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Being whisked into a world like this one should've been the perfect scenario for a maladaptive dreamer like you. You held no fond memories of grade school, and you hated university. But the wonder of a new environment, free housing and food, and living with pretty faces was just about enough to help you get over another year of schooling. Unfortunately, the same factors never made up for the homesickness or how awful you've been treated throughout your time in Devildom the same way it did studying. By the end of the first month, you were ready to go back to your normal life, even though it meant taxes and all.
In another life, I would've loved doing laundry and taxes with you.
It probably made humans foolish to them. But next to extraordinary beings with otherworldly powers and capabilities, mundaneness couldn't be any more human, and you wanted to feel that again. To feel humane. Human. To live what was your right.
Boom!
You crawled out from underneath the table. "I told you that was the wrong ingredient."
Despite the mush all over his face and upper body, he still mumbled audibly through it. "β¦the only thing you've said these days."
And you still don't fucking listen anyway.
Perhaps because he knew you were already punished with having to go back to potions another time to finish the in-class assignment (by yourself most likely too), you didn't have to sit through Lucifer reaming Mammon for another class catastrophe this week. You followed your schedule per usual, being babysat by the usual brothers who had the same classes as you. It was suffocating, and awkward at first, but you always found solace in your own space. Even though if they were uncomfortable, it wasn't your business if they didn't spell it out loud. And you weren't going to be the one to make amends this time.
Dearest!
Shut up.
You weren't going to do the work for them any more.
Honey�
Shut up.
You were finally going to put your foot on the ground.
At what cost? Your life?
"Sweetheart-"
Your teeth gritted. "What."
Asmo pouted. "Geez. Don't take it out on me if you woke up on the wrong side of the bed." You crossed your arms before he could loop his around yours. The hurt was nothing but a flicker across his face. "Besides, you haven't said a word again today! I thought we were making progress this year."
"If there's nothing for me to say, then why would I say anything?"
"The other buffoons could use that advice," said Satan. Your mouth fought itself cracking into a smile when you looked at Satan's face.
If things were like they used to be, you would've added your own snide remark alongside Satan. You wondered if he felt the absence of your camaraderie.
"At least I have something to say. Nothing useful ever comes out of Thing 1 and Thing 2. Food and drool is the only thing in and out of Beel and Belphie."
"Lucifer's the real problem."
"Well, that's a convenient window for you."
Listening in on Satan and Asmo's conversation was usually the least painful. At most, names of other demons you could never familiarize were thrown left and right. Their attempts at providing context was appreciated after it became more consistent, but it just never stuck to you. You supposed that it never will, and you were okay with that.
"Up bap bap bap," tweeted Asmo. Too comfortably, he grabbed your wrist and twirled you around until you landed clumsily in his arms. "You're always escaping to your room these days! Why don't we freshen up and take a trip to Majolish tonight?"
You would've pushed him away regardless, but it should've been paired with some other subtle behavior to show endearment. You neither rolled your eyes or poorly hid your smile this time.
"Didn't we go last week?"
"We're going again for the new fashion line! They always come out with something every week, remember?"
Did you and the other me go every weekend after school too?
"Oh right."
It was times like these where you just didn't want to go, and normally, that was more than enough for the important people in your life. But these were demons, not people. If there was something they wanted, they were gonna go for it, and they were going to go for it until they could have it.
Was it their nature? Or were they never going to care about you in a way that costed them their own agencies and desires? Because at the end of the day, was it you or what you did for them? Was it you or what you represented for themβtheir therapist, a second chance, her replacement?
Was it going to be you or her at the end of the day?
It was her. It was always going to be her.
"-and then we can go to that late night spa again, finally get our very much needed manicures, and-"
"Enough," sighed Satan. "They clearly don't want to go. Take the hint already."
"They can speak for themselves, thank you very much!" He cupped your face, forcing you too look up at him. Your breath hitched, but he likely mistook it for something else. "I mean, doesn't it sound so darling dear to-"
"Eugh- get a room."
"Zip it- wha- hey!"
You slipped out of Asmo's grasps and naturally took Satan's side. It didn't last long though. "I'm gonna go to my room now." Asmo opened his mouth. "And I'll be staying home for the night. Sorry." You ignored the demon's fussing behind you, as well as his older brother's grumbling for him to shut up. You greeted Levi as you passed him, but nothing more than that. You felt another snap of irritation when you heard the sulking now mixed with the rest of the noises.
"Of course Asmo gets to hold you and talk to you however he wants obviously you weren't gonna say anything more than a 'hey.' I mean that's all a nasty otaku like me deserves-"
"I told you to give it a rest-"
"I have been! We haven't gone out in weeks!"
"You can survive."
"-but nooooo when Mammon gets all sad and sulky he gets the full package I mean he's technically the first, which he never shuts up about-"
It was times like this that you didn't mind them for the eccentric characters that they were. Nowadays, you wished nothing more than for them to shut the fuck up.
Hate festered inside your chest, and it was infectious. It didn't matter that everything you're reading about them is all between the lines and that you haven't given any of them a chance to fully explain their perspectives and feelings. They didn't reach out to you, and if there was something more unbearable than seeing them act like nothing happened every day, it was the idea that they would finally figure out that something was wrong and try to talk to you. Maybe it was immature, but you didn't care. Resentment brewed after seven months of centering your time and energy around their feelings. It was also cowardly, to run away when things got hard and too personal, but you didn't care for that either.
If anything, it was better this way.
If you dropped all preconceived notions of your relationships with them, then they didn't owe you anything. And therefore, you no longer owed them anything as well.
And now, that was all you could ask for because there was only five months left. Five more months until you can return home and be in control of your own life. Five more months until you can see your true family and friends, ones that weren't twisted into being loyal and loving you. Five more months and everything will be back to normal.
"Five more monthsβ¦five more monthsβ¦"
You muttered to yourself, slumped against your door once you made it inside of your room.
Five more months and you'd never have to see any of them ever again.
-
You woke up clawing your neck, your back and forehead drowned in cold sweat, your throat raspy and burning from the tortured gasps coming in and out of your body. Your vision was spotted with dots and black spots, with the only indication that there was light in the room coming from the fireplace far away. You started coughing at some point once the air came in too fast, leaving you disoriented, hot and cold, your chest heaving and hurting.
You rolled out of your bed and landed on the floor with a thud. You don't know when, but your nails were clawing at the polished wood. Somehow, the tips of your fingers burned, but whilst grounding yourself, you found it easier to return your sanity when you had this sensation to hold on to. A sensation that you could control.
Throat feeling dry almost like something had torn it apart you meandered out of your room, trying not to feel nauseous at the sudden drop of temperature outside of your room. You didn't know what time it was, but you doubted anyone would be awake at this hour. The common offenders were unlikely to bother you either, one usually to busy downing the fridge and the other hugging the coffee machine like it was his lifeline.
You predicted right when you heard the familiar rummaging of the fridge. Quietly, you hopped onto the counter to look for your usual glass. You were almost successful in minding your business while drinking water, but you ended up coughing after drinking too fast. The kitchen returned to its pin-drop silence, and a giant with orange hair popped up from behind the fridge door.
Beel mumbled your name through a mouthful of food. "You're awake."
Nice observation, genius.
"Yeah."
"Were you staying up late again?"
"No. Woke up and couldn't go back to sleep."
"Oh."
The trick with this one was to avoid his eyes. Most other demons would never believe it, but Beel wasn't as hard to read if he wanted to be. Specifically when he was upset, when his eyebrows would furrow and there was a slight pout to his usual downturned lips. Sometimes, you'd think his eyes looked a little watery, too.
You were drying the cup and were ready to jump back on the counter.
"I can do it for you."
Hm. Normally, he would've slipped the glass out of your hands and done it anyway, muttering about how it wasn't safe or that Lucifer hated you climbing on things.
"It's fine."
You do it anyway under his watchful eye, jumping off with the slap of your feet landing on the kitchen tiles. You notice his fingers twitch at the sound, but he didn't move otherwise. If anything, you were surprised he didn't still have anything to munch on throughout this empty exchange.
"You had a nightmare."
No questions, no uncertainty. For once.
"Yeah."
You've witnessed Beel's lack of confidence, whether in his actions or in his face as his thoughts processed. It was amusing at first before you realized he was so often stunted by it. Whether gated by the guilt from the war, choosing Belphie, being defined by his gluttonyβyou couldn't help but feel for the guy.
But now, even though it had nothing to do with you, watching him nagged you. Your resentment leeched, fed on anything that could fuel its existence.
Tentatively, he reached for your hands, and with silent permission, he lifted it up to inspect them. You were distracted by his thumb caressing the back of your hand but still wondered if he was looking so closely to distract himself from the more obvious marks on your neck.
"I fell off my bed and woke up that way. Must've hit the ground a lot harder than I thought."
The usual storm was crossing Beel's face again. You should've pulled away. If you weren't going to offer them their so-desired solace or the clarity that could've opened so many more opportunities, you shouldn't be indulging them in any manner either.
"β¦can I kiss them?"
The embarrassment bloomed on his face soon after his mumble. A snort escaped you, and you couldn't help looking up. You finally realized what how your fingers looked, especially after the numbing cold from washing a single cup. Cold and hot were always extreme in Devildom, but you're starting to notice your body adjusting over time.
The human body really was amazing.
Too bad it wasn't enough.
You nodded smally. It wasn't much of a kiss as it was a press against his lips, and he held it there longer than a second called for. You tapped on his lip with one of your fingers, opening his eyes. Sometimes, it was easy because the pink in his eyes was a tad stronger than his twin's. It was better to notice that bright hue first. They remained ever so endearing and deep, something to lose yourself into. Not eyes that lazily bore into your soul.
Naturally, you started tugging at your hand. There would've been a time when you'd softly cradle his face instead, sweetly rub your thumb on his cheek as he leaned into it like a puppy. But when he let go, your hand returned to your side, distant compared to the hurt so clear on his face.
"Get some good rest, Beel. Don't wanna be locked out for that game tomorrow."
"Will you be there?"
Hope colored his voice.
You swallowed your unease.
"I'm meeting up with Solomon for an assignment. I'm sure someone will send a video."
