hello all! i'm super psyched to say that our kickstarter for killer chat! expanded edition is now live! pledge our kickstarter now and go grab all that you desire, what are you waiting for? ;3
but what does that entail, rosesrot, you may be asking?
what are the rewards, rosesrot?
we've got a range: from game keys, posters and keychains to making up your own server events and even a whole new ending for your serial killer lover! đł
(a tiny peek at what we've got to offer...)
you can see them on the page or read all about them here!
we've got a lot going on! oh and also⌠oiled up love interests⌠i see youâŚ
got any questions about our kickstarter?
we've got a handy-dandy FAQ here!
and last, but certainly not least!
as a reward, we've got a new major demo update for you! it's a little showcase of the features and content we'll have in the expanded edition ;) you can download it onâŚ
đ¤ STEAM
â¤ď¸ ITCH
please know that this update is not compatible with your old saves! loading an old save will corrupt the game.
if you have any problems, please report them in this bug report form here !
thank you so much! i'll see you on kickstarter :D
also chat why are we already ÂŁ14k đ funded? i love u guys đ
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
I was proud to be one of the beta testers for Saihate Station. Also made one of the release countdown fanarts!! IT RELEASES TOMORROW ( or today when the post is up) FOR FREE ON STEAM đŁđŁ GO PLAY IT đšđ
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
âThat old man keeps asking when Iâll get married again.â
Annoying. Worse than annoying. Like a mosquito buzzing in your ear when youâre already halfway to losing your mind.
The garage smells like oil, rust, and Roninâsomething metallic, something alive, something that clings. You could go home, but home is a ringing phone and voices that wonât like the answers youâd give. They love you. You love them. But they wouldnât 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? Heâd roll his tongue along his teeth, slow and deliberate, like a lion deciding if a gazelle is worth the chase. Heâd smile too wide, say something thatâs both a joke and a promise of violence.
Youâd defend him, though. Because youâre his. Because heâs 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 doesnât say it. He shows it in the way he existsâraw, 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, darlinâ. 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.
Youâre watching himâyour little devil in disguise, though heâs 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 youâre 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, darlinâ? Ainât never seen a man work before?"
You roll your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. He doesnât miss itâhe never does. He tilts his head, studying you like heâs about to make a meal of you, like he already has.
"Careful now. Keep lookinâ at me like that, and I might start thinkinâ 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 heâs leaning on the car, watching you like heâs considering tearing you apart just to see how youâd put yourself back together.
"Yâknow, a person like you could do better." His voice is slow, teasing, coiling around something darker. "Could find yourself a nice boy. One who doesnât kill for fun, who calls his mama on Sundays, who wouldnât snap your neck if you asked real sweet."
A pause. A smirk. That awful, wonderful, knowing look in his eyes.
"But you wonât. âCause you like this, donâtcha?"
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 existenceâit's suffocating in the best way.
"You like watchinâ me. Like sittinâ there all sweet while I get my hands dirty." A slow grin. "Like knowinâ theyâll never be clean."
âYouâre being too edgy again.â
Ronin gasps, all mock offense, pressing a grease-streaked hand to his chest like you just ran him through with a stake. "Too edgy? Darlinâ, you wound me."
âYou already established the bit, you donât have to crank it up every time.â 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. Iâll dial it back a lilââfor you."
But then you laugh. Because, letâs 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, heâs grinning againâyour 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 thenâthe 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. Iâll 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. Insteadâ
"And youâ" he drawls, slow and indulgent, like heâs 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 heâs throwing dice, like fate itself is something he can gamble with.
"Somethinâ real nasty about you, sweetheart. Somethinâ sharp. A bite to that pretty mouth. Ainât that a treat?"
His eyes are dark with something unreadable, something between admiration and hunger, like he wants to see what youâll do with his words. If youâll bite back. If youâll play along.
Because Ronin? Heâs always playing. And heâs hopingâpraying, evenâthat youâre the kind of idiot who wonât let him win too easily.
"Itâs... nothing."
Ronin tuts, tilting his head, eyes gleaming like a wolf thatâs caught the scent of something bleeding. "Oh, but somethinâ must be trickinâ your head, darlinâ. I can hear it rattlinâ around in there." He leans in, voice dropping to something just above a purr. "Câmon now. Whisper your prayer to the Devil. Whatâs on your mind?"
You shoot him another murderous glare, sharp enough to cut, lethal enough to wound. He loves it.
And worse? He blushes.
Itâs fleetingâa flicker of warmth, a betrayal of blood rushing to his cheeksâbut itâs there. And then, just as fast, he throws his head back and laughs, wild and unrestrained, like youâve just handed him the funniest joke in the world.
The audacity. The gall. The sheer joy in his eyes, like heâs never been happier than in the presence of someone who genuinely wants to kill him.
Because letâs be realâisnât 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, sweetheartâ" he whistles low, shaking his head, "âIâd be six feet under already. You tryinâ to make me fall harder?"
You donât answer. You donât have to.
Roninâs already grinning like you did.
"What?!"
You donât 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. "Owwwâdarlinâ, what the hellâ?" He grabs your wrists, but not to stop youâno, just to hold on, just to feel you, because he likes it when you get your hands on him. Even when itâs to hurt him.
Especially when itâs 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. "Thatâs what you get for talking like that."
His words come out distorted, voice wobbling from the force of your grip. "Talkinâ like whaâ?"
"Like you wanna die by my hands, idiot."
Ronin wheezes out a laugh, finally prying your hands awayâbut he doesnât let go. Instead, he flips your grip, lacing your fingers together like itâs the most natural thing in the world. Like itâs his right.
"Ainât my fault youâre so damn beautiful when youâre thinkinâ about killinâ 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.
"Yâknow," he muses, leaning in, voice dropping low, "if you ever do get sick of me, darlinâ... at least make it interesting, yeah?"
You scoff, rolling your eyes, but you donât pull away.
Ronin, grinning like he just won something, kisses your knuckles
You blush. Disgusting. You look away, like thatâll save you, like he wonât see it anyway. Like he wonât catch the way your fingers twitch in his grasp, like he wonât feel the heat youâre trying to will away. Like he wonât eat it up.
âYou said live, not die.â
Roninâs grin flickers. Just for a second. Just long enough for the mask to slip, the wires beneath to spark. Thenâ
âOh, darlinâ.â He lets out something between a laugh and a sigh, tilting his head, studying you like a painting he canât quite decide how to ruin. âNow, thatâs just cruel.â
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 itâs real.
