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elysiaheaven2 · 3 days ago

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𝐓𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 - 𝐑𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐧 𝐱 𝐆.𝐍 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟)

Words: 11k (Late special for 80 Followers!)

Inspo from @roninroaming 's art! Tire change I love their art!

Genre: G.N Reader (Fluff)

Summary: Just a "accidental" sleepover with your man!

( Reader is a g.n!)

TW!

Violence and Gore – The narrative involves scenes from horror movies such as Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Saw, which feature extreme violence and graphic depictions of harm, along with mentions of blood and gore.

Blood and Body Horror – The repeated references to blood, gore, and horror elements like body mutilation could be disturbing to some readers.

It was after Christmas, after New Year’s. The festivities had passed, leaving behind the soft hum of fading holiday cheer.

You finally finished your fan tour. Yes, the book got famous—the main novel and even the side story. Your fans devoured it all, their enthusiasm feeding a whirlwind of success that left your head spinning. They loved every plot twist, every heart-wrenching moment, and every intricate detail you poured into those pages. So much so, they insisted on a meet-and-greet.

…It was annoying.

Two days of back-to-back fan events because your so-called “manager” couldn’t organize anything right. Two days of smiling until your cheeks hurt, answering the same questions in slightly different ways, and signing until your wrist threatened mutiny. Now, you understood Angel’s pain all too well. She had always hinted at the darker side of success, but this—this was a crash course.

It all started with Seabird Publishing House. They took a chance on your story, and suddenly, you were a name people knew. Directors now lined up at your doorstep, waving adaptation rights in your face. You were a rising star.

A dream come true.

Yet even as the dream unfolded, you realized something. Something better. Something irreplaceable.

Through it all, you found a family—unexpected, unconventional, but a family nonetheless—within a “serial killer server.”

Each one of them brought something unique to the table. Angel’s charm, so intoxicating and genuine, was a balm to anyone lucky enough to know her. V’s mysterious aura, with layers you’d only begun to peel back, kept you guessing and intrigued. Misaki’s chaos brought life to even the dullest moments, a spark that could ignite laughter from the most stoic among you.

Then there was Luca, with his unshakable sunniness that could brighten the darkest day. Felicie’s kindness wrapped around you like a warm blanket, offering quiet support when words failed. Vince, with his poetic admiration of sunsets, shared his thoughts in ways that painted beauty where others saw none. Ai Hua’s steady stream of thumbs-ups, simple yet somehow profound, reminded you that sometimes the smallest gestures carried the most weight.

And then there was Ronin.

Ronin with his edge, his intensity, his everything. He was chaos, danger, and something else entirely—something that had wormed its way into your chest and made a home there. You missed them all, but you missed him most.

Yes, you missed him.

The realization hit you harder than you wanted to admit. Three days had passed since you logged into the server. Three long, hectic days of meet-and-greets, interviews, and meetings. You hadn’t had a moment to breathe, let alone catch up with your found family. The ache of their absence crept into your thoughts, unbidden and relentless. But when you thought of him…

Well, it was a different ache entirely.

Ronin had opened up a little more this Christmas. Not much—he was still Ronin, after all. But enough for you to see past the sharp edges and into something softer, something vulnerable. He wasn’t the monster he pretended to be, and maybe… maybe he wasn’t as untouchable as you’d once believed.

New Year’s had been unforgettable. A shared kiss under the brilliance of fireworks, the colors dancing in the sky as your heart raced faster than you thought possible. His lips had been surprisingly gentle, a contrast to the man you thought you knew. The memory played on a loop in your mind, each replay accompanied by a flush of heat and a flutter in your chest.

Ugh.

It was embarrassing how much space he occupied in your thoughts. But that was Ronin. He had a way of getting under your skin, into your head, and staying there. And honestly? You didn’t hate it.

But you missed them. All of them. You missed the banter, the chaos, the comfort of knowing they were just a message away. Most of all, you missed him—his wit, his intensity, his presence.

You sighed as your car smoothly rolled into Purgatory, a small bag with your homemade apple crumble sitting on the passenger seat. As usual, it was for him. Ronin, with his sarcastic charm and maddening edginess, always looked forward to these visits—even if he’d never admit it outright.

The neighborhood was quiet, almost unnaturally perfect, the kind of perfection that made you feel like something ominous was lurking underneath. But at that moment, you didn’t care. You were in a love-struck haze, grinning like a fool as "Flawless" blasted through your speakers, your fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

It was cheesy. It was stupid. But you were so deep in your little love bubble that you almost forgot the chaos that usually surrounded your life. Thoughts of your server family danced in your head—Angel’s sweet encouragement, V’s dry humor, Misaki’s wild antics. You missed them so much! But if you were being honest, you missed him just a little bit more.

You were daydreaming about the next time you’d see Ronin when—BAM!

A loud POP jerked you out of your daydreams.

"WHAT THE HELL?!" you yelped as your car wobbled dangerously before grinding to a stop.

You pulled over, jumped out, and immediately spotted the culprit. One of your tires was flat—completely, irreparably flat.

“Ughhhhh!” you groaned, kicking the tire in frustration.

Big mistake.

“OW! OW, OW, OW!” you yelped, hopping on one foot as the pain shot up your leg. “Stupid car! Stupid tire! STUPID EVERYTHING!”

You slumped against the hood, blowing a strand of hair out of your face. You had planned to go home, log into the server, and finally catch up with everyone. But noooo, now you were stuck here, stranded in the middle of nowhere, your car practically mocking you with its uselessness.

"This is the worst," you muttered, glaring at the offending tire like it had personally betrayed you.

Groaning, you pulled out your phone, squinting at the screen as you searched for a nearby mechanic. Relief washed over you when you found one just a few miles away. Great. Just great. Now you had to limp your car there on a busted tire.

Sliding back into the driver’s seat, you let out a heavy sigh. "This day can’t get any worse," you muttered, though you immediately regretted saying it because fate loved a good challenge.

The car grumbled and groaned with every revolution of the wheels, the uneven thud-thud-thud of the flat tire making your teeth clench. "I swear," you grumbled under your breath, gripping the steering wheel, "if this thing breaks down before I get there, I’m setting it on fire. I don’t care if it’s the middle of suburbia."

You inched forward, exhaustion crept up on you. The fan tour, the meet-and-greet, the endless smiling and pretending—you were done. All you wanted was to get home, log into the server, and see the chaos unfold with your found family.

"Ugh, stop it," you mumbled to yourself, shaking your head. "Focus on the road, not… him."

But the weight of the day pressed down on you, and the monotonous sound of the broken tire didn’t help. You felt your eyes droop slightly. You were just so… tired.

You pulled up to the mechanic shed, the broken tire scraping and thumping like a cruel metronome against your patience. As the car sputtered to a halt, you slumped over the steering wheel, exhausted.

The lights in the shed were dim, and a "CLOSED" sign hung mockingly from the door. You let out a groan, squeezing your eyes shut in frustration. “Of course, it’s closed,” you muttered. “Why wouldn’t it be? Perfect end to a perfect day.”

Steeling yourself, you decided to at least knock and beg for help. You opened your eyes—and froze.

Standing in the faint glow of the streetlamp was someone unmistakable.

He wasn’t wearing his usual black beanie with the grayish horizontal stripes and devil horns over his messy burgundy hair. Instead, his hair caught the faintest glint of light, wild and untamed. His eyes—those black, endless voids—locked onto you, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

Ronin stood there, leaning casually against the wall like he owned the place. A shiny black leather jacket hung off his frame, riddled with scissors, pins, and safety pins that glinted in the dim light. Beneath it, a black t-shirt emblazoned with a grinning skull peeked through. His ripped maroon pants gave him an almost devil-may-care charm, and the GTrans bracelet on his wrist gleamed faintly, a subtle rebellion wrapped in tech.

Your breath hitched.

“Oh... my god,” you muttered under your breath, the realization hitting you like a truck. Of course. Of course this would happen.

You had somehow forgotten, amidst the chaos of the last few days, that your sweet, edgy, murder-loving boyfriend wasn’t just a killer with a penchant for theatrics—he was also a damn mechanic.

“Oh, the gods are laughing at me today,” you whispered, shaking your head as you stepped out of the car, trying to compose yourself.

Ronin tilted his head, his smirk deepening as he sauntered closer. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, his voice oozing with amusement. “Look who stumbled into my little slice of purgatory. And here I thought you’d forgotten all about me, sweetheart.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. All you could do was stare at him, equal parts flustered and exasperated.

You cleared your throat, snapping yourself out of the trance his presence always seemed to induce. “Ronin! Hi!” you greeted, though your tone came out half-exasperated, half-relieved.

His smirk widened as he raised an eyebrow, casually shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Missed me, darlin’?” he teased, his voice dripping with that familiar mix of flirtation and mischief.

You crossed your arms, doing your best to look unimpressed despite the heat rising to your cheeks. “Ehh… don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back, though the faint smile tugging at your lips betrayed your act. “Anyway, I’m not here for a reunion. My car—ugh—tire’s busted, and I just need it fixed so I can get home and finally log in to the server.”

Ronin’s dark eyes sparkled with amusement as he listened, his grin softening into something almost fond. “Tough day, huh? Fan meet didn’t go so well?”

You groaned, throwing your hands up. “It was a disaster! Two days of back-to-back chaos because my manager is useless. I hated every second of it. I’ve never been so drained in my life.”

He chuckled, low and warm, the sound wrapping around you like a hug. “That does sound like hell,” he said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the garage. “C’mon in. I’ll take care of it.”

Relief washed over you as you followed him inside. The garage smelled faintly of grease and metal, a strangely comforting contrast to the suffocating sweetness of the fan meet venues. Ronin pulled out a chair, motioning for you to sit.

“You’re my savior,” you said with a dramatic sigh as you plopped down.

He smirked over his shoulder as he grabbed his tools. “Savior, devil, mechanic—it’s a wonder I don’t charge extra for all the roles I play. Since you’re my lover, though, maybe I’ll give you a discount.”

You grinned, leaning back in your seat. “Oh, maybe, huh? Some boyfriend you are.”

His laugh echoed through the garage, light and genuine. “We’ll see,” he said, his dark eyes flicking to yours for a moment, glinting with something unspoken. His smile lingered—soft, warm, and so unlike his usual devilish smirk. Maybe… maybe he’d missed you too.

As he started working on your car, you noticed the little container sitting nearby, the one you’d handed him earlier. Sure enough, he was eating the apple crumble you’d brought him.

“Hey,” you called out, “how’s the crumble?”

He glanced at you, a crumb sticking to the corner of his mouth, and grinned. “It’s good,” he said simply, his voice softening in a way that made your heart skip.

You shifted in your seat, suddenly feeling a bit shy under his gaze. Ronin noticed immediately, pausing his work and quirking an eyebrow at you. “What?” he asked, though his tone was already laced with mischief.

You shook your head quickly, trying to play it cool. “Nothing,” you said, but the way your voice wavered betrayed you.

He smirked, leaning against the car with his arms crossed, his dark eyes practically twinkling. “Oh, come on, darlin’. You’re not usually this quiet. What’s got you all flustered?”

“I’m not flustered!” you shot back, sitting up straighter in an attempt to regain some of your dignity. “And don’t call me that!”

Ronin’s grin widened, his teasing becoming relentless. “Darlin’, darlin’, darlin’,” he drawled, his voice dripping with amusement. “Gotta say, I like it when you call me that too.”

Your face burned, and you huffed, standing up abruptly to face him. “You know what? You must’ve missed me more than I missed you,” you retorted, crossing your arms in a weak attempt to shield yourself from the storm of emotions he always seemed to stir up.

