vandme12

[vandme12]

Really Tumblr?

Anyway, I hope you enjoy editing and rendering and help with the burnout!

THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!!!! (I LOVE YOUR THEMES)

[vandme12]

are you joining in the kc event :0?

Hi, I had no clue until you mentioned. Maybe! I don't really know what plan I have! But, I wish I could get one!

[vandme12]

Ronin x Reader, where ronin puts on a personal show (Hehe, a LIL murder in alleyway) for reader because they need inspiration?

TW : BLOOD, GORE

Beauty of Rot, Beauty of Him - Ronin x Reader

You were dumb.

Like, really dumb.

"Hey, can anyone with experience killing someone with a crowbar DM me?? it’s really important!! tysm."

You posted that. On a dark web board. Like some beginner in need of a walkthrough.

An ask for how to kill a person. With a crowbar.

And as it turns out? The best fucking mistake you ever made.

Error: UNKNOWN. Error: Not So Unknown Now. Error: You Got a Boyfriend Out of It.

Because someone did message back.

Not just someone. The Butcher. Your Butcher. Now your boyfriend. Rotten God of Uptown’s back alleys, crowned in cartilage and martyrdom, crowned in blood.

They say he gores people like he’s stringing violins from intestines, splashes the brickwork with bone-shards and sin. Swings that crowbar like a conductor, splatters skull into halo, makes murder into gospel.

And now? He’s yours.

You still remember when he dropped a key into your DMs like it was a gift from the Devil himself — well, maybe it was. A server. A red room. A laugh.

Don’t be so Obvious smh you’re Gonna Get Caught — that’s what he said. Right before giving you access to a Discord/j full of serial killers.

Butchered usernames. Gutted profile pics. Everyone trying to one-up each other in filth and finesse. You, though? You got something better. You got Ronin.

It’s been ten months since that fateful crowbar moment. Ten months of selfies Ten months of late-night convos about blood viscosity. Ten months of soft-spoken I love yous whispered between ruptured lung sacs.

Romance is bleeding. And your boy wants to treat you.

No dinner. Just a murder.

goreboy: hopin to see ya darlin

You feel it in your bones — not fear, not nausea. Anticipation.

Your own personal red room. You joked about it once — and Now, he's gonna put on a show.

You don’t know who the target is. Might be a monster. Might be some guy who cuts lines at the bank's Ronin never tells you until the blood’s already pooling.

That’s part of the fun. Inspiration on impact.

You're wearing boots that can step through brain matter. You took a shower before this, which was stupid. You’ll be showering in blood anyway.

You turn the corner.

There he is. Leaning against the brick wall like some kind of death-dealing delinquent Cupid. Crowbar slung over his shoulder. Eyes bright, blackhole-shiny, grin split open across his face like a peeled fruit.

He’s all gore and glamor, all ruin and romance, a boy made of butcher cuts and fucked-up poetry.

"Heya, Darlin," he drawls, teeth white like an Angel's ruin

You smile. You’ve always been ready.

You DMed him first, obviously. No shame. No fear. Just that familiar static in your lungs, that high of being this close to something filthy.

you:

hey butcher boy u swingin that crowbar tonight or just compensating again

goreboy

oh look. it’s my favorite little freak. thought i smelled ink and desperation u comin or what? red carpet’s wet. might be brain. might be yours. let’s find out.

you:

damn do u flirt with all your victims like this or am i special

goreboy:

only the ones who write poetry about spinal cords and call me cute after i break a jaw sideways hurry up darlin. don’t keep the devil waitin.

He always knew just how to say I missed you.

And then it dropped. The real thing. No flirting this time, not exactly.

Just:

EXECUTIONER: "come to Purgatory. tonight. bring whatever weird notebook shit u scribble in. I’ll give you something worth writing about." "devil says hi, btw.

"lil mean tonight. love that. keep talkin shit and i’ll carve your name in someone’s ribs. wanna see?"

He always knew just how to say I missed you.

And then it dropped. The real thing. No flirting this time, not exactly.

—

You pack a bag.

Notebook

Pen

Knife (not to use. just in case.)

A dream.

You saw him before you really saw him.

The man—his prey, his canvas—was huddled near a dumpster, shaking like a leaf in acid rain. Eyes blown wide, lips parted in a silent scream, knees buckled in a prayer that wouldn’t be answered. Sweat clung to his brow. His hands were bound, taped in a trembling little bow, like a gift no one wanted to unwrap.

And then there was Ronin.

He wasn’t even touching him yet.

No, Ronin was pacing slow, crowbar dragging behind him like a leash, metal shrieking against the concrete just enough to set teeth on edge. His steps were too measured, too graceful—it was a dance. A fucked-up, symphonic ballet of menace.

He didn’t even look at you as you stepped into the scene. Just kept circling.

Like a shark in a kiddie pool.

"Oh God," the guy whimpered. "Please, man, I didn’t do anything—"

Ronin tilted his head, cracking his neck with a sickening pop. Still no words. Just a smile. That smile—the one that made your spine tighten and your thighs clench. Not out of fear. Not entirely.

You crept closer, notebook in hand, but the man saw you now—you, not Ronin—and his face twisted.

"You—you’re just standing there?! Help me! This guy’s insane!"

You blinked, like a deer caught in headlights made of raw meat.

"I’m with him," you said quietly. Then added, "Kind of a date."

The man screamed.

Ronin cackled.

"Fuck, Darlin.. he gasped between laughs. "You’re really gonna make me blush sayin’ sweet shit like that."

You felt your face heat up, but not with shame. Not even guilt. Just... thrill.

"You’re scaring the hell out of him," you muttered, crouching behind the safety of your notebook.

Ronin raised a brow, licking blood from the side of his thumb like frosting. "I am the hell. C’mon. Say that one again."

You scribbled, breath uneven. Quoting yourself like a freak. “You’re scaring the hell out of him.” Then added in shaky ink: He is the hell.

