#ronin killer chat fanfic

[npookie0]

Heya love ur writing 😎

I’ve been wondering how ronin would react to a reader who has anxiety about him being caught! Its interesting imagining how he would deal with that

Fears of the Soul.

Ronin x reader, reader is anxious about Ronin possibly getting caught, comfort

Words: 743

Cws: Spoilers for Killer Chat (base game etc), anxiety

"It's almost six, where is he?!" You said to yourself while checking the time on your phone screen 5 : 43 AM and Ronin was still nowhere to be found.

You were feeling the growing lump in your throat as your mind was racing to all different places with its imaginary skills. You cursed yourself for being a writer, because now you had many different scenarios of you boyfriend getting arrested, killed, shot by the cops, just caught. The fact that Ronin still wasn't back didn't calm you down either, or the lack of trophy pictures in #killer_shit from him, pinging you and writing some cheesy line to piss of some of the server's members (his favourite Vigilante) or to just get on your nerves.

This time he really did get on your nerves, the ones that made you stressed. You could barely swallow anything, or hold your phone without squeezing it.

This growing uncertainty was towering over you, making it impossible to focus even for a second without immediately thinking back to the image of Ronin in a jailcell... if the police officers don't end up shooting him there and then... wherever that may be.

You chuckled bitterly and dig your nails into your thighs. "Fuck, Beaufort where the hell are you?!" You whispered, frustration caused by the lack of knowledge of your boyfriend's safety and fear for his safety made you feel like you were going insane. Like you could just fall to your knees and beg the gods that despise your devilish boyfriend so much to just show you any signs of his presence.

"Well, well, well," A voice came from the entrance to Ronin's living room, because of course you were at his house. "what a sight... Just my favourite lil writer darlin' bein' so distressed."

You felt all the weight of emotions leave your body, but your nerves were still intact. You turned around, looked at the man behind you, his shit-eating grin making you see red.

You took a few steps forward, walking up to him, he wanted to wrap his arms around you, pull you in, talk about the fresh kill, but you didn't let him do that.

"You fucking idiot!" You shouted, clutching your hands in fists and raising them up and hitting his chest repeatedly.

He was startled, just looking at you and standing there with his arms open for an embrace. He grabbed you by your wrists, holding them gently and keeping them in one place.

"Hey baby, what got you so worked up? Wanna talk 'bout it?" Ronin asked, some concern in these black-nothing eyes of his.

You gritted your teeth. "What got me so worked up?" You looked up at him, tears running down your cheeks, all the emotions finally finding their way out.

"I was waiting for you, for three fucking hours! No message, no call, no nothing!" You tried to shout, but it sounded more like broken sobs.

His eyes widened in surprise, that cocky grin faltering when he saw just how many pent of emotions you were dealing with.

"Daring, I'm fin-"

"Great! Now you are, but what if... what if they caught you? What if they caught you and killed you or put you to jail?!" You were looking down at the floor, sobbing quietly.

Then your head jolted up when you heard laughing... Ronin was laughing. You couldn't place if the laughter was mocking or genuine, it sounded like a mix of both.

"What's so funny?!" You asked with your eyebrow raised.

Ronin let go of your wrists and pulled you in by your waist. "Oh baby, your worries are just hilarious. Me getting caught? Oh please, these idiots are too busy trying to get on the politician's good sides to even seek the Butcher." He chuckled and wiped the tears from your cheek.

"But they could try to-"

"Even if they did, they'd die before I'll ever set my foot in jail unwillingly." He was looking into your eyes, affection and amusement filled his gaze, melting your anger immediately. "I'm sorry for not showing any signs of being alive, I should've texted you, you're right." He nuzzled his forehead against yours. "Will you forgive me?"

"Promise to update me during your next kills?"

"On the devil's name, sweetheart." He whispered and kissed you, sweet and passionate.

An apology for misbehaving and stressing you out.

Even the Devil cares for his lover's worries... in his own way.

Hey, hey!

I hope you liked it !!!

Have a good timezone folks!!

Bye bye, love ya, N!

[puzzledprose]

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

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

Ronin NSFW for the 𝒻𝓇ℯ𝒶𝓀𝓈

Minors please DNI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[vandme12]

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

(Or if you’re too lazy do V?)

LOVE UR WORK BTWWW

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

🩸 Ronin (Devil’s Butcher)

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚖️ V (Vigilante)

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

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

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

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

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

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

💋 Angel (Heartsick Angel)

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

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

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

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

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

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

🔪 Misaki (Quirky Hitman)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Small V Wishing You Happy Birthday

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

Another rustle. Then a barely audible mutter.

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

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

But this?

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

You stare at each other.

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

You arch a brow. “You’re here.”

His jaw twitches. “It would seem so.”

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

“Happy birthday.”

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

His shoulders tense. “If you must.”

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

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

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

It’s your name.

Hand-etched.

Your stomach flips. “V…”

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

Of course, he did.

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

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

You blink.

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

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

He cares.

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

Your chest warms.

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

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

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

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

You grin. “Absolutely.”

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

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

[melani3-fel0ny]

Strawberry Sins

Pairing: Ronin x Reader

Summary: Ronin and you share an eerie yet tender strawberry-picking trip, where playful competition and unsettling intimacy blur the line between sweetness and darkness

---

The sun hung low, bleeding a honey-warm gold across the open fields. The strawberry farm was quiet this time of day—just a few stragglers wandering between the rows, plucking red from green and popping them into baskets with gentle hands. It was the kind of place that felt untouched by Ronin’s world. No flashing knives. No cryptic riddles. Just fruit and silence.

“You know,” he murmured beside you, brushing a strand of burgundy hair out from beneath his striped beanie, “I’ve never done something this… domestic.”

You looked over at him, his tall frame cutting a sharp silhouette against the sky. The boots, the leather, the devil horns poking from his hat—he stuck out like hellfire in a sunbeam. But his black eyes, x-pupiled and sharp as ever, softened when they landed on you.

“You say that like you’re not secretly enjoying it,” you teased, nudging him with your elbow.

Ronin smirked. “I am enjoying it. You’re here. And these strawberries look like they could bleed.”

