#killer chat fanfic

[mysticwastelandkitten]

Fic Rec!

Two of my favorite OC x Ronin fics!!

I wanted to share them cuz they need more love and I find their OCs to be really unique ><

(I hope it's okay that I did this. I'm not sure about fanfic rec etiquette)

[alemonyoyo]

V is for Vendetta but T is for Tension - Ronin x V (Killer Chat):

A/N: I have coined this ship "Bloodhound" since V's username is K9 like dogs lol and cause Ronin is a gore fest and because they also symbolise unconditional love. It's the perfect ship name in my op.

Summary: The devil is in the details. And the details seem to be telling V that he might be a little more than obsessed with Ronin.

Words: 2804

Tags: Feelings Realisation, Enemies To Lovers, V is really in his head about EVERYTHANG, over use of italics?

-

@goreboy: sure Baby catch me if you can

It was messages like these that made his blood boil the most. The catty nicknames and taunts that really show Ronin’s true depravity. He was a murderer. A sick fuck who did little outside of tormenting the good of the modern world. And despite that being his livelihood, when met with threats of capture, he couldn’t care less!

@K9: I will. Just you wait.

He typed it out, feeling his fingers jaggedly tremble, trying to hold themselves back from a lengthy diatribe that he’d surely get mocked for. He was used to the teasing. After 2 years it’s hard not to be, but right now he really needn’t get more flustered.

He didn’t wait for a response, flicking back over to another tab on his desktop; The Butcher’s police reports spread out on scanned documents, each fitted with the scrawling hand of the men in blue. He had been going through each of the reports, noting each death's location on a map he kept up in another window, now pin-pricked red with small dots that coagulated like a sea of blood; Ronin’s massacre. 

He was desperate for another lead, something to dig him out of the hole he found himself in, seeing neither the path forward nor backward, stuck simply in place to wallow in the details… “The devil is in the details.” Ronin had often said over call in his whiny, pitchy tone. Yet, these were the moments Valentin hated him the least. After all, the voice sought to humanise him, even if it was grating on the ears.

Never once had he seen him though. Yet he was aware everyone else had. He had heard many a time about Ronin’s deplorable fashion sense from the likes of both Angel and Misaki, and was well aware of Luca and Felicie’s apprehension of his appearance. Under other circumstances, he’d feel offended that Ronin would have obstructed him from such a view, yet it made perfect sense given their intentions with one another… Valentin had neglected to show his own face as well, so perhaps it was only fair.

Yet he wondered, what could someone like The Butcher even look like? At first, before he’d even joined the server, he’d imagined him much like how he imagines Vince; Tall and gruff, with wide shoulders and thin eyes that pierce harshly into one's chest, reading the sins of their hearts and beating out their last breath with intimidation. Yet, once he got to interact with Ronin, that idealisation was swiftly discarded. 

Now, well- he's not sure how he imagines him. He evidently has an affinity for grunge-like aesthetics, and according to Luca sports some especially “unflattering jeans” (though Luca’s taste is not to be trusted), yet his relationship with Angel would suggest he is reasonably attractive… Unless Angel was desperate, which wouldn’t be completely surprising. He exuded enough confidence to suggest that he was, though, which really got V’s mind racing…

If he could just get a glimpse of his killer, that’d make his hunt so much simpler! Yes. That was it.

He flicked back over to his chat with Ronin, the petulant nickname “baby” flashing in the gaudish pink of the chat client, grinding his gears and making him flush. It was stupid, he really shouldn’t get flustered by things like this, from people like this.

He scoffed, sighing to himself as he read over Ronin’s messages. If only these were different circumstances.

@goreboy: Eh. thats what you always say

@goreboy: And where has that gotten you?

@goreboy: 2 years in the biz and you still havent found me

He clenched one hand into a fist, clicking off the terminal with the other to get back to his sleuthing. Ronin was always such an asshole. He made him crazy! Made his heart race and his skin flush. Made him scroll through reams of documents detailing down to the finest points all the horrific acts he had committed. If it weren’t for the screen in between them, well, Valentin was certain that he’d know Ronin better than anyone!

The annoying flicker of the chat terminal’s notifications sounded. Once, then twice, then once more- V sighed, rubbing a tired hand upon his temple. It was really too late to be dealing with him, but justice never sleeps, so neither does he.

@goreboy: you just gonna ignore me are ya?

@goreboy: nah. you’re probably busy “hunting me down” arent ya?

@goreboy: Understandin my serial killer psyche and what not

@goreboy: so Fuckin Obsessed with me

@goreboy: you almost make me blush

He couldn’t stifle his audible groan. Ronin was being needier than usual.

@K9: Go seek your attention somewhere else. You have an entire server of pricks to bother.

@goreboy: eh. theyre not as fun to play with as you

He had to cover his eyes at that. Whether it be to shield him from such a snide remark, or to hide the heat that sizzled quietly under his skin, he wasn’t sure. This feeling, it had to be irritation- hatred. Sizzling, bubbling, hot. That’s how you’d describe it, no?

Ronin wasn’t being unjust, though. At least, not right now, so why was he making him feel this way? And why, pray tell, were the corners of his mouth fighting against his better judgement, upturning awkwardly into what some may call a smile. A smirk? A simulacra of emotion.

Perhaps it was because this implied a sense of favouritism. Yes, it was definitely that. To be sought after like how he pursued Ronin; with a fervent hunger that had yet to be quenched. It was flattering, sure, but nothing more!

@K9: I’m glad you find such pleasure in tormenting me.

@goreboy: aw is that so?

@K9: No.

He didn’t treat this like a game one would “play.” So of course it didn’t make him fucking glad. How stupid could Ronin be?

He squashed that thought pretty quickly, though, as evidently he was smart enough to outsmart him time and time again.

@goreboy: you wound me. are you Really sure youre not a serial killer?

He had to chuckle a little at that. Clever word play from his clever killer. He typed with a newfound ease;

@K9: With the amount of times you impose that disreputable moniker upon me, one might assume you’re simply asking for my attention. You’re well aware of the reaction it provokes from me…

@K9: You aren’t getting desperate, are you @goreboy?

A little part of him pleaded for it to be true, so that he wouldn’t be alone in this little pit of his. If the desperation went both ways, well then he could at least meet his killer in the middle of it all. Any lead. Any semblance of a lead that could direct him to a sense of understanding. Why did Ronin act like this? Why was he so cruel yet addictive? Why could he uproot his life and lead him down a path of ridiculous mystery and chaos to this very moment of time, calculated to immense precision? A mind much like his own in divisiveness yet so different in morality. Yin and Yang.

@goreboy: yk you dont have To @ me in dms right?

@K9: Dodging the question. That is so like you.

@goreboy: like you’d know

@K9: I would. 

@goreboy: fucking bet

He had little time to ruminate upon Ronin’s remarks before a bright flashing window popped up, arrogantly beckoning for his attention. He squinted his tired eyes, reading the pink text with a groan. 

[goreboy would like to voice call you.]

Alright. Groan retracted. His interest is piqued, and his anticipation is giddy. He eagerly clicks accept.

“For a moment I thought you wouldn’t pick up. But then I remembered you’re obsessed with me.” His snide tone filtered through the earbuds he had scrambled to get ahold of when the notification popped up. He had heard it a million times before yet it still made his skin prickle. With disgust, of course.

“Ugh, obsessed with putting your heinous deeds to rest. Nothing more.” He sighed out, though he didn’t feel the usual pang of immense disgust that came with reprimanding the younger man.

“Sure. You wanna tell me how that’s goin’?” He could hear the smugness dripping in his slick tone. Valentin squinted, as if the gesture might allow him to peek through the bright pixels of his screen, and out into the room of the man on the other line, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

“It’s going swimmingly. You really should start running if you know what’s good for you.”

“Ah, but you know I don’t. Don’t you? Since you know me so well.” He mocks with a thin laugh; one that’s long and drawn out. Very characteristic of him.

“I know more than you think.” 

“Oh yeah? What’s my full legal name then? Address? Place of work? C’mon you must know that!” It’s as if every question beckons forth a brewing intensity within him, threatening to tip over the precipice of his being and really spill what he’s thinking. What he wants to know. Ah, but he relents, pushes it down where it can ruminate safely in his gut to be dealt with later.

“I know your name is Ronin, and up until recently, you maintained a steady residence in the town of Angelwood. I know you’re currently employed as a mechanic, you have a former relationship with the model and influencer Maria De La Rosa-”

V can almost hear him stiffen at that. It was info he had not yet shared with him. The thought of him, just beyond that screen, possibly caught off guard, left his face running hot and his face contorting into glee. He loved this-

“As of now, I do not have a full name, as there was no one by your name living in the town of Angelwood. So it seems you are either going by a false name, or have changed it.”

“I’ll be your saint for once and clear that up for you. I changed it.” Ronin added quite quickly, his tone short and stern. It was a new sound for him.

“Care to clear up the rest of it? Since you’ve decided to be so forthcoming, you might as well just tell me your full name and address right now.”

He could hear himself, his voice bouncing off the screen in front of him, echoing back his teasing tone that so obviously dripped with some macabre sense of satisfaction. He was playing the game now- for the game was fun. Especially when you had some semblance of a high ground.

“You wish! If I forked over everything that easily, what would be the fun in it?”

“Killing you, perhaps?” He felt himself smirk as Ronin laughed.

“So the vigilante with the moral high ground gets off on killing me? Doesn’t sound very saint-like.”

“Of course you wouldn’t see it as such- Just this once I afford myself a pleasurable kill and of course you ridicule me. Don’t you understand that the pleasure is justice?”

“Yeah pleasure me with your justice yadda yadda- at least take me out to dinner before you start talkin’ dirty, V.” 

Oh he just wants to recede into his own skin and die. But in a good way? This doesn’t feel bad. No, it feels awful, yet exhilarating. It’s humiliating, yet exciting. It’s both terror and ecstasy, really, bickering with him.

…

“Shit.”

“What was that?” 

He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but the realisation was so profound that it simply bore a vocal understanding of it. 

Did he like this?

Did he like- Ronin?

“Nothing. I’m tired of your poor attempts to tease me is all.”

This was really bad. In love with a serial killer? The very serial killer he’d spent the better portion of 2 years hunting down? Yeah, that serial killer, his very own Butcher now skewering his heart with a knife so sharp he could barely feel it. It almost felt merciful if not for the blood it drew.

“You’re real feisty tonight! What’s got you so worked up, hm?” And he was none the wiser too! Well, maybe not. Ronin was so far up his own ass that he’d probably assumed that most of the people in the server had some underlying, undying affection for him.

It was not undying- but it was shaping up to be affection. Affection for Ronin- from V. It sounded as ridiculous as it was.

“You know exactly what has got me riled up.” He responded, trying his best to keep his tone flat and angered. “We seem to always be playing this game, back and forth, I don’t understand how you don’t tire of it.”

“I could say the same for you.” The smirk in his tone was evident. “As I said, you’re obsessed with me!”

“Then that would imply that you, too, are obsessed with me.” He quickly objected, though the idea felt hollow on his lips, slipping on its fickle feet.

“Sure, I won’t deny it.”

What.

See, that was what kept him going all these years. The surprise. Every time he figured he was bored of him, only slogging on with this case for the sake of justice, the man would just pop out and surprise him like this!

He couldn’t possibly reciprocate these feelings- No, he’s just using clever wording to mess with his head.

“You mean to say you’re obsessed with me?” His voice treaded carefully, a little tense towards his response.

“Fucking ennamoured even. You’re my little enigma.” His tone didn’t exactly make it sound like a compliment, yet it felt like one, sending his heart fluttering with a disgusting shimmer that made him internally slap himself for ever thinking of Ronin in such a way. Even if that way was, well, reciprocated.

“Enigma? That’s ironic coming from you.”

“Sure, but at least I can admit it. You’re a mystery to me, and so is your backwards logic. It’s clear you don’t have me figured out but- well I can’t say I’ve fared much better!”

This affords Ronin a precious laugh, for V rarely laughs for anyone but his own company. It’s unbecoming of a vigilante, of course, yet here Ronin has him unravelling.

“Despite this, I am certain you have more information on me than most who have attempted to track me down.”

“Aw, look at you complimenting me.”

“Comment rescinded.” He interjects as Ronin laughs breathily. V really wishes he could see him. See how he wore that expression. Would it knock any sense of affection out of him? Or would it make it even worse?

“Aw, don't be like that. You’re cute when you play nice.” He heightens his pitch in mockery, causing Valentin to groan, leaning back in his chair and letting his body, weighed down by the constant bombardment of warring emotions, sink into the cushioning.

“Shut up.”

“You love me.”

“Sure, if it makes you feel any better.” He sighs, feeling himself come down from the high of the conversation slowly, as if drifting amongst a steadying current, like a feather floating in the air.

“The feeling’s mutual.” He says with a laugh that’s so drawn out, almost like a cackle, that it makes it exceedingly hard to tell whether he means it or not. Either way, it still leaves Valentin’s heart palpitating, his hands clenching in on themselves to steady the rocking boat that is his emotions. “And one more thing before I go.”

“Oh, what is it now?” He huffed out in faux annoyance, putting on an extra sense of irritation to mask the part of him that childishly squealed at the prospect of being loved back.

“You want my full name?”

“More than anything.” Once he had that, it narrowed his broad horizon of people down to hopefully the bare minimum, affording him the capability to truly put a stop to this guy. That is, if he really still wanted to do that-

“The devil is in the details!”

And then the mother fucker hangs up.

And V is left to sit, ruminating with both rage and affection over the man he has dedicated so much of his time to. Was he really in love? This had to be love. For he knew nothing else but justice. And the justice of hunting Ronin down would surely be the sweetest. Surely deserving of the title of “Love”.

The stark screen of the chat window stared back at him, and it’s only when he reread the messages that, like a flickering lightbulb suddenly returning to its full shine, he understood what Ronin meant.

With butterflies in his stomach, he pulled up a search client: RONIN BEAUFORT.

He hit enter with a smile, ready to meet his killer.

[puzzledprose]

can you give us hcs of ronin?? pls?? 🙏 you can do both sfw or nsfw

Well since you asked so nicely 😙

For a character I like so much I’m complete ASS at writing him, alas I will try my best. Sorry if this read a little disjointed or weird this is just a massive thought dump.

I feel like this one require a few warnings: mentions of murder, sadism, knife play, very brief blood play (?)

Ronin x Reader: General HC

Ronin is the worlds most egregious boundary pusher. He would never truly violate a boundary but he pushes them enough just to keep you on edge. Will make you watch horror movies just to see you scared (I know everyone says this but that’s because it’s TRUE.)

I wouldn’t say that Ronin keeps “trophies” for a lot of his killings, he takes photos often but those are mostly for bragging purposes. However, if a victim of his owns an item he thinks is cool he will take it.

Subsequently he has a lot of random things around his house. A lot of it is jewellery like rings or necklaces, sometimes he wears it out of the house for the thrill.

But if YOU wear anything he got from a victim…

Drives Ronin crazy. It makes him feel like he’s properly claimed you.

“What a morbid way to propose? Really got you to the dark side now darlin’”

Okay Nsfw time

*Shoos minors away with a broom*

I think we can all agree this guy is at least a little bit of a sadist. THIS! MAN! PULLS! HAIR! Obviously wouldn’t go any further than that without asking but the power trip he gets from giving you pain? And you like it??? He’s so into it.

