#ronin fic

[tervaneula]

Your art is NOM NOM NOM NOM!!

CAN KISS RAPH'S FOREHEAD LIKE A PROUD MAMA?! BECAUSE I LOVE MY BABY 🥺🥺🥺🥺

THANK YOU FOR LOVING HIMMMM YOU DEFINITELY CAN<333

You gave me Raph feels so I drew that one scene :3c

“You really think Dee can keep his big mouth shut?” Leonardo sighs as he tips his shoulder forward to let Raphael take the rabbit off his hands.  “...he’s… he’s very soft and small…” Raphael mumbles instead of replying to Leonardo’s question when he lifts the yokai into his arms. It’s no secret that their brother in red is a big softie, but seeing him cradle a complete stranger so gently… Leonardo feels something shift in his heart at the sight.  “Everyone’s small compared to you, big brother,” he says softly.

[so-sures-blog]

Icebound

icebound definition: surrounded, obstructed, or covered by ice.

In which Zane uses his element against the Overlord to save the city and his friends. Because it wasn’t about numbers, it was about family.

❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️

It is the end, and Zane knows it.

The Overlord is conquering Ninjago City, webs of gold stringing across buildings like Christmas lights and tying up his friends like flies. They struggle, but it is useless under the might of the Overlord.

Zane flips out of the way of a golden band reaching to ensnare him and lands on a roof. All of his friends are tied up, and only Zane is free. He knows what he has to do. He is the only one who can.

“Support me, friends. For one last time.”

He takes a running leap off the ledge, and Jay flips midair so his feet plant squarely on top of his. Then Cole, Lloyd, Kai, Sensei Garmadon, and Wu.

He soars, flying straight at the Overlord, and grabs onto his golden fangs.

Immediately, he feels its power, and its agony. Pain rips into every crevice of his body; his jolts rattle and shake and his wires spark under his skin.

“Let my friends go!” Zane shouts.

“Go where, Doomed Ninja?” The Overlord sneers. Its eyes, red and hateful, glare into him.

Zane writhes under the immense pain and power. His body cannot handle it, he knows, and he feels himself falling apart under it.

“The Golden Weapons are too powerful for you to behold. Your survival chance is low.”

But Zane isn’t trying to hold them. He’s trying to destroy them.

He thinks of his brothers. He thinks of PIXAL. He thinks of his father. He thinks of an old man with long white hair as pure as snow and ice blue eyes that visited him a long time ago, who had come and left as quickly as winter did and had breathed that power into him because he saw him worthy of it.

“This … isn’t about numbers … It's about family!”

The golden webs holding the Ninja fall and they escape. He can hear them screaming, telling him to let go, and he thanks them for that. Wu and Garmadon grab onto them and yank them back, away from the oncoming destruction.

His core — his heart — started reaching critical mass. Frost began creeping upon the Overlord’s fangs. Something blue and blinding in his heart freezes under his power, and Zane embraces it. It's his power. His choice.

“I am a Nindroid. And Ninja never quit. Go Ninja … go!”

He is the Master of Ice. He was built to protect those who cannot protect themselves. He stands for peace, freedom, and courage in the face of all who threaten Ninjago.

Frostbite burns his skin away; jolt and wires freeze under the cold; until he is left completely bare.

The last glimpse they get of Zane is him surrounded by a blizzard of his own making, bright and beautiful like a supernova. Burning blue and white with the terrible brilliance of his own determined choice.

Zane died; not as a machine, not as a human, not as a tool of anyone or anything — but as himself. Zane died to save the ones he loves.

And woke up as something completely different.

❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️

PIXAL climbs her way up the steep cliff side, careful to place her foot in secure crevices in case she slipped and fell from the icy mountain. Heavy snow blinded her vision as the blizzard whipped around her, but she kept her pace steady and sure.

It had been months since she had left Ninjago City and began her search. Months since Zane’s death and memorial. PIXAL knew, logically, that she should be back there, properly mourning him. But she could not.

He had never given up on her, not when she was under the Overlord’s control or when she was struggling with the newness of emotions.

And that meant she could never give up on him.

When she had first met Zane, she became more than a machine meant to function. He was vital to her, and she was a part of him.

She carried half his heart, and against all logical explanations, she knew he was still alive.

She did not tell the Ninja of her suspicions: the immediate aftermath of Zane’s loss had been devastating. She’d watched as the team fractured, splitting at the seams as they all fled their separate ways, too heartsore and dizzy with grief to do much otherwise. She did not tell Cyrus Borg where she was going either, for she knew if he begged her to stay, she would.

If she had told them she had seen a snowy wraith emerge from the destruction of the frozen, apocalyptic atmosphere on the rooftop, she would have been told she had imagined it due to her grief.

And while she was grieving, she was not imagining it. She is a Nindroid, and she did not have an imagination. PIXAL was built to observe, to analyze, to collect data and gather information. She built theories and hypothesized, not assumed.

So she followed the signs. She kept track of all weather anomalies that happened across Ninjago — sudden snowstorms, cold drops in temperatures that swept through small villages and towns. It led her all across the country until it ended here, with her climbing up the frozen, snow-peaked mountain.

Finally, PIXAL arrived at her destination.

The Ice Temple.

Slowly, she makes her way towards it. Her sensors indicate the temperature dropping the closer she gets. For a normal human, they would have already gotten frostbite without the proper equipment and numb with it, but PIXAL was made of metal. The cold did not bother her.

She peers into the glacial architecture, but does not enter. Or more like, she is unable to. It feels as if there is some sort of force of winter that is keeping her at bay.

“Zane?” Hope finds its way into the desperation of her voice. Freezing winds whip her hair out of its ponytail and against the purple circuits on her cheeks, but she barely notices. “Is that you?”

There’s nothing except for the howling wind, then her eyes catch movement. Slowly, almost like a ghost, a figure starts to come closer, making a shape against the blizzard.

If PIXAL had lungs, all the air would have rushed out of them.

A being made of pure winter floated in front of her. Formed of ice and frost and molded by the wind, it stood there and looked at her. Opaque ice carved the face that has been imprinted in her memory drives, the one she had traveled across the entire world to see again.

It was frozen, and beautiful, and Zane.

Inside her neural drive, alarms were blaring into her system, flashing behind her eyes. Warning: Severe weather alert. Temperature reaching sub-zero levels. Retreat into a warmer climate —

PIXAL shut off the notifications.

“Hello,” she says. Zane does not move. She dares a step closer. “Do you recognize me?”

He says nothing, so PIXAL continues on. It feels like their roles were reversed when they first met: she, the one struck speechless by the other’s beauty. Him, stoic to it all.

“I’m PIXAL, the Primary Interactive X-ternal Assistant Lifeform. I’m a … friend. I came searching for you to bring you home. There are things about you that you don’t understand. That you have yet to discover. I am here to help you remember.”

Zane is quiet, but she senses that he is listening. Something glowing in her chest aches.

“It is alright if you don’t remember me,” PIXAL says. She cannot cry, but is she would she could. She is still new to emotions, and many are overwhelming her: joy and grief and something fierce and pure deep in her heart. “I remember you. And we are still compatible.”

Zane tilts his head and drifts closer. The snow slows its fall, the wind stopping altogether. Snowflakes gently coat her hair. Now that he is closer, she can see the differences that make him unlike the old Zane: he doesn’t have the one dimple on the right side of his cheek, or the small beauty mark on his collarbone, or the tiny scar on his index finger from his shuriken.

But he is still Zane, even as an icy spirit.

She held out a hand. “Your brothers miss you very much. Will you come back with me, Zane?”

He is silent, staring at her. Unlike before, it is impossible to know what he is thinking. She gazes up at him, imploring. His eyes have no irises or pupils, so she is simply staring up at pinpricks of pure blue light.

Slowly, his hand reaches out of her.

BANG!

A loud sound echoes across the ice, and out of nowhere chains of Vengestone come flying out and capture him.

Fear slams into her. “Zane!” PIXAL cries.

Ice races out from his body and across the chains as Zane struggles, but no matter what, he can’t break them.

PIXAL whips around to face the assailant.

A man in his thirties, wrapped in a thick parka to prevent the cold and wearing a red mask. He has shoulder-length brown hair and is wearing a dyed red straw hat, and under it she can see he is hiding an eyepatch.

“What are you doing?” PIXAL shouts. Anger — an emotion she rarely feels — burns through her.

The man lowers his gun and pulls out another one before she can even blink.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Just following orders.”

Before she can question what that means, he fires. A net tangles her limbs together and brings her down against the cold snow. Before she can fight against it, electricity courses through her.

And then everything went black.

[sweeneydino]

I have mastered the art of no thoughts head empty.

WIP.

[cloudss-space]

Metal Band Guitarist Ronin x Drummer MC?? 👀👀👀

What is taken, is given

( killer chat ) ronin x reader ... band au ... given inspired

trigger warning:

character death / mention of suicide

slight gore

Drumming was your means of survival, not just music. From the moment you were old enough to hold sticks in your small, trembling hands, you felt it deep in your marrow. At five, you didn't know what rhythm was in any formal sense, but you knew how it felt. It was the wild, chaotic thudding of your own heart, the pounding of your feet as you ran barefoot across cracked pavement, the desperate, incessant hum of staying alive in a world that always felt too sharp – and you did it.

At six, you built your first drum kit. You used whatever you could find: old pots and pans, coffee cans, anything that could take the beating of your hands. The skin on your palms split sometimes, little rivers of red tracing the lines of your tiny fingerprints. You didn't care. The pain was nothing. It was just a necessary offering to summon the sound.

The drumsticks came later, as a gift from someone whose name you don't even remember. You held them in your fists like weapons, determined to beat the silence into submission. Every strike of wood against metal or plastic sent vibrations through your arms, shaking loose the tension that lived in your small body like a parasite. You hit harder and harder, chasing a release you knew was coming.

By seven, your passion had become an all-consuming obsession. You carved patterns into the walls with the tips of your sticks, tracing rhythms you had to unleash. Your parents yelled, but you were too busy listening to the pounding in your head to hear them. You were too busy listening to the ghost of a snare drum that hadn't been born yet, the phantom echo of a kick drum that lived only in your dreams.

The neighbours complained about the noise, but I told them noise was better than silence. Silence was suffocating. It was a gaping maw that swallowed you whole and left you stranded in your own thoughts. The drums were loud, messy and alive. Each hit was a defiant scream of existence, a reminder that you were still here, still fighting.

At eight, you got your first real drum kit – a battered, secondhand set someone had abandoned in a garage sale. It was a Frankenstein monster of mismatched pieces: a snare with a dented head, a kick drum missing its front skin, cymbals with cracks spidering through their edges. But to you, it was beautiful.

You bled for that kit, and you meant every drop. Your hands bled, forming blisters that popped and reformed, leaving streaks of red on the drumheads. The sight of it made you feel alive in a way you could not and would not explain. Pain was part of the process. It was the cost of creating something that felt bigger than yourself.

By nine, you knew drumming had changed you. It was more than just a hobby. It was a transformation. When you played, you were no longer the quiet, awkward kid who flinched at loud voices and harsh words. You transformed into something else, something raw and primal, someone who demanded to be acknowledged.

The drums demanded everything from you. You practised for hours until your arms ached and your muscles trembled under the strain. You kept going despite the fatigue, the sweat dripping into your eyes, the sting of salt mixing with the rawness of your skin. You played until the world narrowed to nothing but the rhythm, the sound, and the motion.