You rolled your eyes, turning your attention back to the row in front of you. The bushes were heavy with fruit—glossy reds nestled under green leaves. You knelt down, reaching for one that looked particularly ripe.

Ronin watched you with a tilted head, a lazy sort of affection resting behind his eyes. “That one’s a good pick, Darling.”

You glanced up at him, proud. “Thought so.”

His boots crunched on the path as he moved closer. “But…” He reached past you, plucking a strawberry from the bush behind. It was almost comically large—round, deep red, flecked with tiny golden seeds.

He held it up beside yours. “Mine’s bigger.”

You stared at the two berries, then at him. “You had to one-up me, huh?”

“Of course,” he said, grinning. “It’s how I flirt.”

You reached for the massive berry and took it gently from his fingers. “Then I guess I’ll let you win… this time.”

Ronin hummed lowly, the sound nearly a purr. “Careful, Darling. If you spoil me, I’ll get used to it.”

He leaned down, lips brushing just above your ear. “And I’m very hard to unspoil.”

---

You walked in sync down the row, sun warming your skin and the scent of crushed leaves lingering underfoot. Ronin’s basket swung lazily from one hand, the other occasionally darting out to swipe strawberries he deemed “worthy of his satanic standards.” You were pretty sure that just meant “shiny and weird-looking.”

“Hey, Darling,” he said suddenly, holding up one shaped like a tiny heart. “It’s you.”

You snorted. “Because I’m sweet?”

“No.” He grinned wide, showing teeth. “Because if I bite you, you’ll stain.”

You tossed a strawberry at his chest. He caught it with inhuman reflexes, smirking as he bit into it slowly—eyes locked on yours like a challenge.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, face hot.

“And you love it,” he replied without skipping a beat.

Eventually, your basket was half-full, arms getting tired. You spotted a tree off to the side, just beyond the last row. Tall, leafy, shaded—the perfect spot to sit and breathe.

“Break time,” you announced, already walking.

Ronin followed without question, letting you collapse onto the grass with a sigh. He sat beside you, one leg outstretched, the other bent just enough for you to lean against if you wanted to. His fingers absentmindedly pulled a blade of grass apart.

You watched him in the dappled light. There was always something strange about seeing him like this—out of the server, away from the blood and the games and the darkness he wove so easily around himself. He looked almost… peaceful. Like the violence was sleeping inside him, purring instead of growling.

He turned to you, one brow raised. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said, smiling softly. “Just thinking.”

Ronin leaned back on his palms, looking up through the tree branches. “About how hot I looked holding that giant-ass strawberry?”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder playfully. “No. But now I am.”

He turned to you again, slower this time, something quieter in his expression. “You’re good at this, you know,” he murmured. “Making me feel like I’m not a monster for a bit.”

You blinked. His voice was light, like he wasn’t trying to make it deep, but the words hung heavy between you.

“You’re not a monster, Ronin,” you said softly.

He looked at you like he wanted to believe it—but couldn’t. Instead, he leaned in and rested his head on your shoulder, sighing so deeply it felt like something inside him cracked open just a little.

“I kill people,” he said.

“I know.”

“I’m not gonna stop.”

“I know that too.”

A beat of silence.

“But you still brought me strawberry picking,” he said.

You smiled. “Yeah. I figured if you’re going to rot in hell, you should at least know what summer tastes like.”

Ronin snorted, kissing your shoulder through your shirt. “God, I love you.”

---

The moment lingered longer than you expected.

Ronin’s head on your shoulder, the hum of bugs in the distance, the scent of overripe berries clinging to your clothes. For a minute, the world felt... suspended. Fragile.

And then he moved.

He sat up slowly, brushing grass from his jacket and glancing over at you. His eyes weren’t soft anymore—still calm, but not soft. Something flickered behind them, that same spark he got when someone bled too beautifully in one of his stories.

“I ever tell you why I like strawberries?” he asked suddenly.

You raised a brow. “Because they’re red and juicy and vaguely phallic?”

He snorted. “Well, yeah. But there’s another reason.”

He picked one from your basket and held it up between his fingers. “Y’know how they rot? Not quietly. Not like apples or peaches. Strawberries decay fast. They swell and sag and bruise and burst. Turn into mush in days.”

“Okay...?”

“And it’s beautiful,” he murmured, eyes locked on the fruit like it held a secret. “How fast something so sweet can go bad. Like they’re not pretending. They don’t rot slowly—they commit.”

You stared at him.

He popped the berry into his mouth with a satisfied hum. “Anyway. That’s why I like ‘em.”

“…You’re unwell,” you muttered, nudging him with your foot.

“And yet,” he leaned closer, licking juice off his fingers, “you keep kissing me like I’m holy.”

You didn’t have a good comeback to that. He was close now—close enough to see the red stain at the corner of his mouth, to smell the sugary tang of strawberry and smoke clinging to him.

Then, suddenly, he leaned back.

"Alright, show me what you got," he said, flicking a hand toward your basket.

You blinked. “Huh?”

“Biggest berry. Let’s go, Darling. Bet you I’ve got one that’ll beat it.”

You rummaged through your basket, eventually pulling out one that was fat and heart-shaped, warm from the sun. “This one.”

Ronin let out a low whistle. “Damn, look at you. That’s actually decent.”

You beamed proudly—until he reached into his own basket with a dramatic flourish.

He pulled out a monstrosity of a strawberry, it was almost obscene.

“Behold,” he said, placing it on your palm beside yours. “Mine’s still bigger.”

You stared.

“You know size isn’t everything, right?”

Ronin grinned like the devil himself. “Tell that to my body count.”

You choked on your laugh, shaking your head. “You’re insufferable.”

He leaned in again, eyes darker now, lips brushing your ear. “And yours.”

---

The sun had started to dip by the time you and Ronin packed up your baskets—both brimming with stolen sweetness and sticky with juice. The field had quieted, most families already gone, leaving behind crumpled napkins and half-squashed fruit underfoot.

Ronin walked beside you along the narrow dirt path back toward the parking lot, his jacket slung over one shoulder now, revealing the ink and scars laced down his arms. He was whistling something—a slow, off-kilter melody you didn’t recognize. It sounded old. Unsettling. Like something your grandma might hum during a storm.

