sincerelyyourslilly

[sincerelyyourslilly]

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[sincerelyyourslilly]

I was the one who requested the Royal Cafe, Can you just do it as a Ronin x Reader?

Inspiration

SINFUL CAFE AND YOUR RONIN

CHARACTER USED : Ronin from Killer Chat!

SUMMARY : Your Cafe is almost dead, Angel saved and A Devil became a Cat?

So you've been in this serial killer server for eight months, and somehow, against all odds, you fell for Ronin. That purgatory of a first kiss? Yeah, it ruined you in the best way. Now it’s a whole trend—flirting, fighting, maybe even feeling.

You love him. He loves you. (Maybe.)

He’s feisty about it, of course. Teasing, testing, pushing you just enough to keep you on edge, but never quite letting you fall. And god, you love it. You love him. You love this—this insane little corner of the internet where murder is a casual conversation, where death is a game, and where your heart beats way too fast whenever his name pops up in your notifications.

So, tell me—what’s next?

So, you’re a writer. And an idiot. A beautiful, chaotic idiot who somehow—somehow—managed to open a royal-themed café because childhood-you watched one maid café anime and said, “Yeah, that’s the dream.”

And guess what? Dream achieved, baby. You’ve got the whole setup—maids in frilly dresses, butlers in crisp suits, fancy teacups, and a menu with way too many desserts. It’s perfect. Almost.

Except… your staff? Absolute disasters.

Your maids? Shit. Your butlers? Worse shit. Half of them can’t carry a tray without causing a full-scale catastrophe. The other half are more likely to flirt with customers for tips than serve them. You hired them for the aesthetic, not the competence, and it shows.

But hey, it’s your dream. And if you’re going to go down in flames, at least you’re doing it in a sparkly maid café, right?

Your royal café is on life support.

Sure, you’ve got the maids. You’ve got the butlers. You’ve got the fancy-ass menu with cakes that are probably overpriced. But there’s one tiny, devastating problem—nobody knows you exist.

Like, you’re out here living your sparkly childhood fantasy, and the universe decided to spit in your crème brûlée. Customers? Barely any. Popularity? Nonexistent. It’s so bad that your butlers started playing rock-paper-scissors to decide who actually has to work when someone—finally—walks through the door.

The closing sign is practically looming over your café’s head. You tried everything—social media posts, themed events, hell, you even forced your staff into a cringy dance routine on TikTok. Nothing. Still ghost town vibes.

And it’s really sad, okay? You didn’t go through all this chaos just to shut down like some tragic protagonist. There has to be a way to save it—right?

You felt like absolute shit.

This café was supposed to be your magnum opus—your crowning achievement of cute uniforms, elegant service, and the kind of fluffy desserts that make people squeal. Instead? You’re staring at the empty tables, wondering if it’s physically possible to die from secondhand embarrassment as your maids argue over who actually has to smile today.

Even your most loyal butler, who once prided himself on his "mysterious prince" aesthetic, just muttered, "Why bother?" while unironically sipping from a Garfield mug. Garfield, in your royal café. The disrespect.

You tried everything—promo flyers, ‘buy one, get one free’ events, you even begged your questionable internet friends (read: serial killers) to spread the word. Nothing worked.

And now, sitting behind the counter, chin in your hands, you feel the crushing weight of failure. Maybe this was a stupid dream. Maybe you should’ve just written your little murder book and called it a day.

But no. You’re too stubborn to quit now.

The café’s a mess. Your staff is a disaster. But dammit, this is your disaster.

You were overstressed, underslept, and one more burnt crème brûlée away from a complete breakdown.

Between fixing the café’s finances, dragging your chaotic staff out of whatever emotional crisis they were having this time, and trying to figure out if it was actually legal for one of your maids to threaten a customer (it wasn’t), you hadn’t logged into the server for a week.

A week.

Which, in "Serial Killer Chatroom Time," was practically a century.

Your phone buzzed. Again. And again. You ignored it—because if you saw one more "URGENT!!!" message from your accountant (who now ended every email with "we’re so fucked"), you were going to scream.

But then… a familiar notification popped up.

GOREBOY:

Did you die or are you ghosting me? I can make both happen. 💔

You blinked. Oh. Shit.

You hadn’t answered Ronin in days. And if there was one thing that man hated more than authority figures, it was being ignored.

Another message.

K9:

You’ve been offline too long. Something wrong?

HITMEUPPP:

bro if ur dead lmk

Your heart gave a weird, guilty little flutter. Even V was checking in, and that man was emotionally repressed on principle.

You rubbed your face, debating if you should respond or just fake your death and move to another country. Before you could decide, your phone buzzed again—hard enough to make you flinch.

GOREBOY (PRIVATE DM):

You’re either working too hard or digging your own grave. Which is it...

Oh. You were so fucked.

Your notifications were cursed. Every time you tried to catch a break, another ping dragged you back into the chaos. And now? Everyone was in on it.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL:

brooo u alive?? 🏄‍♂️ i was gonna invite u surfing but like. ur ghosting us.

EVISCERATOR1990:

Are You Okay?

angelic:

babe, if you needed a break, you could’ve said so. but if you died, I’m gonna be pissed.

FELICITE:

You okay? No judgment, just checking. If you need help, I’ve got a shovel and an alibi.

Even Ai Hua—sweet, terrifying Ai Hua—sent a message.

Ai Hua:

☹️

When Ai Hua pulls out the sad face, you know you messed up.

You exhaled, feeling that familiar ache crawl up your spine. The stress. The exhaustion. The fact that you hadn’t eaten anything besides café leftovers for days. Your dream café was circling the drain, your staff couldn’t brew a latte without setting something on fire, and now your murder chatroom friends were worried you’d become a cold case.

Before you could spiral any harder, your phone buzzed again—one more DM from Ronin.

GOREBOY:

Last chance, baby. Tell me what’s wrong, or I’m breaking into your life.

And with him, you believed it.

You crack your knuckles, sighing as you finally cave and open the server. Bad idea? Probably. But if you didn’t say something soon, you were half-convinced Ronin would break into your apartment and bother you in person—which, knowing him, wasn’t even the weirdest thing he’d do.

You hit the general chat and type:

you:

lol sorry i died but i came back bc i heard the devil crying 😔 gotta support local businesses

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL:

YOURE BACKKKKK 🎉

angelic:

tf kind of fanfic-ass excuse is that.

EVISCERATOR1990:

typical. the devil’s always needy.

Ai Hua:

😌👍

GOREBOY:

you’re lucky i’m cute, or i’d haunt you myself.

You roll your eyes, but your heart does a stupid little flip. Of course, he would twist this into being about him. You barely hesitate before sliding into his DMs, fingers flying.

you:

why are u like this

you:

i’ve been stressed out of my mind and here you are playing “where’s my favorite corpse”

you:

my café is dying. my employees are morons. i haven’t slept in days. everything sucks.

you:

and you?? teasing me like “where’s my baby 😢 are you in the afterlife?? did you leave me??”

You should stop. You should. But your thumbs don’t.

you:

like bro. i’m about to pass out in a puddle of failed cappuccinos and you’re making it MY problem that i’m not flirting back??

You stare at the screen, expecting some sarcastic reply. Something cocky. Something Ronin.

Instead, after a beat—

GOREBOY:

...tell me everything.

You blink.

you:

what?

GOREBOY:

everything. all of it.

GOREBOY:

i’m listening, baby. go ahead—vent it out.

And just like that—you break. You tell him everything. The constant stress, the unpaid bills, the fact that your “dream café” is hanging by a thread because nobody wants to buy overpriced lattes served by questionable maids and worse butlers. How you’ve been grinding yourself into the ground, and it still isn’t enough.

And the whole time? He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t tease. He just… listens.

Finally, when you’re done—when you’ve vomited every anxious thought into his DMs—he replies.

GOREBOY:

okay. first? if you die, i’m bringing you back myself.

GOREBOY:

second? i’m coming over.

you:

?????

GOREBOY:

did i stutter?

You: hey!!!!

You slam the message into Ronin’s DMs He's not try to pull that "I’m coming over" nonsense. You’re stressed, overworked, and no way in hell are you dealing with that in person.

GOREBOY:

oh? suddenly alive again? miss me already, baby?

You:

shut up omg. i’m fine. go be evil somewhere else.

GOREBOY:

nah. you’re my favorite pastime.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. This man. This man. And like the problem he is, he doesn’t stop there.

GOREBOY:

c’mon, sweet thing. tell me more.

GOREBOY:

my muse needs their muse, don't they?

And, damn it, he knows exactly how to work you. Your head’s been a mess—deadlines on your novel, bills piling up from the café, maids and butlers who couldn’t charm a customer to save their lives. Your dream’s slipping through your fingers, and you’ve been too tired to write, too tired to do anything but spiral.

But he keeps talking.

GOREBOY:

bet you’re cute when you pout.

GOREBOY:

and if your little café is your house? yeah, angel—burn the world down before you let anyone take it.

Your heart does a dumb little flip.

You:

it’s different, though… if i lose this place, i’ll break. me and my parents—we worked so hard. it’s not just a shop. it’s… home.

He goes quiet for a second. Too quiet.

Then—your phone buzzes. He’s calling you. Of course he is.

You hesitate… but pick up.

The screen flickers, and there he is—Ronin, all lazy smirk and sharp angles, his silver hair falling into his eyes. He scans you, slow and deliberate, and yeah… you’ve got eyebags for days, but the way he looks at you—shit.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” you mutter, voice softer than you mean it.

“Yeah,” he drawls, tilting his head. “I was just thinkin’… even with the eyebags, you look great, darlin’.”

You roll your eyes. “Gee, thanks.”

But he keeps staring. Long. Intense. Like he’s memorizing you.

“What?” you snap, feeling your face heat.

“Nothing,” he says—too casual. “Just… go to sleep.”

You blink. “What, why—”

“I’ll watch,” he cuts in, voice dropping to that smooth, velvet tone that makes your stomach flip. “Until you’re out. That a problem, baby?”

Your heart stutters. “Why are you—”

“‘Cause I’m nice.” He leans closer to the camera, grin curling wicked. “And this is how I get repaid? My Darlin an ungrateful idiot, huh?”

You swallow hard, brain short-circuiting. “I—”

“Relax.” His voice softens, teasing but warm. “Shoulder devils gotta take care of their angels, baby. You work too hard. So, shut up and let me be sweet. Just this once.”

And hell—you’d argue, but you’re already sinking deeper under his spell.

Your laughter slips out before you can stop it—light, tired, but real. “Thanks, Ronin.”

For once, he doesn’t shoot back a smart-ass comment. Instead, he just… smiles. Soft at the edges, like he’s letting his guard down without realizing it. And damn, if that doesn’t make your chest ache a little.

“Good night, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice smooth as sin.

You smirk, letting your head fall against the pillow. “Good night, Butcher.”

His eyes flash with something dangerous—amused. “Tch. Call me that again, angel, and I might think you’re flirting.”

“Maybe I am,” you tease, your voice dipping just enough to make it stick.

He huffs a laugh under his breath. “You’re lucky I’m feeling sweet. Sleep. Before I crawl through the screen and tuck you in myself.”

“Promises, promises…” you mumble, already half-asleep.

And as you drift off, the last thing you hear is his voice—lower, softer than before.

“…Sweet dreams, baby.”

Ronin leans back in his chair after hanging up, fingers drumming against his thigh. For once, the usual smirk on his face fades into something… complicated. The hell’s he supposed to do with this?

You’re stressed—overworked, overwhelmed, cracking at the edges. And sure, he loves teasing you, loves watching you squirm, but… this? This hits different. You care about that dumb café like it’s your soul stitched into the walls. If you lose it, you’ll break.

And—ugh—he doesn’t like when you sound broken.

A sharp ping breaks his thoughts.

Angelic: hey goreboy, any update? hitmeuppp: fr fr bossman u know what’s up right? Eviscerator1990: WORRYING. This isn’t slasher-behavior, kid. LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: bro, did they die again? Ai Hua: 👍

Ronin groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Fucking vultures…”

He could brush them off—should brush them off—but his eyes flick back to your DM window. Your sleepy voice still lingers in his head. It’s like your house.

Tch. Of course you’d say something sappy like that. Of course he gives a shit.

goreboy: I don’t know. Let ‘em breathe.

A pause. Then—

Angelic: Liar.

He barks a laugh. They know him too well.

But… he does have a plan. Something stupid. Something reckless. Something only he can pull off.

If you’re gonna keep your café from crumbling, you’ll need one thing.

Publicity.

And who better to stir up a little chaos than the devil himself?

Ronin cracks his neck, the familiar edge of a smirk curling his lips as he types back.

goreboy: I have a wonderful plan.

The server erupts immediately.

Angelic: That’s never comforting. hitmeuppp: oh no oh no oh no Eviscerator1990: Define "wonderful," kid. LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: is it illegal. wait no. dumb question. Ai Hua: 👀

Ronin kicks his feet up on his desk, stretching like a cat that’s found fresh prey. He should probably explain—nah—he likes the suspense.

goreboy: Sit tight, sinners. Devil’s about to perform a miracle.

Even Felicite, who usually keeps her distance from the server’s chaos, drops a rare message.

Félicité: I’m almost scared to ask.

Ronin barks out a laugh, tipping his head back. If she’s curious, this plan is already off to a fantastic start.

goreboy: Don’t worry, princess. You’re gonna love it.

hitmeuppp: if u get them arrested, i’m telling their mom.

goreboy: Please, like I’m that sloppy.

goreboy: alright, angels—brainstorm time. how do we save my darlin’s dying café?

angelicc: OH. MY. GOD. I GOT THIS.

Before Ronin can even blink, Angel creates a new group chat and drags him in. The name?

💀 "Operation: Save the Café (ft. Hot Butcher)" 💀

hitmeuppp: wow u really just out here putting their whole situationship on blast huh

angelicc: duh. it’s cute. shut up, Misaki.

goreboy: so, what’s the master plan, sweetheart?

angelicc: Simple. I’ll feature their café on my channel. "Mystery Maid & Butler Café – The Hidden Gem You NEED To Visit!"

angelicc: Cute aesthetic. Mystery theme. And you? You’re coming too.

goreboy: oh?

angelicc: Yeah, I need the butcher boy for emotional support vibes.

Ronin snorts, already imagining how much fun he could have with this. If Angel’s running the show, the café is about to get flooded with curious fans.

goreboy: i’m in. tell me when to show up.

angelicc: Of course!

hitmeuppp: WAIT—WAIT. HOLD UP.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: DareDarvil rules, baby!!! 😎

goreboy: you mean to tell me…

angelicc: No. Luca.

hitmeuppp: YES.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: YESSSSS.

goreboy: …You want me to show up in a maid dress. With cat ears. And a tail.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: AND FAKE BLOOD! Don’t forget the blood—like a cute lil’ murder maid, bro.

There’s a long pause. Ronin leans back in his chair, dragging his tongue over his teeth, half amused and half what the actual hell.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: Think about it. Viral marketing. “Sinful Maid Café” featuring a devilishly hot butcher.

hitmeuppp: Bro, if you pull up in cat ears, you KNOW they’ll have a line out the door.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: Exactly. Chicks and Ddes dig murder maids.

goreboy: ...You’re all insane.

angelicc: As long you're okay with it. I don't really like this idea..

A slow, wicked smile curls at the corner of Ronin’s mouth. He pictures your stressed-out, sleep-deprived face when he walks into your café like that—oh, he’s gonna ruin you.

goreboy: Fine. But if I’m doing it, I’m going all in.

angelicc: Define “all in”…

goreboy: Tail. Ears. Knife. And if anyone gets blood on my skirt, they’re next.

hitmeuppp: Bro’s about to awaken something in half the city.

The next day

You blink, still half-asleep, as the café door swings open—and in walks Angel, glowing like a literal angel with her flawless makeup and bright smile. She’s dressed to kill, all elegance and danger wrapped in a leather jacket that probably costs more than your rent. Behind her, Ronin—looking like he rolled out of bed, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, eyes half-lidded but sharp.

“Morning, sunshine,” Angel coos, voice dripping honey as she surveys your café. “I couldn’t just sit back and let you spiral. You know I hate watching cute things break.”

You stare at her, still processing the fact that she’s standing here, in your café, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And your staff? Oh, your staff is losing their minds.

“Wait, wait—you’re Angelic?” one of your waitresses gasps, clutching the edge of a tray like she might faint.

“The one and only.” Angel winks, spinning on her heel. “And I’m here to save this adorable little café. So, listen up—new plan, everyone! We’re rebranding.”

You blink rapidly. “Re…branding?”

She flashes you a devilish smile. “Sinful Café. Think blood-splattered butlers, seductive maids—" She lowers her voice into a sultry purr, “—danger with your dessert. It’ll go viral in days. Trust me.”

And of course—because she’s Angel—your staff is eating it up. They’re already brainstorming costumes, throwing out ideas, hanging off her every word. You should be grateful. You should say thank you. But…

Your eyes drift to Ronin. He’s quiet, leaning against the counter, his gaze locked on you—steady, unreadable.

Did they… really do all this? For you?

You swallow hard. “Why?” The word slips out before you can stop it.

Angel tilts her head, smiling like it’s obvious. “Because you’re ours, duh.”

Your heart stutters.

“Don’t get soft on me now, darlin’,” Ronin drawls finally, breaking his silence. His voice—low, smooth, dangerously amused—crawls right under your skin. “You didn’t think we’d let your little house fall apart, did you?”

“You’re here!” The words slip out faster than you can stop them—your voice cracking with something dangerously close to relief. And, of course, Ronin hears it.

His lips curl into a slow, wicked smirk. “Missed me that bad, huh?” He leans in, the scent of leather and something sharper brushing against your senses.

You flush, heat crawling up your neck. “Pfft—no. I’m just surprised you’re awake before noon.”

“Ouch. And here I was, being all sweet, coming to save your ass.” His finger lifts, smooth and deliberate, and—boop—he taps the tip of your nose with the cocky audacity only he could pull off.

Your brain short-circuits for a second. “Did you just—?”

“What? You wanna do something about it, darlin’?” His voice drips teasing venom, but his eyes—oh, his eyes—are locked on yours, watching every little reaction like it’s his favorite show.

Without thinking, you reach out and boop him back. Harder. “Two can play that game, Butcher.”

His grin widens, teeth flashing sharp. “Aw, baby—don’t start something you can’t finish.”

And just like that, you’re caught in a spiral—back and forth, noses being bopped like you’re flirting in some chaotic cartoon. Until—

“...They’re seriously gonna do this in front of everyone?”

You freeze. Your staff. And Angel.

Oh no.

Angel, being her usual self, is lounging against a table with a shit-eating grin. “I mean, it’s cute. Like, stupidly cute.”

“They’re literally blushing—look at them!” one of your waiters whisper-yells, half-hiding behind a coffee tray.

“And they say we’re unprofessional,” one of your maids adds, crossing her arms—but her face is way too entertained.

Meanwhile, you? You’re dying inside. Absolutely dying.

Ronin? Oh, he’s thriving.

He bops your nose again—softer this time, like he’s savoring how easy it is to make you squirm. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Losing your edge?” His hand barely brushes your waist as he leans closer, voice dropping to a teasing murmur. “I thought you liked a little attention.”

You want to slap him. You also want to kiss him. Dangerous combo.

“You’re evil,” you mutter, trying (and failing) to glare at him.

“And you love it,” he shoots back without missing a beat.

Your grip on a glass tightens—so much so that it nearly shatters in your hands. Your heart’s pounding, and you swear the room’s hotter than it should be.

Your staff? Fully gossiping under their breath.

You noticed it immediately—the way your staff kept sneaking glances at Ronin. And not the “oh no, scary serial killer” kind of glances. No. It was the other kind.

The "he’s cute as hell" kind.

The whispering was bad enough.

“Why is he kinda hot, though?”

“Okay, but the messy hair? The voice??”

“I’d let him ruin my life, honestly.”

Your eye twitched. Why were they like this?

And why—out of everyone—did it have to be him they were thirsting over?

Ronin, of course, was oblivious. Or maybe he just didn’t care. He was too busy looking like a whole damn problem—leaning against the counter like he owned the place, one hand shoved casually into his jacket pocket, the other still too close to your waist.

He caught you glaring and quirked a brow. "What’s with the face, darlin’? Don’t tell me you’re jealous."

You rolled your eyes. "Of what? Your fan club?"

His smirk sharpened. "What can I say? People love a bad boy."

Okay, that was it. Enough.

You shot a death glare at your staff—the kind that screamed "I will fire all of you if you keep simping."

Instantly, they froze.

And, as one, they all gave you awkward thumbs-ups before scrambling out of the room.

Cowards.

Ronin laughed low in his throat. "Did you just chase them off?"

"Someone had to." You huffed, crossing your arms. "They were staring at you like you’re a damn dessert menu."

His gaze slid over you, slow and too pleased with himself. "Maybe they’ve just got good taste."

Oh, for the love of—

"Get out of my café, Ronin"

He only grinned wider. "Make me, sweetheart."

Angel spread out the plan with all the flair of someone who lived for the spotlight. "Alright, listen up, sinners." She clapped her hands, and the entire staff leaned in, hanging onto her every word. "We’re turning this café into a killer’s paradise—literally. Blood, danger, hot people in unholy outfits. We want every customer leaving here questioning their morality and maybe their life choices."

Your staff murmured excitedly—because of course they did.

Meanwhile, you?

Yeah, you were not listening.

Because Ronin—the actual Devil in a leather jacket—was still standing too close, arms folded, head tilted as he half-listened to Angel’s pitch. And you? You were just… staring.

Why did he have to look that good doing absolutely nothing?

His hair was a mess, that lazy smirk was doing something to your heart, and you were blushing like an idiot. And worse? He knew it.

Angel caught your stare immediately because she was evil like that. Her gaze flicked between you and Ronin, and when you met her eyes—oh, she was already smirking.

You shot her back a glare. Shut up.

She only grinned wider and mouthed, "Adorable."

Ugh.

You forced yourself to focus as she dramatically flipped through her phone. "And now… costumes." With a flourish, she spun her phone around to reveal the lineup. "Everyone’s getting a killer makeover. Think blood-splattered chic. Sexy slasher. Haute homicide."

Your staff was way too excited about this.

"I call being the ghost-faced butler!"

"Can I be a psycho doll?"

"I’m doing a vampire killer—deal with it."

Angel winked at you. "And don’t worry, babe. I’ve got a special costume just for you."

You groaned. "Should I be scared?"

"Always," she said sweetly.

But your heart stuttered when Ronin—still leaning against the counter—sighed with fake boredom. "Yeah, yeah. Blood, knives, murder. Real original. You’re all having fun, but what am I wearing, Angel?" His tone was lazy, but there was a glint in his eyes—a challenge.

Angel had no mercy.

The outfit she shoved into your arms? Unholy.

A sleek, gender-neutral ensemble that clung to all the right places—black leather, blood-red accents splattered across your chest like you walked out of a crime scene. The jacket? Cropped and shredded, showing just enough skin to be dangerous. Fingerless gloves, a choker with a dangling silver knife charm, and thigh straps. Why did there have to be thigh straps?!

"You’re welcome," Angel purred as you stared at yourself in the mirror, half-horrified and half-impressed.

You tried to play it cool. "You think I’m gonna wear this?"

"I think you’re gonna rock it." She gave you a once-over, biting back a smirk. "Don’t worry, darling—if the café thing tanks, you’ll have a backup career as a heartbreaker."

And, yeah. You wore it.

The moment you stepped out, your staff did a collective double take.

One of your butlers—bless his soul—whistled low. "Boss, uh… is this café legal? ‘Cause you’re about to cause crimes."

Angel winked at you from across the room, holding up two thumbs. "Looking like you’re ready to commit murder and steal some hearts. Perfect."

But nothing—nothing—prepared you for Ronin’s reaction.

He had been leaning against the counter, scrolling on his phone, but the second he saw you? His gaze dragged up from your boots to your neck, slow and heavy, like he was memorizing every inch.

And when he met your eyes?

Oh, you were screwed.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, pushing off the counter. His voice dipped, velvet smooth. "Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes, darlin’."