You bid him goodnight before you could disappoint him any further. You used to go to his games then. You probably did in this life as well considering that he asked. But you couldn't imagine being surrounded by that mass of demons. Couldn't imagine either you or the brothers would survive the ordeal together with your crossed arms and avoidant gaze. It was times like these that you wondered if your detachment was too fast, too harsh.
You always reached the same conclusion though. You didn't care. How could you give if there was nothing left to give? How many more times were you going to put them first?
Choose yourself.
You couldn't remember who passed that on to you.
Did they exist in this timeline?
Would you find them when you come back?
Will you make it back?
You weren't going to spell it out loud. And if you did, they couldn'tβshouldn't do anything about it. Not if they reallly cared about you.
At what cost are you going to test that though?
-
You heard your name at the right time.
They were loud. Someone was arguing with someone else. One started throwing shots at the other for no reason. Beel was scarfing down food as always, but you could feel the ravenousness of his chewing seats away from you as if his teeth were on your skin. None of them ever knew how to shut up. Not even the ones you thought you could trust to stay out of it.
You remembered nights at your apartment with your measly dinner. Or during the weekends at your parents, silently eating while everyone had their own screen. You remembered going out with friends to too many places with no financial responsibility. Places like those had background noise that was too loud sometimes, but you found comfort being among your own, with your close ones.
This wasn't your comfort. This was chaos that brewed all kinds of trouble for you.
You missed your friends complaining to you about the same thing for the third time. You missed your parents that never talked to you enough to understand you, but all of you drew together for a meal every time. You missed the lonely but still nights, where distance created enough fondness in your heart to reach for your close ones again.
You wanted none of this.
Five more months. Five more months.
It was almost as if he sensed the words on the tip of your tongue that he called you to talk in his study before school started. You followed him, with both dread in the form of a heavy heart and nervousness forming sweat on your palms. But once he closed the door behind you and the sharp, wooden smell enveloped you, you felt at ease despite your discomfort.
Silence.
You always expected him to say something, but Lucifer intervened a lot earlier than you'd expected. Before you started anything actually.
"How have you been adjusting so far?"
It took you a second to click in your head, and you let him see your thought process.
Are you okay?
You didn't know whether you appreciated or wanted to mock Lucifer's roundabout ways. The closest you've ever gotten to an honest conversation with him was that day. And even then, that was what you remembered from the other timeline. Who knew what the you in this timeline managed to say to Lucifer that got his pact mark on your neck.
His was one of the few that were in the same place as last time.
"Fine. Something wrong?"
I wanna go home.
"Not that I know of so far."
"Then what do you know so far?"
Cheeky. Even with Lucifer and his Luciferian ways, you knew he wanted to sigh, make a wrinkle between those perfect eyebrows. But for now, all you got were dark eyes that bore into yours, and as stubborn as you are, you wouldn't deny that meekness growing the longer you held his gaze.
That meekness grew when he replied, "You can't keep avoiding everyone. Unfortunately, credit where credit is due, my brothers aren't completely dimwitted. And we can't fix what's wrong if we aren't allowed to know what the problem is."
Oh, of course. He calls it for what it is without the in-betweens, the implications, the reality where it wasn't all because of her. all of them. him.
Always playing the game like it was chess and a loss is only a piece thrown to the side. Not a real life human life would never apply to them they would never care enough it'd do you good to remember that, not your life. A means to the most efficient end.
You exhaled deeply through your nose. "If it's something wrong with me, then why is it any of your business?" Before he could come up with anything, "Besides, my grades are fine. I haven't been involved in an alteracation with another demon student since two weeks ago." Before you were done in by his brother. "And even better, Lord Diavolo seemed to have a great time with our discussion earlier today." God, you hated that being.
How much was he narrowing his eyes if you could see it from here? "Yes. I've noticed. But that doesn't have anything to do with avoiding them."
You shrugged. "You've known them longer than I have. They're a distracting bunch, and frankly, it's not like it hasn't been a busy week for me."
"Does that mean there's nothing wrong between you and Belphegor?"
Rat-fucking bastard.
The venom sat at the edge of your throat, ready to be spat out boiling with vitrol.
"There's nothing between me and him."
Though it had been 7 months, you could proudly admit to yourself that you could read Lucifer. At least, the best that anyone can considering who he was and how long it's been. He might have been God's Fallen Angel, The Morning Star, The Lucifer, but he was also any other burnt out, eldest sibling who loved his adorable brothers more than he could ever show it. It was times like that that fooled you into thinking there was any way you could learn to co-exist with them. Not just in terms of being alive next to them, but to co-exist on the closest thing you could've to equal terms with them.
Then, there were times where you can see it, get lost in the dark depths of those boring, black eyes. Those old, tired eyes of a soul that had existed for more centuries than you could ever relive through their sister. The character was still there, but with depths no one with your life span could sincerely understand.
"Fine." He breathed it like you were exhausting him. "You've made your point. You're still meeting the status quo," your status quo, "and Lord Diavolo has reported nothing but good news." He gets up, and you try not to tense, and you hate that he knows that, too, when he places his hand on your shoulder. "While they have been complaining frequently about your behavior, I won't intervene in your personal relationships with my brothers." He didn't pause between his sentences, but you were ready to hear some poorly veiled threat especially following the squeeze on your shoulder. "But if you believe them to be causing you any problems, you can let me know, and I'll deal with them accordingly."
What the hell are you now? A drill sergeant?
Better yet, what was going on between the you of this universe and this Lucifer?
You weren't stupid or hurt enough not to see the point of his conversation. Somehow, in his own overbearing, ambiguous way, he did care. And it made your fingers go cold when you realized that he was respecting your space.
He wasn't going to intervene.
For now.
You wondered if you had acted worse, if you acted the way you really wanted to, that that would've pushed him to do more than hold you in a conversation. Maybe if you'd felt safer, you would've taken this light slap on the wrist and gone your way. But you felt weaker and colder as you made your way to your room. What happens when he decides he's had enough and he'd finally dealt his real hand once he thought you were settled in the trap of complacency? What happens when you're forced to confront the demons that wronged you and bend to them?
Fuck I want to go home.
You thought that as you left the dorm's doors and out in the bright night, indicative of what was supposed to be day time here in Devildom.
At this point, Mammon stopped trying to talk to you during your walks to school now.
*
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
βThat old man keeps asking when Iβll get married again.β
Annoying. Worse than annoying. Like a mosquito buzzing in your ear when youβre already halfway to losing your mind.
The garage smells like oil, rust, and Roninβsomething metallic, something alive, something that clings. You could go home, but home is a ringing phone and voices that wonβt like the answers youβd give. They love you. You love them. But they wouldnβt 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? Heβd roll his tongue along his teeth, slow and deliberate, like a lion deciding if a gazelle is worth the chase. Heβd smile too wide, say something thatβs both a joke and a promise of violence.
Youβd defend him, though. Because youβre his. Because heβs 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 doesnβt say it. He shows it in the way he existsβraw, 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, darlinβ. 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.
Youβre watching himβyour little devil in disguise, though heβs 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 youβre 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, darlinβ? Ainβt never seen a man work before?"
You roll your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. He doesnβt miss itβhe never does. He tilts his head, studying you like heβs about to make a meal of you, like he already has.
"Careful now. Keep lookinβ at me like that, and I might start thinkinβ 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 heβs leaning on the car, watching you like heβs considering tearing you apart just to see how youβd put yourself back together.
"Yβknow, a person like you could do better." His voice is slow, teasing, coiling around something darker. "Could find yourself a nice boy. One who doesnβt kill for fun, who calls his mama on Sundays, who wouldnβt snap your neck if you asked real sweet."
A pause. A smirk. That awful, wonderful, knowing look in his eyes.
"But you wonβt. βCause you like this, donβtcha?"
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 existenceβit's suffocating in the best way.
"You like watchinβ me. Like sittinβ there all sweet while I get my hands dirty." A slow grin. "Like knowinβ theyβll never be clean."
βYouβre being too edgy again.β
Ronin gasps, all mock offense, pressing a grease-streaked hand to his chest like you just ran him through with a stake. "Too edgy? Darlinβ, you wound me."
βYou already established the bit, you donβt have to crank it up every time.β 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. Iβll dial it back a lilββfor you."
But then you laugh. Because, letβs 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, heβs grinning againβyour 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 thenβthe 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. Iβll keep this one." He pats his chest, eyes twinkling. "Right here. Close to my cold, dead heart. XOXO, baby."
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. Insteadβ
"And youβ" he drawls, slow and indulgent, like heβs 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 heβs throwing dice, like fate itself is something he can gamble with.
"Somethinβ real nasty about you, sweetheart. Somethinβ sharp. A bite to that pretty mouth. Ainβt that a treat?"
His eyes are dark with something unreadable, something between admiration and hunger, like he wants to see what youβll do with his words. If youβll bite back. If youβll play along.
Because Ronin? Heβs always playing. And heβs hopingβpraying, evenβthat youβre the kind of idiot who wonβt let him win too easily.
"Itβs... nothing."
Ronin tuts, tilting his head, eyes gleaming like a wolf thatβs caught the scent of something bleeding. "Oh, but somethinβ must be trickinβ your head, darlinβ. I can hear it rattlinβ around in there." He leans in, voice dropping to something just above a purr. "Cβmon now. Whisper your prayer to the Devil. Whatβs on your mind?"
You shoot him another murderous glare, sharp enough to cut, lethal enough to wound. He loves it.
And worse? He blushes.
Itβs fleetingβa flicker of warmth, a betrayal of blood rushing to his cheeksβbut itβs there. And then, just as fast, he throws his head back and laughs, wild and unrestrained, like youβve just handed him the funniest joke in the world.
The audacity. The gall. The sheer joy in his eyes, like heβs never been happier than in the presence of someone who genuinely wants to kill him.
Because letβs be realβisnβt 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, sweetheartβ" he whistles low, shaking his head, "βIβd be six feet under already. You tryinβ to make me fall harder?"
You donβt answer. You donβt have to.
Roninβs already grinning like you did.
"What?!"
You donβt 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. "Owwwβdarlinβ, what the hellβ?" He grabs your wrists, but not to stop youβno, just to hold on, just to feel you, because he likes it when you get your hands on him. Even when itβs to hurt him.
Especially when itβs 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. "Thatβs what you get for talking like that."
His words come out distorted, voice wobbling from the force of your grip. "Talkinβ like whaβ?"