“You ever think about it?” he said suddenly, breaking the lull.

“Think about what?”

“This,” he gestured vaguely at the world. “Like, how fucking stupidly normal things can be sometimes. Like we could be two nobodies just… walking home with berries.”

You looked over at him. “We are two nobodies walking home with berries.”

“Nah.” He smiled faintly. “I’m not normal. And you—” he paused, eyeing you with something unreadable, “you’ve got blood on your hands whether you see it or not.”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you disagreed.

But because you’d seen the way his expression shifted when he looked at you—like you were a crime he was still figuring out how to commit properly. Not rushed. Not messy. Something worthy of his time.

The parking lot came into view.

You were about to speak—ask him something dumb just to fill the space—when he stopped walking.

You turned back to find him standing in the middle of the path, eyes on you. And for a heartbeat, everything slowed.

He stepped forward, slow, deliberate.

“You got strawberry on your lip,” he murmured.

You went to wipe it away, but he caught your wrist.

“Let me.”

He leaned in—and kissed you.

Not rough. Not teasing.

It was soft. Slower than you thought he was capable of. His lips were warm, sun-flushed, and sticky with sugar. His hand stayed at your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like you were something breakable.

Like he knew how easily he could ruin you.

When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours.

“…Still sweet,” he whispered.

You didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

He reached for your hand and laced his fingers through yours like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just tasted you like a last meal.

The two of you walked the rest of the way in silence.

Baskets full. Fingers red.

And behind you, the sun bled into the sky.

---

[coffeecqke]

The Thrill of the Kill

written by coffeecqke

Y/N x Ronin - Killer Chat!

WARNINGS: Murder, ‘Gore’, Suggestive scene

So today’s the day. Today is the day you suck it up and do as he asked. As your devil wanted. Your nerves are as active as ever, adrenaline pumping through your veins and you haven’t even done anything yet.

Just the thought of actually killing someone scares you but also… excites you in a way? You’ve heard all your friends Misaki, Angel, Feli, so many of them talk about their murders. You’re finally going to join them, you won’t be the odd one out.

You’re not just gonna be a writer anymore…

You have already planned a target and a method, you just need to get your ‘materials.’

You grab your duffel bag, crowbar, and cleaning products. You mustn’t get caught on your first kill, it has to be perfect. Ronin has to be proud.

You stuff your bag full and head out, on your way to the victim’s house.

The victim is a woman, probably in her late twenties. She’s got long, ginger, silky hair and vibrant green eyes.

Normally, you’d probably go for a man.

But this girl.

This girl flirted with Ronin and expected to get away with it. That’s not happening.

The crowbar fits nicely in the back of her head, spewing out blood onto you. Good thing you’re prepared, isn’t it?

You swing your crowbar again, this time catching her neck. You listen as her screams turn to gurgles and…

Silence.

Now, it’s time to harvest her aorta!

The knife slides smoothly through her bare chest, perfect.

With your gloves on, you push your hand inside of the hole you made, fishing out her heart.

You’ve seen enough of Ronin’s grotesque murders to be nauseated by this one.

—

<goreboy>: Y/N

<goreboy>: you Up for coming Over?

<Y/N>Let’s meet in Purgatory. <3

<goreboy>: damn, Alright.

<goreboy>: Got something Planned?

<Y/N>: Maybe… :3

—

You stand in Purgatory as you wait for Ronin, holding your duffel bag.

He strides into the alleyway, looking for you. “Y/N! Whatchu got there, darlin’?” Ronin called out to you and you smiled wide. “Ro! I got you a present, I think you’ll like it a lot.” You ran up to him, wrapping your arms around his neck, and he wrapped his around your waist. “Mhm? What is it, doll? Show me.” You both let go and you begin to unzip your duffel bag. Ronin watched intently, grinning. You pulled out the heart you carved out of the woman and handed it to Ronin. Your cheeks flushed. You had always told Ronin you’d kill for him, but never kept your word. Now you’re finally proving how much he means to you and your heart began racing.

Ronin took the heart, placing his free hand on your cheek. He gave you a kiss, “Fuck, darlin’, your first kill? What have I done to my pretty little writer?” Ronin grinned, “Good fuckin’ job, baby. I’m so proud.”

He leaned in, kissing your lips. You kissed back, deepening it. He slid his tongue between your lips, tangling with yours, exploring your mouth like an uncovered cave. His hand found the back of your head, lightly gripping your hair. A small moan escaped from your mouth, your hands wrapping back around his neck. Ronin broke the kiss to place kisses down your chin, down your neck, and went onto leaving hickeys on your collarbones. Sucking, biting, leaving red marks all around.

“You wanna take this somewhere else.. or fuck here?” He spoke in a deep voice, his eyes darkened by lust. You felt your face go hot, imagining taking him in his favorite alleyway.

“Here…” You squeaked. You could feel yourself beginning to drip, thinking of all the possibilities.

“Fuck, I love you, darlin’.” He spoke with a grin.

[6feathered6siren6]

Dating the chaotic duo(Misaki x Ronin x Reader)

Trigger warning

Death/killing

Gore

A lot of Fluff(My friend said this was rotten sweet fluff)

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

Asking anyone, is dating a killer dangerous? Depending on the person, there were multiple responses. 

Yes, they killed someone, they could kill you at any time

Depends on why they killed someone

If you love them, sure, but don’t drag anyone into the messy drama after

From your best friend, they gave the response, “You need to stop being attracted to red flags. And no, do not date any killers. You are only gonna get yourself killed.” And did you ignore them? Yes, yes you did. Twice in fact. Dating the Devil’s butcher and an assassin. How wrong could your best friend be? 

Very wrong, apparently.

ཐི♡ཋྀ

Example 1: 

It was you and Misaki up in your apartment, both of you had that giddy, stupidly in love smile. Your foreheads were touched with that sweet laughter from Misaki. Sure, it was weird that just about an hour ago, she killed someone. But smaller details, huh?