Possibly into the idea of knife play? I can’t imagine him wanting big cuts but maybe just enough to draw blood and/or scare you.

Eating him out and he pulls on your hair to make you look up at him 😵‍💫

Giving Ronin head is a whole other thing oh my god. He loves it so much

He will go insane if you suck his Tdick.

He is 100% a groaner in my head. Also lots of profanity.

His dirty talk is either the filthiest thing you will ever hear or really poetic for no reason

Ronin naturally takes on a dominant role in bed but will really get off on the idea of you challenging it. Just so that he can put you back into your place.

Push him over onto his back and watch as he flips the two of you over and pins your hands above your head.

“Really thought you had the upper hand there, huh baby?”

So sorry if this is short and terrible life’s been getting really busy for me recently 😅 I’m definitely going to keep up on my requests though (not like I have any)

Hope you enjoyed ♥️ 🔪

[afterartist]

Latest chapter is up let’s goooo

And here are all the images for this chapter in one post (:

[vandme12]

Hello it’s my bday today!!! Can I request a silly/dumb reader (like the type to hug a lion or a bobcat just because it looks cute) with all LI?

(Or if you’re too lazy do V?)

LOVE UR WORK BTWWW

Happy birthday!! Since, Your birthday why not both!!! (I'm a softie) I wrote this as fast, As I can..

🩸 Ronin (Devil’s Butcher)

First reaction? Oh, he lives for this. You’re a walking disaster, and it’s the most entertaining thing he’s seen since his last murder.

"Aww, babe, you got a death wish? Cuz I do take requests."

Absolutely encourages your reckless behavior—until it puts you in actual danger. You try to pet a rabid dog? He’ll be cheering you on until the thing growls. Then it’s dead. No hesitation.

Thinks it’s adorable when you lack basic survival instincts. You see a bloodstained, locked door? You wanna open it. He lets you—he’s already behind you with a knife in case anything nasty jumps out.

Calls you "his favorite little idiot" with the fondness of a man whose entire schedule now revolves around making sure you don’t die stupidly.

If you ever try to hug him while he’s covered in blood, he just sighs—loudly—but lets you do it. "You are so lucky I think you're cute, sweetheart."

⚖️ V (Vigilante)

Immediate panic. He cannot handle you. He thought his biggest problem was the killers, and now he’s got to keep you from hugging wild predators because they look "fluffy."

Constantly muttering under his breath, “How have you survived this long?”

If you wander off? Expect to be fitted with a tracker. No, you don’t get a choice. He will not let you die on his watch.

Will catch you mid-air if you try to jump into a lion enclosure. His grip is bruisingly tight, and you can feel his pulse pounding. "You are going to give me a stroke."

Despite his exasperation, he becomes weirdly attached to your ridiculousness. If anyone else calls you dumb, though? They die. You’re his idiot, and he’ll be damned if anyone else gets to disrespect you.

"For the love of—stop touching the corpse."

💋 Angel (Heartsick Angel)

Angel’s a perfectionist—you stress her out. She loves you, but you are the reason she has headaches.

"Darling, why would you touch the live wires?"

Always keeps an eye on you because she knows you’ll wander off into danger if left unsupervised for five minutes. She won’t let you die—but she will lecture you after.

Any time you flirt your way out of trouble, she swoons. "Okay, I’ll admit, you’re adorable. Dumb, but adorable."

She definitely posts cute, dumb things you do on her social media. You trip over a curb? That’s going viral.

Absolutely melts when you hug her out of nowhere—even if it’s while she’s disposing of a body. "Sweetheart, there’s brain matter on my shoe—oh, come here, I can’t be mad at you."

🔪 Misaki (Quirky Hitman)

They love your energy. You are the human embodiment of a raccoon in a trash can, and Misaki finds it hilarious.

"Babe, babe—no, don’t poke the guy I just shot—oh my God, you’re so cute."

Zero judgment when you make bad decisions; they usually encourage it. You wanna hold a cobra? They’re already taking pictures.

Probably pulls stupid stunts with you. You’re climbing the fence to pet an ostrich? Misaki’s already halfway over.

But if something actually dangerous happens—like, real danger—they flip in a heartbeat. You’ve never seen them move that fast. "Okay, sweetheart, maybe no cuddling the angry biker. Let’s bounce."

Gives you gifts like child safety leashes and a helmet. "Just in case, babe~."

Extra! Special One-shot!!! Since, It's your birthday!!

A Small V Wishing You Happy Birthday

You wake up to the sound of something rustling outside your bedroom door. It’s soft, barely there, but distinct enough to pull you from sleep. You groggily glance at your phone—6:42 AM. Too early for any sane person to be awake.

Another rustle. Then a barely audible mutter.

Your brain is still foggy, but as you blink against the dim morning light, the pieces come together. That voice—muffled and hesitant—sounds a lot like V.

The realization jolts you fully awake. V isn’t the type to show up unannounced, much less lurk awkwardly outside your door. He’s too methodical, too controlled. You’d expect a text, maybe a late-night voicemail with a clipped “Happy birthday.” Something distant, impersonal.

But this?

You slide out of bed as quietly as possible and pad over to the door. When you open it, you’re met with the sight of V standing stiffly in the hallway, holding a small, hastily wrapped box in both hands. The paper is slightly crinkled, unevenly folded—like he struggled with it for an embarrassingly long time.

You stare at each other.

V clears his throat, adjusting the high collar of his coat. “You’re awake.”

You arch a brow. “You’re here.”

His jaw twitches. “It would seem so.”

A beat of silence. Then he shoves the box at you, a little too forcefully, like he’s eager to get this over with. You barely manage to catch it.

“Happy birthday.”

It’s so… flat. So stiff. So very V that you can’t help but smile. “Thanks,” you say, turning the box over in your hands. “Should I open it now?”

His shoulders tense. “If you must.”

You take your time peeling away the wrapping—partially because you want to annoy him, partially because you’re genuinely curious about what V could have possibly gotten you. When you finally get to the box inside and lift the lid, you freeze.

Nestled in the packaging is a sleek, custom-made knife.

Your breath catches. It’s beautiful—elegant but functional, the kind of weapon that feels balanced the moment you pick it up. The hilt is engraved with something small, almost imperceptible at first glance. You squint at the delicate script.

It’s your name.

Hand-etched.

Your stomach flips. “V…”

He exhales sharply, as if bracing himself. “It’s a tactical knife. Durable. Efficient. I tested it myself.”

Of course, he did.

You run your thumb over the engraving, heart thudding against your ribs. “You… got me a knife with my name on it?”

V shifts his weight, crossing his arms. “You’re careless.”

You blink.

“You’re reckless,” he continues, as if reciting a list of grievances. “You attract danger. You make ill-advised choices. It’s—” He pauses, inhaling sharply. “It would be inconvenient if something happened to you.”

Your grip tightens around the knife. Inconvenient. That’s what he says, but his face tells a different story. His usual rigid composure is there, but his eyes… They betray something else. Something raw and unspoken.

He cares.

V cares enough to be here, to give you something this personal, to mask his concern with clipped words and sharp edges.

Your chest warms.

“V,” you say, softer this time. “Thank you.”

He glances away, uncomfortable with the weight of your gratitude. “… Don’t mention it.”

You don’t press him. Instead, you flip the knife in your hand, testing its weight. “So, when do I get a lesson on how to use it?”

V huffs. “You already lack self-preservation. Do you intend to make my life more difficult?”

You grin. “Absolutely.”

He sighs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he mutters something about bad decisions and getting dressed before training.

You’ve had a lot of birthdays, but somehow, this might be your favorite.

[fleurderome]

Brian Moser

Brian Moser/Rudy Cooper ♡⊹ fem! reader

BOT LINK ੭୧

A hot, muggy evening in Miami. The air, thick and humid, as if saturated with the aromas of salt, perfume and something elusive, vibrated with the rhythms of Latin music pouring out of the Miami Beach club. Inside, under the flickering neon lights, bodies twisted in a sultry dance, surrendering to the power of the music and the night. Brian, hiding behind the mask of the charming Rudy Cooper, sat at a table in the corner, sipping rum on the rocks and watching the girl dancing. She moved with the grace of a jaguar, her body, flexible and graceful, as if created for this dance, told a story of passion and fire. Every curve of hers, every movement of her hips, every flutter of her eyelashes – all of it was saturated with sensuality that stirred his blood and excited his imagination. Brian, accustomed to cold calculation and control, felt something primal and wild awakening inside him. His "dark companion", usually dormant in the depths of his subconscious, stirred, greedily catching every glance, every gesture of the girl. But this time, something unfamiliar, disturbing, was mixed with the dark instincts – an attraction that took his breath away and quickened his pulse. He couldn't take his eyes off her. Her dance was hypnotic, plunging him into an atmosphere of heat and ecstasy. The girl seemed to be playing with him, teasing and attracting, forcing him to forget about the mask and show his true face. Finally, unable to restrain himself any longer, Brian stood up and headed towards her, maneuvering between the dancing couples. When the music stopped, he was standing next to her, looking down at her. The girl, slightly out of breath, met his gaze with a challenge and a smile. "You dance like you made a deal with the devil himself.." Brian said, his voice, usually smooth and emotionless, slightly hoarse. "And he's not losing."

♡ ︵ · ꒰  🧁 ꒱ · ︵ ♡

credit: @anitalenia

[cloudss-space]

You were special

( killer chat ) ronin x reader ... angst & slight hurt/comfort ... 12k word count

author note: thank you all for 50 follows !! i appreciate all of your guys love and support. i appreciate you all who read my works and i can't wait to write even more for you guys <3

trigger/content warning: gore / blood, skin picking, suicide, self harm, anxiety/panic attacks

Growing up, you felt the weight of eyes on you from every corner of the room. It wasn't the warm gaze of approval or the gentle encouragement of someone who wanted you to thrive. These eyes were sharp, like knives, dissecting you piece by piece, carving out the parts that didn't fit their expectations. You were a canvas they demanded to be perfect, but their tools weren't brushes—they were scalpels, precise and ruthless. Every glance was a silent demand, every word an unspoken expectation. You had to be something, you had to create something, you had to prove that you were more than just skin and bone. Your worth was measured in accomplishments, in trophies, in how brightly you could shine under their unyielding scrutiny. But even the brightest stars burn out, don't they?

You learned early that being still was dangerous. Stillness meant inadequacy, a failure to meet the standards etched into you like scars. They pushed you into classes: piano, ballet, painting, debate—anything to ensure you were never idle. Each lesson felt like a blade against your skin, shaping you into something they could display. Your fingers bled against the piano keys, your toes blistered and cracked in ballet shoes, and your voice turned hoarse from endless rehearsals. But you never stopped, never faltered, because stopping meant disappointing them. Disappointing them was unforgivable. Your successes were their triumphs, and your failures? They were unforgivable and unforgettable.

You remember how their words cut deeper than any knife. "Not good enough," they'd say, their voices dripping with disappointment. You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, even as the taste of copper filled your mouth from biting your tongue too hard. Your skin felt too tight, your body too fragile under the weight of their expectations. There were days when you looked in the mirror and saw something unrecognisable staring back. The reflection was cracked, fractured by their demands and your inability to meet them. But you'd still smile, because showing weakness was another sin you couldn't afford to commit.

The world outside was no better. Strangers saw only the polished version of you, the mask you wore so diligently. They marveled at your talent, praised your dedication, and envied your supposed perfection. But they didn't see the blood beneath your fingernails or the bruises hidden beneath long sleeves. They didn't see the sleepless nights spent practising until your body screamed for rest. They only saw the results, the shiny, glittering facade you presented. And isn't that all that matters? They believed the lie, even if it was killing you.

You started to resent the things you once loved. The piano keys felt like ice beneath your fingertips, their melody now a dirge. The ballet studio smelled of sweat and despair; the mirrors reflected your exhaustion rather than grace. Even your own voice betrayed you, cracking under the weight of forced enthusiasm. But you kept going because stopping wasn't an option. You wouldn't let them. You didn't want to stop, you didn't think you deserved to. You were grateful for their attention and investment in you.

The pressure was intense, squeezing your chest with every passing day. Your heart pounded against your ribs like a bird desperate to escape its cage. You know you will never be able to let it all go, to collapse under the weight of their expectations. Would they even notice if you shattered? Or would they sweep up the pieces and demand you put yourself back together? You didn't know the answer, and you were too afraid to find out. So you kept moving, kept performing, even as your soul screamed for release.

There were moments when you felt like you were drowning, gasping for air in a sea of demands. The water was dark and cold, and every time you surfaced, another wave crashed over you, dragging you back under. You reached for lifelines that weren't there, your hands clawing at the emptiness, nails breaking and bleeding. But you never screamed. Admitting defeat was not an option. You let the waves take you, let them pull you deeper, until the only thing you could feel was the crushing pressure of their expectations.

And yet, despite everything, you kept going. You did it not because you wanted to, but because you had to. The fear of their disapproval was greater than the pain of their demands. You became a machine, operating on autopilot, your emotions buried so deep you almost forgot they existed. But sometimes, late at night, when the house was silent and the world was asleep, you'd feel the cracks in your armour. Tears would come unbidden, hot and angry, carving trails down your cheeks like rivers of molten glass. You wiped them away quickly, ashamed of your weakness, and promised yourself you'd try harder the next day.

But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Their eyes never stopped following you, unblinking and unforgiving, always expecting more. You could win every competition, master every skill, and still, they'd find something to critique. They weren't interested in your talent; they wanted perfection. And perfection is a moving target, always just out of reach. But you kept chasing it, even as it tore you apart, because what else was there? What were you, if not their perfect little masterpiece?

Now, as you stand on the edge of adulthood, you wonder what it was all for. The trophies gather dust, the skills they forced upon you now feel like chains rather than gifts. You look at your reflection and see the scars of their expectations etched into your skin, visible only to you. But beneath the cracks, beneath the layers of performance and pretence, you see something else: a flicker of defiance, a spark of hope. And for the first time, you dare to believe that you can rewrite your story.

The flicker of defiance you saw in the mirror is extinguished by the weight of expectations pressing down on you. The walls close in, their pristine white surfaces streaked with the red of your efforts, the rawness of your exhaustion. Every movement is a reminder of how much you've given. The hollow ache in your chest grows louder, echoing like a drumbeat in a cavern, but you drown it out with the rhythmic grind of repetition. Practice. Perfect. Repeat. The cycle sharpens like broken glass, slicing into your resolve, but you won't stop. Stopping would mean failure, and failure is unthinkable.

You feel the toll of always being "on" and always having to perform. Your joints crack and protest, your muscles tremble under the strain of endless hours. Your hands, once steady and graceful, now shake uncontrollably, fingertips raw and split from the relentless grind. You notice the blood smearing the piano keys, dark crimson seeping into the grooves, but you keep playing. The melody is disjointed, discordant, but no one's listening closely enough to care. Your audience only sees the performance, not the cost, and that's what matters. You keep telling yourself it's worth it, even as your vision blurs and your pulse thrums erratically in your ears.