The victim whimpered louder, rocking side to side now, muttering prayers like they were protection spells. You honestly couldn’t blame him. You felt the tremble in your own bones too. But it wasn’t fear—it was awe. That knife-edge thrill of watching a master at work.

You looked up.

Ronin was closer now. He’d stopped circling and was crouched in front of the guy, crowbar in one hand, the other under the man’s chin, lifting it with casual gentleness. It was obscene, the contrast. Like a lover about to kiss.

"Tell me a story," Ronin whispered to him. "Tell me why your blood’s gonna be special."

The guy was sobbing now, babbling nonsense. Ronin leaned in closer. "No? Then I’ll tell you one."

He turned to you, eyes glinting.

"You wanna write this down, Darlin"

You didn’t say yes. You didn’t have to.

Pen kissed page. And Ronin began.

"Once there was a man who liked to lie. Said he never hurt nobody. But lies?" He brought the crowbar up and rested it against the man’s cheek. "They rot the tongue. They rot the heart. I’m just the gardener."

CRACK.

You jumped.

The guy screamed. Blood bloomed across the bricks, painting the wall in fast, arterial strokes.

You’d never seen anything more horrifying. You’d never seen anything more beautiful.

You wrote that down too.

Ronin didn’t stop—not for a while. He moved like a conductor, crowbar rising and falling to an unheard symphony. The victim’s screams grew hoarse, then wet, then stopped altogether. The sound of metal on bone filled the air like church bells.

By the end, it didn’t look like a body.

It looked like art.

Red. White. Pulp. A rose garden of gore.

Fuck the guy's still alive.

Ronin finally straightened, shirt soaked, crowbar slick. He looked sated. Not tired. High.

And then, impossibly—he turned to you. Soft.

"You alright?"

You stared at him. Then down at your notebook. At your handwriting—jagged, fast, shaking. At the sketches in the margins. At how much you’d written. How inspired you were.

He steps back into frame like it’s stage left. Wipes the smile off his face and puts on something worse—an expression that’s all serenity. Peaceful. Reverent. Like a man praying before he wrecks something holy.

And that poor fucker on the ground? He’s trembling so hard his bones might rattle apart. You wonder if he even knows what's coming. Or if Ronin’s already told him. Whispered it sweetly in that honeyed voice, dripping rot like nectar, how he was going to make him into something worth remembering.

Ronin lifts the crowbar.

Not like he’s about to kill a man.

Like he’s about to paint.

CLANG.

It smashes into the ground beside the guy’s ribs again—just a tease. A wet warning. You watch as blood speckles the concrete. Not even from the hit—just from the fear. He’s bleeding from the nose now. A stress rupture. Ronin looks delighted.

“There it goes,” he says softly, watching the crimson dribble down. “Like clockwork.”

You find yourself breathing harder.

And you’re writing.

You don’t even realize it at first, not consciously. The pen scratches across the page like it has its own mind:

“He doesn’t kill for fun. He kills for structure. For design. For detail.” “Each bruise has placement. Each scream has volume.” “He doesn’t kill people. He erases them, makes meaning of them.”

Ronin kneels again. Cups the guy’s chin like he’s posing a doll.

“Don’t pass out now,” he hums. “We ain’t hit the chorus yet.”

You whisper, half-joking, “Tell him it’s for art.”

Ronin doesn’t even glance your way this time. Just smiles wider.

“It’s for art,”

The scream that rips out is pure animal.

You flinch. And then—you don’t. Because it’s addictive. The sound of it. The feeling of being here.

Watching Ronin twist something alive into something raw. Something else.

You’re starting to wonder if this was always inside you. If it just needed the right person to peel the skin back and expose the nerves. You look down at your page.

You’ve drawn him.

Not the man on the floor. Ronin.

Sharp cheekbones. Bloody hands. Wide grin like a god with no church but his own red room. There’s a halo of crowbars around his head like a saint of carnage. And beneath it, you’ve scrawled:

“I think I love him.”

You almost laugh at yourself.

But you don’t tear the page out.

Ronin’s looking at you now. Not saying a word. Like he knows what you wrote. Like he could taste it through the air.

He stands slowly. The guy’s still breathing—barely. He’s not dead yet. You think Ronin’s waiting on you.

“Darlin’,” he says, voice slick with mirth and menace. “You wanna pick the finishin’ touch?”

Your breath catches. He’s offering you the last stroke.

You stare. You blink. You swallow.

Then you nod.

“Yeah.”

You don’t know what you’ll choose yet. But you know you’ll write about it after.

You’ll write all of it. Every inch of this living nightmare.

Because you were never the hero of this story.

You were just looking for a muse.

And you found him—in blood and concrete, in screaming men and the lullaby of breaking bone.

You found him.

Your devil. Your butcher. Your art.

At first, just to remember. A little scratch of ink, a reflection. Something poetic to keep the nausea away. But it didn’t stay poetic, not really. Your hand cramped from the speed, from the need, and the page bled black with words the way the floor bled red.

You weren’t just watching anymore. You were documenting. You were translating murder into metaphor. Gore into gospel.

“He paints with pain. That’s the medium.” “He composes screams like violin notes, each snap of the bone a crescendo.” “His hands aren't hands. They're brushes. He doesn’t kill. He curates.”

You glanced up from the notebook and saw it again—how Ronin tilted his head just before he struck, admiring the posture, the pleading, the panic.

And you got it.

The way the crowbar slid through air—how clean it sounded, the whistling hush before impact. The way he didn’t grunt or pant. Ronin didn’t labor. He moved like he was dancing, like his body already knew where the final stroke belonged.

“He kills with rhythm.” “He kills with grace.” “He doesn’t need a reason. The act is the art.”

You looked at the man he was killing—not the man. The canvas. The collapsed figure with his face bent inwards and his ribs shifting like a broken accordion. And somehow, some rotten part of you—

—you thought it was beautiful. You understood him. You thought, “This is how he loves.”