At ten, you grasped the darker side of your passion. The drums were more than just an escape; they were an outlet for everything you couldn't say and everything you couldn't feel safely. Anger, fear, despair – they all came pouring out in relentless cascades of sound. Sometimes you hit so hard that the sticks splinter in your hands, the shards cutting into your skin. You'd pick them out later, and they'd be there, tiny splinters embedded like memories you couldn't quite shake.

The kit was the target of your wrath. The skins were stretched taut like a body under stress, taking every blow without complaint. But it wasn't enough. The noise wasn't loud enough. The strikes weren't hard enough. You wanted to fly, to break free from the crushing weight of expectation that hung over you like a guillotine.

Your parents simply didn't understand. They called it a phase, but I know better. I'll grow out of it. They scolded you for making too much noise and spending too much time on something that didn't matter. The drums mattered more to you than anything. They were your voice when words failed, your lifeline when the world became too much.

The beat was relentless and unyielding. It followed you everywhere, even in your dreams. You'd wake up with your fingers twitching, mimicking the patterns you had played earlier. The rhythms lived in your body, a second pulse that kept you grounded even when everything else threatened to fall apart.

But the passion came at a cost. Your hands were a patchwork of scars, the skin rough and calloused. Your back ached from hours of leaning over the kit, and your ears rang from the constant crash of cymbals. You questioned whether you were destroying yourself, piece by piece, for the sake of the sound.

And yet, you simply couldn't stop. The drums were my addiction, my need as essential as breathing. You played through the pain, through the exhaustion, through the doubts that crept in when the world grew quiet. You did not let anything stop you. When you played, you felt invincible, untouchable, alive.

By the end of each session, the drumheads were streaked with sweat and sometimes blood, the sticks worn down to nubs. The room reeked of exertion, determination, and endurance. You sat there, breathless, staring at the kit as if it were a living thing, a beast you had tamed for a fleeting moment.

The drums defined you. They were your identity, the thing that set you apart from those who drifted through life without purpose. They were your rebellion against the silence, your refusal to fade into the background – and you made that clear. And even as they demanded more and more from you, you gave willingly, knowing that the cost was worth it.

The drums were your lifeline, not just music. In a world that often didn't make sense, they were the only thing that did. As long as you had them, you knew you could keep going, keep fighting, keep living. It hurt, but you kept going. Even if it bled.

The drumsticks felt weightless in your hands at first, like extensions of your own body. You joined the band at fourteen and it was everything for a while. The beat became your heartbeat, the rhythm your breath. It was freedom, pounding through your veins as the snare and cymbals roared beneath your touch. When you played, the world faded. The noise inside your head was drowned out by something louder, something yours.

You met him there, the boy who would change everything. He was sharp and edgy, with soft eyes that fascinated you from the start. He played the bass with an effortless ease that made you jealous. His name was Ezra, and when he smiled, the world tilted.

At first, it was just stolen glances and shared laughs between sets. But it didn't take long for something deeper to grow. He saw you in a way no one else ever had. He peeled back the layers you'd carefully constructed and touched something raw inside you. He made you feel like you were living, not just surviving.

You loved the nights. After practice, you sat on the hood of his car, legs dangling over the edge, talking about everything and nothing. He lit a cigarette, the cherry glowing like a tiny ember in the darkness, and you watched the smoke curl into the air, wishing you could be as free as it looked.

You fell in love quietly, like slipping into a warm bath. It wasn't sudden or dramatic, but it consumed you all the same. You didn't tell him right away, but you didn't have to. You were confident that he would understand. He knew. You could see it in the way he looked at you. He looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in a room full of people.

He kissed you for the first time behind the venue after your first gig. Your hands were shaking, not from nerves but from the adrenaline of the performance, and he grabbed them to steady you. His lips were soft and tentative, and you felt something inside you crack open, like the world was finally letting a little light in.

But light doesn't last.

You didn't see the darkness creeping into him at first. He concealed it skilfully, masking it behind his genial demeanor and keen intellect. But there were moments, brief but intense, when the mask came undone. You'd catch him staring into the distance, his eyes hollow, as if he was somewhere else entirely. When you asked, he simply shrugged it off with a smile that was too quick and too practiced.

The fights started small, with inconsequential issues that were easily overlooked. He'd snap at you over a missed note or disappear for days without explanation. You told yourself it was normal, that everyone had bad days, but you knew better.

Then came the silence. This wasn't the kind of quiet you found comforting, like the pause between drumbeats. It was stifling, laden with all the words he chose to leave unsaid. He stopped coming to practice and stopped answering your calls. The band felt empty without him. It was like a song missing its melody.

You found him one night, slumped against the wall of his room, the floor littered with empty bottles and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale, and he looked at you as if he didn't even recognise you. He told you he was fine, but you knew he wasn't.

You didn't know how to save him, but you were going to find out.

You were the one who found him when it happened. That memory is seared into your mind, a wound that never stops bleeding. You can still see the crimson pooling around his wrists, the stillness of his body in the dim light of his room. The bass guitar he loved so much was leaning against the wall, untouched, as if mocking you.

Your scream was inhuman. It felt like something was ripping you apart from the inside, shredding every part of you that had ever felt whole. You fell to your knees, your hands shaking as you tried to stop the bleeding, even though you knew it was too late.

The funeral was a blur. A cacophony of muffled sobs and whispered condolences that meant nothing. You refused to look at his parents, unable to bear the weight of their grief, which mirrored your own. You sat in the back, your hands clenched into fists, nails digging into your palms until they drew blood.

Drumming was no longer an option. The sticks felt foreign in your hands, the beats hollow and meaningless. Every time you touched the drum set, you saw his face, heard his laugh, and felt the weight of his absence like a phantom limb. The music that had once saved you now felt like a curse.

You tried to move on, but the guilt was relentless. You replayed every moment in your head, searching for the signs you'd missed and the things you could have done differently. You told yourself it was your fault. If you'd been better and stronger, he'd still be here.

The band simply couldn't go on without him. The others tried to keep it going, but it was obvious it wasn't the same. The rhythm was all wrong and the energy was gone. You drifted apart, each of you bearing your own burden of grief and scars.

Nights were the worst. The silence that once comforted you now felt like a void, engulfing you. You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, your mind a whirlwind of memories and regrets. You reached for the drumsticks, then stopped. The weight of them was too much to bear.

You dreamed of him sometimes. In your dreams, he was alive, smiling, his hands warm against your skin. But even in the dreams, you saw the shadow behind his eyes, a stark reminder that he was gone. You wake up gasping, tears streaming down your face.

You cut music out of your life for a while because the sound was too painful. Even the sound of a snare drum in a passing car made your chest tighten. The memories flooded back in vivid, agonising detail.

People told you it would get better, that time would heal the wound. They were wrong. But it didn't. The wound wasn't healing. It was festering and infecting every part of you until you didn't recognise yourself anymore.

And yet, deep inside, you knew that you couldn't let go completely. You kept his bass guitar, even though you didn't want to play it. You kept the setlists from your gigs, the ones he'd scribbled on, his handwriting messy but unmistakable.

You carried him with you, in every note you couldn't play and every beat you couldn't hit. He's gone, but he's still there. He's a ghost haunting the spaces between the rhythms of your life.

You were unsure if you'd ever find your way back to the drums, but you knew one thing for certain: the silence was unbearable. And you know what? One day, you'll find a way to fill it again.

Graduation was coming, and you knew it was a milestone you should have been celebrating. Instead, it felt like a noose tightening around your neck. The cap and gown hung in your closet, their fabric ghosting against your fingers every time you reached for something else. People called this time of life bittersweet, but you knew it was only bitter – a cruel joke wrapped in the pretence of moving forward.

The halls of your high school were the same as they'd always been, but you could feel them emptying around you. Your past lover's absence clung to you like smoke, lingering in places where he used to stand, in the faint echoes of laughter that would never return. The band was gone, and so was he, and without them, every passing day felt more hollow than the last.

Your classmates spoke about college, careers and futures, their voices ringing out like a chorus around you. You nodded when they asked about your plans and offered vague smiles when they asked how you were doing. But inside, you knew you were spinning your wheels in the mud. What future could there possibly be without him? What future could there be without music? The guilt tightened its grip on you with every congratulatory word, their smiles blind to the storm raging behind yours.

On good days, you felt numb. On bad days, you felt like the wound your past lover left behind was bleeding all over again, staining every part of you that tried to move on. Nights were the worst – long, suffocating stretches of time where the silence grew louder than anything else. The nightmares were relentless, dragging you back to the moment you found him, to the stillness of his body, to the crimson that refused to leave your hands no matter how many times you tried to scrub it away.

There were moments when you felt his absence acutely, even in the ordinary things. An empty chair in the classroom, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke as you passed someone on the street, the strum of a bass in a song you hadn't heard in years. Each reminder cut deeper than the last. The universe itself seemed to be conspiring to keep him fresh in your mind.

You stopped telling people about the dreams. They simply didn't understand how vivid and real they felt. In them, he was alive and kicking. He was vibrant, laughing, teasing you about your drumming or sharing secrets under the stars. You'd wake up gasping, reaching for something that wasn't there, and the crushing weight of reality would settle back over you like a shroud.

The graduation rehearsals felt like another cruel reminder. The stage where you'd receive your diploma stretched out in front of you, a symbol of achievement you didn't care about. Your past lover had always joked about the future, about how he'd watch you play drums on bigger stages one day. You were stepping onto this stage without him, and you were going to own it.

The school counsellors advised you to speak to someone, but you were not prepared to do so. What could they possibly say that would make a difference? The guilt was too deeply rooted and the pain too sharp. You were walking through life with open wounds, and talking would not sew them shut.

Your parents tried to help, but they didn't understand. Graduation was a celebration and a reason to push forward for them. They failed to grasp the immense weight it carried for you. Every step towards that stage felt like a step away from the life you'd known, the life you'd lost.

You avoided the drums altogether, unable to touch them without feeling like you were desecrating something sacred. They sat in the corner of your room, gathering dust, a monument to what used to be. The silence they left behind was deafening and it seeped into every part of your life.

Your friends invited you to parties, to hangouts, to plans for after graduation, but you turned them down. The effort it took to be around people was too much, and the idea of pretending to be okay was exhausting.

The weight of it all grew heavier with each passing day, a constant pressure in your chest that made it hard to breathe. You knew you didn't deserve to be here, to graduate, to move forward. Your past lover was supposed to be here too, and without him, it all felt meaningless.

Some nights, you sat on the edge of your bed, staring at the crumpled graduation invitation on your desk. You thought about the future you once dreamed of, the one where your past lover was by your side, where the band was still together, where the music still made sense. That future was a cruel joke, a distant echo of something you could never have.

But deep down, you knew you could keep going. For him. For the dreams you shared. You knew you would play that music again, even if you couldn't bring yourself to do so.

You didn't know what graduation would bring, but you were determined to find out. You were equally determined to find out if you'd ever feel whole again. But you knew one thing for certain: your past lover would not have wanted you to stop. He wouldn't have wanted the music to die with him.

As the day drew closer, you tried. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't pretty, but you did it anyway. You found the rhythm again, picked up the pieces of yourself that had shattered when he left. And you found a way to carry him with you, not as a weight but as a reminder of the love you'd shared, the music you'd created, and the life you'd both fought so hard to live.

The desperation gnawed at you, testing the limits of your resolve until you felt raw and hollowed out by the need for something—anything—that could keep you afloat. The debts piled high, each letter in the mail like a strike to the chest, each reminder that you were sinking faster than you could swim. There was no doubt about it. The job interviews blurred together, and each rejection weighed heavily on your shoulders. By the time you met him, exhaustion had become a part of you, as natural as your heartbeat.