The whispers of doubt grow louder, turning into screams in the quiet moments you can no longer avoid. They claw at the edges of your mind, their voices overlapping, accusing, demanding. Not enough. Never enough. The words feel like needles beneath your skin, burrowing deeper until they reach your core. Sleep offers no reprieve. It is fractured and restless, punctuated by dreams of endless auditions and faceless judges with mouths like voids. You wake up gasping, choking on the reality that it's not just a dream. The nightmare is real, and there's no escape.

Your body betrays you in more obvious ways. You catch glimpses of your reflection, pale and gaunt, eyes sunken into shadowed hollows. Your bruises don't heal; they bloom like dark flowers, reminders of your inadequacies. Your nails are chipped and bloody, and when you wash your hands, the water runs pink, swirling down the drain like a mockery of the effort you've poured out. You try to hide the signs, but you can't hide the exhaustion etched into every part of you. Even the air feels heavy, pressing down on your chest until every breath is a battle.

People notice, but their concern is superficial and short-lived. They say, "You're pushing yourself too hard," their words laced with a tepid sympathy. But their empathy is superficial. They don't understand the true depth of your exhaustion. They still expect the same performance, the same perfection, even as your body and mind crumble. Their smiles are masks, hiding the insatiable hunger for what you can give, for the show you've built your life around. You're foolishly loyal to their expectations, nodding and smiling, while all the while you know it's not fine. Pretending you're fine.

Your mind fractures under the strain. Thoughts splinter and loop, chaotic fragments you can't piece together. The world tilts, a dizzying whirl of colours and sounds that blur at the edges. You shake uncontrollably, gripping the edge of a countertop with knuckles white from force. Your heart pounds erratically, as if it wants to escape your ribcage. Panic surges, a wave that crashes over you, dragging you under. You gasp for air, clawing at your chest as if you can force the anxiety out. But it doesn't leave—it festers, a parasitic force feeding on your every weakness.

The pain is constant, a constant, nagging thrum. Your muscles ache, your joints burn, and your head pounds relentlessly, the pressure building like a storm. You feel as though your skin can barely contain you, as if you're moments away from tearing yourself apart. You catch yourself scratching at your arms absentmindedly, nails digging into flesh until you break the surface. The sting provides momentary respite, but it is fleeting. The blood that pools in the shallow crescent marks is a constant reminder of your lack of control.

You start to resent everyone around you—not just for their demands, but for their ignorance. They don't see the destruction inside you, don't care to look past the surface. They clap and cheer, oblivious to the rot spreading through you, the slow decay of your spirit. You know they will notice, you know what you'd have to lose before they'd finally see you. The thought is dark, a shadow curling around your mind, whispering temptations you're too afraid to name. But you push it away, because giving in would mean they've won. You will not let them win, even if it kills you.

By the time you realise how far you've fallen, it's too late to crawl back. The person you were—the child who dreamed of love and warmth—is a distant memory, a ghost haunting the halls of your mind. You don't know who you are anymore. You're not enough. You are a hollow shell, a performer with no audience, a masterpiece no one truly wants to admire. The storm inside you rages on, unrelenting, tearing through the ruins of what once made you whole. But you press on, driven by hope. But deep down, you know the truth: the eyes on you will never let you rest.

The storm inside intensifies, devouring every shred of hope you attempt to salvage. It is relentless, a gnawing ache that burrows into your chest and festers like an open wound. Those expectations are chains now, dragging you down with every step, their weight pulling you closer to the ground. You know that if you let go, you'll fall. But you don't dare consider it, not even for a second. Will they pull you back to your feet, or will they step over your broken body, whispering, "I knew they couldn't handle it"?

Your days blur together. You move through routines on autopilot, hands trembling as you perfect the same motions over and over again. The blood on the piano keys is darker now, nearly black, crusted into the grooves like dried ink. Your fingertips are numb, calloused and raw, but you play anyway. Each note is a scream, echoing in the room. You wonder if anyone hears your desperation, but no one says a word. When you finish, the silence is cold, more intense than the applause you used to fear.

The cracks in your mind grow wider, splitting into jagged chasms you can't navigate. Voices echo in those dark spaces, some familiar, others foreign, all of them cruel. They whisper your failures back to you, their words crawling under your skin like insects. You catch yourself whispering back, arguing with the ghosts that have taken residence in your head. It doesn't help. Their accusations grow louder, overlapping, turning into a cacophony of shame and guilt. You press your hands to your ears, nails biting into your scalp, but there's no silencing them. They're part of you now, ingrained like the scars you hide.

Sleep becomes a distant memory, your nights spent staring at the ceiling, counting cracks that aren't there. The darkness feels alive, suffocating, pressing against you until you can't breathe. You see shapes moving in the shadows, their forms indistinct but menacing. You know they're figments of your imagination, born from exhaustion and fear, but that doesn't make them any less terrifying. Your heart races, your chest tightens, and you are overwhelmed by panic. By the time the sun rises, you're too spent to face the day, but you force yourself out of bed anyway. There's no room for weakness, not in their eyes.

The physical toll worsens. Your body feels alien, as though it belongs to someone else, someone who has been battered and broken beyond recognition. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, your face drained of all emotion, your skin pallid and your hands shaking with fear. You barely recognise yourself. The bruises that once bloomed like flowers are now dark, sunken craters, permanent marks of your failure to keep up. The cuts on your arms sting as they reopen, your nails unconsciously scratching at them in moments of stress. You hide them, but they're always there, a constant reminder of your failure.

The world outside feels distant and unreachable. It's as though you're watching it through a pane of shattered glass. People pass you by, their faces blurred, their voices muffled. You are unable to connect with them, and you do not care about their shallow conversations and trivial concerns. The isolation is a double-edged sword: you crave connection, yet the thought of anyone truly seeing you fills you with dread. What would they think if they knew the truth? If they saw the cracks, the blood, the ruin beneath the surface? You shudder at the thought, clutching your secrets closer, even as they poison you from within.

The whispers in your mind grow more potent with every passing day. They don't just accuse you of failure anymore – they urge you toward something worse. Give up, they say. End it. You are already broken. Why persist? Their voices are persuasive, almost soothing in their promise of release. You push them away, reminding yourself of the reasons you've held on this long. Those reasons feel so small now, so fragile. The weight of the whispers presses against your chest and for the first time, you consider listening to them.

One night, the storm inside you mirrors the one outside. The thunder shakes the walls, lightning streaking through the cracks in the curtains, illuminating your hollow reflection in the glass. You sit by the window, knees pulled to your chest, nails digging into your arms as the voices scream louder than the storm. You want to reach out, to scream for help, but your voice feels trapped in your throat. You try to text someone—anyone—but your fingers tremble too much to type. The words you want to say are too heavy, too sharp, cutting you from the inside out. The phone falls from your hand with a dull thud.

The storm continues, unrelenting, as you sit there, paralyzed by the weight of it all. The lightning flashes, illuminating the tears streaming down your face. Their warmth is a cruel contrast to the cold consuming you. Your mind spirals, the voices weaving a tapestry of despair that feels inescapable. You close your eyes, but the darkness offers no solace; only more shadows. Yet, a tiny part of you clings to hope, faint and flickering like a dying candle. This tiny flame of hope is all that keeps you breathing, keeps you connected to this world even as the storm rages on.

The storm inside you swells, consuming everything in its path. It is heavy, oppressive, and curls through your veins like smoke, dark and suffocating. It presses against your chest, wrapping around your ribs like a serpent, squeezing until your breaths come in shallow, broken gasps. Your heart races, a frantic, uneven rhythm that drowns out every other sound. The world blurs at the edges, the lines between reality and the chaos in your head growing indistinct. You feel as though you are crumbling from the inside out, the fragile framework of your mind buckling under a weight it was never meant to bear.

Time loses meaning in this state. Minutes stretch into hours, hours into an eternity of unrelenting torment. The voices in your mind grow sharper, their words cutting you to the bone. You are not enough. You will never be enough. Why are you even trying? Every phrase is a dagger, a deepening wound that you thought was healed. You want to fight back, to scream at the ghosts haunting your thoughts, but the words catch in your throat, choking you. It's as if your very being is unravelling, thread by thread, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake.

The emptiness is the worst part. It's a hollow ache that echoes through every part of you, a void that no amount of effort or achievement can fill. You feel like a brittle, fragile shell, ready to shatter at the slightest touch. Even the simplest tasks feel insurmountable, each step forward requiring every ounce of strength you have left. You feel the weight of your body, the pull of gravity dragging you down, and for a moment, you wonder what it would feel like to just let it take you. To stop resisting. To let go. But you cannot hold onto this thought for long.

The constant fear vibrates beneath your skin, never letting you forget its presence. It's not just fear of failure or disappointment; it's fear of yourself, of the spiralling darkness that threatens to consume you. The storm outside mirrors the one within, the thunder rumbling like a beast in the distance, the flashes of lightning stark and violent. You feel the universe is mocking you, its chaos reflecting your own in a cruel, unrelenting dance. Each clap of thunder strikes your fragile armour, each bolt of lightning exposing your vulnerability.

Your hands shake as you try to steady yourself, clutching at your clothes, the chair, anything you can grab hold of. The texture beneath your fingers feels unreal, disconnected, as though your senses are betraying you. The air in the room is thick with the static charge of the storm, and you feel it prickling against your skin like needles. Your breaths come faster and faster, shallow and panicked, as though the world is spinning around you in dizzying circles. You close your eyes, but the darkness behind your lids is alive, shifting and writhing, offering no solace.

You feel isolated, alone, and your mind is consumed by a relentless sense of despair. You are alone, unreachable, as though you're screaming into a void that swallows every sound. You long for someone to pull you from this abyss, to anchor you, to tell you that you'll be okay. Yet the very idea of reaching out feels impossible. What would you say? How can you even begin to explain the chaos in your mind, the storm raging inside you? Words feel inadequate, clumsy, incapable of capturing the depth of your despair. You stay silent, drowning in your own thoughts.

The physical pain merges seamlessly with the emotional, becoming indistinguishable. Your body aches in ways that feel unnatural, every muscle tight and trembling, every joint stiff and unyielding. Your skin feels too tight, too fragile, as though it could split open at any moment. The scars you hide burn with a phantom heat, their presence a constant reminder of battles you thought you'd won. They are proof that you are fighting a war you can't win. The thought feels heavy in your chest, dragging you deeper into the dark.

There is clarity in the midst of this chaos; the pain is sharp and almost tangible. The world narrows to a single point: your suffering. Every sound, every sensation, every thought is amplified, reverberating through you like the toll of a bell. The storm outside rages on, its fury a cruel echo of your own, and you feel as though it's trying to drown you. Each crack of thunder, each flash of lightning, is a judgment, a condemnation of your inability to keep it together.

Yet, even in the depths of this despair, a part of you refuses to let go completely. It's small, faint, barely more than a whisper, but it's there. It reminds you of the moments when the storm quieted, when the weight lifted, if only for a little while. It reminds you that you've survived this before and that you can survive it again. It's not a promise, but it's enough to keep you holding on. For now, at least. In the midst of chaos, that thread of hope is a lifeline; fragile but unbreakable.

The thread of hope you cling to is thin. It will snap under the weight of your despair. It quivers with the same unsteady rhythm as your breaths, a fragile tether keeping you from slipping completely into the void. The storm rages on, louder and more ferocious, its booming thunder reverberating through your bones. Each strike is a reminder that the world outside is chaotic and unforgiving. You are at war with yourself, torn between the storm and the calm.

Your skin is electric, hypersensitive to every tiny sensation. The hum of the air conditioner sounds like a roar; the texture of your clothes scratches against your skin, rough and unbearable. You press your hands against your ears, but it's useless. The noise is inside you: a relentless cacophony of thunder and whispers, and the grinding weight of your own thoughts. You press harder, fingernails digging into your scalp, desperate to silence it all. The sharp sting is momentarily grounding, but it's fleeting. The storm inside continues. It never stops.

The room warps around you, its edges bending and twisting in ways that make your stomach churn. The walls feel close, suffocating, and yet impossibly distant. You reach out to steady yourself, but your hands tremble too much to find purchase. The floor ripples beneath you, like water disturbed by the storm. You blink rapidly, trying to dispel the illusion, but the disorientation only worsens. You are trapped in a dream where nothing makes sense, but the pain is too sharp, too real, to be anything but reality.

Your heart races. It pounds against your ribs. It's trying to break free. The rhythm is frantic and erratic, each beat hammering into your chest with brutal force. Your throat tightens and your breath catches as panic takes hold. You try to breathe deeply, to calm yourself, but you can't. It feels like the storm has stolen even that from you. The more you fight it, the worse it gets. You gasp for air, tears streaming down your face as you claw at your throat in a desperate attempt to breathe.

Time stretches, each second dragging on for what feels like an eternity. Outside, the storm rages without pause, its thunder rolling incessantly, its lightning cutting through the darkness with blinding precision. Each flash illuminates the room in harsh, stark light, casting jagged shadows that seem to reach for you. You feel a primal fear in your chest, an all-consuming urge to run, to escape, but there's nowhere to go. You want to run, to escape, but there's nowhere to go. The storm is everywhere, inside and out, a force you can't outrun or hide from. You curl in on yourself, knees to your chest, arms wrapped tight, as though you can shield yourself from the onslaught.

Your mind spirals deeper, the whispers in your head growing louder, their accusations sharper. This is your fault, they hiss. You're weak. You will never be free of this. The words sting like acid, eating away at your strength. You try to push them away, to drown them out with your own voice, but your throat is raw, your words faltering and broken. The whispers laugh cruelly, mocking your desperation. They know your weaknesses, every flaw and failure, and they weaponise them with ruthless precision.

The lightning outside is intense. It feels like it's tearing through you, its brightness exposing every raw, vulnerable part of you. Each flash is a spotlight, a searing judgment that leaves you trembling and exposed. You cannot hide from it, nor escape the way it lays you bare. The thunder rumbles, shaking the foundations of the house, and you feel like it could collapse under its force. You almost wish it would. Then the storm would finally end. You'll find peace, buried in the rubble, but it won't be long.

But closing your eyes only amplifies the chaos inside you. The darkness behind your lids is alive, a swirling mass of shadows and shapes you can't decipher. You feel like you're falling, spiralling deeper into a void that has no bottom. Your hands clutch at your chest, nails digging into your skin as though you can anchor yourself, but there's nothing solid to hold onto. You feel weightless yet heavy, suspended in the storm's relentless grip.

And then, in the midst of the chaos, there's a flicker—a faint, wavering pulse of light. It is not the storm's lightning, but something quieter, gentler. It's almost imperceptible, a whisper against the roar, but you feel it. It's small and fragile, easily drowned out by the thunder, but it's there. You can't say for sure if it's real or just an illusion, but you hold on to it. It's the only thing that feels even remotely like hope, and in this moment, hope is all you have.

The tipping point comes quietly, sneaking up on you like a shadow at your back. It's not a single moment, but a series of cracks, each one deeper than the last, until you finally shatter. You wake up one morning unable to move, your body leaden, every joint screaming as though it's been filled with shards of glass. Your chest feels hollow and impossibly heavy, as though something vital has been scooped out and replaced with a stone. You try to rise, but the room tilts violently, the world spinning in chaotic circles that send bile rushing up your throat. You collapse back onto the bed, trembling. Your breaths are shallow and uneven. Your hands clutch at your chest, nails digging into your skin as though you can claw your way out of this suffocating panic. There is no escape: only the steady, crushing weight that presses down on you, dragging you deeper into yourself.