And still, you wrote.

“I saw the art.” “I saw the beauty.” “I saw how he kills.” “He kills like a lover—softly at first, with admiration. Then all at once, with devotion.”

Ronin turned to you again. Bloody, heaving, smiling.

“You writin’ sonnets over there, Darlin?” he asked, tilting his head as the body gave a last twitch behind him. “Wanna read me one when I’m done cleanin’?”

Your mouth was dry. You licked your lips.

“I’m trying to keep up.”

He laughed. Low and pleased and ruinous.

“Darlin, if you keep writing like that, you’re gonna make me fall for you all over again.”

You looked down.

Your notebook was nearly full.

It was done.

The body lay still, sunken into itself like it was praying to the wrong god and got exactly what it asked for. Blood pooled like a frame around the chaos. Art, in the Butcher’s gallery. A ruined masterpiece.

You closed your notebook with a little snap, pen still trembling between your fingers.

“Thanks,” you said, soft. Honest. Like someone just cooked for you, and you meant it.

Ronin dragged the crowbar down the wall with a lazy scrape, shoulder slouched, chin lifted—swaggering toward you like a wet saint. Blood dripped from his chin like it was meant to. His eyes flicked over you with that look, like he was checking if you still breathed the same after watching him do what he was made for.

“C’mere,” he said, voice sticky with play. “You wanna help me sow ‘im up?”

You wrinkled your nose. “Nah.”

His brows raised. “Aw, how mean, Darlin’. I put on a show for ya, and you fuckin’ mean?” His voice pitched mock-wounded, but the grin was sharp, wicked—flirting. “Y’ain’t even gonna stitch the finale?”

You laughed, stupidly charmed. Your stomach was still a mess, your knees weak, but God—

Even if the Devil's scary, he can be cute.

He can be romantic, in that rotten way that makes your heart thump for all the wrong reasons. He’s the worst kind of sweetheart. The kind that calls you “Darlin” with a mouth still stained from slaughter. The kind that murders and flirts in the same breath.

He really is the god of gore.

He shrugged, licking blood off his bottom lip. “Next time, then. I’ll make it extra messy. You can pick where I break ‘em.”

And despite the stench, despite the twitch in your gut, you smiled and tucked your notebook closer to your chest.

“Deal,” you whispered.

[vandme12]

Beauty of Rot, Beauty of Him <3

Just a poll Imao. I'm back guys.

[vandme12]

Sorry, about my crashing out-

https://www.tumblr.com/vandme12/785710943703351296/hi-the-character-youre-matching-as-is-a-lesbian?source=share

I was kinda stupid lol- I did snoop to their level- If it made anyone feel like I was immature and kinda bratty for acting out this way. I apologize

[vandme12]

What if Ronin disappeared from the server? Everywhere basically he's not "active" but he still kills! That's how Reader knows he's alive! Angel doesn't know but comforts us :(

This is so random lol but I wanted to do something.. this is so ass lol sorry I just wanted to say I'm not dead yet

IT'S ALL A DREAM WRITER DARLIN

A little like a lover. His bloodied fingers brush against yours because to him, it is. His eyes are wild, gleaming with that familiar madness, but there's something else lurking underneath—something softer, darker, and just for you.

"You’re such a fuckin’ natural, baby," he purrs, leaning in to smear blood against your lips in a mockery of a kiss. "Didn’t think you had it in ya, but damn—look at you. My little heart thief."

Blood streaks down his chin, dripping against his throat like a necklace crafted just for him.

"And you did it for me," he groans, half-possessive, half-worshipping. "Gotta admit, darling—thought I was gonna have to drag ya down to Hell myself. But nah, you’re already here, ain’tcha?"

Your stomach twists—not with disgust, but something deeper. Something terrifying. Something exhilarating.

Eyes black and burning as he pins you against the alley wall, the jagged brick digging into your back. His lips hover near your ear, voice syrup-sweet and venom-thick.

"So tell me," he whispers, each word dripping with wicked delight, "are you gonna be my Darlin forever… or just until the blood runs dry?"

Ronin was gone.

Not a trace, not a whisper, not even a smirking message left behind in the server to taunt you. Just… gone.

You wanted to believe he got caught. That maybe, finally, someone had managed to put the devil himself in a cage. But the police were still clueless, still chasing ghosts. No one knew who Butcher was. No one except you.

So why did relief feel like a lie?

And why, when you opened your door that night, did your breath hitch at the sight of what he left behind?

Two little creatures, curled up in a makeshift nest of a tattered hoodie you recognized as his. One, a sleek rat twitching its nose up at you, beady eyes gleaming with something eerily knowing. The other, a long, slender red corn snake, lazily draped over the fabric like it belonged there.

Blackjack. Pepperoni.

You remembered the names from late-night conversations, half-teasing, half-affectionate.

"You’re scared of snakes? Tch. I should make you hold Pepperoni. He’s a sweetheart." "Blackjack’s an asshole, just like me. That’s why I like him." "If I ever disappear, I’ll know who to trust with ‘em."

Your stomach twisted.

He trusted you.

You should’ve closed the door. Should’ve called someone, anyone. Instead, you sank to your knees, reaching out with shaking hands.

Pepperoni slithered into your palm, warm and smooth and alive. Blackjack scurried up your arm like he already knew you, like he already belonged to you.

You missed him.

It had been almost two months.

Too long. Long enough that the ache in your chest wasn’t sharp anymore—it festered. The memories crawled, burrowed, rotted inside you like maggots writhing beneath the surface.

At first, you tried to forget. Tried to scrub him out of your life like bloodstains on tile. But his absence had teeth, and it bit down hard.

The server was quieter without him. Too quiet. No snarky messages, no devil-may-care threats disguised as jokes. No "miss me?" slipping into your inbox at 3 AM.