It was in some dimly lit corner of the city, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and smoke, a cacophony of sounds ringing in your ears. You strode purposefully to the door, your steps faltering only briefly as you pushed it open. The music inside was loud and raucous, the kind of noise that made your bones ache. That was when you saw him – Ronin.

He stood like he owned the world, the stage his throne and the guitar in his hands a weapon. Every note he played was violent, shredding through the air with a ferocity that felt almost tangible. His grin was sharp, cocky and infuriating. It was the kind of smile that made you want to punch him as much as it made you want to stare.

You stayed because you didn't know why. He played with such passion, it was as if he was bleeding onto the strings, every note a cut across his soul. He commanded the room. His presence was magnetic, pulling you in despite yourself. Or perhaps it was simply that you had nowhere else to go.

The show ended and the crowd dispersed, leaving behind the faint buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses. You stayed, lingering near the bar, and you were going to ask him anything – work, connections, a sliver of opportunity. He approached you instead, his smirk even more infuriating up close.

"You look like you've got nowhere better to be," he said, his voice a low drawl that carried over the din of the room.

You were offended but you stayed. "And you look like you enjoy hearing yourself talk."

He laughed, a sharp, biting sound, and you hated how it made something inside you twist. He introduced himself with the kind of arrogance that made you want to roll your eyes. He was Ronin, guitarist, metalhead, and self-proclaimed genius. But there was something there, something raw and jagged that mirrored the chaos inside you.

He offered you a job soon after. It wasn't a glamorous job and it wasn't something you could put on a resume, but it paid well. You'd be a roadie, a band assistant, hauling equipment and dealing with their mess. You weren't going to take it. You didn't want to be around him. His sharp tongue and sharp eyes made you feel uneasy. He seemed to see right through you. But you needed the money.

The first few weeks were hell. The band was loud, chaotic and constantly on the move. Ronin was worse. He was demanding and impossible to please. His expectations were as high as the volume of his guitar. But he was also brilliant, his talent undeniable. You couldn't help but admire him.

He pushed you, and it felt both infuriating and exhilarating. He challenged you, called you out on your bullshit, and made you feel things you hadn't felt in years. And at some point, the lines between anger and attraction got blurred.

The nights were the hardest. No doubt about it. The silence after the shows felt suffocating, the memories you tried to bury clawing their way to the surface. Your partner's ghost lingered in the quiet, his laugh echoing in the back of your mind, his absence a constant, gnawing ache in your chest. You hated how much you missed him and how much you hated yourself for moving on even a little.

Ronin noticed. He did, of course. He could see right through you and force the truth out of you, whether you wanted to share it or not. He didn't pry or push, but he was there, a constant, grounding presence that was also, infuriatingly, comforting.

He had the same effect on you as your past lover did. It wasn't about looks or actions. It was about how he made you feel. You realise you're not as broken as you thought. You knew there was still something left of you worth saving.

Ronin wasn't your past lover. You refused to let yourself forget that. He was unpolished and unyielding, a force of nature where your ex-lover had been gentle and composed. He was everything you weren't supposed to want and everything you weren't supposed to need.

And yet, you were drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. It was dangerous, and you knew it, but you couldn't stop yourself. He had a way of pulling you out of your head and making you forget how much it hurt to breathe.

The guilt gnawed at you, a constant reminder that you didn't deserve this. You knew you didn't deserve to feel anything but the pain you'd been carrying since the night you lost that lover. Ronin didn't let you wallow. He didn't let you drown.

He was your opposite: fire to your ice, chaos to your control, life to your grief. And for the first time in a long time, you knew you could survive this.

The work was hard, the days long, but you found solace in the rhythm of it. The music, the noise, the chaos – it was a different kind of drumming, one that made your blood sing in ways you hadn't felt in years. And Ronin was there, always there, proving you were never alone.

But the shadows still lingered, the ghosts still haunted you, and the scars you carried weren't so easily healed. You didn't know where this path would lead, but you were determined to find out if you could truly move on. But for the first time, you knew you didn't have to do it alone.

The stage lights blazed into your vision, intense and overwhelming, cutting through the smoky haze like a knife. Every time you sat behind the drum kit, it was like stepping into a war zone. The crowd roared like a tidal wave, their voices colliding and swirling into an unholy storm of sound that rattled your chest and shook your bones. The bass reverberated through your ribs with each beat, hammering against your skin as if it were trying to split you open. And at the centre of it all was Ronin, silhouetted in shadows, his guitar screaming like it was alive.

Playing in the band was pure chaos, an unstoppable force that burned through every part of you. The crash of the cymbals, the pound of the toms, the relentless heartbeat of the kick drum – it was all-consuming, a cacophony that drowned out the world. You hit harder than you needed to, driving the sticks into the drums with a force that seemed to try to punch through them. It was about survival, plain and simple. It was a primal release that kept the darkness at bay.

Ronin thrived in the chaos. His energy was infectious, wild, and unpredictable, and his riffs cut through the air like jagged glass. He locked eyes with you mid-song, his grin sharp enough to slice through the noise, and you hated how it made your heart race. He played with the intensity of a world-changing blaze, and you were just trying to keep up, to match his heat.

The band was a paradox: a sanctuary and a battlefield in one. The music was your armor, your shield against the grief and guilt that still lingered. It also tore you apart. Every song was an exorcism, dragging out the pain and anger you'd tried so hard to bury. You gave everything you had to the drums, every beat a scream, every rhythm a plea for something you couldn't name.

Ronin pushed you harder than anyone ever had. His demands were relentless and his standards were impossibly high. He didn't coddle you. He didn't let you falter, and he didn't let you fail. He was harsh on the critiques, rare on the praise, but when he did nod in approval, it felt like you'd conquered something insurmountable. You hated him for it, but you respected him even more for it.

The music couldn't always mask the pain. No matter how hard you tried to drown it out, the grief clawed its way to the surface on those nights. On those nights, you found yourself watching Ronin from across the room. You saw how he tuned his guitar with precise, almost obsessive care. You saw how his fingers moved over the strings like they were extensions of himself. His intensity and focus made you feel less alone, even if he never said a word.

The band's dynamic was volatile, with a constant push and pull between chaos and control. Fights erupted over nothing and everything. There were creative differences, missed cues and a lot of tension simmering beneath the surface. Ronin was often at the centre of it, and you found yourself clashing with him more often than not, because his temper was as fiery as his playing. But the fights never lasted. The music always brought you back together. It was a shared language that transcended words.

On stage, the world fell away. There was only the music, the lights, the crowd, and the feeling of being part of something larger than yourself. Ronin's guitar roared and howled, his solos cutting through the air like a blade, and you were his backbone, the steady rhythm that grounded the chaos. Together, you created something raw and alive, something that felt like it could shatter the world.

Things were messier offstage, without a doubt. The long nights, the endless miles on the road, the pressure to keep up the momentum – it all took its toll. The camaraderie you felt on stage didn't always translate to real life. There were times when the silence between you and Ronin felt heavier than the music ever could.

But there were moments of clarity, too. The walls came down, if only for a second. Ronin had a way of surprising you. His sharp edges softened when you least expected it. A shared laugh over a stupid inside joke, a quiet conversation in the back of the van, the way he handed you a water bottle after a particularly gruelling set without saying a word – those moments were proof that staying was the right choice.

The music was catharsis, but it was also a constant reminder of what you'd lost. Every time you picked up the sticks, you thought of your past lover, of the way he used to watch you play with a smile that made your heart ache. The guilt was always there, a shadow that lingered at the edge of every note, but the band gave you a way to channel it, to turn it into something tangible, something real.

Ronin never asked about your past, and he didn't need to. He saw it in the way you played, in the way your hands trembled when you thought no one was looking, in the way your eyes glazed over when the memories became too much. He didn't pry or push, but his presence was unwavering and anchored you. It was more than enough.

You began to notice the little things about him: the way his jaw clenched when he was concentrating, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about a new riff, the way his laugh rumbled low and deep like distant thunder. You hated how much you noticed and cared, but you couldn't ignore it.

Ronin had a magnetic pull that drew you in, no matter what you wanted. He was everything you weren't supposed to want, everything you weren't supposed to need, but you couldn't stop yourself. He made you feel alive in a way you hadn't in years, and it terrified you, but you couldn't stop yourself.

The band was a lifeline, a chance to start over, but it was also a stark reminder that you couldn't outrun your demons. The ghosts of your past still haunted you, the scars still ached, but you faced them head-on with the help of music.

Ronin was a part of that, and you couldn't get away from it. He was fire and chaos, raw and untamed. He forced you to confront parts of yourself you'd rather leave buried. He challenged you, pushed you, and made you better. You hated him for it as much as you were grateful.

Every night on stage was a battle. A fight to prove to yourself that you could still create something beautiful despite the pain. The drums became an extension of yourself. Each beat was a heartbeat, each rhythm a reminder that you were still alive. And Ronin was there, always there, his guitar screaming alongside you, a partner in your chaos.

The band took you places you hadn't been before. They kept up a relentless pace, but you were up for the challenge. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you were part of something bigger than yourself. The music was messy, chaotic and imperfect, but it was yours.

And so was Ronin. He was a part of this now, a part of you. Like it or not. He was a constant, a steady presence in the storm, and there was no way you could imagine doing this without him.

The road ahead was uncertain and the future was a blur, but you had the music, the band and Ronin, and that was all you needed. And that was enough.

The air backstage still hummed with the echoes of the performance. The thrum of the bass lingered in your bones, an electric pulse that refused to fade. The world was still reeling from the impact of the show, and your heartbeat thundered like a drumbeat, steady but intense. You wiped sweat from your brow, your fingers still slightly shaking from the adrenaline, but you were unphased. The crowd's roar was fading, but the rush was still there, and it wasn't going anywhere.

Ronin was there too, his presence unmistakable in the haze of the after-party noise. His fingers still curled around the neck of his guitar, as if the music hadn't left him. He was standing near the corner, his posture loose but guarded, looking more tired than he was willing to admit. His hair was tousled, wild from the heat of the stage, strands sticking to his face. His eyes, though, were bright and intense, burning through everything, searching, restless. You caught his gaze, and for a brief moment, the noise of the room dissolved, like a world where only the two of you existed.

He didn't smile yet, but his gaze softened just a little. You moved towards him, drawn by an invisible thread that had been there since the first chord you'd struck on the drums together. The silence between you was a low hum, an unspoken promise that the world around you had stopped for a moment.

The space between you shrank, and then your hand was at his side, boldly taking the lead, testing the waters with a tentative touch. He didn't pull away. His chest rose and fell with every breath, steady and strong, but you could feel the tension radiating off him. Your fingers grazed his arm, and you felt the heat pass through you, electric and alive. For a heartbeat, you both stood there, suspended in the moment, before he closed the distance between you.

Ronin was never one for gentleness, but there was something in the way he leaned in now, his mouth brushing against yours with a kind of quiet force, as if he had been waiting for this, too. His lips were warm and soft, urgent and insistent. The kiss was a slow unravelling, like a thread being pulled through fabric, one inch at a time, making you shiver from the intensity of it.

It was more than just passion, more than just heat. There was something deeper in the way he kissed you. It was unspoken, raw, as though both of you had been waiting to be seen in this way for so long, and now, at last, you were. The world around you blurred, dissolved completely, and it was just the two of you in the quiet of the backstage, the weight of the unspoken between your breaths.

