave, two strong arms wrapped around you, one held you by your waist and the other was holding your mouth shut.

It's Ronin.

You would recognise that scent of smoke mixed with some motor oil anywhere. Oh how addicting that scent was.

"I see you've come prepared baby." He whispered against your neck and you could feel your whole body melt and shiver. You couldn't answer, but you didn't mind. You wanted to see where this new game would go.

Ronin loved to test you, and you knew that. You would do anything to amuse him or earn yourself a praise, so you indulged him every time he tried to push your limits.

"So you're a serial killer, that's interesting." He moved the hand from your mouth to your neck. "And to think that I took you for an innocent writer." His laugh was dark, definitely unsettling for some people, but to you? You could listen to that sound on repeat.

"i never said that I wasn't Ro.' You replied with a small giggle. "it was you who assumed my innocence." your voice was sickly sweet, just like some good little saint's.

"Oh, you're so smart. Such a small tease." Ronin turned you around and pinned you to the wall. "Your murders are so pretty darlin', just for me. It makes me want to kiss my knife to your throat." He whispered against your parted lips.

That wasn't a threat, that was a love confession in Ronin's style.

His words and the closure made a shiver run down your back. You looked into Ronin's eyes, basically begging this devilish man to kiss you.

And he was willing to fulfill your wish.

"You're so eager." He teased and then his lips crushed into yours.

That kiss felt hot, it made your whole body melt into his touch. You held him by his leather jacket in one hand and you were basically pulling on his hair with the other. That sudden movement earned you a muffled groan from Ronin.

He didn't stay in debt and pushed his hand under your shirt to dig his nails into your waist. You gasped into his mouth and he used that opportunity to push his tongue into your opened mouth. This heated dance of your tongues was enough to drive you crazy, but Ronin's hands under your shirt? Oh that was paradise.

You bit Ronin's lower lip, pulling on it so hard that the both of you felt the metallic taste of blood on your tongues, but he didn't break the kiss yet. He chuckled and squeezed his hand on your waist, pulling your body even closer to his.

This kiss was heated, deep and long. Ronin's beanie was somewhere on the floor and your bodies were pressed against each other. You felt like this moment was heaven. Having Ronin so close to you? That was a dream come true. If it wasn't for you two needing air then you could go even longer and maybe this situation would grow even more intimate.

Ronin broke the kiss, a thick string of silva wasn't the only sign of what just happened. Your cheeks were burning red and you struggled to catch your breath, he leaned his forehead against yours and smirked while he was watching the aftermath of your kiss.

"Oh you're so pretty like this, breathless and in love." He murmured and rubbed your side with his thumb.

"Only the devil can ruin me like this." You replied and suddenly pulled his head back by his hair so you could lick the leftover blood from his lips.

"Oh? Maybe there's even a cannibal in you." He joked and smirked at your pout. "Never said I don't like them." He whispered and moved his head to the crook of your neck to leave a mark there.

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・☆・・・・☆

Find God kids.

It's too late, we're all sinners here.

Love you, bye!

- N<3

[aurmisery]

- a little death -

ronin b. x gn! reader !!

inspired by a friend of mine in the rose's rot discord, vanity! @vanitywoo

hi erm this is my first time putting down a killer chat! work of mine on here uhhhhhhh

cw // mentions of sh scars on mc -

please tell me if anything else in here can be considered triggering !!

okay enjoy!!!!!1!!1!!!!2! sorry if this is ass and or ooc for ronin bro i TRIED MY BEST I TRIEDMYBEST

1878 word count!!!!!!!

FUCKIFORGOT THIS US FLUFF BTW

-

you know when you walk into someone's room, you can immediately tell what kind of person they are? what posters they roll on their walls, what decor they line the edges of their room with- if they have LEDs, what merch they willingly buy and if they have a whole shelf for said merch, etc?

if you were to walk into ronin's room with no idea of who he is other than his oh so charming looks, you might just say "typical, makes sense given his aesthetic." even if the jars of human remains seemed a bit too hardcore and realistic.

it all fit though, the color palette ranging from all hues of red, black, and white, the masks, the lava lamp, the VHS tapes, the illuminated 'KORN' sign hung in the corner of his room matching the 'still alive?' frame with a cartoonishly drawn heart- it was all him- it screamed ronin.

the plainest thing in his room was probably his bed- and he knew that. it was just a black headboard and footboard, with a red duvet and pillows with a white blanket overtop it. it did match the color scheme, which was enough for now, but it was missing something.

.

.

.

but as his pupils grazed over your steady form, warm and breathing, he realized something.

the slight flush of your cheeks, the way your eyelids fell heavy over your unblinking stare, the hazy glare of his TV burning a light glow over your side-

the ruffle of your hair, your legs snaking awkwardly with his, fingers mindlessly tracing invisible doodles over his forearm, and the slight quirk of your brow as your eyes retrace back to his.

"what's up?" your lips curl upwards slowly as his eyes noticeably fade from the trance he planted himself into, brows slanted upwards as he slow blinked.

"...youuuu good?" a small giggle slewed unevenly from your grin, and he scoffs, a playful jab at the side of your waist following the roll of his eyes.

"'m fine, jus' thinkin'. what about you, darlin'? feelin' comfortable in the devil's den?"

you flop over on your right side, facing him rather than the TV, propping yourself up on one elbow with your other arm tracing the angle of his jaw.

"for a devil, you're rather accommodating, i'll give you that," you tease, and he revels in it; in your warmth, in the fiery trace of your finger along his jawline, and for once, his hell is starting to feel a bit hot.

"in a literal sense, if i'm laying in your bed, wearing your shirt, cuddled up with you, watching old slashers, i think i'm as comfortable as i can ever get."

it's his turn to grin, moving his hand from its resting position on your hip to the small of your back, letting a small exhale he didn't even know he was holding fall from his lips.

his downcast eyes flicker from the graphic tee bagging low under the curve of your shoulders to the width of your thighs, and he couldn't help but feel a little warmer.

you did look good in his clothes.

and as your hand caressed his cheek, his head melting into your warmth, he spots something along the flex of your arms.

his blackened irises almost narrow at them, but they reverted back to whatever you would call normal as his hand drags from your back to the base of your arms, fingers gently rubbing over the faded marks of your pliant skin.

at this, the knitted furrow of your brows came together, a slight wrinkle in your expression as you awkwardly chuckle, a defensive grin uneasily firming itself on your cheeks.

"what's this for?" you question, a wry smile on your face as you realize the implications of his stare, and the look on his face...was just blank.

"no reason, just glad you don't...do that anymore, i guess."

with a shiver up your spine, you firm up your lips into a sheepish smile, nodding with a creak to your voice. "aww, c'mon. can't even say that without the 'i guess' at the end?"

and then he laughed, the tiniest hue of cherry blending into his ivory skin, his onxy irises filled with amusement.

"is it like me to carve open my chest and bare it fresh? i'm not that much of a romantic, darlin'."

it was your turn to scoff, turning over onto your stomach and reaching out to cup his chin with the flex of your fingers, thumb lolling over his bottom lip.

"'i'm not that much of a romantic, darlin'," you mock, voice whiny and pitchy before you deadpanned, eyes narrowed at him.

"oh please, cut the bullshit, ro. not that much of a romantic my ass."

ronin weaved a palm through the plum tresses sitting upon his head, a dismissive hum resting in his throat as he looked you over. "i'm not really, i mean- i kill people?"

"yeah- abusers. usually, anyway."

you then fanned out your hands, your digits extending with each gesture you were about to point out, pupils darting upwards into your lashes as if recounting your times together.

"our motorcycle dates? the shirts you give me each time i come over? the way you snuggle against me while we watch movies, when you complain about being cold to get me closer to you, when you crack cheesey jokes about how lonely your lips are, how-"

"okay, okay, i get it."

and as you took a glance at your boyfriend, a bead of sweat brimmed at his forehead and neck, face flushing a hue of carmine as his words spewed out in an exasperated rush.

you grin.

"oh, and that time you rushed me through your front door after i got drenched by the rain despite the fact that you were also soaked. when you prepared me soup in worry that i would get sick, and while i didn't get ill, you did the next day."

you were trying to be subtle, but with how his pupils were blown out and watching your every move, he was probably more aware of your slow crawl over to him than you were, the mattress making a small dip where your knee paused.

"then, i stayed over the whole time and nursed you back to health while we watched your favorite movies? or when i stopped by your job and you purposely wiped your face with the front of your shirt to flash your-"

"okay, fine! fuck, you win!"

his face was hot and covered by a thin sheen of sweat, a hand flayed out over his jaw to hide his most-likely embarrassed expression, brows arched downwards into a glare. he couldn't even look at you.

ronin beaufort, flustered? ronin fucking beaufort, embarrassed?!

you just made the devil bow his head.

a boisterous laugh bounced out of the pits of your stomach- jesus christ, you've rarely never seen him like this before, all shy and flustered.

your arms snake over your own abdomen, trying to pat down the rumbling giggles orchestrating from your gut with a roll onto your side, and you feel his elbow butt between your ribs playfully.

"give ya an inch and you take a mile, huh?"

he grumbles, giving you a nudge as you only cackle further, slapping a palm over your eyes to smear the tears pearling at your lash line.

"god, your face is fucking priceless when you're embarrassed! geez, i shoulda taken a picture, would've been amazing to have that spammed in mai-"

without skipping a beat, he reeled you into his arms, before turning and slamming you down right in the middle of the bed, hands jabbing and feverishly dancing over your sides.

all the sudden, your laughing increased tenfold- tears springing out of your eyes like sprinkles as you jerked, bucked, and kicked in protest of his tickling, but you couldn't do anything against his iron grip.

you felt like you were dying, stomach exhausted as you guffawed and blabbered, hiccups along the lines of "i can't-" "wait, my stomach hurts-" "have mercy-" following between the tears pitifully steaming down your reddening face.

he lets out a soft-hearted snicker, his body over yours and his knees pinned on either sides of your hips. his plum locks tickles your forehead, reminding you of the teasing grin on his face as he mercilessly dug at your sides- before his fingers traced upwards to your collarbone, and-

his fingertips padded over your neck, before your head jerked instinctively and you could only cackle further. is he trying to kill you?

and finally- you fought back, hands reaching up into his shirt.

he stiffened, eyes widening as your hands snaked up into the black fabric and wandered over his lower waist, making him jump and bubble his cheeks- as if that would quiet his laughter.

but you powered through the pain in your gut from laughing your vocal cords out and frenzied your hands up his abdomen, he gave out, falling pathetically besides you as you took your sweet, sweet retribution.

his arms flexed over his head in defense, lashes clenched shut as his face buried itself into the pillow besides him, almost as if taking cover from your violent antics.

you curl over against him, hands jabbing and frantically scurrying up his shirt as his laughs and pleas muffle besides you, and then-

your hands seemingly touched a sore spot, his laughs dying out and his breath hitching, as if he was in pain. finally taking a second to feel the skin below your palm, you handle it with deft, and...

it's smooth, slightly arched in size, extending from the middle of his chest to the side of his pecs. you lift up your head to look up his already hiked-up shirt, and...

it's his scars. a cringe forms in the side of your gut, fuck- did you piss him off?

"sorry," you usher lowly, withdrawing your hands, only for his to grab your wrists, placing them back right back on his chest.

his thumbs roll over your wrists, reassuring your tense frame back into ease, and you eye his facial expressions carefully.

his eyes are beady, sucked into the way your thumbs navigate the faded discoloration of his torso, brows furrowed and watching with a slight quirk in his lips.

and then his eyes harden.

"do you, uh," he begins, tone devoid of that usual bite he has to it, gaze wandering away from your hands on him, from your face and to the corner of his room.

"do you see me as, y'know, uhm-"

"the devil? hell yeah."

he smiles.

it was so... genuine, so adoring, blooming through the erasure of his doubts, of your validation- even as his soft hair messily spiraled into his vision, he couldn't take his eyes off you.

and as you slink besides him, letting your head sink into the pillow conjoined with his- he realized something, and this time he took full joy in memorizing it.

your touch, your voice, your sweet, sweet lips- even the messy, unbothered display you shroud around.

the way you smile at him in the dim light of his room, the warmth radiating from your body as your lips brush against his.

you're all the decoration he needs.

-

okay hi i hope you liked itsorry for the words being kinda clunky here n there???? ok bye

[chanelgrll]

A very killer christmas

Basically a continuation of offering to spend Christmas with ronin in the dlc! Credits to rosesrot for the first two lines of dialogue (from the dlc). First time writing one of these sorry if it sucks </3

"I can't fix it but... If you want we can spend it together? I'll be here and we can just... talk, hang out, game, whatever you want. Help you through today. Does that sound good?" "Yeah... Guess that's better than murdering godforsaken parents out there. You're... heh... you're a rotten saint. I appreciate it."

You shut your laptop like you’re closing the coffin on your responsibilities, bag slung over your shoulder, the apartment door creaking closed behind you like a final breath. It's cold out, not enough to bite, but enough to make you feel something. Christmas, of all days. And for once, it’s not bitter. You’re walking the path to Ronin’s place, a slow, familiar trail. Phone out, map open, not because you need it but because your fingers are too restless to stay still.

This is your first Christmas with him. Your first time calling him yours in December, Christmas.

Ronin’s house is a strange little den of sins and warmth, contradiction etched into every wall. You don’t knock. Would feel too formal for the devil you’ve chosen to love. Instead, you creep to the window, peer in — and there they are: those stupid little red horns peeking above the couch. A twisted halo for the man who once swore he’d never celebrate a holiday again.

You slip through the window, quiet, not sneaky. He turns his head, smile slicing across his face like a knife carving joy.

“Saint Nick, that you?” he grins, a devil dressed in mockery.

“Merry Christmas, loser,” you say, just before tackling him into a hug like you hadn’t been starving for it the whole damn week. His arms close around you like iron chains. It’s been weeks since you’ve touched him, busy drowning in half-written stories and deadlines that don’t care you’ve got a heart. He breathes out into the crook of your neck, and the world stills.

You glance around, the same clutter, the same ungodly symbols scratched into the corners. There's more of them now. It’s his way of surviving the season, probably. Drawing sigils instead of slashing parents. But that’s why you’re here. You’re the talisman this year.

Before your thoughts can crawl too far, Ronin scoops you up like you weigh nothing, deposits you on his bed, and looks through his stack of VHS tapes.

“Wanna watch somethin’?” he asks, the corner of his mouth curled up in a smile.

They’re all horror. Of course they are. Slashers, hauntings, twisted little films with too much blood and not enough plot, his idea of romance. You nod, because you love that part of him. The grotesque. The familiar.

You close your eyes for a moment, but open them again when you feel him crawling toward you, jacket off, expression soft in the low red light. He straddles you, arms on either side, hovering like a question.

Then he pulls something from his pocket.

“Found it,” he says, trying to hide the smile. Dangles the mistletoe above your head like it’s a weapon. “Misaki said this plant’s got kissing powers or somethin’. We oughta test it.”

You blink. “Ugh. Guess I owe you a kiss, then. What a tragedy.”

He leans in. Stops just shy of your lips. Breath warm. Voice lower. “Pretty,” he murmurs, and you forget how to inhale.