"Like you wanna die by my hands, idiot."
Ronin wheezes out a laugh, finally prying your hands awayβbut he doesnβt let go. Instead, he flips your grip, lacing your fingers together like itβs the most natural thing in the world. Like itβs his right.
"Ainβt my fault youβre so damn beautiful when youβre thinkinβ about killinβ 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.
"Yβknow," he muses, leaning in, voice dropping low, "if you ever do get sick of me, darlinβ... at least make it interesting, yeah?"
You scoff, rolling your eyes, but you donβt pull away.
Ronin, grinning like he just won something, kisses your knuckles
You blush. Disgusting. You look away, like thatβll save you, like he wonβt see it anyway. Like he wonβt catch the way your fingers twitch in his grasp, like he wonβt feel the heat youβre trying to will away. Like he wonβt eat it up.
βYou said live, not die.β
Roninβs grin flickers. Just for a second. Just long enough for the mask to slip, the wires beneath to spark. Thenβ
βOh, darlinβ.β He lets out something between a laugh and a sigh, tilting his head, studying you like a painting he canβt quite decide how to ruin. βNow, thatβs just cruel.β
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 itβs real.
βGotta admit,β he says, pressing his palms together, as if in prayer, as if heβs ever prayed to anything other than the void, βthatβs a new one. You? Wantinβ me to live? Be still, my dead, black heart.β
You cross your arms, glare. βShut up.β
βMake me.β
There it is. That look. The one thatβs all teeth, all sharp edges and something deeper, something raw. Something hungry. He wants you to fight him. He wants you to win.
You donβt humor him. You donβt 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 youβll do with it.
βGo on, then.β He lifts his chin, dares you. βSay it again.β
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 heβs got his fingers wrapped around your voice. You hate that you let him.
βYouβre such an idiot.β
He smirks, tilts his head. βFor idiots.β
βSo idiotically idiotic.β
His grin widens. βSay it.β
You swallow. Fine. You meet his gaze, steady. βLive.β
Something shifts.
Itβs subtle. A breath held too long, a flicker behind his eyes. Like you just flipped a switch he didnβt know he had. Like you just changed something.
Then, just as fast, he laughsβloud, reckless, full-bodied. He steps forward, gets right in your space, doesnβt touch, but you feel it anyway.
βDarlinβ,β he purrs, βyou keep talkinβ like that, and I might just have to listen.β
Your heartbeat stutters. Unacceptable. You shove him again, harder this time. He doesnβt even pretend to stumble, just grins like you handed him a gift.
βYouβre insufferable,β you say, turning away.
βYou love it.β
You donβt answer. You donβt 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 isnβt touching you.
Then, finally, he steps away. Leaves you with the echo of his voice, the ghost of his grin.
βLive, huh?β he mutters, almost to himself. Almost.
"Guess I can try."
And damn itβyou hear the smile in his voice. That soft, dangerous edge, like heβs filing it down just for you. Like you gave him something new to chew
Your phone buzzesβloud, persistent, annoyingβbecause 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, Roninβs faster. Always is. He snatches your phone like itβs his right, thumb dragging across the screen as he answers the call with a lazy, cocky swipe.
"Hello, sweetheartβs personal assistant speakinββ" 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. "Iβm looking at some photosβ"
Oh no.
"βof some nice boys. Iβll send them to you. Tell me which one you like, so the family can arrange a date. Get you two to know each other betterβ"
Silence.
A beat.
ThenβRonin laughs. Real loud, tooβlike 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. "Youβre settinβ up a date for my baby? Kinda rude, ainβt it? I meanβ" His free hand slides to your waist, casual and possessive, squeezing like he owns you. "βIβm right here."
Your stomach drops. "Roninβ"
He ignores you, because of course he does.
"I get it," he continues, mock sympathy dripping from every word. "I mean, who wouldnβt wanna line up a few pretty boys? Butβ" He sighs, dramatic as ever. "βgotta break it to ya, pops. Theyβre already taken."
The line goes silentβfor a second. Maybe two. Thenβ
"Who the hell are you?!"
Roninβs grin stretches, and oh, heβs enjoying this. Loves the fire. Loves the fight. He leans closer to the speaker, like heβs sharing a secret. "The Devil, baby. Didnβt they warn you?"
You slap his arm, hard, but it only makes him laugh moreβwarm and bright, like setting a match to gasoline.
"Youβ!" The old man sputters, full of righteous indignation. "You think this is funny?!"
"A little," Ronin purrs. "Kinda cute, actually. Yβcare about βem so much youβre hand-pickinβ their future? Adorable." His fingers curl against your hip, deliberate. "Butβ" he hums, voice sinking into something darker, rougher, "βno oneβs takinβ βem away from me, old man."
He means it. You feel it in the weight of his touch, the way his thumb circles your skin.
"Roninβ" you hiss again, trying to take your phone back, but heβs not done. Not even close.
"Look," he says, casual as hell, like this is a friendly chat. "Iβm a real thoughtful guy. Iβd love to meet the fam. Hellβ" he chuckles, "βmaybe Iβll even bring a gift. Yβknow, to show my appreciation."
You donβt like the way he says "gift." Not one bit.
"Youβre out of your damn mind," the old man snaps.
Roninβs smile turns razor-sharp. "Yeah, wellβ" he tilts his head, brushing his lips against your ear, voice dropping to a whisper only for you. "βIβm your kinda problem now, arenβt I?"
Your heart poundsβtoo fast, too muchβand youβre torn between wanting to strangle him and... something worse.
The phone cracklesβyour familyβs favorite brand of righteous fury practically vibrating through the speaker.
"You arrogant littleβwhat kind of punk thinks he can talk to me like that?!" the old man barks, voice sharp enough to cut. "You think youβre funny?!"
Ronin, being Ronin, grins widerβwhich 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, Iβm hilarious."
Your head drops into your hands. Of course. Of course heβs not backing down. Not when thereβs someone willing to bite back.
"Roninβ" you try, voice tight, but he holds up a handβshh, babyβwithout even looking at you.
"So," he drawls, like heβs savoring every second of this. "How many poor suckers you got lined up for βem? Five? Ten? You hopinβ one of βemβs got a personality, or just flippinβ through the catalogue βtil you find a pretty face?"
The line crackles again. Thenβ"You listen here, you little shitβ"
"Nah, you listen." Roninβs voice dropsβstill playful, but thereβs an edge under it now, jagged and dangerous. His smile never wavers, but the temperature in the room feels ten degrees colder. "Theyβre not goinβ on any dates. Not with your pretty little lineup, not with anyone." His head tilts, lazy, like heβs considering how much trouble he feels like starting. "Yβsee, theyβre already busyβwith 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 thatβs itβthatβs the line Roninβs been waiting for. He lifts his hand, fingers splaying across his chest like heβs been personally offended, but thereβs a gleam in his eye. Something feral. Something viciously proud.
"Oh, darlinβ didnβt tell you?" His smile turns razor-sharp, voice syrup-sweet. "Iβm their worst decision. And their best one."
"YOUβ"
"Careful now," Ronin warns, mock-gentle. "Wouldnβt wanna get your blood pressure up. Though, heyβif you keel over, Iβll send flowers. Maybe."
Your mouth falls open. "Ronin!"
He shrugs, but his arm wraps around your waist, tugging you against him like heβs staking a claim. "What?" he says, all innocence. "Mβbeinβ 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 thinkβtapping his chin like this is a serious question. "Well," he finally says, drawing out the word like itβs a punchline, "Iβm real good with my hands."
You choke.
He winks.
And thatβs when youβve 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, thereβs silenceβjust the hum of the garage and your heart pounding in your ears.
Then, of courseβRonin laughs.
Deep and delighted, like you just handed him the best gift heβs ever gotten.
You whirl on him, shoving at his chest. "Are you INSANE?!"
He doesnβt budge. Just catches your wrists, lazy and loose, still chuckling like heβs 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, donβt ya?"
Roninβs eyes narrow the second the old manβs voice blares back through the phoneβlouder, angrier, like heβs just realizing exactly who heβs dealing with.
βAH, FUCKβITβS YOU! PUNK, EMO ASS, KIDββ
Your head drops back with a groan. Oh, great.
The rant barrels on, unstoppable. βLook, kid. They told us βbout youβyeah, yeah, we didnβt even mind your ass. But then we heard you donβt like marriage. Christian-type stuff.β
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 shittyβbecause, of course, heβs not taking this seriously.
The old man is not amused. βLook, respectfullyβI get it. Some people donβt like the religion shit, fine.β A breath hisses through the receiver. βBut this is an event. My lilβ baby is either gettinβ marriedβor gonna.β
You donβt miss the way Roninβs jaw flexes at the word "baby."
βSo, pleaseβstay outta their way.β
Before you can respondβbefore Ronin can sharpen his tongue into something lethalβyour 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 onceβhe doesnβt laugh.
Ronin watches youβsharp, calculatingβlike heβs 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 tightβtoo much, too fast.
You sigh, running a hand through your hair, like itβll somehow smooth out the mess in your head. But when you glance back at himβheβs still looking. Still waiting.
And his voiceβGod, his voiceβcomes out too soft. βSomethinβ on your mind, darlinβ?β
You look away.
His grin creeps back in, a little too sharp. βYβknow I love it when you get shy,β 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 swirlβloud, messy, too much. But the wordsβthe real wordsβdonβt come easy. Not when itβs this.
Stillβyou reach for him. Slip your fingers into his, warm and solid and steady. Itβs too intimate for how casual youβre pretending to be, but he lets you.
You swallow hard. ββ¦You donβt like these things because ofββ
But you canβt finish. Your voice trips over itself, and rather than push through, you stop. Let it hang. Force yourself to smile. βItβs fine.β
Ronin doesnβt move. Doesnβt blink. Just stays locked on you.
You squeeze his hands a little tighter. βIβm happy. With you.β
Itβs too honest. Too raw. And his grip tightensβlike heβs daring you to take it back.
For a beatβhe says nothing. But something shifts behind his eyes, and you knowβyou just knowβthat those words are going to stick. Heβll hold onto them like a blade tucked under his skin.
You lean up, quick and light, and kiss his cheekβlingering just long enough to feel the heat rising under your lips.