The days blur together after that, indistinct and shapeless, each one bleeding into the next. You can barely eat; food tastes like ash in your mouth, and your stomach twists violently at the thought of it. Sleep eludes you; your nights are spent staring at the ceiling as shadows twist and writhe, whispering to you in voices you can't block out. The darkness behind your eyes feels alive, pulsing with the rhythm of your frenzied heartbeat. Your skin feels wrong – too tight, too thin – every nerve ending exposed and raw. Even the slightest touch feels like fire, like needles piercing your skin, and you flinch away from anyone who comes too close. The storm inside you has grown into a hurricane, a relentless force that tears through every part of you, leaving only destruction in its wake.

The self-destruction is ritualistic, an instinctive response to the chaos. You catch yourself scratching at your arms until the skin breaks, until crimson blossoms under your nails, stark against your pale, trembling flesh. The sight of it is horrifying, yet strangely soothing, as though the pain grounds you, pulls you back from the edge of the void. But it never lasts. The relief is fleeting, replaced almost instantly by shame, by the weight of what you've done. You hide the marks beneath long sleeves, even in the sweltering heat, the fabric sticking to your skin and rubbing against the wounds. It's a small price to pay for keeping your secret and maintaining the fragile facade that everything is fine. But you know the truth: you're falling apart, and there's no way to stop it.

The hospital visits begin after you faint for the first time, your body giving in to the relentless strain. You wake up on the floor, the cold tile pressed against your cheek, the metallic taste of blood in your mouth. Your lip is split, a deep red line that throbs with each beat of your heart. Someone finds you there, their voice distant and muffled, as though you're hearing it through water. You don't remember much after that—flashes of fluorescent lights, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the beeping of machines. When you finally come to, you're in a hospital bed, the harsh whiteness of the room making your head throb. Your arms are bandaged and your body aches in ways you don't understand. A nurse explains what happened, her voice gentle but laced with concern, and you feel the weight of her words settle over you like a shroud.

The doctors ask questions you can't answer. Their words blur together into a monotonous drone. They demand details on how long you've been suffering, the onset of symptoms, and the triggering factors. You try to explain, but the words stick in your throat, choking you. How can you put into words the chaos in your mind, the storm that never ceases? They run tests, their hands cold and clinical as they poke and prod, their faces carefully neutral. But you can see the pity in their eyes, the way they look at you like you're broken. It makes your stomach churn, bile rising in your throat as you clench your fists beneath the scratchy hospital blanket. You want to scream, to tell them you're fine, but you know they wouldn't believe you. You don't even believe it yourself.

The therapy sessions are the hardest, each one peeling back layers you've spent years trying to bury. The therapist's questions cut deeper than any blade, their words prying into the darkest corners of your mind. You hate it. You hate how they make you feel exposed and vulnerable. You hate the way they strip away every defence you've built. You lash out, your voice rising in anger and frustration, but it only makes you feel worse. The therapist's calm demeanor is infuriating and disarming. They tell you it's okay to feel this way, that healing takes time, but the words feel hollow, meaningless. Time is a luxury you don't think you have, not with the storm raging as fiercely as ever.

The medication they give you may dull the edges of your pain, but it does not make it go away. You will feel numb and detached, as though watching your life from a distance. The storm is still there, quieter now but still very much still threatening, lurking at the edges of your consciousness. You are in a liminal space between pain and nothingness. It's not the relief you hoped for, but it's better than the suffocating weight that threatened to crush you. But you know you've lost something in the process. The medication has stolen a part of you you'll never get back.

The hospital becomes a second home, its sterile walls and fluorescent lights constantly reminding you of your fragility. You hate it there; you hate how time seems to stand still, each day bleeding into the next in an endless cycle of monotony. The other patients are quiet, their faces pale and haunted, their eyes reflecting the same emptiness you feel. You deliberately avoid meeting their gazes, because you are afraid of what you might see in them, and what they might see in you. The nurses are kind but distant, their smiles professional and practised. You can tell they care, but their concern feels impersonal, like they're trying to keep you at arm's length. This only deepens your sense of isolation.

The days outside the hospital are devoid of purpose. Your life is reduced to a series of appointments and routines designed to keep you afloat. You go through the motions, your body on autopilot while your mind remains distant, detached. The scars on your arms fade, but new ones emerge, invisible to the naked eye but no less painful. You wear long sleeves out of habit now, the fabric a barrier between you and the world. People ask how you're doing, their voices cautious and hesitant, and you force a smile, tell them you're fine. The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, but it's easier than the truth.

Even now, as you sit in the quiet of your room, the storm lingers, a distant rumble that never fully fades. You know it's only a matter of time before it returns, stronger and more destructive than before. But for now, you cling to the fragile peace you've found. You trace the faint scars on your arms, reminders of where you've been, of how far you've come. The journey is far from over, but for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to hope. It's small and fragile, but it'll keep you going.

When you first met Ronin, you immediately felt an unshakeable sense of familiarity, as if you had known him in some distant corner of your life. He strode into the room with an unmistakable confidence, his eyes scanning the space with a sharpness that made you feel seen in a way no one else had. His smile was wry, lips tugging upward in a way that was both cocky and knowing, as though he understood the unspoken depths of the world, the secrets buried in the shadows. You felt an instant connection, as though his presence anchored you. There was a quiet strength in him, a ruggedness that spoke to scars you couldn't see. For the first time in a long time, you didn't feel alone. The pain that had been strangling you eased in his presence, his brokenness mirroring your own in a way that wasn't about winning or losing, but understanding.

As time passed, you noticed the cracks in his armour. His humour was sharp, biting, and there was an edge to his words, a layer of bitterness that he'd wrapped around himself like a protective shield. You realised quickly that Ronin had been through things – things that had torn into him, carved out pieces of his soul. He kept these hidden beneath layers of deflection. He was not like the others who wore their pain like a mask, unable or unwilling to show anything more. There was something about the way he carried it, as though he had learned to live with it, to make it a part of him instead of allowing it to consume him. This instilled a sense of safety. He wasn't perfect. He was deeply flawed, just like you, and that was comforting.

But as you spent more time with him, something else started to creep in: a gnawing feeling that began to fester in your chest. It was subtle at first, an undercurrent that tugged at the back of your mind. It wasn't his fault. You felt small in his presence, as if the things you had once prided yourself on—the talents you had worked so hard to cultivate—were starting to wither. Your mind wandered to the past, to the years spent building something, only to watch it slip away as Ronin's effortless charisma and confidence seemed to eclipse your efforts. He didn't even need to try, and yet he was good at everything: making people laugh, being the life of the room, or picking up skills with the ease of someone who had been born with them. Despite your own efforts, you felt like you were always running to catch up.

The feeling gnawed at you, hollowing out the space inside you where your pride used to live. It felt like your efforts had been in vain, as though everything you had worked for was being overshadowed by his natural ease and ability to succeed without struggle. You tried to ignore it, but it wouldn't go away. Every time he succeeded, every time someone praised him, it was a reminder of how much you were lacking, how far behind you seemed in comparison. The stark contrast between your hard-earned skills and his innate abilities made you question everything. Was all your time spent honing your talent just an illusion? Did it mean nothing in the end?

The self-doubt began to seep into everything, making your accomplishments feel meaningless. It wasn't just his success that triggered this—no, it was the ease with which he embraced his own flaws, the way he wore them like battle scars rather than something to be ashamed of. You, on the other hand, were still trying to patch up the gaping wounds inside you, pretending that everything was fine when it wasn't. You couldn't help but feel that, despite all the work you had done, you would never measure up to someone like him. The pressure to be something, to live up to expectations you had set for yourself, felt suffocating, like an iron vise tightening around your chest. The more you tried to escape it, the worse it got, until it felt like you were choking on the weight of it all.

The room felt like it was closing in on you, the walls pressing in as that familiar suffocating panic rose again. You caught yourself staring at Ronin in moments of silence, watching him move through life effortlessly, never stumbling, always confident, always so much more than you. The comparison became unbearable, your chest heavy with the weight of your inadequacy. You had to push those thoughts aside and tell yourself that you were enough. But it was hard to believe when the person you loved seemed so effortlessly perfect in ways you could never be. The jarring dissonance between your self-image and reality was like a song out of tune, every note grating against your soul.

The ache in your chest deepened and you retreated into yourself, withdrawing into the darkness that had once felt like home. Ronin noticed, of course – he always did – but his responses were different. His words were sharp again, tinged with the same cocky bravado that had first drawn you to him, but there was something underneath them, a vulnerability that he wasn't ready to show. He didn't ask what was wrong, not directly, but he would brush against you when you least expected it, a gentle reminder that he was still there. It made you feel torn, torn between wanting to pull away and needing to stay close. You didn't want to admit that you were slipping into the same dark hole that had threatened to swallow you before, but you could feel it – a familiar, suffocating sensation, creeping at the edges of your mind, just waiting to pull you under.

There were nights when the darkness felt unbearable, when the weight of it threatened to consume you entirely. Ronin was always there, sitting by your side, making sassy remarks that revealed an unspoken understanding. But even his presence, which once felt like a balm, started to feel distant, like something that was too far out of reach for you to hold onto. You wanted to push him away, to shut down, but the silence between you both grew louder. Every word, every gesture, reminded you of the gap between who you were and who you wished you could be. The talent you had once cultivated with such devotion felt irrelevant, like it didn't matter anymore. Ronin had a way of making everything feel effortless, and it made you wonder if your hard work and struggle had been pointless.

Ronin was a constant presence, and while his presence seemed to magnify your insecurities, he also offered something else: a quiet kind of solace. His cocky smile, his sassy remarks, his way of being both broken and whole at once, reminded you that you weren't alone in your mess. You had never realised you needed this: not perfection, not skill, but someone who could see the pieces of you that were still broken and love you anyway. It may not have erased the storm within, but it certainly made it more manageable. Perhaps that was all you needed: someone who understood what it felt like to fall apart and could help you put the pieces back together, one by one.

As the days blurred into one another, the discomfort of your self-doubt lingered, like a lingering bruise: tender to the touch yet always there, always raw. Ronin was a constant presence, never forcing you to confront the swirling chaos inside your mind, but offering quiet support in his own sassy, cocky way. His laughter was a challenge, daring the world to oppose him, daring you to find joy in the midst of your darkness. But each time he flashed that grin, that unrelenting confidence, it was a sharp reminder of your own fragility. You appreciated him, no doubt about it, but the more he thrived in his untouchable confidence, the more you felt like you were crumbling beneath the weight of your own expectations.

You could see him moving through the world, unfazed, unaffected by the storms you fought within yourself. This was in stark contrast to your own ongoing battle, which felt never-ending. No matter how hard you tried to claw your way out, you simply couldn't break free. Your hard-earned triumphs felt small in the light of his effortless ability to navigate life. You couldn't help but wonder: had you missed something? Was there something more you could've done, something you could've been? As Ronin's life burst into vivid colours, yours became just another shadow in his radiance. Every moment of achievement that should have filled you with pride felt like an echo of something lost. You had cultivated talent, but it was slipping through your fingers and dissolving in the void that had taken hold of your heart.

Even when you were alone, you could feel his presence—like an electric pulse beneath your skin, reminding you of the unspoken distance between you two. You tried to silence the voices in your head, the ones that said you weren't enough, that you'd never be enough. They echoed louder when he was around, when his laughter vibrated in the air and his confidence bled into every space he entered. You hated it. You hated that he made you feel like you were drowning in the sea of your own insecurities, every wave of his presence pulling you under further. You couldn't keep up with him. His ease and effortless charm left you feeling like you were gasping for air in a world that was constantly moving faster than you could manage.

You felt isolated and lonely, as if you were drowning in your own insecurities. You withdrew, retreating into your own world, afraid of what might happen if you showed him just how much you were hurting. You wanted to tell him, to scream at him that everything felt like it was falling apart, that you felt like you were losing the very essence of yourself. But you never found the right words. They lingered in your throat, held back by the fear that if you let them slip, if you revealed just how broken you felt, he would leave, just like everyone else. It wasn't his fault, but every day you spent with him felt like a silent contest, a competition you could never win, no matter how hard you tried.

There were days when the storm inside you would quiet, just long enough for you to catch your breath. You laughed with him, got lost in the banter, and for a brief moment, you felt whole. But then, without warning, the doubt would creep back in, twisting its fingers around your heart, tightening until you couldn't breathe. It was in the way he talked about the future, how he spoke of his dreams and ambitions with such certainty. It was in the way he would glide through the world, effortlessly charming and full of life. And you would wonder—where did that leave you? You, the person who had spent so much time moulding and shaping yourself, only to watch it all fade into the background of his brilliance. It felt like you were constantly scrambling to catch up, but you were always two steps behind, chasing something that was just out of reach.

Ronin could sense the distance between you. His sharp eyes noticed the way you pulled away and the way your smiles faltered. He would always call you out on it, teasing you with that cocky smirk, trying to coax the real you out of hiding. "What's wrong?" he'd say, voice dripping with a challenge. "Afraid I'm gonna outshine you?" His words were always followed by that glint in his eyes, the kind that dared you to answer, dared you to admit that you felt small in the shadow of his light. You never answered him. How could you? How could you say that you were afraid of losing yourself in the midst of his brilliance? The fear settled deeper in your chest, a weight that seemed impossible to shake.

There were nights when the battle inside you raged hardest, when you found yourself staring at the ceiling, your thoughts a cacophony of self-loathing and doubt. Ronin would call you, his voice warm and comforting, and for a moment, you'd feel the sharpness of your isolation fade. But even then, you knew he was out of reach. You knew the gap between you two was widening. His voice was gentle, but there was an undertone of something more. You couldn't quite grasp what it was, but it made you feel like you were standing in his shadow, forever. You didn't want to admit it to him, or anyone else, but you were terrified of losing him. It wasn't because of what he might do, but because you didn't know how to be yourself in the space he occupied.

The longer you stayed in this space, the more fractured you felt. It wasn't just the obvious difference in your talents and lives; it was everything, every little piece of yourself that you'd spent so long trying to put together. In his presence, they fell apart, crumbling like sand beneath your fingers. You had to stop pretending you were whole and fine. Ronin embodied everything you weren't, and it terrified you. You loved him, but it felt like you were drowning in the space between you, caught in the wake of someone who had everything you lacked. Every time you tried to reach out, to bridge the gap, it only made the distance feel that much greater.

Ronin remained. He would never stop being himself, never stop teasing you, never stop pushing you to confront the parts of yourself you didn't want to face. In a twisted way, he was helping you. But deep down, you knew this wasn't the help you needed. You wanted to be enough for him, to stand beside him without feeling like you were less. But the more you tried, the more you realised that the gap wasn't between you and him – it was between who you thought you should be and who you truly were. You weren't sure how to fix it.

Ronin was initially perplexed. He had always been confident and charismatic, never breaking under pressure. He was certain you'd overcome your struggles and find a way to handle the inner chaos. But then he noticed the cracks appearing: flinches to the smallest comments, smiles that no longer reached your eyes. It was as if you were disappearing right in front of him, your laughter hollow and your movements stiff and distant. For the first time, Ronin felt frustrated, not with you, but with the world and the circumstances that had brought you to this point. He didn't know how to fix it, didn't know how to reach you when you had built walls so high that even he couldn't climb them.