“I can’t believe that I’m holding you, that you are in my arms right now. God, I'm sooo gonna annoy you for a long, long time. Well, until I have to go back, but I will definitely get a visa and-”

You interrupted her with a kiss on her lips. “Let’s leave the planning for later, for now, I just want to savor this moment with you.”

“Right, right. I am so gonna cuddle you for so long, you won’t escape from me,” She holded a smile that screamed havoc. 

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

Example 2:

It was pouring outside, and you were in your living room, typing away on your laptop. You were sipping away from your drink, when you heard your door unlock and the door open. Hearing it close and a slop sound. You look over at the door to see a drenched Ronin. To you, he looked like a wet cat to you. 

You snickered out, with a reaction of a glare from him. “Not gonna help me, Darlin’?” 

“Nope, it seems you got it, Ronin.” You looked back to your laptop. Getting back into your thought process to only feel a cold, wet arm around your neck, moving you back. You screeched as you felt your back get wetter by the moment. Nor longer warm, you shrieked with Ronin chuckling now. “Wanne help out now?”

“Yes, yes. God, you are co-ld. Please, mercy.” You yelled out. He was cold like a corpse to you. He was laughing at your pain as he stayed close to you, getting your clothes even more wet.

“Nah, since you wanna be mean, I’ll let you suffer, since you want me to suffer.” You were scrambling to get away from him and his coldness, but it was Ronin. He was stronger than you, so leaving little to no possibility to get out on your own.

“Alright, alright, I’ll help! Ple-ease! You are cold!” You screamed out, and finally taking your answer, he lets you go. You felt your now somewhat drenched shirt, you wanted to change. You glared up at him. “Asshole.”

“Oh, so you wanna still wanna suffer then?” He looked down with mischief. 

“No, nope. I’m good.” You got up from the couch, pulling the back off your shirt further away from your back. “Now, go take a shower, and warm up. Geez, it felt like you were a corpse.” He leans with a smile. “No. Go take a shower. I’m sure I still have some of your pjs somewhere.” 

As you were about to start walking off, Ronin pulled you into a kiss. “Truth or dare after I shower?” 

You sighed, as you looked up at him. “Fine. Only if we can cuddle later.”

“Such a demanding Darlin’.”

‧₊˚ ⋅  𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Example 3: 

For some reason, all three of you decided to have dinner at your place. So after a whole grocery adventure, leading to Misaki wanting to grab instant noodles or candy, or Ronin wanting to grab food not even related to the dinner, the three of you agreed. To say the least, you were the only one on task. Thankfully. 

As the bags were sent down onto the counter, you guys agreed to have breakfast for dinner. Waffles, eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, juice, and some fruit. It was your request from the magic hat of choosing, or at least an online wheel you guys made a month ago since all of you couldn’t decide. 

“So, who wants what job?” You offered as you started pulling things out of the bags. 

“I’ll take cutting things, you both know I’m good with that.” Ronin said he sat on one of the island chairs, leaning on his elbow on the counter. Misaki was jumping in excitement at that thought, you knew he was good by the pictures from the server. 

Sighing out, “Fine, just don’t cut yourself.” You grabbed one of your knives and handed it to him. “So you got cutting fruit and a job I’m giving you is also making the waffles. Then Misaki?”

“Oo, oo, oo. I can make the batter! And toast the bread!” She was pulling out the flour, sugar, baking soda, and the loaf of bread. 

“Then that leaves me to make the bacon and eggs. I’m sure nothing will go wrong.” 

You just had to jinx it, did you?

All three of you got flour all over yourselves. Misaki threw flour at Ronin for something you didn’t really hear since you were paying attention to the eggs. And they were having a flour fight, and Ronin, being himself, invited you to the fight. By throwing flour at you. 

By the time the breakfast was done, you three were covered in flour and waffle batter(Ronin did that one as well). 

“You look darling as a ghost. Both of you do.” Ronin was the least amount covered, which ticked you off. He was the first to throw things at you specifically. How is this taller bastard less covered than you and Misaki? 

You looked at Misaki as she looked back at you, both of you had that glint. Misaki opened her arms a little, and you nod. As Ronin turned away, the both of you hugged the male, making him cover into a mess as well. 

“Didn’t want you to miss out, Ronin.” You sweetly said to him. He looked down at both of you. 

“Come on, Ronin, get as messy as us.” Then pause. “Wait… that sounded way too wrong.” You see their faces explode into red. Laughing at their embarrassment, you felt Ronin put a hand on your hand as well as Misaki’s head. 

“As messy as I like it, I wanna change, plus, it’s my turn to pick the movie we are watching.” You loosen your grip to look at him, almost like you were in danger. 

“No…” You softly said, feeling the dread come in. Misaki, who also understood what he was gonna mention. 

“Yes, since both of you made me watch Heathers, and kept comparing me to JD. I’m so gonna make you watch it.” He said, his voice was deeply like venom.

⋆

The movie? Was kinda meh in your opinion, but only because you grossed out by some of the overly bloody murder scenes. And you had both killers pointing out the misinformation of the movie.

Example 4: 

All three of you were in bed, Misaki was in the middle, Ronin was on the left, and you were on the right. The window was close to you, shining light over the three of you. You woke up after a harsh dream, so you were just watching the three sleep. 

As much as you try to make fun of Ronin, saying he snored, was a lie. He was quiet, and the moment he fell asleep, he acted like he’s dead. Barely moving except for his breathing. Misaki was holding you like their own personal teddy bear. She moves slightly but not too harshly. You move some of her hair away from their face. 

The smile on your face was soft and light. It was a truly happy, quiet moment between the three. Ronin and Misaki are quite loud when hyper, but who can say? You also indulge into their acts of tomfoolery. You savored this moment until you felt a hand on your cheek. 

“What’s rattling in that head of yours?” Ronin was awake. His voice sounded deeper and quiet. Mostly not to wake the person in between them. 

“Just a bad dream. Nothing to worry about.” You felt his thumb move on your cheek. Soothing your nerves, he just raitated calmness and love into his touch. “Promise.”

“If there was nothing to worry about, you would still be asleep than awake in the witchen hours.” He grunted out. You felt his dark eyes on you. 