βIβm gonna go home,β you murmur. βSleep well, Ronin.β
His fingers twitch in yoursβtight, like he doesnβt want to let go.
But thenβhe does. And the smile he gives you as you pull away is dangerousβa promise.
βGβnight, Darlin.β
The walk home is quiet. Too quiet. The kind that sticks to your skin and makes your head buzz. You told yourself it was fineβyouβre fineβbut the weight in your chest doesnβt 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 donβt touch it. Not tonight.
You kick off your shoes, peel off the day, and crawl into bed. The sheets are coldβtoo coldβwithout him. But you donβt think about that.
Not yet.
Youβre too tired to fight your thoughts, so you let them fade. Let sleep pull you under.
Ronin doesnβt sleep.
Not well, anywayβnot when youβre 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 airβthick, acridβsomething to keep his hands busy while his mind spins.
That old bastardβs voice still rings in his ears. βStay outta their way.β Like heβs some stray mutt sniffing around where he doesnβt belong. Like youβd 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 thatβs the problem, isnβt it?
Because Roninβs been circling the drain for yearsβgrinning all the way downβand then you came along. Got your hooks in him. Made it hard to fall when youβre the one holding on.
And he likes it. Thatβs the worst part. He likes the way you look at himβlike heβs 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 youβre afraid to let go.
Itβs addictive. Youβre addictive.
And maybeβjust maybeβheβs 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 secondβhe thinks about calling you. Just to hear your voice. Just to prove youβre still there.
But he wonβt. He doesnβt want to spook you. Not when youβve already given him so much.
Stillβheβs 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 heβs not gonna sleep, he might as well have some fun.
You donβt hear the sound of his bike pulling up outside your house around 3 AM. (Just kidding)
You donβt 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 noticeβbut 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.
Heβs leaning against the doorframe like he owns it, like heβs got all the time in the world, but thereβs something heavy in his stance. Something coiled too tight. His knuckles twitch at his sides. The silver glint of rings, catching low light.
You donβt ask why heβs here. You donβt need to.
Your hand curls around the front of his jacketβwarm leather, worn softβand you pull. He doesnβt resist. Never does, not when itβs you. Heβs 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 breathingβhisβis loud in your ears.
He smells like smoke and metal and something elseβsomething darker, sharper, like midnight and mistakes. It clings to your skin as he steps closer.
You donβt bother turning on the lights.
His hands find you first. Of course they doβalways greedy, always starvingβpalms dragging against your waist, thumbs pressing against your ribs. Heavy. Like heβs reminding himself youβre 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 curlsβbarelyβand 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 bedβhis bed, when it suits himβand 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 hoverβhesitateβbefore 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. Heβs warmβtoo warmβlike heβs 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 donβt.
Instead, you curl against him, and he⦠melts.
His arms slide around your waist, pulling you closeβcloserβuntil thereβs 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 youβll disappear if he lets go.
And maybe thatβs the point.
His face presses into your shoulder, too much teeth against soft skin, but itβs not rough. Not really. Not when you know how much he wants thisβneeds thisβeven when he wonβt say it.
Especially when he wonβt say it.
Heβs touch-starved in the way only someone like him can be. Starved for you, specifically. Like it isnβt enough to watch from the edges. Like he needs to feel youβto 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 wonβt ask you to stay like this. He wonβt ask for anything. But you know heβd 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 heβs trying to crawl under your skin. His hair tickles your cheekβsoft, messy, humanβand for all his edges, all his sharpness, heβs warm. Solid. Yours.
His heartbeat slows against your ribs.
You stay like that. Minutes. Hours. Maybe forever.
And when his hand slides under your shirtβfingers curling against your spine, not asking, just holdingβyou donβt stop him.
Heβs quiet, after that. Quieter than usual. Like maybe, just maybe, heβs finally gotten what he wanted.
Morning comes slow. Too slow, and somehow too fast.
The bedβs cold.
His warmthβhis weightβis gone, and you feel it before your eyes even open. Thereβs 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 isnβt.
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 tryβfailβnot to think about the way he clung to you last night. The way his hands wouldnβt stop shaking, even when he had you pinned close.
You donβt 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 motionsβshower, brush your teeth, dress yourself like youβre preparing for war. Your usual uniform. The world doesnβt stop turning just because Ronin decided to ghost you.
Not that itβs a surprise. Itβs what he does.
Stillβyou 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 thatβthe rhythm of routine, the comfort of habitβbecause if you donβt, youβll think about the way he felt in your arms. The way he held you like he wasnβt sure heβd get another chance.
You donβt 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 doesnβt need thought.
Outside, the air is crispβtoo bright, too sharp for a morning that feels this heavyβbut you square your shoulders, lift your chin, and walk.
A jobβs a job. And yours wonβt wait.
By the time you make it to the office, your face is carefully neutralβexpression 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 itβs easier than letting your mind wander.
But it does,
Slaughterhouse: Losers Very Goodβa bloodstained corner of the internet where psychos, freaks, and murder hobbyists hang out like itβs 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.
Youβre too good to him. You let him touch youβhold youβand somehow, youβre still here. Soft edges in a world full of jagged glass. He doesnβt get it. Doesnβt 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 heβs gonna do something for you, itβs gotta be good.
He cracks his knuckles, spins a blade between his fingers, and pulls up the first chat.
πΊ K9 (V):
Ronin:
sup, robo-cop.
K9:
Donβt.
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:
Iβm blocking you.
Ronin:
no u arenβt. u love me.
listen, if you were, hypothetically, in love with someoneβ(gross, i know)βwhat would you get βem?
K9:
β¦You? In love?
Ronin:
hypothetical. duh.
K9:
A knife. Through the heart.
Ronin:
aw. thatβs practically a marriage proposal, k9.
but srsly. i want ideas. gimme somethinβ.
K9:
Why do you care?
Ronin:
because, steel-toes, for once in my godforsaken life, i want to be nice.
write that down.
K9:
β¦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 youβre not the one tangled in it. Still, not useless. And if nothing else, bothering V is a highlight of his day.
Next.
π LUCA_IS_SO_COOL:
Ronin:
sup, sunshine.
Luca:
YO DUDE. YO. YO. THE DEVIL IS IN MY DMS WHATβS GOOD
Ronin:
donβt 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 whoβs 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 βEM 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 βEM RIGHT.
He closes the chat before Luca can start writing you twoβs wedding vows.
π Angel (Angelic):
Ronin:
hey, sweetheart.
Angel:
Shouldnβt 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:
cβmon, sugar. help a devil out.
Angel:
Fine. Jewelryβs always a classic. But not basic. Custom. Something only you could give. Bonus points if itβs dangerous.
Ronin:
deadly and pretty. like you. iβll keep that in mind.
Angel:
Youβre welcome, loser.
Alright. Custom. Unique. That he can work with.
One last stop.
π 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, Lucaβs 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, heβs got ideas.
hitmeuppp
goreboy:
oi, sunshine. u busy killinβ or can i bother u for a sec?
hitmeupp:
β¨ goreboy in my inbox?? is it my birthday?? β¨
goreboy:
iβm the gift that keeps on givinβ, baby. donβt forget it.
hitmeupp
mm, flirty today. whatβs on your wicked little mind, devil boy?
Ronin:
hypotheticallyβ¦ letβs say i wanna do somethinβ nice for someone. yβknow. romantic. cute. sweet. whatever. ideas?
hitmeupp:
πππ
waitwaitwaitβyou?? doing something sweet?? for a special someone?? ohhh i am LIVING for this.
Ronin:
donβt make it weird.
hitmeupp:
too late, babe. so, whatβs the vibe? like, do you wanna melt their heart? make βem blush? get βem to kiss you senseless? give me the deets.
Ronin:
β¦all of the above, probs.
hitmeupp:
aww, youβre adorable when youβre down bad. okay, listen up:
Custom giftβsomething only you could give. Unique. Dangerous, if youβre feelinβ spicy.
Surprise dateβnot boring, tho. They like you, so they probably have a taste for the unusual.
Handwritten noteβbonus points if itβs a little unhinged. People LOVE that stuff.
Ronin:
a note? what, like βroses are red, violets are blue, iβd kill for u, baby, itβs trueβ?
hitmeupp:
LMAO okay, poet, calm down. but yeahβpersonal. even psychos like a little sentiment. and youβve got that whole devilish charm thing, use it.
Ronin:
u sayinβ iβm charming?
Misaki:
π darling, if i didnβt 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, youβre impossible. good luck wooing your lover~ π
[Slaughterhouse Server β 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.
YβALL.
RONIN DMed ME ABOUT GIFTS.
K9:
β¦The hell?
Angelic:
wait. hold on. pause.
hitmeuppp:
β¨ omg no way β¨
Goreboy:
Liar.
LUCA_IS_SO_COOL:
BRO, I SWEAR. HE ASKED ME FOR GIFT IDEAS. LIKEβSOMETHING ROMANTIC. IβM NOT EVEN KIDDING.
Felicite:
β¦what's wrong about it luca?
LUCA_IS_SO_COOL:
HEβS SIMPINβ.
Angelic:
That's fine?
K9:
This is stupid. Who cares.
LUCA_IS_SO_COOL:
LMAOOOO LOOK AT THIS HATER. HE MAD βCAUSE NO ONEβS SENDING HIM LOVE LETTERS.
goreboy:
youβre gonna lose a limb, surfer boy.
hitmeuppp:
awwww the devilβs BLUSHING~
Angelic:
no because why is this actually the most interesting thing to happen all week
LUCA_IS_SO_COOL:
IβM NOT EVEN DONE. YβALL. HE DIDNβT JUST DM ME.
HE DMed EVERYONE.
K9:
......
Angelic:
Hold the fuck onβ
hitmeuppp:
πππ 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.
HEβS SIMPINβ 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?
Heβs cool. Ice-cold. Too smooth to care.
β¦And yetβ
The corner of his mouth twitches. A little.
Theyβre all still going.
hitmeuppp:
if itβs NOT y/n iβm actually gonna riot.
Ronin grips his phone a little too tight. He should stop this.
He wonβt.
Because somewhereβdeep downβhe kind of likes it.
Angelic:
luca omg ur gonna get us all murdered.
hitmeuppp:
worth it.
K9:
Idiots.
Felicite:
β¦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:
yβall must have a death wish.