âGotta admit,â he says, pressing his palms together, as if in prayer, as if heâs ever prayed to anything other than the void, âthatâs a new one. You? Wantinâ me to live? Be still, my dead, black heart.â
You cross your arms, glare. âShut up.â
âMake me.â
There it is. That look. The one thatâs all teeth, all sharp edges and something deeper, something raw. Something hungry. He wants you to fight him. He wants you to win.
You donât humor him. You donât 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 youâll do with it.
âGo on, then.â He lifts his chin, dares you. âSay it again.â
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 heâs got his fingers wrapped around your voice. You hate that you let him.
âYouâre such an idiot.â
He smirks, tilts his head. âFor idiots.â
âSo idiotically idiotic.â
His grin widens. âSay it.â
You swallow. Fine. You meet his gaze, steady. âLive.â
Something shifts.
Itâs subtle. A breath held too long, a flicker behind his eyes. Like you just flipped a switch he didnât know he had. Like you just changed something.
Then, just as fast, he laughsâloud, reckless, full-bodied. He steps forward, gets right in your space, doesnât touch, but you feel it anyway.
âDarlinâ,â he purrs, âyou keep talkinâ like that, and I might just have to listen.â
Your heartbeat stutters. Unacceptable. You shove him again, harder this time. He doesnât even pretend to stumble, just grins like you handed him a gift.
âYouâre insufferable,â you say, turning away.
âYou love it.â
You donât answer. You donât 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 isnât touching you.
Then, finally, he steps away. Leaves you with the echo of his voice, the ghost of his grin.
âLive, huh?â he mutters, almost to himself. Almost.
"Guess I can try."
And damn itâyou hear the smile in his voice. That soft, dangerous edge, like heâs filing it down just for you. Like you gave him something new to chew
Your phone buzzesâloud, persistent, annoyingâbecause 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, Roninâs faster. Always is. He snatches your phone like itâs his right, thumb dragging across the screen as he answers the call with a lazy, cocky swipe.
"Hello, sweetheartâs personal assistant speakinââ" 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. "Iâm looking at some photosâ"
Oh no.
"âof some nice boys. Iâll send them to you. Tell me which one you like, so the family can arrange a date. Get you two to know each other betterâ"
Silence.
A beat.
ThenâRonin laughs. Real loud, tooâlike 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. "Youâre settinâ up a date for my baby? Kinda rude, ainât it? I meanâ" His free hand slides to your waist, casual and possessive, squeezing like he owns you. "âIâm right here."
Your stomach drops. "Roninâ"
He ignores you, because of course he does.
"I get it," he continues, mock sympathy dripping from every word. "I mean, who wouldnât wanna line up a few pretty boys? Butâ" He sighs, dramatic as ever. "âgotta break it to ya, pops. Theyâre already taken."
The line goes silentâfor a second. Maybe two. Thenâ
"Who the hell are you?!"
Roninâs grin stretches, and oh, heâs enjoying this. Loves the fire. Loves the fight. He leans closer to the speaker, like heâs sharing a secret. "The Devil, baby. Didnât they warn you?"
You slap his arm, hard, but it only makes him laugh moreâwarm and bright, like setting a match to gasoline.
"Youâ!" The old man sputters, full of righteous indignation. "You think this is funny?!"
"A little," Ronin purrs. "Kinda cute, actually. Yâcare about âem so much youâre hand-pickinâ their future? Adorable." His fingers curl against your hip, deliberate. "Butâ" he hums, voice sinking into something darker, rougher, "âno oneâs takinâ âem away from me, old man."
He means it. You feel it in the weight of his touch, the way his thumb circles your skin.
"Roninâ" you hiss again, trying to take your phone back, but heâs not done. Not even close.
"Look," he says, casual as hell, like this is a friendly chat. "Iâm a real thoughtful guy. Iâd love to meet the fam. Hellâ" he chuckles, "âmaybe Iâll even bring a gift. Yâknow, to show my appreciation."
You donât like the way he says "gift." Not one bit.
"Youâre out of your damn mind," the old man snaps.
Roninâs smile turns razor-sharp. "Yeah, wellâ" he tilts his head, brushing his lips against your ear, voice dropping to a whisper only for you. "âIâm your kinda problem now, arenât I?"
Your heart poundsâtoo fast, too muchâand youâre torn between wanting to strangle him and... something worse.
The phone cracklesâyour familyâs favorite brand of righteous fury practically vibrating through the speaker.
"You arrogant littleâwhat kind of punk thinks he can talk to me like that?!" the old man barks, voice sharp enough to cut. "You think youâre funny?!"
Ronin, being Ronin, grins widerâwhich 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, Iâm hilarious."
Your head drops into your hands. Of course. Of course heâs not backing down. Not when thereâs someone willing to bite back.
"Roninâ" you try, voice tight, but he holds up a handâshh, babyâwithout even looking at you.
"So," he drawls, like heâs savoring every second of this. "How many poor suckers you got lined up for âem? Five? Ten? You hopinâ one of âemâs got a personality, or just flippinâ through the catalogue âtil you find a pretty face?"
The line crackles again. Thenâ"You listen here, you little shitâ"
"Nah, you listen." Roninâs voice dropsâstill playful, but thereâs an edge under it now, jagged and dangerous. His smile never wavers, but the temperature in the room feels ten degrees colder. "Theyâre not goinâ on any dates. Not with your pretty little lineup, not with anyone." His head tilts, lazy, like heâs considering how much trouble he feels like starting. "Yâsee, theyâre already busyâwith 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 thatâs itâthatâs the line Roninâs been waiting for. He lifts his hand, fingers splaying across his chest like heâs been personally offended, but thereâs a gleam in his eye. Something feral. Something viciously proud.
"Oh, darlinâ didnât tell you?" His smile turns razor-sharp, voice syrup-sweet. "Iâm their worst decision. And their best one."
"YOUâ"
"Careful now," Ronin warns, mock-gentle. "Wouldnât wanna get your blood pressure up. Though, heyâif you keel over, Iâll send flowers. Maybe."
Your mouth falls open. "Ronin!"
He shrugs, but his arm wraps around your waist, tugging you against him like heâs staking a claim. "What?" he says, all innocence. "Mâbeinâ 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 thinkâtapping his chin like this is a serious question. "Well," he finally says, drawing out the word like itâs a punchline, "Iâm real good with my hands."