His hand slides to your jaw, firm, and then his lips meet yours like a slow exorcism. Desperate. Familiar. There’s a hunger in him that didn’t exist in spring, a softness laced with too many broken things. The kiss deepens, jaw tilting, hands gripping, and then he breaks away to mouth at your neck. Kisses, bites, teeth scraping skin like he wants to leave a map of himself behind.

You laugh, breathless. “Ro—hey! That tickles!”

He grins into your throat. “Thanks for coming by. Haven’t not killed someone on Christmas in...well. It’s been a bit.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, voice suddenly quieter. “Still. You here. In my hellhole. Warms the heart, if I had one.” He flops beside you, hand brushing yours. “You takin’ care of yourself?”

“Trying,” you reply, rolling onto your side. His fingers trace your face, nose to lips, slow and thoughtful. No smirk. Just him, raw, honest, a little haunted.

He’s clingy tonight. But you get it. December’s cruel. Especially to men like him.

“I knew you missed me,” you tease.

“Shut up, darlin'.” He shifts closer, buries himself against you like he could disappear inside your skin. One leg hooked over yours, arms curling around your torso. You breathe in: citrus, iron, gasoline — Ronin. Your fingers card through his hair, and he exhales, moving his hands under your shirt.

The TV flickers, painting him in pale light. He looks unreal. Beautiful in the way fire looks beautiful, right before it devours.

It’s mad, isn’t it? A year ago you were barely surviving his death threats. Now you’re surviving each other.

But this—this is different. This is sacred.

Your shirt’s ridden up. His fingers skim your waist, light and exploratory. Your breath stutters. He notices. Of course he notices. He’s a predator before he’s a boyfriend.

His hand drifts up, slow, thumb grazing below your ribs. You stop breathing. He hovers again, that same question in his eyes.

And then he’s kissing you again, fierce now, greedy, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Like you’re a ghost and he’s never believed in the afterlife.

He pulls back, just enough to look.

You're laying there, flushed, hair a mess, neck covered in marks.

His face shifts. Something like reverence, or horror? Like loving you might actually be the thing that kills him. He kisses you again, hard.

And then—

ding!

Your phone vibrates. A message from your agent.

You groan. Reality, that miserable beast.

Ronin chuckles darkly. “Can’t catch a break, huh, sweetheart?”

“No, no, don’t worry. I’m here for you, remember?” you say, brushing the notification away.

He scowls. Ruffles your hair. “Tch. You bein’ here doesn’t mean you gotta bleed out for me, babe. I’m your fuckin’ boyfriend. I do love you a li, y’know.”

You raise an eyebrow. “A little?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

He hops up, grabs his old Gameboy like it’s a sacred relic. “Wanna play?”

You sit up, grin spreading. “Hell yeah.”

“You’re already in hell, darling,” he says, that devil’s smile back on his lips.

And you are. But it’s warm here. And the devil’s arms are wide open.

[decayedsword]

Hiiii, i was just wondering if you can write a ronin x reader where reader had actually accidentally killed someone back then out of anger bcs they've had it with that person and ronin found out

(I ACCIDENTALLY WROTE 2000 WORDS FOR THIS ONE.)

(but hey! here ya go!)

WARNING: Mentions of Murder, Blood, Gore-y stuff in general.

Devilish

It's always been easy for you to stomach slasher movies.

Post-graduation, your beloved friends would constantly pester you, asking you to join them for their gore-ish movie nights, which consisted of none other than A-grade thrillers and horror films.

You recall how your eyes would remain locked on the screen, observing the killer, watching how they move with such ease, such delicacy and ruthlessness. The main character, so sweet and innocent and naive, no matter how far they run, the killer would reach them—reach for their throat, their head, and slice it open with a knife, or an axe, or some other mundane object with a blade.

Your friends would scream. They would jump, yell, screech, flinch at the sight of it, but you didn't. You never did. They always took the liberty of hiding behind you in a haunted house, clung onto you when they felt scared, shivering and sore from running through strung-up props from some human anatomy playset.

You've seen this scene before. It's become a cliche for you. The image of blood, gore, intestines, organs, splattered all over the pavement doesn't make you want to retch, to imitate them and pour your guts out in the nearest bathroom. You've seen worse. For a writer with serial killers for friends, at least.

At least once a week, there's a new message in the server's #killer_shit channel. Sometimes it's Angel, a wide portrait with the lifeless body of a man in a suit, a gunshot wound to his head, pale and eyes rolled back. Sometimes it's Misaki, a selfie with half of their face in it, and a deformed figure of a human in the background, teeth pulled out and fingers cut off.

More often, it's Ronin. He's the reason for why you've built your constitution for such wicked imagery. The unfamiliar shape of a person curled into a satanic circle, carved pentagrams into skin and stomachs gutted out. Bodies hung, skinned, decapitated, bloody and bare and brutal. The first time you saw the absolute crime scene he left behind, your stomach churned, uncomfortable and weary, as if it were the next thing on Ronin's hit list.

Ah, well. You're a writer. You've gotten used to writing your serial-killer protagonist. That's all.

It's mostly a lie. It hasn't always been easy for you to see the familiar maroon-stained weapons and fucked-up corpses.

You swallow the thought back down your throat and into your stomach. Part of you starts hoping that maybe Ronin would kill you, he is in the area after all, but you've passed that obstacle in your relationship a few weeks ago, when you chose to kiss him and all his entirety.

Six years had passed since then. No witnesses, a wrecked crime scene, and the body was never found. A perfect crime. Your perfect crime.

You were afraid it would come up again.

Unfortunately for you, the world is not beautiful, nor kind, nor considerate. It comes up on a simple Tuesday morning. The clock reads 3:33 AM, the Devil's hour. Alas, who else to absolve you of your sin but Lucifer himself?

"Well seeing as how I picked dare last time and almost got caught by the police–" Misaki started, earning a few snickers from the people in the call, "I choose truth."

Ronin was their dealer, an honest mistake on everyone's part. He was unpredictable, impossible to read, especially in games that involved a lot of thinking, as if he saw right through you. Everyone stayed silent, curious as to what crazy idea he'll say next.

"Hey, I'll hit ya up with an easy one this time." His voice rang through your ears, sarcastic and teasing. You ease up after hearing his stupidly hilarious pun and how he'll give Misaki an easy question. "The Devil wants to know if ya had a serial killer experience b'fore you became one. 's all."

"Oh! Actually, there is one!" Misaki exclaimed. “When I was a wee child, back in high school, I think? We had this exchange program, so I got to go abroad for a bit. There was this guy in my class, a massive freaking bully—and when I say bully, I don’t just mean wedgies, oh no. I mean that this guy was a total monster. He beat people up so bad he almost killed them.” Their hands moved as they explained, making the flashback much more interesting than it seemed.

V coughed. “You don’t suppose he’s ever received juvenile detention?”

Misaki shook their head. “No…no, he disappeared.”

You didn’t like where this conversation was headed. “What happened?” you asked, faking your curiosity. You cared much for Misaki, but if they were talking about what you think they were, then maybe you’ve been connected to the Slaughterhouse Losers for far more than you remember. How satirically fateful.

The ravenette continued, brushing strands of their red hair out of her face. “No one really knows. One day, after he beat up a particular student, their name was Eve, nicest person ever by the way, he just…vanished.”

“Eve Eden?” Your voice spilled from your throat, small and yet audible enough for everyone to hear. You curse yourself internally.

Misaki’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, how’d you know?” Their head tilted ever so slightly to the left, “Oh my gosh, don’t tell me you studied there too?”

Your eyes moved back and forth frantically, stopping at Ronin’s web camera. His eyes were deep in thought, calculating and analyzing—analyzing you. You were being observed by a poet, a writer, just as you observed your favorite serial killers in the slasher movies you used to watch with your friends.

“Yeah! Eve used to be my best friend. We’re still in touch too, we watched the Fear Street series not too long ago.” You spoke in a way that made you look tired, eyes weary and voice deliberately faint and slow. You prayed someone would get the message.

“Aww, hey. You sound like you should get some sleep.” Angel replied, your savior, a true angel indeed, biblical and all. After a few grumbles from Misaki, and a huff from V, you pretended to concede and left the voice call.

You had a dream that night. No, not a dream. You don’t dream, and when you do it’s easier to call them visions. They’re prophetic in a way, a calling from the past or the future, a blemish upon your sleeping patterns. You wish they would stop.

A punch, a kick, a stab. Dragging a dead man walking. Throwing him across the dirt. Heavy breathing. Blood on balled-up fists. You pull.

There’s a head of hair in your hands. The adrenaline rushed through your veins, giving you strength, supporting you through your justice.

He had to pay.

A flash of white blinded you, and there you saw Eve, fast-asleep in her hospital room, countless needles struck in her skin, once full of color, yet now washed out.

Anger surged through you. You regret nothing.

He drowned that day, in the lake you and Eve used to swim in when you two were children.

You grit your teeth as he struggled in your grasp, opening his mouth to curse you, a fatal mistake. The water simply entered his lungs faster.

When he succumbed to the tide, body filled, you were sure he died, not from you, but from the weight of his own ego.

You burnt his body in the woods. You swept up the remains and buried them in a nearby cemetery. You said your prayers. You left.

When the school investigated his disappearance, Eve covered for you. She said you were in her hospital room the entire time.

The sun woke you up, rays fluttering through your eyes and blinding you. Groggily, you get up and check your cellphone. A message notification greets you. It’s from Ronin.

<goreboy> [08:34]

gmorning darling

hows My favorite writer Doing?

Incoming call from goreboy

→ Yes please …

→ no thanks …

You accept his call, snuggling under the covers and breathing in the scent from the jacket he lent you. It smells like a certain kind of men’s cologne, strong and makes you want to sneeze, but it also smells like grease and iron. You laugh to yourself.

“Whatcha laughin’ at baby?” Ronin’s web camera is open. He’s on his phone too, seeing as how he’s using the portrait function instead of the usual landscape. His red hair is messy, with no beanie to tame it. You stare at him for quite a while, a giddy feeling in your stomach. The devil really does look like an angel.

“Nothing.” There’s a huge smile on your face, and you can feel the heat rushing to your cheeks.

“You free later? Got somethin’ t’give ya.” he suggests, accent slightly seeping through his words. You can tell he’s just woken up with how slow and steady he talks.

“Mm, yeah? What’s the devil gonna give little old me?” you tease, playing into your role as his partner, his darling, his everything. He scoffs on the other end of the line and he gives you a toothy grin, making your heart somersault in your chest.

“Jus’ meet me in Purgatory, darlin’.”

When the two of you meet in the familiar alleyway where your first kiss was shared, you gain the strange feeling of deja vu. Ronin has you up against the wall once more, trapped between his arms and staring at his pretty face.

“Hey.” you whisper, face flushed red.

“Hey yourself.” he whispers back, eyes intense and searching. You worry about what he’s trying to find within you, you worry about how the secrets you’ve whispered to the wind in hopes to rid yourself of them are now caught in his spiderweb.

You shift uncomfortably in his gaze. He knows something. He has you all figured out. Curse you for falling in love with a mastermind.

Ronin slowly moves his left hand to your chin, tilting it upward, making you look at him.

“Got any confessions f’r the devil, little lamb?”

He knows. Your eyes dart back and forth between his face and the space on your right that he’d left open when he moved his hand to cradle your face. There’s a mental debate between your heart and your brain. You wish you could run. You can’t bring yourself to.

Sighing, you grab his hand and lead him through the twists and turns of the alley, reaching the cemetery on the other side. The two of you walk together, hand-in-hand amongst the dead, as if you ruled over them.

At the end of the graveyard, there’s a stone pillar that divides the woods into two paths. You drag Ronin to the path on your right. You still remember, scissors in hand, how far you ran to catch up to him, his hands grasping at the stab wound in his stomach.

You turn left. There’s a field of flowers there, beautiful and serene, and oh-so ironic. You’re about to look back at Ronin when a hand brushes against your ear, placing a flower there. There was something oddly romantic about it. Here you were, showing him your sins, your crimes, your mistakes, and he gladly accepted your insanity, your madness—you.

“I buried him here.” It's half-a-whisper, but the devil hears you nonetheless.

Your lips trembled, guts spilling out to the man before you. “I lured him here. I stabbed him and chased him down.” The events of that day flash rapidly in your mind, making your breathing unsteady and rapid. “I grabbed him by the hair—” You extended your hand, pointing to the body of water in the distance. “—and I drowned him.”

Ronin could only watch as your chest heaved, needing air, needing release. Your mouth, once agape and needing sharp intakes of air, broke into a smile, maniacal and crazy. Your hands reach to cover your lips, but your laugh echoes through the flowers, the trees, the lake, and through the two of you.

Your eyes are bloodshot. Ronin’s eyes are too. His grin matches yours.

“He died egotistical.” You shoot out, a dead look in your eyes that definitely does not match your smile. You wonder if Ronin's surprised at your sudden plot twist in his story—isn't it everything he's ever wished for?

Ronin, upon realizing the severity of the situation, cackles, just as you did, deranged and demented and deadly. He reaches for your face, your expressions complementing each other.

He pulls you in for a kiss. It tastes like concupiscence. You drown in him.

You’re insane. You’re adorable. You’re a devil.

In between kisses, you hear the voice of Lucifer, calling you from hell. "You're perfect."

THIS WAS SO FUN FOR ME TO WRITE. THANK U SM FOR THE ASK!!

cross posted on rottenvamp @ ao3 <3

[prettypuff]

Serial Sick

in which: your favorite serial killers find out you're sick pairings: ronin x reader || angel x reader || v x reader || misaki x reader

[vandme12]

Blood, Guts, and a Lifetime Warranty- Ronin x Reader

WORDS : 11732

TRIGGER WARNING : Graphic Violence, Gore, Murder, Dark Themes

CHARACTER USED : Ronin from Killer Chat!

SUMMARY : On the way to the wedding, Dressed in black, He really did it in his way didn't he? You really had a husband right now. He proposed.

INSPIRED FROM THE ART : @scary-brainrot I love their art! ahh! This was already in my drafts, I finished it!

The art's link (The one I got inspired from)

90 followers special

“That old man keeps asking when I’ll get married again.”

Annoying. Worse than annoying. Like a mosquito buzzing in your ear when you’re already halfway to losing your mind.

The garage smells like oil, rust, and Ronin—something metallic, something alive, something that clings. You could go home, but home is a ringing phone and voices that won’t like the answers you’d give. They love you. You love them. But they wouldn’t love him. Not the way you do.

Some distant uncle, some wrinkled remnant of family dinners and polite disappointment, would take one look at Ronin and say something sharp, something final. And Ronin? He’d roll his tongue along his teeth, slow and deliberate, like a lion deciding if a gazelle is worth the chase. He’d smile too wide, say something that’s both a joke and a promise of violence.

You’d defend him, though. Because you’re his. Because he’s yours.

A year, almost. Two sick minds spiraling around each other like dying stars, feeding off the heat, off the destruction. You learned more than you should. Became something sharper, something better, something that fit in the hollow of his ribs. And Ronin, patron saint of pretty rot, never lied about the world. He just pulled back the curtain and let you see it for what it was.

He loves you, but he doesn’t say it. He shows it in the way he exists—raw, unapologetic, a brush dipped in something obscene, painting your name in places no one else would dare.