Ronin exhales sharply through his nose.
[PRIVATE GROUP CHAT β βRonin Babysitting Squadβ] (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. Weβre here to help.
Ai Hua:
π whatβs 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 doesnβt.
Eviscerator1990:
So. What happened.
goreboy:
nothing happened, grandpa.
Angelic:
thatβs not what the ENTIRE SERVER says~
Ai Hua:
π€
Eviscerator1990:
Be honest.
You wouldnβt 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 hoverβthen, finally, he types.
goreboy:
hypothetically.
if i wanted to do⦠something. for someone.
whatβs a good gift?
Silence. Too much silence.
His stomach twists. Mistake. Huge mistake.
Ai Hua:
β€οΈ
Eviscerator1990:
β¦Is it Y/N?
goreboy:
who else?
Vince sends three dots. The dreaded βtypingβ¦β lingers for a long, long time.
Roninβs 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:
π good.
goreboy:
good??
Angelic:
sheβs 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.
Youβre good to him. Too good. And all his sharp little edges donβt feel quite so sharp around you. Itβs annoying. Itβs addictive. Itβs yours.
goreboy:
β¦something theyβll 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 iβm gonna DIE.
Vince, at least, is playing it straight. Mostly.
Eviscerator1990:
Personal. Thatβs what you want. Something that means something.
Ai Hua:
π
A love letter. Of course Ai Hua would suggest something that sappy.
Ronin scoffsβbut he doesnβt immediately shoot it down. Weird.
Eviscerator1990:
Back in the day, Iβd leave my girl notes on the bodies. You knowβreal romantic.
Ai Hua:
β€οΈ 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 youβre lost in thought. How you scrunch your nose when youβre 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 sticksβhooks deep. A dangerous idea, curling slow and warm in his chest.
Ai Hua:
π youβll figure it out.
He hates how much that simple, sweet little emoji makes him feel seen.
Eviscerator1990:
Donβt mess it up, kid.
Eviscerator1990:
Listen, kidβwhen youβve 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:
π
Vince, undeterred, continues typing like heβs delivering the gospel.
Eviscerator1990:
Our wedding? Best thing I ever did. No question.
goreboy:
what, was it a bloodbath?
For a second, nothing. Thenβ
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:
β€οΈ 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 isβ
That was my gift to her.
That hooks him. Annoying, sentimental, and probably too much sugar in his bloodstreamβbut it sticks.
goreboy:
youβre telling me the best thing you ever gave her was a wedding?
Eviscerator1990:
Yeah. βCause it meant forever.
I mean, donβt get me wrong. She still scares the hell outta me.
Ai Hua:
π
Eviscerator1990:
But thatβs how you know itβs real.
Thereβs a long pause. Ronin swears he can hear Angelic trying to choke down her squeals.
Ai Hua:
π do you like them enough to marry?
His heart lurches.
The words hang thereβquiet, patient.
Ai Hua doesnβt push. She never does. Itβs 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 doesnβt know.
goreboy:
β¦kinda?
Angelic:
KIND OF??
Eviscerator1990:
What kinda answer is βkinda?β Either you want it, or you donβt.
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:
π then maybeβ¦
Do it your way.
His way.
His mouth curves. Dangerous. Wicked. Oh, he can do that.
Ai Hua:
Iβm 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 heβs all sharp corners and messy feelings. Likes him enough to keep his name on their tongue, even when itβd be easier not to.
Ai Hua:
Whatever you give them that lasts longerβ
Theyβll love it.
He blinks. The words sit heavy.
Ai Hua:
Because itβs you.
Thatβs how I feel about my husband.
Quiet. Itβs too quiet. Even Angelicβwho lives to make everything her businessβdoesnβt send a single obnoxious emoji.
And Ronin?
He stares at the screen, stomach flipping, heart hammering out some rhythm he refuses to name.
He doesnβt do forever. Doesnβt play nice, doesnβt stick around, doesnβtβ
But for you?
Yeah. Maybe he does.
goreboy:
Thanks
Eviscerator1990:
Youβre welcome.
Ai Hua:
π good luck.
Angelic:
this is the CUTEST thing thatβs ever happened in this cursed server...
Ai Hua:
π one more thing.
His thumb hovers over the exit button. Something about Ai Hua, thoughβyou donβt ignore her when she asks.
goreboy:
what.
Ai Hua:
Itβs fine.
He frowns.
goreboy:
what is.
Ai Hua:
The way you love them.
It doesnβt have to be a wedding.
It just has to be you.
He freezes.
Doesnβt move. Doesnβt breathe. Something sharp scrapes under his ribs.
You.
Heβs 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 donβt want that. Never have.
You want him. Exactly as he isβrough edges, black heart, wicked mouth.
And maybeβmaybeβthatβs 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:
π
A beat of silence. Thenβ
goreboy:
tch. whatever.
not like i needed another family.
Ai Hua:
β€οΈ but you have one.
His chest aches. Stupid. Sentimental. Unbearable.
Eviscerator1990:
And heyβ
Our kids keep asking when theyβre gonna see Uncle Ronin again.
His laugh slips out before he can stop itβlow, breathy. Of course they do. Little gremlins.
goreboy:
tell βem i said to stay in school.
Ai Hua:
π they want to be like you.
Oh, hell no.
goreboy:
no they donβt.
Eviscerator1990:
One of βem tried to make a fake server last week.
Called it βSlaughterhouse Jr.β
goreboy:
i am not responsible for that.
Ai Hua:
π you inspire them.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. This is a nightmare.
goreboy:
yβall are gonna give me grey hair.
Eviscerator1990:
Youβd still be pretty.
Angelic:
oh my god.
Ai Hua:
π will you be okay?
For a long time, he doesnβt answer.
Will he be okay? With this? With youβtaking up space in his chest, clawing your way under his skin?
He already knows the answer.
goreboy:
yeah.
And for onceβjust onceβhe means it.
goreboy:
thanks.
or whatever.
Ai Hua:
π anytime.
Now onto, you and him
goreboy:
Hey, darlinβ.
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. Andβ
goreboy:
what, too busy for lilβ old me?
tragic.
goreboy:
bet youβre sittinβ there missinβ me, huh?
goreboy:
waitβdonβt tell me. youβre makinβ heart eyes at your desk or somethinβ.
goreboy:
donβt blame you. iβm a lot to miss.
Heβs annoying. Even through a screen. Even when you know heβs probably lounging somewhere, all long legs and lazy smirkβhalf-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. Thenβ
goreboy:
oh, baby.
donβt tell me youβre poutinβ.
You roll your eyes.
You:
maybe.
Heβs quickβtoo quick.
goreboy:
fuck.
now i really wanna see it.
Your cheeks warm. Heβs unbearable. Always poking, always pushing. And yetβ
You:
you didnβt have to leave so fast.
His next text comes slower. As if heβs thinking. You imagine him slumped in that busted leather chair in his garageβlegs 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. wouldnβt want my precious toys collectinβ dust.
You:
youβre ridiculous.
goreboy:
and yet, here you are, talkinβ to me anyway.
You:
iβm soft for you, obviously.
A whole minute passes. When he finally replies, itβs slower. Something tugs beneath the teasing. Something heavier.
goreboy:
hey.
goreboy:
youβd likeβ¦ whatever i did for you, yeah?
You blink. Where is this coming from?
You:
of course.
goreboy:
nah, i meanβ
like. if i did somethinβ stupid. youβd still like it, right?
Your lips curl. So thatβs it. The devil himself, circling the point like a shark.
You:
depends. how stupid are we talkinβ?
He sends a dramatic sigh emoji.
goreboy:
unbelievable.
here i am, barinβ my heart and soulβ
You:
pfft. heart and soul, my ass.
Still, you soften. Because under all the bravado, you can hear itβthe little twist of hesitation. And that? That gets you every time.
You:
whatever youβre scheming, yeah.
iβll like it.
because itβs 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, itβs something softerβsomething unguarded.
goreboy:
dangerous thing to say, sweetheart.
you know iβll hold you to it.
You bite your lip, warmth curling in your chest.
You:
iβm counting on it.
He doesnβt answer immediately. You imagine him leaning back, teeth sinking into his lower lip, mind working a mile a minute. Because thatβs the thing with himβhe never stops thinking. Never stops wanting.
And youβyouβre the worst of it.
His brain tells him he shouldnβt care so much. But his heart? His heartβs already tangled up in you.
goreboy:
sβpose iβll have to cook up somethinβ real special then.
canβt have my darlin thinkinβ i donβt care.
It makes your stomach flip.
You:
i never think that.
Another pause. You swear you can feel his smile through the screenβsoft, a little crooked. The kind he only ever lets you see.
goreboy:
I....see...
Uptown has an alley they call Purgatory.
It isnβt pretty. Never was. A place where sunlight doesnβt dare creep, where the air tastes like rust and regret. Blood dries black against the brickworkβhis blood, most days. Or someone elseβs, when heβs feeling generous. It smells like piss, garbage, and death.
A shithole. Perfect.
Thisβthisβis where Ronin Beaufort decides to propose.
Because where else? Where better? Itβs where you kissed him for the first time, after allβthe devil himself, knuckles raw from the man heβd left twitching at your feet, teeth red and grin wide. Youβd kissed him anyway. Kissed him like you meant it. Like he was something worth keeping.
And Ronin? Heβs 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 oneβs better. Messier. He takes his timeβdrags 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 heartβyour heart, darlingβand carves it deep into the brick. Wide, jagged, dripping. Personal.
When itβs done, he steps back, tilts his head.
Huh. Cute.
Heβs still admiring his work when his phone buzzes.
Angelic:
yo, goreboy, you rang?
Of course, she picks up. She always doesβhis favorite little devil with a halo, sharp-tongued and twice as nosy. And yeah, he couldβve asked anyone, but Angel? Angel gets it.
goreboy:
need a favor.
Angelic:
whatβs in it for me?
goreboy:
the eternal satisfaction of servinβ the devil?
Angelic:
pfft.
He snorts, tongue running over his teeth. Predictable.
goreboy:
fine.
order me somethinβ. rings.
Angelic:
wait.
back up.
goreboyβs proposing?
He glares at his phone like it personally offended him.
goreboy:
shut up.
Angelic:
aw, youβre getting soft.
what kind? black diamonds? skulls? molten lava straight from hell?