You told yourself you were better off—safer, even. But at night, when the world slowed down and the silence wrapped around your throat, you felt it. That hollow, gnawing space where he used to be.

Pepperoni curled around your wrist when you couldn’t sleep, warm and steady. Blackjack always found a way to nuzzle against your neck like he knew you needed it. They missed him too.

And maybe… maybe you were starting to understand.

Ronin didn’t just disappear. He left a hole—one no one else could fill.

The server wasn’t the same without him.

At first, no one wanted to admit it. Ronin had a way of crawling under your skin—he got off on it, really. But with him gone, the absence felt loud. Uncomfortable. Like a joke that didn’t land.

And now? Everyone was looking.

"He's not dead," Angel typed one night, her words sharp and certain. "If he was, we'd know. Someone like Ronin doesn't go quietly. Maybe it's for a reason.."

You believed her. Still, that didn’t make the silence any easier.

You were pretty sure everyone was trying to cheer you up...

hitmeuppp: bro what if he like hitmeuppp: joined a cult?? hitmeuppp: cults LOVE guys like him

hitmeuppp: or wait what if he’s just on vacation hitmeuppp: goreboy in hawaiian shirt hitmeuppp: nah hed kill everyone there nvm..btw he's gonna be back and bully the server

Despite the chaos, they were looking harder than anyone. Maybe they missed him more than they’d admit.

V, though? He didn’t bother with feelings. Cold. Precise. Always.

K9: His last confirmed activity was "--" days ago. K9: Although the victims are still dead actively- His presence is not there.. K9: If you find anything, report it. Also, Try not stress yourself much...

He acted like it didn’t bother him. But the fact that he kept checking meant it did.

Even Vince—who usually didn’t give a damn—started to notice the weird energy.

Eviscerator1990: Don't Worry. I'm Sure He will Come Back, If Anything happens- Worry not- I Will Have To Unretire...

Ai Hua sent you a hug and a message, if you want you can talk..

And Luca… well, he had a simpler take.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: do u think he’s ok? LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: like idk he seemed kinda sad nowadays..

But Felicite said the thing no one else wanted to.

Felicite: What if he doesn’t want to be found? He will...come back..

And maybe… maybe she was right.

But every time Pepperoni curled tighter around your wrist, every time Blackjack twitched his little nose like he was still waiting for his owner to come home, you felt it.

The call rang out—empty, hollow. No answer.

You clicked again. Once. Twice. Three times.

Still nothing.

Your chest burned with the weight of it—why wasn’t he picking up? He always picked up for you. Even when it was just to tease, to laugh, to tell you how pathetic you sounded begging for his attention.

But now? Silence.

Your fingers trembled as you slammed the mouse down, dragging the call button again. The little green circle spun mockingly, and something inside you snapped.

CRACK.

The knife was already in your hand—when did you grab it? Didn’t matter. You brought it down hard—once, twice, again—straight through the heart of the thing that wouldn’t bring him back. The plastic crunched beneath the blade, sparks flickering as the screen cracked wide open like a wound.

“PICK UP!” you screamed, voice raw—shaking—“PICK UP, YOU BASTARD!”

But there was no answer. Just you, the broken mess of your PC, and the sound of your own sobs crawling up your throat.

And then—

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

A call. Your stomach twisted. It couldn’t be—

You fumbled for your phone, your breath catching in your chest. The screen blurred through tears—Maria?

No.

Angel.

You hit accept before your mind could catch up. “H-Hello…?”

“Hey,” her voice came through smooth, too smooth. “You’re crying....”

You broke. The tears you’d been holding back—pretending weren’t there—poured out like floodgates. Your breath hitched, and you couldn’t stop the sobs that shook you from the inside out.

“I—I c-called,” you choked out, “he won’t—he won’t answer, Angel—why won’t he answer—?!”

For a moment, she didn’t speak. Just the sound of her breathing, steady and sure. Then—soft, too soft—

“...I know.”

“Get a grip....Y/n.."

Angel’s voice cut through your sobs—sharp, cold, nothing like the smooth comfort you wanted.

Your breath hitched. “I—I can’t—”

“You can.” Her tone didn’t soften. “Crying won’t bring him back. Do you think he’d want to see you like this? Pathetic? Falling apart over him?”

That stung. Because it was true.

Ronin wouldn’t pity you. If he saw you like this—broken, desperate—he’d laugh. Maybe he’d tilt his head, smile that cruel smile, and say, “Aw, you miss me that bad? Cute.”

And God, you did.

You sniffled hard, trying to swallow the sobs back down. Angel didn’t wait for you to speak—she never did.

“Look,” she said, calmer now, “we’re all searching for him. He’s not dead. He’s too stubborn for that. But he’s not gonna crawl back just because you’re falling apart. So stop.”

“I—” Your voice cracked, weak and small. “I don’t know how.”

A sigh. “....I'll stick around, It's hard- Even I miss him- He's just a little idiotic at times. I want to just punch him the hell out."

Her words hit like a punch to the gut—hard, fast, and too honest.

"Heh, Me too.."

You clutched your phone tighter, knuckles white. The silence on your end must've been loud because Angel exhaled, slow and measured.

Voice softer—but not gentle. She didn’t do gentle. Not for you. Not for anyone. "You think you’re the only one losing it? Misaki hasn’t slept. V’s been scouring every back alley in the city. Even tho he hates Ronin even he knows it's not normal. Even Luca and Felicite are looking, and that idiot can barely track his own shadow."

A bitter laugh slipped past her lips—barely there. "You wanna be useless? Fine. But I’m not holding your hand while you drown in this."

You bit your lip, choking back the ache in your throat. She was right. Of course, she was right. But it didn’t make the empty space he left behind any easier to breathe through.

"Why—" Your voice wavered. "Why hasn’t he called?"

A beat of silence. Angel didn’t answer right away. That scared you more than the anger.