You choke.
He winks.
And thatâs when youâve 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, thereâs silenceâjust the hum of the garage and your heart pounding in your ears.
Then, of courseâRonin laughs.
Deep and delighted, like you just handed him the best gift heâs ever gotten.
You whirl on him, shoving at his chest. "Are you INSANE?!"
He doesnât budge. Just catches your wrists, lazy and loose, still chuckling like heâs 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, donât ya?"
Roninâs eyes narrow the second the old manâs voice blares back through the phoneâlouder, angrier, like heâs just realizing exactly who heâs dealing with.
âAH, FUCKâITâS YOU! PUNK, EMO ASS, KIDââ
Your head drops back with a groan. Oh, great.
The rant barrels on, unstoppable. âLook, kid. They told us âbout youâyeah, yeah, we didnât even mind your ass. But then we heard you donât like marriage. Christian-type stuff.â
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 shittyâbecause, of course, heâs not taking this seriously.
The old man is not amused. âLook, respectfullyâI get it. Some people donât like the religion shit, fine.â A breath hisses through the receiver. âBut this is an event. My lilâ baby is either gettinâ marriedâor gonna.â
You donât miss the way Roninâs jaw flexes at the word "baby."
âSo, pleaseâstay outta their way.â
Before you can respondâbefore Ronin can sharpen his tongue into something lethalâyour 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 onceâhe doesnât laugh.
Ronin watches youâsharp, calculatingâlike heâs 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 tightâtoo much, too fast.
You sigh, running a hand through your hair, like itâll somehow smooth out the mess in your head. But when you glance back at himâheâs still looking. Still waiting.
And his voiceâGod, his voiceâcomes out too soft. âSomethinâ on your mind, darlinâ?â
You look away.
His grin creeps back in, a little too sharp. âYâknow I love it when you get shy,â 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 swirlâloud, messy, too much. But the wordsâthe real wordsâdonât come easy. Not when itâs this.
Stillâyou reach for him. Slip your fingers into his, warm and solid and steady. Itâs too intimate for how casual youâre pretending to be, but he lets you.
You swallow hard. ââŚYou donât like these things because ofââ
But you canât finish. Your voice trips over itself, and rather than push through, you stop. Let it hang. Force yourself to smile. âItâs fine.â
Ronin doesnât move. Doesnât blink. Just stays locked on you.
You squeeze his hands a little tighter. âIâm happy. With you.â
Itâs too honest. Too raw. And his grip tightensâlike heâs daring you to take it back.
For a beatâhe says nothing. But something shifts behind his eyes, and you knowâyou just knowâthat those words are going to stick. Heâll hold onto them like a blade tucked under his skin.
You lean up, quick and light, and kiss his cheekâlingering just long enough to feel the heat rising under your lips.
âIâm gonna go home,â you murmur. âSleep well, Ronin.â
His fingers twitch in yoursâtight, like he doesnât want to let go.
But thenâhe does. And the smile he gives you as you pull away is dangerousâa promise.
âGânight, Darlin.â
The walk home is quiet. Too quiet. The kind that sticks to your skin and makes your head buzz. You told yourself it was fineâyouâre fineâbut the weight in your chest doesnât 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 donât touch it. Not tonight.
You kick off your shoes, peel off the day, and crawl into bed. The sheets are coldâtoo coldâwithout him. But you donât think about that.
Not yet.
Youâre too tired to fight your thoughts, so you let them fade. Let sleep pull you under.
Ronin doesnât sleep.
Not well, anywayânot when youâre 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 airâthick, acridâsomething to keep his hands busy while his mind spins.
That old bastardâs voice still rings in his ears. âStay outta their way.â Like heâs some stray mutt sniffing around where he doesnât belong. Like youâd 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 thatâs the problem, isnât it?
Because Roninâs been circling the drain for yearsâgrinning all the way downâand then you came along. Got your hooks in him. Made it hard to fall when youâre the one holding on.
And he likes it. Thatâs the worst part. He likes the way you look at himâlike heâs 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 youâre afraid to let go.
Itâs addictive. Youâre addictive.
And maybeâjust maybeâheâs 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 secondâhe thinks about calling you. Just to hear your voice. Just to prove youâre still there.
But he wonât. He doesnât want to spook you. Not when youâve already given him so much.
Stillâheâs 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 heâs not gonna sleep, he might as well have some fun.
You donât hear the sound of his bike pulling up outside your house around 3 AM. (Just kidding)
You donât 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 noticeâbut 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.
Heâs leaning against the doorframe like he owns it, like heâs got all the time in the world, but thereâs something heavy in his stance. Something coiled too tight. His knuckles twitch at his sides. The silver glint of rings, catching low light.
You donât ask why heâs here. You donât need to.
Your hand curls around the front of his jacketâwarm leather, worn softâand you pull. He doesnât resist. Never does, not when itâs you. Heâs 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 breathingâhisâis loud in your ears.
He smells like smoke and metal and something elseâsomething darker, sharper, like midnight and mistakes. It clings to your skin as he steps closer.
You donât bother turning on the lights.
His hands find you first. Of course they doâalways greedy, always starvingâpalms dragging against your waist, thumbs pressing against your ribs. Heavy. Like heâs reminding himself youâre 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 curlsâbarelyâand 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 bedâhis bed, when it suits himâand 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 hoverâhesitateâbefore 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. Heâs warmâtoo warmâlike heâs 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 donât.
Instead, you curl against him, and he⌠melts.
His arms slide around your waist, pulling you closeâcloserâuntil thereâs 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 youâll disappear if he lets go.
And maybe thatâs the point.
His face presses into your shoulder, too much teeth against soft skin, but itâs not rough. Not really. Not when you know how much he wants thisâneeds thisâeven when he wonât say it.
Especially when he wonât say it.
Heâs touch-starved in the way only someone like him can be. Starved for you, specifically. Like it isnât enough to watch from the edges. Like he needs to feel youâto 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 wonât ask you to stay like this. He wonât ask for anything. But you know heâd 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 heâs trying to crawl under your skin. His hair tickles your cheekâsoft, messy, humanâand for all his edges, all his sharpness, heâs warm. Solid. Yours.
His heartbeat slows against your ribs.
You stay like that. Minutes. Hours. Maybe forever.
And when his hand slides under your shirtâfingers curling against your spine, not asking, just holdingâyou donât stop him.