And you?

You see it now. The way he sees things. The way they were always meant to be seen.

Face it, darlin’. You lost the second you met him.

The sound of metal on metal, the slow grind of a wrench turning bolts, the scent of oil and rust clinging to the air like an old, familiar ghost.

You’re watching him—your little devil in disguise, though he’s hardly trying to hide it. Ronin leans over the open hood of a half-dead car, sleeves shoved up, grease streaked along his forearm like war paint. He works with a lazy kind of precision, every movement drawn out, every flick of his wrist deliberate, like he knows you’re watching and wants you to keep watching.

And you do.

Because how could you not?

He glances up, catches your stare, and his grin spreads slow and sharp, teeth flashing like a wolf playing at civility. His tongue drags along his teeth before he chuckles, a low, amused thing that slithers into your bones.

"What, darlin’? Ain’t never seen a man work before?"

You roll your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. He doesn’t miss it—he never does. He tilts his head, studying you like he’s about to make a meal of you, like he already has.

"Careful now. Keep lookin’ at me like that, and I might start thinkin’ you got a death wish."

And Ronin? He never breaks a promise.

He lets the wrench fall onto the workbench with a clatter, wiping his hands on a rag that does nothing but spread the mess further. Then he’s leaning on the car, watching you like he’s considering tearing you apart just to see how you’d put yourself back together.

"Y’know, a person like you could do better." His voice is slow, teasing, coiling around something darker. "Could find yourself a nice boy. One who doesn’t kill for fun, who calls his mama on Sundays, who wouldn’t snap your neck if you asked real sweet."

A pause. A smirk. That awful, wonderful, knowing look in his eyes.

"But you won’t. ‘Cause you like this, don’tcha?"

He takes a step closer, the space between you burning down to nothing. The heat of him, the weight of his attention, the sheer gravity of his existence—it's suffocating in the best way.

"You like watchin’ me. Like sittin’ there all sweet while I get my hands dirty." A slow grin. "Like knowin’ they’ll never be clean."

“You’re being too edgy again.”

Ronin gasps, all mock offense, pressing a grease-streaked hand to his chest like you just ran him through with a stake. "Too edgy? Darlin’, you wound me."

“You already established the bit, you don’t have to crank it up every time.” You cross your arms, leveling him with a look that should be stern, but the corners of your lips betray you.

He hums, considering. "Alright, alright. I’ll dial it back a lil’—for you."

But then you laugh. Because, let’s be real, you like this. Maybe not the whole performance, but the way he commits to it. The sheer audacity of him.

Ronin catches that little slip in your composure, and suddenly, he’s grinning again—your grin. That slow, teasing pull of lips that promises nothing good.

"See? You love it."

Before you can argue, he puckers his lips, exaggerated as hell, and throws a flying kiss your way. And then—the bastard throws it straight into the trash.

You shoot him a murder look so sharp it could split bone, but he just laughs, loud and unrepentant, striding forward without a care in the world.

And then, in the cheesiest, most dramatic display of affection possible, he plucks the imaginary kiss right back from the air, presses it to his chest like a treasured keepsake, and sighs.

"Alright, alright. I’ll keep this one." He pats his chest, eyes twinkling. "Right here. Close to my cold, dead heart. XOXO, baby."

You groan. He’s impossible.

“You’re an idiot.”

Ronin grins. "Yeah?"

"An idiot for idiots."

His grin stretches wider, teeth flashing. "Oh?"

"So idiotically idiotic it’s actually impressive."

That does it. He throws his head back and laughs, a sharp, delighted thing, full-bodied and reckless. Hands still smudged with oil, still clutching onto the ghost of that stupid, cheesy kiss, he leans in like he's about to whisper something profound. Instead—

"And you—" he drawls, slow and indulgent, like he’s savoring the words before he spits them out. "You got the energy of such a bad bitch. Or a bastard. Take your pick."

He flicks his fingers, like he’s throwing dice, like fate itself is something he can gamble with.

"Somethin’ real nasty about you, sweetheart. Somethin’ sharp. A bite to that pretty mouth. Ain’t that a treat?"

His eyes are dark with something unreadable, something between admiration and hunger, like he wants to see what you’ll do with his words. If you’ll bite back. If you’ll play along.

Because Ronin? He’s always playing. And he’s hoping—praying, even—that you’re the kind of idiot who won’t let him win too easily.

"It’s... nothing."

Ronin tuts, tilting his head, eyes gleaming like a wolf that’s caught the scent of something bleeding. "Oh, but somethin’ must be trickin’ your head, darlin’. I can hear it rattlin’ around in there." He leans in, voice dropping to something just above a purr. "C’mon now. Whisper your prayer to the Devil. What’s on your mind?"

You shoot him another murderous glare, sharp enough to cut, lethal enough to wound. He loves it.

And worse? He blushes.

It’s fleeting—a flicker of warmth, a betrayal of blood rushing to his cheeks—but it’s there. And then, just as fast, he throws his head back and laughs, wild and unrestrained, like you’ve just handed him the funniest joke in the world.

The audacity. The gall. The sheer joy in his eyes, like he’s never been happier than in the presence of someone who genuinely wants to kill him.

Because let’s be real—isn’t that his favorite thing?

Ronin wipes at his grin like he can smother it, but it lingers, curling at the edges. "Goddamn. If looks could kill, sweetheart—" he whistles low, shaking his head, "—I’d be six feet under already. You tryin’ to make me fall harder?"

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Ronin’s already grinning like you did.

"What?!"

You don’t even give him a chance to answer before you pinch both of his cheeks, hard.

Ronin yelps, muffled by your hands squishing his stupid, grinning face. "Owww—darlin’, what the hell—?" He grabs your wrists, but not to stop you—no, just to hold on, just to feel you, because he likes it when you get your hands on him. Even when it’s to hurt him.

Especially when it’s to hurt him.

You tug his cheeks just a little harder, watching as his face scrunches up, his nose wrinkling, eyes narrowed in exaggerated pain. "That’s what you get for talking like that."

His words come out distorted, voice wobbling from the force of your grip. "Talkin’ like wha’?"

"Like you wanna die by my hands, idiot."

Ronin wheezes out a laugh, finally prying your hands away—but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he flips your grip, lacing your fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s his right.

"Ain’t my fault you’re so damn beautiful when you’re thinkin’ about killin’ me." His voice is softer now, but the playfulness lingers. His thumbs ghost over your knuckles, a mockery of tenderness, a real display of it all the same.

"Y’know," he muses, leaning in, voice dropping low, "if you ever do get sick of me, darlin’... at least make it interesting, yeah?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but you don’t pull away.

Ronin, grinning like he just won something, kisses your knuckles

You blush. Disgusting. You look away, like that’ll save you, like he won’t see it anyway. Like he won’t catch the way your fingers twitch in his grasp, like he won’t feel the heat you’re trying to will away. Like he won’t eat it up.

“You said live, not die.”

Ronin’s grin flickers. Just for a second. Just long enough for the mask to slip, the wires beneath to spark. Then—

“Oh, darlin’.” He lets out something between a laugh and a sigh, tilting his head, studying you like a painting he can’t quite decide how to ruin. “Now, that’s just cruel.”

You roll your eyes, yank your hands away, shove him for good measure. He staggers back with an exaggerated stumble, hand over his chest like you just stabbed him through the ribs. Dramatic. Always. Even when it’s real.

“Gotta admit,” he says, pressing his palms together, as if in prayer, as if he’s ever prayed to anything other than the void, “that’s a new one. You? Wantin’ me to live? Be still, my dead, black heart.”

You cross your arms, glare. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

There it is. That look. The one that’s all teeth, all sharp edges and something deeper, something raw. Something hungry. He wants you to fight him. He wants you to win.

You don’t humor him. You don’t move. You stay exactly where you are, which is somehow worse.

Ronin watches. Waits. Always patient, when it matters. Always willing to let the moment stretch, to let the silence settle, just to see what you’ll do with it.

“Go on, then.” He lifts his chin, dares you. “Say it again.”

Your stomach twists. You hate him. You hate that he knows exactly how to get under your skin, exactly how to pull words out of your throat like he’s got his fingers wrapped around your voice. You hate that you let him.

“You’re such an idiot.”

He smirks, tilts his head. “For idiots.”

“So idiotically idiotic.”

His grin widens. “Say it.”

You swallow. Fine. You meet his gaze, steady. “Live.”

Something shifts.

It’s subtle. A breath held too long, a flicker behind his eyes. Like you just flipped a switch he didn’t know he had. Like you just changed something.

Then, just as fast, he laughs—loud, reckless, full-bodied. He steps forward, gets right in your space, doesn’t touch, but you feel it anyway.

“Darlin’,” he purrs, “you keep talkin’ like that, and I might just have to listen.”

Your heartbeat stutters. Unacceptable. You shove him again, harder this time. He doesn’t even pretend to stumble, just grins like you handed him a gift.

“You’re insufferable,” you say, turning away.

“You love it.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Ronin chuckles, something quiet, something softer than it should be. You feel the heat of him at your back, a presence that lingers, that stays even when he isn’t touching you.

Then, finally, he steps away. Leaves you with the echo of his voice, the ghost of his grin.

“Live, huh?” he mutters, almost to himself. Almost.

"Guess I can try."

And damn it—you hear the smile in his voice. That soft, dangerous edge, like he’s filing it down just for you. Like you gave him something new to chew

Your phone buzzes—loud, persistent, annoying—because of course it does. You sigh, already knowing who it is. That special brand of chaos only one person in your family can bring.

Before you can grab it, Ronin’s faster. Always is. He snatches your phone like it’s his right, thumb dragging across the screen as he answers the call with a lazy, cocky swipe.

"Hello, sweetheart’s personal assistant speakin’—" He pauses, lips curling when the sound of someone shouting blasts through the speaker.

"Hey! When will we meet the boy?!" The voice is rough, familiar, and exactly as you feared. "I’m looking at some photos—"

Oh no.

"—of some nice boys. I’ll send them to you. Tell me which one you like, so the family can arrange a date. Get you two to know each other better—"

Silence.

A beat.

Then—Ronin laughs. Real loud, too—like he wants them to hear it, wants it to stick. His head tips back, neck exposed, all sharp teeth and sharper intentions.

"Well, shit," he drawls, licking his teeth, voice sweet as poison. "You’re settin’ up a date for my baby? Kinda rude, ain’t it? I mean—" His free hand slides to your waist, casual and possessive, squeezing like he owns you. "—I’m right here."

Your stomach drops. "Ronin—"

He ignores you, because of course he does.

"I get it," he continues, mock sympathy dripping from every word. "I mean, who wouldn’t wanna line up a few pretty boys? But—" He sighs, dramatic as ever. "—gotta break it to ya, pops. They’re already taken."

The line goes silent—for a second. Maybe two. Then—

"Who the hell are you?!"

Ronin’s grin stretches, and oh, he’s enjoying this. Loves the fire. Loves the fight. He leans closer to the speaker, like he’s sharing a secret. "The Devil, baby. Didn’t they warn you?"

You slap his arm, hard, but it only makes him laugh more—warm and bright, like setting a match to gasoline.

"You—!" The old man sputters, full of righteous indignation. "You think this is funny?!"

"A little," Ronin purrs. "Kinda cute, actually. Y’care about ‘em so much you’re hand-pickin’ their future? Adorable." His fingers curl against your hip, deliberate. "But—" he hums, voice sinking into something darker, rougher, "—no one’s takin’ ‘em away from me, old man."

He means it. You feel it in the weight of his touch, the way his thumb circles your skin.

"Ronin—" you hiss again, trying to take your phone back, but he’s not done. Not even close.

"Look," he says, casual as hell, like this is a friendly chat. "I’m a real thoughtful guy. I’d love to meet the fam. Hell—" he chuckles, "—maybe I’ll even bring a gift. Y’know, to show my appreciation."

You don’t like the way he says "gift." Not one bit.

"You’re out of your damn mind," the old man snaps.

Ronin’s smile turns razor-sharp. "Yeah, well—" he tilts his head, brushing his lips against your ear, voice dropping to a whisper only for you. "—I’m your kinda problem now, aren’t I?"

Your heart pounds—too fast, too much—and you’re torn between wanting to strangle him and... something worse.

The phone crackles—your family’s favorite brand of righteous fury practically vibrating through the speaker.

"You arrogant little—what kind of punk thinks he can talk to me like that?!" the old man barks, voice sharp enough to cut. "You think you’re funny?!"

Ronin, being Ronin, grins wider—which should be illegal, really, because no one man should look that pleased while actively causing problems on purpose. His eyes gleam, wicked and bright, as he leans against the workbench like this is his personal entertainment.

"Funny?" He clicks his tongue. "Nah, old-timer, I’m hilarious."

Your head drops into your hands. Of course. Of course he’s not backing down. Not when there’s someone willing to bite back.

"Ronin—" you try, voice tight, but he holds up a hand—shh, baby—without even looking at you.

"So," he drawls, like he’s savoring every second of this. "How many poor suckers you got lined up for ‘em? Five? Ten? You hopin’ one of ‘em’s got a personality, or just flippin’ through the catalogue ‘til you find a pretty face?"

The line crackles again. Then—"You listen here, you little shit—"

"Nah, you listen." Ronin’s voice drops—still playful, but there’s an edge under it now, jagged and dangerous. His smile never wavers, but the temperature in the room feels ten degrees colder. "They’re not goin’ on any dates. Not with your pretty little lineup, not with anyone." His head tilts, lazy, like he’s considering how much trouble he feels like starting. "Y’see, they’re already busy—with me."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, torn between wanting to melt into the floor and… God help you, wanting to drag him down by his stupid leather jacket and kiss the smirk off his face.

"What the hell kind of guy are you?!" the old man demands, voice still boiling.

And that’s it—that’s the line Ronin’s been waiting for. He lifts his hand, fingers splaying across his chest like he’s been personally offended, but there’s a gleam in his eye. Something feral. Something viciously proud.

"Oh, darlin’ didn’t tell you?" His smile turns razor-sharp, voice syrup-sweet. "I’m their worst decision. And their best one."

"YOU—"

"Careful now," Ronin warns, mock-gentle. "Wouldn’t wanna get your blood pressure up. Though, hey—if you keel over, I’ll send flowers. Maybe."

Your mouth falls open. "Ronin!"

He shrugs, but his arm wraps around your waist, tugging you against him like he’s staking a claim. "What?" he says, all innocence. "M’bein’ polite."

Polite.

The old man, meanwhile, sounds seconds away from an aneurysm. "You punk! What the hell do you even bring to the table?! Huh?!"

Ronin hums, pretending to think—tapping his chin like this is a serious question. "Well," he finally says, drawing out the word like it’s a punchline, "I’m real good with my hands."

You choke.

He winks.

And that’s when you’ve had enough. With a furious swipe, you rip the phone out of his hand and hang up before anyone can make things worse. For a second, there’s silence—just the hum of the garage and your heart pounding in your ears.

Then, of course—Ronin laughs.

Deep and delighted, like you just handed him the best gift he’s ever gotten.

You whirl on him, shoving at his chest. "Are you INSANE?!"