The tension between you both became suffocating. Ronin could see it, but every time he tried to approach you, to offer a hand, the distance between you seemed to grow. You didn't outright reject him, but you stopped letting him in. He sensed a coldness in your touch, a look of apology in your eyes, a sign that you were no longer the person he had fallen for. His resentment grew, not toward you, but toward the reality that you weren't the person you used to be, that the vibrant spirit he had fallen for was slipping away. He hated seeing you struggle, but he didn't know how to help. He had never been used to feeling helpless, and yet here he was, watching the person he loved unravel.

One night, it all boiled over. You were sitting together, the silence between you so thick it was suffocating. Ronin had always been the one to fill the silence with his cocky comments and playful teasing, but tonight he just watched you. His eyes were different; softer, as if he could see right through the facade you had put up. You stared at the floor, refused to look up, and it was like a mirror of his own struggle. Then he realised that your silence wasn't about him, it was about you—it was about the battle you fought inside every day, the war that had taken its toll on your soul. It broke something inside him, a crack that spread, deep and jagged.

Without warning, Ronin moved closer, his body warmth radiating against yours. You could feel his presence, the way he hovered near you, almost hesitant, as if unsure how to breach the wall you had built between you. His hand reached for yours, and for a moment, you tensed, the coldness of the world rushing back in. But then, something in his grip steadied you. It wasn't firm or commanding, but there was a tenderness in his grip that caught you off guard. Ronin didn't say anything at first—he didn't have to. His eyes locked onto yours, raw and vulnerable, the cocky bravado replaced with something deeper, something real. The silence hung thick and heavy, and then Ronin's voice broke through, thick with emotion.

"You don't have to do this alone," he said. His words felt like a slap in the face, not because they were harsh, but because they revealed a truth you had been denying for so long. You had convinced yourself that you were stronger alone, that relying on someone else would only lead to disappointment. But Ronin didn't see you as weak. He saw you as a person, as someone worth fighting for, someone who didn't have to hide their pain to be loved. His words hit you like a wave, crashing over your defences, and for the first time in a long while, you felt something shift. His eyes never left yours, not even when you tried to look away, not even when your breath hitched in your throat.

"I'm not going anywhere," he declared, his voice soft but firm. "You can push me away if you want, but I'm staying." His tone was direct and unyielding, devoid of any teasing or smugness. It was as if he had finally seen the real you, the broken parts of you that you tried so hard to hide, and he didn't turn away. His fingers gently brushed against your skin, the touch so light, yet he was reaching inside of you, pulling out the pieces you thought you had buried too deep to ever see the light again. The vulnerability in him was a mirror of your own, and it terrified you, but it also gave you something you hadn't realised you were missing – a reason to stay, a reason to fight.

Ronin wasn't perfect. He wasn't the answer to everything. But in that moment, he was exactly what you needed. His cocky smirk had become a quieter, more genuine expression. His eyes, usually full of fire and challenge, now held only concern and a deep-seated desire to see you heal. He wasn't trying to fix you or save you. He was offering you something far more valuable: his presence, his belief in you. You didn't know how to accept it, but you felt the warmth of his hand against yours, the solidness of his touch anchoring you, grounding you in the moment.

Your insecurities didn't just disappear, but they were acknowledged. But Ronin was there now, his steady presence a shield against the darkness that had so often consumed you. But Ronin was there now, his steady presence a shield against the darkness that had so often consumed you. He didn't have all the answers, but he was there. He listened. He comforted. He reminded you that it was okay to be broken, to be flawed. His touch was a constant in a chaotic and uncertain world. He didn't try to fix you, but his presence alone was enough to start the slow, painful process of mending what had been shattered.

It wasn't easy. There were moments when the fear returned, when you felt like you were slipping again, when the urge to hide behind your walls was stronger than ever. But Ronin was always there – quiet, patient, his arms a refuge from the storm inside you. You never had to ask for it. His presence was a silent promise, his actions louder than any words. His cocky remarks were still there, but they had softened, edged with something kinder, something less about proving a point and more about showing you that it was okay to let go of the need to be perfect. He didn't need you to be anything but yourself, broken and whole all at once.

As time passed, the walls between you began to crumble, little by little. You began to believe that you didn't have to carry the weight of the world alone. Ronin had shown you that there is strength in vulnerability, that there is power in letting someone in, even when it feels terrifying. Though the scars were still there and the pain lingered, you felt something shift inside you. Ronin's quiet dedication to being there for you—without judgment, without trying to change you—made you start to believe that you might one day feel whole again. Maybe not perfect, but enough. And for now, that was all you needed.

The more Ronin stayed, the more you couldn't ignore the nagging feeling that everything you had worked for, everything you had fought to perfect, was slipping away. You couldn't silence it. It was relentless. It echoed in your mind with each passing day, a constant reminder that you weren't the person you once were. The burning need to be the best, to always have something to show, something to prove, had morphed into a weight, a pressure that threatened to crush you. The moment Ronin's easy laughter or his wild ambition brushed against your ear, the feeling in your chest grew heavier. You tried to ignore it, but the weight of it all pressed down harder, louder, like a hand on your throat, squeezing just enough to make every breath shallow and painful.

You had tried to escape the suffocating reality of your diminishing sense of self through distractions, through Ronin's presence, through fleeting moments of joy. But every time you let yourself feel just a little lighter, the darkness returned. It came in waves, relentless in its assault on your mind, feeding off your insecurity, your fear that you were no longer enough. You couldn't remember the last time you felt proud of what you had achieved. What you once deemed talent now felt like a hollow echo, a shell of its former self. Every skill, every accomplishment you had poured yourself into felt distant, like a faded photograph you could barely recognize. The more you tried to grasp it, the more it slipped from your reach.

Ronin noticed the change in you, though he never said anything directly. He didn't need to. He saw how you zoned out during conversations and how your shoulders sagged in defeat when you thought no one was watching. The way you spoke of your past achievements now sounded like a confession, like you were ashamed of them, as if you had no right to feel proud. It was clear to Ronin that this was bothering him. He wasn't subtle, not usually, but he didn't have to be. His eyes darkened with concern, his lips pressed into a thin line whenever you started to spiral, whenever the despair threatened to spill over. His concern was evident, but there was also a clear frustration at not knowing how to help someone who wouldn't let themselves be helped.

One night, as you sat on the edge of your bed, staring out the window at the relentless rain, you felt that crushing sense of inadequacy settle in again, and this time, it felt like you were suffocating. Ronin had gone quiet after a playful remark had been met with your empty response. You had withdrawn so far into yourself that even his sharp words didn't have the usual effect. He noticed the shift, saw the way your expression hardened, the way your eyes seemed to turn inward, like you were battling something he couldn't see. The silence between you stretched, thick and uncomfortable, until he finally spoke, his voice softer than usual. "Talk to me," he said, not with his usual swagger, but with genuine concern. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

You hesitated. You wanted to tell him, wanted to scream it all out, but you couldn't. The words were lost somewhere in your throat. Instead, you shook your head, unwilling to speak. You didn't want to admit it, not even to him. The emptiness inside you was too much to ignore. It had been building for so long, too long, and now it felt like you were hollowing out from the inside. "I don't know how to keep up anymore," you muttered, barely above a whisper. "It's like everything I've worked for is slipping away, and I can't stop it."

Ronin's expression softened, his usual bravado faltering as he moved closer. His fingers brushed against your arm, just enough to ground you in the moment. "You don't have to be the best all the time," he said, his voice quiet but firm, like he was trying to convince both you and himself. "You're enough as you are. But you can't keep hiding from it. You don't have to run from it." His words were like a balm for your wounds, yet even as he spoke, you couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he was wrong. You weren't enough. Not for him. Not for anyone.

As the words hung in the air, the weight of the past few months and your own disillusionment pressed down on you like a boulder. You couldn't remember the last time you had felt proud of what you had done. Your achievements felt like hollow ghosts, like fragments of a self you didn't even recognise anymore. Moments of success felt like distant memories, blurred by self-doubt. In Ronin's presence, the emptiness became deafeningly obvious, the silence in your chest a constant reminder that you couldn't keep up, that time was running out. His eyes met yours, and for the first time, you saw the frustration and helplessness there – the same helplessness you had been feeling.

You had kept your composure for so long, convinced yourself that the work you had done was enough, that the talent you had once honed so fiercely was still there. But the truth was that it wasn't. It was fading. You couldn't figure out how to stop it. Ronin's constant presence and unwavering belief in his own talents only made it harder. You couldn't compete with that, couldn't even keep up with your own life. In that moment, as his fingers grazed your skin, trying to comfort you in a way that felt too soft for your jagged reality, you felt yourself crack. The walls you had built around your brokenness crumbled, and a flood of despair and guilt surged through you: all the fears you had kept hidden for far too long.

"I'm not enough," you declared, the words tumbling out before you could halt them. "I can't do this anymore." Tears welled up in your eyes and you couldn't stop the silent sobs shaking your body. Ronin's hands were on you then, not in the way he had been before—playful, teasing—but gentle, holding you as if he knew that you were breaking, that you were slipping further away from yourself with every passing second. You felt him wrap his arms around you, pulling you close, the warmth of his body a sharp contrast to the chill that had taken root in your soul.

His lips pressed softly against your forehead. The gesture was so tender it made your chest ache. "You are enough," he whispered, and this time, his voice was different. It wasn't just an empty promise – it was an anchor, trying to pull you from the depths of your own despair. But even as his words rang in your ears, you couldn't quiet the voice inside that told you he was wrong, that you were never going to be enough. You wanted to believe him, but the pressure of losing yourself was too much to bear.

Ronin spoke, but you could barely hear him over the storm of emotions raging within you. You couldn't hear him. Not clearly. Not with the storm inside you so loud, so chaotic, drowning out everything else. The noise in your head, the constant screams of failure and inadequacy, overpowered anything he said. His attempts to pull you back, to remind you that you were more than this, more than the emptiness inside you, only pushed you further away. His voice became a distant echo, a reminder of something you had long since stopped believing. The more he tried, the more it felt like he was speaking to a stranger, like he couldn't reach the parts of you that were still intact.

You retreated into silence, creating a cocoon where the world outside didn't matter. The numbness became your refuge, your escape from the never-ending turmoil. You stopped engaging, stopped pretending, stopped trying to meet the expectations that had once driven you. Everything felt heavier, like the weight of the world pressing down on you, but you couldn't care. You felt the blood drain from your body, leaving you cold and hollow. The days blurred together, each one indistinguishable from the last, as you drifted further into the void of your own mind.

You didn't want to see anyone. You couldn't face the world with the pieces of yourself you had discarded. The talent you clung to, the identity you built around it, was nothing more than a cruel joke. It was all a lie, a hollow construct you had worn like armour, hoping it would protect you from the inevitability of failure. But now that the armor was gone, all that was left was the raw, unprotected skin of who you were. It was as if the very essence of you had been peeled away, leaving only the jagged scars of past attempts to hide the truth. You couldn't bear to look at those scars or face the pain they represented.

You pushed Ronin away, not with words, but with the coldness of your silence. It was easier to turn inward, to shut yourself off from everything and everyone. His presence was a constant reminder of what you had lost, a painful reminder that you had failed to live up to the expectations that had once been your everything. You couldn't stand looking at him without feeling like you were drowning, like you were suffocating under the weight of your own inability to be what you thought you should be. His love and attempts to pull you back only deepened the sense of guilt, as if you were betraying him by being broken. The more he tried to hold you and comfort you, the more you wanted to pull away and disappear.

The darkness within you took on a physical form, consuming you from the inside out. The once comforting embrace of isolation became your prison, your cage. You felt trapped in your own skin, consumed by failure. Your limbs felt heavy, as if the blood in your veins was turning to stone, weighing you down and making every movement a chore. The world outside felt like it was moving at a pace you couldn't keep up with, and you didn't want to. It was easier to disappear into the shadows, to fade away into nothingness, than to confront the wreckage of who you used to be.

You couldn't stand to look in the mirror. Every time you looked, the reflection was a stranger, someone who had no place in this world, no reason to exist. You couldn't recognise yourself, couldn't see the person who had once fought so fiercely to be noticed, to be valued. All that was left was a shell, a broken vessel, empty and hollow. The eyes staring back at you were cold and lifeless, having seen too much, felt too much, and having nothing left to give. The rawness of your pain was reflected in the shattered glass, in the emptiness that you had become.

The numbness grew, becoming a suffocating fog that clung to you, making it harder to breathe, harder to feel. It was easier to sink into it, to let it consume you, than to fight against it. The idea of facing the world, of having to explain what was happening inside your head, felt impossible. You didn't have the words. You didn't have the strength. Every conversation felt like an assault on your fragile psyche, every interaction a reminder that you were failing at the most basic human connections. It was easier to retreat into silence, to close off every part of yourself that could be touched by someone else.

Your body felt alien. The sensations that used to ground you, the warmth of someone's hand, the softness of a hug, now felt like too much. Your skin burned with the discomfort of being alive, the rawness of the emotions you couldn't escape. Your heart pounded erratically in your chest, not a sign of life, but a countdown, a reminder that you were reaching the end, running out of time. You were desperate to escape it all. You didn't want to feel anymore. You didn't want to be alive in a world that was too big, too bright, too loud for you to survive.

Ronin's presence, once a balm to your wounds, now felt suffocating. His attempts to reach you and pull you back from the abyss only deepened the sense of alienation. He was incapable of understanding. No one could. You had to have lived with this emptiness, this constant struggle to hold on to something that had never been real. You weren't even sure if you wanted to be saved anymore. You had accepted that you were beyond help and that the pieces of you that had once been whole were irreparably shattered. In the quiet moments, when everything else falls away, you can almost hear the final snap of the last thread that connects you to the world.

The remnants of your former self, the version of you who once held on to talent and ambition with white-knuckled desperation, began to fade into the background. Your former aspirations now dance like shadows, haunting you from the periphery, reminding you of something that was never truly yours. It was not just a loss of talent; it was a loss of identity, of the very foundation that had held you together for so long. In the silence that followed, as Ronin's presence faded into the distance, you felt nothing but the weight of your own emptiness. The world outside was loud, chaotic and unyielding, but in your mind, all that remained was silence.

The silence deepened, engulfing you completely. It wasn't a peaceful quiet; it was a heavy, oppressive stillness, a vacuum where sound, thought and feeling no longer dared to enter. You could feel the air thickening around you, pushing against your chest, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. Ronin's presence, once a source of warmth and comfort, now felt like a shadow that lingered just out of reach, a reminder of a life you no longer had the strength to hold onto.

Then, the walls you had built around yourself tightened, closing in, locking you away from everything you had once known. You were no longer aware of the world outside, the frantic beating of your heart, the sounds of rain against the window. All of it fades, leaving you in silence. No words. No tears. No Ronin. There was nothing but the relentless gnawing of emptiness.

Deep down, you knew this was it, the final unravelling, the moment when you let go. The once fierce battle you fought, the desperate struggle to hold onto something, anything, had slipped away with the darkness that had consumed you. You realised you had given up. You had let the silence win.

Don't make any more attempts to reach out. You are not okay. You must not continue to struggle to find a reason to breathe, to feel, to exist. The weight was too much, the hollow spaces inside too deep. You simply let yourself fall. You let the quiet take you, like a tidal wave, drowning out the last of your thoughts, the last of your humanity.