Ronin tilted his head, his expression turning mock-thoughtful. “Hmm, maybe. Or maybe you’re just really bad at hiding how much you missed me.” His grin turned softer, almost fond, and you knew you were losing this battle.

“Shut up,” you muttered, stepping closer to him despite yourself.

Before you could overthink it, you grabbed him by the collar of his shiny leather jacket and pulled him down to you, pressing your lips to his in a sweet, desperate kiss. For a moment, the world seemed to stop—no broken car, no exhausting fan meet, just him.

His mouth tasted faintly of apple crumble, warm and sweet, and as the kiss deepened, you felt a jolt of something electric shoot through you. He kissed you like he always did—like destruction, chaos, and temptation wrapped in something maddeningly irresistible.

When you finally broke apart, his forehead rested against yours, his dark eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your knees weak. “Ah,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, “you really missed me, didn’t you?”

You rolled your eyes, but the breathlessness in your laugh gave you away. “Maybe I did,” you admitted softly, your hands still clutching his jacket.

Ronin’s smile turned impossibly tender, and he leaned down again, brushing his lips against yours in a way that was softer this time “’I missed you too, darlin’.”

You sat there, legs crossed, watching Ronin work. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the lean muscles of his arms as he worked on your car. The way his hands moved with practiced ease, the faint smirk tugging at his lips as he focused, and the occasional glint of his dark eyes—it was maddeningly distracting.

You tried not to stare. Really, you did. But every time you looked away, your eyes were drawn back to him like a moth to a flame. It didn’t help that the grease smudged across his face and the glint of metal tools in his hands only added to the rugged charm he wore so effortlessly.

Finally, he glanced up, catching you mid-stare. “What’chu lookin’ at?” he asked, his voice carrying that teasing edge that always made your heart race.

You quickly averted your gaze, trying to play it cool. “The car,” you said, a little too quickly.

Ronin snorted, straightening up and wiping his hands on a rag. “The car’s in bad shape, darlin’,” he said, gesturing to the broken tire and other issues. “She’s not gonna be ready until tomorrow at the earliest.”

You groaned, pulling out your phone to figure out your next move, but when you pressed the power button, the screen remained black. Your battery was dead. Perfect. You wanted to scream, maybe even cry, but instead, you let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Life is so shawty,” you muttered under your breath, clutching your phone like it had personally betrayed you.

Ronin raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your theatrics. “Gonna call a cab?” he asked, though his smirk suggested he already knew the answer.

You shot him a look, holding up your dead phone. “I was gonna call a cab, but obviously, that’s not happening now.”

He studied you for a moment, the gears in his mind turning. Then, suddenly, he grinned. That devilish, mischievous grin you’d come to recognize as the prelude to one of his infamous plans.

“What?” you asked warily, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Got an idea,” he said simply, his voice low and full of implication.

Before you could ask what that meant, you stood up—and promptly tripped over a stray oil canister. You went down hard, landing in a puddle of grease with a loud thud. For a moment, you just sat there, stunned and mortified, as the slick substance seeped into your clothes.

Ronin burst out laughing, doubling over as he clutched his stomach. “Oh, darlin’, you’re killin’ me,” he said between breaths, his laughter ringing through the shop.

“Why the hell am I so trippy today?” you groaned, wiping at the grease on your hands, though it only made things worse.

Ronin crouched down beside you, still chuckling as he patted your head affectionately. “C’mon, grease monkey,” he said, helping you to your feet. “I got a plan, remember?”

You raised an eyebrow, still suspicious but curious despite yourself. “What plan?”

He grinned, leaning in just enough to make your heart skip a beat. “Sleepover,” he said, his voice practically purring. “You’re welcome to stay here tonight.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “A sleepover? Like, here?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, but his smirk gave him away. “Unless you wanna spend the night walkin’ home in greasy clothes with no phone and no car.”

Realization dawned, and you broke into a wide grin. “You mean it?”

“Course I mean it,” he said, standing back up and gesturing around the shop. “Ain’t much, but it’s got a roof, a couch, and me. What more could you want?”

You didn’t need to think twice. “Yay!” you exclaimed, practically bouncing with excitement. Without thinking, you jumped up, wrapping your arms around his neck in an impulsive hug.

Ronin stiffened for a moment, clearly caught off guard, but then his arms came around you, holding you close. “Careful there, darlin’,” he said softly, his voice losing some of its teasing edge. “You’re still covered in grease.”

You pulled back, laughing despite yourself. “Guess you’ll just have to deal with it.”

Ronin led you up the narrow staircase to his house, which was tucked away just behind the garage. The walk was short, but the moment he opened the door, he turned to you with a playful smirk and said, “Welcome to the Hell”

You stepped inside and glanced around. The place was... messy, but not in a gross way. More like a chaotic bachelor pad with an oddly cozy charm. Clothes were draped over the back of the couch, empty coffee mugs lined the counter, and random tools and knickknacks were scattered around. Despite the clutter, it smelled faintly of leather and spice—distinctly Ronin.

“It’s definitely messy,” you teased, grinning at him, “but... it’s cozy! Kinda suits you, honestly.”

He gave you a look, somewhere between amusement and mock offense, before chuckling. “Thanks. And I mean it, darlin’—I don’t get many compliments about this place.”

Before you could respond, he tossed a bundle of clothes at you. “Here,” he said, nodding toward the bathroom. “Freshen up. You’re covered in grease, and you’re not gonna wanna sit on anything until you get cleaned up.”

You caught the clothes with a raised eyebrow. “What about you? You’ve been working in grease all day too.”

His grin widened, clearly catching on to what you meant. “What, you worried about me now? Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll take my turn after you.”

You folded your arms, pretending to think it over. “Nah, you first. It’s your house, after all.”

“Uh-uh, darlin’,” he said, shaking his head. “This ain’t up for debate. You’re the guest, so you’re goin’ first.”

Realizing there was no point in arguing, you sighed dramatically. “No, I’m gonna prepare something in your kitchen. Coffee or tea sound good?”

He tilted his head, giving you a mock-serious look. “You can make whatever you want, but don’t make it too greasy. I’ve had enough grease for one day.”

You smirked, unable to resist. “You’re one to talk, Mr. Mechanic.”

That earned you a light pinch on the cheek, his fingers surprisingly gentle. “Go on, troublemaker,” he said, his tone softer now.

With that, he turned and disappeared into the small restroom, leaving you standing in his living room with the bundle of clothes. You glanced toward the kitchen, deciding it was time to live up to your promise.

You rummaged through his cabinets, you found a kettle, some tea bags, and an ancient-looking coffee maker. “This’ll do,” you mumbled to yourself, getting to work. The thought of surprising Ronin with a warm drink made you smile—you were determined to do something nice for him, even if his kitchen was a little chaotic.

While the kettle boiled, you couldn’t help but glance toward the bathroom door, a small smile tugging at your lips. Messy house or not, it felt oddly comforting to be here, in his space, where the smell of him lingered and every corner seemed to carry a piece of his personality.

You poured the hot water over the tea and set the mug down just as you heard the shower turn off. Ronin’s voice carried from behind the door. “You better not be burnin’ down my kitchen, darlin’!”

You rolled your eyes, calling back, “Your kitchen’s still standing—for now!”

Ronin emerged from the bathroom, towel slung over his neck as he dried his burgundy hair. He was wearing an oversized, slightly wrinkled t-shirt that hung loosely over his frame, paired with baggy shorts and mismatched socks. The casual look was... unfairly attractive on him, and you found yourself staring for a second too long.

Noticing your gaze, he smirked and let out a sharp whistle, snapping you back to reality. “Hey, darlin’. Enjoying the view?”

You huffed, pretending to ignore him. “Thanks for the reminder to get back to reality.”

He grinned, stepping closer. “Reality’s overrated.” He reached out and lightly poked your forehead with his finger, stopping you mid-motion. You blinked up at him, confused, and before you could say anything, he flicked your forehead gently.

“Ow!” You pouted, rubbing the spot. “What was that for?”

“For zoning out,” he teased. “C’mon, don’t tell me you’re still daydreaming about me.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically and grabbed the bundle of clothes he handed you earlier. “Whatever. Tea’s ready. Now get out of my way so I can clean up.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, stepping aside with a playful grin. “Yes, . I’ll go enjoy my tea.. if it hasn’t turned into sludge in my absence.”

You stuck your tongue out at him before disappearing into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you. You started to clean up, you could hear him humming faintly from the other room. His voice, warm and relaxed, paired with the cozy atmosphere of his home, made you feel unexpectedly at ease.

You emerged from the bathroom, feeling a bit fresher but still shivering slightly. The oversized white t-shirt Ronin had given you hung loosely over your frame, and the little shorts he’d tossed in for good measure were surprisingly comfortable. You padded barefoot into the living room, rubbing your arms for warmth as you spotted him lounging on the couch, coffee mug in hand.

“Ah-choo!” you sneezed loudly, shaking your head as you plopped down on the opposite end of the couch.

Ronin glanced over, eyebrows raised. “Cold?”

“Yeah, the water was a bit chilly,” you said with a small laugh, sniffling.

He tilted his head in disbelief. “Didn’t you turn on the water heater?”

You blinked, your cheeks flushing. “...Nope.”

A grin spread across his face, equal parts amused and exasperated. “Tehee?” he mocked, imitating your tone perfectly. “Darlin’, you really are somethin’ else.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, curling your legs up under you on the couch. “So, what’s the plan? Are we just gonna sleep, or... you know, do something fun?”

He shrugged nonchalantly, taking a long sip of his coffee before setting the mug down. “Whatever you want, sweetheart. If you’re tired, the couch is all yours.”

You nodded, smiling softly as you moved to settle in on the couch. “Okay, sounds good—”

Before you could finish, Ronin’s hand shot out, grabbing yours and tugging you back. You let out a startled yelp as you tumbled backward, landing against him with a soft thud.

“Ehhhh!” you gasped, gripping the front of his shirt to steady yourself.

He chuckled, the sound low and teasing in your ear. “Oh, you poor thing,” he cooed mockingly, his arms resting lightly on either side of you. “You really thought I was gonna let you off that easy, huh?”

You stared up at him, your heart pounding. “Ronin...”

He smirked, shaking his head. “Relax. I’m not that cruel.” His tone softened, and he leaned back slightly, giving you space but keeping you close enough to feel his warmth. “But you shouldn’t take everything so seriously, darlin’. You’ll wear yourself out.”

You exhaled shakily, letting your guard down a little. “It’s fine,” you said quietly, your fingers still clutching the fabric of his shirt.

He glanced down, his eyes briefly scanning your outfit. “You look good in white,” he remarked, a playful glint in his dark eyes.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, feeling your face heat up.

Ronin’s expression shifted, his grin turning sharper. “Though, if you were covered in blood, it’d look even better.”

Your head snapped up, your brows furrowing. “...What? Like blood lilies or something?”

He let out a low laugh, his gaze gleaming with mischief. “Just sayin’ you’d look like a masterpiece.”

You groaned, shoving lightly at his chest. “This is supposed to be a sleepover, not one of your weird murder monologues!”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, his laughter echoing through the room. “Alright, alright. No murder talk tonight. Pinky promise.”

You eyed him suspiciously but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Fine. But I’m holding you to that.”

You sat comfortably, the conversation turned toward how the evening would play out.

“Alright, darlin’,” Ronin said, standing and stretching, his shirt riding up just enough to distract you momentarily. “How about we set up for a movie night? Got some good tapes in my room. Best collection of yours truly."

“Your room?” you asked, raising an eyebrow with a teasing smile.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Yeah, my room. Don’t worry—‘other stuff’ means movies, nothing weird.”