His hands found your shoulders, fingers pressing down and pulling you closer. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he needed to be closer, needed to feel the heat of you against him. You kissed him back, slow and deliberate, savouring the moment. He responded with equal intensity, deepening the kiss and pulling you into him even more.

The sounds of the backstage, the chatter, the music still playing faintly in the distance – all of it faded, leaving only the pulse of the kiss. Your heart pounded against your chest, matching the rhythm of the music you had just played, as if it were still alive within you. Ronin's grip tightened on you, his touch possessive and powerful, igniting a deep, primal response. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, an answer to everything you had been too afraid to say out loud.

For a moment, you felt as if you were on fire. His mouth moved against yours with such intensity, such fervour, that you were consumed by the heat of it, flooded every inch of your body with sensation. You could feel the urgency in him, the way he needed you close, like he couldn't breathe unless you were there. His hand moved to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer until there was no space between you.

Your hand slid around his waist, feeling the tension in his muscles and the smooth curve of his back as he pressed against you. The kiss was slow and deliberate, yet there was an undeniable intensity and a slow-burning desire that surged through both of them. His lips tasted like the night – sweat, smoke and something wild, something untamed.

The kiss went on longer than you thought it would. It went on longer than you expected it could. By the time you pulled away, you were both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other, the air thick with the weight of what had just happened. You could feel the faint thrum of his heartbeat under your hand where it rested on his chest. In that moment, you knew you were close to him and needed him.

He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath, but his eyes never left yours. There was no awkwardness between you. You understood each other, you accepted each other. You didn't need to say anything. The silence between you said it all.

At last, you knew you were where you were meant to be. The world outside of this moment didn't matter. The band, the crowds, the wreckage of your past – none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was here, now, with Ronin. And even though the music would continue to play, even though the world would continue to turn, for just a few minutes, the only thing that was real was the quiet between the two of you, the feeling of his breath on your skin, and the shared silence that told you everything you needed to know.

The kiss was the beginning. It ignited something between you. 

Ronin's lips still tasted of you, lingering in the cool air between you both as you stood there, bodies close but not quite touching. Your heart beat strongly in your chest, a steady rhythm that pulsed beneath the heavy silence. The weight of your lost boyfriend still sat on your shoulders, heavy like a stone you had carried for far too long. But now, there was something else. Something warm, new and undeniable was there, like the dawn breaking through the darkness.

You didn't know how it had happened, but you knew when you had crossed that line from mourning to moving on. And you could feel it now. Ronin is not a replacement, he is not a shadow of what you have lost. He was his own person, a force to be reckoned with, raw and real. The love you had for your late boyfriend still lingered, like the scent of old roses. But it wasn't the same kind of love anymore.

The quietness was a stark contrast to the pain of loss, but it was not overwhelming. It wasn't suffocating you, not like it once was. You could still see your late boyfriend in the corners of your mind and hear his voice in the back of your thoughts, but now it was distant and faded. A memory you can revisit, but not live in forever. You had been carrying that grief, that love, as if it was a burden. Now, with Ronin, you could set it down gently, just for a moment, and let it breathe. Breathe.

Ronin's eyes were fixed on you, searching, as if he too had felt the shift between you. His fingers twitched, a subtle movement as if he was waiting for you to speak. But there was nothing to say, not yet. You had to get the words out, but they were still tangled in your throat, wrapped around the pain of the past and the warmth of what you felt now. No words were needed, not now. The moment between you two stretched on, infinite in its quiet understanding.

You loved him. You felt it deep in your bones: this strange new love blossoming in the wake of the past. Ronin was not just a replacement. He was not something to fill the space that had once been occupied by your late boyfriend. He was more than just a replacement. He was something entirely new, a person you could breathe with, a person you could grow into. You still loved your late boyfriend, but you were ready to move on. It was a gentler, more transient feeling, like a memory you can touch but not hold onto forever.

Ronin was someone you could love. He was chaotic and calm, contradictory and passionate. In that quiet moment, you realised you had already begun. You had already allowed him in. Slowly but surely. The space in your heart that had once been filled with grief had, over time, made room for something else. Something living. Something was here with you in this moment, not a ghost but a presence.

The kiss was the first step. It was the breaking of something, the opening of a door that had been locked for far too long. But now, it was more than just a kiss. This was the start of something new. It wasn't about erasing the past; it was about building on it. Like roots stretching into the earth, reaching for something that will nourish you and heal you.

As you stood there with Ronin, you felt the world opening up to you, full of possibilities you'd not believed in for a long time. The pain was still there, but it didn't control you. It does not define you. It was just a part of you, and you could sit with it next to the love you were beginning to feel for him, for Ronin, without it drowning you.

You didn't need to replace or force love. It wasn't something to be filled; it was a space to grow, stretch and bend. And now, with Ronin, you can let it stretch. You can let it fill you up again, but in a way that doesn't erase the past. It will make room for the future. Ronin was not a ghost. He was not a shadow. He was real. He was here.

[lemurlord]

Amy Dallon as the "ronin wandering in search of redemption" archetype.

[turrondeluxe]

Omg, your peepaw got into the competition! And so did mine! We’re having two ronins in the ring

Sunset linings ronin is sending his regards

FELLOW RONIN AU 🤝🤝🤝 I ALSO WISH YOU THE BEST OF LUCK

@non-rise-tmnt-au-competition

[angelmichelangelo]

the dad diaries for @turrondeluxe ❤️

if anybody doesn’t know, the peepaw and babies au has TOTALLY taken over my brain like. in the best way possible so of course i just had to write a lil fic for it <3 i hope u like this, amigo! i have other little ideas floating around in my head if you’d ever want more fic version of your au :) anyway enough rambling ENJOY!! everybody go check out the au i’m fairly certain everything is archived on @peepawronin for your enjoyment :-)

His coffee, as strong as it may, didn’t deter the headache that was blossoming behind his tired, weary eyes from expanding; creeping across the front of his skull with each steady pulse of his heartbeat.

He takes another sip, steels himself to see if perhaps the magic he knows does not truly exist has worked and…

“Papa!”

There’s the sound of his youngest, voice thick with babyish chub still, carrying across the lair with determination, tallying around inside his squeezing head like a brash drum cymbal.

Before he can push himself up off his stool, it goes off again, shrill and impatient,

“Papa! Papa! I’m telling!”

That was nothing new for Michelangelo these days, that familiar old phrase, minced with saccharine dramatics, he’s blinking his eyes hard to starve off the rest of the headache that threatens him; the kind that travels down the back of his skull and towards his shell and over his spine and makes him feel about a million years old.

He heaves a sigh. He already feels a million years old these days, what with the trophies of his days gone by evident across his aging body, like his trick knee and the ache he gets in his elbow when it perhaps rains a little too hard. It’s one thing to feel it physically, but the added bonus of it being emotional as well weighs just a touch too heavy for his liking.

He comes to a stop in the pit where the sounds are louder and more pitchier, and there’s two little turtles to accompany them, faces all pinched into varying degrees of annoyance.

It’s Odyn who reaches him first, as it often is, he’s a daddy’s boy at heart, little tiny legs carrying him the small distance that separates them, he goes barrelling into the larger, older turtle, face first into his pant leg. He’s gripping the edges of the fabric with three little fingers, giving it a sharp tug when he says with a rush of air,

“Papa, Uno is being mean again!” He whines, pressing his snout into Mikey’s leg. “He keeps calling me names!”

Uno has since joined their fray now, chest heaving with each stuttered breath as if the idea of being accused of such a thing is stunting each draw of air into his lungs.

“No I didn’t!” He retorts, voice all pitchy and nasally. Michelangelo groans softly to himself. “He’s just being a baby! Like he always is!”

Such a spiteful word directed towards their youngest is enough to erupt a hurtful sob from the smaller turtle. He buries his face further into his fathers leg, his voice warbled and muffled from both the tears the the mouth full of pant he has right now, but Mikey is able to carefully decipher it of something along the lines of, (in true irony),

“See! He keeps calling me a baby!”

He pries his son’s iron grip off from his leg, forcing him to look upwards with a tap of his finger beneath his damp chin. Fat tears roll down his cheeks, framing his face almost perfectly, he looks at his child sternly.

“You know not to take it to heart, hm? Do you eat baby food and wear diapers?”

Odyn sniffles, bringing a fist up to scrub away at the snot collected beneath his snout.

“No?”

Mikey hums. “And do you chew on furniture and need papa’s help to feed yourself?”

Odyn shakes his head. “No, papa.”

Michelangelo grins softly. “Then you’re not a baby. You know that, I know that.” He looks pointedly at his other son who is unmovable under his gaze. “Uno knows that. He only says it to get a rise out of you, right?”

Odyn’s bottom lip wobbles dangerously. “Yes,” he says in a rush, “but—”

Michelangelo is swift to cut in. “But I will deal with your brother. Okay?”

Odyn doesn’t seem entirely swayed; Michelangelo thinks that maybe he wanted some sort of permission to perhaps say a bad word directed at his brother, or maybe to have it out in a short scrap and there as kind of emotional compensation that only siblings would believe to be a reliable source of insurance against name calling.

But the smaller turtle eventually heaves a heavy, wet sigh, and nods his head solemnly.

“Good. Go play with your sisters,” Michelangelo instructs him, tapping him gently against the ridge of his shell. “I think they’re coloring. Will you make me something pretty?”

That gets his spirits up, the smile beaming across his face so bright, it might as well evaporate his previous tears left behind on his cheeks.

“Okay!” He calls out with delight as he toddles off to join his other, much quieter siblings on the far side of the room. Mikey watches them as they scoot aside and make space for him, offering up a fresh slice of paper, he’s already making grabby hands for the brightest crayons they own.

“He’s always getting me into trouble.”

That’s Uno’s low, forbidding voice, all full of that way too early angst that he recognises from himself and his brothers in their adolescent years, and when Mikey turns to face him, he’s sullen.

He doesn’t wait to hear whatever wisdom his father might be able to offer, instead, his bottom lip is trembling like it’s heavy with the weight of all the words he wishes to say; all the woes and the hurt that comes with having little brothers, and suddenly, with his face drawn in such an expression and his eyes narrowed and his mouth tight, Michelangelo sees a glimpse of Raphael in this child.

“You know, I was the youngest of my brothers,” Michelangelo explains to him. He motions for him to follow as they leave the pit, letting the soft voices of the other children behind them as they walk back towards the kitchen from which he came. “I pulled the same tricks he pulls from time to time.”

Uno pauses his end of conversation to clamber on top of the barstool that wobbles slightly under his swaying weight. Michelangelo steadies it with a hand until his son is fully situated, and once he is, he’s swiveling around to face the older turtle, still sporting the same, sour expression across his younger face.

“Then why’d you let him get away with it?” He says, words barbed, like this was somehow his fault now. “It’s not fair, papa.”

And Michelangelo chuckles softly. There are the glimpses of Donatello that shine through, like bright sunshine filtering through curtains in the early morning in hues of gold – that sharp intellect that constantly comes with its millions of almost unanswerable questions.

“Because I also know what my older brothers were capable of,” he tells him gently. “They did all they could to push my buttons, to get me in trouble. They knew how to play the game without getting themselves a foul.”

Uno heaves a loaded sigh, his plastron rising and falling, his hardened glare seems to melt away a little as he allows his father’s words to soak in.

“I just hate him,” he says suddenly, words dark and low. “He’s so annoying.”