“…I don’t know.” It was the first honest thing she’d said. No venom. No heat. Just raw truth. "But he will. I think he needs time. I guess if- I'll pick you up-"

He always did.

Didn’t he?

Your chest squeezed tighter. You wanted to believe her—needed to. But it had been too long. The calls, the taunts, the stupid late-night messages that made you roll your eyes and laugh—all of it was gone.

And now, all you had were his pets curling against you like they could stitch the broken pieces back together.

“I miss him,” you admitted, voice breaking.

For a second, just one, Angel softened. “…Yeah.” A pause. “Me too. You heard it- Get some sleep."

And then—click.

She hung up.

You were alone again. Alone with the ghosts he left behind, the sharp ache in your chest, and the weight of a question no one could answer—

Where the hell was Ronin?

Angel wasn’t kidding about the shopping.

She dragged you through every store with a vengeance—demanding you try on ridiculous outfits, forcing bubble tea into your hand/

Pinky promises were exchanged over matching keychains—hers a glittery pink knife, yours a black one with a devil tail. "So you don’t mope alone," she’d said, linking your pinkies tight like a spell. “Ronin’s not dead. He’s too annoying to die.”

Well..

Well..

Well...

Well.

You laughed. Actually laughed—too sharp, too sudden. It startled one of Ronin’s cats curled on your lap. It jumped off with an offended mrrt.

And that’s when it hit you.

No. Wait.

That’s when he hit you.

CRASH.

The window shattered.

Something—someone—rolled straight through the damn glass like a meteor on fire and landed in a heap on your floor with all the grace of a drunken circus act.

You screamed. Loud. Undignified.

The cats scattered.

The figure groaned.

You blinked, your brain doing the math and refusing to accept the answer. It couldn’t be. Could not be.

But then he turned over, coughed, and grinned like a bastard through a bloodied lip.

“Miss me?”

“RONIN?!”

You didn’t know whether to kick him or hug him or throw a shoe at his head and then hug him.

He looked like hell. Black eye, bruised ribs (probably), jacket torn like he wrestled a chainsaw and almost won. And still—still—he gave you that infuriating smirk like he just showed up late to brunch, not broke physics and your entire nervous system.

“I—you—you’re—WHAT THE F**?!*” you screeched, stumbling over the cats, your own feet, your own emotions.

But something was off.

You blinked.

The room shimmered—just slightly. Like heat rising from asphalt. You squeezed your eyes shut.

No. No, no, no—

When you opened them again—

He was gone.

No blood. No broken glass

Just the silence.

And the crushing, absolute weight of your own breath in your lungs.

You were on the couch. Alone. Again.

Your phone buzzed from the coffee table, lighting up the dark room.

2:34 AM.

Of course.

You let out a choked sound—half sob, half laugh, all broken. “Cool,” you whispered to no one. “Cool cool cool. Great. Amazing. Losing my mind in HD.”

You probably will open the server now.

and you saw a message.

Goreboy.

Ronin.

goreboy

Well? Did dreams inspire ya? Writer Darlin?

and now you understand.

It was just a dream.

HEY YOU DID GET A NEW PLOT FOR YOUR BOOK NOW/J

This was a dream I had in my vacation...btw

[vandme12]

Hi! The character you're matching as is a lesbian and you're a guy. Would really appreciate it :) if you stop matching as a lesbian when you're a GUY lol ! no hate but what's with you men always kissing women who hates men? Stick yourself in mud :D!

BRO MADE ME COME FROM MY SLUMBER.

I WASN'T SUPPOSED TO COME BACK LIKE THIS.

I'm very nice so-

I do hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I’ve always believed that sacred spaces — especially those built on love, identity, and resilience — ought to be respected. Mizsua has always meant something powerful to many of me and my partner, (I'm a trans! male!) I matched as Mizsua with her before too, They're a comfort who reminds of us.

As a representative of grace, dignity, and the sacred art of minding one’s business — I must say, your case is hereby not approved. By royal decree, in fact. IMAO. Kindly take your bitchass complaints and sit down — preferably somewhere far from queer joy and self-expression. We’re busy being iconic here.

Your concern has been received, reviewed, and royally dismissed. Identity isn’t yours to police, and joy isn’t yours to gatekeep. Do try not to be so utterly exhausting next time, won’t you, darling?

Okay but like, your whole ‘not approved’ vibe? Skidbid toilet 🚽

I was going to be serious but NOPE-

If ignorance is bliss, you must be the happiest person alive.

[vandme12]

I will come back alive soon, Enjoyed my Vacation. (Thank you for everyone who is waiting for me patiently) While I'm here. (I'm not much of a graphic editor but still WIFE IS WIFE) I have to give a shout out to my girlfriend. Her graphics are so good and she is a amazing person. Once you get to know them. You will understand </3 Anyways please support her!

She deserves a lot of support :(

Also wanna thank her for making me themes...too THIS WOMAN SPOILS ME SO MUCH

‎

‎ 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐈 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐎?

hiya editblr and beyond! my name is flower and i am rather new to editblr. i may be a bit slow but my inbox is currently empty so i would be more than happy to accept requests!

i will mainly focus on media's like pjsk, bandori, hoyoverse, crk, alnst and some animes + otomes! this post sums up things i wont edit, there is more but i will simply decline your request if you do ask. feel free to @ me for promos

‎ 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐎.

i can do layouts for discord, twitter/bluesky, yt and tumblr!! i also make simple psd colourings for photopea and ibis paint.

i can also do tutorials on things like how to use photopea, etc!

i also plan on holding events in the future ᰔ

‎ 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐄.

i use she/they! and prefer flower but nicknames are alright. my discord is @/simplehoneyflower and i make graphics with shitty quality because my phone hates me. i am a minor and have a very amazing boyfriend!! i am very open to having new friends so dont be scared to talk to me!