“Just a dumb nightmare, I’ll be fine, now why are you up?” You finally look at him in his eyes. 

“Dunno, just woke up. Might be because you are awake.” 

“Ahh.” You felt his hand move up to play with your hair. 

“Why are we awake? It’s like so fuckin’ early.” Misaki grunted out into your arms. They shifted into your arms, like they were trying to get further into you. 

“Well, Darlin’ woke up from a grotesque dream, not spilling their lips. A shame.”

“Rrreeaadderrr… Come on.” She looks up at you. “We are here to support you, we are your partners, after all.” 

“I know, I know. Just this dream is a bit different. Let me have a moment with it.” The dream was both of them trying to kill you, you knew it was a small chance to have that actually happen. But… You didn’t want them to know. To know that you somewhat still fear them.

“Well, whatever it is, must be dumb. Now please, it is really too early to be awake, and I want to see what carnival fair is in person.” That’s right, it must have slipped your mind. You and Ronin wanted to show a fair to Misaki. You just wanted to be cliche into the ferris wheel. 

You kissed her forehead. “Alright, alright.” You see them fall asleep, leaving both you and Ronin away. You look up at him in the nightly light from your window. You felt his hand leave your head and see it pull both you and Misaki closer to him. 

“You got both killers near you. If there’s a danger, you know I would bash them, and Misaki would kill it with their rifle. Now go back to bed, I don’t want to see a peeved Reader, because you didn’t get enough sleep tomorrow.” He kissed your forehead, and laid his arm around you and Misaki.

You had sweet dreams after that.

Example 5:

Sometimes, you forget you literally date killers. After all the sweet moments, it puts red tinted glasses on your nose. 

It’s past midnight, and both Misaki and Ronin decided to go out in the alleyways. The carnival fair was great, you and Ronin got Misaki a gift, and she won prizes at the shooting games. Which you kept saying being an assassin is cheating. Minor points aside. Ronin is in the mood to kill someone, Misaki is for the thrill, meanwhile, you just want to go home. But, you didn’t want to be left out, and just alone, afterall, it is a date.

You were sitting on the boxes in Ronin’s alley, watching him and Misaki talk. You look back on memories you had with the two of them, they’re sweet to you in their own ways. You look at your hands, wondering how far this is gonna go. And hopefully, a very long time. 

CRACK

You look over to see Ronin split someone head open. You could see the poor soul’s head open. But you can also see who it was, it was some hotshot ceo. Apparently from the rumors you get from your journalism job, you heard that he was an asshole, flirted with any woman near him, and cheated constantly on his girlfriend. His girlfriend was also abused by him, stealing her money for his company. Well, luckily for her, he’s dead. 

Misaki startled you by sitting next to you, and she snickered at you jumping. You shoved their shoulders as Ronin started talking. 

“So what message should be sent this time? Pentagram?” 

Jumping in her seat, “Oo, oo, oo! What about something romantic, finish the night strong!” 

Ronin looks up with a grin, humming from contemplation. “Reader, what do you think?” 

You thought for a moment. “What about his aorta?”

Ronin stared at you for a moment before walking over and holding a knife to you. “How about you carve it for me, Darlin’?”

Right.. That promise you made when you were flirting with him before. You cringed at the thought, but sighed. A promise is a promise. You took the knife and walked over with him. Misaki was watching you. 

You slowly do the process, luckily Ronin has told you how to do it when you were writing your novel. If you make a mistake Ronin would just either let you fail or just correct you. If you weren’t literally carving out someone’s heart, it would be another sweet blissful date. 

After a quite messy and bloody moment, you had the asshole’s heart in your hand. You hand it into Ronin with both hands. 

“It’s not my own heart, but… an offering ‘till then.” You said with a smile, it was sweet and loving, his grin was plastered on his face. Misaki was near Ronin, looking at it. 

“I can’t believe you collect these, Ronin. Instead of the tooth fairy, you could be a body collector. ‘Gotta make my own makeshift body’. Frankenstein kinnie.” Which made you snort, not expecting that. 

“You mean the doctor who made him, hot stuff. We might have to watch it if you didn’t know.” Ronin said. 

“When it’s your turn, Ronin. I have next pick.” You said starting to walk to your place once again. Of course to change and cuddle. After all, it was the last night Misaki would be here. They have to go back to Japan again.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

I feel like I didn't write Misaki as much but I will want to expand the poly couple. And yes, I wrote this for me and purely for me. Love the duo. Anyway, it is late for me, I'm gonna pass out, this will be posted on ao3 when I get the moment to.

Words: 2,365

[rottenorchids]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[cloudss-space]

You were special

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in that final, suffocating breath, you disappeared.

[miscretis]

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

CG art by: munstxr

WRITER'S NOTE

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

CW:

- Cringe

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

- Coarse Language

❣️

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

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

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

ERROR!UNKNOWN sent you a file.exe

ERROR!UNKNOWN: ReceivedKey: k!llrch8t_b00t.mango

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

What the fuck? What is this?

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

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

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

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

You then clicked on the link.

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

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

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

Well, shit.

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

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

…

Just kidding, come on inside.

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

<goreboy> welcome the Newly Christened @user

<hitmeuppp> AAA omg omg!! welcome to helllllll

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> WELCOME WELCOME HIIIIIII

<felicite> Nice to meet you!

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

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

there is Barely Anything but You Never Know

…

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

Oh god

You checked the rules.

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

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

Maybe this is just an intense roleplaying server

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

…

Maybe I’ll just play along…for now..

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

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

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

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

A discord kitten

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

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

…

Fine, I'll play it this way then.

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

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

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

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

[f0urz0mbyz]

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

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

Ronin made me do it.

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

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

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

Ronin made me do it.

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

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

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

You are predictable, after all. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He truly was,

The Devil.

~ a one shot by f0ur-zombyz

[l0verclown]

From pressured to driven Part 2

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

Especially if 4 serial killers are the ones pressuring you.

Slight ronin x reader

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

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

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

Part 1:

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

*Ding!*

A notification?

Dear Reader,

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

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

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

I wish you the best of luck on this.

Kind regards

Your boss.

You have to be serious. Five whole articles?

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

19:21...

Fuck.