βFunny,β he mutters under his breath. But sheβs not wrong. Your ringβyour ring has to be perfect.
goreboy:
black. gothic. whatever screams βmarry me"
The typing bubble appears. Pauses. Thenβ
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. βChrist.β
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 heβd admit it.
goreboy:
whatever. send me the bill.
Her last message comes fastβtoo fast. He can hear the smile.
Angelic:
oh, darling.
itβs 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 allβthe heart.
Your heart.
His.
If he had one.
And if he didnβt? 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 thereβs something ugly crawling under his skinβa feeling he doesnβt like.
Itβs not the blood. Not the mess. Thatβs easy.
Itβs you. Itβs always you.
And the worst part? The sick, stupid, beautiful part?
He wants this.
Wants you.
He wants to keep youβruin youβfor as long as youβll let him.
His phone buzzes again. Another message from Angelβthis time with a picture.
The rings.
Sleek. Sharp. One for you, one for him. Bound in black, wrapped in silver. Yours is thinner, more delicateβbut not by much. No diamonds. No fluff. Just you and him, the way itβs always been.
Perfect.
He huffs a breath, tongue clicking against his teeth.
Yeah. Yeah, thisβll do.
Itβs almost cute, really.
If you ignore the bodies.
And the blood.
And the fact that heβs doing this the only way he knows howβmessy 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 comesβwhen he kneels, all cocky smirk and bloodstained handsβyouβll say yes.
You have to.
(And if you donβt? Well. Heβs 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 darlinβ~
Your phone buzzes against the desk, and you barely glance down before his name flashes across the screen. Of course, itβs him.
you:
hey yourself. whatβs up?
goreboy:
whatβs up? tsk. rudeβcanβt a guy check on his favorite little writer?
You smile, shaking your head. Always like this.
you:
oh? iβm your favorite now?
goreboy:
pfft. babe, youβve been my favorite. since day one.
donβt let it get to your head, though. my heartβs fragile, yβknow.
you:
lmao, fragile?? you??
goreboy:
iβm delicate. like a flower. πΉ
You roll your eyes, biting back a laugh. Ridiculous.
you:
what do you want, ronin?
goreboy:
what, a man canβt just miss you?
βsidesβ¦ iβm 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:
β¦right now?
goreboy:
yeah.
you:
where?
goreboy:
purgatory.
Your brows furrow. Heβs teasing. He has to be.
you:
lmao. youβre joking, right?
goreboy:
when do i ever joke, darlinβ?
A pause. Thenβ
goreboy:
seriously. come by.
just for me.
You bite your lip, warmth blooming in your chest. Thisβthisβis why youβre in too deep.
you:
fine. whatβs the occasion?
goreboy:
pfft. gotta have a reason?
but if you must knowβ¦
Another buzzβ
goreboy:
maybe i got somethinβ for you.
Your heart stutters.
you:
something?
what kind of βsomethingβ?
goreboy:
youβll see, babe.
gotta keep a little mystery alive, yeah?
You roll your eyesβfondly, though. Always like this.
you:
okay, fine. any special requests?
goreboy:
oh, now weβre talkinβ.
dress in black for me, sweetheart. if you wanna, anyway.
You tilt your head, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Heβs playing, but thereβs something beneath itβsomething serious.
you:
you like gothic, huh?
goreboy:
on you? hell yeah.
you:
good. βcause 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 hauntingβa place you want to hate but canβt. Your heels click softly against the cracked pavement, the air thick with the scent of blood, metal, and something distinctly him. Itβs always him. Even when heβs nowhere to be seen, his shadow lingers like an inescapable ghost.
Tonight, though, thereβs something different.
Your black dress clings to you like a second skin, just the way he likes it. You donβt want to think about why your heartβs racing, or why you dressed up like you were meeting someone important. But itβs himβyou know itβs always him.
And when you turn the corner, your breath catches in your throat.
A heart.
Not just any heartβA 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 couldnβt help but make a mess. But in the center, etched with the brutal precision only he could manage, is your name.
Itβs wrong. Itβs so wrong.
And yetβyour pulse flutters. Your stomach twists in that awful, dizzying way it only does with him.
A soft metallic scrape echoes behind youβthe unmistakable sound of a crowbar dragging across the pavement. Your skin prickles, and you donβt have to turn around to know who it is.
βDamn,β his voice purrs, smooth and sinful. βLook at you, sweetheart.β
When you do turn, heβs 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 lightβstudded, spiked, with a pair of rusty scissors sticking haphazardly through the shoulder. A red βXβ pin glints beside it, careless and dangerous. Beneath, his black t-shirt clings to himβfaded 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.
AndβGodβthe piercings. Silver glints along his ears, across his tongue when he grins, and the delicate sword pendant resting against his throat? Unfair.
Heβs looking at you like heβs starving. Like youβre already his, and tonight, heβs reminding you of it.
βYou came,β he murmurs, dragging the crowbar behind him as he approaches. βKnew you couldnβt resist me, darlinβ.β
Your throat tightens as he stops in front of youβtowering, all six-foot-one inches of bloodstained disaster. Thereβs 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 yoursβgentle, almost. His touch is rough, warm, and when he lifts your hand toward his mouth, your heart stutters.
βA devilβs gotta mark his territory, huh?β he hums, lips brushing against your knuckles.
And thenβhe kisses your ring finger. Soft, deliberateβlike it means something. Like it means everything.
Your face burns, and you try to pull your hand away, but he doesnβt let go. His thumb traces slow circles over your skin, almost absentmindedlyβlike heβs savoring the feel of you. Always touching. Always wanting.
βWhatββ your voice catches, breathless. βWhat is this, Ronin?β
He grins, sharp and wicked. βYou like it?β he asks, tipping his head toward the bloodied heart. βTold ya I had something for you, babe. Canβt say Iβm not romantic.β
Romantic.
The messβthe bloodβthe sheer violence of itβthis is how he shows it. Twisted, wrong, and so perfectly him. And the worst part? You love it. You love how much heβs willing to ruin things for you.
βYouβre insane,β you whisper, but your fingers curl against his palm like you donβt mean it.
βAnd yet,β he drawls, dipping closerβhis lips ghosting against the shell of your ear, βhere you are.β
You shiver.
He steps back just enough to meet your gaze, head tilted, that cocky tilt to his lipsβbut something softer lingers underneath. Something unsure.
βTell me, sweetheart,β his voice drops, smooth and low. βWhatever I doβ¦ you still gonna want me?β
The words shouldnβt hit you as hard as they do. Because underneath all the bravadoβbeneath the teasing and the devil-may-care attitudeβheβs asking if youβll stay. If youβll keep coming back to him.
If youβre his.
And you should be scared. You should. But instead, you brush your fingers against his jawβsoft, almost too soft.
βOf course I do, idiot,β you murmur, and his breath hitchesβjust barely. βI always want you.β
For once, he doesnβt have a comeback. Just stares at you like he canβt quite believe it. Like youβre something precious.
And when he kisses youβslow and bruising, like a promise..
His arms curl around your waistβpossessive, like he doesnβt 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.
βSorry, lover,β he drawls, smooth as silk but sharp enough to cut, βyou canβt look back now.β
The neon red light hums around you both, staining everything it touchesβcasting the blood-slick walls in a glow that shouldnβt be beautiful, but it is. Because itβs him. Because itβs you. The blood, the gutsβit all looks like a twisted love letter only he could write.
And the heartβstill dripping on the wall with your name carved into its centerβfeels like a vow.
A promise heβs 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 itβs the look in his eyes that makes your heart twist. Something dark. Something dangerous. And God, something thatβs only for you.
βPretty, ainβt it?β he muses, like the whole bloodstained mess is just a casual art project. But thereβs something else in his toneβsomething softer when he adds, βMade it special, darlinββ¦ just for you.β
You should say somethingβmaybe call him out for how utterly insane this isβbut your tongue feels too heavy, trapped between your teeth as you try to process everything.
Itβs a lot. Heβs a lot.
And yet, your body betrays youβpressing 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 gravityβbut thereβs no escaping it now.
He tilts your chin up with one gloved finger, lips curving into a slow, wicked smile. βWhatβs wrong, sweetheart?β he teases, βCat got your tongue? Or are you just too busy fallinβ for me?β
You try to roll your eyes. Try. But his touch burns, and when he lifts your hand to his mouthβagainβyou forget how to breathe.
His lips brush against your knucklesβslow, deliberateβbefore they linger on your ring finger. Itβs so soft you barely feel it at first. Just the faintest pressure. Something warm. Something cold.
And when he pulls back, thereβs a glint of silver wrapped around your finger.
Your breath stutters. Your heart stops.
A ring.
Not dainty. Not soft. Itβs himβjagged edges, blackened silver with the faintest blood-red inlay spiraling like a twisted promise. Itβs heavy against your skin, unapologetic in its meaning.
And you didnβt even notice him slipping it on.
Your head snaps up, eyes wide, but heβs already watching youβwaiting.
βRoninββ your voice catches, and you donβt even know what youβre about to ask. What this means.
His grin widens, devilish and sharp. βWhatβs the matter, babe?β he coos, as if he didnβt just slide a ring on your finger like it was nothing. βThought you liked surprises.β
You blinkβonce, twiceβyour 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.
βFits perfect,β he hums, pleased with himself. βGuess that means youβre mine, huh?β
Your heart does something awful and traitorous in your chest.
Heβs too much. Too close. And youβyouβre letting him do this.
Still, your fingers twitch beneath hisβtesting the weight of the ring, the feel of it like a brand. Permanent.
βYouββ Your voice trembles despite yourself. βYou didnβt even ask.β
His laughter spills out, low and rough. βBaby, if I asked, would you reallyβve said no?β
You hate how easily heβs right.
The gloved hand on your back slides upβtracing the delicate curve of your spineβuntil it rests against your neck. He tilts your head back, just enough to force you to meet his eyes. Dark. Intense. Yours.
βYouβre not mad, are ya?β he murmurs, voice softer now, like thereβs actually a part of him that cares. ββCause I can take it back if you donβt want it. If you donβt wantβ¦ me.β
His mask slipsβjust a littleβand your stomach twists at the vulnerability he tries so hard to hide.
But you donβt 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 ringβcool against your skinβand it should feel too much. Too fast. Too everything.