He doesn’t budge. Just catches your wrists, lazy and loose, still chuckling like he’s having the time of his life. "A little," he admits, dragging your hands up to his lips. He presses a feather-light kiss to your knuckles, saccharine and smug. "But you love it, don’t ya?"

Ronin’s eyes narrow the second the old man’s voice blares back through the phone—louder, angrier, like he’s just realizing exactly who he’s dealing with.

“AH, FUCK—IT’S YOU! PUNK, EMO ASS, KID—”

Your head drops back with a groan. Oh, great.

The rant barrels on, unstoppable. “Look, kid. They told us ‘bout you—yeah, yeah, we didn’t even mind your ass. But then we heard you don’t like marriage. Christian-type stuff.”

Ronin snorts under his breath, lips twitching. "Oh, no. Anything but the sanctity of holy matrimony," he mutters, loud enough for you to hear, and you felt shitty—because, of course, he’s not taking this seriously.

The old man is not amused. “Look, respectfully—I get it. Some people don’t like the religion shit, fine.” A breath hisses through the receiver. “But this is an event. My lil’ baby is either gettin’ married—or gonna.”

You don’t miss the way Ronin’s jaw flexes at the word "baby."

“So, please—stay outta their way.”

Before you can respond—before Ronin can sharpen his tongue into something lethal—your patience snaps. You snatch the phone from his hand and, with zero hesitation, hurl it across the garage. It hits the wall with a satisfying crack, falling in two pitiful pieces.

The silence that follows is deafening.

For once—he doesn’t laugh.

Ronin watches you—sharp, calculating—like he’s peeling back your skin with his eyes, memorizing every new layer you reveal. His head tilts just a little. Something about that look makes your chest feel tight—too much, too fast.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair, like it’ll somehow smooth out the mess in your head. But when you glance back at him—he’s still looking. Still waiting.

And his voice—God, his voice—comes out too soft. “Somethin’ on your mind, darlin’?”

You look away.

His grin creeps back in, a little too sharp. “Y’know I love it when you get shy,” he teases, but the edge in his voice gives him away. He wants the truth.

Your heart stumbles. You press your lips together, fighting the way your thoughts swirl—loud, messy, too much. But the words—the real words—don’t come easy. Not when it’s this.

Still—you reach for him. Slip your fingers into his, warm and solid and steady. It’s too intimate for how casual you’re pretending to be, but he lets you.

You swallow hard. “…You don’t like these things because of—”

But you can’t finish. Your voice trips over itself, and rather than push through, you stop. Let it hang. Force yourself to smile. “It’s fine.”

Ronin doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stays locked on you.

You squeeze his hands a little tighter. “I’m happy. With you.”

It’s too honest. Too raw. And his grip tightens—like he’s daring you to take it back.

For a beat—he says nothing. But something shifts behind his eyes, and you know—you just know—that those words are going to stick. He’ll hold onto them like a blade tucked under his skin.

You lean up, quick and light, and kiss his cheek—lingering just long enough to feel the heat rising under your lips.

“I’m gonna go home,” you murmur. “Sleep well, Ronin.”

His fingers twitch in yours—tight, like he doesn’t want to let go.

But then—he does. And the smile he gives you as you pull away is dangerous—a promise.

“G’night, Darlin.”

The walk home is quiet. Too quiet. The kind that sticks to your skin and makes your head buzz. You told yourself it was fine—you’re fine—but the weight in your chest doesn’t quite lift, no matter how many deep breaths you take.

When you finally get home, the house is dark. Silent, except for the faint hum of that damned telephone still on the hook. You don’t touch it. Not tonight.

You kick off your shoes, peel off the day, and crawl into bed. The sheets are cold—too cold—without him. But you don’t think about that.

Not yet.

You’re too tired to fight your thoughts, so you let them fade. Let sleep pull you under.

Ronin doesn’t sleep.

Not well, anyway—not when you’re gone.

He stays in the garage long after you leave, leaning against the workbench with a half-finished cigarette burning between his fingers. Smoke curls through the air—thick, acrid—something to keep his hands busy while his mind spins.

That old bastard’s voice still rings in his ears. “Stay outta their way.” Like he’s some stray mutt sniffing around where he doesn’t belong. Like you’d ever let anyone pull that leash.

A dry chuckle slips past his lips. As if.

You told him to live. And you said it like you meant it. Like you wanted him to stick around. For you.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because Ronin’s been circling the drain for years—grinning all the way down—and then you came along. Got your hooks in him. Made it hard to fall when you’re the one holding on.

And he likes it. That’s the worst part. He likes the way you look at him—like he’s more than just teeth and blood and bad habits stitched together. Likes the way you call him an idiot and still hold his hands like you’re afraid to let go.

It’s addictive. You’re addictive.

And maybe—just maybe—he’s not ready to lose that yet.

The cigarette burns down to the filter before he flicks it aside, crushing it under his boot. His fingers twitch against his palm, and for a split second—he thinks about calling you. Just to hear your voice. Just to prove you’re still there.

But he won’t. He doesn’t want to spook you. Not when you’ve already given him so much.

Still—he’s not gonna sit here all night stewing like a lovesick idiot.

So, he grabs his keys, swings his jacket over his shoulders, and slips out of the garage with a devil-may-care grin.

If he’s not gonna sleep, he might as well have some fun.

You don’t hear the sound of his bike pulling up outside your house around 3 AM. (Just kidding)

You don’t hear the quiet creak of the gate as he slips through, or the soft thud of his boots against the porch.

The lock clicks. A sound too soft for anyone else to notice—but you do. Always.

You move without thinking, bare feet against cold floors, fingers brushing the knob before you twist it open. And there he is.

Ronin.

He’s leaning against the doorframe like he owns it, like he’s got all the time in the world, but there’s something heavy in his stance. Something coiled too tight. His knuckles twitch at his sides. The silver glint of rings, catching low light.

You don’t ask why he’s here. You don’t need to.

Your hand curls around the front of his jacket—warm leather, worn soft—and you pull. He doesn’t resist. Never does, not when it’s you. He’s already moving before the door even clicks shut behind him.

The house is still. Silent, save for the muffled hum of appliances, the faint tick of a clock somewhere down the hall. But his breathing—his—is loud in your ears.

He smells like smoke and metal and something else—something darker, sharper, like midnight and mistakes. It clings to your skin as he steps closer.

You don’t bother turning on the lights.

His hands find you first. Of course they do—always greedy, always starving—palms dragging against your waist, thumbs pressing against your ribs. Heavy. Like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

Your breath hitches when he curls his fingers into the fabric of your shirt, knuckles brushing bare skin. He feels it. You know he does, because his mouth curls—barely—and he lets out a low, breathy exhale, like this? This is exactly what he came for.

You tug him through the dark, back to your room, back to your bed—his bed, when it suits him—and he follows without a word.

The door shuts behind you both. Quiet. Like a secret.

He shrugs off his jacket as you sink onto the mattress. The leather hits the floor in a careless heap, rings glinting as his hands hover—hesitate—before he touches you again.

Always touching. Always taking.

You make room for him without thinking, shifting under the sheets as he crawls in beside you. He’s warm—too warm—like he’s been carrying heat under his skin for hours.

You should shove him. Call him an idiot for coming here in the middle of the night. But you don’t.

Instead, you curl against him, and he… melts.

His arms slide around your waist, pulling you close—closer—until there’s nothing left between you but breath and heartbeat and something too raw to name. His nose brushes against the curve of your neck, and his fingers twitch where they rest against your back.

He holds you like you’ll disappear if he lets go.

And maybe that’s the point.

His face presses into your shoulder, too much teeth against soft skin, but it’s not rough. Not really. Not when you know how much he wants this—needs this—even when he won’t say it.

Especially when he won’t say it.

He’s touch-starved in the way only someone like him can be. Starved for you, specifically. Like it isn’t enough to watch from the edges. Like he needs to feel you—to sink in and never leave.

You trace your fingers up the back of his neck, nails dragging gently against skin. He shudders. His breath stutters against your throat.

His grip tightens.

He won’t ask you to stay like this. He won’t ask for anything. But you know he’d take it if you let him.

And tonight?

You do.

You let him tuck his face against your collarbone. Let him wrap himself around you like he’s trying to crawl under your skin. His hair tickles your cheek—soft, messy, human—and for all his edges, all his sharpness, he’s warm. Solid. Yours.

His heartbeat slows against your ribs.

You stay like that. Minutes. Hours. Maybe forever.

And when his hand slides under your shirt—fingers curling against your spine, not asking, just holding—you don’t stop him.

He’s quiet, after that. Quieter than usual. Like maybe, just maybe, he’s finally gotten what he wanted.

Morning comes slow. Too slow, and somehow too fast.

The bed’s cold.

His warmth—his weight—is gone, and you feel it before your eyes even open. There’s no leather-jacketed mess tangled in the sheets, no sharp grin waiting to bite at you the second you stir. Just empty space where he was, where he always is, until he isn’t.

You sigh. Of course.

He never stays. Not all the way.

The sun bleeds through the curtains, golden and soft, but it does nothing to fill the ache curling behind your ribs. You push yourself up, stretch the stiffness from your limbs, and try—fail—not to think about the way he clung to you last night. The way his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, even when he had you pinned close.

You don’t know why you keep doing this. Letting him crawl under your skin. Letting him take whatever he wants, however he wants. But you do. Again and again and again.

Your throat feels tight. You swallow it down.

The floor is cold against your feet as you slip out of bed. You move through the motions—shower, brush your teeth, dress yourself like you’re preparing for war. Your usual uniform. The world doesn’t stop turning just because Ronin decided to ghost you.

Not that it’s a surprise. It’s what he does.

Still—you check your phone. Just once.

Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No smart-ass messages left for you to find.

Figures.

You yank open the closet door, grab your work bag, and sling it over your shoulder. The weight is familiar. Easy. You focus on that—the rhythm of routine, the comfort of habit—because if you don’t, you’ll think about the way he felt in your arms. The way he held you like he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance.

You don’t have time for that.

Keys. Wallet. Phone. You snatch them off the counter and head to the door, locking up behind you with the kind of practiced ease that doesn’t need thought.

Outside, the air is crisp—too bright, too sharp for a morning that feels this heavy—but you square your shoulders, lift your chin, and walk.

A job’s a job. And yours won’t wait.

By the time you make it to the office, your face is carefully neutral—expression smooth, words sharper than you mean them to be. No one notices. No one ever notices. You bury yourself in your work, losing hours to reports and phone calls and emails, because it’s easier than letting your mind wander.

But it does,

Slaughterhouse: Losers Very Good—a bloodstained corner of the internet where psychos, freaks, and murder hobbyists hang out like it’s a dive bar no one sane would step into. Coded from scratch, like everything Ronin does. Meticulous. Untraceable. Home sweet home.

And you?

Offline.

He hates that.

You’re too good to him. You let him touch you—hold you—and somehow, you’re still here. Soft edges in a world full of jagged glass. He doesn’t get it. Doesn’t deserve it. And yet.

Ronin leans back in his shitty leather chair, boots kicked up on the desk. The glow from his monitors bathes the room in electric blue, half-lit shadows stretching across the mess of papers, knives, and half-finished projects. One screen blinks with a list of names. His little collection of degenerates.

If he’s gonna do something for you, it’s gotta be good.

He cracks his knuckles, spins a blade between his fingers, and pulls up the first chat.

🐺 K9 (V):

Ronin: sup, robo-cop.

K9: Don’t.

Ronin: aw, missed u too, sweetheart. anyway, i got a question. hypothetical. romantic. u know what that is, or does ur metal heart not compute?

K9: I’m blocking you.

Ronin: no u aren’t. u love me. listen, if you were, hypothetically, in love with someone—(gross, i know)—what would you get ‘em?

K9: …You? In love?

Ronin: hypothetical. duh.

K9: A knife. Through the heart.

Ronin: aw. that’s practically a marriage proposal, k9. but srsly. i want ideas. gimme somethin’.

K9: Why do you care?

Ronin: because, steel-toes, for once in my godforsaken life, i want to be nice. write that down.

K9: …Whatever the hell you are, I do respect you for wanting to do something. Get them something meaningful. Personal. Something no one else could give.

Ronin: ur such a sap under all that righteous fury. thanks, babe. xo.

Ronin grins to himself. Meaningful. Personal. Easy words when you’re not the one tangled in it. Still, not useless. And if nothing else, bothering V is a highlight of his day.

Next.

💀 LUCA_IS_SO_COOL:

Ronin: sup, sunshine.

Luca: YO DUDE. YO. YO. THE DEVIL IS IN MY DMS WHAT’S GOOD

Ronin: don’t wet ur boardshorts, prettyboy. i need ur expert advice.

Luca: BRO ASK AWAY. I AM AN OPEN BOOK OF RAD WISDOM.

Ronin: so, imagine someone who’s not me (obvs) wants to do something nice for their, uh, partner. ideas?

Luca: BROOOOOOO BROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO ARE YOU IN LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE DEVILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

Ronin: chill. ur embarrassing urself.

Luca: NAAAAH THIS IS EPIC. OK OK OK OK. GET THEM SOMETHING FUN, MAN. SOMETHING THAT MAKES ‘EM LAUGH. OR LIKE. A DATE NIGHT. EVERYONE LOVES A DATE NIGHT.

Ronin: yea? what do u get feli? a golden shrine?

Luca: BRO. SHE DESERVES IT. LOVE OF MY LIFE. 10/10 WOULD MURDER FOR HER.

Ronin: u r so cringe it makes my teeth hurt.

Luca: NAH, MAN. THIS IS PEAK RELATIONSHIP. EMBRACE IT. TREAT ‘EM RIGHT.

He closes the chat before Luca can start writing you two’s wedding vows.

🎀 Angel (Angelic):

Ronin: hey, sweetheart.

Angel: Shouldn’t you be doing crimes?

Ronin: multitasking. i need a gift idea. something hot. spicy. devilishly irresistible. like me.

Angel: LMAO. You? Being romantic? Is this the apocalypse?

Ronin: c’mon, sugar. help a devil out.

Angel: Fine. Jewelry’s always a classic. But not basic. Custom. Something only you could give. Bonus points if it’s dangerous.

Ronin: deadly and pretty. like you. i’ll keep that in mind.

Angel: You’re welcome, loser.

Alright. Custom. Unique. That he can work with.

One last stop.

📚 Felicite:

Ronin: Hey Feli

Felicite: What do you want, Ronin? I hope you're doing fine!

Ronin: thought you academics liked answering questions. gimme ur best gift idea.

Felicite: For who?

Ronin: nosy. for my business.

Felicite: Books are an easy choice. But if you actually care, do something personal. An experience. Something only you could give.

Ronin: huh.

Felicite: For the record, Luca’s losing his mind. I think you broke him.

Ronin: lol. love that.

He leans back, phone tossed onto the desk. Mind buzzing.

Something personal. Something only he could give.

He taps his fingers against his thigh, a slow rhythm building. Yeah. Yeah, he’s got ideas.

hitmeuppp

goreboy: oi, sunshine. u busy killin’ or can i bother u for a sec?

hitmeupp: ✨ goreboy in my inbox?? is it my birthday?? ✨

goreboy: i’m the gift that keeps on givin’, baby. don’t forget it.

hitmeupp mm, flirty today. what’s on your wicked little mind, devil boy?