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

Greg...

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

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

*Ding!*

Another notification..?

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

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

@SerialMC: Uhh..

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

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

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

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

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

"EYY READER, WHERE ARE YOU!?"

"I have a feeling they left"

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

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

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

Fuck fuck fuck.

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

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

"Yooo Reader it's me Greg!"

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

"Oh hey.. Greg."

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

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

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

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

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

"Confess.. What?"

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

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

Like. Him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Is this your end?

No.

It is not.

You can change

Maybe they will say you became corrupted.

But was it really, if it originated from fear?

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

"You know what i want..."

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

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

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

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

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

You turned around, hearing the voices of your friends

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

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

"... The sight is gruesome"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"YOO IS THAT A SLEEPOVER I HEAR!?"

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

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

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

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

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

"A sleepover it is, then."

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

weird..

You have this odd feeling that doesn't go away

It feels like a craving.

More killing, it screams your name.

You feel like killing more people.

Their agony, your pleasure.

Time to show them what you have become.

[npookie0]

A Day To Celebrate.

Ronin x reader scenario, reader's birthday with their partner, fluff, cutsy, maybe some swears and spoilers for the route.

Wish me a happy birthday in the comments, wouldja darlin'? On Feb 3rd your fav lil writer blessed this earthly vale with their presence.

Ronin Beaufort - The Devil.

"Ronin, it's three in the morning. Why the fuck are calling me now?!" You murmured to your phone, or rather to the person on the other side of a call that woke you up.

Ronin, your boyfriend and the most annoying bastard known to mankind, called you out of nowhere and very rudely woke you up.

Seriously, can't you even sleep on your own birthday? Right. It's your birthday, one year closer to death, or however your edgy boyfriend would call it. You wanted to have a good night's sleep for once in the three hundred sixty five days the year offered you, but yet again, someone can't let you have this moment of peace.

"Awh, did I wake you up, writer darlin'? Tsktsk, well too bad. We're heading out, I'm at your door so chop chop." What. No way, no way he wasn't serious...

You jumped out of your bed, practically ran to your window and looked out of it. There he was. Bathed in shadows and darkness, his signature beanie with red horns on his head, phone to his ear while he was looking at your bedroom window. You could swear that he had that shit eating grin glued to his face even tho you couldn't see him clearly.

"What are you doing at my door at three in the morning?" You didn't know if you were more annoyed at him, or at the stupid butterflies in your stomach that were trying to tear your flesh apart from inside.

His chuckle filled your ears and you knew that you were already lost in his game. "It's a surprise love, don't worry, I'm sure you'll like it. Just get yourself all dolled up, but don't take too long. It would be a shame if I had to break down your door."

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The call has ended and you were left staring at him through your window. Fucking Beaufort! Always meddling in and knowing that you will always agree to everything. Maybe it's his rot influencing you, or maybe you're just so fucked up on your own, you didn't know - even though you chose to give yourself the benefit of the doubt and went with the former.

You left your house, greeted by a whistle and cup of coffee being placed in your hand. You looked at Ronin who was looking you up and down, satisfied with the view.

"Well, well, what an eye candy you are, truly a lil piece of art." He complimented you and kissed your forehead.

"Oh please, cut the compliments. Why are you waking me up at this ungodly hour." He snickered at your comments. Ungodly. A word perfectly fitting the antichrist. Sometimes you wondered how much of this devil-may-care attitude was really just his way of adapting to being made the devil in his childhood and how much of it was truly him.

"Oh, don't be like that darling." He gave you a pout and snickered when you punched his shoulder. "Feisty, just how I like you."

"Beaufort " You gave him a warning stare.

"Alright, alright, I'll tell ya." Ronin put his arms up in a defeated way. "I'm taking you out, 's your birthday and I, as the most devilishly amazing boyfriend you could ever ask for, have a little something for you." If it wasn't for his high ego and the late hour you would smile and call him sweet, but you can't give him that compliment when your body still desperately needs sleep.

"So, this plan of yours couldn't wait for the sun to be out?" You raised your eyebrow and sipped the coffee he gave you, at least something to keep you awake.

"Nah, it has to be now or the gift wouldn't be as exquisite as it is. And trust me, once you see it, you'll be thanking me for waking you up "

You rolled your eyes but with a small smile you took his outstretched hand. "Alright then Romeo, lead the way." You said jokingly.

"Awh sorry to disappoint you, love, but we're not dying at the end. You have to put the poison away for now, Juliet." What a romantic thing to say, especially when it's coming from a serial killer.

Finally after a long motorcycle drive the two of you arrived at a place you never seen before. Well, you couldn't exactly see anything now either, there were no street lights, just you two and the moon looming over the whole damn place, romantic and dangerous at the same time, just like your favourite serial killer.

"So you wanted to show me complete darkness? That's such a nice birthday surprise Ro, really." You said with a sarcastically sweet voice.

"And I thought you were the smartie, sweetheart." He pinched your cheek. "Obviously there's something more, come on." He took you by the hand and started walking, pulling you behind.

While you were walking you felt tall grass and flowers rubbing against your legs, you were obviously going through a narrow path because Ronin had to go in front of you. Your eyes were slowly adjusting to the surroundings, you could see an outline of flowers, they were white that's all you could tell so far.

Finally, after a short walk, you could see a weak light on the ground in the distance, something like an electric lantern. Your curiosity grew stronger with every second. What could Ronin possibly prepare for you? A dead body came to mind first, probably one with its heart cut out and some romantic meaning behind the "art piece". It's not like you wouldn't appreciate it, it's a gift... A very peculiar one at that.

"Are ya ready?" He asked, his voice a little shaky, like he's stressed by this gift he was about to give you. Somehow it made you more excited. If it caused Ronin to be so concerned, then it had to come from his heart even if he would play it off as being nonchalant later.

"Well you did wake me up at three in the morning and rode me here for an hour, so yeah, I'm ready Ronin." Your remark about the journey was light-hearted, you wanted to calm him down a little.

"Hah, you're damn right." With a more relaxed voice he took a few final steps and you could see the gift he has prepared.

"No dead bodies? What a shame, Butcher." You teased him and looked around.