You snickered, standing up and following him. “Sure, sure. Lead the way, oh mysterious one.”

He smirked over his shoulder and opened the door to his room. It was surprisingly cozy—cluttered, yes, but in a lived-in way. There was a stack of VHS tapes by a small TV,.

“Whoa, what’s that?” you asked, stepping closer as Ronin watched you with amusement.

“My pets,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “C’mere. Meet Pepperoni and Blackjack.”

Your eyes widened as he opened the terrarium, revealing a sleek, vibrant snake that coiled lazily around his hand as he lifted it. “This is Pepperoni,” he said, holding the snake up for you to see. Its black-and-gold scales shimmered under the light, and it flicked its tongue curiously.

You blinked, taking a hesitant step back. “I think I’ll pass on holding that one, thanks.”

He chuckled, clearly amused. “Suit yourself. Pepper’s a sweetheart, though.”

Your attention shifted to the cage, where a small, fluffy rat sat chewing on a piece of food. “And who’s this little guy?” you asked, your tone softening as you crouched down.

“That’s Blackjack,” Ronin replied. “The little troublemaker of the house.”

Without hesitation, you opened the cage and gently picked up the rat, who squeaked but quickly settled in your hands. “Aww, you’re so cute!” you cooed, cradling Blackjack carefully.

Ronin snorted, watching the scene unfold. “Figures. Most people are scared of Blackjack, but you’re out here actin’ like he’s the cutest thing alive.”

“He is the cutest thing alive,” you shot back, stroking Blackjack’s fur.

Pepperoni flicked its tongue at you from Ronin’s hand, and you stuck your tongue out in return. “Still not holding the snake, though.”

“Your loss,” Ronin teased, letting Pepperoni coil around his arm. “But hey, Blackjack likes you, so I guess you’re off the hook.”

You laughed, setting the rat back in his cage. “You’ve got quite the little zoo here.”

“Only the best for the Devil,” he said with a wink. “Now, you ready to set up for this movie night or what?”

“Absolutely,” you replied, grinning.

With Pepperoni draped casually around his shoulders, Ronin handed you a stack of pillows and blankets, and the two of you started arranging them on the floor of his room

Ronin’s smirk grew wider as you squealed, clearly entertained by your reactions. He gently guided your hands to hold Pepperoni, carefully draping the snake around your arms. “C’mon, darlin’, it’s just a little snake,” he said, his voice full of amusement as you hesitated. “She won’t bite unless you piss her off.”

You giggled nervously, your hands trembling just a bit as Pepperoni slithered across your arms. “It’s so...slimy!” you squeaked, but there was an undeniable excitement in your voice.

“See? Told you It’s cute,” Ronin said, his tone teasing as he watched you fidget. “Just don’t freak out on me now. It's pretty chill.”

You squealed again, but this time it was more out of delight than fear. “Pepper!” you cooed, your hands slowly becoming more comfortable with the soft, slithery sensation of the snake. “You’re so adorable!”

Ronin chuckled, clearly enjoying the sight of you bonding with Pepperoni. “Yeah, I knew you’d come around. Look at you, all soft with my child here.”

You looked up at him, your cheeks flushing slightly from the attention. “You know, I never thought I’d be holding a snake today,” you said, laughing nervously but genuinely enjoying the moment. “It’s cute, though, in a weird, slithery way.”

“Thought you’d say that.” Ronin’s grin turned playful as he watched you interact with the snake. “I think it likes you.”

You gave Pepperoni a gentle stroke down her smooth back, and the snake flicked its tongue out at you, seemingly in approval. “Well, I like them too. Maybe it can stay here, and Blackjack can be my buddy.”

“That’s the spirit, darlin’,” Ronin said, clearly amused by your change in attitude. “But no promises on which one’s more trouble.”

You laughed, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of warmth and contentment settling over you. Despite the oddities of Ronin’s life—his pets, his chaotic nature—this felt oddly perfect. Pepperoni nestled herself more comfortably in your arms as if sensing the calm around her.

“You’re alright, Pepper,” you whispered softly, making Ronin smile with a knowing look. “And I guess you’re not too bad either,” you added, glancing up at him with a playful grin.

“You’re full of surprises, darlin’,” he said, reaching out to gently pat Pepperoni’s head. “But you’re definitely more comfortable with her than I thought you’d be. You just needed a little nudge in the right direction, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face couldn’t be hidden. “Maybe. I’ll admit it—I’m getting used to your weirdness.”

“That’s the first step, sweetheart.” Ronin gave you a soft look as you held Pepperoni carefully, and his teasing expression softened for a moment. “

Ronin was moving around, grabbing extra pillows and blankets, as he made a cozy little space on the floor in his room. His hands were quick and efficient, pulling everything together to create a comfy spot for your movie night. He glanced over at you, still holding both Pepperoni and Blackjack with the most tender, protective care, like a mother cradling her little ones. You were genuinely smitten with the animals, and the sight of you bonding with them made Ronin’s heart soften, despite the tough exterior he tried so hard to maintain.

"Look at you," Ronin said with a teasing smile, his eyes gleaming with affection as he laid out the final blanket on the floor. "You’re all overprotective of my pets now, huh?"

You giggled, holding Pepperoni and Blackjack close to your chest like they were the most precious things in the world. "They’re just so cute! I love them already," you said, grinning wide. "I can’t believe I was ever scared of them."

Ronin sat back on his heels, eyes softened by your gentle smile. "Well, I knew you'd come around," he said with a smirk. "Look at you, all cozy with my animals now. Can’t say I didn’t warn you."

You rolled your eyes playfully at him but couldn’t help but beam with affection. "They’re so sweet! Pepperoni’s like a little snake cuddle bug," you said, carefully shifting both of them to make room for yourself on the blankets. "And Blackjack... Blackjack’s a whole mood. I love how feisty he is."

"You’re a natural," Ronin teased, finally getting to work on setting up his own spot, lying back onto the freshly made blanket pile. "I guess this’ll be your permanent home now, huh? First the couch, now the floor. You’re gonna need a bigger space for all that love you’ve got for my pets."

You scooted over onto the blankets with Pepperoni and Blackjack in tow, settling down beside Ronin, your eyes sparkling with excitement. "I wouldn’t mind it," you replied, laughing softly as you tucked yourself in. "This is comfy! I could totally see myself spending more time here."

Ronin’s smirk softened into something warmer. He sat up, glancing at you with a quiet kind of affection before handing you the remote. "Alright, sweetheart, pick the movie. I’ll let you choose—since you’re obviously in charge of the pets now," he said, his voice teasing but filled with a subtle warmth.

You chuckled, looking at him through your lashes as you took the remote from his hand. "Well, if I’m in charge of the pets, you’re in charge of snacks," you quipped. "And by snacks, I mean anything sweet that you might have in this den of yours."

"Alright, alright, I’ll get the snacks," Ronin said, standing up and stretching. "But don’t think you’re getting away with it so easy. You’re gonna have to share some of that love with me too, darlin’."

With that, he headed to the kitchen, leaving you snuggling with the animals. You couldn’t stop smiling—between the warm blankets, the two cute pets, and Ronin’s easygoing, yet slightly possessive presence, it felt like you were finally finding your place in his world.

Pepperoni coiled herself comfortably on your lap, while Blackjack settled beside you, making content little squeaks. It felt so peaceful, so right, even in the midst of Ronin’s chaotic world. You ran your fingers through Pepperoni’s scales, a soft smile still lingering on your lips.

Ronin quietly put the pets back in their respective spots, making sure they were comfortable before heading back to you. He grabbed a plate of food he had prepared earlier, setting it on the low table between you both. With a soft smile, he poured you a cup of pu-erh tea, the rich, earthy aroma filling the air as he handed it to you.

"Here," he said, with that familiar mischievous gleam in his eyes. "Hope it’s to your liking."

You took the cup with a grateful smile, your fingers brushing his for just a moment. "Thank you," you murmured, the warmth of the tea comforting you.

Ronin's eyes softened for a second, before his mischievous grin returned. Without warning, he threw a soft plushie at you. You blinked, surprised as it hit your chest. It was a goose plushie, its beady eyes staring up at you, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at the ridiculousness of it. "What the hell, Ronin?" you said, holding it up and looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

He laughed and shrugged. "I think it’s funny. Plus, you’re in my den now, darlin'. You’ve gotta embrace the weird."

Before you could respond, he grabbed the blanket that was laid out on the floor and threw it toward you. You yelped, startled by his playful antics as the blanket landed on top of you.

"You’re really pushing it tonight, huh?" you grumbled, trying to maintain a tough exterior.

Ronin just smirked, before walking over and sitting beside you. He casually draped the blanket over both of you, wrapping it snugly around your shoulders, pulling you closer. His touch was gentle, but there was a subtle, teasing glint in his eyes.

He kissed your forehead softly, the gesture tender and loving. As he pulled back, he playfully flicked your forehead, and you let out a soft huff, trying to hold onto your tough facade.

"Hmph," you muttered, pretending to be annoyed, but deep down, you were softening under his affection.

Ronin chuckled and spoke something in Cantonese, his voice low and playful.

"你真可愛 (Nei zan ho oi)." He said with a teasing grin.

You blinked, trying to make sense of what he said. "What?" you asked, tilting your head slightly, confused.

He leaned closer, his face just inches from yours, his eyes glinting with amusement. Slowly, he turned your head to face him, your gazes locking. For a split second, you both stayed still, the tension thick in the air, almost on the verge of a kiss.

But Ronin suddenly broke the moment with a playful smirk. "Darlin’... the movie," he reminded you, his voice teasing yet soft, his breath warm against your lips.

The screen lit up with the opening credits of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, you blinked at the title in disbelief. Of all the movies he could’ve picked, you had really thought Ronin might go for something romantic—some cliché sappy flick to match his occasional sweet words.

But no. Of course, he went with blood, gore, and chaos. Typical.

You glanced at him, squinting. “Really?” you asked, pointing at the screen.

He just smirked and shrugged, pulling the blanket tighter around the both of you and drawing you closer. “What? It’s a classic, darlin “Besides, you said it was fine, darlin’. No backing out now.”

You huffed, but your lips twitched into a small smile. “Fine,” you muttered, settling against him. “But if I get nightmares, it’s your fault.”

The movie started, and it didn’t take long for the blood and chaos to unfold. At the first particularly gruesome scene, you let out an involuntary scream, clutching onto Ronin like your life depended on it. His chest rumbled with laughter, his hand coming up to ruffle your hair.

“Aw, poor thing,” he teased, his tone dripping with amusement. “Didn’t know you were so delicate.”

You glared at him, but the next jump scare had you clinging to him again. He laughed even harder, his arm tightening around you. “This is gold,” he muttered, clearly enjoying himself.

The movie went on, though, the gore stopped bothering you as much. In fact, you started focusing more on the characters, your writer brain kicking into full gear.

“That guy’s an idiot,” you muttered, gesturing to the screen as one of the characters made a particularly stupid decision. “Like, who thinks splitting up in the middle of nowhere is a good idea? It’s like they want to get murdered.”

Ronin glanced at you, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh? And what would you have them do, genius?”

“They should’ve stayed together,” you said, your tone firm. “And they should’ve been armed. Like, why do they never carry weapons? It’s basic survival.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Listen to you, plotting their whole survival strategy. What are you gonna do next, darlin’? Rewrite the script?”

You shot him a mock glare. “I’m just saying, it’s frustrating when characters act so unrealistically. If I were writing this, they’d at least have some common sense.”

“Ah, there it is,” he said, his smirk widening. “That writer brain of yours. Can’t even watch a horror movie without tearing it apart. You’re adorable, you know that?”