Heâs quiet, after that. Quieter than usual. Like maybe, just maybe, heâs finally gotten what he wanted.
Morning comes slow. Too slow, and somehow too fast.
The bedâs cold.
His warmthâhis weightâis gone, and you feel it before your eyes even open. Thereâs 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 isnât.
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 tryâfailânot to think about the way he clung to you last night. The way his hands wouldnât stop shaking, even when he had you pinned close.
You donât 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 motionsâshower, brush your teeth, dress yourself like youâre preparing for war. Your usual uniform. The world doesnât stop turning just because Ronin decided to ghost you.
Not that itâs a surprise. Itâs what he does.
Stillâyou 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 thatâthe rhythm of routine, the comfort of habitâbecause if you donât, youâll think about the way he felt in your arms. The way he held you like he wasnât sure heâd get another chance.
You donât 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 doesnât need thought.
Outside, the air is crispâtoo bright, too sharp for a morning that feels this heavyâbut you square your shoulders, lift your chin, and walk.
A jobâs a job. And yours wonât wait.
By the time you make it to the office, your face is carefully neutralâexpression 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 itâs easier than letting your mind wander.
But it does,
Slaughterhouse: Losers Very Goodâa bloodstained corner of the internet where psychos, freaks, and murder hobbyists hang out like itâs 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.
Youâre too good to him. You let him touch youâhold youâand somehow, youâre still here. Soft edges in a world full of jagged glass. He doesnât get it. Doesnât 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 heâs gonna do something for you, itâs gotta be good.
He cracks his knuckles, spins a blade between his fingers, and pulls up the first chat.
đş K9 (V):
Ronin:
sup, robo-cop.
K9:
Donât.
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:
Iâm blocking you.
Ronin:
no u arenât. u love me.
listen, if you were, hypothetically, in love with someoneâ(gross, i know)âwhat would you get âem?
K9:
âŚYou? In love?
Ronin:
hypothetical. duh.
K9:
A knife. Through the heart.
Ronin:
aw. thatâs practically a marriage proposal, k9.
but srsly. i want ideas. gimme somethinâ.
K9:
Why do you care?
Ronin:
because, steel-toes, for once in my godforsaken life, i want to be nice.
write that down.
K9:
âŚWhatever 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 youâre not the one tangled in it. Still, not useless. And if nothing else, bothering V is a highlight of his day.
Next.
đ LUCA_IS_SO_COOL:
Ronin:
sup, sunshine.
Luca:
YO DUDE. YO. YO. THE DEVIL IS IN MY DMS WHATâS GOOD
Ronin:
donât 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 whoâs 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 âEM 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 âEM RIGHT.
He closes the chat before Luca can start writing you twoâs wedding vows.
đ Angel (Angelic):
Ronin:
hey, sweetheart.
Angel:
Shouldnât 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:
câmon, sugar. help a devil out.
Angel:
Fine. Jewelryâs always a classic. But not basic. Custom. Something only you could give. Bonus points if itâs dangerous.
Ronin:
deadly and pretty. like you. iâll keep that in mind.
Angel:
Youâre welcome, loser.
Alright. Custom. Unique. That he can work with.
One last stop.
đ 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, Lucaâs 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, heâs got ideas.
hitmeuppp
goreboy:
oi, sunshine. u busy killinâ or can i bother u for a sec?
hitmeupp:
⨠goreboy in my inbox?? is it my birthday?? â¨
goreboy:
iâm the gift that keeps on givinâ, baby. donât forget it.
hitmeupp
mm, flirty today. whatâs on your wicked little mind, devil boy?
Ronin:
hypothetically⌠letâs say i wanna do somethinâ nice for someone. yâknow. romantic. cute. sweet. whatever. ideas?
hitmeupp:
đđđ
waitwaitwaitâyou?? doing something sweet?? for a special someone?? ohhh i am LIVING for this.
Ronin:
donât make it weird.
hitmeupp:
too late, babe. so, whatâs the vibe? like, do you wanna melt their heart? make âem blush? get âem to kiss you senseless? give me the deets.
Ronin:
âŚall of the above, probs.
hitmeupp:
aww, youâre adorable when youâre down bad. okay, listen up:
Custom giftâsomething only you could give. Unique. Dangerous, if youâre feelinâ spicy.
Surprise dateânot boring, tho. They like you, so they probably have a taste for the unusual.
Handwritten noteâbonus points if itâs a little unhinged. People LOVE that stuff.
Ronin:
a note? what, like âroses are red, violets are blue, iâd kill for u, baby, itâs trueâ?
hitmeupp:
LMAO okay, poet, calm down. but yeahâpersonal. even psychos like a little sentiment. and youâve got that whole devilish charm thing, use it.
Ronin:
u sayinâ iâm charming?
Misaki:
đ darling, if i didnât 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, youâre impossible. good luck wooing your lover~ đ
[Slaughterhouse Server â 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.
YâALL.
RONIN DMed ME ABOUT GIFTS.
K9:
âŚThe hell?
Angelic:
wait. hold on. pause.
hitmeuppp:
⨠omg no way â¨
Goreboy:
Liar.
LUCA_IS_SO_COOL:
BRO, I SWEAR. HE ASKED ME FOR GIFT IDEAS. LIKEâSOMETHING ROMANTIC. IâM NOT EVEN KIDDING.
Felicite:
âŚwhat's wrong about it luca?
LUCA_IS_SO_COOL:
HEâS SIMPINâ.
Angelic:
That's fine?
K9:
This is stupid. Who cares.
LUCA_IS_SO_COOL:
LMAOOOO LOOK AT THIS HATER. HE MAD âCAUSE NO ONEâS SENDING HIM LOVE LETTERS.
goreboy:
youâre gonna lose a limb, surfer boy.
hitmeuppp:
awwww the devilâs BLUSHING~
Angelic:
no because why is this actually the most interesting thing to happen all week
LUCA_IS_SO_COOL:
IâM NOT EVEN DONE. YâALL. HE DIDNâT JUST DM ME.
HE DMed EVERYONE.
K9:
......
Angelic:
Hold the fuck onâ
hitmeuppp:
đđđ 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.
HEâS SIMPINâ 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?
Heâs cool. Ice-cold. Too smooth to care.
âŚAnd yetâ
The corner of his mouth twitches. A little.
Theyâre all still going.
hitmeuppp:
if itâs NOT y/n iâm actually gonna riot.