𝐓𝐀𝐆 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

ᵈᵐ ᵗᵒ ᵇᵉ ʳᵉᵐᵒᵛᵉᵈ. ᶠᵉᵉˡ ᶠʳᵉᵉ ᵗᵒ ⁱᵍⁿᵒʳᵉ

@selysie , @apparemarch , @hauntingmizi , @herr-walther , @mikneuteto , @lovestis , @nemuurin , @lavendergalactic , @dwevilliette , @eimimiwq , @pixelpurrz , @delicaqe , @jeanryt , @hymnis , @necroangelz , @strawbrrykis , @docele , @s-sanite + ᵃⁿʸ¹ ᵉˡˢᵉ ʷʰᵒ ʷᵃⁿᵗˢ ᵗᵒ

[vandme12]

[ EMERGENCY ART COMMISSIONS !!! ] haiyaa eia here ! commissions are still available ✨ contact me via ~

Instagram : eiaeiooo Discord: dearestdeluded 💌 : sincerelyyourseia@gmail.com for more details: eiaeiooo.carrd.co

[vandme12]

I'm so sorry, I got overwhelmed by a ask. I deleted all asks. Please request again. I'm so sorry. This won't happen again..

[vandme12]

I love this wtf

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.

[vandme12]

i’m glad you’re feeling better!!! i love your writing so much, and your account is one of the best things i’ve come across. pls take care of yourself and have fun with your stuff!!

Thank you very much!!

[vandme12]

I hope it isnt rude to ask since i am not much familiar with tumblr, your writing is reallyyyyyyy good. Like, divine, pure perfection. Can I ask how long has it been since you started writing? And how to improve at writing? The way you write about Ronin puts me in awe, I wanna write about my characters in that much depth/personality too.

Jokes, KC is the first Fandom I started writing fanfics for.

I used to do original work/Script Writing etc as a hobby!

My friend and I planned a visual novel and it was almost ready, I was actually the Script Writer, While They were art, Coding, Developer etc.

Sadly they cancelled it. I suggest that having notes of a character is highly recommended, This is what I do.

[vandme12]

Hello hi!! I love your writing you’re so insanely talented!!

I’ve been wondering and I’ve actually requested a couple people for this but, ronin x reader who has anxiety about him getting caught? I’m so curious on how he’d react to this

You check the news before you check your messages. That’s how bad it’s gotten.

Your phone screen glares in the dim light of your apartment, headlines flashing like warning signs: Serial Killer Still at Large – Authorities Urge Caution; New Evidence Suggests Possible Suspect – Police Closing In?; “The Butcher” Case Continues to Baffle Investigators.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until the words swim together, twisting into something unreadable. No name. No face. Nothing solid. Your shoulders loosen. Your stomach untwists.

He’s still free.

For now.

The relief is short-lived. What if it changes tomorrow? What if they do find something? What if—

Your phone buzzes. A new message.

goreboy: “darlin’, if you’re gonna worry about me, you should at least let me enjoy it up close. i can practically hear that pretty lil’ head of yours buzzin’ from here.”

Your pulse jumps. Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You shouldn’t be talking to him—not here, not anywhere—but that’s never stopped you before.

You: “I’m not worrying.”

goreboy: “liar.”

You chew on your bottom lip. He’s right, of course. He always is.

Another buzz.

goreboy: “lemme in.”

Your heart stutters. You glance at the door. He wouldn’t—would he? Your fingers tighten around your phone. A beat passes. Then another.

A knock.

Sharp. Playful. Like he knows exactly what it does to you.

You don’t think. You move.

The door swings open, and there he is—leaning against the frame like he belongs there, like he owns the space. Loose hoodie, ripped jeans, a smirk sharp enough to cut. Those amber eyes sweep over you, drinking in the tension strung tight in your shoulders. He grins, all teeth.

“Knew you’d let me in.”

You step back before he can make a point of crossing the threshold himself, before he can make you admit anything. He takes his time entering anyway, letting the door click shut behind him like it’s sealing a secret.

“Didn’t answer my texts,” he murmurs, circling you like a lazy predator. “Was startin’ to think you were mad at me.”

You fold your arms, ignoring the heat licking up your spine. “I was busy.”

“Busy worrying about me?”

“I wasn’t—”

Ronin hums, unconvinced. His fingers brush your chin, tilting your face up just enough for him to drink in your hesitation. He doesn’t have to say he sees through you. He just does.

“You’re cute when you stress, y’know that?” His voice dips lower, something almost fond curling around the edges. “Not as cute as when you beg, but I’ll take what I can get.”

You push his hand away, but it’s weak. Pathetic. He knows it.

“Ronin—”

“Mmm?”

Your throat tightens. You shouldn’t ask. You shouldn’t even let the thought form, but it’s already there, clawing its way free. “What if they catch you?”

For the first time, he stills. Not much—just a flicker, a brief pause in that endless, rolling confidence. Then his grin stretches wider, like a beast baring its teeth.

“They won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, though.”

“Ronin.”

The teasing edge in his voice fades at the way you say his name—quiet, strained. He likes when you worry, when you care too much despite yourself. But this? This is different.

He exhales slowly, stepping closer. Close enough that you can smell the metallic bite of dried blood on his hoodie, the faintest trace of smoke and cheap motel soap. Close enough that, if he wanted to, he could crush you against him and make you forget why you were ever worried in the first place.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lifts a hand—slow, deliberate—and brushes his fingers against yours. An offer. A test.

You don’t pull away.

“I get it,” he murmurs. “Not used to playin’ on this side of the fence, huh?”

You shake your head. Your voice is barely a whisper. “No.”

He sighs, something almost fond bleeding into his expression. Then he leans in, just enough for his lips to ghost over your temple.

“Lucky for you,” he murmurs, “I don’t lose.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “That’s not—”

A finger presses against your lips. Not rough. Not forceful. Just there. Just a reminder.

“Shhh.”

You freeze.

Ronin leans closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Y’can’t change what I am, sweetheart. Can’t change what I do. But if it helps, I like that you’re worried.” A grin, sharp and self-satisfied. “Means you’re thinkin’ about me.”