You tried to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck. "Don’t start."

"Can’t help it." He tilted his head, devil horns peeking through his hair. "You dress up like my next bad decision, and you expect me to behave?"

Before you could snap back, the front doors of your café burst open—and in poured a wave of customers.

Apparently, the paparazzi spotted Angel outside, and that meant the whole city wanted to be here. The crowd was ridiculous—half the people here probably couldn’t tell a latte from a cappuccino, but they definitely wanted photos with Angel.

And your café?

It was packed.

One of your waitresses rushed past, wide-eyed. "I can’t believe it—we’re trending."

Angel tossed her hair over her shoulder, all casual. "Of course we are. I’m a genius." She leaned in, voice softer. "I told you I’d fix this, babe."

You almost didn’t hear her—because Ronin was still watching you, still too close.

"You gonna keep gawking?" you muttered.

Your staff? Absolutely killing it.

Angel's twisted, bloodied aesthetic turned your struggling café into the hottest place in town. Every maid and butler was decked out in outfits straight from a killer's fever dream—splattered with fake blood, ripped in all the right places, and more than a little suggestive.

Your barista? Serial killer chic, with a blood-streaked apron and a knife tucked into their belt. One of the butlers had a leather harness over his vest, the bloodstains on his gloves just this side of illegal. Even the shyest maid—normally too nervous to hold eye contact—was working the crowd in a blood-smeared lace dress, balancing a tray of lattes while twirling a fake cleaver.

It was chaotic. It was hot. And the customers? They were eating it up.

Angel, perched at a VIP table with Ronin, looked pleased as hell. She clinked her glass against his. "I told you," she said sweetly, watching the café hum with energy. "All they needed was a little edge."

"Yeah, yeah." Ronin stretched, all lazy confidence, but his eyes hadn’t left you once. "Don’t get too smug, sweetheart. This ain’t your masterpiece."

Angel snorted. "Jealous?"

"Of you?" His smirk sharpened. "No, babe. I’m invested."

You barely had a second to breathe before one of your butlers slid up beside you, flashing a teasing grin. "Hey, boss." He tugged at the bloodied cuffs of his sleeves. "Think we’re gonna need combat pay for all these stares. Never thought working here would mean breaking hearts too."

"You’ll survive," you deadpanned, trying not to laugh.

"You sure? ‘Cause your devil boyfriend’s been glaring holes through anyone who looks at you too long." He tilted his head toward Ronin, who—yeah—was definitely watching you with that lazy, heavy-lidded gaze.

Ronin caught you looking. And winked.

Your heart did a stupid, traitorous flip.

Angel’s plan wasn’t just working—it was thriving. The line outside wrapped around the block. Your social media was blowing up. Every time a customer left, they posted pictures of the blood-soaked, dangerously hot staff, tagging the café with captions like:

"Who knew horror could be this hot?? #SinfulCafe #KillerVibes"

"Maid cafés are cute—this one’s a crime scene and I’m obsessed."

Angel didn’t just post it—she made a whole event out of it.

The photo? Flawless.

A perfectly curated shot of the café’s chaos—bloodied maids, dangerously hot butlers, and you at the center, caught mid-laugh. You were leaning back against the counter, still wearing the killer-chic outfit she picked, the fake blood on your collar making you look like you just stepped out of a slasher movie.

He was right beside you, one hand casually draped around your waist, head tilted close—like he wasn’t just near you, but claiming you. His usual sharp-edged smirk was in full force, the kind that promised trouble.

The caption?

"Blood, guts, and a little bit of love~ ❤️🍷 @SinfulCafe is OPEN. Come for the coffee, stay for the danger. #KillerVibes #SinfulCafe #MariaDelRosa"

And that name—Maria Del Rosa—was all the hook anyone needed.

Because if there was one thing Angel knew how to do, it was make a scandal.

Maria Del Rosa wasn’t just a pop sensation—she was controversy in high heels, and Angel had just hinted to her millions of followers that this café was her new obsession.

The second the post went live, your notifications exploded.

"Wait—Maria Del Rosa is hanging out at a haunted café?!"

"Angel really said blood is the new black, huh?"

Your café was trending before you could even process it—news outlets were already picking it up, hyping the place as a “celebrity hideout with a bloody twist.”

You were working, Ronin said he had a work.

Your brain short-circuited.

Ronin. In the maid outfit.

Cat ears. Tail. Bloodied knife.

What the actual hell.

And he was working—or, well, his version of it. Strutting through the café like he owned the place, giving the new customers a devil’s welcome with that lazy, sharp-edged grin that promised a good time… or a terrible mistake.

“Welcome to Sinful Café,” he drawled, voice dripping with mock sweetness as he leaned down toward a table of wide-eyed customers. “Order fast, darlings… or else.” He spun the fake knife between his fingers like he was born with it, flashing his fangs in a grin as one girl nearly fainted.

The whole café was staring—even your staff was frozen, whispering among themselves like he was some kind of exotic attraction.

Someone even whipped out their phone—you heard the camera shutters, the murmurs of, “Holy shit, is he part of the show?!” and “I will sell my soul to be stepped on—”

You barely processed any of it because, goddamn, he looked good.

The maid dress hugged him in all the right places—short enough to tease but just messy enough with the blood splatters to make him look like he walked out of a horror fantasy. The cat ears twitched as he tilted his head toward a customer who was too stunned to speak.

“Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” he purred.

You clutched the counter to stay upright.

And then—he caught you staring.

That slow, dangerous smile of his stretched wider, and he sauntered over like he had all the time in the world. Each step was deliberate, and you swore half the café was tracking his movements.

He leaned down, voice just for you this time. “What’s wrong, darlin’? Gonna break another glass lookin’ at me like that?”

Your throat dried. “I—uh—why—” Words? Who needed them? Not you apparently.

He tilted your chin up with the tip of the bloody knife (prop… hopefully), his crimson-painted nails brushing your skin. "Luca dared me," he admitted, way too pleased with himself. "Thought I’d… liven the place up."

Liven it up?! You wanted to scream. The café was practically vibrating with energy—the air buzzing with whispers and cameras flashing.

“Gotta admit,” he continued, studying your face, “it’s worth it just to see you blush like that. Thought you liked the attention?”

“I—I do, but—” You swallowed, heat crawling up your neck as his eyes dropped—lingering low before meeting yours again. "This is different."

Ronin chuckled low in his throat, pulling back slightly—but not before dragging the blunt edge of the knife down your chest in one slow line. "Different’s good, sweetheart. Keeps things… interesting."

And just when you thought you’d survive—

He winked. "Anything for you, boss."

Your heart? Gone. Dead. Buried.

You tried—really tried—to be normal about it.

But how the hell were you supposed to act normal when Ronin looked like that?

The cat ears, the tail, the scandalously short maid dress—it was criminal how good he looked. The lace edging flirted with his thighs every time he moved, and the fake blood on his apron wasn’t helping your sanity. And the knife? Oh, the knife. He spun it like a promise, the gleam catching the light as if it were taunting you.

You sucked in a breath, gripping the counter for dear life, because if you didn’t hold onto something, you were going to lose it.

Meanwhile, Ronin? Completely unbothered—in fact, he seemed to be having the time of his life. He strolled through the café like a devil on holiday, sending playful winks and lazy smirks to anyone brave (or stupid) enough to stare too long.

And, oh—they were staring.

Your staff? Losing it. You caught two maids whispering frantically behind a menu, eyes wide as they tracked his every move. A butler actually dropped a tray, the clatter nearly drowned out by the murmurs rippling through the café.

The customers? Even worse.

“I didn’t know this was a thing,” one girl gasped, clutching her friend’s arm. “I’d pay extra if he threatened me,” her friend muttered, practically drooling.

Your jaw clenched. Oh, hell no.

You tried—really—to be professional, plastering on a smile as you took an order from a table. But your focus kept slipping. Your eyes? Betraying you. Every time you glanced up, he was there—a walking distraction with legs far too long and a smirk far too dangerous.

And he knew it.

You caught him watching you—his golden eyes sharp, hungry, and just a little too pleased with himself. When your eyes met, he tilted his head, the black cat ears twitching with the motion.

The knife twirled in his fingers. Slow. Deliberate.

A tease—just for you.

“Something on your mind, darlin’?” His voice slid across the café, smooth and dark, cutting through the buzz of conversation like silk over a blade.

Your stomach flipped. You scrambled for composure, tossing him a glare. “Stop that.”

His grin only widened. “Stop what? Bein’ cute?” He took a step closer—too close—until the counter was the only thing between you. He leaned in, the scent of leather and something dangerous curling around you. “Can’t help it. It’s natural.”

You huffed, face burning. “You’re gonna give someone a heart attack.”

He chuckled low in his throat, dragging the blunt edge of the knife along his lip in a way that should’ve been illegal. “Long as it’s not yours, we’re fine, sugar.”

You were not surviving this day.

Especially when you noticed the way everyone else was looking at him. Customers whispering, staff swooning—hell, you spotted a person blatantly checking him out,

Your eye twitched.

Mine.

The thought flared up so fast it startled you—but, God, you weren’t wrong.

And Ronin? He must’ve caught the flash of jealousy in your eyes because the next thing you knew, he was sliding closer—too close—the tip of the knife brushing against your wrist where you clutched the counter.

“Careful, sweetheart.” His voice dipped lower—private, rough around the edges. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, and I’ll think you’re jealous.”

Your heart pounded. “I am not jealous.”

“Mm.” He didn’t believe you for a second. “Coulda fooled me. Don’t worry, darlin’. No one else gets me like you do."

Asshole.

And when you didn’t answer, too busy trying not to combust, he reached up—bopped your nose—and laughed.

“You’re cute when you pout.”

You slammed your hands on the counter—loud—loud enough to cut through the chatter and grab everyone’s attention.

“The café is closed due to… due to a food shortage!” You snapped, a little too fast, a little too sharp.

A blatant lie—there were plenty of pastries in the back, and you knew it. But if you had to watch one more person drool over Ronin in that damn maid outfit, you were going to start flipping tables.

The crowd groaned in disappointment but no one moved—because, of course, they didn’t. Not when Ronin stood there like a walking sin, twirling his knife with that easy, flirtatious grace.

One girl, practically vibrating, tilted her head with wide eyes. “But… can we stay if we’re just… watching?”

Watching?!

You nearly choked. What the hell—was he a café attraction now? A sideshow? What, were people going to start tipping him for existing?

Meanwhile, Ronin? That bastard was eating it up.

“Aw, sugar, you closin’ up so soon?” He purred, leaning against the counter, his black cat tail curling playfully behind him. His gaze flicked over you—slow, heavy, dangerous—and he grinned like he was born to be a problem. “Guess I’ll have to entertain ‘em while you’re bein’ stingy.”

Oh, hell no.

And as if the universe hadn’t tortured you enough, someone from the back whistled—a low, appreciative sound—and you caught at least three people whispering about how “mysterious and hot” he was.

You snapped.

“Out.” Your voice cracked through the air like a whip, sharp enough to make the nearest table flinch. “We are closed—I don’t care if God himself walks in here; you’re all leaving.”

A mix of grumbling and disappointment filled the room as the customers reluctantly shuffled toward the exit, throwing longing glances at Ronin as they went. One particularly bold person actually slipped a phone number onto the counter—for Ronin.

The audacity.

You snatched the paper before he could see it and crumpled it into your fist. No way in hell. Not on your watch.

Finally, the door closed behind the last customer, the bell jingling softly in the silence.

You exhaled hard, pressing a hand to your chest to keep your jealous heart from exploding. Peace. At last.

…Until you realized Ronin was still there, watching you with the smuggest look you’d ever seen. His golden eyes glittered with pure, unfiltered amusement—like he knew exactly what game you were playing.

“You okay there, sweetheart?” he drawled, pushing off the counter to prowl closer, the hem of the maid skirt dangerously high with each step. “Seemed a little… possessive."

“I’m not,” you lied—poorly. Your voice cracked on the last word.

He tilted his head, the black cat ears twitching like he was enjoying every second of your unraveling. “Really? ‘Cause it kinda felt like you wanted to throw hands back there.”

“I’m not jealous!” You blurted, too loud—too defensive.

“Mm-hm.” He stopped right in front of you, towering over you in those ridiculous cat ears and lace. The fake blood on his apron only made him look more dangerous, more irresistible. “Y’know, darlin’, if you wanted my attention that bad…” He lowered his voice, rough and teasing. “…you just had to ask.”

You narrowed your eyes, heat flooding your face. “You think you’re so funny.”

“Only ‘cause I am.” His grin turned wicked. “C’mon, admit it—you liked it. Me in this little thing?” He gave the hem of the maid skirt a taunting tug, showing a sinful hint of thigh. “Drives you crazy, huh?”

“You drive me crazy,” you snapped, but your gaze dipped—traitorously—to his legs. “And put your knife down before you stab someone.”

His chuckle was low and dangerous, vibrating straight through your bones. “Careful, darlin’. If I didn’t know better…” He leaned in, lips hovering by your ear, breath warm against your skin. “…I’d think you were jealous of everyone checkin’ me out.”

You swallowed hard, pulse pounding. “I’m not jealous,” you muttered, glaring at his smirk. “I just… I didn’t like it.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Didn’t like what?”

“Them.” You huffed, pushing at his chest—bad idea—because the second your fingers touched the soft lace of the dress, he caught your wrist. “I didn’t like them looking at you.”

For a beat, he didn’t move—just stared at you, his expression shifting into something slower, heavier. And when he spoke next, his voice was different—still teasing, but laced with something else beneath the surface.

“Aw, sugar…” He lifted your hand to his lips, brushing a feather-light kiss across your knuckles. “You don’t gotta be jealous. They can look all they want, but…” His smile softened—just a little—and his black eyes locked with yours. “…I’m yours.”

You screamed—a full, undignified scream—so loud it echoed through the empty café. Your legs buckled beneath you from the sheer force of your overheated brain trying to process what had just happened.

And, of course, because the universe was cruel, you nearly ate the floor—until Ronin caught you.

With one hand.

On your waist.

And, oh God, the maid outfit—you could feel the lace brushing against your skin as he held you steady. His grip was firm, possessive, like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

“You good there, darlin’?” His voice was warm—too warm—smug as hell, but there was something else underneath it. Something sincere, something dangerous.

You opened your mouth—probably to yell again—but your words died in your throat because suddenly, he kissed you.

Soft at first—too soft—like he was testing if you’d push him away. But when you didn’t—when you clung to him like you’d lose your mind if he stopped—he deepened it. His free hand slid to the small of your back, tugging you flush against him, and you swear you could feel the flick of his damn cat tail brushing your leg.

When he pulled back, his lips were curved in a lazy, satisfied smile. “Told ya,” he murmured, his voice rough and teasing, “I’m yours.”

Your brain? Mush. Gone. Obliterated.

The only thing you could do was stare at him—scandalized, flustered, and very much not okay.

And he knew it.

The next day?

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

Your café? Blown up—not literally, but it might as well have been. Thanks to Angel’s post, it had gone viral overnight. The hashtag #SinfulCafe was trending, and you had a line stretching around the block before you even opened.

And the worst part?

The photo posted—the one everyone was losing their minds over—wasn’t even of her.

It was of him.

Ronin, in the bloody maid outfit, mid-stride with that devil-may-care smirk, twirling his knife like he was about to cut someone’s heart out—and everyone wanted a piece.

Customers wouldn’t stop asking about the “maid guy”—some even left love letters at the counter, like he was some kind of celebrity crush. And Ronin? That bastard was loving every second of it. Happy news is The photos people posted was so blurry when it had his face.

No one sees your man.

At one point, he leaned against the counter, watching you scramble around with the sweetest, most infuriating grin on his face.

“Y’know,” he drawled, spinning a fake blood-covered spoon between his fingers, “if I knew wearin’ a little lace would get you this riled up, I’d’ve done it sooner.”

You threw a dish towel at his head. He caught it without looking—because of course, he did.

When you finally had a moment to breathe, you flopped onto a chair in the break room and opened your phone.

The server was on fire—everyone was still buzzing about the café, Angel’s post, and him.

You typed out a quick message:

YOU: @angelicc I owe you one. Seriously. Thanks for saving my ass.

A second later, Angel replied:

ANGELICC: lmao anytime, babe 💋 but let’s be real—u should be thanking me for putting u two in the same room long enough to FINALLY KISS.

Your face burned.

LUCA: wait wait WAIT??? U TWO KISSED???

FELICITE: They WHAT.

You: Aren't we already in a relationship?

You groaned, slamming your forehead against the table while your notifications exploded.

Goreboy: They act like everything is a horror.

Of course, it was him.

Every single photo—every—one of that viral post had his face conveniently blurred or cropped just enough to keep his identity a mystery. Fans online were already obsessing over the “Sinful Butcher Maid,” speculating who he was, but no one had a clear shot.

And you? You were suspicious.

So, naturally, you DM’d him.

YOU: okay, be honest. is this YOUR doing??

It took him exactly thirty seconds to respond—because, of course, he was waiting.

Goreboy: obviously.

You rolled your eyes. Of course.

YOU: why tho?? u love attention. don’t lie.

Goreboy: babe, I know I’m hot. but I also know when to keep my shit private.

Goreboy: plus, you know how messy it’d get if people started recognizing me? one glimpse of this face and your lil’ café turns into a damn crime scene.

You snorted. Dramatic as always.

YOU: sooooo, u admit you’re obsessed with me enough to hide your face for my sake?

Goreboy: tsk. don’t push it, darlin’. I’m already doin’ charity work lookin’ this good in cat ears.

YOU: HA. YOU agreed to the dare, don’t even play.

Goreboy: yeah, well. someone had to save your ass, and it sure wasn’t your tragic lil’ butlers.

You couldn’t help the stupid, giddy smile pulling at your lips. For all his teasing, he was right—if Ronin hadn’t shown up (in that outfit, no less), you might’ve lost your café. And now? Business was booming.

But, still.

YOU: soooooo... u gonna wear it again?

Goreboy: you wanna see me in it again?

Your face burned.

YOU: shut up.

Goreboy: nah. you’re cute when you’re jealous.

The worst part? He was right, and he damn well knew it.

[sincerelyyourslilly]

I'm not joking when I say this is my THEE FANFIC that has claimed its title as my favorite

Blood, Guts, and a Lifetime Warranty- Ronin x Reader

WORDS : 11732

TRIGGER WARNING : Graphic Violence, Gore, Murder, Dark Themes

CHARACTER USED : Ronin from Killer Chat!

SUMMARY : On the way to the wedding, Dressed in black, He really did it in his way didn't he? You really had a husband right now. He proposed.

INSPIRED FROM THE ART : @scary-brainrot I love their art! ahh! This was already in my drafts, I finished it!

The art's link (The one I got inspired from)

90 followers special

“That old man keeps asking when I’ll get married again.”

Annoying. Worse than annoying. Like a mosquito buzzing in your ear when you’re already halfway to losing your mind.

The garage smells like oil, rust, and Ronin—something metallic, something alive, something that clings. You could go home, but home is a ringing phone and voices that won’t like the answers you’d give. They love you. You love them. But they wouldn’t love him. Not the way you do.

Some distant uncle, some wrinkled remnant of family dinners and polite disappointment, would take one look at Ronin and say something sharp, something final. And Ronin? He’d roll his tongue along his teeth, slow and deliberate, like a lion deciding if a gazelle is worth the chase. He’d smile too wide, say something that’s both a joke and a promise of violence.

You’d defend him, though. Because you’re his. Because he’s yours.

A year, almost. Two sick minds spiraling around each other like dying stars, feeding off the heat, off the destruction. You learned more than you should. Became something sharper, something better, something that fit in the hollow of his ribs. And Ronin, patron saint of pretty rot, never lied about the world. He just pulled back the curtain and let you see it for what it was.

He loves you, but he doesn’t say it. He shows it in the way he exists—raw, unapologetic, a brush dipped in something obscene, painting your name in places no one else would dare.

And you?

You see it now. The way he sees things. The way they were always meant to be seen.

Face it, darlin’. You lost the second you met him.

The sound of metal on metal, the slow grind of a wrench turning bolts, the scent of oil and rust clinging to the air like an old, familiar ghost.

You’re watching him—your little devil in disguise, though he’s hardly trying to hide it. Ronin leans over the open hood of a half-dead car, sleeves shoved up, grease streaked along his forearm like war paint. He works with a lazy kind of precision, every movement drawn out, every flick of his wrist deliberate, like he knows you’re watching and wants you to keep watching.

And you do.

Because how could you not?

He glances up, catches your stare, and his grin spreads slow and sharp, teeth flashing like a wolf playing at civility. His tongue drags along his teeth before he chuckles, a low, amused thing that slithers into your bones.

"What, darlin’? Ain’t never seen a man work before?"

You roll your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. He doesn’t miss it—he never does. He tilts his head, studying you like he’s about to make a meal of you, like he already has.

"Careful now. Keep lookin’ at me like that, and I might start thinkin’ you got a death wish."

And Ronin? He never breaks a promise.

He lets the wrench fall onto the workbench with a clatter, wiping his hands on a rag that does nothing but spread the mess further. Then he’s leaning on the car, watching you like he’s considering tearing you apart just to see how you’d put yourself back together.

"Y’know, a person like you could do better." His voice is slow, teasing, coiling around something darker. "Could find yourself a nice boy. One who doesn’t kill for fun, who calls his mama on Sundays, who wouldn’t snap your neck if you asked real sweet."

A pause. A smirk. That awful, wonderful, knowing look in his eyes.

"But you won’t. ‘Cause you like this, don’tcha?"

He takes a step closer, the space between you burning down to nothing. The heat of him, the weight of his attention, the sheer gravity of his existence—it's suffocating in the best way.

"You like watchin’ me. Like sittin’ there all sweet while I get my hands dirty." A slow grin. "Like knowin’ they’ll never be clean."

“You’re being too edgy again.”

Ronin gasps, all mock offense, pressing a grease-streaked hand to his chest like you just ran him through with a stake. "Too edgy? Darlin’, you wound me."

“You already established the bit, you don’t have to crank it up every time.” You cross your arms, leveling him with a look that should be stern, but the corners of your lips betray you.

He hums, considering. "Alright, alright. I’ll dial it back a lil’—for you."

But then you laugh. Because, let’s be real, you like this. Maybe not the whole performance, but the way he commits to it. The sheer audacity of him.

Ronin catches that little slip in your composure, and suddenly, he’s grinning again—your grin. That slow, teasing pull of lips that promises nothing good.

"See? You love it."

Before you can argue, he puckers his lips, exaggerated as hell, and throws a flying kiss your way. And then—the bastard throws it straight into the trash.

You shoot him a murder look so sharp it could split bone, but he just laughs, loud and unrepentant, striding forward without a care in the world.

And then, in the cheesiest, most dramatic display of affection possible, he plucks the imaginary kiss right back from the air, presses it to his chest like a treasured keepsake, and sighs.

"Alright, alright. I’ll keep this one." He pats his chest, eyes twinkling. "Right here. Close to my cold, dead heart. XOXO, baby."

You groan. He’s impossible.

“You’re an idiot.”

Ronin grins. "Yeah?"

"An idiot for idiots."

His grin stretches wider, teeth flashing. "Oh?"

"So idiotically idiotic it’s actually impressive."

That does it. He throws his head back and laughs, a sharp, delighted thing, full-bodied and reckless. Hands still smudged with oil, still clutching onto the ghost of that stupid, cheesy kiss, he leans in like he's about to whisper something profound. Instead—

"And you—" he drawls, slow and indulgent, like he’s savoring the words before he spits them out. "You got the energy of such a bad bitch. Or a bastard. Take your pick."

He flicks his fingers, like he’s throwing dice, like fate itself is something he can gamble with.

"Somethin’ real nasty about you, sweetheart. Somethin’ sharp. A bite to that pretty mouth. Ain’t that a treat?"

His eyes are dark with something unreadable, something between admiration and hunger, like he wants to see what you’ll do with his words. If you’ll bite back. If you’ll play along.

Because Ronin? He’s always playing. And he’s hoping—praying, even—that you’re the kind of idiot who won’t let him win too easily.