Ronin grips his phone a little too tight. He should stop this.
He wonât.
Because somewhereâdeep downâhe kind of likes it.
Angelic:
luca omg ur gonna get us all murdered.
hitmeuppp:
worth it.
K9:
Idiots.
Felicite:
âŚThis 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:
yâall must have a death wish.
Ronin exhales sharply through his nose.
[PRIVATE GROUP CHAT â âRonin Babysitting Squadâ] (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. Weâre here to help.
Ai Hua:
đ whatâs 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 doesnât.
Eviscerator1990:
So. What happened.
goreboy:
nothing happened, grandpa.
Angelic:
thatâs not what the ENTIRE SERVER says~
Ai Hua:
đ¤
Eviscerator1990:
Be honest.
You wouldnât 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 hoverâthen, finally, he types.
goreboy:
hypothetically.
if i wanted to do⌠something. for someone.
whatâs a good gift?
Silence. Too much silence.
His stomach twists. Mistake. Huge mistake.
Ai Hua:
â¤ď¸
Eviscerator1990:
âŚIs it Y/N?
goreboy:
who else?
Vince sends three dots. The dreaded âtypingâŚâ lingers for a long, long time.
Roninâs 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:
đ good.
goreboy:
good??
Angelic:
sheâs 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.
Youâre good to him. Too good. And all his sharp little edges donât feel quite so sharp around you. Itâs annoying. Itâs addictive. Itâs yours.
goreboy:
âŚsomething theyâll 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 iâm gonna DIE.
Vince, at least, is playing it straight. Mostly.
Eviscerator1990:
Personal. Thatâs what you want. Something that means something.
Ai Hua:
đ
A love letter. Of course Ai Hua would suggest something that sappy.
Ronin scoffsâbut he doesnât immediately shoot it down. Weird.
Eviscerator1990:
Back in the day, Iâd leave my girl notes on the bodies. You knowâreal romantic.
Ai Hua:
â¤ď¸ 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 youâre lost in thought. How you scrunch your nose when youâre 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 sticksâhooks deep. A dangerous idea, curling slow and warm in his chest.
Ai Hua:
đ youâll figure it out.
He hates how much that simple, sweet little emoji makes him feel seen.
Eviscerator1990:
Donât mess it up, kid.
Eviscerator1990:
Listen, kidâwhen youâve 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:
đ
Vince, undeterred, continues typing like heâs delivering the gospel.
Eviscerator1990:
Our wedding? Best thing I ever did. No question.
goreboy:
what, was it a bloodbath?
For a second, nothing. Thenâ
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:
â¤ď¸ 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 isâ
That was my gift to her.
That hooks him. Annoying, sentimental, and probably too much sugar in his bloodstreamâbut it sticks.
goreboy:
youâre telling me the best thing you ever gave her was a wedding?
Eviscerator1990:
Yeah. âCause it meant forever.
I mean, donât get me wrong. She still scares the hell outta me.
Ai Hua:
đ
Eviscerator1990:
But thatâs how you know itâs real.
Thereâs a long pause. Ronin swears he can hear Angelic trying to choke down her squeals.
Ai Hua:
đ do you like them enough to marry?
His heart lurches.
The words hang thereâquiet, patient.
Ai Hua doesnât push. She never does. Itâs 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 doesnât know.
goreboy:
âŚkinda?
Angelic:
KIND OF??
Eviscerator1990:
What kinda answer is âkinda?â Either you want it, or you donât.
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:
đ then maybeâŚ
Do it your way.
His way.
His mouth curves. Dangerous. Wicked. Oh, he can do that.
Ai Hua:
Iâm 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 heâs all sharp corners and messy feelings. Likes him enough to keep his name on their tongue, even when itâd be easier not to.
Ai Hua:
Whatever you give them that lasts longerâ
Theyâll love it.
He blinks. The words sit heavy.
Ai Hua:
Because itâs you.
Thatâs how I feel about my husband.
Quiet. Itâs too quiet. Even Angelicâwho lives to make everything her businessâdoesnât send a single obnoxious emoji.
And Ronin?
He stares at the screen, stomach flipping, heart hammering out some rhythm he refuses to name.
He doesnât do forever. Doesnât play nice, doesnât stick around, doesnâtâ
But for you?
Yeah. Maybe he does.
goreboy:
Thanks
Eviscerator1990:
Youâre welcome.
Ai Hua:
đ good luck.
Angelic:
this is the CUTEST thing thatâs ever happened in this cursed server...
Ai Hua:
đ one more thing.
His thumb hovers over the exit button. Something about Ai Hua, thoughâyou donât ignore her when she asks.
goreboy:
what.
Ai Hua:
Itâs fine.
He frowns.
goreboy:
what is.
Ai Hua:
The way you love them.
It doesnât have to be a wedding.
It just has to be you.
He freezes.
Doesnât move. Doesnât breathe. Something sharp scrapes under his ribs.
You.
Heâs 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 donât want that. Never have.
You want him. Exactly as he isârough edges, black heart, wicked mouth.
And maybeâmaybeâthatâs 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:
đ
A beat of silence. Thenâ
goreboy:
tch. whatever.
not like i needed another family.
Ai Hua:
â¤ď¸ but you have one.
His chest aches. Stupid. Sentimental. Unbearable.
Eviscerator1990:
And heyâ
Our kids keep asking when theyâre gonna see Uncle Ronin again.
His laugh slips out before he can stop itâlow, breathy. Of course they do. Little gremlins.
goreboy:
tell âem i said to stay in school.
Ai Hua:
đ they want to be like you.
Oh, hell no.
goreboy:
no they donât.
Eviscerator1990:
One of âem tried to make a fake server last week.
Called it âSlaughterhouse Jr.â
goreboy:
i am not responsible for that.
Ai Hua:
đ you inspire them.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. This is a nightmare.
goreboy:
yâall are gonna give me grey hair.
Eviscerator1990:
Youâd still be pretty.
Angelic:
oh my god.
Ai Hua:
đ will you be okay?
For a long time, he doesnât answer.
Will he be okay? With this? With youâtaking up space in his chest, clawing your way under his skin?
He already knows the answer.
goreboy:
yeah.
And for onceâjust onceâhe means it.
goreboy:
thanks.
or whatever.
Ai Hua:
đ anytime.
Now onto, you and him
goreboy:
Hey, darlinâ.