Your cheeks warmed, and you tried to play it off with a shrug. “I just think it could be better, that’s all.”

“Sure, sure,” he teased, leaning in closer. “Keep telling yourself that. Meanwhile, you’re over here analyzing every character like you’re their therapist.”

You elbowed him lightly, but you couldn’t hide your smile. “And what’s wrong with that? It’s not my fault they’re poorly written.”

He laughed, his eyes glinting with amusement as he looked down at you. “You’re somethin’ else, darlin’. But don’t worry—if Leatherface shows up, I’ll protect you.”

“Gee, thanks,” you said dryly, though the warmth in your chest betrayed your sarcasm.

By the time the movie ended, you were leaning comfortably against him, your earlier fear replaced by a strange sense of contentment. Ronin reached for the remote and turned off the screen, glancing down at you with a smirk.

“So,” he said, “what’s the verdict? Was it romantic enough for you?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the smile from tugging at your lips. “Oh, absolutely,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Nothing says romance like chainsaws and gore.”

He chuckled, his fingers gently brushing against your shoulder. “Glad you liked it, sweetheart.

Ronin sifted through the stack of DVDs with one hand, the other still casually draped around your shoulders. You leaned against him, watching as he inspected each case. After the chaos of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, you were bracing yourself for another round of gore. When he stopped on Saw, your stomach sank.

“Nope. Absolutely not,” you said, your voice firm. “I can’t handle another movie where people are chopped up like deli meat.”

He turned to you, a devilish grin spreading across his face. “What’s wrong, darlin’? Too much for you?”

“Yes, too much for me,” you replied, crossing your arms. “Pick something comforting for once. Don’t you have, like, a favorite movie that isn’t about blood and guts?”

Ronin raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your insistence. He looked back at the DVDs, muttering under his breath. “Comforting, huh?”

After a moment, he let out a soft sigh and picked up a case with a nostalgic gleam in his eyes. “Maybe this,” he said, holding it up.

You blinked at the title. Heathers.

“Oh,” you said, sitting up straighter. “That’s... unexpected.”

“What?” he asked with a smirk. “Not enough blood and murder for you?”

“No, it’s just—” You paused, tilting your head. “Actually, never mind. Put it on."

He slid the disc into the player, and as the opening credits rolled, you found yourself stealing glances at him. Something about the way he looked at the screen, a little softer and more thoughtful than usual, made you curious.

The movie unfolded, and you couldn’t help but get sucked into the dark humor and iconic lines. But when J.D. appeared on screen, you couldn’t stop yourself from blurting out, “You know, J.D. kinda reminds me of you.”

Ronin froze mid-sip of his tea, slowly lowering the cup to glare at you. “Excuse me?”

You grinned, loving the reaction already. “I’m just saying! He’s all intense, mysterious, a little unhinged. Very ‘I-do-what-I-want’ vibes. Totally you.”

Ronin leaned back against the couch, giving you the most offended look you’d ever seen. “Darlin’,” he said, his voice dripping with mock disbelief. “Did you just compare me to that twink?”

You burst out laughing, unable to stop yourself. “Oh, come on, it’s not that bad! J.D. is, like, the ultimate bad boy. You should be flattered.”

He stared at you, his mouth slightly open, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Flattered?” he repeated. “He’s a whiny, melodramatic man-child who thinks he’s edgy because he wears a trench coat. You really think that’s me?”

“Well,” you teased, leaning in closer. “You both do have a flair for theatrics. And the whole brooding, dangerous vibe? Spot on.”

Ronin groaned, running a hand down his face. “I can’t believe this,” he muttered. “What the fuck did I fall in love with? An idiot?”

You giggled, clearly enjoying how much it got under his skin. “Admit it. You see the resemblance.”

“The only thing I see is that you have terrible taste in comparisons,” he shot back. “J.D.’s just... ugh. No. Not even close.”

“But,” you continued, ignoring his protests, “Heathers is a good movie, right? You have to admit, it’s got some great lines. Like, ‘Our love is God.’ Very Ronin-core.”

He shook his head, looking both amused and exasperated. “If you keep this up, I’m gonna start regretting letting you stay here tonight.”

You gasped dramatically, clutching your chest. “You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me,” he said, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him.

The movie went on, you both got caught up in the story, occasionally pausing to debate certain scenes. When the moment came where J.D. goes completely off the rails, you gave Ronin a pointed look.

“Okay, this part is very you,” you said, gesturing at the screen.

Ronin threw a pillow at you without hesitation. “You’re done. No more comparisons.”

You laughed, catching the pillow and hugging it to your chest. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop. But seriously, do you not see why people like this movie so much? It’s dark, it’s funny, it’s... weirdly relatable?”

He considered that for a moment, his expression softening slightly. “Yeah, I get it,” he admitted. “There’s something about the way it shows how messed up people can be, but still... human, y’know? Even the worst of ‘em.”

You smiled at his thoughtful response, feeling a little proud of him for looking past the surface. “Exactly. That’s why it’s so good. It’s not just about the chaos—it’s about what drives it.”

He nodded, leaning back against the couch again. “Still not J.D., though.”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” you said, holding up your hands in surrender. “You’re way cooler than J.D. Happy?”

“Much,” he said with a smirk.

The movie ended, and the two of you sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the credits rolling in the background. You turned to him, a small smile on your lips. “So,” you said softly. “What did you think?”

He shrugged, but there was a glint of appreciation in his eyes. “Not bad,” he admitted. “Still think you’re insane for comparing me to that guy, though.”

You laughed, nudging him playfully. “You’re just mad because I called him a twink.”

Ronin rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, yeah. Keep it up, and I’ll find a way to make you regret it.”

“Oh, I’m terrified,” you teased, leaning your head on his shoulder.

He didn’t respond, but his arm came up to wrap around you, pulling you a little closer. Despite the banter, the warmth between you was undeniable.

The credits rolled on Heathers, Ronin leaned back, his gaze lingering on the screen with an expression you didn’t see often—soft, almost nostalgic. His lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible smile as he exhaled deeply.

“This is my comfort movie,” he admitted, his voice quieter than usual. “Dunno why, but it’s... nice.”

You blinked in surprise, watching the way his eyes softened in the flickering light of the screen. It was rare to see him this unguarded. “Really? Heathers? I mean, I get it, but... I didn’t think you’d have a ‘comfort’ anything.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t make it weird, darlin’. Sometimes I just like somethin’ that reminds me... I dunno, that people are complicated. Flawed. And that’s okay.”

You smiled at his honesty, turning your attention back to the screen. The quiet moment between you felt strangely intimate, as if Heathers had peeled back a layer of his usual bravado to reveal something deeper.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him shifting slightly away from you. The change was subtle, but you felt the absence of his warmth immediately. You turned to him, concern knitting your brows.

“Ronin?” you asked softly. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” he said quickly, his tone light, though his eyes flickered with something else. “Just... remembered someone, is all.”

You tilted your head, studying him carefully. His shoulders were tense, his jaw tight in a way that told you it wasn’t “nothing” at all. Still, you didn’t press. Instead, you reached out, gently taking his hand in yours.

“If you need space, I can—”

“No,” he interrupted, his grip tightening around your hand. His eyes met yours, sharp yet vulnerable. “I’m fine. Stay.”

You nodded, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Okay.”

The moment hung in the air between you, thick with unspoken words, until he cleared his throat and stood up abruptly. “Right. Enough of that,” he said, his tone shifting back to his usual devil-may-care attitude. “Let’s do another movie.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “You mean another comfort movie?”

He smirked, heading toward his DVD stack. “Something like that.”

You watched as he sifted through the cases, his movements deliberate but slightly mischievous. He pulled out a DVD and held it up, the grin on his face widening.

Your stomach dropped. “No.”

“Yes,” he said, his tone dripping with mock enthusiasm as he displayed the case proudly.

“No,” you repeated, more emphatically this time, as you stared at the title.

Saw.

“Yup,” he said, popping the disc into the player. “Let’s get cozy, darlin’.”

“Ronin, I swear—”

But it was too late. The screen lit up with the ominous opening sequence, and you could already feel the dread pooling in your chest. You turned to him, your expression a mix of disbelief and exasperation.

“Comfort movie, my ass,” you muttered.

He plopped back down beside you, pulling the blanket around both of you with a satisfied smirk. “What can I say? There’s just somethin’ about a little creative problem-solving under pressure.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I hate you.”

“Sure you do,” he said, his voice low and amused.

The movie started, you couldn’t help but glance over at him. Despite your protests, you could see the way his eyes lit up at the screen, his smirk fading into an expression of genuine interest. It was maddening how much he enjoyed this stuff—but then again, it was also so him.

Saw unfolded on the screen, you quickly regretted every decision that led to this moment. The infamous reverse bear trap scene came up, Amanda crying and panicking as the countdown ticked mercilessly down. The sound effects, the tension, the gore—it all sent chills down your spine.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAA!” you screamed, clutching the blanket tightly against your chest as if it could shield you from the horror. “NOPE! NOPE! NOPE!”

Ronin, on the other hand, was the picture of calm, his sharp eyes locked on the screen with a faint smirk. “Classic,” he murmured under his breath, clearly unbothered by the grotesque imagery.

You couldn’t take it anymore. Another loud sound from the screen had you flinging yourself at him, burying your face into his chest. “RONIN, WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!” you shrieked, muffled against his shirt.

He didn’t even flinch. Instead, he raised an eyebrow and patted your back, trying—and failing—not to laugh. “Darlin’, it’s just a movie,” he said, amusement lacing his voice. “You’re actin’ like Jigsaw’s about to crawl outta the TV.”

“HE MIGHT!” you wailed, clinging to him like a lifeline. Your arms wrapped tightly around his torso, and you pressed your face deeper into his chest, refusing to look at the screen. “This is torture! Actual torture!”

“You’re so dramatic,” he teased, shaking his head. But despite his words, his hand rested on your back, rubbing small, reassuring circles.

Another scream from the movie made you jump so hard you nearly climbed into his lap. He burst out laughing, his chest vibrating under your cheek. “Oh, darlin’, you’re killin’ me,” he said between chuckles. “It’s just fake blood.”

“It looks real!” you snapped, finally peeking up at him. His amused expression only made your blood boil more. “Why are you so calm?! Do you have ice water in your veins?”

“Maybe,” he replied, his smirk widening. “Or maybe I’m just built different.”

You groaned, swatting at his chest. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re adorable,” he shot back, his voice softening just a fraction.

Your cheeks burned at the unexpected compliment, but before you could respond, another gory scene flashed on the screen. You let out an involuntary shriek, practically throwing yourself onto him this time. His laughter filled the room, loud and unapologetic.

“You’re squeezin’ me so tight, darlin’, I think I’m about to be your next victim,” he joked, though his arms instinctively wrapped around you, holding you close.

“Shut up!” you mumbled into his chest. “I hate this. I hate you. I hate—”

A particularly loud squelching sound interrupted you, and you let out another scream. At this point, you weren’t even sure if it was fear or frustration fueling your outbursts. All you knew was that you were glued to Ronin, and there was no way you were watching another second of this movie without him as your human shield.

The screen went black and the end credits of Saw rolled, you let out the loudest, most dramatic sigh of relief imaginable. "FINALLY! It's over!" you declared, throwing your hands up like you’d just survived a warzone.

It was then you realized you weren’t holding the plushie Ronin had thrown at you earlier. No, instead of the goose plushie or even his oddly named "Devil" plush, you were clutching onto him like your life depended on it. Your arms were tightly wound around his torso, and your head was nestled comfortably against his shoulder.

“Uh…” you blinked, processing the situation, then shot him a wide-eyed look.