In front of you there was a lantern, lighting up a small circle that you and him were standing in. You could get a better look at your surroundings now. You were standing in a meadow.... A meadow full of white lilies. It was mesmerising, the flowers bathed in the weak light.

"'s not the main part of the gift, but..." Ronin's hushed voice came from behind you, and his hand pushed your head up. "Look up, darlin'." You did as he told you to and...

Oh gods the view was just perfect. A sunrise in the horizon, weakly lighting up the world, making the white flowers pop even more. You were just mesmerised by this.

"Ronin this is..."

"Worth waking up so early?" He finished your sentence jokingly.

"I was about to say beautiful but sure, have it your way, idiot." You elbowed him and scoffed. "So what's the main gift?" You looked at him now, he was holding something behind his back.

His eyes were locked on yours, the dark void trapping you in itself like destruction.

"I've got something, it's... I made this." His voice was rushed when he handed you a box.

It was small, not bigger than a jewelry box. You were curious, especially since he said it was handmade. You slowly lifted the lid and the thing you saw inside made your heart stop for a second.

Inside was a thin chain with a pendant, the pendant was a small skull with a lily in one of its eyes. You moved it between your fingers, at the skull's back there was an engraved letter "R" symbolising him.

"... It's not the best thing I've made but uh I tried." You looked up from the gift, Ronin wasn't even looking at you. He was shy? Or maybe embarrassed? He was kinda cute like this....

You didn't know what to say, no words would describe the happiness his gift gave you. So instead of saying anything you pulled him into a tight hug.

"Ronin, thank you. This means so much to me, I'll never take this off." You whispered, clenching the necklace in your hand.

"Hah, I told ya that you'd like it." Oh, and the nonchalant asshole is back.

You were smiling the whole way home, sometimes raising your hand to the pendant just to feel it again. And to think that this small gift would make you so happy....

It was truly a magical beginning of a birthday full of surprises for you.

I'm so happy to be able to share my birthday with all my amazing readers 🫶 I love you all

- N

(await more fics now because I'll get a laptop (hopefully!!!) and I have super great plans for my future writings and maybe a lil special piece I'm working on with someone 👀)

[puzzledprose]

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

Well since you asked so nicely 😙

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

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

Ronin x Reader: General HC

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

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

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

But if YOU wear anything he got from a victim…

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

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

Okay Nsfw time

*Shoos minors away with a broom*

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

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

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

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

He will go insane if you suck his Tdick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope you enjoyed ♥️ 🔪

[vandme12]

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

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

V

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

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

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

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

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

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

Misaki

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ronin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[melani3-fel0ny]

Dead Girl Dialing

Pairing: Ronin x Reader

Summary: After a night spiraling out of control, you find yourself on Ronin's doorstep. You’re done playing it safe. You’ve got one night left to live like a dead girl walking—and he answers the door with a smirk.

(18+ content marked with 🥀 & a clear warning)

---

You didn’t even realize you were running until your legs started to burn.

Streetlights blurred into smears. Your fingers were shaking. Your phone was almost dead.

Everything felt wrong, but the only thing that made sense—sick, awful sense—was the address you’d typed into your phone so many times before but never used.

Ronin’s place.

You’d been spiraling since the chat. Since the message.

Someone was going to die tonight, and you weren’t sure it wouldn’t be you.

So what was left to lose?

You stood at his door, one hand clenched into a fist, the other trembling over his door.

And then—you knocked.

No turning back now.

The door swung open. Light spilled into the dark hallway.

And there he was.

Leaning on the frame like he knew this was coming. Like he wanted you to come undone at his feet. Black beanie pulled low, burgundy strands of hair curling at his cheekbones, those devil-horn accessories poking up like punctuation marks to his smug expression.

“Darling,” he drawled, voice honeyed and thick, like sin. “You look like you just crawled out of hell. Should I be flattered or concerned?”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him. Eyes wide, chest heaving.

Ronin tilted his head. Studied you like prey.

“Say the word,” he whispered, “and I’ll ruin you or save you. You pick.”

You stepped inside.

The door slammed shut behind you.

---

His room smelled like leather, incense, and something sharp and metallic.

You didn’t stop walking until your back hit the wall. And then you just stared at him.

“I don’t want to think,” you muttered. “Not tonight. Not anymore.”

Ronin’s gaze burned.

“Someone’s feeling reckless.”

You stepped closer.

“You said you’d ruin me,” you said. “Do it.”

That made something in him crack.

A low laugh poured out of his throat. Not mocking—hungry.

“Darling,” he murmured, closing the distance like a shadow with a heartbeat, “you don’t ask the devil to dance unless you’re ready to burn.”

You grabbed his shirt. Yanked him toward you.

“I’m already on fire.”

---

Your lips crashed together like the start of a war.

His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, threading into your hair, dragging you closer like he could feel your pulse through his teeth.

You didn’t care that it was fast. Or messy. Or that your back hit his mattress with a muffled thud and he followed like he was about to carve his name into your bones.

This wasn’t about love. It wasn’t even about comfort.

It was about surrender.

“Look at you,” he growled, trailing his mouth down your neck, biting just hard enough to make you gasp. “You’re shaking like a confession.”

“You talk too much,” you breathed, dragging him down again.

He smirked against your skin. “That’s rich coming from the one who knocked on my door like a loaded gun.”

You let him undress you in pieces, as if each layer was a sin being peeled away.

And you didn’t stop him.

---

He was gentle and brutal in equal measure.

One second kissing your throat like it was sacred, the next biting your collarbone like it had offended him.

But it wasn’t just about the lust.

It was how he looked at you—like this was the last time he’d ever see something pure. Like your ribs were a cathedral and he was kneeling at the altar.

You whispered his name once and it made him pause.

Just for a second.

Then he muttered, “You shouldn’t say it like that, darling. Makes me want to keep you.”

“You don’t have to,” you said. “I’m already yours.”

That was the moment he lost it.

---

🥀—18+ content begins now—

---

Ronin’s lips were at your throat again—biting, sucking, leaving bruises with intent.

“Don’t want you hiding these,” he murmured, teeth scraping down your shoulder. “I want everyone to know who you begged for tonight, Darling.”