Ronin: hypothetically… let’s say i wanna do somethin’ nice for someone. y’know. romantic. cute. sweet. whatever. ideas?

hitmeupp: 👀👀👀 waitwaitwait—you?? doing something sweet?? for a special someone?? ohhh i am LIVING for this.

Ronin: don’t make it weird.

hitmeupp: too late, babe. so, what’s the vibe? like, do you wanna melt their heart? make ‘em blush? get ‘em to kiss you senseless? give me the deets.

Ronin: …all of the above, probs.

hitmeupp: aww, you’re adorable when you’re down bad. okay, listen up:

Custom gift—something only you could give. Unique. Dangerous, if you’re feelin’ spicy.

Surprise date—not boring, tho. They like you, so they probably have a taste for the unusual.

Handwritten note—bonus points if it’s a little unhinged. People LOVE that stuff.

Ronin: a note? what, like “roses are red, violets are blue, i’d kill for u, baby, it’s true”?

hitmeupp: LMAO okay, poet, calm down. but yeah—personal. even psychos like a little sentiment. and you’ve got that whole devilish charm thing, use it.

Ronin: u sayin’ i’m charming?

Misaki: 😏 darling, if i didn’t have standards, Stil no

Ronin: Ouch

hitmeupp mmm, promises, promises. now, get outta my inbox before i start liking you.

Ronin: too late, sunshine.

hitmeupp ugh, you’re impossible. good luck wooing your lover~ 💕

[Slaughterhouse Server – Main Chat]

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: AYO. EVERYONE SHUT UP. BIG NEWS.

Angelic: ??

hitmeuppp: what, did u finally find a brain cell?

Angelic: Doubt it.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: NO. BIGGER. Y’ALL. RONIN DMed ME ABOUT GIFTS.

K9: …The hell?

Angelic: wait. hold on. pause.

hitmeuppp: ✨ omg no way ✨

Goreboy: Liar.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: BRO, I SWEAR. HE ASKED ME FOR GIFT IDEAS. LIKE—SOMETHING ROMANTIC. I’M NOT EVEN KIDDING.

Felicite: …what's wrong about it luca?

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: HE’S SIMPIN’.

Angelic: That's fine?

K9: This is stupid. Who cares.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: LMAOOOO LOOK AT THIS HATER. HE MAD ‘CAUSE NO ONE’S SENDING HIM LOVE LETTERS.

goreboy: you’re gonna lose a limb, surfer boy.

hitmeuppp: awwww the devil’s BLUSHING~

Angelic: no because why is this actually the most interesting thing to happen all week

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: I’M NOT EVEN DONE. Y’ALL. HE DIDN’T JUST DM ME. HE DMed EVERYONE.

K9: ......

Angelic: Hold the fuck on—

hitmeuppp: 💀💀💀 GOREBOY OUT HERE TAKING A SERVER-WIDE SURVEY ON HOW TO WOO HIS BOO??

Felicite: Oh my god.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: NAH BECAUSE THIS IS TOO GOOD. IMMA SAY IT. HE’S SIMPIN’ FOR Y/N.

Ronin stares at the screen.

The nerve. The audacity.

These punks. Absolute ingrates. He gives them a space to thrive, to indulge their weird little murder hobbies, and this is the thanks he gets?

He’s cool. Ice-cold. Too smooth to care. …And yet—

The corner of his mouth twitches. A little.

They’re all still going.

hitmeuppp: if it’s NOT y/n i’m actually gonna riot.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: BRUH WHO ELSE WOULD IT BE??

K9: I hate all of you.

hitmeupp: WAIT. HOLD UP. What if Y/N SEES THIS???

Ronin’s heart skips.

Yeah. What if?

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: OMG OMG OMG I’M GONNA PING ‘EM.

goreboy: don’t you dare.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: @Y/N @Y/N @Y/N HEY, BESTIEEEE~

Ronin grips his phone a little too tight. He should stop this.

He won’t.

Because somewhere—deep down—he kind of likes it.

Angelic: luca omg ur gonna get us all murdered.

hitmeuppp: worth it.

K9: Idiots.

Felicite: …This is sort of cute.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: NAH THIS IS LORE. I HOPE Y/N SEES THIS.

Angelic: fr. like imagine logging in and seeing the whole server clowning on ronin for being a lovesick freak.

goreboy: y’all must have a death wish.

Ronin exhales sharply through his nose.

[PRIVATE GROUP CHAT – “Ronin Babysitting Squad”] (Created by Angelicc)

Members: Angelic, Eviscerator1990, Ai Hua, Goreboy

Angelic: this feels like a weird intervention

goreboy: this feels like a weird mistake

Eviscerator1990: Shut up, kid. We’re here to help.

Ai Hua: 🙂 what’s wrong?

Ronin blinks at his screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. This is humiliating. Why did he think letting Vince of all people into this would be a good idea? The guy still thinks dial-up internet is modern technology.

And Ai Hua? Pure terror in the form of a woman. Always smiling. Always watching. Respect

He should leave.

He doesn’t.

Eviscerator1990: So. What happened.

goreboy: nothing happened, grandpa.

Angelic: that’s not what the ENTIRE SERVER says~

Ai Hua: 🤔

Eviscerator1990: Be honest. You wouldn’t DM all these punks unless it was serious.

Ronin sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. Why the hell is it these three? Of all people.

His thumbs hover—then, finally, he types.

goreboy: hypothetically. if i wanted to do… something. for someone. what’s a good gift?

Silence. Too much silence.

His stomach twists. Mistake. Huge mistake.

Ai Hua: ❤️

Eviscerator1990: …Is it Y/N?

goreboy: who else?

Vince sends three dots. The dreaded “typing…” lingers for a long, long time.

Ronin’s jaw tightens. Here it comes.

Eviscerator1990: Son. You got it bad.

Ronin groans. He should burn the server down. All of it. Reduce it to digital ash.

Ai Hua: 🙂 good.

goreboy: good??

Angelic: she’s right tho.

Eviscerator1990: So. What kind of thing are you thinking? Big? Small?

Ronin exhales, tilting his head back against the couch. Big? Small? Hell if he knows.

You’re good to him. Too good. And all his sharp little edges don’t feel quite so sharp around you. It’s annoying. It’s addictive. It’s yours.

goreboy: …something they’ll remember.

A long pause. Ai Hua is still smiling. Vince sends an emoji that looks suspiciously like a knife. Angelic? Predictably losing her shit.

Angelic: oh my god. oh my GOD.

goreboy: do not.

Angelic: no because this is so cute i’m gonna DIE.

Vince, at least, is playing it straight. Mostly.

Eviscerator1990: Personal. That’s what you want. Something that means something.

Ai Hua: 💌

A love letter. Of course Ai Hua would suggest something that sappy.

Ronin scoffs—but he doesn’t immediately shoot it down. Weird.

Eviscerator1990: Back in the day, I’d leave my girl notes on the bodies. You know—real romantic.

Ai Hua: ❤️ he did. very sweet.

goreboy: romantic is one word for it.

Angelic: okay okay but what does y/n like?

He knows. Of course he knows. Your coffee order. The way you hum under your breath when you’re lost in thought. How you scrunch your nose when you’re about to call him an idiot.

You like him. Which is the real problem.

goreboy: they like me.

Angelic: ugh barf

Eviscerator1990: Okay. Make it about you, then. Something only you could give.

Ronin blinks. Something only he could give.

The thought sticks—hooks deep. A dangerous idea, curling slow and warm in his chest.

Ai Hua: 🙂 you’ll figure it out.

He hates how much that simple, sweet little emoji makes him feel seen.

Eviscerator1990: Don’t mess it up, kid.

Eviscerator1990: Listen, kid—when you’ve been married as long as I have, you learn a thing or two.

Ronin immediately regrets his life choices.

His fingers hover over the keyboard. He considers leaving. Deleting the server. Moving to a cave and never speaking again.

goreboy: oh god here we go

Angelic: oh god here we go

Ai Hua: 🙂

Vince, undeterred, continues typing like he’s delivering the gospel.

Eviscerator1990: Our wedding? Best thing I ever did. No question.

goreboy: what, was it a bloodbath?

For a second, nothing. Then—

Eviscerator1990: Nah. Garden wedding. Real classy.

Ronin nearly drops his phone.

goreboy: you. YOU. Garden wedding??

Eviscerator1990: Yeah. Had flowers and everything. I wore a tux. Looked sharp as hell.

Ai Hua: ❤️ you did.

He can feel Angelic vibrating through the screen.

goreboy: no.

Ronin scrubs a hand over his face. This cannot be real life.

Eviscerator1990: Point is— That was my gift to her.

That hooks him. Annoying, sentimental, and probably too much sugar in his bloodstream—but it sticks.

goreboy: you’re telling me the best thing you ever gave her was a wedding?

Eviscerator1990: Yeah. ’Cause it meant forever. I mean, don’t get me wrong. She still scares the hell outta me.

Ai Hua: 👍

Eviscerator1990: But that’s how you know it’s real.

There’s a long pause. Ronin swears he can hear Angelic trying to choke down her squeals.

Ai Hua: 🙂 do you like them enough to marry?

His heart lurches.

The words hang there—quiet, patient.

Ai Hua doesn’t push. She never does. It’s not her way. She just lays it out, all soft-spoken and warm, like a mother easing her child into something bigger than they understand.

And for once, he doesn’t know.

goreboy: …kinda?

Angelic: KIND OF??

Eviscerator1990: What kinda answer is “kinda?” Either you want it, or you don’t.

Ronin huffs. He leans back on the couch, biting the inside of his cheek. Want. What a word.

goreboy: i want them. i want them to stay.

Ai Hua sends a heart. Just one.

Ai Hua: 🙂 then maybe… Do it your way.

His way.

His mouth curves. Dangerous. Wicked. Oh, he can do that.

Ai Hua: I’m sure Y/N likes you enough.

Something in his chest twists.

Likes him enough to deal with his bullshit. Likes him enough to stay, even when he’s all sharp corners and messy feelings. Likes him enough to keep his name on their tongue, even when it’d be easier not to.

Ai Hua: Whatever you give them that lasts longer— They’ll love it.

He blinks. The words sit heavy.

Ai Hua: Because it’s you. That’s how I feel about my husband.

Quiet. It’s too quiet. Even Angelic—who lives to make everything her business—doesn’t send a single obnoxious emoji.

And Ronin?

He stares at the screen, stomach flipping, heart hammering out some rhythm he refuses to name.

He doesn’t do forever. Doesn’t play nice, doesn’t stick around, doesn’t—

But for you?

Yeah. Maybe he does.

goreboy: Thanks

Eviscerator1990: You’re welcome.

Ai Hua: 🙂 good luck.

Angelic: this is the CUTEST thing that’s ever happened in this cursed server...

Ai Hua: 🙂 one more thing.

His thumb hovers over the exit button. Something about Ai Hua, though—you don’t ignore her when she asks.

goreboy: what.

Ai Hua: It’s fine.

He frowns.

goreboy: what is.

Ai Hua: The way you love them. It doesn’t have to be a wedding. It just has to be you.

He freezes.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Something sharp scrapes under his ribs.

You.

He’s not soft. Not simple. Not the kind of guy who shows up with roses and a ring and a stupid, starry-eyed smile. But you don’t want that. Never have.

You want him. Exactly as he is—rough edges, black heart, wicked mouth.

And maybe—maybe—that’s enough.

Ai Hua: They love your style. Show them it, my son.

His mouth twitches.

goreboy: did you just call me your son?

Eviscerator1990: We kinda adopted you, kid. Sorry. No returns.

Ai Hua: 🙂

A beat of silence. Then—

goreboy: tch. whatever. not like i needed another family.

Ai Hua: ❤️ but you have one.

His chest aches. Stupid. Sentimental. Unbearable.

Eviscerator1990: And hey— Our kids keep asking when they’re gonna see Uncle Ronin again.

His laugh slips out before he can stop it—low, breathy. Of course they do. Little gremlins.

goreboy: tell ‘em i said to stay in school.

Ai Hua: 🙂 they want to be like you.

Oh, hell no.

goreboy: no they don’t.

Eviscerator1990: One of ‘em tried to make a fake server last week. Called it “Slaughterhouse Jr.”

goreboy: i am not responsible for that.

Ai Hua: 🙂 you inspire them.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. This is a nightmare.

goreboy: y’all are gonna give me grey hair.

Eviscerator1990: You’d still be pretty.

Angelic: oh my god.

Ai Hua: 🙂 will you be okay?

For a long time, he doesn’t answer.

Will he be okay? With this? With you—taking up space in his chest, clawing your way under his skin?

He already knows the answer.

goreboy: yeah.

And for once—just once—he means it.

goreboy: thanks. or whatever.

Ai Hua: 🙂 anytime.

Now onto, you and him

goreboy: Hey, darlin’.

A simple text. Too simple. He never starts like that without a plan. Trouble in four letters.

You barely get through your day before your phone buzzes again. And again. And—

goreboy: what, too busy for lil’ old me? tragic.

goreboy: bet you’re sittin’ there missin’ me, huh?

goreboy: wait—don’t tell me. you’re makin’ heart eyes at your desk or somethin’.

goreboy: don’t blame you. i’m a lot to miss.

He’s annoying. Even through a screen. Even when you know he’s probably lounging somewhere, all long legs and lazy smirk—half-bored, half-plotting his next move.

Still. Your heart gives that stupid flutter. You glance at your phone, biting back a smile as you finally reply.

You: you left without saying anything :(

A beat. Then—

goreboy: oh, baby. don’t tell me you’re poutin’.

You roll your eyes.

You: maybe.

He’s quick—too quick.

goreboy: fuck. now i really wanna see it.

Your cheeks warm. He’s unbearable. Always poking, always pushing. And yet—

You: you didn’t have to leave so fast.

His next text comes slower. As if he’s thinking. You imagine him slumped in that busted leather chair in his garage—legs spread, boots kicked up, twirling a screwdriver or some other sharp thing between his fingers.

goreboy: duty called, sugar. had to open up the garage. wouldn’t want my precious toys collectin’ dust.

You: you’re ridiculous.

goreboy: and yet, here you are, talkin’ to me anyway.

You: i’m soft for you, obviously.

A whole minute passes. When he finally replies, it’s slower. Something tugs beneath the teasing. Something heavier.

goreboy: hey.

goreboy: you’d like… whatever i did for you, yeah?

You blink. Where is this coming from?

You: of course.

goreboy: nah, i mean— like. if i did somethin’ stupid. you’d still like it, right?

Your lips curl. So that’s it. The devil himself, circling the point like a shark.

You: depends. how stupid are we talkin’?

He sends a dramatic sigh emoji.

goreboy: unbelievable. here i am, barin’ my heart and soul—

You: pfft. heart and soul, my ass.

Still, you soften. Because under all the bravado, you can hear it—the little twist of hesitation. And that? That gets you every time.

You: whatever you’re scheming, yeah. i’ll like it. because it’s you.

You hit send before you can overthink it. Let him sit with that.

And oh, does he. For a second too long. When his next message comes, it’s something softer—something unguarded.

goreboy: dangerous thing to say, sweetheart. you know i’ll hold you to it.

You bite your lip, warmth curling in your chest.

You: i’m counting on it.