"It’s... nothing."

Ronin tuts, tilting his head, eyes gleaming like a wolf that’s caught the scent of something bleeding. "Oh, but somethin’ must be trickin’ your head, darlin’. I can hear it rattlin’ around in there." He leans in, voice dropping to something just above a purr. "C’mon now. Whisper your prayer to the Devil. What’s on your mind?"

You shoot him another murderous glare, sharp enough to cut, lethal enough to wound. He loves it.

And worse? He blushes.

It’s fleeting—a flicker of warmth, a betrayal of blood rushing to his cheeks—but it’s there. And then, just as fast, he throws his head back and laughs, wild and unrestrained, like you’ve just handed him the funniest joke in the world.

The audacity. The gall. The sheer joy in his eyes, like he’s never been happier than in the presence of someone who genuinely wants to kill him.

Because let’s be real—isn’t that his favorite thing?

Ronin wipes at his grin like he can smother it, but it lingers, curling at the edges. "Goddamn. If looks could kill, sweetheart—" he whistles low, shaking his head, "—I’d be six feet under already. You tryin’ to make me fall harder?"

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Ronin’s already grinning like you did.

"What?!"

You don’t even give him a chance to answer before you pinch both of his cheeks, hard.

Ronin yelps, muffled by your hands squishing his stupid, grinning face. "Owww—darlin’, what the hell—?" He grabs your wrists, but not to stop you—no, just to hold on, just to feel you, because he likes it when you get your hands on him. Even when it’s to hurt him.

Especially when it’s to hurt him.

You tug his cheeks just a little harder, watching as his face scrunches up, his nose wrinkling, eyes narrowed in exaggerated pain. "That’s what you get for talking like that."

His words come out distorted, voice wobbling from the force of your grip. "Talkin’ like wha’?"

"Like you wanna die by my hands, idiot."

Ronin wheezes out a laugh, finally prying your hands away—but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he flips your grip, lacing your fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s his right.

"Ain’t my fault you’re so damn beautiful when you’re thinkin’ about killin’ me." His voice is softer now, but the playfulness lingers. His thumbs ghost over your knuckles, a mockery of tenderness, a real display of it all the same.

"Y’know," he muses, leaning in, voice dropping low, "if you ever do get sick of me, darlin’... at least make it interesting, yeah?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but you don’t pull away.

Ronin, grinning like he just won something, kisses your knuckles

You blush. Disgusting. You look away, like that’ll save you, like he won’t see it anyway. Like he won’t catch the way your fingers twitch in his grasp, like he won’t feel the heat you’re trying to will away. Like he won’t eat it up.

“You said live, not die.”

Ronin’s grin flickers. Just for a second. Just long enough for the mask to slip, the wires beneath to spark. Then—

“Oh, darlin’.” He lets out something between a laugh and a sigh, tilting his head, studying you like a painting he can’t quite decide how to ruin. “Now, that’s just cruel.”

You roll your eyes, yank your hands away, shove him for good measure. He staggers back with an exaggerated stumble, hand over his chest like you just stabbed him through the ribs. Dramatic. Always. Even when it’s real.

“Gotta admit,” he says, pressing his palms together, as if in prayer, as if he’s ever prayed to anything other than the void, “that’s a new one. You? Wantin’ me to live? Be still, my dead, black heart.”

You cross your arms, glare. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

There it is. That look. The one that’s all teeth, all sharp edges and something deeper, something raw. Something hungry. He wants you to fight him. He wants you to win.

You don’t humor him. You don’t move. You stay exactly where you are, which is somehow worse.

Ronin watches. Waits. Always patient, when it matters. Always willing to let the moment stretch, to let the silence settle, just to see what you’ll do with it.

“Go on, then.” He lifts his chin, dares you. “Say it again.”

Your stomach twists. You hate him. You hate that he knows exactly how to get under your skin, exactly how to pull words out of your throat like he’s got his fingers wrapped around your voice. You hate that you let him.

“You’re such an idiot.”

He smirks, tilts his head. “For idiots.”

“So idiotically idiotic.”

His grin widens. “Say it.”

You swallow. Fine. You meet his gaze, steady. “Live.”

Something shifts.

It’s subtle. A breath held too long, a flicker behind his eyes. Like you just flipped a switch he didn’t know he had. Like you just changed something.

Then, just as fast, he laughs—loud, reckless, full-bodied. He steps forward, gets right in your space, doesn’t touch, but you feel it anyway.

“Darlin’,” he purrs, “you keep talkin’ like that, and I might just have to listen.”

Your heartbeat stutters. Unacceptable. You shove him again, harder this time. He doesn’t even pretend to stumble, just grins like you handed him a gift.

“You’re insufferable,” you say, turning away.

“You love it.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Ronin chuckles, something quiet, something softer than it should be. You feel the heat of him at your back, a presence that lingers, that stays even when he isn’t touching you.

Then, finally, he steps away. Leaves you with the echo of his voice, the ghost of his grin.

“Live, huh?” he mutters, almost to himself. Almost.

"Guess I can try."

And damn it—you hear the smile in his voice. That soft, dangerous edge, like he’s filing it down just for you. Like you gave him something new to chew

Your phone buzzes—loud, persistent, annoying—because of course it does. You sigh, already knowing who it is. That special brand of chaos only one person in your family can bring.

Before you can grab it, Ronin’s faster. Always is. He snatches your phone like it’s his right, thumb dragging across the screen as he answers the call with a lazy, cocky swipe.

"Hello, sweetheart’s personal assistant speakin’—" He pauses, lips curling when the sound of someone shouting blasts through the speaker.

"Hey! When will we meet the boy?!" The voice is rough, familiar, and exactly as you feared. "I’m looking at some photos—"

Oh no.

"—of some nice boys. I’ll send them to you. Tell me which one you like, so the family can arrange a date. Get you two to know each other better—"

Silence.

A beat.

Then—Ronin laughs. Real loud, too—like he wants them to hear it, wants it to stick. His head tips back, neck exposed, all sharp teeth and sharper intentions.

"Well, shit," he drawls, licking his teeth, voice sweet as poison. "You’re settin’ up a date for my baby? Kinda rude, ain’t it? I mean—" His free hand slides to your waist, casual and possessive, squeezing like he owns you. "—I’m right here."

Your stomach drops. "Ronin—"

He ignores you, because of course he does.

"I get it," he continues, mock sympathy dripping from every word. "I mean, who wouldn’t wanna line up a few pretty boys? But—" He sighs, dramatic as ever. "—gotta break it to ya, pops. They’re already taken."

The line goes silent—for a second. Maybe two. Then—

"Who the hell are you?!"

Ronin’s grin stretches, and oh, he’s enjoying this. Loves the fire. Loves the fight. He leans closer to the speaker, like he’s sharing a secret. "The Devil, baby. Didn’t they warn you?"

You slap his arm, hard, but it only makes him laugh more—warm and bright, like setting a match to gasoline.

"You—!" The old man sputters, full of righteous indignation. "You think this is funny?!"

"A little," Ronin purrs. "Kinda cute, actually. Y’care about ‘em so much you’re hand-pickin’ their future? Adorable." His fingers curl against your hip, deliberate. "But—" he hums, voice sinking into something darker, rougher, "—no one’s takin’ ‘em away from me, old man."

He means it. You feel it in the weight of his touch, the way his thumb circles your skin.

"Ronin—" you hiss again, trying to take your phone back, but he’s not done. Not even close.

"Look," he says, casual as hell, like this is a friendly chat. "I’m a real thoughtful guy. I’d love to meet the fam. Hell—" he chuckles, "—maybe I’ll even bring a gift. Y’know, to show my appreciation."

You don’t like the way he says "gift." Not one bit.

"You’re out of your damn mind," the old man snaps.

Ronin’s smile turns razor-sharp. "Yeah, well—" he tilts his head, brushing his lips against your ear, voice dropping to a whisper only for you. "—I’m your kinda problem now, aren’t I?"

Your heart pounds—too fast, too much—and you’re torn between wanting to strangle him and... something worse.

The phone crackles—your family’s favorite brand of righteous fury practically vibrating through the speaker.

"You arrogant little—what kind of punk thinks he can talk to me like that?!" the old man barks, voice sharp enough to cut. "You think you’re funny?!"

Ronin, being Ronin, grins wider—which should be illegal, really, because no one man should look that pleased while actively causing problems on purpose. His eyes gleam, wicked and bright, as he leans against the workbench like this is his personal entertainment.

"Funny?" He clicks his tongue. "Nah, old-timer, I’m hilarious."

Your head drops into your hands. Of course. Of course he’s not backing down. Not when there’s someone willing to bite back.

"Ronin—" you try, voice tight, but he holds up a hand—shh, baby—without even looking at you.

"So," he drawls, like he’s savoring every second of this. "How many poor suckers you got lined up for ‘em? Five? Ten? You hopin’ one of ‘em’s got a personality, or just flippin’ through the catalogue ‘til you find a pretty face?"

The line crackles again. Then—"You listen here, you little shit—"

"Nah, you listen." Ronin’s voice drops—still playful, but there’s an edge under it now, jagged and dangerous. His smile never wavers, but the temperature in the room feels ten degrees colder. "They’re not goin’ on any dates. Not with your pretty little lineup, not with anyone." His head tilts, lazy, like he’s considering how much trouble he feels like starting. "Y’see, they’re already busy—with me."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, torn between wanting to melt into the floor and… God help you, wanting to drag him down by his stupid leather jacket and kiss the smirk off his face.

"What the hell kind of guy are you?!" the old man demands, voice still boiling.

And that’s it—that’s the line Ronin’s been waiting for. He lifts his hand, fingers splaying across his chest like he’s been personally offended, but there’s a gleam in his eye. Something feral. Something viciously proud.

"Oh, darlin’ didn’t tell you?" His smile turns razor-sharp, voice syrup-sweet. "I’m their worst decision. And their best one."

"YOU—"

"Careful now," Ronin warns, mock-gentle. "Wouldn’t wanna get your blood pressure up. Though, hey—if you keel over, I’ll send flowers. Maybe."

Your mouth falls open. "Ronin!"

He shrugs, but his arm wraps around your waist, tugging you against him like he’s staking a claim. "What?" he says, all innocence. "M’bein’ polite."

Polite.

The old man, meanwhile, sounds seconds away from an aneurysm. "You punk! What the hell do you even bring to the table?! Huh?!"

Ronin hums, pretending to think—tapping his chin like this is a serious question. "Well," he finally says, drawing out the word like it’s a punchline, "I’m real good with my hands."

You choke.

He winks.

And that’s when you’ve had enough. With a furious swipe, you rip the phone out of his hand and hang up before anyone can make things worse. For a second, there’s silence—just the hum of the garage and your heart pounding in your ears.

Then, of course—Ronin laughs.

Deep and delighted, like you just handed him the best gift he’s ever gotten.

You whirl on him, shoving at his chest. "Are you INSANE?!"

He doesn’t budge. Just catches your wrists, lazy and loose, still chuckling like he’s having the time of his life. "A little," he admits, dragging your hands up to his lips. He presses a feather-light kiss to your knuckles, saccharine and smug. "But you love it, don’t ya?"

Ronin’s eyes narrow the second the old man’s voice blares back through the phone—louder, angrier, like he’s just realizing exactly who he’s dealing with.

“AH, FUCK—IT’S YOU! PUNK, EMO ASS, KID—”

Your head drops back with a groan. Oh, great.

The rant barrels on, unstoppable. “Look, kid. They told us ‘bout you—yeah, yeah, we didn’t even mind your ass. But then we heard you don’t like marriage. Christian-type stuff.”

Ronin snorts under his breath, lips twitching. "Oh, no. Anything but the sanctity of holy matrimony," he mutters, loud enough for you to hear, and you felt shitty—because, of course, he’s not taking this seriously.

The old man is not amused. “Look, respectfully—I get it. Some people don’t like the religion shit, fine.” A breath hisses through the receiver. “But this is an event. My lil’ baby is either gettin’ married—or gonna.”

You don’t miss the way Ronin’s jaw flexes at the word "baby."

“So, please—stay outta their way.”

Before you can respond—before Ronin can sharpen his tongue into something lethal—your patience snaps. You snatch the phone from his hand and, with zero hesitation, hurl it across the garage. It hits the wall with a satisfying crack, falling in two pitiful pieces.

The silence that follows is deafening.

For once—he doesn’t laugh.

Ronin watches you—sharp, calculating—like he’s peeling back your skin with his eyes, memorizing every new layer you reveal. His head tilts just a little. Something about that look makes your chest feel tight—too much, too fast.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair, like it’ll somehow smooth out the mess in your head. But when you glance back at him—he’s still looking. Still waiting.

And his voice—God, his voice—comes out too soft. “Somethin’ on your mind, darlin’?”

You look away.

His grin creeps back in, a little too sharp. “Y’know I love it when you get shy,” he teases, but the edge in his voice gives him away. He wants the truth.

Your heart stumbles. You press your lips together, fighting the way your thoughts swirl—loud, messy, too much. But the words—the real words—don’t come easy. Not when it’s this.

Still—you reach for him. Slip your fingers into his, warm and solid and steady. It’s too intimate for how casual you’re pretending to be, but he lets you.

You swallow hard. “…You don’t like these things because of—”

But you can’t finish. Your voice trips over itself, and rather than push through, you stop. Let it hang. Force yourself to smile. “It’s fine.”

Ronin doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stays locked on you.

You squeeze his hands a little tighter. “I’m happy. With you.”

It’s too honest. Too raw. And his grip tightens—like he’s daring you to take it back.

For a beat—he says nothing. But something shifts behind his eyes, and you know—you just know—that those words are going to stick. He’ll hold onto them like a blade tucked under his skin.

You lean up, quick and light, and kiss his cheek—lingering just long enough to feel the heat rising under your lips.

“I’m gonna go home,” you murmur. “Sleep well, Ronin.”

His fingers twitch in yours—tight, like he doesn’t want to let go.

But then—he does. And the smile he gives you as you pull away is dangerous—a promise.

“G’night, Darlin.”

The walk home is quiet. Too quiet. The kind that sticks to your skin and makes your head buzz. You told yourself it was fine—you’re fine—but the weight in your chest doesn’t quite lift, no matter how many deep breaths you take.

When you finally get home, the house is dark. Silent, except for the faint hum of that damned telephone still on the hook. You don’t touch it. Not tonight.

You kick off your shoes, peel off the day, and crawl into bed. The sheets are cold—too cold—without him. But you don’t think about that.

Not yet.

You’re too tired to fight your thoughts, so you let them fade. Let sleep pull you under.

Ronin doesn’t sleep.

Not well, anyway—not when you’re gone.

He stays in the garage long after you leave, leaning against the workbench with a half-finished cigarette burning between his fingers. Smoke curls through the air—thick, acrid—something to keep his hands busy while his mind spins.

That old bastard’s voice still rings in his ears. “Stay outta their way.” Like he’s some stray mutt sniffing around where he doesn’t belong. Like you’d ever let anyone pull that leash.

A dry chuckle slips past his lips. As if.

You told him to live. And you said it like you meant it. Like you wanted him to stick around. For you.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because Ronin’s been circling the drain for years—grinning all the way down—and then you came along. Got your hooks in him. Made it hard to fall when you’re the one holding on.

And he likes it. That’s the worst part. He likes the way you look at him—like he’s more than just teeth and blood and bad habits stitched together. Likes the way you call him an idiot and still hold his hands like you’re afraid to let go.

It’s addictive. You’re addictive.

And maybe—just maybe—he’s not ready to lose that yet.

The cigarette burns down to the filter before he flicks it aside, crushing it under his boot. His fingers twitch against his palm, and for a split second—he thinks about calling you. Just to hear your voice. Just to prove you’re still there.

But he won’t. He doesn’t want to spook you. Not when you’ve already given him so much.

Still—he’s not gonna sit here all night stewing like a lovesick idiot.

So, he grabs his keys, swings his jacket over his shoulders, and slips out of the garage with a devil-may-care grin.

If he’s not gonna sleep, he might as well have some fun.

You don’t hear the sound of his bike pulling up outside your house around 3 AM. (Just kidding)

You don’t hear the quiet creak of the gate as he slips through, or the soft thud of his boots against the porch.

The lock clicks. A sound too soft for anyone else to notice—but you do. Always.

You move without thinking, bare feet against cold floors, fingers brushing the knob before you twist it open. And there he is.

Ronin.

He’s leaning against the doorframe like he owns it, like he’s got all the time in the world, but there’s something heavy in his stance. Something coiled too tight. His knuckles twitch at his sides. The silver glint of rings, catching low light.

You don’t ask why he’s here. You don’t need to.

Your hand curls around the front of his jacket—warm leather, worn soft—and you pull. He doesn’t resist. Never does, not when it’s you. He’s already moving before the door even clicks shut behind him.

The house is still. Silent, save for the muffled hum of appliances, the faint tick of a clock somewhere down the hall. But his breathing—his—is loud in your ears.

He smells like smoke and metal and something else—something darker, sharper, like midnight and mistakes. It clings to your skin as he steps closer.

You don’t bother turning on the lights.

His hands find you first. Of course they do—always greedy, always starving—palms dragging against your waist, thumbs pressing against your ribs. Heavy. Like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

Your breath hitches when he curls his fingers into the fabric of your shirt, knuckles brushing bare skin. He feels it. You know he does, because his mouth curls—barely—and he lets out a low, breathy exhale, like this? This is exactly what he came for.

You tug him through the dark, back to your room, back to your bed—his bed, when it suits him—and he follows without a word.

The door shuts behind you both. Quiet. Like a secret.

He shrugs off his jacket as you sink onto the mattress. The leather hits the floor in a careless heap, rings glinting as his hands hover—hesitate—before he touches you again.

Always touching. Always taking.

You make room for him without thinking, shifting under the sheets as he crawls in beside you. He’s warm—too warm—like he’s been carrying heat under his skin for hours.

You should shove him. Call him an idiot for coming here in the middle of the night. But you don’t.

Instead, you curl against him, and he… melts.

His arms slide around your waist, pulling you close—closer—until there’s nothing left between you but breath and heartbeat and something too raw to name. His nose brushes against the curve of your neck, and his fingers twitch where they rest against your back.

He holds you like you’ll disappear if he lets go.

And maybe that’s the point.

His face presses into your shoulder, too much teeth against soft skin, but it’s not rough. Not really. Not when you know how much he wants this—needs this—even when he won’t say it.

Especially when he won’t say it.

He’s touch-starved in the way only someone like him can be. Starved for you, specifically. Like it isn’t enough to watch from the edges. Like he needs to feel you—to sink in and never leave.

You trace your fingers up the back of his neck, nails dragging gently against skin. He shudders. His breath stutters against your throat.

His grip tightens.

He won’t ask you to stay like this. He won’t ask for anything. But you know he’d take it if you let him.

And tonight?

You do.

You let him tuck his face against your collarbone. Let him wrap himself around you like he’s trying to crawl under your skin. His hair tickles your cheek—soft, messy, human—and for all his edges, all his sharpness, he’s warm. Solid. Yours.

His heartbeat slows against your ribs.

You stay like that. Minutes. Hours. Maybe forever.

And when his hand slides under your shirt—fingers curling against your spine, not asking, just holding—you don’t stop him.

He’s quiet, after that. Quieter than usual. Like maybe, just maybe, he’s finally gotten what he wanted.

Morning comes slow. Too slow, and somehow too fast.

The bed’s cold.

His warmth—his weight—is gone, and you feel it before your eyes even open. There’s no leather-jacketed mess tangled in the sheets, no sharp grin waiting to bite at you the second you stir. Just empty space where he was, where he always is, until he isn’t.

You sigh. Of course.

He never stays. Not all the way.

The sun bleeds through the curtains, golden and soft, but it does nothing to fill the ache curling behind your ribs. You push yourself up, stretch the stiffness from your limbs, and try—fail—not to think about the way he clung to you last night. The way his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, even when he had you pinned close.

You don’t know why you keep doing this. Letting him crawl under your skin. Letting him take whatever he wants, however he wants. But you do. Again and again and again.

Your throat feels tight. You swallow it down.

The floor is cold against your feet as you slip out of bed. You move through the motions—shower, brush your teeth, dress yourself like you’re preparing for war. Your usual uniform. The world doesn’t stop turning just because Ronin decided to ghost you.

Not that it’s a surprise. It’s what he does.

Still—you check your phone. Just once.

Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No smart-ass messages left for you to find.

Figures.

You yank open the closet door, grab your work bag, and sling it over your shoulder. The weight is familiar. Easy. You focus on that—the rhythm of routine, the comfort of habit—because if you don’t, you’ll think about the way he felt in your arms. The way he held you like he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance.

You don’t have time for that.

Keys. Wallet. Phone. You snatch them off the counter and head to the door, locking up behind you with the kind of practiced ease that doesn’t need thought.

Outside, the air is crisp—too bright, too sharp for a morning that feels this heavy—but you square your shoulders, lift your chin, and walk.

A job’s a job. And yours won’t wait.

By the time you make it to the office, your face is carefully neutral—expression smooth, words sharper than you mean them to be. No one notices. No one ever notices. You bury yourself in your work, losing hours to reports and phone calls and emails, because it’s easier than letting your mind wander.

But it does,

Slaughterhouse: Losers Very Good—a bloodstained corner of the internet where psychos, freaks, and murder hobbyists hang out like it’s a dive bar no one sane would step into. Coded from scratch, like everything Ronin does. Meticulous. Untraceable. Home sweet home.

And you?

Offline.

He hates that.

You’re too good to him. You let him touch you—hold you—and somehow, you’re still here. Soft edges in a world full of jagged glass. He doesn’t get it. Doesn’t deserve it. And yet.

Ronin leans back in his shitty leather chair, boots kicked up on the desk. The glow from his monitors bathes the room in electric blue, half-lit shadows stretching across the mess of papers, knives, and half-finished projects. One screen blinks with a list of names. His little collection of degenerates.

If he’s gonna do something for you, it’s gotta be good.

He cracks his knuckles, spins a blade between his fingers, and pulls up the first chat.

🐺 K9 (V):

Ronin: sup, robo-cop.

K9: Don’t.

Ronin: aw, missed u too, sweetheart. anyway, i got a question. hypothetical. romantic. u know what that is, or does ur metal heart not compute?

K9: I’m blocking you.

Ronin: no u aren’t. u love me. listen, if you were, hypothetically, in love with someone—(gross, i know)—what would you get ‘em?

K9: …You? In love?

Ronin: hypothetical. duh.

K9: A knife. Through the heart.

Ronin: aw. that’s practically a marriage proposal, k9. but srsly. i want ideas. gimme somethin’.

K9: Why do you care?

Ronin: because, steel-toes, for once in my godforsaken life, i want to be nice. write that down.

K9: …Whatever the hell you are, I do respect you for wanting to do something. Get them something meaningful. Personal. Something no one else could give.

Ronin: ur such a sap under all that righteous fury. thanks, babe. xo.

Ronin grins to himself. Meaningful. Personal. Easy words when you’re not the one tangled in it. Still, not useless. And if nothing else, bothering V is a highlight of his day.

Next.

💀 LUCA_IS_SO_COOL:

Ronin: sup, sunshine.

Luca: YO DUDE. YO. YO. THE DEVIL IS IN MY DMS WHAT’S GOOD

Ronin: don’t wet ur boardshorts, prettyboy. i need ur expert advice.

Luca: BRO ASK AWAY. I AM AN OPEN BOOK OF RAD WISDOM.

Ronin: so, imagine someone who’s not me (obvs) wants to do something nice for their, uh, partner. ideas?

Luca: BROOOOOOO BROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO ARE YOU IN LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE DEVILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

Ronin: chill. ur embarrassing urself.

Luca: NAAAAH THIS IS EPIC. OK OK OK OK. GET THEM SOMETHING FUN, MAN. SOMETHING THAT MAKES ‘EM LAUGH. OR LIKE. A DATE NIGHT. EVERYONE LOVES A DATE NIGHT.

Ronin: yea? what do u get feli? a golden shrine?