Your heart pounds. “Of course, I think about you.”

“Yeah?”

He tilts his head, and suddenly, you’re looking at him again—really looking at him. At the way his pupils have swallowed up those amber irises. At the way he’s watching you, waiting for something. Daring you.

Your breath shudders out. You’re so, so tired of fighting this.

“…Yes.”

Ronin’s grin softens. Just a fraction. Then, without warning, he scoops you up, dragging you flush against his chest. A startled yelp escapes you, but he just laughs—low and satisfied, arms coiling around you like he knew you’d give in eventually.

He laughed.

Not in a cruel way—never that. It was a sharp, incredulous thing, like you had just confessed to being afraid the sky might fall. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing a gloved thumb along your cheek, his touch so light it could have been imagined. “That’s adorable.”

You weren’t trying to be adorable.

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his coat, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped animal. “I mean it,” you whispered. “I—I know you think you’re untouchable, but you’re not. They could catch you. And then what?”

Ronin tilted his head, considering you, his ever-present smirk softening. “Then they’d throw a parade,” he said dryly. “Statues, medals, a lifetime supply of those tiny jailhouse oranges. Can’t wait.”

You scowled, shoving at his chest—not that it moved him. “Ronin.”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable, something that made your stomach twist. It was moments like this that reminded you what he was. Not just the teasing, ever-flirting devil who stole your breath with every grin, but the thing under the mask. The thing the world would never forgive.

He sighed, tilting his head back as if to examine the sky. “You’re really losing sleep over little old me, huh?”

“I’m serious.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

His voice had dipped, losing its usual playful lilt. He tugged you closer, a gloved hand curling around the nape of your neck, grounding you in his warmth. “C’mon,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours. “You think I’d let myself get caught? Me?”

“You’re not invincible.”

“I might as well be.”

The arrogance in his tone made you want to shake him. How could he be so calm about this? About the very real, very terrifying possibility that one day he wouldn’t walk through that door with blood on his hands and a smirk on his lips? That one day, the news would break with grainy security footage and the words SERIAL KILLER THE BUTCHER APPREHENDED splashed across the screen? That one day, you’d lose him—not to death, but to a fate that might be worse?

“You scare me,” you admitted, voice small. “Not because of what you do. But because I don’t know what I’d do if you were gone.”

Ronin stilled.

For once, he had nothing clever to say.

Then, slowly, he exhaled. His free hand came up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing along the bone in slow, soothing strokes. “Oh, baby,” he murmured, softer than you’d ever heard him. “You really do love me, huh?”

Your chest ached. “I never said that.”

He chuckled, but there was no teasing in it. “You didn’t have to.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The world felt fragile, like one wrong word could shatter everything. And then, finally—

“I’m not gonna let them take me,” Ronin said. “Not now, not ever. They’ll have to pry me out of this world with a crowbar and a prayer.”

His grip tightened just slightly, as if anchoring himself to you. “And if they ever do? If some miraculous day comes when they get lucky?” He leaned in, lips brushing your temple. “Then you run.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“You heard me.” His voice was steady, like this was the easiest thing in the world to say. “No visits. No letters. No waiting. You take whatever’s left and disappear, understand?”

“No.” The word was sharp, immediate. “That’s not fair.”

Ronin huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, I think ‘fair’ left the building the second we met.”

You hated that he was right. Hated that he was telling you this now, like he’d already accepted that possibility, like he was already preparing you for a world without him.

“No,” you repeated, softer this time. “If they take you, I won’t just run. I’ll burn the whole goddamn place down.”

For a moment, Ronin looked stunned.

Then, slowly, his grin crept back. Wide, wicked, almost proud. “Arson, In the name of the devil, that’s romantic”

You swallowed. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

His lips brushed yours—not quite a kiss, more of a promise. One he intended to keep.

And for the first time since this conversation started, you let yourself believe him.

[vandme12]

.. Hi guys

So there's this big emergency going on for me.... I need to pay a ticket in 2 weeks and I literally miss 45$ to be able to cover it (adding like roughly 5$ because Kofi loves to take money away for some fucking reason) and uh I will be doing emergency Comms for 5-10$ for 1k -1,5k words so if someone would be able to just do that for me I would be really grateful

I'll be trying to do the commissions as fast as possible !!!

Kofi link in bio 🫶

[vandme12]

ronin coming home from work and walks in on his darling trying on his clothes 🙏

“Ain’t That a Sight.”

The front door creaks open.

It’s late—too late, honestly—but that’s how it always is. A long night. A mess to clean up. The kind of work that leaves blood drying under his nails, even if he washed his hands twice on the way back.

Ronin rolls his shoulders, tossing his coat onto the hook, boots hitting the floor with that heavy thunk-thunk of exhaustion. He smells like the city—smoke, asphalt, something coppery clinging to his skin—but home is warm. Light seeps under the bedroom door. You’re still awake.

And damn, he hopes you’re waiting for him.

Not that you’d admit it, of course. You’d huff, roll your eyes, maybe throw a pillow at his head if he asked. But he knows you. Knows your tells. Knows the way you stay up, keep a lamp on, pretend you’re just reading or scrolling on your phone when really, you’re listening for the door.

Because, deep down, you worry.

It’s cute.

He’s halfway through when he hears it. A rustle. The soft swish of fabric.

Ronin stills.

The bedroom door is cracked open. The closet door too. And inside—

Well. Ain’t that a sight.

You, standing in front of the mirror.

Draped in his clothes.

The sleeves of his shirt are too long, hanging past your fingertips, swallowing your hands whole. His coat is slung over your shoulders, the hem brushing your calves, the weight of it too much, too heavy for you to wear right—but fuck if you’re not trying.

And you don’t see him yet.

You’re too busy turning, checking yourself out, Like you’re wondering what it feels like to be him.