He doesn’t answer immediately. You imagine him leaning back, teeth sinking into his lower lip, mind working a mile a minute. Because that’s the thing with him—he never stops thinking. Never stops wanting.

And you—you’re the worst of it.

His brain tells him he shouldn’t care so much. But his heart? His heart’s already tangled up in you.

goreboy: s’pose i’ll have to cook up somethin’ real special then. can’t have my darlin thinkin’ i don’t care.

It makes your stomach flip.

You: i never think that.

Another pause. You swear you can feel his smile through the screen—soft, a little crooked. The kind he only ever lets you see.

goreboy: I....see...

Uptown has an alley they call Purgatory.

It isn’t pretty. Never was. A place where sunlight doesn’t dare creep, where the air tastes like rust and regret. Blood dries black against the brickwork—his blood, most days. Or someone else’s, when he’s feeling generous. It smells like piss, garbage, and death.

A shithole. Perfect.

This—this—is where Ronin Beaufort decides to propose.

Because where else? Where better? It’s where you kissed him for the first time, after all—the devil himself, knuckles raw from the man he’d left twitching at your feet, teeth red and grin wide. You’d kissed him anyway. Kissed him like you meant it. Like he was something worth keeping.

And Ronin? He’s not one to let things go.

So, he makes a plan. A fucked-up, perfect plan.

The first body is easy.

An uptight corporate asshole. Buttoned-up, boring, all crisp lines and no soul. Ronin cracks his skull open like a candy shell. Blood spatters wide, painting the concrete. Nice start. But not enough. Not for you.

The second one’s better. Messier. He takes his time—drags it out. A real piece of work, some wannabe kingpin, all bark and no bite. Ronin guts him slow, pulls pretty red ribbons from his stomach. He uses the crowbar for the heart—your heart, darling—and carves it deep into the brick. Wide, jagged, dripping. Personal.

When it’s done, he steps back, tilts his head.

Huh. Cute.

He’s still admiring his work when his phone buzzes.

Angelic: yo, goreboy, you rang?

Of course, she picks up. She always does—his favorite little devil with a halo, sharp-tongued and twice as nosy. And yeah, he could’ve asked anyone, but Angel? Angel gets it.

goreboy: need a favor.

Angelic: what’s in it for me?

goreboy: the eternal satisfaction of servin’ the devil?

Angelic: pfft.

He snorts, tongue running over his teeth. Predictable.

goreboy: fine. order me somethin’. rings.

Angelic: wait. back up. goreboy’s proposing?

He glares at his phone like it personally offended him.

goreboy: shut up.

Angelic: aw, you’re getting soft. what kind? black diamonds? skulls? molten lava straight from hell?

“Funny,” he mutters under his breath. But she’s not wrong. Your ring—your ring has to be perfect.

goreboy: black. gothic. whatever screams “marry me"

The typing bubble appears. Pauses. Then—

Angelic: lucky you, i got a guy.

Of course, she does.

goreboy: knew there was a reason i kept you around.

Angelic: anything for the devil. even if i gotta play cupid for my ex.

He rolls his eyes. “Christ.”

goreboy: Thanks Angel, Won't give up my child for a week.

Angelic: I'll just kill it again

Yeah. Yeah, he would. Not that he’d admit it.

goreboy: whatever. send me the bill.

Her last message comes fast—too fast. He can hear the smile.

Angelic: oh, darling. it’s on the house.

goreboy: Send it, you know- I don't do these Angel.

Angelic: You're cute, No. Just take the rings

He huffs a laugh, shoves his phone back in his pocket. One thing down.

By the time the sun starts to dip, Purgatory looks like an art installation straight from hell. Bodies like broken marionettes. Blood like paint, dripping in slow, thick rivulets. And at the center of it all—the heart.

Your heart.

His.

If he had one.

And if he didn’t? Well. You stole it anyway.

Ronin leans against the wall, crowbar still sticky in his grip.

What the hell is he doing?

Proposing.

Fucking proposing.

He should be laughing at himself. Should be smirking, at least. But his jaw ticks, his fingers flex, and there’s something ugly crawling under his skin—a feeling he doesn’t like.

It’s not the blood. Not the mess. That’s easy.

It’s you. It’s always you.

And the worst part? The sick, stupid, beautiful part?

He wants this.

Wants you.

He wants to keep you—ruin you—for as long as you’ll let him.

His phone buzzes again. Another message from Angel—this time with a picture.

The rings.

Sleek. Sharp. One for you, one for him. Bound in black, wrapped in silver. Yours is thinner, more delicate—but not by much. No diamonds. No fluff. Just you and him, the way it’s always been.

Perfect.

He huffs a breath, tongue clicking against his teeth.

Yeah. Yeah, this’ll do.

It’s almost cute, really.

If you ignore the bodies.

And the blood.

And the fact that he’s doing this the only way he knows how—messy and wrong and completely, utterly him.

He swipes the sweat from his brow, steps back, and admires his work.

A heart, jagged and dripping. A graveyard of the unworthy. Rings on the way.

And for you? Anything.

Even this. Especially this.

Because when the time comes—when he kneels, all cocky smirk and bloodstained hands—you’ll say yes.

You have to.

(And if you don’t? Well. He’s never been good at taking no for an answer.)

Ronin lights a cigarette, lets the smoke curl in his throat.

The devil himself, on one knee.

Christ.

What the hell has he become?

Yours.

And God help anyone who tries to take that away.

goreboy: hey darlin’~

Your phone buzzes against the desk, and you barely glance down before his name flashes across the screen. Of course, it’s him.

you: hey yourself. what’s up?

goreboy: what’s up? tsk. rude—can’t a guy check on his favorite little writer?

You smile, shaking your head. Always like this.

you: oh? i’m your favorite now?

goreboy: pfft. babe, you’ve been my favorite. since day one. don’t let it get to your head, though. my heart’s fragile, y’know.

you: lmao, fragile?? you??

goreboy: i’m delicate. like a flower. 🌹

You roll your eyes, biting back a laugh. Ridiculous.

you: what do you want, ronin?

goreboy: what, a man can’t just miss you? ‘sides… i’m bored.

Of course, he is. The devil himself, restless as ever.

you: poor baby. what am i supposed to do about that?

goreboy: come see me.

You blink at the screen, heart skipping. Oh.

you: …right now?

goreboy: yeah.

you: where?

goreboy: purgatory.

Your brows furrow. He’s teasing. He has to be.

you: lmao. you’re joking, right?

goreboy: when do i ever joke, darlin’?

A pause. Then—

goreboy: seriously. come by. just for me.

You bite your lip, warmth blooming in your chest. This—this—is why you’re in too deep.

you: fine. what’s the occasion?

goreboy: pfft. gotta have a reason? but if you must know…

Another buzz—

goreboy: maybe i got somethin’ for you.

Your heart stutters.

you: something? what kind of “something”?

goreboy: you’ll see, babe. gotta keep a little mystery alive, yeah?

You roll your eyes—fondly, though. Always like this.

you: okay, fine. any special requests?

goreboy: oh, now we’re talkin’. dress in black for me, sweetheart. if you wanna, anyway.

You tilt your head, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He’s playing, but there’s something beneath it—something serious.

you: you like gothic, huh?

goreboy: on you? hell yeah.

you: good. ‘cause so do i.

goreboy: ...perfect.

Is it your imagination, or did he just… stammer?

you: did you just freeze up?

goreboy: shut up.

The alleyway known as Purgatory is as familiar as it is haunting—a place you want to hate but can’t. Your heels click softly against the cracked pavement, the air thick with the scent of blood, metal, and something distinctly him. It’s always him. Even when he’s nowhere to be seen, his shadow lingers like an inescapable ghost.

Tonight, though, there’s something different.

Your black dress clings to you like a second skin, just the way he likes it. You don’t want to think about why your heart’s racing, or why you dressed up like you were meeting someone important. But it’s him—you know it’s always him.

And when you turn the corner, your breath catches in your throat.

A heart.

Not just any heart—A jagged, messy thing carved into the wall in dripping red. Blood, fresh and dark, soaks the concrete like an offering. The heart is wide and chaotic, edges splattered like he couldn’t help but make a mess. But in the center, etched with the brutal precision only he could manage, is your name.

It’s wrong. It’s so wrong. And yet—your pulse flutters. Your stomach twists in that awful, dizzying way it only does with him.

A soft metallic scrape echoes behind you—the unmistakable sound of a crowbar dragging across the pavement. Your skin prickles, and you don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

“Damn,” his voice purrs, smooth and sinful. “Look at you, sweetheart.”

When you do turn, he’s leaning against the brick wall like the devil himself, framed in the neon glow. Ronin.

Black beanie pulled low over his burgundy hair, the devil horns stitched into the sides making him look every inch the trouble he is. His leather jacket gleams under the dim light—studded, spiked, with a pair of rusty scissors sticking haphazardly through the shoulder. A red ‘X’ pin glints beside it, careless and dangerous. Beneath, his black t-shirt clings to him—faded skull design stretched across his chest like it belongs there. His maroon pants hang low on his hips, ripped just enough to tease, and the chains hooked along his belt jingle softly with every move.

And—God—the piercings. Silver glints along his ears, across his tongue when he grins, and the delicate sword pendant resting against his throat? Unfair.

He’s looking at you like he’s starving. Like you’re already his, and tonight, he’s reminding you of it.

“You came,” he murmurs, dragging the crowbar behind him as he approaches. “Knew you couldn’t resist me, darlin’.”

Your throat tightens as he stops in front of you—towering, all six-foot-one inches of bloodstained disaster. There’s that wild glint in his blackened eyes, something feverish and yours. The air crackles between you, electric and dizzying.

His gloved hand reaches out, and before you can react, his fingers lace with yours—gentle, almost. His touch is rough, warm, and when he lifts your hand toward his mouth, your heart stutters.

“A devil’s gotta mark his territory, huh?” he hums, lips brushing against your knuckles.

And then—he kisses your ring finger. Soft, deliberate—like it means something. Like it means everything.

Your face burns, and you try to pull your hand away, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb traces slow circles over your skin, almost absentmindedly—like he’s savoring the feel of you. Always touching. Always wanting.

“What—” your voice catches, breathless. “What is this, Ronin?”

He grins, sharp and wicked. “You like it?” he asks, tipping his head toward the bloodied heart. “Told ya I had something for you, babe. Can’t say I’m not romantic.”

Romantic.

The mess—the blood—the sheer violence of it—this is how he shows it. Twisted, wrong, and so perfectly him. And the worst part? You love it. You love how much he’s willing to ruin things for you.

“You’re insane,” you whisper, but your fingers curl against his palm like you don’t mean it.

“And yet,” he drawls, dipping closer—his lips ghosting against the shell of your ear, “here you are.”

You shiver.

He steps back just enough to meet your gaze, head tilted, that cocky tilt to his lips—but something softer lingers underneath. Something unsure.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” his voice drops, smooth and low. “Whatever I do… you still gonna want me?”

The words shouldn’t hit you as hard as they do. Because underneath all the bravado—beneath the teasing and the devil-may-care attitude—he’s asking if you’ll stay. If you’ll keep coming back to him.

If you’re his.

And you should be scared. You should. But instead, you brush your fingers against his jaw—soft, almost too soft.

“Of course I do, idiot,” you murmur, and his breath hitches—just barely. “I always want you.”

For once, he doesn’t have a comeback. Just stares at you like he can’t quite believe it. Like you’re something precious.

And when he kisses you—slow and bruising, like a promise..

His arms curl around your waist—possessive, like he doesn’t plan on letting go anytime soon. Dressed in black and soaked in sin, he pulls you against him, his voice a low murmur against your ear.

“Sorry, lover,” he drawls, smooth as silk but sharp enough to cut, “you can’t look back now.”

The neon red light hums around you both, staining everything it touches—casting the blood-slick walls in a glow that shouldn’t be beautiful, but it is. Because it’s him. Because it’s you. The blood, the guts—it all looks like a twisted love letter only he could write.

And the heart—still dripping on the wall with your name carved into its center—feels like a vow.

A promise he’s daring you to accept.

He leans back just enough to drink you in, eyes black as the void and twice as deep. The silver glint of his piercings catches the light, but it’s the look in his eyes that makes your heart twist. Something dark. Something dangerous. And God, something that’s only for you.

“Pretty, ain’t it?” he muses, like the whole bloodstained mess is just a casual art project. But there’s something else in his tone—something softer when he adds, “Made it special, darlin’… just for you.”

You should say something—maybe call him out for how utterly insane this is—but your tongue feels too heavy, trapped between your teeth as you try to process everything.

It’s a lot. He’s a lot.

And yet, your body betrays you—pressing closer, heart fluttering against his chest like a trapped bird. You hate how easily he pulls you under, how effortlessly he spins you into his gravity—but there’s no escaping it now.

He tilts your chin up with one gloved finger, lips curving into a slow, wicked smile. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he teases, “Cat got your tongue? Or are you just too busy fallin’ for me?”

You try to roll your eyes. Try. But his touch burns, and when he lifts your hand to his mouth—again—you forget how to breathe.

His lips brush against your knuckles—slow, deliberate—before they linger on your ring finger. It’s so soft you barely feel it at first. Just the faintest pressure. Something warm. Something cold.

And when he pulls back, there’s a glint of silver wrapped around your finger.

Your breath stutters. Your heart stops.

A ring.

Not dainty. Not soft. It’s him—jagged edges, blackened silver with the faintest blood-red inlay spiraling like a twisted promise. It’s heavy against your skin, unapologetic in its meaning.

And you didn’t even notice him slipping it on.

Your head snaps up, eyes wide, but he’s already watching you—waiting.

“Ronin—” your voice catches, and you don’t even know what you’re about to ask. What this means.

His grin widens, devilish and sharp. “What’s the matter, babe?” he coos, as if he didn’t just slide a ring on your finger like it was nothing. “Thought you liked surprises.”

You blink—once, twice—your thoughts spiraling, and he takes advantage of the silence. His hand slides along the small of your back, pulling you flush against him while his other hand traces absent circles over the ring.

“Fits perfect,” he hums, pleased with himself. “Guess that means you’re mine, huh?”

Your heart does something awful and traitorous in your chest.

He’s too much. Too close. And you—you’re letting him do this.

Still, your fingers twitch beneath his—testing the weight of the ring, the feel of it like a brand. Permanent.

“You—” Your voice trembles despite yourself. “You didn’t even ask.”

His laughter spills out, low and rough. “Baby, if I asked, would you really’ve said no?”

You hate how easily he’s right.

The gloved hand on your back slides up—tracing the delicate curve of your spine—until it rests against your neck. He tilts your head back, just enough to force you to meet his eyes. Dark. Intense. Yours.

“You’re not mad, are ya?” he murmurs, voice softer now, like there’s actually a part of him that cares. “’Cause I can take it back if you don’t want it. If you don’t want… me.”

His mask slips—just a little—and your stomach twists at the vulnerability he tries so hard to hide.

But you don’t let him pull away. Not this time.

Instead, you curl your fingers into the leather of his jacket, grounding yourself in the heat of him. Your thumb brushes over the ring—cool against your skin—and it should feel too much. Too fast. Too everything.

But all it feels is right.

“Idiot,” you murmur, and his grip tightens like he’s terrified you’ll slip away. “I’d never take it off.”