Luca: BRO. SHE DESERVES IT. LOVE OF MY LIFE. 10/10 WOULD MURDER FOR HER.

Ronin: u r so cringe it makes my teeth hurt.

Luca: NAH, MAN. THIS IS PEAK RELATIONSHIP. EMBRACE IT. TREAT ‘EM RIGHT.

He closes the chat before Luca can start writing you two’s wedding vows.

🎀 Angel (Angelic):

Ronin: hey, sweetheart.

Angel: Shouldn’t you be doing crimes?

Ronin: multitasking. i need a gift idea. something hot. spicy. devilishly irresistible. like me.

Angel: LMAO. You? Being romantic? Is this the apocalypse?

Ronin: c’mon, sugar. help a devil out.

Angel: Fine. Jewelry’s always a classic. But not basic. Custom. Something only you could give. Bonus points if it’s dangerous.

Ronin: deadly and pretty. like you. i’ll keep that in mind.

Angel: You’re welcome, loser.

Alright. Custom. Unique. That he can work with.

One last stop.

📚 Felicite:

Ronin: Hey Feli

Felicite: What do you want, Ronin? I hope you're doing fine!

Ronin: thought you academics liked answering questions. gimme ur best gift idea.

Felicite: For who?

Ronin: nosy. for my business.

Felicite: Books are an easy choice. But if you actually care, do something personal. An experience. Something only you could give.

Ronin: huh.

Felicite: For the record, Luca’s losing his mind. I think you broke him.

Ronin: lol. love that.

He leans back, phone tossed onto the desk. Mind buzzing.

Something personal. Something only he could give.

He taps his fingers against his thigh, a slow rhythm building. Yeah. Yeah, he’s got ideas.

hitmeuppp

goreboy: oi, sunshine. u busy killin’ or can i bother u for a sec?

hitmeupp: ✨ goreboy in my inbox?? is it my birthday?? ✨

goreboy: i’m the gift that keeps on givin’, baby. don’t forget it.

hitmeupp mm, flirty today. what’s on your wicked little mind, devil boy?

Ronin: hypothetically… let’s say i wanna do somethin’ nice for someone. y’know. romantic. cute. sweet. whatever. ideas?

hitmeupp: 👀👀👀 waitwaitwait—you?? doing something sweet?? for a special someone?? ohhh i am LIVING for this.

Ronin: don’t make it weird.

hitmeupp: too late, babe. so, what’s the vibe? like, do you wanna melt their heart? make ‘em blush? get ‘em to kiss you senseless? give me the deets.

Ronin: …all of the above, probs.

hitmeupp: aww, you’re adorable when you’re down bad. okay, listen up:

Custom gift—something only you could give. Unique. Dangerous, if you’re feelin’ spicy.

Surprise date—not boring, tho. They like you, so they probably have a taste for the unusual.

Handwritten note—bonus points if it’s a little unhinged. People LOVE that stuff.

Ronin: a note? what, like “roses are red, violets are blue, i’d kill for u, baby, it’s true”?

hitmeupp: LMAO okay, poet, calm down. but yeah—personal. even psychos like a little sentiment. and you’ve got that whole devilish charm thing, use it.

Ronin: u sayin’ i’m charming?

Misaki: 😏 darling, if i didn’t have standards, Stil no

Ronin: Ouch

hitmeupp mmm, promises, promises. now, get outta my inbox before i start liking you.

Ronin: too late, sunshine.

hitmeupp ugh, you’re impossible. good luck wooing your lover~ 💕

[Slaughterhouse Server – Main Chat]

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: AYO. EVERYONE SHUT UP. BIG NEWS.

Angelic: ??

hitmeuppp: what, did u finally find a brain cell?

Angelic: Doubt it.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: NO. BIGGER. Y’ALL. RONIN DMed ME ABOUT GIFTS.

K9: …The hell?

Angelic: wait. hold on. pause.

hitmeuppp: ✨ omg no way ✨

Goreboy: Liar.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: BRO, I SWEAR. HE ASKED ME FOR GIFT IDEAS. LIKE—SOMETHING ROMANTIC. I’M NOT EVEN KIDDING.

Felicite: …what's wrong about it luca?

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: HE’S SIMPIN’.

Angelic: That's fine?

K9: This is stupid. Who cares.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: LMAOOOO LOOK AT THIS HATER. HE MAD ‘CAUSE NO ONE’S SENDING HIM LOVE LETTERS.

goreboy: you’re gonna lose a limb, surfer boy.

hitmeuppp: awwww the devil’s BLUSHING~

Angelic: no because why is this actually the most interesting thing to happen all week

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: I’M NOT EVEN DONE. Y’ALL. HE DIDN’T JUST DM ME. HE DMed EVERYONE.

K9: ......

Angelic: Hold the fuck on—

hitmeuppp: 💀💀💀 GOREBOY OUT HERE TAKING A SERVER-WIDE SURVEY ON HOW TO WOO HIS BOO??

Felicite: Oh my god.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: NAH BECAUSE THIS IS TOO GOOD. IMMA SAY IT. HE’S SIMPIN’ FOR Y/N.

Ronin stares at the screen.

The nerve. The audacity.

These punks. Absolute ingrates. He gives them a space to thrive, to indulge their weird little murder hobbies, and this is the thanks he gets?

He’s cool. Ice-cold. Too smooth to care. …And yet—

The corner of his mouth twitches. A little.

They’re all still going.

hitmeuppp: if it’s NOT y/n i’m actually gonna riot.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: BRUH WHO ELSE WOULD IT BE??

K9: I hate all of you.

hitmeupp: WAIT. HOLD UP. What if Y/N SEES THIS???

Ronin’s heart skips.

Yeah. What if?

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: OMG OMG OMG I’M GONNA PING ‘EM.

goreboy: don’t you dare.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: @Y/N @Y/N @Y/N HEY, BESTIEEEE~

Ronin grips his phone a little too tight. He should stop this.

He won’t.

Because somewhere—deep down—he kind of likes it.

Angelic: luca omg ur gonna get us all murdered.

hitmeuppp: worth it.

K9: Idiots.

Felicite: …This is sort of cute.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: NAH THIS IS LORE. I HOPE Y/N SEES THIS.

Angelic: fr. like imagine logging in and seeing the whole server clowning on ronin for being a lovesick freak.

goreboy: y’all must have a death wish.

Ronin exhales sharply through his nose.

[PRIVATE GROUP CHAT – “Ronin Babysitting Squad”] (Created by Angelicc)

Members: Angelic, Eviscerator1990, Ai Hua, Goreboy

Angelic: this feels like a weird intervention

goreboy: this feels like a weird mistake

Eviscerator1990: Shut up, kid. We’re here to help.

Ai Hua: 🙂 what’s wrong?

Ronin blinks at his screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. This is humiliating. Why did he think letting Vince of all people into this would be a good idea? The guy still thinks dial-up internet is modern technology.

And Ai Hua? Pure terror in the form of a woman. Always smiling. Always watching. Respect

He should leave.

He doesn’t.

Eviscerator1990: So. What happened.

goreboy: nothing happened, grandpa.

Angelic: that’s not what the ENTIRE SERVER says~

Ai Hua: 🤔

Eviscerator1990: Be honest. You wouldn’t DM all these punks unless it was serious.

Ronin sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. Why the hell is it these three? Of all people.

His thumbs hover—then, finally, he types.

goreboy: hypothetically. if i wanted to do… something. for someone. what’s a good gift?

Silence. Too much silence.

His stomach twists. Mistake. Huge mistake.

Ai Hua: ❤️

Eviscerator1990: …Is it Y/N?

goreboy: who else?

Vince sends three dots. The dreaded “typing…” lingers for a long, long time.

Ronin’s jaw tightens. Here it comes.

Eviscerator1990: Son. You got it bad.

Ronin groans. He should burn the server down. All of it. Reduce it to digital ash.

Ai Hua: 🙂 good.

goreboy: good??

Angelic: she’s right tho.

Eviscerator1990: So. What kind of thing are you thinking? Big? Small?

Ronin exhales, tilting his head back against the couch. Big? Small? Hell if he knows.

You’re good to him. Too good. And all his sharp little edges don’t feel quite so sharp around you. It’s annoying. It’s addictive. It’s yours.

goreboy: …something they’ll remember.

A long pause. Ai Hua is still smiling. Vince sends an emoji that looks suspiciously like a knife. Angelic? Predictably losing her shit.

Angelic: oh my god. oh my GOD.

goreboy: do not.

Angelic: no because this is so cute i’m gonna DIE.

Vince, at least, is playing it straight. Mostly.

Eviscerator1990: Personal. That’s what you want. Something that means something.

Ai Hua: 💌

A love letter. Of course Ai Hua would suggest something that sappy.

Ronin scoffs—but he doesn’t immediately shoot it down. Weird.

Eviscerator1990: Back in the day, I’d leave my girl notes on the bodies. You know—real romantic.

Ai Hua: ❤️ he did. very sweet.

goreboy: romantic is one word for it.

Angelic: okay okay but what does y/n like?

He knows. Of course he knows. Your coffee order. The way you hum under your breath when you’re lost in thought. How you scrunch your nose when you’re about to call him an idiot.

You like him. Which is the real problem.

goreboy: they like me.

Angelic: ugh barf

Eviscerator1990: Okay. Make it about you, then. Something only you could give.

Ronin blinks. Something only he could give.

The thought sticks—hooks deep. A dangerous idea, curling slow and warm in his chest.

Ai Hua: 🙂 you’ll figure it out.

He hates how much that simple, sweet little emoji makes him feel seen.

Eviscerator1990: Don’t mess it up, kid.

Eviscerator1990: Listen, kid—when you’ve been married as long as I have, you learn a thing or two.

Ronin immediately regrets his life choices.

His fingers hover over the keyboard. He considers leaving. Deleting the server. Moving to a cave and never speaking again.

goreboy: oh god here we go

Angelic: oh god here we go

Ai Hua: 🙂

Vince, undeterred, continues typing like he’s delivering the gospel.

Eviscerator1990: Our wedding? Best thing I ever did. No question.

goreboy: what, was it a bloodbath?

For a second, nothing. Then—

Eviscerator1990: Nah. Garden wedding. Real classy.

Ronin nearly drops his phone.

goreboy: you. YOU. Garden wedding??

Eviscerator1990: Yeah. Had flowers and everything. I wore a tux. Looked sharp as hell.

Ai Hua: ❤️ you did.

He can feel Angelic vibrating through the screen.

goreboy: no.

Ronin scrubs a hand over his face. This cannot be real life.

Eviscerator1990: Point is— That was my gift to her.

That hooks him. Annoying, sentimental, and probably too much sugar in his bloodstream—but it sticks.

goreboy: you’re telling me the best thing you ever gave her was a wedding?

Eviscerator1990: Yeah. ’Cause it meant forever. I mean, don’t get me wrong. She still scares the hell outta me.

Ai Hua: 👍

Eviscerator1990: But that’s how you know it’s real.

There’s a long pause. Ronin swears he can hear Angelic trying to choke down her squeals.

Ai Hua: 🙂 do you like them enough to marry?

His heart lurches.

The words hang there—quiet, patient.

Ai Hua doesn’t push. She never does. It’s not her way. She just lays it out, all soft-spoken and warm, like a mother easing her child into something bigger than they understand.

And for once, he doesn’t know.

goreboy: …kinda?

Angelic: KIND OF??

Eviscerator1990: What kinda answer is “kinda?” Either you want it, or you don’t.

Ronin huffs. He leans back on the couch, biting the inside of his cheek. Want. What a word.

goreboy: i want them. i want them to stay.

Ai Hua sends a heart. Just one.

Ai Hua: 🙂 then maybe… Do it your way.

His way.

His mouth curves. Dangerous. Wicked. Oh, he can do that.

Ai Hua: I’m sure Y/N likes you enough.

Something in his chest twists.

Likes him enough to deal with his bullshit. Likes him enough to stay, even when he’s all sharp corners and messy feelings. Likes him enough to keep his name on their tongue, even when it’d be easier not to.

Ai Hua: Whatever you give them that lasts longer— They’ll love it.

He blinks. The words sit heavy.

Ai Hua: Because it’s you. That’s how I feel about my husband.

Quiet. It’s too quiet. Even Angelic—who lives to make everything her business—doesn’t send a single obnoxious emoji.

And Ronin?

He stares at the screen, stomach flipping, heart hammering out some rhythm he refuses to name.

He doesn’t do forever. Doesn’t play nice, doesn’t stick around, doesn’t—

But for you?

Yeah. Maybe he does.

goreboy: Thanks

Eviscerator1990: You’re welcome.

Ai Hua: 🙂 good luck.

Angelic: this is the CUTEST thing that’s ever happened in this cursed server...

Ai Hua: �� one more thing.

His thumb hovers over the exit button. Something about Ai Hua, though—you don’t ignore her when she asks.

goreboy: what.

Ai Hua: It’s fine.

He frowns.

goreboy: what is.

Ai Hua: The way you love them. It doesn’t have to be a wedding. It just has to be you.

He freezes.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Something sharp scrapes under his ribs.

You.

He’s not soft. Not simple. Not the kind of guy who shows up with roses and a ring and a stupid, starry-eyed smile. But you don’t want that. Never have.

You want him. Exactly as he is—rough edges, black heart, wicked mouth.

And maybe—maybe—that’s enough.

Ai Hua: They love your style. Show them it, my son.

His mouth twitches.

goreboy: did you just call me your son?

Eviscerator1990: We kinda adopted you, kid. Sorry. No returns.

Ai Hua: 🙂

A beat of silence. Then—

goreboy: tch. whatever. not like i needed another family.

Ai Hua: ❤️ but you have one.

His chest aches. Stupid. Sentimental. Unbearable.

Eviscerator1990: And hey— Our kids keep asking when they’re gonna see Uncle Ronin again.

His laugh slips out before he can stop it—low, breathy. Of course they do. Little gremlins.

goreboy: tell ‘em i said to stay in school.

Ai Hua: 🙂 they want to be like you.

Oh, hell no.

goreboy: no they don’t.

Eviscerator1990: One of ‘em tried to make a fake server last week. Called it “Slaughterhouse Jr.”

goreboy: i am not responsible for that.

Ai Hua: 🙂 you inspire them.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. This is a nightmare.

goreboy: y’all are gonna give me grey hair.

Eviscerator1990: You’d still be pretty.

Angelic: oh my god.

Ai Hua: 🙂 will you be okay?

For a long time, he doesn’t answer.

Will he be okay? With this? With you—taking up space in his chest, clawing your way under his skin?

He already knows the answer.

goreboy: yeah.

And for once—just once—he means it.

goreboy: thanks. or whatever.

Ai Hua: 🙂 anytime.

Now onto, you and him

goreboy: Hey, darlin’.

A simple text. Too simple. He never starts like that without a plan. Trouble in four letters.

You barely get through your day before your phone buzzes again. And again. And—

goreboy: what, too busy for lil’ old me? tragic.

goreboy: bet you’re sittin’ there missin’ me, huh?

goreboy: wait—don’t tell me. you’re makin’ heart eyes at your desk or somethin’.

goreboy: don’t blame you. i’m a lot to miss.

He’s annoying. Even through a screen. Even when you know he’s probably lounging somewhere, all long legs and lazy smirk—half-bored, half-plotting his next move.

Still. Your heart gives that stupid flutter. You glance at your phone, biting back a smile as you finally reply.

You: you left without saying anything :(

A beat. Then—

goreboy: oh, baby. don’t tell me you’re poutin’.

You roll your eyes.

You: maybe.

He’s quick—too quick.

goreboy: fuck. now i really wanna see it.

Your cheeks warm. He’s unbearable. Always poking, always pushing. And yet—

You: you didn’t have to leave so fast.

His next text comes slower. As if he’s thinking. You imagine him slumped in that busted leather chair in his garage—legs spread, boots kicked up, twirling a screwdriver or some other sharp thing between his fingers.

goreboy: duty called, sugar. had to open up the garage. wouldn’t want my precious toys collectin’ dust.

You: you’re ridiculous.

goreboy: and yet, here you are, talkin’ to me anyway.

You: i’m soft for you, obviously.

A whole minute passes. When he finally replies, it’s slower. Something tugs beneath the teasing. Something heavier.

goreboy: hey.

goreboy: you’d like… whatever i did for you, yeah?

You blink. Where is this coming from?

You: of course.

goreboy: nah, i mean— like. if i did somethin’ stupid. you’d still like it, right?

Your lips curl. So that’s it. The devil himself, circling the point like a shark.

You: depends. how stupid are we talkin’?

He sends a dramatic sigh emoji.

goreboy: unbelievable. here i am, barin’ my heart and soul—

You: pfft. heart and soul, my ass.

Still, you soften. Because under all the bravado, you can hear it—the little twist of hesitation. And that? That gets you every time.

You: whatever you’re scheming, yeah. i’ll like it. because it’s you.

You hit send before you can overthink it. Let him sit with that.

And oh, does he. For a second too long. When his next message comes, it’s something softer—something unguarded.

goreboy: dangerous thing to say, sweetheart. you know i’ll hold you to it.

You bite your lip, warmth curling in your chest.

You: i’m counting on it.

He doesn’t answer immediately. You imagine him leaning back, teeth sinking into his lower lip, mind working a mile a minute. Because that’s the thing with him—he never stops thinking. Never stops wanting.

And you—you’re the worst of it.

His brain tells him he shouldn’t care so much. But his heart? His heart’s already tangled up in you.

goreboy: s’pose i’ll have to cook up somethin’ real special then. can’t have my darlin thinkin’ i don’t care.

It makes your stomach flip.

You: i never think that.

Another pause. You swear you can feel his smile through the screen—soft, a little crooked. The kind he only ever lets you see.

goreboy: I....see...

Uptown has an alley they call Purgatory.

It isn’t pretty. Never was. A place where sunlight doesn’t dare creep, where the air tastes like rust and regret. Blood dries black against the brickwork—his blood, most days. Or someone else’s, when he’s feeling generous. It smells like piss, garbage, and death.

A shithole. Perfect.

This—this—is where Ronin Beaufort decides to propose.

Because where else? Where better? It’s where you kissed him for the first time, after all—the devil himself, knuckles raw from the man he’d left twitching at your feet, teeth red and grin wide. You’d kissed him anyway. Kissed him like you meant it. Like he was something worth keeping.

And Ronin? He’s not one to let things go.

So, he makes a plan. A fucked-up, perfect plan.

The first body is easy.

An uptight corporate asshole. Buttoned-up, boring, all crisp lines and no soul. Ronin cracks his skull open like a candy shell. Blood spatters wide, painting the concrete. Nice start. But not enough. Not for you.

The second one’s better. Messier. He takes his time—drags it out. A real piece of work, some wannabe kingpin, all bark and no bite. Ronin guts him slow, pulls pretty red ribbons from his stomach. He uses the crowbar for the heart—your heart, darling—and carves it deep into the brick. Wide, jagged, dripping. Personal.

When it’s done, he steps back, tilts his head.

Huh. Cute.

He’s still admiring his work when his phone buzzes.

Angelic: yo, goreboy, you rang?

Of course, she picks up. She always does—his favorite little devil with a halo, sharp-tongued and twice as nosy. And yeah, he could’ve asked anyone, but Angel? Angel gets it.

goreboy: need a favor.

Angelic: what’s in it for me?

goreboy: the eternal satisfaction of servin’ the devil?

Angelic: pfft.

He snorts, tongue running over his teeth. Predictable.

goreboy: fine. order me somethin’. rings.

Angelic: wait. back up. goreboy’s proposing?

He glares at his phone like it personally offended him.

goreboy: shut up.

Angelic: aw, you’re getting soft. what kind? black diamonds? skulls? molten lava straight from hell?

“Funny,” he mutters under his breath. But she’s not wrong. Your ring—your ring has to be perfect.

goreboy: black. gothic. whatever screams “marry me"

The typing bubble appears. Pauses. Then—

Angelic: lucky you, i got a guy.

Of course, she does.

goreboy: knew there was a reason i kept you around.

Angelic: anything for the devil. even if i gotta play cupid for my ex.

He rolls his eyes. “Christ.”

goreboy: Thanks Angel, Won't give up my child for a week.

Angelic: I'll just kill it again

Yeah. Yeah, he would. Not that he’d admit it.

goreboy: whatever. send me the bill.

Her last message comes fast—too fast. He can hear the smile.

Angelic: oh, darling. it’s on the house.

goreboy: Send it, you know- I don't do these Angel.

Angelic: You're cute, No. Just take the rings

He huffs a laugh, shoves his phone back in his pocket. One thing down.

By the time the sun starts to dip, Purgatory looks like an art installation straight from hell. Bodies like broken marionettes. Blood like paint, dripping in slow, thick rivulets. And at the center of it all—the heart.

Your heart.

His.

If he had one.

And if he didn’t? Well. You stole it anyway.

Ronin leans against the wall, crowbar still sticky in his grip.

What the hell is he doing?

Proposing.

Fucking proposing.

He should be laughing at himself. Should be smirking, at least. But his jaw ticks, his fingers flex, and there’s something ugly crawling under his skin—a feeling he doesn’t like.

It’s not the blood. Not the mess. That’s easy.

It’s you. It’s always you.

And the worst part? The sick, stupid, beautiful part?

He wants this.

Wants you.

He wants to keep you—ruin you—for as long as you’ll let him.

His phone buzzes again. Another message from Angel—this time with a picture.

The rings.

Sleek. Sharp. One for you, one for him. Bound in black, wrapped in silver. Yours is thinner, more delicate—but not by much. No diamonds. No fluff. Just you and him, the way it’s always been.

Perfect.

He huffs a breath, tongue clicking against his teeth.

Yeah. Yeah, this’ll do.

It’s almost cute, really.

If you ignore the bodies.

And the blood.

And the fact that he’s doing this the only way he knows how—messy and wrong and completely, utterly him.

He swipes the sweat from his brow, steps back, and admires his work.

A heart, jagged and dripping. A graveyard of the unworthy. Rings on the way.

And for you? Anything.

Even this. Especially this.

Because when the time comes—when he kneels, all cocky smirk and bloodstained hands—you’ll say yes.

You have to.

(And if you don’t? Well. He’s never been good at taking no for an answer.)

Ronin lights a cigarette, lets the smoke curl in his throat.

The devil himself, on one knee.

Christ.

What the hell has he become?

Yours.

And God help anyone who tries to take that away.

goreboy: hey darlin’~

Your phone buzzes against the desk, and you barely glance down before his name flashes across the screen. Of course, it’s him.

you: hey yourself. what’s up?

goreboy: what’s up? tsk. rude—can’t a guy check on his favorite little writer?

You smile, shaking your head. Always like this.

you: oh? i’m your favorite now?

goreboy: pfft. babe, you’ve been my favorite. since day one. don’t let it get to your head, though. my heart’s fragile, y’know.

you: lmao, fragile?? you??

goreboy: i’m delicate. like a flower. 🌹

You roll your eyes, biting back a laugh. Ridiculous.

you: what do you want, ronin?

goreboy: what, a man can’t just miss you? ‘sides… i’m bored.

Of course, he is. The devil himself, restless as ever.

you: poor baby. what am i supposed to do about that?

goreboy: come see me.

You blink at the screen, heart skipping. Oh.

you: …right now?

goreboy: yeah.

you: where?

goreboy: purgatory.

Your brows furrow. He’s teasing. He has to be.

you: lmao. you’re joking, right?

goreboy: when do i ever joke, darlin’?

A pause. Then—

goreboy: seriously. come by. just for me.

You bite your lip, warmth blooming in your chest. This—this—is why you’re in too deep.

you: fine. what’s the occasion?

goreboy: pfft. gotta have a reason? but if you must know…

Another buzz—

goreboy: maybe i got somethin’ for you.

Your heart stutters.

you: something? what kind of “something”?

goreboy: you’ll see, babe. gotta keep a little mystery alive, yeah?

You roll your eyes—fondly, though. Always like this.

you: okay, fine. any special requests?

goreboy: oh, now we’re talkin’. dress in black for me, sweetheart. if you wanna, anyway.