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. Andâ
goreboy:
what, too busy for lilâ old me?
tragic.
goreboy:
bet youâre sittinâ there missinâ me, huh?
goreboy:
waitâdonât tell me. youâre makinâ heart eyes at your desk or somethinâ.
goreboy:
donât blame you. iâm a lot to miss.
Heâs annoying. Even through a screen. Even when you know heâs probably lounging somewhere, all long legs and lazy smirkâhalf-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. Thenâ
goreboy:
oh, baby.
donât tell me youâre poutinâ.
You roll your eyes.
You:
maybe.
Heâs quickâtoo quick.
goreboy:
fuck.
now i really wanna see it.
Your cheeks warm. Heâs unbearable. Always poking, always pushing. And yetâ
You:
you didnât have to leave so fast.
His next text comes slower. As if heâs thinking. You imagine him slumped in that busted leather chair in his garageâlegs 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. wouldnât want my precious toys collectinâ dust.
You:
youâre ridiculous.
goreboy:
and yet, here you are, talkinâ to me anyway.
You:
iâm soft for you, obviously.
A whole minute passes. When he finally replies, itâs slower. Something tugs beneath the teasing. Something heavier.
goreboy:
hey.
goreboy:
youâd like⌠whatever i did for you, yeah?
You blink. Where is this coming from?
You:
of course.
goreboy:
nah, i meanâ
like. if i did somethinâ stupid. youâd still like it, right?
Your lips curl. So thatâs it. The devil himself, circling the point like a shark.
You:
depends. how stupid are we talkinâ?
He sends a dramatic sigh emoji.
goreboy:
unbelievable.
here i am, barinâ my heart and soulâ
You:
pfft. heart and soul, my ass.
Still, you soften. Because under all the bravado, you can hear itâthe little twist of hesitation. And that? That gets you every time.
You:
whatever youâre scheming, yeah.
iâll like it.
because itâs 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, itâs something softerâsomething unguarded.
goreboy:
dangerous thing to say, sweetheart.
you know iâll hold you to it.
You bite your lip, warmth curling in your chest.
You:
iâm counting on it.
He doesnât answer immediately. You imagine him leaning back, teeth sinking into his lower lip, mind working a mile a minute. Because thatâs the thing with himâhe never stops thinking. Never stops wanting.
And youâyouâre the worst of it.
His brain tells him he shouldnât care so much. But his heart? His heartâs already tangled up in you.
goreboy:
sâpose iâll have to cook up somethinâ real special then.
canât have my darlin thinkinâ i donât care.
It makes your stomach flip.
You:
i never think that.
Another pause. You swear you can feel his smile through the screenâsoft, a little crooked. The kind he only ever lets you see.
goreboy:
I....see...
Uptown has an alley they call Purgatory.
It isnât pretty. Never was. A place where sunlight doesnât dare creep, where the air tastes like rust and regret. Blood dries black against the brickworkâhis blood, most days. Or someone elseâs, when heâs feeling generous. It smells like piss, garbage, and death.
A shithole. Perfect.
Thisâthisâis where Ronin Beaufort decides to propose.
Because where else? Where better? Itâs where you kissed him for the first time, after allâthe devil himself, knuckles raw from the man heâd left twitching at your feet, teeth red and grin wide. Youâd kissed him anyway. Kissed him like you meant it. Like he was something worth keeping.
And Ronin? Heâs 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 oneâs better. Messier. He takes his timeâdrags 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 heartâyour heart, darlingâand carves it deep into the brick. Wide, jagged, dripping. Personal.
When itâs done, he steps back, tilts his head.
Huh. Cute.
Heâs still admiring his work when his phone buzzes.
Angelic:
yo, goreboy, you rang?
Of course, she picks up. She always doesâhis favorite little devil with a halo, sharp-tongued and twice as nosy. And yeah, he couldâve asked anyone, but Angel? Angel gets it.
goreboy:
need a favor.
Angelic:
whatâs in it for me?
goreboy:
the eternal satisfaction of servinâ the devil?
Angelic:
pfft.
He snorts, tongue running over his teeth. Predictable.
goreboy:
fine.
order me somethinâ. rings.
Angelic:
wait.
back up.
goreboyâs proposing?
He glares at his phone like it personally offended him.
goreboy:
shut up.
Angelic:
aw, youâre getting soft.
what kind? black diamonds? skulls? molten lava straight from hell?
âFunny,â he mutters under his breath. But sheâs not wrong. Your ringâyour ring has to be perfect.
goreboy:
black. gothic. whatever screams âmarry me"
The typing bubble appears. Pauses. Thenâ
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. âChrist.â
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 heâd admit it.
goreboy:
whatever. send me the bill.
Her last message comes fastâtoo fast. He can hear the smile.
Angelic:
oh, darling.
itâs 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 allâthe heart.
Your heart.
His.
If he had one.
And if he didnât? 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 thereâs something ugly crawling under his skinâa feeling he doesnât like.
Itâs not the blood. Not the mess. Thatâs easy.
Itâs you. Itâs always you.
And the worst part? The sick, stupid, beautiful part?
He wants this.
Wants you.
He wants to keep youâruin youâfor as long as youâll let him.
His phone buzzes again. Another message from Angelâthis time with a picture.
The rings.
Sleek. Sharp. One for you, one for him. Bound in black, wrapped in silver. Yours is thinner, more delicateâbut not by much. No diamonds. No fluff. Just you and him, the way itâs always been.
Perfect.
He huffs a breath, tongue clicking against his teeth.
Yeah. Yeah, thisâll do.
Itâs almost cute, really.
If you ignore the bodies.
And the blood.
And the fact that heâs doing this the only way he knows howâmessy 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 comesâwhen he kneels, all cocky smirk and bloodstained handsâyouâll say yes.
You have to.
(And if you donât? Well. Heâs 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 darlinâ~
Your phone buzzes against the desk, and you barely glance down before his name flashes across the screen. Of course, itâs him.
you:
hey yourself. whatâs up?
goreboy:
whatâs up? tsk. rudeâcanât a guy check on his favorite little writer?
You smile, shaking your head. Always like this.
you:
oh? iâm your favorite now?
goreboy:
pfft. babe, youâve been my favorite. since day one.
donât let it get to your head, though. my heartâs fragile, yâknow.
you:
lmao, fragile?? you??
goreboy:
iâm delicate. like a flower. đš
You roll your eyes, biting back a laugh. Ridiculous.
you:
what do you want, ronin?
goreboy:
what, a man canât just miss you?