The relief in his expression is palpable—masked by a cocky smirk, ]

His lips barely part from yours when he whispers it—low, rough, like a vow dragged from somewhere deep inside him.

"Promise you," he murmurs, the words brushing warm against your mouth, "this is forever… or ‘til one of us dies."

And just like that, your brain short-circuits.

Your breath hitches. Your body freezes. You’re too stunned to speak—because, what the hell?

Forever. Forever with him—the blood-streaked, chaos-wrapped mess of a man currently holding you like he never plans on letting go. His hands are still warm against you, firm, and there’s no teasing lilt to his voice. No wicked little joke behind his words.

He means it. Ronin means it.

And for a heartbeat—just one—you can’t process it. Can’t wrap your head around the weight of what he’s just given you.

The silence stretches. Grows heavy between you. And for once, he’s the quiet one.

When you lift your gaze to his, wide and unguarded, his expression is almost… shy.

Ronin Beaufort—The Butcher, the devil himself—looks like a goddamn kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

His lips twitch, like he wants to smirk but can’t quite manage it. His hands fidget slightly on your waist—restless energy bottled under his skin. And his eyes? Pitch-black and wide open, like he’s waiting for you to either run or ruin him.

He shifts his weight from one boot to the other, shoulders hunching the tiniest bit like a kid who just handed over a crayon drawing and is desperately hoping you’ll stick it to the fridge.

"Uh—" His voice cracks just a little—a little—and you swear you catch the faintest flush creeping up his neck. "You’re… gonna say somethin’, right?"

You blink at him. Still speechless.

He fumbles. Actually fumbles—one hand pulling back to rub at the back of his neck as he huffs, "I mean—c’mon, babe, this is kinda the part where you either kiss me back or tell me to go to hell."

The confidence—the usual devil-may-care arrogance—is still there, but it’s softer around the edges. Fragile in a way he never lets anyone see.

And you—oh, you’re doomed.

Your heart does a weird little flip in your chest as you stare at him, still clutching onto your waist like you’ll vanish if he lets go. He’s so much—too much—but under all that swagger and bloodlust, he’s just… Ronin.

Your Ronin.

The idiot who drags you into alleys for romantic blood-and-guts displays. The devil who slid a ring on your finger like it was nothing. The man who—no matter how sharp his tongue is—would burn the world down for you.

“Wait,” you finally manage to choke out, the word soft and breathless. “Did you… are you actually serious?”

His face scrunches up like you just personally insulted his entire aesthetic. “Babe. Did I stutter?” He lifts your hand again, thumb brushing against the cool metal band still snug on your finger. “Or do I gotta get on one knee to spell it out?”

And oh, he’s pouting.

The Butcher—slaughterhouse king, nightmare in leather and spikes—is full-on pouting.

You bite down on your lip, hard, trying to hold back the laugh bubbling up in your chest. He notices—of course, he does—and immediately narrows his eyes.

“Don’t you dare.” His grip on your waist tightens in warning, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “I just poured my goddamn heart out, and you’re laughin’ at me?”

And suddenly—you can’t hold it back.

The laugh escapes—light, breathless, overwhelmed—because what else are you supposed to do when your psychotic, bloodstained boyfriend is acting like a needy kid who just gave you the world’s most chaotic proposal?

His brows knit together in mock offense. “Unbelievable,” he grumbles, though his tone is softer—fond—as he watches you melt into laughter. “I give you my heart on a bloodied silver platter, and this is the thanks I get?”

“I’m not laughing at you—” you try to protest, still breathless. “It’s just… you’re… cute.”

The second the word leaves your mouth, his whole body jerks.

“Cute?!” He repeats it like you’ve committed a personal crime. “I just did the most metal, romantic shit on the planet, and you call me—” He drops his head against your shoulder, groaning. “—cute. Jesus Christ, I’m losin’ my edge.”

You wrap your arms around him without even thinking—pulling him closer, fingers curling into the back of his leather jacket. He smells like smoke, leather, and something distinctly him—something you could drown in if you’re not careful.

And in the middle of the bloodstained alley, wrapped in his arms, you realize there’s no escape. Not from this—not from him.

And, God help you, you don’t want one.

“Hey, Ronin?” you whisper softly against his neck.

“Hmm?” His voice is quieter now—hopeful, like he’s trying not to get ahead of himself.

You tilt your head just enough to press a soft kiss beneath his jaw, feeling the slight hitch in his breath. “I’m not taking it off,” you promise. “Ever.”

For a split second, he’s still. Frozen. Like he doesn’t quite believe it.

And then—he’s kissing you again.

The world could burn, and you wouldn’t care—not when he’s in front of you like this. Eyes blacker than sin, lips swollen from kissing you like he’s starving, and hands gripping your waist like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

But right now, he’s the fragile one.

Your devil—loud, reckless, always too much—is holding his breath. Waiting. Like your next words could either save him or shatter him.

And God, you love him.

Your fingers brush against the ring on your hand—cool metal, heavy with meaning—before you slowly reach for his. His hands—rough, calloused, stained in ways that can’t be washed clean—tremble just a little as you lift his left hand in yours.

"You gave me one," you murmur, soft and steady, as you slide the matching ring onto his finger. "It’s only fair I make you mine, too."

His breath catches. He doesn’t say a word—doesn’t even twitch—just watches you with this raw, unfiltered intensity that makes your pulse race.

When you finish, you lace your fingers together, feeling the cool press of metal against your skin. He’s yours now. Yours in the same way you’ve always been his.

And when you speak again—voice barely above a whisper—it’s not for show. Not a tease. Just the truth, laid bare between you.

“I’ll love you forever, Ronin Beaufort.”

Something cracks in his expression—something wild and vulnerable and so, so real.

And you’re not done.

“I’m happy,” you admit, voice trembling just a little. “Happy I met you. Happy I get this—us.” You pause, and there’s this ache in your chest when you smile, soft and almost shy. “Maybe it’ll be destructive. Maybe it’ll last forever. I don’t care how it ends, Ronin… I just want it with you.”

His grip on your waist tightens—desperate—like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go.

And you don’t. You just lean closer, until your lips barely brush against his, and whisper the words that have been burning on your tongue since the day he dragged you into his twisted little world:

“I love you, Ronin Beaufort.”

For one breathless moment, he doesn’t react.

And then—he moves.

He crashes into you, mouth slanting over yours with bruising intensity, like he’s trying to brand those words into your skin—into your bones. Like he wants to crawl inside your heart and never leave.

It’s messy, overwhelming, and so perfectly him—and you give yourself to it completely.

His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against his chest as he devours you—sharp teeth grazing your bottom lip, a low growl curling from the back of his throat like he’s trying to consume you from the inside out.

When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—his lips hover over yours, and his voice is wrecked.

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot.”

The words are rough, but his hands tremble where they hold you. “Why would you love someone like me?”

Your heart squeezes, and you don’t even hesitate.

“Because you’re you.”

And, for once, he’s speechless.

No snark. No teasing. Just the weight of your confession sinking into his bones—binding you together in a way no bloodstained vow ever could.

He drops his forehead against yours, breathing hard, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “You better be sure, sweetheart. ‘Cause you’re stuck with me now.”

Your fingers tangle in the chains hanging from his jacket as you grin. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

His lips barely ghost over yours, teasing, waiting, giving you a chance to breathe—but you don’t take it. You can’t. Because then he kisses you.

And God, he kisses you like he means it.

Like he’s sealing the promise in blood and breath, branding it into your bones with the press of his lips. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go. Like he needs to hold on just to make sure you’re still real.

It’s slow and deep—no rush, no hesitation—just pure possession.

Your heart pounds. Your fingers tangle in the chains on his jacket, desperate to keep your balance because he’s overwhelming. He always is.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re breathless—dazed—barely clinging to reality as he huffs out a quiet, wicked laugh.

Then—he grins. Sharp and smug, eyes flashing with something wild.

"Oh, that old man won’t shut up about how we’re not married, huh?" He snickers, tapping a gloved finger against the ring on your hand. "Guess you better show it off, sweetheart. Be loud ‘n proud about it—rub it in his face."

You don’t answer.

Because you’re still dizzy from his kiss...

It's gonna be a long night

[spiderlilywritings]

a rotten angel's retribution

Trigger Warnings: blood, gore, murder, graphic depictions of violence

You've always been a good person.

At least, you try to be. Your parents always taught you to keep your head down. Keep calm and keep your temper in check. Be kind. 

"Do unto others what you want done unto you."

And for the people who wronged you, let them be. Karma will find them one day.

You took their words to heart. You always tried to be kind, to grow into someone they're proud of.

—But overtime, you came to understand that this fucked up world devoured kind people. Chewed them up and spit them out as a hollow shell of their former selves.

In Uptown's Purgatory, sickening wet sounds pierced through the otherwise quiet night. 

The scent is disgusting. It makes you hurl. The dead body you're thoroughly beating with a metal pipe is ugly. But alongside disgust, elation coils in your gut.

The person that tormented you so long ago is finally gone. Gone because of you. Tears streamed down your face (what are you doing? shouldn't you stop? you're better than this. stop. stop. stop. sto—), but slowly, slowly, soft giggles started escaping your lips.

You've always been a good person. But the Devil had ways of corrupting you. Or... no, instead of corrupting you, making you turn to the dark side or whatever cliché term that people liked to use— maybe the Devil was your key. Maybe he unlocked that ugliness that was already festering inside your heart and from there, you let that ugliness consume you.

Your parents must be disappointed. Maybe they're rolling in their graves, screaming and crying in heaven at what you've become. Those heavenly gates never looked so far away before.

A blood splatter there, a bone breaking here...

This person was beautiful when they were alive. And so very cruel. You kept your head down (like your parents always taught you, good people that wanted you to live a peaceful life), letting this person walk all over you like you were nothing but a dirty rag under their shoes.

"Karma will get them one day." You'd whisper, maybe to cope with the pain, the hate simmering within you. You prayed that some higher being would administer divine retribution.

Years passed. People went their separate ways. The pain and hatred seemed to have dulled. You thought you got over it. But seeing this person's face, realizing that they were still that awful monster that gave you nightmares all those years ago—

You figured it was time for one less trash in this fucked up world. 

If some higher being refused to give them the karma they deserved—

You'll be their karma.

It was easy enough to lure them to Purgatory. All you had to do was act like the scared little rabbit they remembered you to be.

And then, you grabbed the metal pipe. Broke their legs. Broke their arms. Ruined their beautiful face. 

Their screams were grating to the ears. Their blood looked dirty and black. Their innards looked like they were rotting, infested with every disgusting bug known to man.

You keep hitting. And hitting. And hitting. Until they're nothing but a pile of flesh, guts and gore. No matter how beautiful a person is, they're just a lump of meat in the end. 

When the adrenaline, the thrill of murder and retribution finally fades, a shaky exhale escapes your lips.

The pipe falls from your hands.

You look at yourself, covered in that person's blood. Gross. You looked like you were covered in tar.

You wondered if their soul was as black as their dirty blood. 'Hah... Tar soul...' You thought, like it was some sort of funny joke. You hope they end up in the deepest parts of hell. 

You sit on the dirty ground now, letting the aftermath of your brutality stain your clothes. Your gaze focuses on the body again, eyes blank.

All was silent.

"Well, well, well..."

Until the Devil's voice reached your ears. You turn, seeing Ronin casually leaning against the wall.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes, darlin'." 

He comes closer, letting the blood stain the soles of his shoes.

You look away. "You need to get your eyes checked."

He laughs at your retort and you feel that familiar, fluttery feeling in your chest. You've always loved his voice. 

Stupid, beautiful, murderous Ronin.

You feel his arms wrap around you. "How was it, darlin'? Did you have fun? My sweet, little fallen angel, delivering divine retribution."

"...I didn't think of murdering them at first." You murmur. "I just... I thought maybe, they might have changed. Like... like character development." A choked laugh follows your words.

"I thought... they would realize what they did wrong. Try to become a better person. But then they opened their mouth and. And. I realized that they were still the same."

Ronin listens as you start to ramble, incoherent words merging together. You're spiraling. But that's to be expected from your first kill. You don't need to worry though. You're spiraling into hell, but the Devil's there. He'll catch you so you won't crash and burn.

"...Ronin? I don't get it. You said that this..." You gesture to the dead body. "This kind of thing was beautiful. I don't see any beauty in this at all. I only see a pile of rotten garbage. They're rotten garbage."

"Because that's all they'll ever be to you, darlin'. Trash in life. Trash in death. But 's fine. Beauty is subjective, yeah?"

"...Yeah." 

You bury your face in your hands. You didn't know what to do now. Laugh some more? Cry? 

"God... I..."

"Baby, there's no God in this purgatory. Just me. Just your Devil." Ronin whispers in your ear, just like a devil on your shoulder. "You did well." Ronin turns your head towards him and his lips make contact with yours. As intense as ever. With teeth and tongue, like he was devouring you.

"...Can you help me get rid of this trash?" You gesture to the lump of flesh after you broke apart.

"Sure, doll. Was plannin' to have a bit of fun tonight too, but there's no way I can leave my rotten angel all by their lonesome, now can I?"

#announcements

<goreboy>: Congrats, @/killerwriter your murder Dropped this morning.

www.killer-news.com/gruesome-murder-at-purgatory-a-new-killer-strikes

#main

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL>: AYO??? LOOT DROP! LOOT DROP!

<hitmeupppp>: omg a murder from the enigma themself?! finalllyyyy!

<Angelic>: wow @/killerwriter you can't even recognize them. excellent work

<killerwriter>: yes

<killerwriter>: well

<killerwriter>: let's say it was personal :')

<goreboy>: it was Glorious, was there Myself

<goreboy>: i posted some pics on #killer_shit too

<killerwriter>: ???

<killerwriter>: since when did you have time to take photos?

<goreboy>: I got My ways, baby

<killerwriter>: 🙄

<killerwriter>: the police suck in Uptown btw

divider by: @/fawndollie

[nikipuff]

Gaming Night

Warnings: Death (in the video game), cussing, Luca simping for Felice

“Aw, come on, you have got to be kidding me!!”

A groan could be heard from Misaki as they missed a shot, sounds of a controller hitting the wall electing small laughs from everyone in the server. The video call had been unexpected, an attempt to “bring everyone together” for some fun that involved shooter games. Despite you not exactly fitting in with the rest (cause, you know, you weren’t a murderer), you had joined anyway, wanting to see the strategies that some of them would take to win.

Ronin had found the game, and promptly invited everyone on the server. Some declined, but Angel, V, Misaki, Luca, Felice, and you agreed. 

“You think I’d let ya hit me?” Ronin chuckled, his avatar aiming straight at Misaki and hitting them square in the chest.

[Ronin] has killed [Misaki]

“I’m down! Angel, avenge meee-!” They cried out, making sure that their dramatic collapse could be heard by everyone through their headphones. Luca mumbled something about teaming being against the rules, but since he was working with Felice, most ignored him. 

V sighed. “I still do not see the point in doing this.” His avatar was holding the weapon, but he didn’t move to attack anyone. 

“C’mon, it’s fun!” Luca exclaimed, managing to sneak up on Angel and shoot her. She was quick to dodge, pulling out her own weapon and trying to send a bullet through his head. “Wait- Angel, we can talk about this-”

“Nope!”