You tilt your head, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He’s playing, but there’s something beneath it—something serious.

you: you like gothic, huh?

goreboy: on you? hell yeah.

you: good. ‘cause so do i.

goreboy: ...perfect.

Is it your imagination, or did he just… stammer?

you: did you just freeze up?

goreboy: shut up.

The alleyway known as Purgatory is as familiar as it is haunting—a place you want to hate but can’t. Your heels click softly against the cracked pavement, the air thick with the scent of blood, metal, and something distinctly him. It’s always him. Even when he’s nowhere to be seen, his shadow lingers like an inescapable ghost.

Tonight, though, there’s something different.

Your black dress clings to you like a second skin, just the way he likes it. You don’t want to think about why your heart’s racing, or why you dressed up like you were meeting someone important. But it’s him—you know it’s always him.

And when you turn the corner, your breath catches in your throat.

A heart.

Not just any heart—A jagged, messy thing carved into the wall in dripping red. Blood, fresh and dark, soaks the concrete like an offering. The heart is wide and chaotic, edges splattered like he couldn’t help but make a mess. But in the center, etched with the brutal precision only he could manage, is your name.

It’s wrong. It’s so wrong. And yet—your pulse flutters. Your stomach twists in that awful, dizzying way it only does with him.

A soft metallic scrape echoes behind you—the unmistakable sound of a crowbar dragging across the pavement. Your skin prickles, and you don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

“Damn,” his voice purrs, smooth and sinful. “Look at you, sweetheart.”

When you do turn, he’s leaning against the brick wall like the devil himself, framed in the neon glow. Ronin.

Black beanie pulled low over his burgundy hair, the devil horns stitched into the sides making him look every inch the trouble he is. His leather jacket gleams under the dim light—studded, spiked, with a pair of rusty scissors sticking haphazardly through the shoulder. A red ‘X’ pin glints beside it, careless and dangerous. Beneath, his black t-shirt clings to him—faded skull design stretched across his chest like it belongs there. His maroon pants hang low on his hips, ripped just enough to tease, and the chains hooked along his belt jingle softly with every move.

And—God—the piercings. Silver glints along his ears, across his tongue when he grins, and the delicate sword pendant resting against his throat? Unfair.

He’s looking at you like he’s starving. Like you’re already his, and tonight, he’s reminding you of it.

“You came,” he murmurs, dragging the crowbar behind him as he approaches. “Knew you couldn’t resist me, darlin’.”

Your throat tightens as he stops in front of you—towering, all six-foot-one inches of bloodstained disaster. There’s that wild glint in his blackened eyes, something feverish and yours. The air crackles between you, electric and dizzying.

His gloved hand reaches out, and before you can react, his fingers lace with yours—gentle, almost. His touch is rough, warm, and when he lifts your hand toward his mouth, your heart stutters.

“A devil’s gotta mark his territory, huh?” he hums, lips brushing against your knuckles.

And then—he kisses your ring finger. Soft, deliberate—like it means something. Like it means everything.

Your face burns, and you try to pull your hand away, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb traces slow circles over your skin, almost absentmindedly—like he’s savoring the feel of you. Always touching. Always wanting.

“What—” your voice catches, breathless. “What is this, Ronin?”

He grins, sharp and wicked. “You like it?” he asks, tipping his head toward the bloodied heart. “Told ya I had something for you, babe. Can’t say I’m not romantic.”

Romantic.

The mess—the blood—the sheer violence of it—this is how he shows it. Twisted, wrong, and so perfectly him. And the worst part? You love it. You love how much he’s willing to ruin things for you.

“You’re insane,” you whisper, but your fingers curl against his palm like you don’t mean it.

“And yet,” he drawls, dipping closer—his lips ghosting against the shell of your ear, “here you are.”

You shiver.

He steps back just enough to meet your gaze, head tilted, that cocky tilt to his lips—but something softer lingers underneath. Something unsure.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” his voice drops, smooth and low. “Whatever I do… you still gonna want me?”

The words shouldn’t hit you as hard as they do. Because underneath all the bravado—beneath the teasing and the devil-may-care attitude—he’s asking if you’ll stay. If you’ll keep coming back to him.

If you’re his.

And you should be scared. You should. But instead, you brush your fingers against his jaw—soft, almost too soft.

“Of course I do, idiot,” you murmur, and his breath hitches—just barely. “I always want you.”

For once, he doesn’t have a comeback. Just stares at you like he can’t quite believe it. Like you’re something precious.

And when he kisses you—slow and bruising, like a promise..

His arms curl around your waist—possessive, like he doesn’t plan on letting go anytime soon. Dressed in black and soaked in sin, he pulls you against him, his voice a low murmur against your ear.

“Sorry, lover,” he drawls, smooth as silk but sharp enough to cut, “you can’t look back now.”

The neon red light hums around you both, staining everything it touches—casting the blood-slick walls in a glow that shouldn’t be beautiful, but it is. Because it’s him. Because it’s you. The blood, the guts—it all looks like a twisted love letter only he could write.

And the heart—still dripping on the wall with your name carved into its center—feels like a vow.

A promise he’s daring you to accept.

He leans back just enough to drink you in, eyes black as the void and twice as deep. The silver glint of his piercings catches the light, but it’s the look in his eyes that makes your heart twist. Something dark. Something dangerous. And God, something that’s only for you.

“Pretty, ain’t it?” he muses, like the whole bloodstained mess is just a casual art project. But there’s something else in his tone—something softer when he adds, “Made it special, darlin’… just for you.”

You should say something—maybe call him out for how utterly insane this is—but your tongue feels too heavy, trapped between your teeth as you try to process everything.

It’s a lot. He’s a lot.

And yet, your body betrays you—pressing closer, heart fluttering against his chest like a trapped bird. You hate how easily he pulls you under, how effortlessly he spins you into his gravity—but there’s no escaping it now.

He tilts your chin up with one gloved finger, lips curving into a slow, wicked smile. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he teases, “Cat got your tongue? Or are you just too busy fallin’ for me?”

You try to roll your eyes. Try. But his touch burns, and when he lifts your hand to his mouth—again—you forget how to breathe.

His lips brush against your knuckles—slow, deliberate—before they linger on your ring finger. It’s so soft you barely feel it at first. Just the faintest pressure. Something warm. Something cold.

And when he pulls back, there’s a glint of silver wrapped around your finger.

Your breath stutters. Your heart stops.

A ring.

Not dainty. Not soft. It’s him—jagged edges, blackened silver with the faintest blood-red inlay spiraling like a twisted promise. It’s heavy against your skin, unapologetic in its meaning.

And you didn’t even notice him slipping it on.

Your head snaps up, eyes wide, but he’s already watching you—waiting.

“Ronin—” your voice catches, and you don’t even know what you’re about to ask. What this means.

His grin widens, devilish and sharp. “What’s the matter, babe?” he coos, as if he didn’t just slide a ring on your finger like it was nothing. “Thought you liked surprises.”

You blink—once, twice—your thoughts spiraling, and he takes advantage of the silence. His hand slides along the small of your back, pulling you flush against him while his other hand traces absent circles over the ring.

“Fits perfect,” he hums, pleased with himself. “Guess that means you’re mine, huh?”

Your heart does something awful and traitorous in your chest.

He’s too much. Too close. And you—you’re letting him do this.

Still, your fingers twitch beneath his—testing the weight of the ring, the feel of it like a brand. Permanent.

“You—” Your voice trembles despite yourself. “You didn’t even ask.”

His laughter spills out, low and rough. “Baby, if I asked, would you really’ve said no?”

You hate how easily he’s right.

The gloved hand on your back slides up—tracing the delicate curve of your spine—until it rests against your neck. He tilts your head back, just enough to force you to meet his eyes. Dark. Intense. Yours.

“You’re not mad, are ya?” he murmurs, voice softer now, like there’s actually a part of him that cares. “’Cause I can take it back if you don’t want it. If you don’t want… me.”

His mask slips—just a little—and your stomach twists at the vulnerability he tries so hard to hide.

But you don’t let him pull away. Not this time.

Instead, you curl your fingers into the leather of his jacket, grounding yourself in the heat of him. Your thumb brushes over the ring—cool against your skin—and it should feel too much. Too fast. Too everything.

But all it feels is right.

“Idiot,” you murmur, and his grip tightens like he’s terrified you’ll slip away. “I’d never take it off.”

The relief in his expression is palpable—masked by a cocky smirk, ]

His lips barely part from yours when he whispers it—low, rough, like a vow dragged from somewhere deep inside him.

"Promise you," he murmurs, the words brushing warm against your mouth, "this is forever… or ‘til one of us dies."

And just like that, your brain short-circuits.

Your breath hitches. Your body freezes. You’re too stunned to speak—because, what the hell?

Forever. Forever with him—the blood-streaked, chaos-wrapped mess of a man currently holding you like he never plans on letting go. His hands are still warm against you, firm, and there’s no teasing lilt to his voice. No wicked little joke behind his words.

He means it. Ronin means it.

And for a heartbeat—just one—you can’t process it. Can’t wrap your head around the weight of what he’s just given you.

The silence stretches. Grows heavy between you. And for once, he’s the quiet one.

When you lift your gaze to his, wide and unguarded, his expression is almost… shy.

Ronin Beaufort—The Butcher, the devil himself—looks like a goddamn kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

His lips twitch, like he wants to smirk but can’t quite manage it. His hands fidget slightly on your waist—restless energy bottled under his skin. And his eyes? Pitch-black and wide open, like he’s waiting for you to either run or ruin him.

He shifts his weight from one boot to the other, shoulders hunching the tiniest bit like a kid who just handed over a crayon drawing and is desperately hoping you’ll stick it to the fridge.

"Uh—" His voice cracks just a little—a little—and you swear you catch the faintest flush creeping up his neck. "You’re… gonna say somethin’, right?"

You blink at him. Still speechless.

He fumbles. Actually fumbles—one hand pulling back to rub at the back of his neck as he huffs, "I mean—c’mon, babe, this is kinda the part where you either kiss me back or tell me to go to hell."

The confidence—the usual devil-may-care arrogance—is still there, but it’s softer around the edges. Fragile in a way he never lets anyone see.

And you—oh, you’re doomed.

Your heart does a weird little flip in your chest as you stare at him, still clutching onto your waist like you’ll vanish if he lets go. He’s so much—too much—but under all that swagger and bloodlust, he’s just… Ronin.

Your Ronin.

The idiot who drags you into alleys for romantic blood-and-guts displays. The devil who slid a ring on your finger like it was nothing. The man who—no matter how sharp his tongue is—would burn the world down for you.

“Wait,” you finally manage to choke out, the word soft and breathless. “Did you… are you actually serious?”

His face scrunches up like you just personally insulted his entire aesthetic. “Babe. Did I stutter?” He lifts your hand again, thumb brushing against the cool metal band still snug on your finger. “Or do I gotta get on one knee to spell it out?”

And oh, he’s pouting.

The Butcher—slaughterhouse king, nightmare in leather and spikes—is full-on pouting.

You bite down on your lip, hard, trying to hold back the laugh bubbling up in your chest. He notices—of course, he does—and immediately narrows his eyes.

“Don’t you dare.” His grip on your waist tightens in warning, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “I just poured my goddamn heart out, and you’re laughin’ at me?”

And suddenly—you can’t hold it back.

The laugh escapes—light, breathless, overwhelmed—because what else are you supposed to do when your psychotic, bloodstained boyfriend is acting like a needy kid who just gave you the world’s most chaotic proposal?

His brows knit together in mock offense. “Unbelievable,” he grumbles, though his tone is softer—fond—as he watches you melt into laughter. “I give you my heart on a bloodied silver platter, and this is the thanks I get?”

“I’m not laughing at you—” you try to protest, still breathless. “It’s just… you’re… cute.”

The second the word leaves your mouth, his whole body jerks.

“Cute?!” He repeats it like you’ve committed a personal crime. “I just did the most metal, romantic shit on the planet, and you call me—” He drops his head against your shoulder, groaning. “—cute. Jesus Christ, I’m losin’ my edge.”

You wrap your arms around him without even thinking—pulling him closer, fingers curling into the back of his leather jacket. He smells like smoke, leather, and something distinctly him—something you could drown in if you’re not careful.

And in the middle of the bloodstained alley, wrapped in his arms, you realize there’s no escape. Not from this—not from him.

And, God help you, you don’t want one.

“Hey, Ronin?” you whisper softly against his neck.

“Hmm?” His voice is quieter now—hopeful, like he’s trying not to get ahead of himself.

You tilt your head just enough to press a soft kiss beneath his jaw, feeling the slight hitch in his breath. “I’m not taking it off,” you promise. “Ever.”

For a split second, he’s still. Frozen. Like he doesn’t quite believe it.

And then—he’s kissing you again.

The world could burn, and you wouldn’t care—not when he’s in front of you like this. Eyes blacker than sin, lips swollen from kissing you like he’s starving, and hands gripping your waist like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

But right now, he’s the fragile one.

Your devil—loud, reckless, always too much—is holding his breath. Waiting. Like your next words could either save him or shatter him.

And God, you love him.

Your fingers brush against the ring on your hand—cool metal, heavy with meaning—before you slowly reach for his. His hands—rough, calloused, stained in ways that can’t be washed clean—tremble just a little as you lift his left hand in yours.

"You gave me one," you murmur, soft and steady, as you slide the matching ring onto his finger. "It’s only fair I make you mine, too."

His breath catches. He doesn’t say a word—doesn’t even twitch—just watches you with this raw, unfiltered intensity that makes your pulse race.

When you finish, you lace your fingers together, feeling the cool press of metal against your skin. He’s yours now. Yours in the same way you’ve always been his.

And when you speak again—voice barely above a whisper—it’s not for show. Not a tease. Just the truth, laid bare between you.

“I’ll love you forever, Ronin Beaufort.”

Something cracks in his expression—something wild and vulnerable and so, so real.

And you’re not done.

“I’m happy,” you admit, voice trembling just a little. “Happy I met you. Happy I get this—us.” You pause, and there’s this ache in your chest when you smile, soft and almost shy. “Maybe it’ll be destructive. Maybe it’ll last forever. I don’t care how it ends, Ronin… I just want it with you.”

His grip on your waist tightens—desperate—like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go.

And you don’t. You just lean closer, until your lips barely brush against his, and whisper the words that have been burning on your tongue since the day he dragged you into his twisted little world:

“I love you, Ronin Beaufort.”

For one breathless moment, he doesn’t react.

And then—he moves.

He crashes into you, mouth slanting over yours with bruising intensity, like he’s trying to brand those words into your skin—into your bones. Like he wants to crawl inside your heart and never leave.

It’s messy, overwhelming, and so perfectly him—and you give yourself to it completely.

His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against his chest as he devours you—sharp teeth grazing your bottom lip, a low growl curling from the back of his throat like he’s trying to consume you from the inside out.

When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—his lips hover over yours, and his voice is wrecked.

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot.”

The words are rough, but his hands tremble where they hold you. “Why would you love someone like me?”

Your heart squeezes, and you don’t even hesitate.

“Because you’re you.”

And, for once, he’s speechless.

No snark. No teasing. Just the weight of your confession sinking into his bones—binding you together in a way no bloodstained vow ever could.

He drops his forehead against yours, breathing hard, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “You better be sure, sweetheart. ‘Cause you’re stuck with me now.”

Your fingers tangle in the chains hanging from his jacket as you grin. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

His lips barely ghost over yours, teasing, waiting, giving you a chance to breathe—but you don’t take it. You can’t. Because then he kisses you.

And God, he kisses you like he means it.

Like he’s sealing the promise in blood and breath, branding it into your bones with the press of his lips. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go. Like he needs to hold on just to make sure you’re still real.

It’s slow and deep—no rush, no hesitation—just pure possession.

Your heart pounds. Your fingers tangle in the chains on his jacket, desperate to keep your balance because he’s overwhelming. He always is.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re breathless—dazed—barely clinging to reality as he huffs out a quiet, wicked laugh.

Then—he grins. Sharp and smug, eyes flashing with something wild.

"Oh, that old man won’t shut up about how we’re not married, huh?" He snickers, tapping a gloved finger against the ring on your hand. "Guess you better show it off, sweetheart. Be loud ‘n proud about it—rub it in his face."

You don’t answer.

Because you’re still dizzy from his kiss...

It's gonna be a long night

[sincerelyyourslilly]

I'm honestly speechless, this has to be one of my favorite fics up to date !

A poem to my childhood fort....(part 2) Ronin x G.N reader

Words:3000

Genre: Angst to fluff, Gift to @sincerelyyourslilly

(Reader is G.N)

I decided to use some of their arts as inspo! Here goes as follows! all by @sincerelyyourslilly

art 1 , art 2, art 3

Ronin x G.N Reader

Flowers at the hell's altar.....

It was March already, and February had slipped by faster than you could have imagined. Life was rolling along, and hey, you'd finally finished that lovely book you'd been working on. Sure, there were a few typos, but who cared?

Because, well... you might not live to see tomorrow.

What a ride it had been. Escaping from your dead-end town, clawing your way up to become a reporter, and now, here you were—a member of a serial killer server. And to top it off, your lover? Yeah, he’s one of them. The kind who wouldn’t hesitate to make you his next victim.

Feli once joked that your story was like Romeo and Juliet, but you knew better. This wasn’t some romantic Shakespearean tragedy. This was something far darker. Twisted.

And maybe there was a poetic beauty in it. Dying at the hands of someone you loved? It sounded romantic... in books. But in real life? Oh, hell no.

Right now, the server was buzzing. Everyone was huddled in the infamous "killer-shit" channel, and the chaos was palpable.

<goreboy> you heard it here first: March is for Murder

<hitmeuppp> OMG can’t believe everything’s coming together in cut season...

<ReaderintoCrowbars> Cut season?

<Angelic> It’s when serial killer activity spikes! It’s such a fun annual phenomenon :3

<ReaderintoCrowbars> That feels... statistically inaccurate...

<goreboy> or maybe the reports are statistically inaccurate

The chat flowed on, but then—your heart skipped a beat. He spoke.

<goreboy> i just wanna warn this chat that i’ve got a pretty little kill coming right up i think you’ll all fucking love it especially you, @ReaderintoCrowbars

Oh. Oh no.

Well, this was it. You could almost feel the icy grip of dread clawing at your throat. But hey, you were a good partner, weren’t you? You decided to play along.

<ReaderintoCrowbars> I look forward to it!

<goreboy> aren’t you a darling

More like a damn fool.

<Angelic> Omg, I’m excited to see it!

<hitmeuppp> oooooo this is TEA omg! u never hype up your murders unless they’re amazing, and they’re always so gruesome sooo

<Eviscerator1990> i look forward to this so-called “pretty little kill”

<K9> i don’t think i will. but believe what you’d like, @goreboy

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> YO A GOREBOY KILL GONNA DROP??? @felicite

<felicite> oh! that sounds fun!

<hitmeuppp> okay but like, why’d he say “especially @ReaderintoCrowbars” huh? tea time?? is this some weird murder-dedication thing??

<goreboy> well, in a way, yeah. killing for them.

Nope. Wrong. He’s killing you.

<ReaderintoCrowbars> Haha, I’m excited...

<goreboy> what a sweet little thing you are.

<ReaderintoCrowbars> I just want to be supportive for my boyfriend. Is that so bad?

<goreboy> HAHA! you’re such a naive little thing. just like that time on the bridge.

<ReaderintoCrowbars> What..?

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> IMAGINE CRINGING AT US WHEN LOOK AT YOU TWO FLIRTING IN FRONT OF THE WHOLE SERVER LMAO

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, mind racing. Was this really your end?

The chat was buzzing with anticipation. You could almost hear the teasing tone seeping through every message. It was like a twisted carnival, and you were the main attraction.

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> YO FELI, ME AND RONIN AND YOU SHOULD HAVE A WEDDING IN THE SERVER, A WHOLE SERIAL KILLER SHINDIG!!

You stared at the screen, blinking. A wedding? In this twisted server? Well, it wasn't completely out of character, but still—

<ReaderintoCrowbars> It's fine, Ronin might not like it...

Ronin’s response was almost instant, and you could almost hear the amusement in his voice.

<goreboy> Why not? It’s in the server...

You felt the tension build. Was this... real? You swallowed.

<ReaderintoCrowbars> Oh, you’re postponing the killing, Ronin?

He didn’t even hesitate.

<goreboy> No. I just wanna see them being bloodied and sweet... in a way.

Your stomach churned, not in fear but something else. What the hell?

<ReaderintoCrowbars> Guts!? Exactly...

You could see the line of messages flooding in, each more twisted than the last.

<Hitmeupp> OMG, is he really into flowers?

<goreboy> Hm, flowers are hella sweet. Are they too sweet for you, though?

Your mind reeled. Flowers? Really? Is that what you’re thinking about in the middle of all this chaos?

<ReaderintoCrowbars> Do you think flowers are too sweet? Angel?

<Angelicc> YES. Flowers are too sweet. :')

Ronin’s voice cut through the chat like a knife.

<goreboy> Yeah... flowers are sweet, especially white ones...

Your head spun. White flowers. The kind of symbolism he loved to twist. But why did he say it like that? There was something so sinister in the way he phrased it.

<Angelic> What the hell, Ronin?

<goreboy> Hehe, Angel, don’t make me revive my child...

<Angelic> I’ll just kill it with a pink heart. ��

<Feli> Maybe another day for now, let’s see who’s the victim of Ronin’s new killing.

There was a pause, and you almost swore you could feel Ronin's gaze through the screen. His words cut through the chat like a blade, but before you could process them, Luca jumped in with a laugh.

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> I don’t think his victim’s face is gonna be clear with the point of gore, though...

The server erupted into laughter. You could almost hear it in your mind—the twisted, dark amusement that filled the digital space. Everyone was so... comfortable with the gore, the death, the violence.

And that’s when the chill settled deep in your bones.

<ReaderintoCrowbars> SHIT!!

Goosebumps crawled up your arms, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. The laughter felt wrong, hollow, like a foreboding omen. You could feel the weight of Ronin’s presence, even though he hadn’t said a word. Was he watching? Waiting for you to react?

And there it was again, that familiar feeling—like something was off.

<goreboy> Don’t worry, @ReaderintoCrowbars. You’ll see soon enough.

It wasn’t a promise. It was a declaration. Your heart pounded in your chest, every instinct screaming at you. But you couldn’t look away.

<hitmeuppp> Ooooh, I’m so ready for this one! I’m gonna get my popcorn and enjoy the show!

<Angelic> Same here. This one’s gonna be a masterpiece.

And then—

<goreboy> You all think it's funny? Well, just wait till you see their face.

You froze, the words hanging in the air like a thick fog. The message wasn’t for the chat. It was for you.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that the victim wasn’t some random person, not this time. You were tangled in this mess, and Ronin had his eyes on you.

<ReaderintoCrowbars> What do you mean?

The silence after your question was deafening. Every second felt like an eternity, but then Ronin’s response came.

<goreboy> Oh, nothing. Just a little preview of what’s to come. You’ll see...

The chat continued, the teasing, the jabs, the laughter. But all you could hear in your head were those words. You’ll see.

The pressure was building, tightening around your chest. You were still there, stuck in the madness, caught in the grip of a man who reveled in death—and you couldn’t escape it.

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard again, unsure whether to respond, to act... or to just wait for the inevitable.

<goreboy> Maybe you’ll be the next pretty little thing. Who knows?

That one hit too close to home. Your heart raced, but you refused to let the panic show. If this was the game Ronin wanted to play, then you’d have to play along. But how far would you go? And what would happen when the victim wasn't some random soul on the other side of the screen, but someone close to you?

The server buzzed with an almost disturbing sense of camaraderie, the playful teasing and the sickeningly sweet words directed toward you only adding to the heavy tension that gnawed at the edges of your mind. Ronin’s game was unfolding, and you were both part of the show and a spectator, unsure of what the next scene would bring.

<hitmeuppp> HEY RONIN! DON’T FLIRT- BUT Y/N YOU REALLY ARE THE BEST <3

The comment made your stomach twist, the constant back-and-forth making everything feel too intimate, too personal. It was almost like they were trying to pull you into a world that didn’t belong to you. But you weren’t the only one caught up in it.