Ronin tilted his head slightly, a teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Comfortable there, darlin’?" he asked, his tone dripping with amusement.

You practically launched yourself off him, retreating to your side of the makeshift movie-watching setup so fast you might as well have left a dust trail. "WH-WH-WHAT?! NO! I—UH—PLUSHIE! I THOUGHT—"

He threw his head back and laughed, his low, rich chuckle echoing through the room. “Oh, this is priceless,” he said between breaths, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. “You really ditched the plushie for me, huh?”

You sat there, clutching the goose plush to your chest now like it could erase the memory of your impromptu cuddle session. "I DIDN’T MEAN TO!" you blurted, your face burning with embarrassment. “It’s your fault for putting on such a terrifying movie!”

“Sure, sure,” he replied, clearly unconvinced. His teasing smile only grew as he leaned back against the pillows, watching your flustered reaction like it was the real entertainment. “You scream, you cry, and now you use me as a teddy bear. Guess I really am a jack-of-all-trades.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, glaring at him. But your glare had no bite, especially when your cheeks were still so red.

“Hey, I’m not complainin’,” he added with a shrug, his voice softer now. “Kinda cute, actually. You clingin’ to me like that.”

Your embarrassment doubled, and you buried your face in the plushie. "You’re the worst."

“And yet, here you are.” He chuckled again, clearly having way too much fun at your expense.

You peeked out from behind the plushie, narrowing your eyes at him. “Don’t think this means I like Saw now.”

“Didn’t expect you to,” he said with a grin. “But admit it, darlin’—watchin’ it with me made it… tolerable.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. “Maybe,” you admitted begrudgingly. “But next time, I’m picking the movie.”

Ronin smirked. “Deal. Just as long as it doesn’t put me to sleep.”

The movie droned on in the background, the slow, melodramatic music barely making a ripple in the heavy silence between you two. Ronin, lounging beside you, had shifted slightly, clearly bored, his hand resting on the blanket, his eyes flicking from the screen to you every few seconds.

You, on the other hand, were fighting to keep your eyes open, the events of the night catching up to you. It had been a long day of tension, teasing, and some undeniably embarrassing moments. You yawned quietly, doing your best to hide it behind your hand, but Ronin caught it anyway.

“You tired?” he asked, his voice a soft hum next to you.

You quickly shook your head, trying to feign alertness. "No, no, just—uh… stretching."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying your act, but didn't press. Instead, he grabbed the remote and clicked the pause button, halting the movie mid-scene.

“Thank you,” you breathed, dramatically throwing yourself back into the pillows, “This is a blessing.”

Ronin’s lips twitched into an amused grin. “You really don’t like this movie, do you?”

You shook your head, pulling the blanket tighter around you. “Not really. It’s so… dumb.”

He blinked in surprise. “Dumb? What’s so dumb about it?”

You scoffed, sitting up slightly as you explained, “The man’s literally tearing himself apart because he’s stuck in the past. He can't say ‘I love you’ to this person because of some memories with his first love. And the other person is making him choose between them or his past. It’s just… dumb.”

Ronin’s head tilted slightly, the usual cocky edge to his expression faltering for a moment. “You’re saying it’s dumb because of the past?”

You nodded, feeling strangely passionate about it. “Yeah. It’s like… why should someone have to pick between their past and their future? Memories are a part of who you are. If it’s comforting to him, if his first love gave him something—then that’s just a part of him. The second person, they’re asking him to forget all that, and that’s not fair. No one can erase their past, no matter how perfect the present is. The past shapes people, it’s not something you can just toss away.”

You paused, then added softly, “It’s not about forgetting someone or something… it’s just about making space for the new things, too. You can still carry those memories with you, even if you move on.”

Ronin stared at you for a long moment, his gaze searching, intense as always. Then, slowly, he let out a low sigh and shifted in his seat, bringing his knees up and crossing his arms. “And what would you do in a situation like that?”

Your heart skipped, his question suddenly feeling a little too real. You looked at him for a beat, chewing on your lip. “I’d comfort the guy,” you said, your voice soft but sure. “I’d tell him, it’s okay. That it's okay to have those memories. Because they made him who he is. I’d be glad he trusted me enough to share them, to open up about his first love. It’s a huge thing to let someone into those spaces of your heart.”

You shrugged, offering a small smile. “And, I guess… I’d be happy knowing that I have a place in his heart, too. Even if it’s not all of it.”

Ronin’s eyes narrowed a fraction, his mouth turning into a small, thoughtful frown. You couldn’t quite tell if it was just your words or something else that had made his expression shift.

He stared at the screen for a long moment before looking back at you. His voice was quieter now, almost contemplative. “You’d really feel that way? You wouldn’t feel… second best?”

You shrugged again, a faint chuckle escaping you. “Nope. Not at all. Because it’s not about being ‘first’ or ‘second.’ It’s about being there for the person. If they let you in, even just a little, that’s enough.”

Ronin’s eyes softened ever so slightly. You didn’t miss the shift in his demeanor, the way his posture relaxed. It felt like, for a brief moment, something between you two had clicked. You were both sitting on the floor, surrounded by pillows and blankets, a cozy little cocoon, yet it felt like the world had just gotten a little bit bigger—more open.

“Well,” he said, his voice warm but with a touch of amusement returning to his tone.

You raised an eyebrow, unsure if you should feel more curious or confused. “What do you mean?”

Ronin’s eyes flicked over to you, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, after a brief, tense silence, he shrugged. “Maybe,” he said quietly. “Maybe.”

You leaned back against the pillows, letting the quiet fill the space. The movie was still paused on the screen, the sappy romantic scene playing out in the background, but it hardly mattered anymore. The tension that had once been in the air had softened, replaced by something warmer, more genuine.

The silence between you and Ronin stretched, the weight of the unspoken words thick in the air. You could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing next to you, his presence so palpable it was like a shield. The movie played on in the background, its plot long forgotten, but neither of you seemed to care anymore.

The blanket cocooned you both, the warmth and closeness making it feel like a world of your own. You turned to look at him, the moment heavy with unspoken thoughts.

"What's wrong?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ronin didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a soft, unexpected kiss. It was a surprise, one that made your heart skip a beat, but you didn’t hesitate. You kissed him back, the connection between you both deepening with each passing second. The kiss wasn’t rushed; it was gentle, a silent affirmation of everything that had been said and unsaid between you two.

The movie continued to run, but neither of you were paying attention. The only thing that mattered was the shared comfort of the blanket, the warmth of Ronin’s arms around you, and the way the kiss felt like something unspoken yet understood.

Ronin pulled back slightly, his expression unreadable, but his eyes softened. "Thank you," he murmured, barely loud enough for you to hear. It was a small, simple sentence, but the way it made your chest tighten told you just how much it meant.

Before you could respond, Ronin kissed you again, his lips brushing yours in a way that said more than words ever could. He didn’t give you the chance to ask why, didn’t give you the space to pull away or question anything. He just held you close, his presence quiet but powerful, and his kisses wrapped around you like a promise.

You leaned into him, your heart pounding in your chest, but for some reason, there was no need to talk. You just let yourself melt into him, and as his head settled on yours, your own resting on his neck, you felt a sense of peace that you hadn’t realized you’d been craving.

Your eyelids fluttered, heavy with sleep, and before you knew it, your yawn escaped, followed by a soft mumble. Ronin didn’t say anything, just held you close as the warmth of his embrace lulled you into sleep.

You drifted off, you felt the movie still running, but it faded into the background as Ronin gently closed the TV. He kissed your forehead with a tenderness that made your heart ache in the most comforting way.

“Goodnight, darlin’,” he whispered softly, his voice a balm to your tired soul.

Before you could respond, you felt yourself being lifted. You blinked sleepily, your mind too foggy to fully comprehend what was happening. “Is it okay if I sleep with you?” you asked, your voice drowsy and uncertain.

Ronin’s smile was soft, almost fond, as he nodded. “Yes, of course,” he replied, his voice so gentle it made your heart swell.

You barely had the energy to process his words as he carried you to bed, your head resting against his chest, your limbs draped around him in a tangle of sleepy comfort. You mumbled something incoherent in your haze of exhaustion, your voice trailing off as you finally succumbed to the sleep that had been creeping up on you all night.

“Ronin,” you mumbled again, this time with more clarity, “I love you.”

Ronin paused for a brief moment, his gaze softening as he looked down at you. Then, in a low, quiet voice, he whispered back in Cantonese, “I love you.”

He kissed your forehead with a tenderness that made your heart flutter, and then, without another word, he pulled you closer, holding you securely as he cuddled you to sleep.

Ronin held you close, his arms tight around you as you nestled against his chest, the night filling with a comfortable silence. His fingers lightly traced patterns on your back, but then his voice broke the quiet, low and steady, a tone that held so many unspoken emotions. His Cantonese words flowed softly, almost as if he was speaking to himself.

"你知道嗎？我從來沒有想過會有人出現在我這種腐朽的生活中。" (Nei zi dou maa? Ngoh chung loi meiyou seung gwo wui yahn chut joi ngo jeung chong fu gau dik sang wut jung.)

You looked up at him, trying to focus on what he was saying, his eyes soft but distant. He continued, the words coming out more slowly, as if they were something he had been holding back for a long time.

"你就像一個腐爛的聖人，從來沒有人能看見我，直到你出現了。你，存在於這裡，像是我生命中的一線光芒，讓我明白還有別的可能，還有希望。” (Nei jauh cheung yat go fu laan dik sing yan, chong loi mei yauh yahn nang hon gin ngo, jik dou nei chut yin la. Nei, chyun joi yu jeui lei, cheung si ngo sang ming jung dik yat sin gwong mong, yeung ngo ming baak waan yauh bit dik hoh ning, waan yauh hei mong.)

He sighed deeply, resting his chin atop your head. His voice was softer now, the weight of his words almost breaking through the stone walls he had built around himself.

"多謝你存在，謝謝你出現在我的生命裡，讓我明白一切都還不算太遲。" (Do jeh nei chyun joi, jeh jeh nei chut yin joi ngo dik sang ming leui, yeung ngo ming baak yat chai dou waan bat syun taai chi.)

You felt a slight tension in his body, as if he was waiting for something, but it wasn’t about you needing to say anything. He was giving you a part of himself he rarely shared, in the rawest form he knew how to.

"你知唔知…我愛你？" (Nei zi m zi... ngoh oi nei?)

His voice was hushed, a whisper against the stillness. Even though you didn’t fully understand the depth of everything he was saying, the emotion in his voice was clear. You felt it resonate deep inside you.

"謝謝你存在在這裡，謝謝你愛我…" (Je jeh nei chyun joi joi jeui lei, je jeh nei oi ngo...)

He pulled you closer, his arms tightening around you like he wanted to never let go. The words flowed from him without hesitation now, the raw honesty of it making your heart ache.

"你讓我覺得，這個世界不再那麼腐爛。我一度以為自己只是一個壞人，但遇見你之後，才知道也許我還有資格去愛。" (Nei yeung ngo gok dak, je go sai gaai bat joi naam mo fu laan. Ngoh yat dou yi wai ji gei chi sik yat go waai yan, daan yu gin nei ji hau, coi ji dou ya heui ngo waan yauh ji gaak heoi oi.)

He closed his eyes, as though the confession was not just for you, but for himself. A deep breath escaped his lips, and his voice was barely above a murmur when he added, "我愛你，謝謝你讓我感覺到一點溫暖..." (Ngoh oi nei, je jeh nei yeung ngo gam gok dou yat dim wan neung...)

"You know? I never thought someone would come into my rotten life like this."