[Angel] has killed [Felice]

“Wait- who-?” Luca stared at the message, confused. In game, Angel hadn’t hit him. She hit-

“MY LOVEEEEE, HOW COULD YOUU DO THIS, ANGEL?!?!"

“It’s just a game, Luca!” Felice laughed, avatar disappearing as she 'died'.

Now, it was your turn.

Your avatar in the game was crouched behind one of the many overturned vehicles, your weapon shooting straight at V, who was still complaining. “I should be doing something more productive with my time, instead I’m stuck here, dealing with you idiots-”

[Username] has killed [V]

“DId- Did you just kill me-?!”

“Yes, I did.”

Ronin laughed, counting whoever remained. “Let’s see . . . We have Angel, (Username), Luca, and me. Let’s see who wins, hmm?”

Turning, your avatar bolted to Luca’s location, reloading your weapon before arriving. Once there, you could see that him and Angel were facing off, leaving you the perfect opportunity to kill them both. But then, you would have to get Ronin out all by yourself, and that was something you would rather not have to do. He would absolutely destroy you.

“We’re friends, right, Angel?” Luca held up his hands, panic lacing his tone.

Angel nodded. “Mhm.”

“Then . . . don’t shoot me? Pretty please with sprinkles on top?”

She sighed, lowering her weapon slightly. “Fine . . . but only so we can team up on Ronin.”

Still in your hiding spot, you checked your other monitor, clicking on private messaging and choosing Angel’s name. 

(Username): Angel? Wanna team against Ronin with Luca?

Angelic: I’m already doing that

(Username): But after we make Ronin lose, let's get rid of Luca

Angelic: I like the way you think :)

A smile crept onto your face as you went back to the game, moving towards your “allies” in order to beat Ronin. Moving back to your other computer, you put the three of you in a separate voice call so that Ronin wouldn’t hear your plan. 

“Angel, you distract him-“ Luca started to inform you both of the plan, but you mostly tuned it out, since you planned to let him do all the work and then kill him with Angel. You expected that she was ignoring Luca as well, most likely making her own plan to stab you both in the back.

“So, everyone know their job?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Totally.”

Chuckling nervously, Luca rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting away from you and Angel. “Well . . . uh . . . let’s get going!”

. . .

[Username] has killed [Angel]

“Eh-?” Luca turned to you, confused as he watched Angel’s avatar disappear from the game. Realization struck him too late, trying to dart out of the way when your player’s weapon was already halfway through him.

He cursed. “Seriously?!” Before he could speak further, his avatar disappeared like Angel’s, leaving you alone, your target nowhere in sight.

From above, in the pixilated trees, Ronin sat on a branch, looking down at you with a lazy grin on his face. "Just you and me, hmm, darlin'?"

You responded with a smirk of your own, brandishing your gun and preparing to shoot his chest. “Get killed, bitch-”

A heavy weight slammed into your avatar, the [You Lost] message appearing on your screen. Cursing, you switched to the video call.

“Well, well, well, how does it feel to lose?” Ronin leaned back in his chair, laughing at your angry expression.

“I’ll beat you next time!”

“Sure, sure. Try your best.”

[bloodied-blossom]

You'd do anything for that antichrist, wouldn't cha?

1.5k Words; Ronin x Reader (1/2)

Killer Chat! Fanfic

Ronin is driving you insane, if he wanted proof so badly? You'd give it to him. The devil wants your corruption. And thats just what you give him.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

'Heh'

‘Will you Carve an Aorta out for me? Cut it Filthy and Breathing’

`Do It like the Romantics do`

`i haven’t Forgotten your Need to Prove yourself to me`

`<user> [16:51]`

`I don’t think I need to prove myself to you.`

`< goreboy > [16:51]`

`who’s the one Deciding your fate?`

`i Thought so`

`have fun with your Murder`

`don’t forget to Send Pics`

`in the meantime`

`i’ll be marking the Devil’s name Uptown`

Ronin . God why won’t he get off your back. Oh, right, it’s because he knows. You know he knows. But there isn’t much you could do about it right now. Your thoughts are swirling with ideas.. Should you prove yourself? Is it worth the blood on your hands just to get him to leave you be? He’s corrupting you, and he’s pretty damn good at it. Reading his words again gives you a grotesque idea. ‘Carve an Aorta out for me?’ The thoughts only spiral as you try to push them out. You try to convince yourself that a human life is not worth your sick romantic fantasies.. But you can’t deny the truth any longer. You need this server's trust. You need proof.

If you want the devil’s heart? You’ll have to play the devil’s game. And by playing his game? You’re falling right into his hands.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

You had scoped out possible victims. There was a list of shitty people you knew the world would be better off without. This really was a terrible idea. You had on shoes that were three sizes too big, a large coat, a mask, long gloves and a couple of weapons to get the job done. Ronin was driving you mad and yet there was so little you could do about it.

You came into this server for inspiration, and here you are on the brink of murdering someone. It was too late to stop now anyways. You had a victim, you had time, and you had your equipment. You set off in the dead of night, knowing most if not all people, including your victim, would be asleep.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Fuck you’ve done it- You killed the guy. He lay there motionless, the crowbar you used lying beside him. You knew that it was over with and that you should get your photos and leave. But once again, Ronin’s words rung out through your head. ‘will you Carve an Aorta out for me?’ God why had that one sentence stuck? He was going to be the death of you.

You knew you had to do it. Maybe now he’d shut up, maybe now he’d take more of a liking to you. Maybe now he’ll see what he’s done to you, how bad his corruption has affected you. It’s ridiculous really, he’ll only enjoy seeing you break.

You left a mark on the victim's body. Your.. brand. If you will. A missing heart and a mark. How creative. You held the heart in your hand and pulled your mask down. This needed to be deleted as soon as it was sent to the server, you knew that, but that was a problem for later. You snapped a photo of you holding the heart, a twisted smile on your face.

The devil lives to corrupt and shows mercy to none who play with his fire.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

You couldn’t send it. It made you sick looking at it when you got home.. Plus it would be too early. This wasn’t some fun game anymore, some stupid role you could play to get your inspiration. You were now a certified murderer.. And despite how disgusted the dead bodies made you feel? There was a thrilling rush to it. God your morality was being tainted slowly but surely. The only way to recover the sanity you lost is to send the photos and move on. Pretend it never happened…

But you made it this far. Why stop now?

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

`< goreboy > [18:28]`

`oh, why not make it reality?`

`why don’t you Kill Someone for me @\user`

`i’m still Waiting`

`here i’ll even Let you Choose`

`that’s my Round Two`

`i Dare you`

You stared at your screen at a loss for words. You already have. You’ve done what he’s acting so desperate for.. But could you even tell them? It’s frustrating. He’s driving you even madder as time goes on. You stand from your desk, you know how to get the frustration out. Ever since that night, you have been more and more into finding ruthless people you could make victims. More and more proof to pile on. You saw your murder case on the news the morning after that night. People weren’t scared of you.. You were growing this want. The want to be feared.

You stare at the crowbar you used that night, the outfit being neatly folded right beside it. You could do it again. Give into the devil’s demands. Rack up all the proof you need, with all your reasons attached. That would be one hell of a fucking blow..

You’d prove yourself to the devil , and the devil will accept it graciously.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

You did it again. You idiot. You’re falling for the bait, all the corruption. It doesn’t matter, what you’ve done is over with. You can’t go back. You stared at yet another lifeless body. Something inside of you told you this should stop, but something else felt good about this all. It was so gratifying knowing you were becoming just what he wanted you to be. You marked the body and tore out the heart, taking yet another photo from another angle to ensure the receiver knows it’s a new, fresh kill.

With your blood soaked gloves, you wrote your killer name on the wall. You wanted your chosen name to strike hearts into people. You wanted there to be news articles of you.. But that meant more blood. And you were more than happy to oblige.

Dancing with the devil is no sane person's hobby, but to you? It was your favorite.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

`< goreboy > [15:38]`

`hey ‘user’`

`how about i show you the Art of Murdering with a crowbar`

`i’ll Do it`

`as long as you Be my Victim`

Fine. This little game has gone on long enough. One more kill to prove yourself. One more victim to photograph and send to the devil on your shoulder. One more life to take before you can retire from hurting people. This is the ending you want, though you know won’t happen. You’ve grown addicted. You’ve stalked your friends to see how they do it, you take in advice from multiple sources. You’ve landed yourself so much information from this server it tempts you.

You want to rid the world of disgusting, horrible people. But you also want to be the devil’s little helper. You’ve done more than your fair share of roleplaying and it’s about time that role became a true reality. News outlets are becoming more antsy, you hear idle chatter of this new serial killer, law enforcements seem to be picking up some slack to keep people calm.. You’re doing well.

You already planned a list of people you were to kill if it came down to being something you wanted to continue doing. You know exactly where you’re headed tonight. You got ready as quickly as possible, your heart was racing. This became exciting to you. All of this was exciting to you. You couldn’t wait for Ronin’s reaction. It was going to be priceless.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

It was done. You were smiling like a maniac. You felt.. A sick sense of joy out of this. You took multiple photos this time, one with the heart, one close to the lifeless body, one smearing blood on the wall. You were… treating it like a photoshoot. It was so.. Concerningly fun. You couldn’t wait any longer, you couldn’t wait till you got home. You wrote your serial killer name in blood and stood next to it, snapping one last photo before saving both the previous photos and the newer ones to your hidden album.

You were excited, making sure you left nothing behind and fleeing from the house. It took a bit to get home undetected, but you managed. Your mind was blank, nothing but the last hour replaying in your mind as you washed up your items, clothes and yourself. You hooked your phone up to your laptop and opened up the server. Your heart was racing as you selected each photo.. Leaving out all the ones with the hearts in frame. You hovered over the send button.. After you did this? There was no going back. You stared at the sidebar with everyone’s accounts.. And saw Ronin’s . That was the only motivation you needed to click send.

You switched channels, watching as the little exclamation point showed up, signaling you had a notification from the channel. That could be checked later. You opened you and Ronin’s private messages, sending him only the photos with the carved out hearts. You didn’t wait for a response to the photos before you began typing.

`<user> [01:33]`

`I did as you asked, I carved these all out.`

`Did I make the devil proud?`

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

[yuukskillsworld]

ahhhhhhh omgggg i am obsessed with your writing brooo

can u do like a fic or headcanons of the love intrests x a self destructive readerr ^^ (i am a sucker for angst what can i say)

hope your having day or nighttt

“Wreck Me Softly” – Killer Chat LIs x Self-Destructive Reader Headcanons

Hey, sweetheart—thanks for the request! If you’re here for a little pain wrapped in obsession, you’re in the right place. These killers see your cracks and still want more.

Hope you enjoy every second of the spiral. <3

written by yuukskillsworld<3

WARNINGS: Heavy emotional themes: self-destructive behavior, intrusive thoughts, low self-worth, comfort after emotional distress, protective/possessive behavior in some characters, mild language and intensity, hurt/comfort dynamics, please take care while reading. If you're struggling, you deserve real-world support too—fiction is comfort, but your well-being matters more.

Ronin Beaufort

⁠♡ Immediate Recognition: Ronin sees through the facade instantly. You can joke, smile, or pretend—but he notices the tremble in your hands when no one else is watching. He's lived that kind of quiet pain and never overlooks it.

♡ Silent Vigilance: He doesn’t confront you right away. Instead, he watches from the sidelines, eyes sharp with concern. “You gonna tell me what’s eatin’ at you, or do I gotta dig it out myself?”

��� Protective Fury: When your pain becomes undeniable, Ronin gets angry—but not at you. It’s a raw, helpless rage aimed at the world that’s hurting you. “You matter more than you act like, darlin’. Start believin’ it—or I’ll make you.”

♡ Subtle Care: He shows love through action, not words. Drapes his coat over your shoulders, hands you water without a word, or simply sits beside you, thigh to thigh. His presence is constant, grounding.

♡ Internal Spiral: When you fall apart, so does he—quietly, inwardly. He blames himself, wonders if he’s too damaged to help. His greatest fear is losing you the way he’s lost others.

♡ Fear in Disguise: If you take a reckless risk, his reaction is sharp. Loud. Scared. “You think this world wouldn’t end if I lost you? ‘Cause I promise you—it would.”

♡ Soothing Aftermath: But after the storm, he softens. Always. He holds you close, forehead against yours. “You don’t have to be okay. Just… stay. Let me help you carry it.”

♡ Unconditional Commitment: He doesn’t want to fix you—just wants you here, alive, with him. If it takes holding your broken pieces together every night until they start healing, then that’s exactly what he’ll do.

Maria de la Rosa (Angel)

⁠♡ Immediate Recognition: Angel quickly notices the signs of your self-destructive behavior. Her intuition and experience make her sensitive to subtle changes in your demeanor.

⁠♡ Protective Instincts: She becomes fiercely protective, often going out of her way to shield you from harm, even if it means confronting others or taking drastic measures.

⁠♡ Emotional Support: Angel offers a listening ear and comforting presence. She encourages open communication, assuring you that you're not alone in your struggles.

⁠♡ Acts of Service: She expresses love through actions—preparing your favorite meals, organizing relaxing activities, or simply being there when you need her.

⁠♡ Encouraging Self-Care: Angel gently nudges you towards healthier habits, reminding you of your worth and the importance of self-care.

Misaki Katsuo

⁠♡ Shared Vulnerability: Misaki relates to your struggles, having faced their own challenges. This shared understanding fosters a deep connection between you two.

⁠♡ Humor as a Coping Mechanism: They often use humor to lighten heavy moments, helping you find moments of joy amidst the darkness.

⁠♡ Open Conversations: Misaki encourages honest discussions about feelings, creating a safe space for you to express yourself without judgment.

⁠♡ Consistent Presence: They make it a point to check in regularly, ensuring you feel supported and valued.

⁠♡ Encouraging Professional Help: Understanding their own limitations, Misaki gently suggests seeking professional support, emphasizing that it's a sign of strength, not weakness.

Valentin Viljoen(V)

⁠♡ Observant and Insightful: V notices patterns in your behavior, often identifying triggers and offering strategies to cope with them.

⁠♡ Structured Support: He helps establish routines that promote stability, such as regular meals, sleep schedules, and mindfulness practices.

⁠♡ Calm Reassurance: V provides a steady presence, offering comfort through calm and measured responses during your low moments.

⁠♡ Encouragement of Autonomy: While supportive, he respects your independence, encouraging you to take active steps in your healing journey.

⁠♡ Resourceful Assistance: V researches and shares resources, such as therapy options or support groups, tailoring suggestions to your preferences and needs.

Thanks again for the love—means more than you know. Glad you’re enjoying my writing... and trust me, the killers are enjoying you even more. If you want I can make you a fic for each of them.

Sorry if I didn't do the characters description more cuz I only played the Angel and Ronin route for now. Thank you for for understanding (⁠´⁠∩⁠｡⁠•⁠ ⁠ᵕ⁠ ⁠•⁠｡⁠∩⁠`⁠)

Come back soon, darling. <3

Credits:

-> dividers: @saradika-graphics @dollywons @uzmacchiato @thecutestgrotto

-> photos: Pinterest