<Feli> Me and Luca are always thankful you gave us the courage to be lovers! We thank you!

The server flooded with messages, all of them dripping with gratitude and affection. It felt like a bizarre parade, each of them handing out praises with a sense of distorted warmth that sent shivers up your spine.

<Vince> You enjoy my sunset pictures. Yes, you are a sweet thing, @goreboy is lucky to have a partner like you. It’s like meeting his wife.

Your heart stilled, and you almost laughed bitterly. Wife? This was spiraling far too quickly, even for your standards.

<Ai hua> Thumbs up for @ReaderintoCrowbars.

The words felt almost mockingly sweet, and you couldn’t tell if they were genuine or just part of Ronin's twisted game. And the whole thing felt so... final.

<Angelic> I feel safe with you when I talk to you, so thankies!

<K9> Out of all here, @ReaderintoCrowbars is humble. I'm thankful there’s a person like you...

You felt the warmth in their words. And yet, it was all so wrong. Your mind screamed that something wasn’t right, but you forced the smile.

<ReaderintoCrowbars> Thank you...

But inside, it felt like a cold wave washing over you. Their compliments were suffocating, their kindness like a trap, and for a brief moment, the truth seemed too clear: This looked like a sendoff.

They were all here, caught up in the fantasy, unaware that the "victim" of Ronin's plan was still a question mark, a fragile variable that could mean anything. You didn’t know how long you could keep pretending, how long you could hold up this facade before everything came crashing down.

<goreboy> Indeed, one in a million...

The weight of Ronin’s words hung in the air. He knew exactly what he was doing. The way he weaved affection with death, offering you compliments, wrapping you in praise—only to pull the rug from under you when you least expected it.

And in that moment, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were the target.

You were the one in the middle of all this, being handed the most intoxicating, beautiful death in the most twisted way possible.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the sickly sweet messages pouring in, their layers of false security building up around you, suffocating you. You were caught between thank yous and goodbyes, unsure of whether this was just some sick joke or the end of a cruel, inevitable game.

The weight of it all crashed down on you like an avalanche, the truth settling in with a terrifying clarity. The entire server—your so-called friends, your “supporters,” all of them—had no idea they were laughing, encouraging, and praising a death sentence. And the one pulling all the strings, the one playing you like a puppet, was Ronin.

He wasn’t just some faceless killer. No, he was the one who owned you. The one who had every secret you buried deep within you, every weakness, every desire, every unspoken fear. You were his plaything, his victim, and the worst part? You let yourself fall into it willingly.

But that couldn’t be the end, could it? You had to confront him.

You could feel the tension in your bones, the cold dread curling around your heart. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, shaking as the cursor blinked, daring you to type the words, to confront him.

But the words didn’t come easily. What if you said the wrong thing? What if confronting him only made it worse? What if the server’s dark humor, the weird, twisted affection, was just a small taste of what was to come? But no—this couldn’t be the end. You couldn’t keep hiding in the shadows, pretending that everything was just some sick joke.

You had to face it.

You looked at the screen, your breath shallow. Your heart beat in your chest like a drum, pounding louder as you took a shaky step toward the truth.

You didn’t need to text the server. They didn’t matter. You only needed to find him. The real Ronin. The man behind the devil’s mask.

<goreboy> how are you Rotting along

Y/n?

The words hit like heavy, dead air. You feel them slip through you, like a promise made of ash. There’s something hollow, a terrible pause that stretches into the distance, but you don’t dare look too far. You’ll drown. You’re already sinking.

<ReaderintoCrowbars> I'm in love with a devil, hbu?

A silly joke, a pathetic little jest. You don’t laugh. You know the sound of that statement far too well. Love with the devil? It’s never love. It’s something worse—something that gnaws at you, like a hunger you’ll never satisfy. But you let him have it, let him taste it, because you're too weak to stop. You’re just as sick as he is.

<goreboy> jesus that's rough the Old testament wants a word with you but hey you're Novel's nearly there no? should i wait for you to finish to kill ya? or maybe i can spare the world another serial killer Incarnation..

Another one. Another joke. Another game. His words drip with poison, sweetened with the bitterness of inevitability. The words hang over you like an executioner's hood. Can you feel the rope tightening around your throat? The truth is—it doesn't matter. It never does.

<ReaderintoCrowbars> I'm fine with you waiting!

The lie falls from your lips with a tremor you can’t hide. But he doesn’t care, does he? He knows. And he laughs, because you’re not his victim yet. But you will be. You always will be.

<goreboy> hah Now where's the fun in that?

Where is the fun in waiting? In torturing yourself slowly as you watch the ground crumble beneath your feet? The twisted thrill of watching you squirm. His words are venom wrapped in silk. Every syllable a slow poison you’re too stupid to reject.

<ReaderintoCrowbars> You don't have to kill me.

Such a sad, pathetic plea. It’s the same thing you’ve said a thousand times, but you both know better, don’t you? His smile stretches, knowing how much you ache, how much you want to scream. He’s always waiting, always watching. He wants to see if you’ll beg for mercy. But you won’t. You can’t.

<goreboy> you're right, i don't have to But i sure as fuck want to you know how the saying goes Each to their own

The words slither, full of dark amusement, like a caress of something foul. It’s not about need. It’s about want. You’re the toy, the plaything, the thing that spins in the web, waiting for the spider to decide how much suffering you’re worth.

<ReaderintoCrowbars> I could kill you.

A whisper, empty as your own breath. But even you don’t believe it. You know what it is: a feeble attempt to wrest control, to play the same game he’s already won. Your hands shake, and he knows. He always knows.

<goreboy> could you please try? it's not like i'm the Antichrist Unhinged maybe! but Fucking hell, it ain't hard just turn the knife to me and i'm done, baby

Another taunt, another shove. He dares you to act. To try. He wants you to break. Wants to see you crumble. He waits, watching with those hollow, gleaming eyes. It’s all a show, but you’re the one who’s already bought the ticket.

<ReaderintoCrowbars> .....

<goreboy> Oh? didja think i was serious? Right i forget how you writers are but hey i'll get my will and Testament if you really mean it

<ReaderintoCrowbars> I don't want to kill you, I want you to stop.

Stop. But you know it’s too late for that. A desperate gasp, a final plea. The words ring hollow, empty in your throat. He’s already past the point of return, and so are you.

<goreboy> no can do i had fun but time's Fucking Up baby! you were a Crazy good time but a Killer's a killer and Evisceration's in my bones Right ain't that true?

He speaks the truth like a curse, like something ancient and untouchable. He wears it on his sleeve, letting you feel it in your gut, and it makes you sick. Makes you long for something simpler. But you’ll never get it. He’s carved himself into you, a mark that won’t fade.

Why is he so…ugh? You can’t get him out of your head. He’s a stain, a mark that lingers on your skin, like blood that never dries, always sticky, always there, pulsing under your flesh. You hate him, or you should—god, you really should. But that’s the cruel trick, isn’t it? He’s made you fall into it. Made you crawl toward him like some damned moth to a flame.

You’d say it’s because he’s a devil, but that’s too easy. Too neat. It’s because he doesn’t care about being the devil. He knows he’s ugly, he knows he’s rotten. He doesn’t try to hide it. And god, that’s what makes him even worse. He doesn’t have to pretend, he doesn’t have to fight it. He enjoys being broken, enjoys pushing you deeper into the pit until you lose all sense of who you are, until you can’t remember what was even worth fighting for.

He’s a reflection of everything wrong, every twisted desire you’ve tried to bury. And that’s what makes him sickening, isn't it? That ugly part of you that you can’t bear to look at, and yet here he is, flaunting it in your face with that shit-eating grin, like he’s won. And you—god, you know he has. You want to spit in his face, but you’re just too weak to pull away, too tangled in the chaos he’s spread around you, too much of a coward to stop playing his fucking game.

He knows it. He sees it. He can read the fear in your veins, the hesitation in your hands, and he thrives on it, drinking it in like some vile nectar. Every step you take to fight him is another thread tightening around your throat, another drop of poison in your system. You can’t escape it. You can’t escape him.

Why does he do this to you? Why can’t he just leave you alone, let you breathe without feeling like his fingers are still around your neck, still pulling you deeper into this world of broken glass and blood-streaked smiles? You’re not some fucking plaything for his amusement, but try telling him that. He’d laugh, he’d look at you with that sick smirk, the one that makes your insides twist and your heart ache.

No. He’s not going to stop. He’s never going to stop. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the real reason you hate him. Because the only thing worse than loving him is realizing you’re trapped in the same cage with him, and he holds the key.

He’s the kind of poison that seeps in slow, until you’re so numb to it, you don't even notice how much of yourself you've lost. Like the sound of blood dripping off the edge of a knife — it gets quieter the longer you listen, and then, it’s just part of the fucking rhythm. Part of the noise. And he's good at this, isn't he? At making it all blend together. The fear. The longing. The hate. Everything becomes one ugly, tangled mess that you don’t know how to untangle, or if you even want to anymore.

You tell yourself you could walk away. You could leave. It’s so easy, right? Just turn your back and step out of this mess. But that’s the lie he’s fed you, the one you’ve swallowed so many times you can’t tell where it ends and you begin. It’s not easy. It’s not simple. It never was. And he knows that. He knows you’re stuck, even when you think you’ve got your legs beneath you.

And god, when he looks at you? It’s like he’s inside your skull, turning things over, poking at the dark corners you didn’t even know were there. He doesn’t even have to touch you, doesn’t even have to try to break you anymore. He’s already done it, just by showing you how easy it is to be broken. How simple it is to let the weight of it all crush you under his watchful, uncaring gaze.

You hate him, but you also need him. You can’t escape the fact that he’s the one who makes everything feel real. He’s the true thing in a world full of empty promises. You might wish he’d disappear, or that you'd have the strength to walk away. But that’s the truth—you can’t get away, and neither can he. He’s as much a part of you as the parts you wish you could burn out of yourself.

Ronin’s face on the screen was sharp, predatory—a cruel grin spread across it like he knew the outcome of this twisted little game before it even began. His voice was velvet laced with razor blades, dragging over your nerves as he taunted, “Y’know what? You don’t want me to kill ya? Why don’t you plead? Beg, even.”

Your throat tightened, words tumbling out before you could stop them. "Please don’t kill me."

The laugh he let out was nothing short of wicked, pure mockery dripping from it. “Christ, you’re pathetic. Say that again.”

You swallowed hard. “Please… don’t kill me.”

But that wasn’t enough for him. His grin grew sharper, cutting through the space between you like a blade. “I’m done playing around. You wanna be a serial killer? Act the part.”

Your hands trembled, but your voice came out steady, almost detached. “Fine. Let’s play a game.”

“Truth.” His answer was immediate, smug.

You exhaled shakily. “I want you to tell me why you’re the way you are.”

The grin faltered for a split second, just a flicker, before he regained control. “I want you to tell me why you are the way you are.”

The words came unbidden, raw and cracked. “I want to be someone other than me.”

His eyes darkened, a strange stillness settling over his expression. “I get that abject feeling,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “Was it because of what your first love told you?”

The mention of it struck you like a blow. Your stomach twisted, the pain of it old but sharp as ever. You didn’t answer right away, just nodded, your gaze falling to the screen in your lap.

Ronin’s tone turned mocking again, the sharp edge of his words back in full force. “You don’t even know how the fuck he looks like, how the fuck he is right now, yet you say he was your first love.”

Your lips twitched into a bitter smile, the chuckle escaping more hollow than you meant it to be. “If someone gives you hope to live,” you began, your voice quieter now, steadier despite the chaos inside you, “to you, they’re a key… to the start of everything.”

His expression tightened, unreadable. “And?”

“And you, Ronin,” you said, voice sharper now, cutting through the tension like a blade, “you’re the key to opening it. Beaufort pushed me to live. You pushed me to accept it.”

There was silence on his end, just for a beat, before he tilted his head, his gaze sharpening. “Accept what?”

You let out a breathy, bitter laugh, staring right into the screen. “That loving you makes me insane. And it’s fine.”

For once, he didn’t respond immediately. The grin was gone, replaced by something quieter, something darker. He didn’t deny it, didn’t taunt you this time. Instead, his gaze burned into yours, and in that suffocating silence, the only sound was the unsteady rhythm of your own heart. You’d said it. You’d accepted it.

Your voice trembled slightly, curiosity clawing its way past fear as you finally asked, "How could you tell? Beaufort’s a he…"

Ronin’s chuckle was low, dark, and dripping with something unspoken, like a predator toying with its prey. Then, without warning, he tipped his head back and laughed—a sound that was equal parts maddening and intoxicating, like he’d just peeled back a layer of your soul for his own amusement. He didn’t answer, of course. He just stared, that infuriating smirk stretching across his face like he knew something you didn’t, something you’d never be able to figure out.

The silence grew heavier with every passing second. His laugh still echoed faintly in your head, unsettling, and yet... there was an undeniable pull to it. He didn’t need to say anything, because the weight of his knowing gaze was answer enough.

Something inside you twisted painfully, a knot of emotions too tangled to unravel. "You’re quiet…" you said softly, your voice cutting through the tension like a whisper in a storm. "You make dying feel… not so bad, in a way."

That earned another chuckle, softer this time, and yet it hit harder, like a hand closing around your throat. His eyes gleamed with something you couldn’t name, something that made your stomach flip and your chest ache all at once.

Your lips curved into a small, broken smile, the weight of everything crashing into you at once. "You’re a devil with a saint’s heart," you said, your words a mixture of awe and despair. "At least to the ones you care about."

Ronin leaned closer to the camera, his grin faltering ever so slightly as something colder, sharper replaced it. "Care, huh?" he said, his voice like velvet dipped in venom. "Sweetheart, don’t mistake me for something I’m not. But if it makes you feel better to believe that, go ahead. Lie to yourself."

You shook your head slowly, that smile still lingering, fragile but defiant. "It’s not a lie," you murmured. "You care in your own way… even if it’s twisted, even if it hurts. And that’s what makes you dangerous."

His eyes narrowed, the air between you growing heavier, suffocating. But you didn’t back down. You couldn’t. The storm inside you was already raging, and somehow, facing him head-on felt like the only way to keep from drowning.

"Fine." Your voice wavered, but the resolve in your tone was undeniable. "Dare. Give me a kiss."

Ronin's smirk widened, sharp and wicked, his laugh rolling through like a storm. "Oh, someone's desperate. I'll give you a kiss, all right. I'll give you love, I'll fuckin' damage you, I'll kiss my knife to your throat and send your pretty little head into oblivion. Is that what you want?"

Your heart pounded, fear and something darker twisting together in a brutal dance. "It's everything I want," you whispered, voice trembling yet certain.

His gaze narrowed, the smirk faltering for a split second before returning full force. "That's how you like it? Death?"

"Only because it's you," you replied without hesitation.

Ronin let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. "You think I won't kill you?"

"You'd miss me too much," you said, your lips curling into a faint, defiant smile.

He leaned closer to the screen, his eyes glinting with something unhinged. "Hah! It's your turn. Truth or dare?"

"Truth," you answered quickly. But before you could breathe, he added, "Two questions. Shoot them at me."

You hesitated for a moment, but curiosity burned hotter than caution. "Your real name... And... why did you say Beaufort's a he?"

Ronin's laugh was softer this time, almost indulgent. "Darlin', you've already muttered my real name multiple times," he drawled, his tone mockingly sweet. "And as for the second... I did tell you, in my own way. Figure it out."

Your stomach dropped, your breath catching in your throat. His real name? You stared at him, bewildered, before your mind began piecing it together. Frantically, you scrolled through old texts, the memories flashing in your mind.

"You're Beaufort...?" you whispered, disbelief and realization washing over you like cold water.

He grinned, sharp and predatory, like he’d been waiting for this moment. "Darlin', full name. Achieve your victory."

Your heart pounded in your ears as the pieces clicked together, and you almost shouted, "You're Ronin Beaufort!"

Ronin clapped slowly, mock applause ringing out as he chuckled. "Atta lover. You got it."

You were reeling, your emotions crashing like waves. The man who had saved you, the one who had given you hope when you thought it was gone... was the same man who now threatened to take it all away.

"I have so much I want to say—"

He raised a hand, silencing you with a look, his grin fading into something more solemn, more chilling. "Save it," he said, his voice low, almost tender. "Meet me in purgatory, Y/N L/N."

And with that, the call ended, leaving you staring at the dark screen, your reflection staring back.

You sat there, your chest tight, your mind racing. The man who had been your salvation was now your reckoning. The irony of it twisted in your gut, a cruel joke the universe had written just for you.

The man who saved you is the man who’s going to kill you now. Romantic, isn’t it? Like a prayer answered wrong—half by heaven, half by hell, their hands slick with irony and divinity alike. Ronin Beaufort, of all people. The scum of the earth who wears the title like a tailored suit, grinning that god-awful, shit-eating grin, the one that makes you hate and love him in the same breath.

He’s problematic in all the ways that hurt. A walking paradox. A savior who drags you from the edge only to dangle you there again, one hand loose and laughing. He doesn’t care to split truth from illusion, prefers to blur the lines until you're drowning in them, his voice the only anchor. And you? You let him.

Oh, how you prayed. Once. For someone who could take your cracked soul and hold it without breaking further. And here he is, smiling sharp like broken glass, throwing your devotion back in your face like a spilled milkshake on a Sunday afternoon. He calls it a tragedy, your love, and maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s the beauty of it.

You wanted a lover, and you got him. The universe said yes but handed you the devil in exchange for a saint. Ronin Beaufort doesn’t love like humans do; he consumes. He devours. He kisses like knives and whispers like poison, and you thank him for it, every single time.

He was your salvation once. Now he's your favorite ruin.

Purgatory stank of iron and rot, a place where the Devil’s Butcher carved his gospel in gore. Limbs draped like forgotten ornaments, blood pooling in stagnant art. It was vile. It was Ronin Beaufort. He always did know how to make an impression—how to turn the macabre into something almost poetic, like Baudelaire with a butcher’s blade. And you? You were walking straight into it, lilies pressed to your chest like a love letter.

Funny, isn’t it? The lilies. You remembered the server’s jokes, the teasing about your dreams. The little moments that felt far away now, drowned beneath the weight of this—this grand funeral march you were dragging yourself through. White petals, clean and soft, clashing with the grime of the alleyway ahead. You didn’t flinch, though. Not even when you saw the shadows stretch like teeth waiting to devour you.

You held the lilies tighter, a fragile little prayer against the inevitable. You walked slow, deliberate, like a bride making her way to the altar. And maybe you were. Maybe that’s exactly what this was. A wedding, grotesque and holy all at once, the groom waiting for you in the heart of the slaughter. Ronin Beaufort, the man who saved you just to kill you. The man who made you laugh, made you ache, made you fall.

The alleyway swallowed you whole, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Every step echoed, slow and steady, like a heartbeat counting down. You thought of his grin, that awful, beautiful thing, a scythe dressed up like a smile. Thought of his voice, the way it cut deeper than any blade ever could.

This was fine. This was right. Because the groom was him, and the death was yours, and you’d always known it would end this way. You just didn’t know it would feel so much like love.

Ronin Beaufort, the scum of the earth, leaned against the cracked brick wall, a knife, Too precise. Too clean. Ronin wasn’t about precision—he was about devastation. He thrived in the jagged edges, the broken pieces, the chaos that bled into everything he touched. And now, he was here, waiting for you like the devil at the gates of hell.

His grin carved itself across his face when he heard your footsteps, slow and deliberate, like a death march. “So we meet at last!” he called out, voice dripping with mockery, with glee, like this was some grand reunion and not the end of you. “It’s so nice to see you…” His words trailed off as his eyes caught the lilies clutched to your chest, his grin faltering for just a moment before widening again. “What’s this? A gift for the devil?”

You stopped a few steps away, leaned against the wall, and hugged the lilies tighter to your chest. “Something to offer,” you murmured, your voice calm, resigned, like you were handing over your soul without a fight.

Ronin’s gaze flickered, something unreadable flashing in those maddening eyes. He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, his crowbar scraping against the ground like a low growl. “Lilies, huh?” he mused, his voice softening as he reached you. “Pretty things. Like you.”

Your breath hitched as his hand shot out, pressing you against the wall with a force that left no room for escape. The lilies crushed between you, petals trembling as your chests heaved, your hearts so close you swore you could feel the thrum of his aorta against your own. Instinctively, your hands flew up to his neck, not to push him away, but to hold on, to steady yourself against the onslaught of him.

His grin returned, sharper now, predatory. “What’s wrong, darling? You look surprised,” he murmured, his voice a razor slicing through the silence. His eyes bore into yours, searching, mocking, daring you to speak.

The gasp caught in your throat, but he left no room for air, no room for doubt. Ronin’s voice dropped low, a velvet drawl that coiled around you like smoke. “Do you like me now?”

Your head bobbed before you could stop it, the truth spilling out in a fragile whisper. “I like you now.”

His grin curved, dark and knowing. “Before?”

You swallowed hard, gripping the shreds of confidence you had left. “Before too,” you admitted, voice steady despite the tremble threatening to break it.

He tilted his head, his face mere inches from yours, his breath a ghost against your skin. “Write me a love note, darlin’,” he drawled, his grin sharpening into something cruel and intimate all at once.

You stared into his eyes—those maddening eyes that seemed to see everything—and said it softly, like a revelation. “I know your name now. I could end this. I could end you.”

Ronin chuckled, the sound dark and dangerous, like the low growl of a predator toying with its prey. “Will ya do it, then?” he asked, pressing closer, the crushed lilies a trembling barrier between you.

“No.”

The word came out firm, unwavering, and his eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place. Amusement? Relief? Whatever it was, it only made him press against you harder, the lilies between your chests crushed almost beyond recognition. “These for me?” he murmured, his voice soft, curious. His fingers brushed the petals, a touch that seemed almost reverent. “How’d you know I always loved them?”

You didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, the words trapped somewhere in the back of your throat.

His lips brushed your ear, his voice a whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “What’s wrong, darlin’? Too much to say but no words to say it with?”

You almost enjoyed it too much—his breath on your ear, the weight of him pinning you against the wall, the crushed lilies releasing their faint, tragic fragrance between your chests. Ronin noticed. Of course, he noticed.

And he laughed. A deep, throaty laugh that shook through him and straight into you. It wasn’t cruel—not entirely—but it was filled with something close to delight. Amusement. He was laughing at you.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, his voice dripping with mirth. “You’re pathetically adorable, you know that?”

Your cheeks flamed, your heart hammered against the fragile wall of crushed petals, and you turned your face away from him, trying to hide the heat rising to your skin.

Ronin tilted his head, watching you with a sharp grin that softened just enough to make it dangerous. “Aw, wait,” he said, his tone mock-apologetic. “Maybe not pathetic? Nah…” His voice trailed off as his grin widened.

He leaned closer again, his eyes scanning your face, drinking in every ounce of your flustered silence. “Awww,” he drawled, teasing. “You look like you’re about to melt into the fuckin’ floor. That for me, too, darlin’? Or is it the flowers?”

You managed to lift your gaze back to his, and the smirk on his face made you want to laugh, scream, or cry—or maybe all three at once. He tilted his head like he was waiting for an answer, but you knew him better by now.

You almost enjoyed it too much—his breath on your ear, the weight of him pinning you against the wall, the crushed lilies releasing their faint, tragic fragrance between your chests. Ronin noticed. Of course, he noticed.

And he laughed. A deep, throaty laugh that shook through him and straight into you. It wasn’t cruel—not entirely—but it was filled with something close to delight. Amusement. He was laughing at you.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, his voice dripping with mirth. “You’re pathetically adorable, you know that?”

Your cheeks flamed, your heart hammered against the fragile wall of crushed petals, and you turned your face away from him, trying to hide the heat rising to your skin.

Ronin tilted his head, watching you with a sharp grin that softened just enough to make it dangerous. “Aw, wait,” he said, his tone mock-apologetic. “Maybe not pathetic? Nah…” His voice trailed off as his grin widened.