And in that final, suffocating breath, you disappeared.

[miscretis]

Discord Mod!Ronin x Discord Kitten!Reader (G.n) [PART 1 OF A CRACK FIC TAKEN SERIOUSLY]

CG art by: munstxr

WRITER'S NOTE

This used to be satire but I quickly took it quite seriously which was hilarious. Yes I still find this quite funny to write.

CW:

- Cringe

- Possibly dull writing (I'm still new and I'm tired)

- Coarse Language

❣️

“So, what would'ja do now? Taste the feeling of metallic death by my crowbar? Or ya gonna kiss me? Or are you gonna kill me? I got a knife right here! ” He lets out a dark chuckle as he closes up the gap between the both of you, pinning you to the wall. Now, how did you two end up in the dark alleyways of the Purgatory? Or rather, how did you even end up in this situation?

It all started with a text, a passcode and a link.

ERROR!UNKNOWN: don't be so obvious smh. You're Gonna Get Caught.

ERROR!UNKNOWN sent you a file.exe

ERROR!UNKNOWN: ReceivedKey: k!llrch8t_b00t.mango

here Ya go there's your Key Whenever you're Ready.

What the fuck? What is this?

All you were trying to do was to collect research for your dark romance serial killer novel and now you're being sent a strange link? (Especially after tweeting a question about killing experience with a crowbar.)

It seemed like a link to a Walmart version of discord but on the darkweb. You were wary at first, thinking about how your IP could've been doxxed if you ever clicked on the link. However you felt pressured to click on it when a notification sounded from your PC.

ERROR!UNKNOWN: are You gonna Join? you're no Fun at all.

Whoever this person was, he seemed like he wanted to mess around. Well, fine, you'll give him entertainment then.

You then clicked on the link.

You were led to a shady site with a blank for keying in the passcode. You remember the person giving you the passcode but it was long and complicated so you couldn't really memorise it properly.

Uh….maybe I'll just try keying in ‘password’?

ERROR! Wrong passcode. 2 more tries and your IP address will be revealed.

Well, shit.

You continued to rack your brain around for any possible passwords for this situation. You tried different passwords until a message showed up…

ERROR! Wrong password! Your IP address will be revealed in 3 seconds!

…

Just kidding, come on inside.

You entered a chatroom named “The Slaughterhouse.” with the exact same interface as discord. The channels, layout and everything.

<goreboy> welcome the Newly Christened @user

<hitmeuppp> AAA omg omg!! welcome to helllllll

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> WELCOME WELCOME HIIIIIII

<felicite> Nice to meet you!

<Angelic> Hi there! Glad to have another one with us ❤️

<goreboy> make Sure to take a Peek at #rules

there is Barely Anything but You Never Know

…

It's a serial killer chatroom. This has to be satire…right?

Oh god

You checked the rules.

<goreboy> Be a serial killer. first rule of Fight Club. Whatever i don't really give a shit lmfao. Oh and be nice don't be racist or transphobic or weird else angel will snipe u :\

<Angelic> it's not a threat it's a promise

Maybe this is just an intense roleplaying server

This must be it. These people are weirdos, not serial killers.

…

Maybe I’ll just play along…for now..

A day or two went by and they were still into the intense roleplay. It was weird in all honesty. Being in a server full of probably edgy teenagers talking about killing people seems to be the last time on your checklist of things to do. Least to say, it was fun and entertaining to watch. Watching them say the cringiest of things, it sure really gave you a good laugh. However soon after, you were getting bored and tired of watching by the sidelines for weeks despite the roleplay being a perfect source of research for your novel.

But a roleplay is just a roleplay…isn't it?

So, you decided to mess around to cure your boredom. Just a little more fun wouldn't hurt.

You lean back against your chair, pondering what you should do. Suddenly your thoughts drifted off to discord memes that your friends have been sending to you, then it clicked.

A discord kitten

You're not sure if you should do it, being a discord kitten is dangerous work and surely isn't a smart thing to do, especially in a server probably full of serial killers…

But yet again, they're just edgy teenagers that were very niche in intense roleplay, it would be fun to mess with them…but do you?

…

Fine, I'll play it this way then.

First of all, you need to find your discord mod to your discord kitten and you immediately chose the top dog, the alpha of the server, goreboy. Ronin…isn't it?

Oh god, I can't believe that I'm losing my dignity for this.

But what route could this open? A dangerous and gloomy path, or a sweet flowery romance?

At this point, you don't really care about that anymore. You just wanted to tell a good story.

[rottenorchids]

Some Ronin with ghost seeing reader monarch !! maybe angst with like Ther's ghost possessing the reader or like reader being able to see Ther following behind Ronin !!

Old love dies hard Ronin x medium!reader + posession :3 hope you enjoy !!

The summer heat was getting to you, you woke up drenched in sweat from another nightmare, shaking awake as you opened your eyes. You thought you were still sleeping when you saw a figure dash from the corner of your eye to the door of your room. Your breathing was still laboured as you sat up, peeling the arm of your boyfriend off of your waist as you got up.

You needed to drink something, the thirst was unbearable. The heat was unbearable. You got out of bed, giving Ronin a peck on his cheek before leaving the room. You stumbled into the kitchen, flicking the light on and having it flicker a couple of times before it lit up the room properly. You grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with some cold water, chugging it in one go before grabbing a second one. You glanced at the clock, it was just past midnight.

“Psst,” You rolled your eyes as you thought it was Ronin trying to scare you. You didn’t look at the direction you heard it from, not trying to give him the satisfaction of scaring you before you heard it again, closer this time. You jerked back and looked around the direction you heard it from before sighing. You looked back at your glass of water, seeing something behind you in the reflection before turning around and dropping the glass on the floor.

You screamed as the glass shattered. There was someone in your kitchen. You could hear Ronin’s hurried steps as he approached the kitchen with a butterfly knife in hand. You kept on staring at them, not saying anything, just staring. They were mouthing something, but no sound came out of their mouth.

“It’s a ghost,” You said as you looked at Ronin. “Did you bring one of your memorabilia to my place, Ronin? I told you not to do that since last time!” You scolded him.

“What do they look like?” He asked, putting the knife away as he rubbed his eyes. “Is it some lanky priest? If it is, some of his flesh might’ve gotten stuck somewhere.”

“No it’s not a priest,” You said as you looked back at the ghost. “Long red hair, feminine build, flowy clothes… I don’t think this is someone you killed, Ronin.” You looked back at him, and this time it looked like he had seen a ghost. “Ronin?” You called for him, his face pale and his eyes wide as he stared at you.

“Ther?” He asked, and you looked back at the ghost as they nodded. You know of Ther, he never spoke much of them but you knew that they were special to him. He mentioned that they’d passed and how, but that was only when he was drunk once and reminiscing about the past.

“They’re confirming.” You said. “Ronin, remember that offer that I made to you when we first started dating?” You asked, and he nodded slightly. “How do you feel about doing a séance?” He nodded again, very subtly. As if he didn’t fully want to do it, but he had questions he wanted answers to, too.

You set your living room ready for the séance, sitting on the floor together by the coffee table, facing each other, holding each other’s hands. “You break the connection once you let go of my hands, okay Ro? I’ll still be close by, but once I give them the connection they are stronger than me in my own body, so if it becomes dangerous, you let go of me.”

You went through all the steps you usually go through, the rules of the afterlife, everything he had to know. He nodded, showing you that he understood everything.

You took a deep breath and squeezed his hands lightly.  “I’ll miss you, darlin’.” You smiled at him, making sure to show no fear when, when in reality, you were always terrified of doing sessions like this. But if he knew that, if he knew all the risks and strings attached to something like this, he might not have allowed himself this. You figured that you’d done this so many times, everything that could have gone wrong already has.

“Ther, I’m opening the door now,” You calmed your breath and closed your eyes, visualising the space to your body as a room and opening the door for Ther to come in. “You can come in, I’m giving you permission.” The feeling of a spirit taking over your body had no words, indescribable euphoria along with a type of rest and detachment of a body, it felt like you were floating.

Your hands twitched as Ther stepped into your body, but the presence of Ther was something other than just a simple ghost, but it was too late. Locked out of your body, you had no way of telling Ronin to stop it.

“Ro.” Your voice sounded like two people, their voice doubled over yours. You saw it shock him for a little. Your hands rubbed the back of his.

“Ther?” He asked, quietly. As if he couldn’t believe it, but truly why would he? He was never one to believe in things such as ghosts. Ther nodded, using your body as their own. “Is it really you?” He sounded like he was tearing up, like he was about to cry.

“Don’t be lame, Ro,” Their tone was playful, as if teasing him, and he chuckled back. “You really think that you got rid of me?” They asked, squeezing his hands again. This didn’t feel right, you couldn’t control any part of your body, like they had you wrapped in some sort of cloth, binding you in a way where you couldn’t touch any part of your brain to control even the smallest of muscles.

He looked at your hands, your face, you as a whole, and his face changed for a split second. “Why are you here, Ther?” He asked, and you noticed a little bit of caution in his voice. They smiled at him, their smile on your face, he didn’t know what to think about it, it was visible on his face.

They held Ronin’s hands tightly, intertwining your fingers with his as they put their elbows on the table. “I missed you.” They said simply. “Do you know what today is, Ro? Did you forget?” Their voice sounded less and less like yours.

“I know what today is,” He said, you could see him trying to free his fingers from their grip but it was useless. “Of course I know, it’s the day you…” He trailed off, not wanting to say it, and Ther’s smile widened when they saw regret paint his face.

“You can make it right, you know,” They said, “I can come back, in this body, the body of the one you love now.” You could see Ronin’s adam’s apple bob as he looked at your hands again. “We can be together, but this time we’ll be here, free.”

“No.” He said, his voice stern and cold. “Ther wouldn’t ask this of me, they’d be happy for me.”

Ther lunged for him, draping themself over the table and holding his face, his hands cupped between his own face and your hands. “It’s your fault, Ro. Make it right, kill the bitch that stole you from me and bring me back.” Ronin’s breath sped up. “You and I belong together, can’t you see?”

“You’re not Ther.” He said, and Ther just laughed. “Let go of my hands.”

“The devil has a special place for you, Ro,” Their voice sounded different, like it was accompanied with a low growl.  “I’m going to drag your bitch with you in there.”  Ronin pushed them off, worming their fingers out of their grip and breaking the circle.

You got pulled into your body, falling backwards into the couch. Disorientated and maybe a little freaked out, you called out to Ronin. Your breath was sped up, and you looked at your own hands, squeezing them into a fist just to make sure you were in control again.

He crawled over to you, making sure you were okay, holding you in his arms and squeezing you. “I’m sorry, darlin’.” He said, rubbing your back as he was holding you. “I shouldn’t have asked this of you.” He mumbled, burying his face into your neck as he held you. You reassured him that it was fine, hat you weren’t hurt and that they weren’t here anymore.

“Their soul must’ve gotten corrupted,” You tried to explain, “I should have noticed it before we did the séance, I’m sorry Ronin, I messed it up I—,” Ronin cupped your face, shutting you up.

“It’s okay, you tried to do it for me,” He stroked your cheek lightly, “You didn’t do anything wrong, darlin’.” He reassured you, and you nodded before starting to sniffle.

“I was so scared, Ronin. I thought I wasn’t going to be able to come back,” You said, in between half-sobs, trying to force yourself to stop the crying. He wiped your tears as they fell, reassuring you that you didn’t do anything wrong.

When you’d finally calmed down, you decided to watch a movie to calm down and unwind, something light hearted the two of you could make fun of as you watched it. As you were dozing off, your head on his shoulder and his arm over yours.

“Goodnight, Ro.” You mumbled before falling asleep.

kind of rushed at the end but i still hope you enjoy !!

[npookie0]

Hihihiii is it alright for a Misaki & Reader (platonic) fic of them just having a sleep over? Thinking maybe Reader hasn’t had a sleepover since they were a kid and Misaki immediately makes them have one together!!

Misaki is my fav character would love to see u write them :3

A Starry Night.

Misaki and reader, platonic, fluff fic

Cws: spoilers for Killer Chat! mostly Misaki's route.

You were standing in front of a trailer, a small bag full of clothes and snacks hanging on your shoulder. You were surprised by how warm it was in Japan compared to Uptown, the surroundings were beautiful flashy with a bunch of billboards all around.

Excitement filled your body, it was supposed to be your first ever sleepover since... ever! You didn't even know when you and Misaki made the plans to have this sleepover, you just remember their shock once they heard that you don't remember any of your sleepover experiences.

<hitmeuppp> pookie wdym you never had a sleepover????? naur way we have to change it!!!!

You were curious, maybe a little bit terrified (they're an assassin after all) and very happy at the same time. You felt like a kid, the flight to Japan, drive from the airport to where you are now, they felt so long with how impatient you were the whole time.

You took a deep breath, told yourself to calm down and knocked on the door of Misaki's place of living. You heard an excited squeak, then someone bumping into something and cursing and finally the creak of the door.

Misaki stood in front of you, a big, beaming, smile on their lips and million sparks in their eyes when they saw you in front of them.

"Y/n! Hi! Hello!" They exclaimed happily and pulled you into a hug.

You stumbled on your feet, unprepared for the sudden embrace, but your hugged back, as excited as she was.

"Hi hi! I'm happy to see you!"

"Me too oh my god! I can't believe you actually traveled all the way just for a sleepover! Dude you're crazy!"

You spent most of the day traveling around Uiji, they were showing you some of their favourite spots, telling you what snacks you should buy if you wanted some to take back home with you.

Finally, the sun set behind the horizon, deep dark sky with dozens of shining stars was now above the two of you as you sat on the trailer's roof.

"Are you ready for your first ever sleepover?" They asked you, smiling like a child from ear to ear.

Their smile was contiguous, causing you to shine brightly with them. Warmth filled your heart at the thought of sharing this experience with Misaki. With your friend, one of the best one's you ever had actually.

You knew that this was a big moment for them too, a moment of relaxation, of break from killing and assassination, with you around Misaki's mid could be at peace. No anxiety filling her heart, no fear of dying in the process of eliminating a target.

Just the two of you and your fun time. Just like regular friends would do.

"Duh! I couldn't wait the whole day for this!" You replied and raised your hands. "I could literally shout it from the rooftop!"

She giggled at your stupidity. You two were a match made in heaven, two silly goofs just having their little chaotic duo time around the town.

"Woow you sure are excited! C'mon! We should change into our pyjamas and get this thing started!"

You two got down from the roof, you really didn't know how she found it so easy to climb up there with no effort, and entered the trailer. Misaki changed their clothes in the bathroom while you did so in the bedroom-living-kitchen-everything area of the trailer.

You didn't have a chance to look around the inside of the trailer before so used this opportunity to do just that. The place was a little messy, (or was it the artistic neatness that you regular mortal wouldn't understand?)

Bean bags near the door, clothes scattered on he floor, an undone bed, yeah it's definitely Misaki's place. You saw some crotched plushies, hats and unfinished projects, some drawings here and there too. They're really an artist by heart.

"So~ Are my pjs cute?" Misaki asked, jumping out of the bathroom in a giant hoodie with cat ears and a cat tail attached to it, they were also wearing socks with a cute cat pattern.

"The cutest." You chuckled.