You pulled him down harder, clawing at his shirt, tugging it off like it offended you.

And when his mouth found your chest, you gasped—hands knotting in his hair as he kissed a path between soft flesh, slow and sinful, murmuring, “So fuckin’ perfect.”

He slid down, grinning like the devil as he kissed your stomach, mouthing, “Say it, baby.”

“Ronin,” you whispered, breath stuttering.

He hummed against your skin. “No, say what you want.”

“I want your mouth.”

He looked up at you, pupils blown wide. “You have it.”

And then he devoured you.

His mouth was relentless—tongue curling, lips dragging, nose pressing against where you needed him most. He moaned like you were doing something to him, gripping your thighs like lifelines, spreading them wider just to taste deeper.

You tried to stay quiet, but he liked that. Pulled back, eyes dark.

“Be loud for me,” he said. “No one’s listening. Not tonight.”

You came on his tongue with a cry—and he didn’t stop. He kissed through it, groaning against your body like your pleasure was fueling him.

Like he’d found religion between your legs.

---

He didn’t give you a chance to catch your breath.

“Turn around,” he said, voice low, wrecked.

You blinked at him, dazed.

“On your hands and knees,” he clarified, already undoing his belt. “I want to ruin you properly.”

You did as he said—too high off your last orgasm to even pretend to hesitate. And then he was behind you, one hand gripping your waist, the other sliding between your legs again just to feel how wrecked you were.

“Still dripping,” he said, half-laughing. “Didn’t know you were that kind of girl.”

You tilted your hips back, defiant. “I’m practically a dead girl, I can be whatever I want.”

He groaned like that broke something in him—and then he was inside you.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate.

He held your hips like handles, fucking into you like he wanted to rearrange something vital. Each thrust sent shockwaves up your spine. You clenched around him and he cursed, spine bowing.

“Fuck, darling,” he moaned. “You’re—god, you’re everything.”

The sound of skin on skin, your gasped breaths, the sting of his nails in your skin—it was all so much. He leaned over you, pressing his chest to your back, lips at your ear.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, biting your shoulder. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “Ronin—fuck—I’m yours.”

He groaned like you’d just handed him your soul.

And then you both came—messy, hot, overwhelming.

He didn’t pull out right away. Just held you, panting, still buried deep, like he couldn’t stand the idea of letting go.

---

Now the scratch on your thigh from one of his rings makes sense. The bruises on your hips. The way you’re still trembling, even with him curled around you, breath warm against your neck.

You’re still catching your breath. Your body is heavy. Your heart’s gone silent from how hard it was pounding.

And Ronin?

He looks like a man who just got away with murder. Smug. Glowing. Worshipful.

“You’re gonna feel that tomorrow,” he mutters, lazy and pleased.

You don’t even care.

You just smirk. “Worth it.”

He kisses your shoulder again. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth.

“I could get addicted to this,” he murmurs. “To you.”

You already are.

---

🥀—18+ content ends now—

---

It’s quiet, except for the way your heartbeat won’t slow down.

And then:

“You’re insane,” you whisper.

Ronin laughs softly, kisses your shoulder.

“So are you. That’s why we fit.”

---

Eventually, you sit up. Pulling your clothes back on. Trying not to fall apart.

Ronin watches, propped up on one elbow.

“You gonna vanish on me?” he asks, tone unreadable.

“I might die tomorrow,” you say.

He shrugs. “Same. Let’s die pretty.”

You pause. Then smirk, pulling your hoodie on over your tangled hair.

“You think I’m pretty?”

“Darling,” he says with a grin sharp enough to slice, “you’re the most beautiful dead girl I’ve ever seen.”

You open the door.

He doesn’t stop you.

But his voice follows as you leave:

“Call me next time you feel like self-destructing. I’ll bring the matches.”

---

[orphic-dysania]

With one word, he's always at your disposal.

Character ; V / K9 (Real Name : Valentin Valjean)

Franchise ; KillerChat! (Visual Novel by @rosesrotofficial)

Note ; Intended to be a multiple part small fic, so this one starts off a little short.

If someone were to ask V if he unconditionally trusts his partner, he'd say yes. He'd trust them with his life, as he had before. He wouldn't make the mistake of not doing that again.

He remembers the way you had met him as clear as the glass he passes on his way to his day job. Beaufort, as frustrating that man was, had added you into the secret server that started everything.

Despite his original suspicion, you had managed to fool, and even charm him. Thinking back on it, he felt he should have seen the signs, but by the time the truth was revealed, he was far too deep in love.

Not that he minded, of course. He made the risk to trust you anyway, and it paid off.

However, recently, he's noticed a strange pattern to your behavior. You've either kept to yourself, or would privately chat with Angel -- he wondered if the lady had to confide in you for something, or if something was troubling you.

Although he didn't want to pry, it was becoming concering. You were always on guard, fidgeting, obsessively anxious. You learned all the exits to places you'd frequent, and you had even become on edge when you were at home.

So, a few weeks later -- when your behavior had reached its peak, he carefully set up a calming atmosphere in your shared home. He made the table, made a desert, and carefully made tea.

"My love, I had noticed you've been rather anxious as of late. I wanted to know if there was anything I could do to help you." He spoke, his gaze on his tea for a moment, before looking up at you with concern.

When he looked at you as he said this, he saw the realization seep into your expression. How your eyes softened with guilt, tension leaving your shoulders -- but never fully relaxing -- you knew he had caught on. You had relented, finally.

Your next words had him surprised, but he was soon alert with seriousness.

"V, I'm going to need you to listen to me."

It felt like a repeat of the day you revealed your occupation to him. A writer, rather than a killer. Although he had eventually taught you his ways, those days were etched into his mind.

"Will you please just listen to me?"

"I am listening. Listening and believing are two different things."

He didn't believe you that day, the very idea of it being so outrageous, so inexplicable. How? How had you gone under his radar?

He knew this time, he'd believe you. With the hesitant confidence in your eyes, with the shaky, slow breaths he sees you take, he knows something was terribly wrong.

"You have my full attention. Tell me what's troubling you."