But all it feels is right.
βIdiot,β you murmur, and his grip tightens like heβs terrified youβll slip away. βIβd never take it off.β
The relief in his expression is palpableβmasked by a cocky smirk, ]
His lips barely part from yours when he whispers itβlow, rough, like a vow dragged from somewhere deep inside him.
"Promise you," he murmurs, the words brushing warm against your mouth, "this is foreverβ¦ or βtil one of us dies."
And just like that, your brain short-circuits.
Your breath hitches. Your body freezes. Youβre too stunned to speakβbecause, what the hell?
Forever. Forever with himβthe 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 thereβs no teasing lilt to his voice. No wicked little joke behind his words.
He means it.
Ronin means it.
And for a heartbeatβjust oneβyou canβt process it. Canβt wrap your head around the weight of what heβs just given you.
The silence stretches. Grows heavy between you. And for once, heβs the quiet one.
When you lift your gaze to his, wide and unguarded, his expression is almost⦠shy.
Ronin BeaufortβThe Butcher, the devil himselfβlooks like a goddamn kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
His lips twitch, like he wants to smirk but canβt quite manage it. His hands fidget slightly on your waistβrestless energy bottled under his skin. And his eyes? Pitch-black and wide open, like heβs 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 youβll stick it to the fridge.
"Uhβ" His voice cracks just a littleβa littleβand you swear you catch the faintest flush creeping up his neck. "Youβreβ¦ gonna say somethinβ, right?"
You blink at him. Still speechless.
He fumbles. Actually fumblesβone hand pulling back to rub at the back of his neck as he huffs, "I meanβcβmon, babe, this is kinda the part where you either kiss me back or tell me to go to hell."
The confidenceβthe usual devil-may-care arroganceβis still there, but itβs softer around the edges. Fragile in a way he never lets anyone see.
And youβoh, youβre doomed.
Your heart does a weird little flip in your chest as you stare at him, still clutching onto your waist like youβll vanish if he lets go. Heβs so muchβtoo muchβbut under all that swagger and bloodlust, heβs justβ¦ 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 whoβno matter how sharp his tongue isβwould burn the world down for you.
βWait,β you finally manage to choke out, the word soft and breathless. βDid youβ¦ are you actually serious?β
His face scrunches up like you just personally insulted his entire aesthetic. βBabe. Did I stutter?β He lifts your hand again, thumb brushing against the cool metal band still snug on your finger. βOr do I gotta get on one knee to spell it out?β
And oh, heβs pouting.
The Butcherβslaughterhouse king, nightmare in leather and spikesβis full-on pouting.
You bite down on your lip, hard, trying to hold back the laugh bubbling up in your chest. He noticesβof course, he doesβand immediately narrows his eyes.
βDonβt you dare.β His grip on your waist tightens in warning, but the corner of his mouth twitches. βI just poured my goddamn heart out, and youβre laughinβ at me?β
And suddenlyβyou canβt hold it back.
The laugh escapesβlight, breathless, overwhelmedβbecause what else are you supposed to do when your psychotic, bloodstained boyfriend is acting like a needy kid who just gave you the worldβs most chaotic proposal?
His brows knit together in mock offense. βUnbelievable,β he grumbles, though his tone is softerβfondβas he watches you melt into laughter. βI give you my heart on a bloodied silver platter, and this is the thanks I get?β
βIβm not laughing at youββ you try to protest, still breathless. βItβs justβ¦ youβreβ¦ cute.β
The second the word leaves your mouth, his whole body jerks.
βCute?!β He repeats it like youβve committed a personal crime. βI just did the most metal, romantic shit on the planet, and you call meββ He drops his head against your shoulder, groaning. ββcute. Jesus Christ, Iβm losinβ my edge.β
You wrap your arms around him without even thinkingβpulling him closer, fingers curling into the back of his leather jacket. He smells like smoke, leather, and something distinctly himβsomething you could drown in if youβre not careful.
And in the middle of the bloodstained alley, wrapped in his arms, you realize thereβs no escape. Not from thisβnot from him.
And, God help you, you donβt want one.
βHey, Ronin?β you whisper softly against his neck.
βHmm?β His voice is quieter nowβhopeful, like heβs 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. βIβm not taking it off,β you promise. βEver.β
For a split second, heβs still. Frozen. Like he doesnβt quite believe it.
And thenβheβs kissing you again.
The world could burn, and you wouldnβt careβnot when heβs in front of you like this. Eyes blacker than sin, lips swollen from kissing you like heβs starving, and hands gripping your waist like youβre the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
But right now, heβs the fragile one.
Your devilβloud, reckless, always too muchβis 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 handβcool metal, heavy with meaningβbefore you slowly reach for his. His handsβrough, calloused, stained in ways that canβt be washed cleanβtremble 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. "Itβs only fair I make you mine, too."
His breath catches. He doesnβt say a wordβdoesnβt even twitchβjust 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. Heβs yours now. Yours in the same way youβve always been his.
And when you speak againβvoice barely above a whisperβitβs not for show. Not a tease. Just the truth, laid bare between you.
βIβll love you forever, Ronin Beaufort.β
Something cracks in his expressionβsomething wild and vulnerable and so, so real.
And youβre not done.
βIβm happy,β you admit, voice trembling just a little. βHappy I met you. Happy I get thisβus.β You pause, and thereβs this ache in your chest when you smile, soft and almost shy. βMaybe itβll be destructive. Maybe itβll last forever. I donβt care how it ends, Roninβ¦ I just want it with you.β
His grip on your waist tightensβdesperateβlike heβs afraid youβll slip through his fingers if he lets go.
And you donβt. 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:
βI love you, Ronin Beaufort.β
For one breathless moment, he doesnβt react.
And thenβhe moves.
He crashes into you, mouth slanting over yours with bruising intensity, like heβs trying to brand those words into your skinβinto your bones. Like he wants to crawl inside your heart and never leave.
Itβs messy, overwhelming, and so perfectly himβand you give yourself to it completely.
His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against his chest as he devours youβsharp teeth grazing your bottom lip, a low growl curling from the back of his throat like heβs trying to consume you from the inside out.
When he finally pulls backβjust enough to breatheβhis lips hover over yours, and his voice is wrecked.
βYouβre a fuckinβ idiot.β
The words are rough, but his hands tremble where they hold you. βWhy would you love someone like me?β
Your heart squeezes, and you donβt even hesitate.
βBecause youβre you.β
And, for once, heβs speechless.
No snark. No teasing. Just the weight of your confession sinking into his bonesβbinding you together in a way no bloodstained vow ever could.
He drops his forehead against yours, breathing hard, voice softer than youβve ever heard it. βYou better be sure, sweetheart. βCause youβre stuck with me now.β
Your fingers tangle in the chains hanging from his jacket as you grin. βI wouldnβt want it any other way.β
His lips barely ghost over yours, teasing, waiting, giving you a chance to breatheβbut you donβt take it. You canβt. Because then he kisses you.
And God, he kisses you like he means it.
Like heβs 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 heβs afraid youβll slip away if he lets go. Like he needs to hold on just to make sure youβre still real.
Itβs slow and deepβno rush, no hesitationβjust pure possession.
Your heart pounds. Your fingers tangle in the chains on his jacket, desperate to keep your balance because heβs overwhelming. He always is.
By the time he finally pulls back, youβre breathlessβdazedβbarely clinging to reality as he huffs out a quiet, wicked laugh.
Thenβhe grins. Sharp and smug, eyes flashing with something wild.
"Oh, that old man wonβt shut up about how weβre not married, huh?" He snickers, tapping a gloved finger against the ring on your hand. "Guess you better show it off, sweetheart. Be loud βn proud about itβrub it in his face."
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do you guys ever think about how Wyll is introduced as an archetypal fantasy hero, but then it turns out heβs a warlock, who made a pact with a devil. Do you ever think about how Ansur is described as this fantastical dragon of myth, but then when you find him, heβs turned into an undead monstrosity. Do you think about how when Wyll does the right thing, he is punished to become more monstrous. Do you think about how as Wyllβs warlock powers grow, his spells get more horrific. Do you think about how Ansur was killed by his closest friend. Do think about how Wyll was cast out by the most important person in his life. do you guys ever think about Ansur and Wyll.
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at the start of the game karlach and astarion are absolutely fucking reeling from being suddenly freed and are in a state of manic joy that would probably seem alien to them like a week ago, while gale has been locked in his depression tower for so long he's almost completely forgotten how to talk to people. shadowheart has not a single fucking clue whats going on because shar keeps slurping up her memories and lae'zel is literally in the midst of her ultimate nightmare scenario and trapped on an alien planet with a bunch of jackasses who have no idea whats happening. so almost everyone has experienced a situational personality shift and isn't quite the person they were a year before you met them. EXCEPT Wyll. Who is just like "this isnt even the weirdest thing thats happened to me this month." my man got scooped up, tadpoled, and slammed back and said "oh well, not gonna ruin my day" and went about his business teaching self defense to children and slaying evil beasts. He didn't even seem confused he literally did not give a shit. no urgency. He's like "I'll put that in my day planner but is gonna have to wait until after i hunt down this demon." When you recruit him there is no sense of "oh man we really gotta help each other because we have the same problem" he just would have said yes because you asked and he's wyll. Or because you told him he could kill mindflayers. He'd be like "sick" and done, no questions asked. Just another Tuesday for the blade.
synopsis: It doesn't matter what their first impressions of you were, they certainly did not expect you to be so important in their lifes. And as the days passes, each one of your companions need to understand a simple fact: they love you. They all love you.
warnings: it's 31st december. i'm drunk. song "pink on the night" by mitsky. song "abbey" by mitsky. companions (wyll, astarion, shadowheart) x druid!tav. background cast (karlach, kagha, halsin, lae'zel, gale cazador). tav is used as a nickname. wyll stuttering. astarion seeing draws of himself because he fucking deserves it. shadowheart falling for a druid that can turn into a wolf.
Trust betrayed, secrets spread, lies disguised as facts. That's how life works. It gives you hope, then crushes it front of your eyes. It let's you reach your goal, just to rip it out from your bare fingers.
The cruelty of life is the ultimate sign that gods do exist. There must be a higher being watching its puppets pathetic attempts of conquering an unreachable happiness. There are other proofs, but that's the easiest to perceive.