Michelangelo stiffens at that. And at his father’s physical reaction, Uno shrinks a little, aware of what he’d just said; how loaded his words were.

“You don’t hate him.” Michelangelo tells him, Uno’s gaze gingerly lifts to meet his. “You are annoyed by him, yes, but hate is such a strong word, musko-san.”

Uno’s dark eyes flicker across the room with nerves, caught out, he wrings his hands together, as if trying to rid himself of the nervous energy that this conversation was building within him.

“I’m sorry chichi,” he says in a small voice. “That was mean. I don’t hate Uno.”

Michelangelo hums. “I know.” Then, “You know how I know?”

Uno shakes his head.

“The time you taught him kanji,” he begins to list. “Or when he lost a tooth and you soothed him because he was hurt.” He watches with pride as a small smile ghosts across his child’s face. “Or whenever you read to him before bed, even when it’s the stories you have already heard before.”

Uno rubs tiredly at his eyes; all of these emotions are a lot to bear for such a small boy.

“I know you love your brother, Uno,” Michelangelo tells him, tapping a green finger beneath his chin to gather his focus. “I know because I see so much of your oji in your soul.” He smiles warmly at his son. “Each one of them,” he adds, moving his finger down from his face to rest across his plastron, right over where his heart lies. “Right here, hm?”

Uno shifts in his seat, the old, worn barstool groans under his growing weight, he pitches himself as far forward as he can go without toppling off, looking up at his father with big, round curious eyes.

“Really?” He says, voice clinging to an awed whisper.

“Really.” Mikey tells him with a stern nod. “Now go play,” he says quickly, flapping him away with a dismissive hand.

“Papa hasn’t had enough coffee this morning,” he mutters, pinching his eyes narrowly to try and avoid the impending headache that’s crawling back across his skull. “Try not to have anymore arguments until at least late afternoon, yes?”

Uno hops off his seat, almost tripping in the process, he stands tall when he tells him,

“That’s okay!” He’s smiling now. A sight Mikey is sure he’ll never truly tire of, no matter how many headaches life brings. “Maybe I can ask the others if I can draw too, and we’ll make you something nice to make you feel better, hm?”

Michelangelo reaches across the countertops for his discarded beverage from earlier. Curling his fingers around the mug, he finds with welcomed surprise that it’s still warm. “You better,” he tells him with an entirely serious tone surrounding his words, raising one brow ridge for emphasis. “I didn’t spend hours scavenging those crayons for nothing.”

And with that, Uno is padding off in the direction of where his other children are gathered; straining an ear he can hear their excitable chatter and babble as they continue to work together.

And when their eldest sibling joins in, there doesn’t seem to be any lasting animosity; Odyn shows off what he’s already made, pride and excitement swelling over whatever leftover hurt from their spat, and Michelangelo chuckles to himself as he listens to Uno’s gentle encouragement that floats through front the other room.

He brings the coffee mug to his lips, steam curls itself around his snout, and a smile touches at his face, the slightest of turns. He awards himself with another mouthful, and whilst it doesn’t do much to quell his migraine, it does feel deserved.

And later that night, when he has all four of his children growing heavy in his arms, fighting a battle against fatigue that they are bound to lose against, as it is most nights, he watches his as Uno shuffles in closer to his brother, his pudgy little arm draped across the slope of his shell, and Odyn, his jaw slack, drool dried across his chin, his soft snores only just about disturbing the silence that falls across the room, he seems to curl into his brother’s offered warmth and Michelangelo smiles softly to himself.

Here in his lap are his children – the little turtles that call him papa and rush to him to settle disputes and disagreements, and to kiss scraped knees and to devote each of their wobbly crayon drawings to him that end up covering the fridge and the kitchen walls in a decoration of color and love and he knows that even with coffee, even with the best coffee in the world, all of this is worth a thousand bad headaches. Tomorrow might bring peace and tranquility and ease, or perhaps it shall be Yi and Moja that decide to scrap and fight or maybe all four will fall out of love momentarily, as siblings often do.

Michelangelo should know, he’s been one his entire life, even if his brothers are no longer here to push his buttons or fight him or argue over petty, useless things, he knows with great ease, that despite it all, they always found their way back together, whether it was over something big or small – that was the love between brothers and family.

He presses his sleeping turtles closer to him, curling his arms around them, they melt around his warmth and he knows that much like his group of siblings, these four here, were no exception to the same rules.

He closes his eyes and basks in the moment, acutely aware in the moment of quiet, of the headache that has finally shrunk itself away.

[keyblack]

CAN'T STOP WON'T STOP

[perseusofjackson]

Basically my mc and Ronin’s dynamic (ao3 comment from an anon named pink)

Also also also I made my guy into a lil chibi like the guys on the discord :3

Woaw the guy seperated

[l0verclown]

From pressured to driven Part 1

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

Especially if 4 serial killers are the ones pressuring you.

Slight Ronin x Reader

| spoilers for Killer chat!!! not proofread, probably OoC and this idea randomly came up in my mind at night so you'll probably find mistakes

Part 2:

Never thought you'd be hanging out with serial killers- heck, even date one.

Well here you are, in a difficult situation that might make you regret that you even agreed on staying in that server. But lets rewind a bit, shall we?

After Misaki's successful assassination, she figured she'd stay a bit longer in the country before heading home. Which also led her to the great idea of hanging out with the whole group! (Which only You, Ronin, Angel and V could attend)

Ofcourse, Ronin couldn't miss out, no? After all, being the person who brought the group together, can't be excluded. And, it gives him another reason to go outside aside from work and going on a killing spree.

At first, Angel was a bit skeptical, after all she is the Maria-de-la-Rosa, so hanging out, especially in public, would be a little bit tricky. But after a whole lot of convincing and begging, it worked out and she managed to come.

V was confused on why Misaki wanted to hang out, likewise because 1. He wasn't intrigued on the idea of hanging out, 2. He's not online very often, so he doesn't know the group that good as everyone else. But in the end he figured that it that it could benefit him eventually.

@Angelic: Wait Misaki

where are we meeting up again

@Hitmeuppp: Uhh

what was it called again..

Hage centre???

@K9: Hague Centre.

@Hitmeuppp: YES

THANK YOU

@Goreboy: be there around 2

before i drag you there myself

@Hitmeuppp: Edgy much

@SerialMC: I'll be leaving now

See y'all then!

Just when you typed the last message, you sighed and closed your device.

You wanted to come, they're your friends after all. But they're also serial killers.

Serial killers.

Fuck.

You were so up in the act, that you forgot that you weren't actually a serial killer.

You're a reporter and writer, and the only one who knows is the devils reincarnate himself.

What if they ask you how your recent murder went? Or what if they want you to do something you have no experience in?

There's one way to find out, and that is to go to that hangout.

"Yooo Reader is that you..!?" Misaki screamed from the distance, waving at you with excitement while you walked up to her.

"Wow- You're like 10x cooler than online! And- And-"

Misaki exclaimed with excitement, before V interupted them.

"Misaki, calm down before you scare them away"

"Whaaaat, can't i be happy for seeing my friends before i head home? Are you the funpolice now?"

"Not the fun one"

"Are you allergic to fun or something wtf"

After a few minutes of Misaki just complaining about V, Ronin and Angel eventually showed up.

"Met Angel on the way to here. Figured on walking here together"

"Yeah me and ro-"

"YOU'RE THE MARIA-DE-LA-ROSA!?"

"Wait Sshh!-"

"Yep, The Maria-de-la-Rosa life in the flesh. Or would ya like her to eat your flesh?"

"What is up with you associating me with Cannibalism, Ronin!?"

After A small fight between the two, you guys decided to walk around, grab some food and hang around, talking about just the casual, work, Hobby's and murder. Well only when there were no people around, obviously.

How long has it been? 4 hours? Ignoring the fact that time exists, you spent way longer than you expected to be outside. Didn't expect serial killers to be that fun.

"Guys, i have this good fucking idea" Ronin said before stopping, having a mischievous look om his face and crossing his arms. "Every Idea that you have is a bad idea ronin." Angel sighed out before shaking her head, knowing he had a bad idea. "Ooh Ooh, let me guess- Murder spree? Let the city know our names before i leave?" Misaki said before Ronin pulled out a crowbar from his bag. "Exactly fucking that."

You're fucked.

A murder spree? When you thought you couldn't get any unluckier, this happens. I mean- you could pretend to kill anyone, but that wouldn't work. Not when you're with four other people.

"So, What ya think about it Darlin'? Cruel, fun and informative. Show us some of those killer moves of yours"

"Yeah, You actually never told us about it. I would like to see a reader killing in live 3D!"

"Uh- As much as i wanna see them do it, we shouldn't pressure them."

"Lets hope for you this one does not show up on the news."

"I would love to guys, but i don't have my weapons on me right now. No weapons, no murder"

"C'monnnn Darlin', Such a killjoy are ya? Scared to dig out some guts with ya bare hands? Or do you really want a weapon?"

"Cause if you do, We just gotta head on to the purgatory, There's a fuck ton of guns and knifes there to even satisfy your wildest fantasies"

.

.

.

You were too scared to chicken out, so you just hoped that there was a dead body nearby so you could've pretended you killed it. Hopefully.

"What's the matter? Too fuckin' scared? This isn't your first time killing, no?"

"Yeah, C'monn, i wanna see you in action!"

"Let's not rush them, or we might drive them that crazy that they hunt us"

Misaki picked up a random gun, carefully checking if it is loaded or not. She inspected it, and when she found out it was loaded, she sparked with joy and aimed it to a random alleyway. And Boom- she shot someone. Maybe it was because she is a literal assassin, or maybe she was really lucky.

"Damn, Headshot."

"I can tell that that person has no respect to the fauna of this land."

"First, what does fauna mean, second, you're probably right."

"Fauna means the animal respective to the area"

"The only ones that dare come here are assholes, weirdo's or people that were dared here."

"Wow a free tour by ronin? Count me in"

"Wow that's uh.. Impressive"

You wandered around for a bit before you picked up a random knife, all bloodied and dull, and stopped looking around. No people in sight, so no murders.. For now. You decide to walk into an alley, you said you were going to look for victims, but in reality, you were trying to find an escape.

But there were a few complications-

They would eventually find out that you were trying to leave, and then you'd have four actual serial killers after you.

You could pretend you killed someone, splash some blood on your clothes, grab some random corpse that was already there, and show them. But do you have the guts to do that?

And lastly, even if you did escape, the server would know, Ronin might expose you and then you could say goodbye to your little book.

What are you going to do?

[npookie0]

RONIN WITH MC WHO REALLY LIKES CATS PLS

A Small Cat Obsession.

You were a cat lover ever since you could remember. Obsessing over everything that had even the small drawing of a cat on it, you loved the animals more than anything in the world.

But maybe your obsession went a little overboard when you moved out from your family home and found an apartment... Every piece of house equipment was covered in cat drawings, stickers, there was cat decor everywhere, posters. Of course you also had two cats on your own, they were like your children, you would kill for them if you had to.

Well there was also someone else you liked, not as much as cats of course. You have priorities and humans aren't as high as the lovely animals.

Ronin. A serial killer, The Butcher, a mechanic, and the same man who invited you to his server, a haven for serial killers.

Some murderers that you heard of were there, The Sunset Slasher from the 90's, Heartsick Angel, and of course The Devil's Butcher.

You and Ronin were dating for a while, he also technically wanted to kill you, but who would care about that small detail? Definitely not you. You have cats to take care of, death isn't an option for a while now.