"You’re like a rotten saint, no one ever saw me until you appeared. You, existing here, are like a ray of light in my life, making me realize that there are still other possibilities, still hope."

"Thank you for existing, thank you for appearing in my life, making me realize that not everything is too late."

"Do you know... I love you?"

"Thank you for existing here, thank you for loving me..."

"You make me feel like the world isn't so rotten anymore. I once thought I was just a bad person, but after meeting you, I realized that maybe I still have the right to love."

"I love you, thank you for making me feel a little warmth..."

#killer chat #killer chat ronin #ronin beaufort #killer chat vn #killer chat x reader #ronin killer chat #killer chat ronin x reader #ronin beaufort x reader #ronin x reader #kc ronin #kc!#killer chat v #ronin

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roninroaming · 2 days ago

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thanks for the gift darlin

#killer chat ronin #killer chat #fanart #i need him

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cloudss-space · 2 days ago

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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.

#killer chat #fanfic #fic #x reader #gender neutral reader #killer chat ronin #ronin beaufort #angst #ronin

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cakewritez · 1 day ago

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❥ Words for Tortured Souls ᥫ᭡

// JUST AS LONG AS WE'RE TOGETHER.. //

Summary: You had a long and tiring day, you weren't chatting in the server due to pressure. A certain someone takes notice.

An: MAANNNN I feel sorry for all my oomfs hopefully this chaos subsides ☹️ especially N and Ellie I hope y'all are alright :(

I hope this brings at least a little smidge of comfort for anyone reading this (ू˃̣̣̣̣̣̣︿˂̣̣̣̣̣̣ ू)

You sighed, head in your hands while your elbows rested on your desk. Your leg jittered as you shook your leg out of anxiety and stress.

You looked at the wall, tears briming in your eyes. God, why did you have to cry when your frustrated?

Hands jitter and shake like clockwork, you're used to this. You have been for some time now, why is it getting worse?

Unsavory salty liquid falls down your cheeks, mentally cursing yourself for even having the opportunity to cry. Your supposed to be writing, instead here you are. Crying, instead of doing something productive.

He snickered, straight to voicemail huh? Ronin grinned out of frustration, he knew you wouldn't ignore him. Sometimes was, wrong. You wouldn't behave like this.

People just, take the fun away out of certain things, you of all people should understand that, right? So why, why does it still sting and hurt and feel so.. foreign and uncomfortable? Decaying, like rot consuming you whole.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Ronin arrived at your apartment, he observed the little nooks and crannys of your front door, intrigued by the little details. He pounded on your door with brisk intervals, waiting for that moment.

That moment when he would see his writer darling again.

You covered your eyes and ears, grumbling at the sound of pounding on the door. You already knew who it was, why bother and opening a door for someone who can break it down? Ah, doors are expensive. Nevermind.

A dull ache washes over your body, perhaps this is the stress catching up. Trudging over to the living room you open the door.

Black eyes greet you, a sick smile on his face as bits of hair flow in the wind.

“What's got you looking so down? Y’know..”

Ronin steps in the doorway, he grabs your cheeks between his fingers. He applies a bit of pressure, just enough for it to sting slightly and focus on him completely.

“I'm here for you, yeah? I'm the one who's supposed to fuck you up, not anyone else.”

Tear stains decorate your face tragically, he doesn't stare through you; he stares at you.

Your arms reach for a hug, he pulls you in close. Moving his hand from your face to your lower back. He rubs comforting circles, somehow making the pain subside even for just a moment.

You two are just hugging in the doorway, but it feels like so, so much more.

𝑯𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒂𝒔 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑯𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕.

𝑺𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒍𝒔 𝑪𝒂𝒌𝒆.

#killer chat #killer chat drabble #killer chat ronin #ronin x reader

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theatrepuppet · 3 months ago

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killer chat headers. credit and rb if using

#💛:edit #eyestrain #killerchat #killer chat #headers #killer chat misaki #killer chat angel #killer chat v #killer chat ronin #killer chat vn #wallpapers #<- sure why not

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sincerelyyourslilly · 1 month ago

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It's what you've always wanted, isn't it?

a continuation of the 'bad ending', if you will

#killer chat #killer chat ronin #visual novel #otome game #yandere #fanart #indie game

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umber1880 · 1 month ago

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Some Killer Chat! fanart I did a little while back. I just finished posting this to a couple other sites so just pretend I put a very witty and original caption here

#killer chat #killer chat ronin #my art

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elysiaheaven · 4 months ago

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"Pure Insatiablity"-[𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓-𝟏] 𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐍 𝐗 𝐆.𝐍 (Yandere) 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 (𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐓)

Words:6078

Genre: Yandere

Summary: It’s been almost eight months now, hasn’t it? Eight months of being wrapped in this obsession, this love that’s taken root so deep inside you. Eight months of loving him—so much it hurts, so much it feels like you're suffocating under the weight of it.

And when you stare at the screen, when you think about that character—the one your fans can’t get enough of—what you really see is him. Your love. Your darling. The one you’d do anything for.

( Reader is a g.n!)

TW: Obsessive behaviour, Lovesick, Blood, Violence, Crazy! Your daily dose of cringe! (He's crazy ><), (Reader is obsessive in love with him) Mentions of disturbing poetic lines?

EXTRA: He's a character from a game named Killer chat! Please play it! It's so good! I think I need to do more research on him, If what I wrote doesn't really scream him! I'm sorry! I'm still learning abt him! I KNOW IT'S BAD I'M SORRYY!!

I think you’re getting a little too in love...

C'mon! Tell me what you want. Do you hate me? Do you love me? Are you going to kill me? I've got a knife right here. Or are you kissing me, darling? How much do you feel?

Oh, you're so pretty when you're rotten and mine. I think you're divine.

Oh, Writer… How’s your relationship with the infamous butcher?

"Bad," you whisper under your breath, eyes glued to the blank page in front of you. The clock ticks, the hours pass, and nothing. Not a single word for days. And it stings, doesn’t it? Because your book—it’s your baby, your obsession—your masterpiece. It was an instant hit, loved, adored, and devoured by everyone who touched it. Fans left comments, raving about how perfect it was. Especially… him.

The e-emo killer. Your devil, wrapped in leather and shadows, blood-stained hands that still look so gentle. They called him cruel, twisted—yet oh, how they love him. Adored him. Fawned over him. The simps flooded your inbox, begging for more of him. That beautiful, wicked boy who haunted their dreams.

And let’s be honest—you love him too, don’t you?

After all, isn’t he just a reflection of someone else? Someone you know all too well?

Didn’t you mold the character from your darling’s essence? That man you can’t stop thinking about, the one who holds your heart in one hand and your throat in the other? The one you’d bleed for, die for—kill for?

Ah… you’re getting a little lovesick, aren’t you?

It’s been almost eight months now, hasn’t it? Eight months of being wrapped in this obsession, this love that’s taken root so deep inside you. Eight months of loving him—so much it hurts, so much it feels like you're suffocating under the weight of it.

And when you stare at the screen, when you think about that character—the one your fans can’t get enough of—what you really see is him. Your love. Your darling. The one you’d do anything for.

Isn’t that the truth? Isn’t that why your heart races, your fingers tremble when you write about the killer’s knife, the way it gleams in the dark? Because you imagine him—your love—doing the same to you, don’t you?

After all, isn't that why you can’t look away, can’t stop thinking, can’t breathe without feeling like you need him more than air?

Ah, calm yourself, love.

Eight months in, and look at you…

You want him. God, you want him so much it hurts. It’s like a sickness, spreading through your veins, consuming every inch of your soul. It’s the kind of need that claws at your heart, gnaws at your bones, turns your very breath into poison if he’s not near.

How did it get this bad? How did it go from quiet glances to full-blown obsession?

It started small, didn’t it? Little things—his voice in your ear, the calls, the games, the way his fingers brushed against your skin. The way he’d laugh, low and dark, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to you. He’s always known, hasn’t he? How to bend you, break you, make you his.

But it’s more than that now. It’s an ache, deep in your chest, that never goes away. You crave him. You crave the way he looks at you like he sees every part of you—every ugly, twisted piece of your soul—and he loves it. You crave the way he owns you, how his presence alone makes you tremble, how just the thought of him drives you mad.

You can’t stop thinking about him. He’s there in every corner of your mind, lingering, waiting, watching. And you want him to watch. You want him to see every broken, desperate part of you. You want to lay yourself bare before him, beg for his touch, for his gaze, for his breath on your skin.

It’s pathetic, isn’t it? But oh, you’d fall to your knees for him. You’d give him everything. You already have.

You think about him late at night, when the world is quiet, and all you can hear is the sound of your own heart pounding, heavy and relentless. You imagine him with you, his hands on your neck, his lips hovering just inches from yours. You’d let him take you apart, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but his name carved into your bones, his scent burned into your skin.

You want him like fire. Like a storm. You want him with the kind of madness that doesn’t make sense, that drowns you, suffocates you in its wake. Every breath you take without him feels empty, incomplete.

He’s in your blood now, a part of you, and nothing will ever be enough. No touch, no kiss, no word will ever fill that void.

And the worst part? You love it. You love this sickness, this hunger, this desperate, gnawing ache. Because it’s him. Because it’s all for him.

He could ruin you, break you, destroy everything you are, and you’d thank him for it.

Isn’t that what you want? To be his? To be consumed by him, devoured until there’s nothing left of you but the pieces he chooses to keep?

It’s almost poetic, isn’t it? This love, this madness, this obsession. You, the writer, trying to put words to something that can’t be explained. Trying to capture this wild, violent need that swells inside you every time you think of him.

But how can you? How do you describe something so raw, so feral? How do you put into words the way your heart skips a beat every time you hear his name? The way your entire world tilts on its axis when he’s near?

You want him. Need him. More than you’ve ever needed anything in your life.

And you wonder… Does he know? Does he know how deep this goes? Does he understand that you’d do anything—everything—for him?

You think he does. You think he knows exactly how far you’ve fallen. And that’s what makes it so beautiful.

Because you’re not afraid of falling.

You understood him so much! Yet, you still...wanted him..?

The thing about Ronin is that his love is a poison wrapped in sugar, sweet to taste but deadly beneath the surface. He treats the same, as if they’re fragile toys in his hands, waiting to be bent, broken, and reshaped into something more. They’re not people to him—they’re puzzles to solve, games to play, and he plays them masterfully. Not out of cruelty, though. No, Ronin’s twisted mind justifies it as something deeper, something almost… noble.

He believes, with every fiber of his being, that he’s doing what’s best for them. That through the trials, the manipulation, the pain, they’ll emerge better—stronger. In his distorted way of thinking, he’s saving them, guiding them through the fire so they can burn away their weaknesses and be reborn into something new, something better. It’s not just a game to him—it’s a transformation. A test of endurance, of strength, of who they really are underneath it all.

This is how he shows his love. Not with tenderness, but with torment. He pulls at the strings of their souls, slowly unraveling them, watching them fall apart, believing—hoping—that by the time he’s done, they’ll thank him for it. That they’ll see what he sees: a person made whole again, remade into something that can survive in his world.

he’s doing the same with you, thinking that they’ll understand in the end, that this suffering is love in its purest form. To Ronin, it's not just affection—it's salvation.

It’s not enough for him to possess them; he has to break them. Only then can he feel secure in his love, believing they’re exactly who they’re supposed to be. That’s the only way he knows how to love. By tearing them down, by forcing them through the darkness… he thinks he’s giving them a gift.

A gift wrapped in shadows.

It’s been six days.

Six agonizing days without him. No messages, no calls, not even a single “Hey.” He’s not replying. He’s not talking. He’s … online tho. Why? Why is he doing this to you? You want to see him, you need to hear his voice again, but there’s nothing. The silence is eating at you, clawing at your insides, making your mind spiral.