He leaned closer again, his eyes scanning your face, drinking in every ounce of your flustered silence. “Awww,” he drawled, teasing. “You look like you’re about to melt into the fuckin’ floor. That for me, too, darlin’? Or is it the flowers?”

You managed to lift your gaze back to his, and the smirk on his face made you want to laugh, scream, or cry—or maybe all three at once. He tilted his head like he was waiting for an answer, but you knew him better by now.

“Come on, darlin’. Tell me—what do you want?” Ronin’s voice was a low, syrupy drawl, the kind that coiled around your thoughts like smoke. He tilted his head, watching your every twitch, your every breath. “Do you hate me? Do you love me? Do you wanna kill me? 'Cause look, I got a knife right here…”

His grin spread wider as he brought the blade into view, holding it out to you, a taunting glint in his eyes. “Or are you kissin’ me, huh? How much do you feel? How much can you even take?”

The knife felt cool in your palm when you took it. For a moment, his gaze sharpened, curious, waiting—would you do it? Could you? Your fingers tightened on the hilt, and he didn’t move, didn’t flinch. If anything, his grin only grew sharper, like he was daring you.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. The blade clattered to the ground as you threw it aside, and before he could make some snide, smug comment, you grabbed his face and kissed him.

For a second, the world stopped. Or maybe it spun faster, collapsing in on itself as he responded like only Ronin could—with no hesitation, no restraint. He kissed you back, and in true Ronin fashion, it wasn’t soft or tentative; it was raw and consuming, a wildfire of teeth and lips and heat.

His hands found your waist, and in one swift motion, he lifted you as if you weighed nothing, pressing you harder against the wall. The crushed lilies between you released their scent again, a bittersweet perfume that tangled with his cologne and the metallic scent of the knife.

You gasped into the kiss, your hands instinctively clutching at him, pulling him closer. He chuckled against your lips, the sound low and dangerous and entirely him.

But it was fine. It was more than fine.

Because this wasn’t just Ronin Beaufort—the Devil’s Butcher, the scum of the earth who wore chaos like a second skin.

No, this was your Ronin Beaufort.

And as his lips claimed yours again, as his fingers tightened on your waist, pulling you further into him, you couldn’t bring yourself to care about anything else. Not the knife, not the lilies, not even the bloodstained shadows of Purgatory.

Ronin let you go, but his forehead stayed pressed against yours, his breath warm against your skin. For a moment, it felt quiet, suspended between the lingering touch of his lips and the adrenaline still thrumming in your veins.

You glanced over him, noticing something odd—he didn’t have his usual crowbar with him. That caught you off guard. “Wait... you didn’t bring it?”

He pulled back just enough to give you that grin of his, the one that screamed trouble. “Never mind that,” he said, his voice a purr.

You squinted at him, something in his tone raising red flags. “What does that mean? You never... wanted to kill me?”

“Kill you? Nah.” He leaned back further, stretching his arms behind his head like this was the most casual conversation in the world. “Over, like, fuckin’ with you? It’s a game, darlin’.”

Your jaw dropped. “What?!”

Ronin laughed—a loud, shameless laugh that bounced off the alleyway walls. “Oh, man, it’s funny. You, all praise for Beaufort, and now you’re losing it ‘cause it turns out he’s just some mechanic-slash-serial-killer who got a kick outta savin’ you.” He was grinning so wide it was almost obnoxious. “Yeah, I remember pullin’ you outta that mess. But I never took it to heart. I wasn’t expectin’ you to... y’know, make me your whole-ass religion or whatever.”

Your cheeks puffed out in frustration, and before you knew it, you were practically stomping your foot. “So all those threats—the killing, the knives, the cat-and-mouse bullshit—it was just a game?!”

He clapped his hands together, still laughing like you’d just told the funniest joke in the world. “Goddamn right, it was! And you? You played right into it, darlin’. Couldn’t have asked for a better partner.”

You stared at him, eyes wide and glistening, and before you knew it, the tears started to spill over. You couldn’t stop them. You just stood there, trembling, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

Ronin blinked, caught completely off guard. “Wait, wait, wait—hold up, darlin’. You’re cryin’?” His tone was part disbelief, part amusement.

You sniffled, trying to catch your breath, but it was useless. The dam had broken, and there was no going back. “WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Ronin’s grin twitched, caught between wanting to laugh and genuinely not knowing what to do. “Oh, c’mon, don’t do this. You’re gonna ruin my bad-boy rep if people see me dealin’ with this.”

You wailed louder, smacking his chest weakly. “You’re a JERK! A LYING JERK!”

“Hey now!” He caught your wrist mid-swing, still trying to stifle a laugh. “I never lied. I just... didn’t tell you everything.”

“WAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“Alright, alright!” He held his hands up like he was surrendering, his teasing grin faltering just enough to show he was trying to figure out how to fix this. “You want me to apologize? I’ll apologize. I’m sorry, darlin’. There, happy?”

You glared at him through teary eyes, hiccuping as you tried to respond. “No! That’s not—hic—enough! You—sniff—you’re so mean!”

He sighed dramatically, running a hand through his hair. “You’re killin’ me, y’know that? You’re the one cryin’, but I feel like I’m the one dyin’ here.” He tilted his head, giving you a lopsided grin. “You really are somethin’ else, huh? Tears an’ all. Still look cute, though.”

You hiccupped again, your sobs slowing just a bit, but your lip still trembled. “Y-You’re horrible.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before.” He stepped closer, tilting your chin up with a finger. “But you’re still here, aren’tcha? Cryin’ over me, no less. Gotta mean somethin’, huh?”

You tried to pull away, but he just chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “C’mere. Get it all out. You done wailin’, or should I brace myself for another round of ‘WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH’?”

Your sobs didn’t stop—if anything, they got louder. Ronin, the smug bastard, just stood there watching you with that shit-eating grin, hands on his hips like he was some kind of hero.

But then, out of nowhere, he swooped down, grabbing you around the waist. Before you could even react, he hoisted you up like a sack of potatoes and threw you over his shoulder.

“W-WHAT THE—?!” You shrieked, pounding your fists on his back. “PUT ME DOWN, YOU IDIOT! YOU ABSOLUTE MORON!”

He laughed, deep and hearty, the sound vibrating through his body and into yours. “You’re too cute when you’re mad, darlin’. I gotta savor this.”

“RONIN BEAUFORT, I SWEAR TO EVERYTHING HOLY, PUT ME DOWN RIGHT NOW!”

“Nah.” He gave your leg a playful pat. “You’re too much fun up there. Plus, you were gettin’ all dramatic with the cryin’. Thought I’d mix it up a bit.”

You kicked your feet uselessly, feeling the blood rush to your head. “THIS IS NOT MIXING IT UP! THIS IS HUMILIATION!”

“Oh, c’mon.” He turned his head just enough to glance at you, his grin still plastered across his face. “You were already makin’ a scene, bawlin’ your eyes out like that. Least now you’ve got a reason to be loud.”

“YOU’RE THE WORST PERSON ALIVE!”

“And yet you’re still here.” He adjusted you slightly, like you were some kind of lightweight duffel bag, not a fully grown human. “Admit it, darlin’. You kinda like it.”

“I DO NOT!” You pounded your fists on his back again, harder this time. “YOU ARE INSANE!”

He just laughed again, a low, lazy sound that made you want to strangle him. “Insane for you, maybe.”

“OH MY GOD, STOP SAYING CRINGY STUFF!”

“Cringy?” He scoffed, feigning offense. “That’s the thanks I get for sweepin’ you off your feet? Harsh, darlin’. Real harsh.”

You let out a frustrated scream, which only made him laugh harder. “Ugh! Ronin, if you don’t put me down this instant, I will—”

“You’ll what?” he interrupted, his voice teasing. “Cry some more? Punch my back? Call me names? You’ve got me so scared, darlin’.”

“YOU’RE IMPOSSIBLE!”

“Yeah, yeah.” He gave your leg another pat. “Keep yellin’, sweetheart. You’re music to my ears.”

Ronin didn't give you much of a choice. He wasn't about to let you walk home in the middle of the night. It was like his personal mission to keep you near him, no matter how much you tried to argue. “You’re comin' with me,” he said with that grin, the one you were quickly growing to hate and... secretly like? "Besides, it's the perfect time to show you my den."

“Wait—what?” you asked, eyebrows shooting up in confusion as he practically dragged you to his motor.

“You heard me, darlin’. I don’t trust you to wander around alone. It’s late, and you might find yourself in the wrong company.”

You were about to protest again, but you caught the serious glint in his eyes.

When you arrived, you realized his house was... messy. Not just a little cluttered—a lot of clutter. Old pizza boxes stacked against the walls, clothes thrown over the back of furniture, and somehow a few mismatched socks floating around. Yet, somehow, it felt strangely comfortable.

You couldn't help but smirk to yourself, but you weren't about to tell him that. He had this way of making everything look chaotic but strangely right.

Ronin led you inside and set about making you tea. You blinked, surprised at how domestic it felt. Him, of all people, making tea? It was... oddly endearing. His messy kitchen felt more like home than any pristine, perfect house could.

"Go sit on the bed, darlin’," he said, motioning to his cluttered mattress. "I’ll be right there."

You hesitated, eyeing the bed like it might swallow you whole. With a sigh, you plopped down on the edge, still unsure of what the hell was going on. Ronin, meanwhile, was casually leaning against the doorframe, watching you with an unreadable expression.

He handed you the tea, his usual smirk on his face as he leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. "So," he started, his voice low. "Is this what you imagined, darlin'? Me, in my element, at home with you?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn't hide the blush creeping up your neck. “It’s... different than what I expected, yeah.”

“You’ve got that look in your eyes like you're disappointed,” he teased, his grin widening. “You thought I was gonna be this perfect, suave man, huh? The great Beaufort—saving you and all that. And now you’ve found out I’m a total mess. Reality disappoint you, baby?”

You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. "No... you’re way more than I thought. In a good way," you added quickly, eyes flicking to his for a moment before looking away, hoping he wouldn't catch how much your heart skipped a beat.

Ronin’s smile turned devious, his eyes narrowing as if he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on you. "Aw, don’t get all shy on me now," he purred. "Darlin’, I don't bite... unless you want me to."

And in that moment, it felt like your heart tried to explode out of your chest. You almost couldn’t breathe. What was it about him that made your stomach twist and your cheeks flush every single time he said something like that? The entire room felt suffocating as you barely managed to squeak out a, “Hmph!”

He chuckled at your flustered reaction, moving closer until he was right next to you, just close enough to tease. "You're killin' me, darlin'. It's like you want me to keep messin' with you."

You didn’t answer right away. How could you? You wanted to scream, to curse him out for making your heart race like this, but you couldn’t bring yourself to. Instead, you took a long sip of the tea he made you, trying to calm your nerves, even though it wasn’t working. Every time he was near, it felt like you were on the edge of something you couldn’t quite explain.

The night ended with you surrendering to the magnetic pull Ronin seemed to have over you. One moment, you were sipping your tea and trying to steady your breath, and the next, you were crawling toward him, captivated by the devilish grin on his face. The rest of the night was a blur—a fever dream of heat and adrenaline, of whispered words and teasing laughter, of him pulling you closer and never letting go. His intensity was suffocating and thrilling all at once, and somewhere in the haze of it all, you realized that you didn’t want it any other way.

Morning came too quickly. The sunlight spilling through the cracks in the blinds painted golden streaks across the room, highlighting the chaos of the night before. His shirt hung off the edge of a chair. Your clothes were scattered across the floor like breadcrumbs leading to the bed where he still lay, sprawled out like he owned the entire world. His dark hair was a mess, sticking out in all directions, and his face was softened in sleep.

You sat on the edge of the bed, pulling your shoes on and trying to steady yourself after the whirlwind that was last night. It wasn’t like you to stay this long. Usually, you’d slip out quietly, not giving anyone the satisfaction of seeing you linger. But Ronin wasn’t like anyone else, and you hated how much of your time he had managed to steal.

“Ronin,” you said softly, breaking the morning quiet. “Do you ever get tired?”

His only response was a muffled groan as he buried his face deeper into the pillow. “Come back to bed,” he muttered, his voice thick with sleep.

“Yeah, as if I’m falling for that again,” you replied with a roll of your eyes, standing up and straightening your clothes. Your tone was sharp, but your heart betrayed you, fluttering at the sheer domesticity of it all. You weren’t used to this—weren’t used to waking up in someone else’s space, especially not someone like him.

Ronin finally stirred, cracking one eye open to watch you as you moved around the room. His voice, raspy and teasing, broke the quiet. “When it comes to you, darlin’? I don’t get tired.”

You froze, his words sinking in deeper than they should have. He had a way of saying things that felt like they were wrapped in layers—half a joke, half the truth, and entirely too much for your heart to handle.

“Don’t start,” you muttered, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. “I’ve already seen enough of you for one night.”

He laughed softly, the sound rumbling through the room. “You were just getting to the good part, though.”

“Oh, well,” you shot back, trying to ignore the way his laughter made your chest tighten. “Guess I’ll survive without it.”

You turned to leave, but before you could even take a step, Ronin sat up, his movements slow and deliberate. His messy hair and rumpled appearance made him look more human than you were used to seeing him, but his eyes—those sharp, piercing eyes—reminded you exactly who you were dealing with.

“Leavin’ so soon, darlin’?” he drawled, leaning against the wall with a smirk that was equal parts cocky and dangerous.

You clenched your fists at your sides, refusing to let him get under your skin again. “I have a life to get back to, you know. I can’t just waste my time lounging around with you.”

He raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Waste your time, huh? That what last night was to you?”

Your breath hitched, and you hated the way his words cut through your defenses. He always knew exactly what to say to make you question everything.

“Don’t twist my words,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended.

Ronin pushed off the wall, his movements slow and predatory as he closed the distance between you. “Twistin’ your words?” he repeated, his tone laced with mock innocence. “Nah, I’m just makin’ sure I understand. ‘Cause it sounded to me like you had a pretty good time.”

You glared at him, refusing to back down even as he stood inches away from you. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur, “you keep comin’ back.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, and for a moment, you couldn’t find the words to respond. His proximity was overwhelming, and the intensity in his eyes made it impossible to think straight.

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you didn’t. Instead, you adjusted your bag and made your way to the door, hoping he wouldn’t say anything else to stop you.

But of course, he wasn’t going to let you leave without one last jab.

“Don’t be a stranger now, darlin’,” he called after you, his voice dripping with amusement. “Door’s always open for you.”

You froze at the edge of the threshold, hand trembling as it gripped the doorframe. His words echoed in your mind, weaving themselves into something you couldn’t ignore. “Don’t be a stranger now, darlin’.” It was said with that familiar smirk, that teasing lilt, but there was something underneath it. Something raw. Something real.

Before you could stop yourself, you turned on your heel and ran back into the room. He looked up, startled by the sudden sound of your hurried footsteps. His eyes, sharp and calculating, softened the moment they met yours. For a split second, you saw something vulnerable flash across his face, like he wasn’t quite sure if you were running back to him or away from him.

Without hesitation, you grabbed his hand, threading your fingers through his. His hand was warm, rough, a stark contrast to your own trembling grip. He blinked down at you, confusion and something unreadable flickering in his expression.

“What are you—” he started, but you didn’t let him finish. You leaned up on your tiptoes, brushing a feather-light kiss against his cheek. The gesture was soft, fleeting, but it carried a weight that made his breath hitch.

“Thank you for existing that day,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. “Ronin...” His name fell from your lips like a prayer, reverent and full of something you couldn’t quite name.

For once, he didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He didn’t crack a joke to break the tension. He just stared at you, his lips parted as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. His hand tightened around yours, his grip steadying you even as you felt like you might fall apart under the weight of your own emotions.

“You...” His voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it, almost hesitant. “You don’t have to thank me, darlin’.”

“But I do,” you insisted, your voice firmer now. “If you hadn’t been there... If you hadn’t... saved me...” Your throat tightened, the words catching like a lump you couldn’t swallow. “I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be standing here, holding your hand, saying your name. So... thank you. For being there. For existing.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his gaze searching yours like he was trying to figure out if you were real or just another dream he’d wake up from. Finally, he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as a crooked smile tugged at his lips.

He looked down at your joined hands, then back at you. “You’re full of surprises, darlin’. I’ll give you that.”

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “I think we both are.”

Ronin tilted his head, his grin softening into something almost... tender. “Maybe. But I think you might’ve just outdone me this time.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence was comfortable, filled with the unspoken connection between you. Finally, he gave your hand a squeeze, his smirk returning as he said, “Now, if you’re gonna stick around, how ‘bout I make you another cup of tea? Or were you plannin’ on stealing my heart and runnin’ out the door again?”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Tea sounds good,” you said softly.

He nodded, leading you back toward the kitchen with your hand still in his.

[sincerelyyourslilly]

AHHHHHSJDJDJJFND OMGOMGOMGOMG THANKYOUSOMUCH IT'S INCREDIBLE WKNDJDJDJJD GUYS CHECK THE FIC OUT PLS I BEG YOU, IT DESERVES MORE THAN I COULD PUT INTO WORDS RN, LUV YA ELLIE 🫶

A poem to my childhood fort....(part 1) Ronin x G.n reader

Words:3000

Genre: Angst to fluff, Gift to @sincerelyyourslilly

(Reader is G.N)

Ronin x G.N Reader

All you ever wanted was to be a successful crime writer. Not the next best-seller, not a household name—just someone who could spin a story without that relentless, soul-crushing writer's block creeping in. Every time you opened a blank document, it stared back at you, mocking, empty. And every time, you closed it, frustration bubbling over.

Why was it so hard? You’ve written before. Sure, some of it was cringe fanfiction—okay, a lot of it was cringe fanfiction—but writing used to come so easily. Back then, the words practically bled onto the page. Now, they just... don’t.

You needed inspiration. Something visceral, raw, a spark that could ignite your creative inferno. It wouldn’t come from endless Google searches, that was for sure. Inspiration like that demanded you dig deeper—into the recesses of your heart, into shadows most people were too afraid to explore.

Surely, there was no harm in doing some light research, right? It’s not like you were going to end up on some FBI watchlist just for being curious about murder methods.

Right?

Being a news reporter gave you plenty of access to grim realities. You had an eye for the grotesque, the macabre. You couldn’t help but marvel at the artistry in the work of the city’s most infamous killer. The Butcher, as the media had branded them, was a twisted kind of genius. Their victims—if you could even call them that—were their canvas. Each one a masterpiece of gore and carnage. Fleshed out, literally, in a way that screamed passion and precision.

To the public, it was nauseating. To you?

It was inspiring.

You toyed with the idea of writing about them, a crowbar-wielding serial killer stalking the streets. The thing is...you didn’t know much about crowbars. Did they bash? Bludgeon? Crush? Did it take more than one hit? You needed details, and where better to get them than the internet?

T.com had a certain charm to it. The best (and worst) of humanity hung out there. You figured it was safer than delving into the dark web, so you posted your question there.

asking for a friend hey can anyone with experience killing a person with a crowbar dm me, it's really important thank you.

The post was short, straightforward, and definitely not suspicious. Nothing that would have people side-eyeing you...right? You weren’t that desperate to go digging into the deep web for inspiration. Yet.

You hit “post.”

And then you waited.

It didn’t take long for someone to slide into your DMs.

That DM changed everything.

You met him,

Your muse. Your inspiration. Your… childhood tragedy.

The sender’s username was cryptic, but the link they shared—“killrch8t_b00t.mango”—was even more so. Against your better judgment, you clicked it. What you found was...unexpected. A server. A private chatroom for people like you.

Only, they weren’t writers. They were killers.

At first, you didn’t know it was him. But looking back now, it all makes sense. So, dear writer, here’s what happened:

You were just a simple writer, but you somehow got invited to a serial killer server by a guy who apparently adores crowbars. It didn’t take long for you to realize that this guy? He was the Butcher.

So, naturally, you decided to play along. To “slay,” as they say.

At first, you didn’t realize who you were talking to. The Butcher. The Butcher. You thought you were chatting with some edgy wannabe, someone cosplaying as the city’s most notorious murderer. But as the conversation progressed, it became clear.

It was him.

He was surprisingly...charming. Flirty, even, in a deranged sort of way. The kind of guy who’d make you laugh one second and send shivers down your spine the next.

So, naturally, you decided to play along. To “slay,” as they say. You started by reacting to his roles he reacted with:

😇 Fun ❌ Crowbar 🔪 Sharp Objects 🩸 I love the thrill of the rush 😮 I have this thing called an ego

You figured that maybe if you showed him the right mix of enthusiasm, he’d notice you. The Devil himself would grant you his blessings—or maybe just the motivation you so desperately needed.

After all, all his crimes... they involve a crowbar.

It was almost too easy to talk to him. His messages were a mix of sarcasm, wit, and razor-sharp insight. But there was an edge to everything he said, a challenge beneath the surface. He asked questions that made your pulse quicken, like he was daring you to prove yourself. To impress him.

Then he upped the ante.

He wanted you to kill someone. Not just theoretically, but for real. To send a picture. Proof. He wanted you to baptize yourself in blood—or maybe he just wanted to see how far you’d go to entertain him.

You laughed it off at first. He had to be joking. Right?

But he wasn’t.

The scary part wasn’t that he asked. It was that you didn’t immediately say no.

The conversations grew darker, deeper. Somewhere along the way, he stopped being just “The Butcher” and became a person to you. Someone sad. Lonely, even. Beneath the bravado and the bloodlust, there was something broken about him. And damn it if you weren’t the kind of person who thought you could fix people.

Strangely, you started to feel bad for him. He seemed... sad. Not in a pathetic way, but in a way that made you think: Hey, maybe this edgy maniac has layers. You weren’t dumb enough to think you could “fix” him, but maybe, just maybe, you could understand him.

But the thought still lingered.

You joked about plotting his murder. His reply? He blushed. He actually blushed. The idea of you thinking about him—obsessing over him—clearly thrilled him. It was hard to tell if he was serious or just toying with you. Either way, it felt like flirting.

Was it flirting? It was definitely something.

Everything was fine. Well, as fine as it could be when you were chatting with a notorious killer. He hadn’t turned on you. Not yet.

And then the channel appeared.

“artistic-license.”

The Butcher’s tone shifted the moment it opened. Gone was the playful banter, replaced with something cold and calculating. He knew who you were. Knew more than you’d ever shared.

“You can be my muse,” he said, voice dripping with menace. “As long as you’re willing to be my victim.”

Your blood ran cold.

It had been a game to him, all along. A hunt. And now, you weren’t sure if you were the predator or the prey.

Oh, shit.

Maybe it felt like you were in a chokehold, always watched, unable to escape, because your heart already beat only for the server. It wasn’t just obsession; it was survival. Once you left, it felt like your heart stopped altogether. That’s what kept you tethered, trapped in a conflict with yourself. Afraid of the nightmares. Afraid of him.

Was it the people? Or was it him? The Devil himself, Ronin.

Oh, but you didn’t leave, did you? You stayed. You stayed because every moment away from that server gnawed at you. And even when you closed your eyes, sleep wasn’t an escape. Not from him. Not from the Devil.

The dream was vivid. A whispered laughter danced through your mind, teasing and cold. A crowbar pressed against your neck, its chill seeping into your skin. The man in front of you had a Lucifer’s smile, a grin both wicked and divine. His eyes held a whisper of flame—bright, hot, dangerous. He wasn’t just playing at being the Devil; he embodied it. The Devil himself. Your Devil.

He leaned closer, and his breath was warm against your ear. “Why fight it, darling?” he murmured. “You came here for me. You stayed for me. And you’ll never leave… for me.” His voice was honeyed poison, sweet and lethal.

You tried to step back, but the crowbar pressed harder, pinning you in place. His laughter curled around you, low and dark, like smoke from a fire you couldn’t escape.

“Oh, you’re scared,” he said, and his grin widened. “Good. Fear looks so pretty on you.”

You wanted to scream, to lash out, but you couldn’t. Your body betrayed you, frozen under the weight of his gaze. He tilted his head, studying you with an almost tender curiosity, as if deciding whether to devour you whole or savor you bite by bite.