âsides⌠iâm 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:
âŚright now?
goreboy:
yeah.
you:
where?
goreboy:
purgatory.
Your brows furrow. Heâs teasing. He has to be.
you:
lmao. youâre joking, right?
goreboy:
when do i ever joke, darlinâ?
A pause. Thenâ
goreboy:
seriously. come by.
just for me.
You bite your lip, warmth blooming in your chest. Thisâthisâis why youâre in too deep.
you:
fine. whatâs the occasion?
goreboy:
pfft. gotta have a reason?
but if you must knowâŚ
Another buzzâ
goreboy:
maybe i got somethinâ for you.
Your heart stutters.
you:
something?
what kind of âsomethingâ?
goreboy:
youâll see, babe.
gotta keep a little mystery alive, yeah?
You roll your eyesâfondly, though. Always like this.
you:
okay, fine. any special requests?
goreboy:
oh, now weâre talkinâ.
dress in black for me, sweetheart. if you wanna, anyway.
You tilt your head, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Heâs playing, but thereâs something beneath itâsomething serious.
you:
you like gothic, huh?
goreboy:
on you? hell yeah.
you:
good. âcause 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 hauntingâa place you want to hate but canât. Your heels click softly against the cracked pavement, the air thick with the scent of blood, metal, and something distinctly him. Itâs always him. Even when heâs nowhere to be seen, his shadow lingers like an inescapable ghost.
Tonight, though, thereâs something different.
Your black dress clings to you like a second skin, just the way he likes it. You donât want to think about why your heartâs racing, or why you dressed up like you were meeting someone important. But itâs himâyou know itâs always him.
And when you turn the corner, your breath catches in your throat.
A heart.
Not just any heartâA 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 couldnât help but make a mess. But in the center, etched with the brutal precision only he could manage, is your name.
Itâs wrong. Itâs so wrong.
And yetâyour pulse flutters. Your stomach twists in that awful, dizzying way it only does with him.
A soft metallic scrape echoes behind youâthe unmistakable sound of a crowbar dragging across the pavement. Your skin prickles, and you donât have to turn around to know who it is.
âDamn,â his voice purrs, smooth and sinful. âLook at you, sweetheart.â
When you do turn, heâs 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 lightâstudded, spiked, with a pair of rusty scissors sticking haphazardly through the shoulder. A red âXâ pin glints beside it, careless and dangerous. Beneath, his black t-shirt clings to himâfaded 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.
AndâGodâthe piercings. Silver glints along his ears, across his tongue when he grins, and the delicate sword pendant resting against his throat? Unfair.
Heâs looking at you like heâs starving. Like youâre already his, and tonight, heâs reminding you of it.
âYou came,â he murmurs, dragging the crowbar behind him as he approaches. âKnew you couldnât resist me, darlinâ.â
Your throat tightens as he stops in front of youâtowering, all six-foot-one inches of bloodstained disaster. Thereâs 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 yoursâgentle, almost. His touch is rough, warm, and when he lifts your hand toward his mouth, your heart stutters.
âA devilâs gotta mark his territory, huh?â he hums, lips brushing against your knuckles.
And thenâhe kisses your ring finger. Soft, deliberateâlike it means something. Like it means everything.
Your face burns, and you try to pull your hand away, but he doesnât let go. His thumb traces slow circles over your skin, almost absentmindedlyâlike heâs savoring the feel of you. Always touching. Always wanting.
âWhatââ your voice catches, breathless. âWhat is this, Ronin?â
He grins, sharp and wicked. âYou like it?â he asks, tipping his head toward the bloodied heart. âTold ya I had something for you, babe. Canât say Iâm not romantic.â
Romantic.
The messâthe bloodâthe sheer violence of itâthis is how he shows it. Twisted, wrong, and so perfectly him. And the worst part? You love it. You love how much heâs willing to ruin things for you.
âYouâre insane,â you whisper, but your fingers curl against his palm like you donât mean it.
âAnd yet,â he drawls, dipping closerâhis lips ghosting against the shell of your ear, âhere you are.â
You shiver.
He steps back just enough to meet your gaze, head tilted, that cocky tilt to his lipsâbut something softer lingers underneath. Something unsure.
âTell me, sweetheart,â his voice drops, smooth and low. âWhatever I do⌠you still gonna want me?â
The words shouldnât hit you as hard as they do. Because underneath all the bravadoâbeneath the teasing and the devil-may-care attitudeâheâs asking if youâll stay. If youâll keep coming back to him.
If youâre his.
And you should be scared. You should. But instead, you brush your fingers against his jawâsoft, almost too soft.
âOf course I do, idiot,â you murmur, and his breath hitchesâjust barely. âI always want you.â
For once, he doesnât have a comeback. Just stares at you like he canât quite believe it. Like youâre something precious.
And when he kisses youâslow and bruising, like a promise..
His arms curl around your waistâpossessive, like he doesnât 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.
âSorry, lover,â he drawls, smooth as silk but sharp enough to cut, âyou canât look back now.â
The neon red light hums around you both, staining everything it touchesâcasting the blood-slick walls in a glow that shouldnât be beautiful, but it is. Because itâs him. Because itâs you. The blood, the gutsâit all looks like a twisted love letter only he could write.
And the heartâstill dripping on the wall with your name carved into its centerâfeels like a vow.
A promise heâs 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 itâs the look in his eyes that makes your heart twist. Something dark. Something dangerous. And God, something thatâs only for you.
âPretty, ainât it?â he muses, like the whole bloodstained mess is just a casual art project. But thereâs something else in his toneâsomething softer when he adds, âMade it special, darlinâ⌠just for you.â
You should say somethingâmaybe call him out for how utterly insane this isâbut your tongue feels too heavy, trapped between your teeth as you try to process everything.
Itâs a lot. Heâs a lot.
And yet, your body betrays youâpressing 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 gravityâbut thereâs no escaping it now.
He tilts your chin up with one gloved finger, lips curving into a slow, wicked smile. âWhatâs wrong, sweetheart?â he teases, âCat got your tongue? Or are you just too busy fallinâ for me?â
You try to roll your eyes. Try. But his touch burns, and when he lifts your hand to his mouthâagainâyou forget how to breathe.
His lips brush against your knucklesâslow, deliberateâbefore they linger on your ring finger. Itâs so soft you barely feel it at first. Just the faintest pressure. Something warm. Something cold.