You were fast asleep, cats at your sides. You were unaware of the dangerous individual who was climbing to your window.

A man entered your room, hands in his pockets once he was finally standing on still ground. He was looking around, curiosity getting the better of him. He knew that you were crazy about cats, talking about your pets all the time. That's why it wasn't too surprising for him when he spotted the cats next to your sleeping body.

What surprised him though was a pillow thrown to his face right after one of the cats meowed and hissed into his direction.

You woke up. And you were the person who threw that pillow at him.

The light on your bedside table was lit, your eyes squirming to get adjusted to it.

"Ronin? What the fuck are you doing here?!"

You were obviously caught by surprise. You knew you couldn't expect anything from Ronin, he was unpredictable, crazy and rotten.

"Awh, why are you so angry darlin'? I just wanted to see you."

Oh that cocky grin. How much you wanted to scrap it from his face.

You watched as Ronin looked around you room, he looked back a you with a whistle.

"Damn, nice obsession you have going I see. It almost looks like you're in a cult dedicated to cats."

His words made you somewhat embarrassed. Especially when he looked so amused when he noticed your pyjama with a big cat on it.

"At least I don't look like an edgy teenager."

You replied sharply.

Ronin picked up the pillow you threw at him and walked up to your bed.

"Maybe I should become a cat for you to obsess over me so much, hm?"

The look in his eyes was full of amusement. He was having fun with his taunting.

"Oh shut up, you wouldn't be even as cute as my cats."

You rolled your eyes and he gave you a chuckle.

"Nah, I'd be a purrfect cat. Meow."

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Meow meow

We're cat obsessed in this house >w<

[tervaneula]

This tweet is the heir and the ronin core

no i will not elaborate ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

[destinysbounty]

I know I have wayyy too many fan projects on my to-do list to warrant adding another one onto the pile (cough cough the 30-minute love triangle video essay), but for years now I've been wanting to do a rewrite/novelization of the Shadow of Ronin video game. Because like, the lore of this game has so many fucked up implications that never get acknowledged - but unlike with most fucked up Ninjago lore, the game is just obscure enough that not as many people are familiar with it enough to facilitate a broader discussion about this stuff. And dammit, I need at least one fic talking about how messed up SoR actually was and if I cannot find it I guess I'll just have to create it.

[alt-writes-stuff]

Ch 1 of "Insert turtle joke here" is out!

[Insert turtle joke here] - Chapter 1 - ALt_writes_stuff - Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own]

@sweeneydino

[cloudss-space]

Emo boy

( killer chat ) emo boy ronin x hot topic worker reader ... fluff ...

author note: personally, not my fav, but i did want to write something involving "emo boy ronin" so, this is my attempt on that. i hope that you all enjoy !! trigger warning: - slight none

You step into the bright fluorescent light of Hot Topic, the air thick with the scent of synthetic leather, stale incense, and overpriced vanilla-scented candles. The walls are covered in band posters, slashed denim jackets, and the eerie glow of neon skulls. The clock in the corner ticks, its hands crawling, reluctant to even whisper the passage of time.

The outside world seems to bleed into the space. You can hear the hum of the pavement through the glass door and feel the restless heat pressing against the window. But inside, there is nothing but this cocoon of plastic and metal. Customers come in droves, their faces as pale as ghosts. Each one is a shadow passing through, drawn by the allure of rebellion. They skim the shelves, their fingers brushing across black fabric and metal, never pausing long enough to care. No one stays long enough to see the rot beneath the surface, the decay festering in the corners.

You lean against the counter, staring intently at the skull rings and spiked chokers. There's a dread in the air, a silence that is too loud. The people pass by you like ghosts, nothing more than moving shapes that dissolve into the dark corners of this purgatory. You catch glimpses of their empty, hollow eyes, filled with the deadness that matches your own. They flicker and die as quickly as they ignite.

A shrill sound slices through the air. The register dings as yet another transaction is made, yet another meaningless purchase. You feel the weight of time wasted as you hold the small sliver of paper in your hand. Another moment lost. You shove it into the drawer, the metal clattering like a corpse hitting the floor.

A couple approaches the counter. The girl is wearing a tight T-shirt that shows off her arms, which hang limp by her sides. Her eyes are shadowed, her makeup smeared like ash from a dying fire. The boy beside her wears chains so heavy they could drag him into the underworld. They argue about which pair of boots would fit better, but you don't care. You want to scream at them, tell them how insignificant their choices are in the grand scheme of nothingness. But you don't. You watch them. Their breaths rise and fall like the dull thud of a drumbeat.

As they leave, you look at the clock. It hasn't moved. The seconds are frozen in place, refusing to shift. You are stuck in this place, trapped in a loop of tedious moments that stretch and stretch into infinity. The light flickers overhead, casting jagged shadows across the room like a sickening pulse. It makes you shiver. You want to scream. But you won't.

A shriek of feedback tears through the speakers. You flinch at the noise scraping against your mind, gnawing at the edges of your sanity. Another band. Another song. The lyrics are blood-soaked, dripping from the speakers like a warning you can't decipher. It's all noise, all hollow sound with no meaning. It fills the void, but only makes it worse.

Then, a pair of black boots clunk against the floor and your attention is drawn to them. Another customer. Another shadow. She picks at her fingernails, as if trying to find the truth in the cracks of her skin. She doesn't look at you, but you see her out of the corner of your eye. The drag of her steps, the subtle sway of her body, as though she's been hollowed out from the inside, searching for something she'll never find. You watch her. She disappears into the dark, leaving nothing behind but a whiff of her perfume—a cloying scent of decay.

The silence returns. It's a suffocating kind of quiet, the kind that's too thick to breathe in. You don't know how long it's been since anyone spoke. The store is empty, just one person in the corner, hunched over a display of wristbands. They move slowly, like a ghost in a dream, hands trailing over the leather, never touching anything. They're waiting for something to happen, something to break the silence. But nothing happens. Seconds tick by.

The overhead lights buzz again, like flies caught in a spider's web. You can hear your own breath in the hollow space, your pulse thrumming in your veins like a drum that refuses to slow down. You glance at the clock. There is no movement. The minutes are frozen in time, caught in the jaws of some endless, agonising moment. You wonder if the world outside still exists, or if it has crumbled to dust.

Your fingers curl into fists, but they shake. Your chest constricts as if the air itself is thickening, making it hard to breathe. You feel the weight of your own existence pressing down on you. This place, this job, is a prison, a cage built from nothing but endless hours of waiting for something that never comes. You could scream, you could tear at your skin, but it wouldn't matter. The walls will not move. The clock doesn't tick any faster.

The next customer enters, a young man with a lip piercing and a look of quiet despair. His eyes are dark, filled with something you can't name, and for a moment, you wonder if he sees it too. You carry the same emptiness, the same weight of something unspoken. But he moves on, picks up a t-shirt and shuffles to the counter, and you are certain he can feel the same hollow echo you do. If he knows this place is just a veil, a mask over the abyss.

He hands you the shirt, and you take it, instantly recognising the fabric as ash. It's black, as expected. It's always black. You ring it up, the register making its empty noise. The drawer opens with a squeal, and you think about how long it's been since you've felt anything other than numb.

When he leaves, the door chimes as he departs, and you watch the last of the light fade. The shadows grow, stretching across the room and swallowing the colour whole. The walls close in on you, but you stay still, frozen in place, as the silence grows louder and louder until it engulfs you.

The clock ticks once more. Another second gone. Another moment slipping through your fingers. You are waiting for something to change, or you have forgotten what it feels like to move. The day stretches on. The world beyond the glass remains a distant memory.

Time. It is a slow, dripping wound that won't heal.

The door chimes again, a soft clang, barely a whisper in the dense air. A boy steps in. He's the kind of boy who doesn't walk, he drifts—like a shadow made flesh, fading in and out of existence with each step he takes. His skinny jeans hug his legs so tightly they almost appear to be painted on, dark denim faded by too many hours spent in the same empty room. His boots click with a muted tap against the floor, the only sound in the suffocating stillness.

His hair falls over his face like a dark curtain, long and tangled, reaching down to his shoulders. It's the kind of hair that's perpetually windblown, yet static, as though he's caught in some endless storm of his own making. The bangs fall in uneven lines, framing his face in a way that looks deliberate, as though he's hiding from the world—or maybe just hiding from himself.

The shirt he wears is an MCR tee. The black fabric bears the logo like a badge of honour, like a secret carved into his skin. You've seen that shirt a thousand times, but it looks different on him. He wears it like a shroud, like it shields him from the world that doesn't care. The world has already eaten him alive and left nothing but the remnants of someone who used to be. His eyes are sunken, deep shadows under them, like he hasn't slept in weeks, hasn't bothered to wipe away the tracks of whatever sadness or rage he carries.

The dark streaks of make-up on his face blend into his pale skin. The way it clings to him is almost ritualistic, as though he's painted the darkness on, drawn it across his features to summon something, to become something else—something dead. It's wrong, but it's perfect. You feel an inexplicable pull toward him, an attraction you can't quite place. It's not the makeup, the dark circles or the clothes. It's the way he moves—or doesn't move. He's there, but not there. His existence seems to fade from the edges of reality.

He stares at the shelves. His gaze is unfocused. He sees something beyond the merchandise. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers brushing the air as though reaching for something just out of reach. You are certain that he is not aware of you watching him, nor does he notice the world around him. He is living in his own private hell, removed from everything, just like you.

Your pulse accelerates, a strange heat spreading through your body. You can't stop looking at him. His stillness, the haunted way he walks, the dark aura that seems to swirl around him like a storm cloud, draws you in. It's a magnetic pull. It's not just about his looks. It's darker, it's dangerous, like the gravity of a black hole. You can feel it in the air, suffocating, drawing everything toward him, sucking you in.

He picks up a chain from a nearby rack, turning it in his fingers. The links of the chain glint in the light, but he is not at all delicate. The way he handles it, casually, as if it's an afterthought, only makes him more intriguing. His lips are set in a thin, tired line, not quite a frown, not quite a smirk, but both, and it's clear he's seen too many broken things, too many things left unsaid.

The air thickens around him. You could almost reach out and touch the space where he stands, where everything about him feels alive, but it doesn't feel like he's alive—not really. His pulse is distant, like it's coming from far away, a heartbeat that's too slow, too deep, too alien to be real. You think you see him shiver, but it's gone before you can confirm it. He doesn't shiver. He doesn't feel.

But he's beautiful. There's a tragedy in him, an ache in your chest you didn't feel before he walked in. He's broken in a way that draws you in, a puzzle that you don't want to solve but can't look away from. You recognise his pain, even without the details. The emptiness in him mirrors the emptiness in you, a dark reflection of the same hollow space that never quite fills.

He turns toward the counter and sees you. His eyes meet yours—sunken and dark, like the bruises of a life lived too close to the edge. There's a fleeting glimpse of recognition in his eyes, but it's fleeting and he quickly looks away. His lips part slightly, and for a heartbeat, you're sure he's going to say something.

But he doesn't say anything. He just looks at you, his gaze heavy, weighing you down like a thousand unspoken thoughts pressing against your chest. His eyes are deep pools of sorrow, but they still find a way to pierce you, to draw you closer. When he doesn't speak, you feel a pang of disappointment. But then, you realise, maybe it's better this way. The silence between you is not just a lack of words, but a shared understanding, a communication without words.