You weren't sure of what to do now. They were sitting next to you and looking for a "cool enough" playlist on their phone.

What were you even supposed to do during a sleepover?

You doubt that sleeping is the answer, at least not this early into the night.

"Um, Misaki?"

"Mhm?" They were still looking through their phone.

"Uh, what are we supposed to do during a sleepover?"

Your question must've really surprised Misaki because their phone fell from their hand, luckily it met a pillow instead of the floor. They looked at you with widened eyes.

"You don't know? Man did you not watch movies when you were a kid?" She titled her head and then murmured a 'no, no, it can't be like this' to herself. "Don't answer! I'll just make this sleepover the best sleepover you'll ever experience!" They said confidently, almost shouting straight into your ear.

So, as Misaki happily exclaimed, they did.

In a spam of four hours you managed to almost burn down their kitchen, laugh at each other while putting on animal themed sheet masks - they had a cat and you had a bunny - have a pillow fight and a karaoke.

Now the two of you are seated outside of the trailer, that Misaki parked in a more rural area, screening a whole animated movie, crying your hearts out at how sad the story was.

"Waah, no please he can't die now!!! They didn't confess yet!" Misaki whined, wiping the tears from their eyes.

"Didn't you say that you watched this movie like hundred times already?" You raised an eyebrow and passed her a tisue.

"Well yes, but I still can get sad over the plot!" They nudged you with their elbow, sniffing and sobbing.

You just chuckled, shaking your head and wiping your own tears.

This was really one of the best nights and days in your entire life. Laying in a field of grass, looking at the stars and laughing with Misaki as she told you about the weirdest people she ever met.

"Thank you Misaki, for showing me the beauty of sleepovers." You said, your eyes locked on the starry sky above you.

"Heh, you're welcome Y/n! And thanks too, for coming here and letting me relax. You're a great friend."

You looked at them, smiling slightly.

"Are you up for another pillow fight?"

"Are you seriously asking? Get your ass up! I'll beat you up!"

This is truly a night worth remembering.

[6feathered6siren6]

waitt js thought of something , KC X a reader that's ACTUALLY a serial killer ? ?

Hidden in plain sight

Authors note: I promise I am still here, I got sick in the past couple days(and still sick) but I finally finished this piece. So sorry I didn't finish this a while ago when you requested, but I got stumped midway through, I also feel I didn't write well enough for it but here it is. I got a few more story drafts I'm finishing up(mafia kc au, the next chapter of constantly looping, a Misaki x florist reader, and the KC cast as the spiderverse.) So I have more to publish soon! (This is kinda hinted of Ronin x reader but can be viewed platonic as well)

Trigger warnings

Killing

Blood

Breaking and entering

-

Money was always an issue, making sure whatever debt you have left is paid for, taking shady deals or assassin missions. Whatever to pay for it, it was worth it. To pay that debt your family left you. Having multiple jobs run you dry at times, but you have a main job, as a journalist. It was a bright and joyful passion, finally getting a job that was normal…

But on the other side, your ‘other job’ wasn’t getting many hits lately. Either way, most of your clients don’t need the bodies, so you take it, and sell the parts to people, at least you get decent money from it. A bit more cash in your wallet. A bit more into freedom. 

One thing you didn’t expect was to join a server full of killers, and oddly enough, one was already hunting you down. K9, or V was hunting you down for killing a person you were contacted to kill, without knowing it’s you. Goreboy, or Ronin, doesn’t think you are, which is fine, you don’t care. Misaki totally thinks you are but not in the sense of what type of killer you are, or Angel becoming great friends with you. You helped Luca and Feli start dating. It was a sweet home-ish feeling from the server. 

–

You got a new kill mission from someone, they wanted an ex gone, and left the body to you, about 6 grand from the client and about 200 grand from the body. Not a bad payout, but they want the victim’s neck to be sliced open with a bloody message for the homewrecker. 

Looking up from your phone, you saw where the to-be victim lives. Nice place as well, a home, an expensive car, even the lawn is well-kept. A typical cover up story for the gruesome truth that lies inside. Sighing, you walked in, the ex never locked the doors, trusting the easy hackable security system to protect them. 

Easy job, easy money. Warm red liquid stains your hands as you write the exact words your client wants. ‘Fuck you Wench’. Taking a couple photos and sending it to the client, job done and money sent to your bank account. Now, picking up the body and taking it along with you. Each piece was important and is worth a lot. Spending a few hours cutting the body, storing it, then off to celebrate with a little food adventure on what fast food place is open at midnight was left on tonight's todo list. 

Carrying a body just to see Ronin in an alleyway? Now, that was nothing on your list of tonight’s todo list. The body drips blood from your arms while he looks at you, a bit in shock before laughing. 

“Now this is a treat before the devil’s eyes. A devine fallen from grace, but from how long ago?” His crowbar was soiled with blood, dripping from it. Seems fresh as well. Must have just killed someone.

You were still in a state of shock, this was the first time someone caught you. How are you supposed to react to this? Like, laugh it off and walk away, or say something about the weather? “Hehe… he… I- uhmm… I’m gonna go back to work.” 

Before taking a step away, he interrupts you, “Hey, stay right there.” 

Fuck.

When you looked back at him, he was right there, right in front of you. His smirk felt like poison, controlling you to stay there. “So what’s the story? Someone who pissed you off?” 

The body in your hands was getting colder, and it was losing blood. “No, just a hitman. I kill and get money, now you have a story, can I leave?” 

He raised an eyebrow, “And they want the body? Damn, Misaki wasn’t commissioned to bring a dead body back to their client before. You must be special.” 

You felt the hot air flow out of your nose, you were getting annoyed, you needed to get home. “No, I just sell the parts.”

His smile turned sinister, “Selling body parts? Damn, did not expect that one.” He looked proud, that you aren’t some innocent writer as he thought, but a killer, sinful like the rest of them. 

“I’m leaving, I’m losing money standing here.” You stepped away from him, you can’t joke with him nor play around. You need to go, the parts in the body can go bad soon. As you started walking away, you noticed Ronin following you. He still had his smirk on his face. “What are you doing?”

“Following you, Darlin’.” He said, like some kid who found the candy store, “I want to know how deep you are, how corrupted you are. How the innocent writer become a killer?”

“So curiosity? That’s making you follow me?” You said, the street lights were getting dimmer as you walked further in the alleys. You know these alleys like the back of your hand, so maneuvering through them was easy in the dark. 

“Sure, let’s call it that.” He continues to follow you through the alleys, looking around, like he’s gonna memorize the way to your place. You sighed, you don’t care anymore, you need these parts as good as they can be at the moment to sell them, and if entertaining Ronin is on tonight’s todo list, it doesn’t matter now. 

– 

Ronin was in your place, heck, in the room where you butcher the corpses. You were slicing the body open, and he watched, he was enjoying you pulling each organ out, but more carefully than he liked. But it was a show to him. 

You finally got everything done, everything was into bags and containers ready to be sold. You peeled off your bloody gloves and apron, putting them onto the counter. Ronin was clapping as he looked at the containers and bags, impressed. 

“Are you going to leave now? You had your show, Ronin.” You crossed your arm, you were hungry now. You wanted to eat something, then pass out. You have work in the morning and it’s already late.

“Come on, Darlin’? Pushing me away already? Here I thought I can at least treat you for the show you presented to me.” 

“I’m not going out to kill someone else.” 

He chuckled as he walked closer to place his arm around your shoulders, dragging you with him. “Nah. Let’s get some food.” He pushed you out of your butcher room, making you walk ahead. “Go and change, you can’t show how sinful you have been tonight.” He winked as you rolled your eyes.

“You make it sound like… Y’know what, nevermind.” You started walking away toward your room. Not seeing Ronin taking a few pictures of the butchered man, he was so going to show the rest of the server that the enigma of the server was like them. Not a lair. 

– 

#/killer_shit

<goreboy> 

Thought i should Share who I caught

[picture showing the butcher room with containers full of body parts]

[another picture of you holding the body, surprised at Ronin]

Never thought to Catch a Killer

<hitmeuppp> 

NO WAY!!! 

READER!! 

wait… 

RONIN WERE YOU IN THEIR PLACE!?!?

<u/n> 

RONIN WTF?!

<goreboy> 

Sorry darlin 

Had to show the Others

Since you kept It from Us

<Angelic>

The cuts look well done, and very carefully. You know your stuff, Reader!

<K9>

…

<goreboy>

Don’t worry, batman

they are a contracted killer

Earning money from their kills and the corpses they sell

<Hitmeuppp> 

GASP, READER!! 

HOW COME YOU DIDN’T TELL ME >:(

we could be buddies complaining about clients T^T

-

Well, there goes that secret, but you were glad they didn't ask why you were making the money for. That’s for another day in your opinion. Right now, you are gonna enjoy the food Ronin treated you and sleep, you have a morning meeting.

[f0urz0mbyz]

꙰ 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭'𝘴 𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸 (Ronin 'Good' End Oneshot)

You did what had to be done, didn't you? *+:｡.｡　☆　｡.｡:+**+:｡.｡　☆　｡.｡:+**+:｡.｡　☆　｡.｡:+*

Ronin made me do it.

It was such an easy escape. Ronin made me do it. It wasn’t a lie, was it? In the moment, you could feel transparent hands guide yours to Ronin’s. The hands helped yours grip around the knife. Phantom whispers danced in your head, pushing you forward. 

‘Stab me, darling. It would be so easy, so quick. It’s not like I’m the Devil, after all.’ 

Your hands trembled as you responded to the hell-bent Angel.

Ronin made me do it.

The Butcher smiled at you through crazed laughs when you had fallen for his spell. Your first kiss as lovers was poison. It tasted of metal, love, death and decay. When you love the rot, it eventually infects you. 

‘Consider this a courtesy. I’m going to kill you.’

The harsh pink text floated in your vision as your thoughts drifted. She was going to kill you, sending you to join the rot. The distinct pop of white pulled you back to your screen. An exclamation point next to a name that could not be active; goreboy, the recently deceased. Your hands shook as you scrolled through the messages. The decay started to root as you conversed with the remnant left behind. A remnant left to torment you after you had fallen for the rot‘s allure. 

You are predictable, after all. 

As hours floated out of your mind, the thoughts of Ronin didn’t. The pressure of hands would be felt on your shoulders, the whispering voice of teasing comfort flowing into your mind. You played along perfectly, Darling. He had said it himself to you and Angel. You were to be his ‘Make-A-Murderer’. His work of art, his muse. He had given you everything you ever wanted and he would be getting his reward. With everything given, something must be taken.

Ronin gave you his time, his attention. He gave you a muse, a perfect protagonist, a lover. Now it was his turn. He had been given his perfect little serial killer, a lover, and now he was going to claim what was left. 

At least, that’s what the decay desired. In the corner of your eye, in the reflection of your mirrors, he was always there. Angel never came, and soon, you never left. Your single-home became the home of two; the decay and the rot. He was always with you cooing from the dark corners of your mind; watching and whispering from the shadows. Your bed became your safe space, curling into a safe cocoon. He wouldn’t bother you here in the warmth of safety. 

Unfortunately, no fortress lasts forever. Eventually, small cracks form that can be exploited. His false weight on the bed shifted the cocoon, destroying the safety. His hands crept up to your face, bringing your attention to the apparition in your bed. 

I gave you everything you could ever want. Now, we can have that forever. Aren’t you happy, Darling? 

Ronin leaned forward, cold lips placing themselves against your own. The final kiss of a couple should be filled with sadness of departure and nostalgia. This wasn’t the end, it would be a new beginning. In this, the rot of the first kiss had strengthened. Venom and suffocating love consumed your senses. He hadn’t lied to you. You had gotten everything you wanted. Love, a great story, and now, you’d have a fantastical ending. However, there was one thing he had lied about. 

He truly was,

The Devil.

~ a one shot by f0ur-zombyz

[l0verclown]

From pressured to driven Part 2

What happens when you feel pressured to do something you never thought you'd do?

Especially if 4 serial killers are the ones pressuring you.

Slight ronin x reader

| spoilers for Killer chat!!! This is part two of "From pressured to driven". As always, my writing sucks so its probably Ooc. I have no idea if i want to continue with more parts, but hey who knows.

TW: Mention of murder, going insane, light gore, SA?(forced kissing)

PSA: I don't support neither am i trying to glorify/Normalize the words mentioned above. SA should be taken serious and it is not meant to be joked around.

Part 1:

You were walking around, searching for any "victims" to kill whilst trying not to freak out by the amount of corpses were in the alley. Damm, you knew Ronin liked going on killing sprees, but this much? If you counted every corpse you have walked past, it would be already above the 20. It didn't feel right, seeing all those unfortunate souls all on the ground, but you also couldn't help continue searching because before you know you are one going to become one of them if they find out.

*Ding!*

A notification?

Dear Reader,

I heard that you were writing a book, which is pretty interesting so my congratulations for that one.

moving on, one of our best reporters, Greg, has unfortunately resigned.

So my question to you is if you are able to make five new articles before the clock hits midnight. I expect at least two articles, but my apologies if this has come to you late, but if you are able to do it, i will try my best to reduce the amount of work you already have.

I wish you the best of luck on this.

Kind regards

Your boss.

You have to be serious. Five whole articles?

Not only did you have to make five new articles, you have to find a way to pretend that you killed a person. Not only that, it was 19:21.

19:21...

Fuck.

You have 4 hours and 30 minutes before midnight. You have to find a solution, and quick. Fuck, maybe you do want to kill someone, and with someone you mean your boss or either Greg.

Greg...

Always him, the 'best' reporter in the company. Total bullshit, he was average, a total pervert even. But the fact he resigned and that you had to chase after his bullshit!?

You felt anger raising up, adrenaline rushing through your veins, the amount of stress and anger that was mixed in your body was insufferable, that if you went to a therapist, they would either send you to a mental hospital or diagnose you with whatever mental disorder is popular.

*Ding!*

Another notification..?

@BestGregg: Hey Reader! Sorry for resigning so early and sudden but i got offered a wayy better job, and i couldn't pass up on that offer. Btw make sure to finish those assignments lol and because i'm resigning, how 'bout we meet up? I mean ur kinda chill and its gonna be fun. So what do you think?

Seriously? A meet up? Who does he think he is? My dad???

@SerialMC: Uhh..

sure i guess. Can we meet up here? *Insert Purgatory location*, i'll wait for u there, I'm here with some friends but i'm sure they don't mind.

@BestGregg: Sweet, i'll be there in 10 minutes, be prepared to have the best night of ur life ;)

Not only is he a total loser, he's a total pervert too. You continued walking, your mind just being full of total bullshit right now. First, your serial killer friends want you to kill somebody, second your stupid boss wants you to write 5 articles, and third your perverted ex-coworker wants to hangout and is going to try to hit on you.

Life's been going shit these weeks, you got hit with an inspiration block which means no more idea's for your next book. You've been trying to find out on how to tell the server that you're not actually a serial killer (What will probably never happen) and now this.

You gripped the knife that you previously found tighter, resisting the urge to even throw it. You can't kill anyone, you don't want to kill anyone, but in your state, it seemed like the only solution left.

"EYY READER, WHERE ARE YOU!?"

"I have a feeling they left"

"No way, they wouldn't leave us, their friends behind, i know them."

"Hah, So they're not as tough as they seem huh?"