Control it. Control yourself, you keep telling yourself. They don’t need to see it. They don’t need to know how much this is wrecking you. But it’s getting harder to hide. Everyone’s worried. Even they’ve started to notice how quiet you’ve become. How different you are without him.

Except for Ronin. He doesn’t care. He never does. In fact, with that stupid ego of his, he’s been trying to make you jealous these past few days. And you can feel it—every little jab, every smug comment—it’s uncanny how well he knows how to hit your nerves. But no matter how much Ronin gets under your skin, it’s not him you care about.

It’s him.

And it’s not just Ronin. V and Angel have been suggesting things, too. Methods to… fix things. One of them even had the audacity to suggest separating from him. A clean break. “Maybe it’s for the best,” they said, as if they understood. As if they could possibly know how much you need him.

But you hate the idea. You despise it. The thought of being separated from him—it’s like a knife twisting in your gut. You thought he wouldn’t want that either. He wouldn’t, right?

But to your shock—right there, in the middle of the voice chat, without any hesitation, he said it.

“Yeah, I can stay away for six weeks. That’s fine.”

Six weeks. You could barely process it. Your heart stopped. The number felt like it was mocking you, taunting you. Of all numbers, six? It was so… him. The devil’s number, the one he always played with. You almost smiled, almost thought it was cute—almost. But there was nothing cute about this. No, this was pure torture.

How could he say that so casually? Like it didn’t even matter. Like he wasn’t tearing you apart inside.

Because you need him. You really need him. And you thought—no, you were certain—he needed you too.

But here he is, agreeing to stay away. Six long, suffocating weeks without him. How are you supposed to survive that? How are you supposed to breathe, to think, to function without him? He’s your everything, your entire world, and now he’s just… gone?

You hate it. You hate every second of it. Every second without him feels like a lifetime, a slow, agonizing descent into madness. And you can’t help but wonder—what if he doesn’t miss you like you miss him? What if this is easier for him than it is for you?

But no—no. You know he feels the same way. You have to believe that. He’s just playing his part, the devilish role he always slips into so easily. After all, isn’t that what he is? Just a stupid guy who roleplays as the devil. That’s all, right?

But then why does it hurt so much? Why do you feel like you’re unraveling, coming apart at the seams without him?

And without him, you feel like you’re losing a part of yourself.

Six days. Six weeks. Six months. It doesn’t matter. Time feels meaningless when he’s not around, when you can’t feel him, can’t hear him, can’t touch him.

You miss him.

To help you cope, the entire server of serial killers—now your closest group of buddies—created a separate group chat. One without Ronin. It was for your own good, they said. To keep you distracted, keep you sane, while you waited for him.

Angel didn’t want to include Luca or Feli, though. You knew why. They’d just gotten into a relationship, and seeing them happy together might upset you even more. The jealousy would gnaw at you, and Angel, despite her sharp edges, was too considerate to do that to you.

So now it’s just you, Angel, Misaki, and V—the four besties. Well, they’re worried, no doubt about that. You can feel it in every message, every forced joke. Everyone’s trying to keep things light, but the concern bleeds through.

Just like Vince said… it’s destructive and toxic, right? This obsession you have with Ronin. But then again, Feli said it best—it’s not just toxic. It’s all three. Passionate, chill, horrific—a twisted cocktail of emotions that you can’t escape from. It’s suffocating, it’s addictive, and you know it.

But it’s so you, isn’t it?

Angel—the elegant femme fatale.... Some even say she’s a cannibal just for fun, and she plays along. She’s the type that captivates hearts effortlessly, pulls you in with a glance. If you were with her, maybe you could’ve seen the light, stepped away from this madness. Maybe you’d be happier, calmer… safe.

But no. Your heart is too far gone. Your ideals have shifted, haven’t they? Now you’re lost in the darkness, enthralled by your own version of the seven deadly sins.

Misaki, the cute, chaotic mess. The drunken assassin for hire, always too hyper for her own good. She kills with a smile, pays her rent with blood money, and somehow makes it seem so… effortless. But beneath all that bubbly energy, you know she’s just trying to survive, like the rest of you.

Then there’s V. Rigid. Just. Moral, in his own twisted way. The boomerang uncle who believes in his heart that his justice comes through killing. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t flinch, and somehow, that moral code of his feels strangely comforting. Like if you were ever to lose yourself completely, he’d be there to rein you back in. Or at least try to.

They’re all on the call now—talking, laughing, trying to pull you into the conversation. But you’re not really there. Your heart isn’t. You nod, give half-hearted replies, but all you can think about is him.

You just want Ronin. Already.

Their voices blur together in the background, but your mind keeps drifting back to him. That silence. Six days. Six weeks. Whatever. It’s driving you insane. You need him, need his voice, his presence. No matter what distractions they throw at you, nothing fills that void he left behind.

You sigh deeply, staring at the screen. They don’t understand. They can’t.

Everyone is talking at once, their voices flooding the call, trying to drown out the quiet chaos in your mind. Misaki’s high-pitched laughter cuts through the noise first, followed by V’s calm, grounding voice, and then Angel’s teasing but kind remarks, all woven together in an attempt to cheer you up.

V, always trying to keep things steady, eventually turns the conversation towards your writing. “How’s that new book coming along?” he asks, the one he’d helped inspire, no less. “The story about that ‘good man who kills for justice.’ I thought you had a pretty solid start.”

You blink, snapping back to reality. The new book. Right. The one with the protagonist who’s supposed to be a "good man" who kills for justice, fighting against corruption with a moral code as rigid as V’s. You want to write it, you really do. But every time you sit down to start... your thoughts drift. To him.

But you can’t help it—your mind wanders back to Ronin. The story might be about someone else, a character of pure moral code, someone who kills for justice like V had imagined. But all you see, all you feel as you try to write, is him. Ronin, with his smirk, his chaotic energy, how he gets under your skin and stays there. He’s nothing like the character in your new book, and yet, he’s the only thing you can think about.

He’s your muse, your obsession—your devil incarnate. And you almost laugh at the thought. Isn’t that just who Ronin is? A creator of chaos, a devil in your head, inspiring you even when he doesn’t mean to. A part of you is frustrated—he doesn’t even fit this new story, but somehow, he’s taken over anyway.

But you sigh, leaning back in your chair. "I... I just don’t feel inspired right now." You don’t want to admit it, but everything you want to write seems to tie back to Ronin, no matter how hard you try to focus on something else. He’s in everything you do, like an ever-present shadow.

Angel’s voice cuts through. "Of course, you’re not inspired. You’re too clingy right now, and it’s all because of him. You’ve gotta let it go for a bit; otherwise, it’ll just boost Ronin’s ego, and you know he lives for that."

You can’t help but chuckle weakly at that. She’s right—Ronin would love knowing he’s got you wrapped around his little finger, knowing you’re craving his attention this much. But you don’t care. You want to be wrapped up in him, and the thought doesn’t bother you one bit. Still, you don’t say that out loud. You don’t want to admit to everyone how deep your feelings run for him.

Instead, you steer the conversation somewhere else, tossing around random comments and joking with them. Misaki pipes up, practically bouncing in her seat as she talks about her latest commission. “So, get this—I nailed the shot perfectly. One kill, clean. And with that, rent’s paid for this month!” She laughs, but you can hear the relief in her voice.

You can’t help but tease her. “Next month’s going to come around quicker than you think, though,” you say, raising an eyebrow.

She whines dramatically, clutching her head. “Noooo! Don’t remind me! I’ll need another commission soon or I’m doomed!” Her pout is cute, and you laugh despite yourself. Misaki’s a mess, but she’s your mess (friend!).

Angel snorts. “I feel that. Work’s been tight, but I’m okay for now. Barely.”

Then there’s V,. “I’ve been busy taking care of my birds lately. They’re a handful,” he says, the warmth in his voice clear. He pauses for a moment before adding, “Still... I respect you. Always have. You’ve got this pure heart. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Ronin mess that up for you. Him trying to make you feel like this—it pisses me off.”

You smile at that, appreciating his words. But deep down, you can’t help but think, Pure? Is that really what you are anymore? After everything with Ronin, after letting yourself fall so deep into this twisted, all-consuming love, are you still that pure-hearted person V thinks you are?

Because honestly... haven’t you already started slipping? Saving parts of yourself just for Ronin?

Angel’s voice breaks through the light banter, her usual teasing tone softened with concern. “I’m worried about you,” she says, her words pointed, cutting through the surface-level chat. “This thing with Ronin… it’s not good for you.”

You don’t respond, just sit there silently, staring at the screen, your mind lost somewhere far from the conversation. V, ever the protective one, comes to your defense as usual. “Come on, Angel. They wouldn’t hurt a fly,” he says with a sigh, glancing at you. “Right?”

You don’t say anything, and V’s expression darkens just slightly. The silence weighs heavier than your words could. “Look,” V adds, more serious now. “If you ever killed anyone for Ronin, if you ever did it for some guilty pleasure, it’d be your first and last. Because I would kill you myself.” His voice is firm but caring, like a friend! trying to protect you from something you might not even see coming.

You snap out of your daze for a moment, glancing at V. “I just won’t let you,” you reply quietly, a ghost of a smile playing on your lips. There’s a defiance in your voice, but it’s laced with that lovesick longing. You’d do anything for Ronin. And V knows it.

Misaki, sensing the tension, tries to shift the conversation. “So! Uh, anyway, I’ve been thinking about getting a new place, but the rent’s—”

You cut her off, your mind too focused, too fixated on one thing. “What’s Ronin doing?”

Angel sighs heavily, her frustration barely hidden now. “He’s fine.”

But it’s V who answers. “He’s fine without you,” he says bluntly, though there’s a softness in his tone like he’s trying to prepare you for a blow. You flinch inwardly, but you manage to keep your face blank, pretending it doesn’t cut as deep as it does.

You sit there, frozen, but V doesn’t stop. “He’s… happy. I think he’s gone off to kill someone again.” His voice is cold, almost detached, like he’s telling you a fact that doesn’t matter. “Maybe you’re the only one who’s serious and clingy in this relationship.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and you can feel your heart breaking, shattering into tiny, irreparable pieces. But you force a smile, the kind that barely reaches your eyes. “It’s fine,” you say, your voice trembling just a little. “It’s perfect. He’s perfect the way he is.”

But your eyes betray you. They’re wide, filled with that twisted, lovesick devotion, like you’re drowning in your feelings and don’t even care. In your head, all you can think about is sinking deeper into Ronin’s world, letting him consume you completely, until there’s nothing left of who you used to be. You want it. You want him. You want to lose yourself in him, no matter how much it destroys you.

You sit there after the call, the silence enveloping you, but your thoughts still swirling around Ronin like a storm you can't escape. You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you open your laptop, telling yourself you’ll work on your book, like they told you. But your fingers hover over the keys, your mind already somewhere else.

“I just feel… fuzzy about him,” you had told Angel earlier, trying to explain this maddening, obsessive feeling in the pit of your stomach. But she’d only laughed, though not unkindly.

“Even I wasn’t this bad,” she’d said, smirking like she was trying to make light of it. “Maybe your love is just too strong.” Her attempt to cheer you up had actually worked, even if just a little. You had smiled, a tiny flicker of warmth in your chest.

“Cheer up,” she’d added. “And get back to your story."

“Yeah,” you had murmured, not really listening, already thinking about Ronin. Already missing him.

Now, sitting alone with your laptop open, you try to follow her advice. You start typing, the title of your story staring back at you, but… it’s not the story you’re supposed to be writing, is it?