He walks up to the counter, slowly, like he's been frozen in time and is only just starting to thaw. You remain still. You are trapped in the moment, caught in the way the air seems to bend around him. His hand reaches for his wallet, pulling it out with a fluid motion, the dark leather slipping through his fingers like the night itself. You feel his presence all around you, suffocating and intoxicating, like a perfume you can't quite name.

The register dings again, but this time the noise barely cuts through the fog between you. You ring up his purchase mechanically, your hands moving on their own, but your mind is elsewhere—lost in the depth of his eyes, in the hollow of his expression, in the way he stands there, silent, waiting for something that doesn't come.

When he finally leaves, the air itself seems to shift, the space around you hollowed out in his absence. The door chimes again as he vanishes into the world, slipping away like a ghost that was never really there. You're left standing at the counter, your heart thudding in your chest, and you wonder if you'll ever see him again, or if he was just a figment of your own aching mind.

The clock ticks on, ignoring him. But you're not the same. Something inside you has shifted. The air feels heavier, charged with something you can't name. And for the first time today, you realise you've been holding your breath.

The next day is a long, dark road. The store feels the same: suffocating in its fluorescent glow, the walls closing in on you. The silence settles like dust in the corners, the shelves full of meaningless trinkets that mock your restless mind. But even in this heavy, stagnant air, there's something different.

You feel a pull, a hum in the air that you can't quite name. Your thoughts drift back to him, that boy with the long hair and the hollow stare, his presence like a spectre that lingers in the edges of your mind. You are certain that he will return today, that that strange pull will bring him back through the door, or that he was just a dream—one you couldn't wake from.

And then, the door chimes again.

It's soft at first, like a whisper in the stillness, but it's unmistakable. You turn your head, your breath catching in your chest. There he is. He's the same boy, stepping into the store like he belongs there, like he's made of the same air and shadows. His long black hair hangs over his face, but today, there's a subtle difference. His eyes aren't hidden behind his bangs. His eyes are dark and sunken, but there's something else in them now. A flicker. A spark. It's as if you can see recognition in them.

He doesn't look around like last time. He's more focused now, his gaze sweeping over the shelves with a slow intensity, as though he's searching for something only he understands. His steps are quiet, deliberate, as if he's trying to blend into the shadows, yet you can't help but notice him. He stands out in this sea of monotony, in this place full of faces that barely register.

His eyes meet yours, and the world stops for a moment. Your breath catches in your throat, the air thickening between you. His gaze is no longer hollow or distant, but searching. It's as if he's found what he was looking for.

He strides purposefully towards the counter, his steps confident and determined. He's different today. More alive. But still carrying that same weight of something unsaid. His face is pale and his dark circles under his eyes are still there, but today he has more to him. It's as if a slow-burning ember lies behind the darkness, its soft glow almost visible on closer inspection. He doesn't speak immediately, but you can feel the words hanging in the air between you.

You find yourself waiting, your heart pounding a little harder than it should. There's no reason for it. Nothing has changed, except the way your pulse quickens at the sight of him. You tell yourself to breathe, to stay focused, but your mind won't stop racing.

And then, he speaks.

It's just one word, but it cuts through the air, slicing through the tension that has built between you. "Hey," he says, his voice low and almost drowned out by the silence of the store. But his voice is there. It's real. When he says it, you can feel the weight of his gaze shift, settling on you like a weight on your chest.

"Hey," you say, your voice barely louder than his. There's a pause, and then you wait, ready for him to say something more—to ask you something, or maybe even speak the words that have been hanging between you since yesterday. But he just stands there. His hands are still at his sides, fingers curling slightly as if fighting the urge to reach out, to touch something, to feel something.

The silence that follows is strangely comforting. It's not awkward, not in the usual sense of silence. It's as if you and he are both suspended in the same moment, trapped in a world that doesn't make sense, where time moves like molasses, yet here, with him, it seems to have stopped altogether.

He picks something off the rack – a black hoodie this time – and runs his fingers over the soft fabric. His eyes never leave the clothing, but you can see the faintest trace of something darker behind them. It's as if he's trying to bury himself in the fabric, to lose himself in the soft, dark embrace of it, like it'll shield him from the world outside.

You want to ask him what brought him back, but you don't. The question feels too heavy, too intrusive. Instead, you watch him, watching the way he moves with such quiet precision, his body almost too still, like he's afraid of being seen. There's a sadness in him, one you know you could get lost in if you're not careful. You want to fall into that darkness with him, to reach out and pull him closer to you, but you stay silent.

He places the hoodie on the counter and you ring it up without a word, the soft hum of the register filling the silence. Your fingers briefly brush against his as you hand him the receipt, and for a second, it's like the world shifts just slightly, just enough for you to feel something electric pass between you. You don't know if he felt it, but you did. The tension in the air grows thicker, heavier, but you don't mind it. It feels right.

He doesn't say goodbye. He doesn't need to. He just turns, his movements slow and deliberate, and walks out the door, leaving behind that same stillness, that same lingering feeling that refuses to leave. The door chime echoes in your mind long after he's gone, and you find yourself standing there, staring at the spot where he was.

He will return. When he returns, it will be different. Something is changing, something you can't control.

The days blend into each other, indistinguishable from one another, yet every time the door chimes and he steps in, everything sharpens, everything changes. He's back again, and again, and again—like a restless ghost that can't quite leave, like he's tethered to this place, or maybe to you. The days blur together in this suffocating haze, but his presence makes every second stretch out, bending the hours into something that only exists in the quiet space between you.

Each time he walks through the door, it's like a spark igniting in the air. His eyes meet yours with that same haunting stare, but this time, it's less distant, less lost. There's more now, something unspoken but understood, like an unbroken thread weaving between the two of you. The pull grows stronger with each visit, a gravitational force you can't resist.

He starts off barely saying a word, just the softest "hey" that floats through the air like a secret. But with each encounter, the silence stretches just a little less. He starts to linger, standing by the shelves for a bit longer, as if giving you time to take him in, to get used to the way he moves, the way he seems to blur the line between presence and absence.

Then, one day, it happens. He's standing near the band tees again, running his fingers over the fabric as if trying to decide which piece of darkness he'll drape over himself today. You watch him, your breath catching as you notice the subtle shifts in his demeanour—the way his shoulders relax just a fraction when he notices you looking, how his gaze lingers for a fraction longer than usual.

"Do you think… they'll ever come back?" His voice breaks through the silence, low and almost tentative, as if he's unsure whether you'll answer or not. It's a simple question, but the weight behind it makes your chest tighten. They — the bands, the ones whose shirts are hanging on the racks, their names etched in faded ink on fabric that's been worn down by years of rebellion.

You blink, not quite prepared for this small talk, but your mouth opens on its own. "Maybe," you reply. "But I think it's the kind of thing that doesn't really come back, you know? They're part of a time, and that time's already passed." You're amazed to be talking to this boy who's always seemed like a phantom, and yet, here you are, standing in the middle of this empty store, speaking about something as mundane as old band shirts.

He nods slowly, his lips curving into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. It's so subtle that for a moment, you wonder if you imagined it, but it's there. It's just the slightest hint of something softer, something human. And then you realise: You're falling for him.

It's strange, this attraction. It's an odd sensation, this yearning you feel for him, this hunger that defies logic. It's not just about his looks, though he's undeniably attractive in that brooding, raw way that makes you want to reach out and heal him, to uncover the secrets behind those dark eyes. It's not just about the way he wears his pain, though that's part of it, too. It's the way he exists, simultaneously here and not here, an enigma you can't unravel and a mystery you don't want to solve.

He returns time and time again, and the attraction grows. It's like a fire growing inside you, stoked by each new conversation, each new visit. His eyes linger on you, his posture shifts when he speaks to you, as though you're the only one in the room that matters to him. Look at him when he thinks you're not looking. See the brief flicker of desire beneath the exhaustion, the darkness, the weariness in his expression.

The small talk continues, each encounter slightly different from the last. He talks about the weather, his favourite bands, how tired he is, how the world outside feels heavier with each passing day. In return, you offer him pieces of yourself: small, fragile fragments of who you are. You tell him about your favourite songs, the books you're reading, the slow, dull ache of working here day after day. The conversations feel effortless, as though they're not just casual exchanges, but something more – something intimate, something shared in the quiet spaces where neither of you says what you truly mean.

Sometimes, he'll come in and barely speak. He'll stand there, leaning against the counter, staring into the distance, waiting for something he can't even define. In those moments, you will find yourself standing beside him, offering him a quiet kind of company, the kind that is needed but never asked for. You don't talk; you exist next to him, and somehow, that's enough.

His presence is now an integral part of your routine, something you actively look forward to. You wait for the moment when he'll walk through the door, when the store will go still and the world will narrow to just the two of you in this small, dimly lit space. With every visit and every word exchanged, your connection deepens, pulling you both closer together like two pieces of a puzzle that don't quite fit but always belong together.

You know that you're not just waiting for him anymore—you're craving him. The pull is undeniable; your heart skips when he enters the room and your breath catches when his eyes meet yours. There's no denying it now.

He's more than just a boy who comes into the store. He's become a part of your days and your thoughts. You feel like he belongs here just as much as you do. With each visit, with every word, that strange, intoxicating attraction grows deeper, more uncontainable, until you realise it will always be enough.

It's late afternoon. The dimming light outside casts long shadows into the store. The usual hum of fluorescent lights overhead is punctuated by the soft tapping of a keyboard in the back, but the store feels emptier today. It feels suspended, as though time has slowed just for you, just for him. It's one of those quiet days where you almost forget how long you've been here, how many hours have passed since you first arrived this morning. But then the door chimes, and everything shifts.

He strides in, as if the air itself revolves around him, and the room instantly takes on a weighty sense of his presence. Ronin. You don't know why that name feels like it belongs to him, but it does. His long hair falls in its usual curtain, but today, there's a hint of something new in his demeanour—a slight looseness to his posture, like he's letting go of whatever invisible weight he's been carrying around for so long.

He glances around, his eyes flicking over the racks, but always find their way back to you. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence is familiar, but different today. There's something more to it, as if it's begging to be said. His gaze is a little softer than usual, like he's waiting for something.

You smile at him, your smile small and uncertain, and your pulse starts to race. He notices. His lips quirk slightly, not quite a smile, but enough to show that he sees you, sees the way your body tenses just slightly when his eyes meet yours. Then, finally, he speaks, his voice solid and real.

"Ronin," he says, and the name is like a breath, sharp and heavy, almost foreign on his lips but somehow fitting, like he's just stepped out of the shadows and into the light for the first time. He says it quietly, but there's something almost final about it, like he's been carrying that name around for longer than you can imagine, like it's been locked away inside of him, and now, he's giving it to you. Ronin. The name hangs between you like a promise, like a key to something deeper.

You blink, and the weight of it hits you. Ronin. You repeat the name in your head, letting it settle there, trying to hold onto it, trying to make sense of why it feels so important. You open your mouth to speak, but the words get caught in your throat for a moment, and the air seems to thicken around you, thick with everything unsaid, everything that's building between you.

"Ronin," you repeat, testing it out, and as you say it, you watch his face carefully. His eyes flicker, a brief, imperceptible softening, a pulling back just a little. It's a subtle change, but it's undeniable. You are compelled to explore the nature of this phenomenon.

"That's... that's your name?" You don't know why you feel the need to ask, but the question slips out before you can stop it. You feel like you're stepping into unknown territory, like you're treading carefully on the edge of something that could break open if you push too hard.