Something slow and dangerous curls up Ronin’s spine.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, grinning.

"Hell," he drawls, voice deep and pleased. "Didn’t know I was gettin’ robbed tonight."

You freeze.

And he drinks it in—the way your shoulders jolt, the way your hands tighten in the fabric, like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

Slowly, slowly, you turn your head.

Your eyes meet his in the mirror.

"...I thought you were gonna be home later," you say, and your voice is casual—too casual, like you’re playing it off, like you weren’t just rolling around in his damn identity like a cat in sunbeams.

Ronin chuckles, pushing off the doorframe. "Changed my mind. Lucky me, huh?"

Your face scrunches, pretending to be annoyed. "Lucky you?"

He hums, stepping closer. His hands find your waist—warm, solid, there.

"Mmhm," he murmurs. "Real lucky."

And then, because he can’t help himself, he leans in—mouth brushing against your ear, slow and deliberate, his voice dropping to something dangerous.

"So tell me, sweetheart," he purrs, "do I look better on you?"

Your breath hitches.

For a second, you don’t answer. Maybe you can’t.

He sees it—the way your fingers clutch the hem of his shirt, gripping it like you need something to hold onto. The way your throat bobs, just a little. The way heat crawls up your neck.

And he loves it.

He loves the way you look in his clothes. Loves the sight of you wrapped up in him, drowning in the weight of something that’s always meant to carry him, but now—now it’s carrying you.

"Shut up," you mumble, weak, breathless.

Ronin grins.

"Not a chance."

—

You try to move past him. A mistake.

Ronin’s quicker, arms looping around your waist before you can escape, tugging you back flush against his chest.

"You know," he murmurs, voice warm against your neck, "you really do pull it off."

You fidget, shifting against him, trying so hard not to react. "I wasn’t trying to—"

"Sure you were," he interrupts, smirking. "And it’s workin’ for you."

Your lips part, but no words come out. You’re flustered. Flustered.

God, he could eat you alive.

But then—he softens. Just a little.

Because the way you’re standing, the way you’re holding onto his sleeves, fingers curling in the fabric like it’s some kind of comfort—this isn’t just teasing for you, is it?

Ronin lets his chin rest on your shoulder, voice dropping to something quieter.

"Feels nice, huh?"

You swallow. "...What does?"

"Wearing my stuff." His fingers trace along your hip, light and lazy. "S’like a hug you don’t have to ask for."

There it is. That little flicker of vulnerability you’re trying to hide.

It makes something in him ache.

"Yeah," you admit, so soft he barely hears it. "S’comfy."

Ronin exhales through his nose, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"You can keep it, you know," he murmurs. "Hell, I’ll give you one that actually fits."

You scoff, but there’s no bite in it. "That defeats the whole point."

He laughs. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And maybe—just maybe—you press back into him a little. Let yourself lean against his warmth, let your fingers uncurl from his sleeves to touch him instead.

He definitely notices.

Ronin’s hands tighten on your waist.

He grins, nuzzling into your hair. "Damn, Darlin. If you wanted to smell like me that bad, you coulda just asked."

You groan, shoving him half-heartedly. "And you had to ruin it."

He laughs again, pulling you closer, tucking you into him.

"Nah," he murmurs. "Just makin’ it better."

Ronin could tease you forever. Could stand here, holding you, feeling the weight of his own clothes against your skin, dragging this moment out just to watch you squirm.

But something about this is soft. Different.

Yeah, he flirts like it’s a sport, but this? This isn’t just some game. You’re wrapped in him, drowning in his scent, looking at him like—like maybe you like this too. Like maybe you feel it.

So instead of another joke, another sharp grin, he just… sighs.

Pulls you in closer.

His hands skim your waist, fingers curling into the leather. "Y’know," he murmurs, voice lower now, softer, "you really do look good in this."

You make a noise, something half-flustered, half-unconvinced. "You’re just saying that."

He scoffs. "Nah. I don’t just say things." A pause, a smirk curling at his lips. "I do things."

And then, deliberately, slowly, he leans down—presses a kiss just below your ear, lingering just long enough to feel your breath hitch.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt. "Ronin."

"Mm?"

"...That’s cheating."

He chuckles against your skin. "Yeah? What exactly am I cheatin’ at, sweetheart?"

"You know what."

Ronin grins, brushing his nose along your jaw, another slow, lazy kiss at the corner of your mouth, dragging it out, letting the anticipation settle deep. "Dunno."* Might need you to spell it out for me.*"

You groan, shoving at his chest again—but this time, you don’t mean it. Your hands stay there, fingers splayed over his ribs, holding him instead of pushing him away.

"You’re impossible," you mutter.

"And yet." He presses his forehead to yours, hands sliding from your waist to your back, keeping you right there. "Here you are. Wrapped up in my clothes. Lookin’ like you belong to me."

You hesitate. Not because you disagree—but because you don’t.

And fuck, if that doesn’t make something tighten in his chest.

He swallows. Lifts a hand, fingers brushing the side of your face, gentler now. Less teasing.

"Keep ‘em," he murmurs.

You blink. "What?"

"My clothes." He tugs at the jacket’s collar, lips ghosting over your temple. "They’re yours now."

Your breath catches. Just for a second.

"...You’re serious?"

Ronin nods, kissing your forehead, lingering like he means it. "Dead serious."

You hesitate—but only for a moment.

Then your arms loop around his neck, pulling him into a hug so tight it knocks the air right out of him.

Ronin laughs, stumbling back a step, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t mind at all. He just tucks you against him, holding you just as tightly, cheek pressed against the top of your head.

"You’re ridiculous," you mumble into his chest.

You don’t answer, but the way you hold onto him? The way you stay wrapped up in his clothes, in him?

Yeah.

He knows.

[vandme12]

I know I died.

Guys, Trust me, Muse wasn't musing. I have a idea . Now

Gru Reader x Ronin.

Coming soon.