“You know what I love about you?” he whispered. “Your heart. It beats so fast, so loud, like it’s trying to call me closer. And you know what’s funny? It’s mine. Always has been. You just didn’t realize it yet.”

His hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face. The touch was soft, almost reverent, but it sent a shiver racing down your spine.

“Don’t look so frightened, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a velvet caress. “You wanted this. You wanted me.”

And then, just as quickly as it began, it ended. The crowbar disappeared. The Devil vanished. You woke with a start, gasping for air, your pulse hammering against your ribs. It was just a dream. Just a stupid, terrifying, beautiful dream.

You woke from a dream, if you could even call it that. A whispered laughter echoed in your ears, chilling and intimate, and the ghost of a crowbar lingered against your neck. The man in front of you—his grin sharp as a blade, his eyes alight with a flicker of Hell itself. He was Lucifer's shadow, Lucifer's whisper—no, not a shadow. The Devil incarnate. The Devil he had to be.

Except… you couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t. Not entirely.

You could write. Or you could log in and see what the server was doing. The decision was easy.

You logged in. The server was quiet. No one was online.

Except for him.

Mr. Devil himself.

A notification popped up: Incoming call.

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the mouse. Then, with a resigned sigh, you clicked accept.

The screen flickered, and there he was. Ronin—sharp-eyed and grinning like he knew every secret you’d ever tried to bury. His voice was a low drawl, smooth and intoxicating.

“Hey,” he greeted, leaning closer to the camera as if trying to bridge the digital gap between you.

“Hi,” you managed, your voice more breathless than you intended. “What are you doing up so late?”

His grin widened. “Same could be said for you, darlin’. What’s up? Stayin’ up late for that midnight inspiration?”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. “Why are you doing this?” you finally asked, your voice trembling slightly.

Ronin laughed, a low, dangerous sound that sent shivers down your spine. “Fucking with writers is my specialty, what can I say?” His gaze pinned you in place, even through the screen. “I told you, darlin’. You come to me, and I give you whatever the fuck you want. Isn’t this your dream? I’m your wish, come true.”

His voice dipped lower, each word a dark caress. “And you’re fucked, ‘cause I know exactly who you are, Y/N.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “Did I mention that I got your IP the second you logged onto the server? Yeah, yeah. Internet safety and all that shit. Don’t talk to strangers, right? ‘Cause you never know who you might come across.”

Your breath hitched. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. His grin turned sharper, almost predatory.

“Lost for words?” he teased, his voice laced with mock sympathy. “I know. I’m so fucking charming.”

He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “Listen up, sweetheart. I’ll be visiting you soon. Crowbar in hand. Unless…” His eyes gleamed with wicked delight. “Unless you find me first. Happy hunting, baby.”

The call ended abruptly, leaving you staring at your reflection in the now-black screen. Your mind raced, heart pounding in your chest.

You were in trouble.

Loving the Devil had been your first mistake. Thinking he might actually love you back was your second. And falling for his corruption, his twisted games—that was your third and most damning sin.

Ronin had known exactly what he was doing when he invited you to his server. He’d seen through your persona, found amusement in your attempts to remain aloof. To him, you were a game, a challenge—and he wanted to win. He always did.

Now, there was only one way out. He’d told you himself: you had to find him first. The question was, could you?

It was 14 February.

It was February 14th. Oh, shit. You had dreamt…

Of your first love.

Angelwood.

A place you wouldn’t mind setting ablaze, just for the hell of it.

It ruined your life. It scarred you. It made you feel worthless.

Angelwood—a repressed, self-righteous town drenched in hollow piety.

You wanted to die. Your family had discovered something about you, something that didn’t align with their narrow version of normal. Something unholy, they said.

They went to the Pastor. He declared you a changed person. No, worse. He called you a demon. Because you had dared to correct him.

Didn’t God love everyone? Didn’t He embrace whatever or whoever you were? You screamed those questions into the void of your mind, but no answers ever came. Only shame, only pain.

Standing on the bridge, it felt right. They said that if you died like this, you’d go to hell.

To hell with them, then.

But it didn’t happen.

Someone… someone stopped you. A bag was thrown over your head, and you were yanked back. Struggling, gasping, you felt their grip tighten. They didn’t remove the bag. They just… held you.

“Hah, it’s those bastards who should be dying,” a voice whispered, raw and jagged, like shattered glass on pavement. “Why you, darlin’?”

The words dripped like honeyed venom into your ear, muffled by the cloth that separated you. Their breath was warm, close. Too close.

Their hands… they were slick, coated with something thick and wet. Paint? No. You knew it wasn’t paint. A chill ran down your spine as their grip shifted to your throat, firm yet deliberate.

“If you’re willing to go to hell by dying, then live. Live to go to hell by committing the mistake they all cursed you for. Be the devil they see you as. That’s the word of your good ol’ Beaufort.”

Beaufort…?

You woke up with a start.

Ah.

Your cheeks burned. You had dreamt about them again—the person who had saved you.

It was because of them that you ran. You left Angelwood, the town that broke you, and you started over. They were right.

They had saved you.

And so, you lived.

Your first love....

After finishing all your daily activities, you logged into the server. Sure, Ronin might have doxxed you, and you might very well be on his victim list. But hey, you’re still alive! For now.

It was Valentine’s Day, after all. A day of love and romance—and apparently, the Devil himself had a touch of sentimentality when he wasn’t actively planning your demise. You logged in, partly to distract yourself and partly to see how Luca and Feli were celebrating. Those two were pure, unadulterated sweetness, even amidst the chaos that surrounded them.

And they didn’t disappoint. Their interactions were as heartwarming as ever. Feli teased Luca; Luca gushed over her, a lovesick puppy in human form. But then, Angel decided to stir the pot.

"How many serial killers are in love, and who’s in the singles’ awareness club?" she asked.

Luca and Feli, of course, remained adorably entangled in their own little world. But then Angel turned her sights on you.

"What about you, @Readerintocrowbars? Anything you’d like to share?"

Your heart stuttered. Angel’s knack for pushing buttons was unparalleled. You were about to type "single," keeping it simple, when a direct message popped up. It wasn’t from Luca or Feli.

It was from him.

"Go on," Ronin’s message read, "tell them you’re dancing with the Devil."

The audacity of this man. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, your frustration bubbling into something like amusement. There was, after all, a certain poetic irony in loving a man who was actively planning your downfall.

Still, you couldn’t let him win so easily. Could you?

“I’m with the Devil,” you typed proudly.

Ronin’s response came almost instantly:

“Loud and proud! I like it!”

Your stomach flipped. Was that pride in his tone? Satisfaction? Maybe both? Before you could analyze it, Angel piped up again, suggesting everyone hop into a call since she’d been too busy with work to catch up properly.

The call was lively, as expected. Luca quoted a line from that infamous movie about talking cars, and the laughter that followed was infectious. Everything felt normal—or as normal as it could, given the company.

Until someone started teasing.

"You and Ronin, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G," Luca sing-songed, earning a round of snickers.

The laughter erupted again, and your face burned. Tragic? Maybe. A little amusing? Definitely. You couldn’t help but think that Beaufort didn’t save you all those years ago just for this moment—to be teased for flirting with death himself. And yet, here you were, tangled in a devilish game that only seemed to deepen with every passing day.

Narrative Version

The air was thick with tension as Ronin leaned back against the wall, his smirk sharp enough to cut through the silence. His gaze, dark and piercing, settled on his companion, waiting for the game to unfold. The words "Truth or Dare" hung in the air like a challenge.

He grinned, his voice dripping with a dark amusement. "Happy Valentine's, darling. How's your obsession with me going?"

A slow, teasing smile tugged at the corners of their lips as they replied, the words dripping with equal parts sarcasm and intrigue. "As good as good could be."

Ronin chuckled, his eyes glinting. "You're quite the character! But I'm gettin' ahead of myself. Truth or dare?"

They raised an eyebrow, feeling the familiar pull of their dynamic. "I thought I got to choose your truths."

"Whoops," Ronin muttered, feigning mock surprise. "Someone hasn't forgotten our little rule-change! You're smart. I'll let ya have at it. What've you got to say, baby?"

They took a breath, then spoke, their voice cool and composed, like they were issuing a challenge. "Truth. What's your tragedy?"

For a moment, Ronin's grin faltered, replaced by something darker—a flicker of something deep, something raw. He leaned in, his voice lowering as if the words were almost too heavy to bear. "Shit, you want me to do the full villain monologue? Fine, darlin'. We've got all day."

They gave a small, silent nod, knowing this would be something they weren’t going to forget. "So what's the devil got to say?"

Ronin's laugh was a low rumble, a sound that might have been bitter if it weren’t so wrapped in his chaos. "Dunno, whatever the fuck you want. I'm hell outta Angelwood. I stuck the pastor through his cross an' murdered a dozen more. Gone through the cities and danced devilry in 'em too."

Their lips pressed together, skepticism evident in their eyes. "I don't believe it."

His eyes burned with intensity, a mixture of fury and something more vulnerable. "All there is to me, that's all."

The silence that followed was sharp, and then they spoke again, their voice slightly softer. "That's a story, not a tragedy."

A sharp grin twisted his features, cruel and knowing. "Hoped you wouldn't notice."

Ronin straightened, his demeanor shifting, turning colder. "I had... someone... once. They were my... past. My childhood everything." His gaze softened for a fraction of a second before hardening again. "They hated to love me. Dying in it, their fuckin' tragic femininity, perfect girlhood bullshit. An' that was my dream come true. I made myself the devil to... save them."

They watched him closely, feeling the weight of his words settle between them. The pause hung thick in the air as they pressed on. "What happened?"

His voice dropped to a low rasp, like something venomous escaping his lips. "It's a shitty repressed Christ-loving town. What d'you think happened?"

They felt the words cut deeper than they'd intended. "They're gone. And I'm the devil becoming. Nothin' less, nothin' more."

A somber silence passed before they responded softly, "I'm sorry."

Ronin's eyes locked onto theirs, an almost mocking glint dancing in his stare. "Cause it's all your fault. Sure. Say it again and again and we'll save her together. Curse my name three times and rewind time. Clap your hands, call me a devil, let's Faustian bargain this shit out. That's how it fuckin' works."

His hands flexed as if he were toying with the very air around him, the symbols on his body all too real to him. "Oh, my Satanic symbols mean nothin' to ya?"

They tilted their head slightly, unbothered. "Eh, just means you're edgy."

Ronin’s lips curled into something between a smile and a snarl. "I chose it."

Their voice softened, almost pleading, as if they were trying to reach him beyond the facade he wore. "You don't have to... do this."

The air shifted again, and Ronin stood taller, his presence dominating the room. "Pretend you're larger-than-life. Like you're... the devil you are."

"And that's the rub," he muttered, a dark edge creeping into his words. "The devil I am. An' you can't deny it, can ya? That's who I am."

He stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. "What d'you think, darling? Is it tragic enough for you?" His tone was an almost mockingly sweet whisper as if daring them to say otherwise.

RONIN leaned back, his smirk fading into something softer, something almost vulnerable. "So," he drawled, breaking the silence, "what do you think? Tragic enough for ya?"

You hesitated, your gaze fixed on him. "It’s true," you finally admitted, your voice quieter now. "It’s… tragic."

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you hung heavy, thick with shared secrets and the weight of things unsaid. Finally, you broke the silence. "What if I told you," you began cautiously, "that I’ve had my own sad experiences with Angelwood?"

RONIN’s eyes snapped to yours, surprise flickering across his face. "Angelwood? You… you’re from there too?" His expression was a mixture of shock and curiosity, like he was piecing together a puzzle he didn’t know existed. "What, did the town call you a devil too?"

A bitter laugh escaped you. "Something like that," you admitted. "I… didn’t realize you were from the same shitty town. That explains a lot." You paused, glancing down as memories threatened to resurface. "That’s why I’ve always hated Christmas," you added, almost as an afterthought.

At that, RONIN looked away, his jaw tightening. His fingers drummed against his knee, a restless rhythm betraying his discomfort. The vulnerability from earlier was back, tugging at the edges of his devil-may-care facade.

You studied him for a moment before speaking again. "From the looks of it," you said carefully, "you must’ve had… someone. A past lover, maybe? That’s who… Ther… that person was, wasn’t it?"

His reaction was immediate and telling—a sharp intake of breath, a brief clench of his fists. He didn’t deny it, but he didn’t confirm it either. Instead, he looked away, refusing to meet your eyes.

Something stirred in the back of your mind, a fragment of a memory that had been buried for years. "Now that I think about it," you murmured, almost to yourself, "it sounds familiar. I might’ve noticed them once."

RONIN’s head turned slightly at that, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might say something, but the words never came. And just like that, the fragile thread connecting you both was severed, the silence between you growing heavier with every passing second.

Neither of you said anything after that. Maybe it was better this way, leaving the past untouched, the wounds unspoken.

You paused, your gaze flickering down to your hands, fingers tapping restlessly against the cold surface. The moment felt strange, like the silence between you and Ronin was both too heavy and too light, like it was waiting for something deeper to unfold.

You took a deep breath before speaking again, voice softer now, a tremor beneath your words. "My past... it's true. There was a pastor—someone my family trusted completely. They didn’t see me for what I was. Instead, they took me to him, believing I was... possessed. That something inside me made me broken, that I wasn’t just going through problems. They thought a demon caught me."

Your laugh was bitter, hollow. "They didn’t get that I wasn’t crazy. But the pastor? He told them I was. That I was the devil himself. And my family—my own flesh and blood—they believed him. They stopped seeing me as , their child. They saw a demon. They called me that, said I didn’t deserve to live. That I was better off dead."

The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy and raw. You swallowed hard, shaking your head as if trying to shake off the memories. "So, I thought about it. Thought about ending it before... before they could."

You sat back, the weight of your own past pressing down on you as you began to speak, your voice raw but steady. "It's true," you said softly, looking away for a moment as the memories started to unravel. "The pastor, the one my family trusted... he took me there. Instead of getting me the help I needed, he... he decided I was possessed. That I was some demon, not a person who just had problems."

A bitter laugh escaped you, but it quickly died in the air. "They believed him, you know? My own family... They didn’t see me. They saw what he said, believed every word of it. 'The devil's child,' they called me." You paused, feeling the heaviness of it all. "They told me I didn’t deserve to live. And in the end, I almost believed them."

RONIN’s eyes narrowed, studying you closely, but he didn’t interrupt. There was something in his gaze, something that almost looked like recognition.

You closed your eyes, gathering your thoughts. "Before I could do it—before I could end it all... someone saved me. They didn’t show themselves, just a shadow. Covered in blood, but they didn’t hurt me. They... they spoke to me, offered advice. Told me that I wasn’t broken. That there was something more. Something that could keep me going."

The memory felt like a whisper in your mind, fading in and out, but the core of it remained. "That’s what I am now. That’s why I’m always so... adamant. Sticking to this point, this dynamic. I’m not the devil they wanted me to be. I’m someone else."

You turned your gaze back to Ronin, your voice taking on a different edge, almost teasing. "And that’s what I see between us. You’re always saying things like, 'Die for me, kill me like a loverboy would, carve out your aorta and serve it on a silver platter.' It’s your trademark. Your little game. But I’ve got something else in mind."

The air shifted as you leaned in slightly, eyes locking with his, your voice lowering. "What if I said, 'Live for me, thrive in this hellscape with me. May death do us part.'"

For a moment, it felt like you were the one pulling the strings, the roles shifting. You grinned, watching Ronin’s expression flicker with something... amused, almost intrigued. "We play our little game, don’t we? Witty banter, dangerous charm, back and forth, like some twisted dance. But, maybe… maybe this time, we dance a different tune."

You chuckled softly, leaning back, your smile lingering. "It’s cute, isn’t it? The way we both cling to these dynamics, testing each other. How cute you and I are together... this twisted little connection we’ve built. You're someone who finds death hot. I find living hot."

You could feel Ronin’s eyes on you, the tension between you both shifting again, but now with a certain understanding—a kind of recognition of the game that was always being played, the layers of darkness you both wore like masks.

"So you should totally let me live." You said with a wink.

"Haha, No Darling, Sorry."

"It was..worth a shot you know.."

RONIN chuckled darkly, the sound rich with mockery. "Live for me, thrive in this hellscape," he mimicked, a wicked grin tugging at his lips as he leaned forward. "Oh, how cute. You really think you’re the opposite of me? You think that makes you better? That somehow, you can survive all this... this mess we’re in and I can't?"

His eyes glinted with amusement as he continued, the taunt hanging in the air, sharp and biting. "Well, sweetheart, keep thinking that. But the truth is," his smile stretched wider, almost too wide, as if savoring the irony. "We're both just as fucked up. And you know it."

He leaned back, eyes narrowing with that familiar calculating gaze. "Anyway," he muttered, almost to himself, before focusing back on you, "Truth or dare, darling?"

You raised an eyebrow, unsure if you were ready for another one of his mind games. "Truth."

He didn’t hesitate, his eyes gleaming with sudden interest. "Alright then," he began, voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. "What’s the name of the person who made you want to live? Who saved you from... yourself?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with expectation. You stared at him for a beat, the answer already clear in your mind, but somehow, saying it out loud felt different.

"Beaufort," you replied softly, the name slipping from your lips like it had always belonged there.

RONIN’s eyes widened, a flicker of something dark crossing his features—surprise, recognition, maybe even a twinge of jealousy. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the same cool indifference he always wore.

He remained silent for a moment, studying you like he was trying to figure out something about you he hadn’t seen before. The tension was palpable, the space between you both electric with unspoken thoughts.

Finally, a slow, almost predatory smile spread across his face. "So," he said, voice low, dangerous, "you already know the answer, don’t you? You already know."

Your eyes narrowed, confused but intrigued. "What do you mean?" you asked, leaning forward just a little, trying to read him. "What answer?"

He didn’t respond immediately, instead just smiling like he held some private victory. The silence stretched, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was toying with you.

You couldn’t take it anymore. "Truth," you said again, a playful edge to your voice despite the growing tension. "I want to hear your name."

RONIN’s grin grew wider, sharper, and he leaned closer to the screen. His gaze was now fixed on you, a glint of something dangerous dancing in his eyes. "You want my name, huh?" he asked softly, voice almost too smooth. "You’ll hear it. In your dreams, darling."

He paused, letting the words sink in, watching you carefully. "I’ll whisper it to you, if you really want to know. But... I think you’ll hear it soon enough. You’ll dream about it already, won’t you?"

Before you could respond, he cut the call abruptly, leaving the silence hanging in the air, thick with unanswered questions and the promise of something far darker.

You quickly reconnect the call, the screen flickering before Ronin’s face fills the frame again, his expression a mix of amusement and that ever-present darkness in his eyes. He leans back, his tongue lazily brushing over his lips as he smirks.

"Back again?" he drawls, voice dripping with mock curiosity. "What is it, darling? Got something more to say? What’s left to talk about?"

You meet his gaze, steady and unwavering. "I understand what you meant earlier," you say, your voice a little more serious this time, though there’s still a playful edge to it. "You won’t tell me your name. I have to figure it out myself, right?"

RONIN’s smirk widens, his tongue poking out as he nods slowly. "Exactly, babe. That’s the fun of it. You gotta solve the puzzle. Don’t expect me to make it easy for you."

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. "I get it," you say, then pause for a beat, leaning a little closer to the camera. "But, I have a request. Will the devil hear it?"

He raises an eyebrow, intrigued, yet a bit amused. "A request, huh? What do you want, darling? Ask away."

You take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts before speaking. "I’ve always celebrated with my crush... whoever it may be. And honestly, whether I die tomorrow or not, I want to spend the time I have left with someone I like. I’ve chosen you, Ronin. Even if you want to kill me... I want to live with you. So, what do you say?"

You pause for a moment, watching him, then slowly extend your hand toward the camera, your fingers trembling just slightly. "Will you be my date? My love... until our time comes? Even before you kill me?"

RONIN’s eyes flicker with something—surprise? Maybe a little satisfaction? His lips twitch as he watches you, and for a second, you can’t tell if he’s going to laugh or sneer.

He chuckles softly, the sound low and dark, yet there's a genuine edge to it that almost sounds like... admiration. "You’re something else, aren’t you?" he mutters, his gaze flicking away from the camera for a moment, his fingers twitching as if he’s considering something.

"You really think a little thing like death is gonna stop us?" he asks, his voice almost contemplative now, his usual bravado slipping just slightly. "You’re not scared of me, are you?"

You don't flinch, keeping your hand out, your voice steady despite the tension. "No. I’m not scared. I want to be with you."

There’s a long silence, and for a moment, you think he might not answer. But then, his eyes meet yours again, and his grin spreads slowly, like a snake ready to strike.

"Fine," he says, his voice quieter, almost sincere, though still laced with that dangerous edge. "Yes. I’ll be your date... until the time comes. It’s cute, really, how you keep pushing me. But let’s see how long that lasts."

He looks away briefly, his lips curling into something dangerously close to a smile, though his eyes remain distant, almost lost in thought.

"Guess I kinda wanted to say yes, anyway," he mutters under his breath, but you hear it. You catch the shift in his tone—just enough to know that maybe, just maybe, he’s not as indifferent as he lets on.

With that...You spent your last love-day they say, With the man who wants to kill you and carve out your aorta.

So pretty.

this is just part 1! ill do part 2 soon!

[sincerelyyourslilly]

Here ya go Ellie sweetie Happy Birthday <3

(GO GREET @elysiaheaven2 | @elysiaheaven A HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SHE DESERVES IT !)

(luv her oc btw take ur time to admire her she looks ethereal, oh and then there's ronin)

(Akemi Noroi x Ronin from Killer Chat!)

[sincerelyyourslilly]

"Ronin, do you ever get tired?"

(when it comes to you? he doesn't)

[sincerelyyourslilly]

hehe hii

🔪 WIN A COPY OF ‘A KILLER CHAT! CHRISTMAS’! 🩷

“Merry f’ing Christmas, losers!”

To celebrate this holiday season, we are giving one lucky player a copy of our new festive addition to the Killer Chat! series, "A Killer Chat! Christmas"!

What do I win?

A digital copy of ‘A Killer Chat! Christmas’, which will be released on the 30th of December! More info written about the DLC here! 

What do I do?

FOLLOW our angelrot Twitter/X, Bluesky, Instagram, Tiktok and/or rosesrot’s tumblr.

LIKE and REPOST our social media posts about the competition.

Take a SCREENSHOT of your KC! Definitive Edition Wishlist on steam to help support future KC! content.

SUBMIT all necessary information in the giveaway form!

Deadline: 29th of December at 11:59pm GMT.

We will inform the winner before the game launch on 30th of December - if you haven’t heard by then you are safe to purchase the game!

Other important notes: 

You may enter on any number of social media platforms. Each social media post you complete the requirements for will gain you one individual entry (only one social media is required to enter).

We will be gifting the game to the winner directly through itch.io. You must have the permission of the account holder we are sending to beforehand.

If you have any questions please feel free to DM us on our social accounts or on our discord.

❄️ Happy Holidays everyone! ❄️

Support angelrot games!

Want to support Killer Chat!’s development plans further? Subscribe to me on patreon/kofi for exclusive and early access content or wishlist Killer Chat's Definitive Edition on Steam!

[sincerelyyourslilly]

let's show some love for our writers 🫶

A small ask from a small writer (⁠๑⁠•⁠﹏⁠•⁠)

Hey!

So, I know that this might be too greedy on my part but.... Guys I really need someone to commission me right now,.my biggest dream is to afford a binder and with how my expenses rn look I can't afford it right now. So if any of you felt like they would like to give a small writer a gift you can enter my Kofi through the link in my bio and check out my prices there, then you can leave me a message here or in my discord dms (@slay__ryu), I know that I must look greedy now but I really want to bind myself.

Ofc you're not obligated to pay me it's all fine I just want it to reach someone who really wants to waste their money for a reason, but even without the binding part I still accept comms!

Anyway, I'll try to drop a fic today or tomorrow ^^

See you folks

- N 🫀

[sincerelyyourslilly]

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

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

[sincerelyyourslilly]

...and you were just getting to the good part, oh well, you've seen enough anyways

grayscale ronin because (quality's better if you zoom in)