He nods, his expression unreadable, but there's a clear sense of melancholy in his demeanour. His name and identity have clearly been a burden for him to bear, something he hasn't figured out how to untangle. "Yeah," he says, his voice quieter this time, more drawn out. "I guess I never really got to tell you, did I?"

There's a flicker in his eyes—regret, maybe, or exhaustion, or both. You want to ask him more about the name, about him, but you don't. Instead, you simply nod, acknowledging the trust he's given you, this small piece of him he's just handed over.

"Nice to finally know," you say, and there's a strange feeling behind those words—like you're stepping into something much deeper than a simple conversation, like this moment is the start of something neither of you quite understands yet.

Ronin doesn't say anything, but the way he looks at you changes slightly. The air between you is no longer just heavy with silence, but with something else — something unspoken. His gaze is deeper now, revealing something personal and raw. By telling you his name, he's invited you into a part of him he's kept hidden for so long.

He stands a little taller, but his gaze never leaves yours. "I didn't think you'd even care," he says, his voice low and almost a murmur, as if the confession itself is more vulnerable than anything else he could say. "But I guess... I don't know. I guess I wanted you to know." The words hang in the air between you, fragile, as if they're teetering on the edge of something bigger, something more.

Your heart beats faster now, not just from the tension in the room, but from the way the world seems to have narrowed down to just him and you, standing here, in this moment. The store feels farther away, as though the walls have blurred into the background, leaving only his name, his presence, his eyes locked with yours.

"I care," you say firmly, not giving it much thought, the truth just flowing out of you, quiet but certain. You don't know why those words come so easily, why it feels right to say them. But it does. When you say them, you can see him relax just a little bit; the tension in his shoulders eases for the first time since he walked in.

For a long moment, there's only the quiet between you, but it's no longer uncomfortable. It's not empty. It's full of possibilities, full of questions and answers waiting to be uncovered. You both stand there, the silence not oppressive but expectant, and you realise, with a sinking certainty, that this moment, this exchange, is just the beginning of something neither of you can run from.

The door chimes and you snap back to reality. He leaves, the soft click of his boots against the floor marking the end of another visit. But before he leaves, he nods slightly, and for the first time, you see the faintest, most genuine smile curl at the corners of his lips.

"See you," he says, his voice low and unambiguous. It is an invitation, a promise that you will meet again.

And with that, he's gone, leaving only the lingering echo of his name hanging in the air, a name you now own, a name that feels like it belongs to you as much as it belongs to him.

The days stretch and unfold, as if the store itself has become part of some slow-moving dream. Ronin keeps coming back, and with every visit, something shifts. At first, it was just the smallest exchanges – barely more than a nod or a quick word about a band, or a flicker of something darker, something deeper in his gaze that made your heart flutter. Now, as the days blur into one another, the distance between you both seems to shrink. Every time he steps into the store, the walls close in, making it just the two of you, standing in this strange, suspended space.

His visits have a rhythm of their own. He doesn't come in every day, but when he does, it's as if the world slows down for a few moments, the time around you bending to accommodate his presence. He lingers longer now, his eyes scanning the shelves but always coming back to you. The silence between you has softened; it is no longer filled with tension, but with a quiet kind of understanding.

It starts with small talk—casual, throwaway comments that don't mean much. But the way he says them, the way he lets his guard down just a little more each time, makes you feel like you're inching closer to something important. One day, he comes in and starts talking about a new album he's been listening to. The conversation is simple at first, just the usual banter—"Have you heard it? It's pretty good. You'd probably like it." But then, his voice drops just a little, like he's letting you in on a secret, and you find yourself leaning in to listen more closely.

"Yeah, I get that it's not everyone's thing," he says, his voice almost a whisper, "but there's something about it... It makes me feel less alone, you know?"

You nod, the words resonating with you. You don't need to explain it—he already understands, like he knows exactly what you mean. It's strange, this quiet bond growing between you, something unsaid but so obvious that it almost feels like an echo of your own thoughts.

The next time he comes in, it's the same—more small talk, more shared silence between the lines of conversation. But there's something different this time. There's a charge in the way he looks at you and the way his words hover between you. It's as if there's more he's not saying.

"Do you get off soon?" he asks one afternoon, his voice soft but laced with curiosity. It's the first time he's ever asked anything like that—something personal, something that makes you feel like maybe he's starting to see you as more than just a face behind the counter.

"Yeah, in about an hour," you answer, the words almost sounding foreign on your tongue. You hadn't realised how much you were looking forward to answering that question until the words left your lips. His question carries weight, his manner inviting you to share more.

He looks at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then tilts his head slightly, as if weighing something. There's a pause, a quiet heartbeat of time, before he speaks again. "Let's grab coffee," he says, his voice tentative. He's unsure how you'll react, afraid of pushing too far.

Your heart stutters in your chest, your mind racing. You want to say yes, you want to reach out and accept his offer, but the words get stuck somewhere between your throat and your lips. You feel a strange pull between you, a growing desire to get closer to him, and yet the fear of what that might mean keeps you frozen in place.

Ronin doesn't wait. Instead, he reaches into his pocket, his fingers brushing against something hidden there. His movements are slow and deliberate, as if he's giving you time to catch up, to process. He pulls out his phone and for a moment, the world narrows to this one simple action. He unlocks it, then turns it toward you, the screen glowing with his number ready and waiting.

"I don't know," he says confidently, a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "I'll give you my number. That way you don't have to think about it." His voice is quiet, but steady, offering you the chance to decide without pressure or expectation.

You stare at the screen, unsure, your heart pounding, and then you look up at him and see it—the faintest glimmer of something in his eyes, something vulnerable but also confident. He's waiting.

Everything else fades away for just a second. The racks of clothing, the constant hum of the store, the people who pass by without ever noticing you—it all disappears. At this moment, he is the only thing that matters. He is standing in front of you, offering you a piece of himself. You can feel your breath catch in your throat. Everything feels like it's hanging by a thread.

Without hesitation, you seize his phone, your fingers barely grazing his. The moment is suspended in the quiet space between you. You type your number in quickly, almost clumsily, and when you hand the phone back to him, you both know it's more than just numbers being exchanged. It's a door opening just a crack, but enough to let something new, something unspoken, begin to grow.

"I'll text you," you say, and the words feel strange, almost too forward, but they're real. You both know they are.

Ronin looks at you, his eyes softening just a little. There's a flicker of hope, or maybe just curiosity, in the way he gazes at you. "Good," he replies, voice steady, but there's something unspoken in the way he says it, something that feels like the beginning of something neither of you can control.

He slips his phone back into his pocket and nods slowly, almost imperceptibly. "See you later," he says, and this time, it doesn't feel like goodbye. It feels like the start of something new.

As he walks out, you can feel it – the shift, the undeniable change in the air. You're not sure where this is going, but you know, deep down, that this is just the beginning.

The coffee date is unforgettable; its warmth lingers long after it's over, and the cold night air is no match for its radiant warmth. The café was small and intimate, making the world outside feel distant and irrelevant. The conversations flowed easily, as if you had always known each other, as though the silences between words didn't matter, because the space between you was filled with something unspoken, something electric. You talked about music, life, those spaces that neither of you could quite fill, and in those exchanges, you felt more connected than you ever thought possible.

As the evening wound to a close and the last sip of coffee warmed you from the inside out, you both knew it wasn't really the end. Not yet. The night was still young, and Ronin wasn't in a hurry to go anywhere.

"I'll walk you home," he says, his voice low and casual, but there's something underneath it—an invitation that carries more weight than the words themselves.

You don't hesitate, nodding immediately. The air between you electric with anticipation. You are acutely aware of him, his presence filling the space around you, drawing you in without a word or touch. It's just him – Ronin, with his worn MCR shirt, his long, unruly hair, his steady gaze – and you, both moving through the darkening streets like two souls tethered together by something neither of you can fully explain.

The walk is quiet at first. The world seems to be holding its breath, watching the two of you, waiting for something to happen. The only sounds are the crunch of your footsteps on the pavement, the distant hum of cars, and the occasional rustle of the wind. Ronin glances at you, his eyes meeting yours, and there's a quiet understanding between you—a recognition that tonight is different, that something is shifting, something that neither of you can stop.

You walk in step with each other, neither of you rushing or eager to break the silence, because in this quiet, something feels more real than anything else. His presence is close, his hand just a hair's breadth away from yours, and every movement feels amplified, as if the world has shrunk down to this moment.

As you approach your building, the streets become darker, the lights of the city receding into the distance, yet the warmth of his proximity propels you forward. When you finally reach the corner by your building, you stop, and so does he. The air between you both is charged, the tension that's been building between you since the moment you met is palpable. It's as if everything has led up to this precise moment. His eyes search yours, his breath catches, his lips part as if he's about to say something, but he doesn't.

Instead, he steps closer, closing the distance until he's standing just a breath away. His gaze flickers down to your lips, and you feel the pull of it, the magnetic force drawing you in closer. It's as if the rest of the world disappears, leaving just him and this moment.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks, his voice soft and almost a whisper, as if he's afraid of pushing too far, afraid of scaring you off. The way he asks the question is strange. There's no force in it, no urgency. It's just a gentle curiosity, as if he's asking for permission to cross an invisible line between you.

You hesitate, your heart beating faster. You could say no, you could pull away, but you don't. Something in you, the part of you that's been quietly aching for him, wants to feel the weight of his lips against yours, wants to know what that spark between you feels like when it ignites. You feel a tension in your chest, almost unbearable, and when you look up at him again, his eyes are full of raw, open emotion that you can't refuse.

Instead, you answer him with the smallest, most uncertain nod.

And that's all he needs.

He moves in slowly, his hand reaching up to gently cup your cheek, his touch warm against your skin. His breath brushes over your lips, and for a moment, the entire world seems to still. You can feel his pulse, feel his heart racing in sync with your own, and then, without another word, his lips finally meet yours.

It's soft at first, tentative, as if he's waiting for you to pull back, to change your mind, but when you don't, when you lean into him just a little, the kiss deepens. It's slow and deliberate, as if he's savoring every moment and your connection. His lips are warm, his breath mingling with yours, and you can taste the remnants of coffee on his mouth, the bitterness now mixed with something sweeter.

The world narrows to just the two of you, standing on the edge of your building, lost in this kiss. You feel your heart race, feel the heat spreading through your chest, down to your fingertips, as if the entire universe has condensed into this one, perfect moment. His hand slides around to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss, and you let yourself fall into it, into him.

When he pulls away, it's slow, his forehead against yours, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. You remain silent, standing close together, as if you don't know how to move or break the spell.

"That was...," you begin, but the words trail off. You are unsure of what to say, unsure of what any of it means.

"Yeah," Ronin says confidently, his voice low and rough, "It was." He doesn't say more, the unspoken understanding between you two clear in the air. He doesn't pull away immediately, and neither do you. You stay there, like time has stopped, holding onto this fragile, beautiful moment.

Then, he leans back, his fingers brushing your hand one last time, his eyes lingering on yours with something unreadable, something soft. "Goodnight, [Your Name]," he says, his voice quieter now, tinged with sincerity that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Goodnight," you reply, though you're not sure how you're still standing, how you haven't melted into him completely. You do, your feet feeling almost unsteady as he steps back, slowly disappearing into the night, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, lips tingling with the taste of him.

The door to your building looms ahead, but you don't move. You stand, the echo of his kiss still humming through you, knowing that everything has changed. This wasn't just a kiss. It was a promise. A beginning.

[bluepeachstudios]

Hey Ghost, it's a Server Reference Update

Read Chapter 3 here!

For the @tmnt-crossover-polls !