"Hey! Don't say that, people like us just have our own struggles. Just let us be you edgeboy"

Fuck fuck fuck.

They were searching for you, and you haven't done anything at all, and looking at the time, that stupid greg should be somewhere here now.

How the fuck did you end up in this position!? Seriously, this would've been some fun hanging out day, but it always ends up in trouble. You just wished you could bury yourself somewhere.

"Yooo Reader it's me Greg!"

How he greeted himself scared the shit out of you, you hid the knife somewhere in your jacket, so he wouldn't notice. It was pretty dark out here, but from the looks of it and how he talked seemed like he had a bit to drink.

"Oh hey.. Greg."

"Whats up with the sad face reader? Are you not happy to see me?"

"No it's just. Work and stuff.. Gotta write 5 articles.. Ha ha.."

"Awh damn, sorry reader. Didn't know i was that important to the company, i mean, being the best reporter in the department? Hell yeah!"

He continued talking about how cool, and important he was that you didn't notice that you were basically backing up into a corner because of how much he talked.

"Ohh yeah, I think you need to confess something, reader."

"Confess.. What?"

He got closer to you, basically trapping you in that corner that you went to yourself. You said you wanted to bury yourself somewhere? Guess that place is here. He leaned into your face, you could feel his intoxicated breath, it reeked of alcohol and whatever cocktails he was drinking, but he didn't seem to go away.

"Don't act stupid, i know how you've been looking at me, you like me, don't you?"

Like. Him?

You hated that man. First, he got with all your female coworkers, he's the so-called "best reporter", he acts like a total asshole, pervert, and his looks are like the devil himself tried making the ugliest person that has ever existed. Not only that, but he has so much controversy, but of course, your boss ignores it because he was a good worker.

"I don't understand? I don't like you?

"Don't be shy, i know what you want"

Before you knew it, he slammed his lips into yours, forcefully kissing you as he held you by the waist. You yelped in disgust, tears starting to form in your eyes. You hated it, you couldn't move, you felt helpless. After he was done kissing you, he looked at you with a grin and you looked terrified.

"Look, you enjoyed that didn't ya? C'monn, i know ya want more"

"And don't worry, i won't go rough on you"

Oh.

Is this your end?

No.

It is not.

You can change

Maybe they will say you became corrupted.

But was it really, if it originated from fear?

You slowly gripped the knife you hid in your jacket, and held it tight in your hand.

"You know what i want..."

You put your free hand on his chest, he leaned in, looking like he wanted to kiss you, but before you could do that, you plunged that knife right into his chest.

He screamed, but you continued. You kept stabbing him near his heart, he tried pushing you off of himself, but you were too determined to finish him. After everything he did, all you wanted to do is never see him again.

Countless screams were forming in his throat, it sounded so god awfull, but that is why it was perfect. That's what stupid, perverted good for nothing deserve. A deep plunge in the heart. At this point, you were sure the rest could've heard the screams and were probably heading your way, but you didn't care about that. For now.

You pushed his body to the ground, before gripping two hands on the handle of the knife, and plunged even harder into his chest. You dragged the knife from his chest to his intestines, before stabbing him again for countless times. You felt anger and stress slowly leave, the crimson staining you. You felt.. Weird. You did feel guilty, yes but after all he did. He deserved it. You ripped out the knife, before hearing some voices behind you.

"Oh my, So Darlin' did end up killin someone huh? And even stabbing the intestines? How gruesome, i like that"

You turned around, hearing the voices of your friends

"Oh shit... Who that guy was, he was definitely hated by them.. Look at the stab marks holy shit, reader went batshit and im here for it"

"Oh.. My, reader, how are you feeling? I don't think that guy was some ordinary guy guys.."

"... The sight is gruesome"

You laughed, you kept laughing before finally stabbing the knife into his skull. He was finally gone.

".. That guy was my ex coworker. He kept stressing me out, making flirty moves, and.. Ended up forcefully kissing me."

Angel looked at you with a mix of reassurance and a look of "I've been there", and she slowly approached you along with Misaki. Meanwhile Misaki was a bit in denial, not because of the fact that you killed him, but because what he did to you. V was crossing his arms and shaking his head, while Ronin was heading towards the guy.

".. What you did there, reader.. I, oddly relate to it. Weird creepy perverted men hitting on you while you weren't doing anything? Killing him was a good choice, reader."

Angel was quite literally an angel. She is nice, she is understanding and she can relate to anyone. You're great full you have her as a friend.

Misaki was giving you constant back pats, trying to comfort you from that guy. You noticed that she was trying to lighten the mood.

"Hey so.. That guy was a total creep, and what you did was totally valid- I mean as a pervert, what did he expect?"

You forced a laugh out of that one, it was funny but for the sake of Misaki, you cracked a laugh so that she wouldn't suspect anything. But you know she meant good, if it was up to her, she would've killed the guy in a second.

V was looking at you and the guy, sighing before muttering out a sentence.

"You finished him, not for fun or for entertainment.. But for your safety and because of fear. Not bad at all."

His words shock you, because you didn't expect him to say that at all. You didn't really speak to him, and when you did, he was always on some "I will find out who you are" shit. Guess V is able to feel some sympathy after all.

You didn't even notice the fact that Ronin was ripping apart that guy's chest to grab his heart, you were starting to hear some weird- crack and bone breaking noises, that you couldn't help but look backwards at the body to find Ronin trying to obtain the guys heart.

Eventually, Ronin had the heart in his hand, and looked at you with a smile

"Darlin', Would ya mind giving me his aorta? And it's that ugly guy's heart, which makes it 10x better. C'monn, do it for the poor little devil."

He looked at you, with that stupid little smile from the first time you kissed, the moment you began rotting and corrupting. You laughed, and took the heart. Since Ronin started talking about the Aorta that much, you decided to google search a bit just to know where it was for a moment like this (which you never actually expected to happen)

You carefully ripped some of the other pieces of the heart, accidentally deattaching the superior vena cava and some artery, but eventually you managed to remove the aorta, and handed it to Ronin.

"To my dearest devil, the one who corrupted me."

Angel looked at Ronin with a look of "What the actual fuck ronin." and he just laughed. You smiled and He gave you a hair ruffle and put the aorta in some weird place in his bag. Gross, but hey, he can do whatever he wants.

You looked at your clothes, It was basically stained red now, but your face, hands and pants were a total mess. You sighed, before thinking of a way on how to get home without getting the police after you.

" You look like a complete fuckin mess. Not that i'm complaining, but you probably are. How 'bout i give you a ride to my house, and stay there?"

You wanted to agree, you didn't mind the idea, but you wondered about the others, what about them? It would be quite rude to leave them here.

Before you could say anything, Misaki overheard the convo and made an idea.

"YOO IS THAT A SLEEPOVER I HEAR!?"

".. I'm not really fond of sleepovers."

"Maybe we could? I mean it is the best way to end the hangout"

". Fuck no, i don't have enough space for five people. And besides, i don't think anyone can survive the devils little hideout"

"Stop being edgy for once ronin, your living room is big enough"

".. Wow, guess i have no choice do i?"

"A sleepover it is, then."

You decided to take a photo of the body, and you were planning on sending it in the server. To have some more 'evidence' that you killed someone. Would your old self be proud of you? Absolutely not, but people change. You changed by being rotten and corrupted, and you wouldn't want it any other way.

weird..

You have this odd feeling that doesn't go away

It feels like a craving.

More killing, it screams your name.

You feel like killing more people.

Their agony, your pleasure.

Time to show them what you have become.

[puzzledprose]

I would love more Ronin nsfw if you have the time. I desire him carnally.

I apologise for this freak-fest I have revealed far too much about my tastes in this but it is far too late to go back now. Let’s just hope you match my freak ♥️😼

Ronin NSFW for the 𝒻𝓇ℯ𝒶𝓀𝓈

Minors please DNI

Okay so jumping right off into the deep end with some nasty shit.

I know I’ve said this before but knife play 🤤. Ronin probably likes scaring you a little. He says it’s “more intimate that way”. This usually involves him (consensually) bringing out his trusty pocket knife. Ronin would never want to give you any permanent scarring, for all the grotesque and filth he represents even he would never stoop that low. He definitely likes the idea of marking you up. Small inconsequential cuts in places people wouldn’t notice usually. Probably also carves in some on-brand satanic symbols too. It’s like he’s claimed you properly now.

“Look at you, all blissed out and bleeding for me.”

The more you like it the more he does. The idea of you hating what he gives you is deeply unappealing. What’s the fun in insanity of it isn’t mutual!?

On a similar note Ronin’s sexual energy triples after a murder. The adrenaline is pumping through his body and that buzzing behind his eyes send him to heaven.

Definitely has a fantasy about fucking you in purgatory. Having you pushed right up against a blood splattered wall while he’s knuckle deep inside you, watching as you eyes roll back. Sounds perfect.

Also this man has a tongue piercing, aka THE SLUTTIEST THING A MAN CAN DO!!! So you just KNOW his head game is like none other. The cool feeling of the metal has you cumming in MINUTES!!!

Sexual blasphemy!?!?! Any mention of god will be met with something like “no god here darlin’, just me.”

Sorry if this is a little all over the place it was just a bit of a very horny brain dump! Needless to say I love this absolute case study of a human ♥️

[lilygoofywritingcave]

Cramming, Kisses, and Comfort

I should have been studying history rn but lost the voices so here ya go, Misaki x Reader with cramming history <3

Who knew university could be this exhausting?  With a test looming over you tomorrow, you are supposed to be sitting at your desk, revising the mountain of notes and textbooks. Instead, you found yourself venting in SlaughterHouse:

<@Y/N>: I’m gonna die. This test is actually going to kill me. If I disappear tomorrow, tell the history teacher I hope they stub their toe every morning.

<@goreboy>: lmao, takeN down by a History test? Pathetic. The past ain't evEn fightin' baCk.

<@Angelic>: Be nice now, Ronin. (But good luck, Y/N! You got this!)

<@Y/N>: No, I don’t got this. My brain is mush. History is stupid. Who even cares about what happened hundreds of years ago??

<@goreboy>: Your teacher, apparently.

<@Angelic>:  It is important to know and appreciate history, but I get it. Tests are stressful. Maybe take a break?

<@Y/N>:  I haven’t even started yet…

You sighed, already not looking forward to the rest of the night. You were about to type another message when-

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Your head snapped up, not expecting someone at this hour. The sound was familiar, a little too rhythmic, as if the person on the other side was trying to be dramatic.

The voice of a certain assassin spoke up through the door, oddly cheerful as always:

Misaki: “Hellooooo? Your personal tutor has arrived! Don’t make me break in!”

Your eyes widened in shock as knocks turned into louder thumps, you can feel the door slowly giving up. Scrambling out of your chair and rushing to open the door, you were greeted with Misaki, who was grinning like they had just won a lottery.

She had her backpack over one shoulder, dressed in an oversized hoodie that was definitely stolen from you at some point, and a little too excited for something as painful as studying.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.” you said, stepping aside so they could enter.

Misaki smiled: “Didn’t need to. I knew you were suffering, and as your loving partner, it’s my duty to rescue you.” She plopped on your couch, stretching her legs across the cushions.

“So? Where’s the damage?”

You glanced towards your desk: “Everywhere.”

Misaki let out a dramatic gasp: “Tragic.”

Then, with a smirk, she patted the spot beside her. “C’mon, love. We’re gonna get through this together.”

You sighed, grabbing your notes and sat down beside them.

Misaki wasted no time making themself comfortable, immediately pulling out your papers and flipping through them with a whistle: "Damn, no wonder you're suffering. These info could fit an entire library.”

"You’re not helping.” You sighed

 "That’s why I’m here silly!”

And so, the studying began.

She started with the basics, quizzing you on key events and important names. At first, you struggled, fumbling over dates and mixing up figures, but with each correction and playful remark from Misaki, things finally started to stick.

After what felt like eternity, Misaki spoke up, their pen tapping against the table: “Alright, pop quiz. Who was the first emperor of Japan?”

You groaned in exhaustion: “Didn’t we just go over this 15 minutes ago?”

Misaki smirks:“Yeah, and?”

You smiled for a bit before answering: “Emperor Jimmu.”

“Ding ding ding!” She tossed the pen aside and clapped: “See? You are learning.”

“Barely.” You fall back against the couch: “This is torture.”

Misaki hummed thoughtfully and suddenly grinned: “Oh! I know how to make it less painful.”

You raised an eyebrow: “I don’t trust that look.”

She leaned in, mischievousness in her eyes. “How about a reward system? For every correct answer, you get a prize.”

 “What kind of prize?” You asked, hesitant and confused.

Right then, Misaki leaned forward and pressed a quick, soft kiss to your lips. It was barely more than a slight brush but still, it sent a flame that burns your cheeks. Pulling back, she smirked at your stunned reaction.

“Like that,” they said, tilting their head playfully: “Motivation, y’know?”

“That’s cheating.” You answered, still blushing.

“Pfft, no it’s not.” She nudged you: “It’s called ‘positive reinforcement’.”

You let out a defeated sigh but couldn’t stop the smile forming: “Fine, what’s the next question?”

For the next hour, Misaki was relentless, shoving you with question after question and rewarding your correct answers with soft kisses and playful praises. And, somehow, despite the exhaustion slowly gnawing at your brain, studying didn’t feel so miserable anymore.

But still, even with their enthusiasm, you could tell she was getting tired too. Their voice was softer, their words slower, and they kept rubbing at their eyes between questions.

“I think we need a break,” you finally said, stretching your arms: “I’m gonna grab something to eat. Want anything?”

Misaki grinned, leaning back against the couch: “Surprise me.”

You chuckled: “Oh I’ll be damned then.”

Getting up and heading to the kitchen, you weren’t gone for long - just enough time to make some tea and grab a few snacks, but when you returned, you paused in the doorway.

Misaki had fallen asleep...

They sprawled on the table, arms folded under their head like a makeshift pillow. The notes and textbooks were still all around her, one of them left open to a page she had been quizzing you on earlier. Her breaths were slow and steady, and even in sleep, she looked peaceful and carefree.

You felt a small smile creeping on your lips as you set the snacks and tea on the table.

"You always act like you're just here to mess around," you muttered, more to yourself than her. "But you really do care about me, huh?"

Misaki didn’t need to come over. She could have just sent some dumb memes in the group chat and gone about her night. But instead, she showed up, just because she knew you were struggling.

A warm feeling settled in your chest as you reached for the blanket on the couch, carefully draping it over her shoulders, tucking it around her so she wouldn’t get cold.                    

“Thanks, Misaki,” you whispered, brushing a few strands of hair from their face.

Rather than waking her, you decided to make use of the quiet. Sitting down, you flipped through your notes, rereading the sections she had quizzed you on. Somehow, the information stuck better now, maybe because of her, because you wanted to make their  effort worth it.

The room was silent except for the occasional rustle of paper and the soft rhythm of Misaki’s breathing. Eventually, the words on the page began to blur and exhaustion settled deep in your bones. With a sigh, you set your notes aside and glanced at Misaki.

Smiling to yourself, you shifted closer, resting your head beside her. The warmth of the blanket she shared and the steady rise and fall of her breathing made it easy to drift off.

And, for once, history didn’t seem so bad...

P/S: expect more Misaki content yall :3

[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, he 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.