And they were used to it. From the renowed Blade of Frontiers to the pale elf hiding in the shadows: they all knew what to expect from life. Dishonest agreements, stolen hearts, the cold embrace of loss. Life is painful, so they shielded themselves from any harm.
But not you.
At first they assumed you were naive. The things Shadowheart thought to herself when you reached for a hand stuck in a portal; or how easily Astarion deceived you when he thought you were a mind flayer; even Wyll judged you from time to time.
You let your guard down easily. Instead of protecting yourself, you were helping others. Instead of using your teeths and claws to get what you wanted, you preserved nature.
But naive you were not. You may have trusted them too easily, but you weren't blind. You knew when a question was a order, when a joke was a threat, when a smile was just sharp teeth showing.
You discovered what Astarion really was and demanded he wouldn't maim anyone that didn't deserved it. You convinced Wyll that the evil he so wanted to tear apart was a victim. Saw right throught Kagha's distorted teachings, don't matter how alluring they sounded.
To turn a foe into a friend was your instinct, but you were not hesitant to solve problems with violence if it was needed. And sometimes you even got pleasure from it.
Wyll will never forget your face after finding out about Kagua's deal with the shadow druids. You didn't even allowed the party to rest. All your party received from you was an order to clean the ivy from their weapons.
"Shouldn't we focus on freeing Halsin? He must understand Kagha better than us," Wyll pointed. "You're a druid, but that doesn't mean the groove sees you as one of them. But they will hear Halsin."
"She can hear me," you slammed your staff on the ground, giving strength to your certainty. It pulsed with energy, and its glow matched the beat of your heart. "Or she can die. I can grant her mercy, but I won't give her time."
Wyll felt his body getting warmer, Shadowheart's impressed whistle reached his ear. "O-Of course," he cleared his throat. "After you."
"We'll purge some rats," you smirked at him. It didn't feel threatening. "Can I count with your blade?"
"Always," Wyll answered you. And he meant it.
Seeing that you weren't naive, Astarion came to a conclusion about you. Meanwhile the Blade of Frontiers stopped seeing your benevolent acts as a signs of impulsivity, the pale elf saw them as a mask. Something meant to cover what others should be paying attention to instead.
After all, who would suspect that something is rotten when the scent is sweet?
You're beautiful. Astarion admit it. Your laugh reverberates through the forests, your tiredness calls for aid, your eyes attract and soothe. Beautiful faces can make up for dirty minds, soft words can hide the lack of a heart, pretty acts are easier to see than destructive intentions.
You're just like him. Astarion sees it, clear as the sea. Your delicate smiles and his gaze full of lust are just as fake. Your sweet words and his dirty innuendos are both rehearsed. In need of this party, it's not hard to understand why you two would act to ensure they don't ever leave.
When Shadowheart cures you first, Astarion's invisible reflection occupies your eyes. When Lae'zel attacks monsters aiming at you, he's your shadow. When Gale puts more food on your plate, Astarion can see his smile on your face.
He wouldn't be surprised to find out that you both look the same.
One may say that your corrupt intentions are nothing compared to the good you've already done, but Astarion is not so idealistic. Sin stains your good deeds, he can see it. You depict yourself as someone better than them, better than him, but that's just your depraved plan to survive.
And he can't blame you. It's working perfectly.
Astarion may despise you for being as dirty as himself, but he respects that part of you. He trusts your plans, your combat skill, your magic. You're good on what you do. Screaming instructions to help during fights, discovering hidden passages, trading for better weapons.
You're not a good person, but there's a reason for why you survived this far. You're competent. That Astarion can respect. That's why he's constantly trying to get on your good side. You are smart and strong. Maybe strong enough to rip Cazador apart.
And if you haven't realize that Astarion is putting on an act to win your heart, than the shame is on you for not realizing that you both are the exactly same thing.
But you had to show him how wrong he was.
At midnight you approached his tent with your sketchbook. Astarion thought you wanted a distraction, using your drawings just as an excuse to talk a bit. Gods know he was dying of boredom before you appeared.
"I didn't knew you were so talented, darling," he praised you.
Illuminated by candles, Astarion let his guards down. Instead of just saying the right thing at the time, Astarion was really impressed at your skills.
It must be nice. To be able to create things with your bare hands. Sometimes he cry at the start of a good book. He don't know why, but it must be because he too would like to be making things. Astarion thinks that creating is the ultimate sign that you're alive, instead of just surviving.
Maybe one day he can become a poet.
"I can't help but notice that you have a muse," it was clear someone had attracted your gaze. Maybe a dear friend you miss, or perhaps another competitor for your attention. "Should I worry about being replaced?"
Astarion expect you to flush, but all you did was to get... softer? You seemed to shrivel up.
Your mouth dried up. He doesn't even recognize himself. Astarion don't even remember how he looked like.
"That's you, Astarion," you told him. "And that's a gift. You helped a lot these past months and... All I'm trying to say is that I'm grateful."
It was the first time you saw Astarion in silence. Paper by paper, he admired your drawings. Do they look bad? You've spent a lot of time training to be able to create something worthy of his beauty, but you admit they're not perfect.
Or maybe it isn't the quality. It's the fact that you spend so long drawing him. How many hours did you spend on those sketchs? How many hours did you spend glaring at him from your tent? Does he feel ofended? Invaded?
"That's how you see me?" Astarion whispered.
You barely heard his words.
"Yes, Astarion," you licked your lips. "I know some can be..."
His hand on your thigh stopped the rant you were about to go on. His bloody eyes were sharp. Just like the day you first met him, his dagger against your throat. Astarion looked pleased, but not happy.
As if he discovered being right about something he rather not be.
What you gave him... this is a treasure. So many drawings, so many angles, so many poses. How many centuries has it been since he last saw himself? How many since Astarion forgot his own face? Sometimes he touches his face, trying to picture it, but his imagination isn't good.
You gave him something priceless.
And when something is priceless that people discover how sunk in debt they really are.
"And now you want me to pay you back," his husky voice made shivers went down your spine. His nails scratched lightly your skin, drawing shapes on your thigh. "Don't you?"
You jumped from your spot, getting away from him. You were flushed, but not in a good way. "From where I came from," you breathed in. You sounded offended. "Something that puts you in debt isn't a gift."
As you turned over to go to sleep, you felt that if you didn't say what you really thought you would end up exploding. You know you don't have the right to speak about his life, but that didn't stopped you.
"Cazador made you believe that you have to sell yourself to be worth of anything, but he's wrong. He was wrong since the very start. We'll lacerate that monster for what he did to you. And that I promise you: it won't be fair. Cazador don't deserve fair."
You felt your nails digging the skin of your palms. "That was a gift. Get used to it."
Maybe Astarion was wrong about you. And maybe he was wrong about himself.
Merciful, but not weak. Gentle, but not naive. Pleasing, but not manipulable. You were a walking question mark. Whenever they thought they understood what you were, you proved them wrong. Not impulsive. Not manipulative. Not stupid.
Until they came up with a word that described you too perfectly. A word that didn't need any buts or explanations. One that everyone cognize, but that isn't used often. That don't deserve to be used often.
You're kind.
It's in your nature to be considerate. You help others because you can. No. Wrong. And that's something that Shadowheart still don't really understand: you help others because you can, so therefore you should.
She has only one goal in mind. Shadowheart needs to make to Baldur's Gate with the mysterious artifact in safety, and if she does everything right... maybe her Lady will grant her what she truly want.
But you make Shadowheart forget about all that.
She must be discreet, she did that her whole life, and still Shadowheart finds herself talking about her goddess to you. Her mission depends on her going straight towards Baldur's Gate yet there she's, following you as you try to solve everyone's problems.
Shadowheart didn't even noticed. She didn't made a rational choice to open herself to you. She just did it. Almost as if you were fundamental part of her forgotten past and her heart couldn't do nothing but to trust you.
You impervious into her prayers. Invaded her dreams. Burned your mark inside her mind. Your name feels like honey on her tongue. Like a sweet treat that she can never get enough of.
You tempted her, luring her with your determination and grace, and Shadowheart proved herself sinful once again.
If only you had judged Shadowheart for her loyalty to Lady Shar. Asking her what her favorite flower is. Listening to her opinions. Even when she was nothing but distant and cold, you were sweet. Toothaching sweet.
Shadowheart was hungry. She'd been hungry for her whole life. Starving for something easy. Something raw. Something more than a beautiful concepts. Something real. And how could a starving person ignore a banquet?
She can't. Shadowheart couldn't. But she should've. Damn, she should've.
You're testing her faith. Constantly. Every smile, every vulnerable look, every act of protection. It's like you're trying to compete with Lady Shar for the control over her mind. Sometimes it feels like you're winning.
She was admiring the sky without stars when the wolf came. All it took was a sight to paralyze her. Shadowheart had a mace, but the weapon was useless in her trembling hands.
The giant beast, wool pale from the moonlight, foamy drool dripping from its fangs. In a golden glow that being of darkness transformed into something.
Into you.
"It's just me," you whispered to her, eyes wide with worry and blame. "I didn't... You're safe. You're fine."
She forced herself to unclench her jaw. "Don't tell any of them," Shadowheart hissed as soon as she knew she could speak without stuttering. "Let this fear I have stay as a secret."
"As you wish," was what you said. No questions, no jokes, no provocations.
You went back to rummage through lost boxes and barrels in the ruined village. You had goblin's blood staining your face, but it didn't seen to bother you. "I wish I had a bag of holdings," you murmured to yourself.
Shadowheart was grateful. Either you decided to change the subject to cease her embarrassment or you just were this easily distracted, it still meant something. Her flushed cheeks went unnoticed.
She leafed through some damp books, trying to find something useful. "Embrace loss," she murmured to you. Now your attention was back on her. "We'll never let you have one."
You gasped. "Shart, why is that?"
Shadowheart ignored how breath turned into a difficult task when you used that new nickname.
"Face it, Tav," she called you by the nickname Gale created to you. "You are a compulsive hoarder. I've seen you keep a rotten apple in your pocket."
"I thought it could be useful!"
Shadowheart smiled. She did not even realized she was smiling. "I bet you did."
You have a soft spots for battles you can't possible win, protecting people in need and turning foes into friends. And apparently you are their soft spot.
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