You start typing, but the words don’t match the character V had wanted—the noble killer with a rigid moral code. No, the character that comes alive under your fingers is someone else entirely.

He’s dark, dangerous, with a wicked grin that sends shivers down your spine. His eyes are sharp, burning with mischief, and his laugh… God, his laugh. It’s him. It’s Ronin. You can’t stop yourself from writing him into the story, from turning him into the devilish figure you can’t tear your eyes away from.

And you? You slip into the story, too. Not as a secondary character. Not as an observer. No. You’re his love interest. The one who falls into his arms, who sinks into his darkness willingly. You let him consume you, wrap you up in his world of danger and chaos because you crave it. You crave him.

You don’t even realize what you’re doing at first. The words just flow out of you, like a love letter disguised as a story. A love note for Ronin. Each sentence is a confession, each scene a reflection of how deeply he’s burrowed into your mind, into your heart. It’s raw, it’s messy, it’s everything you feel but can’t say out loud.

You type and type, not caring that you’ve completely derailed from the plot you were supposed to follow. The good man who kills for justice? He doesn’t exist in your world right now. There’s only Ronin. The devil. The one who owns every corner of your heart, no matter how much he tries to push you away.

Hours pass, and by the time you stop typing, you realize you’ve written pages—an entire chapter, maybe more. But it’s not the story you were meant to write. It’s yours. It’s your obsession, your madness, poured out into words.

You sit back and stare at the screen, feeling both exhilarated and exhausted. You know you should be working on your real book, but part of you can’t help but smile at what you’ve created. It’s a mess, but it’s yours.

Angel sighed, pushing her hair back as she leaned over her phone, eyes narrowing. "V, why didn’t you tell them about how Ronin’s been acting? He’s not even talking to me, and you're just… brushing it off?"

V, sitting , didn’t answer right away. Instead, he smiled—actually smiled—something he rarely did, the corner of his lips curling in amusement. "I wanted to see how they were," he said with a shrug, his voice calm. "And you know what? They’re fine. I’ve been keeping an eye."

Angel didn’t seem convinced. She crossed her arms, a frown pulling at her features. "I’m worried, V. I mean… did you see them? They seemed slightly crazy—like, lovesick, obsessed. I’m telling you, I'm worried about them, I don't know...Suddenly I don't want to become whatever the hell we are."

V’s smile faded slightly, but his expression remained soft. "They’re not that type, Angel. You know them. Yeah, they’re obsessed with Ronin, but they haven’t done anything reckless yet." His tone grew more serious, though. "Ronin hasn’t corrupted them… at least, not completely."

Angel chewed her lip, her fingers fidgeting over her phone before she made a decision. "I’m just gonna text him, just to make sure he’s there," she muttered, quickly typing out a message to Ronin.

Moments passed before her phone buzzed, and Ronin’s reply popped up: Devil’s here!

She sighed in mild relief, rolling her eyes at his theatrics. "Of course… that’s typical Ronin."

But before she could relax, V picked up , sending a message to Ronin with a more pointed tone. "I’m not as patient as Angel," he said as he typed. "If you don’t start talking, there’s going to be consequences." He hit send, leaning back, expecting some sarcastic response.

A few seconds later, his phone buzzed with the exact same reply: Devil’s here!

V blinked, his brow furrowing as he stared at the screen. Angel glanced over, her own phone vibrating with a second, identical message from Ronin. "Wait…" she muttered, frowning. "Isn’t that…?"

Misaki, who’d been quietly sipping a drink, glanced at her phone too and snickered. "Guys, that’s his automated reply prank! He’s done this before!"

For a brief moment, the group shared a collective groan and laughed it off, realizing they’d all fallen for one of Ronin’s infamous tricks. He had a habit of setting up automated responses, just to mess with them.

But then the laughter died down as the realization settled in.

Angel glanced at her phone again. "Wait… if it’s just an auto-reply…" Her voice trailed off as her stomach dropped.

Misaki, the first to speak, sounded nervous now. "Uh, so, where’s Ronin?"

V realized. "Well, I guess he's just as clingy as them. God, I'm gonna kill him."

Your thoughts too clouded by the constant, gnawing ache inside you. You can’t shake it, can’t stop thinking about him. Ronin. The only thing that occupies your mind as you walk out the door, moving through the streets like you're in a trance.

It doesn’t take long before you find yourself wandering Uptown, your steps naturally pulling you toward that one alley—the one they call Purgatory. It’s notorious, the kind of place everyone avoids, where even whispers of its name send shivers down spines. The Butcher’s territory. People have seen the aftermath here—limbs and pieces of flesh strewn like discarded trash, blood painting the graffiti-splattered walls. It’s grotesque, macabre.

But to you? It’s something else entirely.

You call it your love birth!

It’s twisted, isn’t it? You can’t help the smile creeping up on your face as you step into the dark, narrow space. This is where it all began. Where you had your first kiss with Ronin, right here in the heart of chaos. The same place where bodies had been ripped apart, left to rot. That’s where you became his fallen angel.

The memory washes over you like a wave—his hands on your face, his lips crushing against yours with that devilish intensity. You still remember the taste of copper in the air, the blood that stained his hands… and the way it didn’t matter. Not in the slightest. That was the moment you knew—there was no going back. You were his, no matter what.

Your heart races as you walk deeper into the alley, your eyes scanning the area with that lovesick expression. Every corner, every shadow, you search with a strange kind of yearning. Maybe he left something behind. Maybe some small trace of him remains, something he forgot—something you can cling to.

You know it’s irrational, but your mind can’t help it. You want him. You need him. Every thought, every breath, is consumed by him. You’ve become addicted to the way he makes you feel—alive, wild, free. And now, without him, you feel like you’re floating, untethered, falling further and further into the abyss.

You walk slowly, your fingers brushing against the walls as you pass by, half-hoping you’ll stumble across something—anything that could be a sign from him. A discarded cigarette, a drop of blood, some trace of his presence that would prove he’s been here.

But the alley is silent. Empty.

Still, you don’t stop. Your heart beats faster the further you go, your mind racing with the memory of him. His voice. His laugh. The way he pulls you into his world, his darkness, and makes it feel like home.

By the time you reach the far end of the alley, your eyes have glazed over, filled with that lovesick haze that you can’t shake. You’re lost in it, drowning in the feeling. You want to see him, to feel him again, to fall deeper into that sinful connection.

You pause, standing still for a moment, the weight of the emptiness settling in around you.

He’s not here.

But God, you wish he was.

You freeze when you hear it—a faint, metallic scraping sound echoing through the alley. The unmistakable drag of a crowbar. Your heart skips a beat, and a rush of adrenaline floods your veins.

It’s him.

Ronin.

The sound makes your pulse quicken, your body tensing in anticipation as you spin around, trying to catch a glimpse of him. You begin to move, searching the shadows, desperately scanning every dark corner of the alley for any sign of him. Your heart pounds as your breath catches in your throat. He’s here. He has to be.

But then, the sound stops. Dead silence.

Before you can react, a sudden force slams into you, pushing you hard against the cold, graffiti-stained wall. Your breath is knocked out of you for a moment, and you barely register what’s happening before a strong arm wraps around your waist, lifting you slightly off the ground. You gasp, your heart racing, your body pinned between the rough brick and the figure in front of you.

And then… his lips crash into yours.

Ronin.

You melt instantly into the kiss, your body responding before your mind can even catch up. The intensity of it, the hunger—it’s like he’s claiming you all over again, pulling you back into his orbit. You can feel his fingers digging into your hips as he holds you up, his body pressing hard against yours.

When he finally pulls away, his breath hot against your skin, his voice is low, teasing. “Seems like you were pathetically sniffing around for clues, weren’t you? Like a lost little puppy darling?… so desperate to know if I was here.”

Your eyes flutter open, your head still spinning, trying to gather your thoughts, but they slip away in the haze of his presence. You can’t think straight, not when he’s this close, not when his scent fills your lungs, and his lips are still so dangerously close to yours.

You try to speak, to explain, to say something, but your voice catches in your throat. The words never come. He smirks, seeing your struggle, and presses a finger to your lips, silencing you before you can even attempt to respond.

“Shh,” he whispers, his tone dripping with amusement. “No need to talk, Darling. I know exactly what you want.”

Your body trembles, love-sick and overwhelmed. It’s like your whole world is centered around him, every fiber of your being drawn to him in a way you can’t control. You’re drowning in him, in this moment, and you can’t help but feel exactly what he’s accusing you of.

Desperate.

You don’t care about anything else. You just want him.

Your fingers clutch at his jacket, and your body leans closer, your lips parting as if to say his name, but no sound escapes. You don’t need to speak—he can already see the longing in your eyes, the way you’re losing yourself in him.

“Haha...” he murmurs, his breath tickling your ear as his lips hover near your neck. “So love-sick…I did it all Didn't I?"

Ronin sighed, leaning his head back slightly, his eyes narrowing in amusement. "That fucking V," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as a low laugh escaped his throat.

You blinked, still trying to catch up with the intensity of the moment. "What… what did V lie about?" you asked, your voice soft and shaky, still lost in the feeling of him so close, his presence overwhelming.

Ronin’s laughter deepened, the sound dark and teasing as he looked back down at you, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "He told me you were completely normal," he said, the grin spreading across his face. "That you didn’t even miss me." His fingers grazed your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your heart skipped a beat, a wave of exhilaration surging through you. "He told you that?!" you gasped, eyes wide. "He said the same thing to me! That you were fine without me, that you didn’t care!"

Ronin’s smirk grew more sinister, his eyes narrowing as he spoke. "So much for his precious 'justice.' Lying straight to both our faces," he said, his tone laced with mockery. "Maybe V thinks it’s all for the 'greater good.'" He rolled his eyes, clearly unamused by the thought.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. "Maybe," you teased with a grin, "he thought he was saving us or something." But before you could continue, Ronin’s hand shot up, gently pressing over your mouth.

His voice dropped lower, the playfulness fading from his eyes as he leaned in closer. "Stop talking about another guy when you’re with me."

You froze, instantly obeying, your hand instinctively covering your mouth, the playful teasing evaporating as you felt his gaze burning into you. The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrilling, electric charge through your entire body.

He chuckled at your reaction, clearly satisfied by the way you instantly silenced yourself for him. His other hand gripped your waist, pinning you harder against the wall as his eyes trailed over you, dark and hungry. "Now," he said, his tone softening into a more sinister purr, "how much did you miss me?"

Your breath hitched, your heart racing. "A lot," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. "I missed you so much… I couldn’t focus, couldn’t think. It even messed with my writing… I just kept thinking about you, obsessing over you—"

His grip tightened, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Obsessing, huh? Sounds like you’ve been going full yandere on me." He chuckled, his fingers brushing through your hair as he leaned in closer, his lips barely an inch from yours. "Say it," he commanded, his voice dropping into that dangerous, addictive tone. "Say that you love me."

Your heart pounded as you looked into his eyes, the intensity of his gaze swallowing you whole. "I love you," you whispered, breathless, the words slipping out like a confession. "I love you… I love you…"

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing as you kept repeating it like a broken record, your voice desperate, lovesick. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Ronin let out a low, mocking laugh. "Pathetic," he teased, his voice dripping with amusement. "To think that I like this." He watched you, entertained, as you kept whispering the words over and over, your voice trembling with devotion.

He leaned in, his lips grazing your ear as he spoke. "Keep your attention on me… forever. Don’t even think about anyone else. It’s me you belong to. Got it? Darling?

Your heart felt like it might burst as you nodded, utterly consumed by the intensity of his words.

Ronin chuckled darkly, his lips finally crashing against yours once again, sealing you completely in his world. There was no escape. There never would be.

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