And when he pulls back, thereâs a glint of silver wrapped around your finger.
Your breath stutters. Your heart stops.
A ring.
Not dainty. Not soft. Itâs himâjagged edges, blackened silver with the faintest blood-red inlay spiraling like a twisted promise. Itâs heavy against your skin, unapologetic in its meaning.
And you didnât even notice him slipping it on.
Your head snaps up, eyes wide, but heâs already watching youâwaiting.
âRoninââ your voice catches, and you donât even know what youâre about to ask. What this means.
His grin widens, devilish and sharp. âWhatâs the matter, babe?â he coos, as if he didnât just slide a ring on your finger like it was nothing. âThought you liked surprises.â
You blinkâonce, twiceâyour 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.
âFits perfect,â he hums, pleased with himself. âGuess that means youâre mine, huh?â
Your heart does something awful and traitorous in your chest.
Heâs too much. Too close. And youâyouâre letting him do this.
Still, your fingers twitch beneath hisâtesting the weight of the ring, the feel of it like a brand. Permanent.
âYouââ Your voice trembles despite yourself. âYou didnât even ask.â
His laughter spills out, low and rough. âBaby, if I asked, would you reallyâve said no?â
You hate how easily heâs right.
The gloved hand on your back slides upâtracing the delicate curve of your spineâuntil it rests against your neck. He tilts your head back, just enough to force you to meet his eyes. Dark. Intense. Yours.
âYouâre not mad, are ya?â he murmurs, voice softer now, like thereâs actually a part of him that cares. ââCause I can take it back if you donât want it. If you donât want⌠me.â
His mask slipsâjust a littleâand your stomach twists at the vulnerability he tries so hard to hide.
But you donât 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 ringâcool against your skinâand it should feel too much. Too fast. Too everything.
But all it feels is right.
âIdiot,â you murmur, and his grip tightens like heâs terrified youâll slip away. âIâd never take it off.â
The relief in his expression is palpableâmasked by a cocky smirk, ]
His lips barely part from yours when he whispers itâlow, rough, like a vow dragged from somewhere deep inside him.
"Promise you," he murmurs, the words brushing warm against your mouth, "this is forever⌠or âtil one of us dies."
And just like that, your brain short-circuits.
Your breath hitches. Your body freezes. Youâre too stunned to speakâbecause, what the hell?
Forever. Forever with himâthe 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 thereâs no teasing lilt to his voice. No wicked little joke behind his words.
He means it.
Ronin means it.
And for a heartbeatâjust oneâyou canât process it. Canât wrap your head around the weight of what heâs just given you.
The silence stretches. Grows heavy between you. And for once, heâs the quiet one.
When you lift your gaze to his, wide and unguarded, his expression is almost⌠shy.
Ronin BeaufortâThe Butcher, the devil himselfâlooks like a goddamn kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
His lips twitch, like he wants to smirk but canât quite manage it. His hands fidget slightly on your waistârestless energy bottled under his skin. And his eyes? Pitch-black and wide open, like heâs 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 youâll stick it to the fridge.
"Uhâ" His voice cracks just a littleâa littleâand you swear you catch the faintest flush creeping up his neck. "Youâre⌠gonna say somethinâ, right?"
You blink at him. Still speechless.
He fumbles. Actually fumblesâone hand pulling back to rub at the back of his neck as he huffs, "I meanâcâmon, babe, this is kinda the part where you either kiss me back or tell me to go to hell."
The confidenceâthe usual devil-may-care arroganceâis still there, but itâs softer around the edges. Fragile in a way he never lets anyone see.
And youâoh, youâre doomed.
Your heart does a weird little flip in your chest as you stare at him, still clutching onto your waist like youâll vanish if he lets go. Heâs so muchâtoo muchâbut under all that swagger and bloodlust, heâs just⌠Ronin.
Your Ronin.
The idiot who drags you into alleys for romantic blood-and-guts displays. The devil who slid a ring on your finger like it was nothing. The man whoâno matter how sharp his tongue isâwould burn the world down for you.
âWait,â you finally manage to choke out, the word soft and breathless. âDid you⌠are you actually serious?â
His face scrunches up like you just personally insulted his entire aesthetic. âBabe. Did I stutter?â He lifts your hand again, thumb brushing against the cool metal band still snug on your finger. âOr do I gotta get on one knee to spell it out?â
And oh, heâs pouting.
The Butcherâslaughterhouse king, nightmare in leather and spikesâis full-on pouting.
You bite down on your lip, hard, trying to hold back the laugh bubbling up in your chest. He noticesâof course, he doesâand immediately narrows his eyes.
âDonât you dare.â His grip on your waist tightens in warning, but the corner of his mouth twitches. âI just poured my goddamn heart out, and youâre laughinâ at me?â
And suddenlyâyou canât hold it back.
The laugh escapesâlight, breathless, overwhelmedâbecause what else are you supposed to do when your psychotic, bloodstained boyfriend is acting like a needy kid who just gave you the worldâs most chaotic proposal?
His brows knit together in mock offense. âUnbelievable,â he grumbles, though his tone is softerâfondâas he watches you melt into laughter. âI give you my heart on a bloodied silver platter, and this is the thanks I get?â
âIâm not laughing at youââ you try to protest, still breathless. âItâs just⌠youâre⌠cute.â
The second the word leaves your mouth, his whole body jerks.
âCute?!â He repeats it like youâve committed a personal crime. âI just did the most metal, romantic shit on the planet, and you call meââ He drops his head against your shoulder, groaning. ââcute. Jesus Christ, Iâm losinâ my edge.â
You wrap your arms around him without even thinkingâpulling him closer, fingers curling into the back of his leather jacket. He smells like smoke, leather, and something distinctly himâsomething you could drown in if youâre not careful.
And in the middle of the bloodstained alley, wrapped in his arms, you realize thereâs no escape. Not from thisânot from him.
And, God help you, you donât want one.
âHey, Ronin?â you whisper softly against his neck.
âHmm?â His voice is quieter nowâhopeful, like heâs 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. âIâm not taking it off,â you promise. âEver.â
For a split second, heâs still. Frozen. Like he doesnât quite believe it.
And thenâheâs kissing you again.
The world could burn, and you wouldnât careânot when heâs in front of you like this. Eyes blacker than sin, lips swollen from kissing you like heâs starving, and hands gripping your waist like youâre the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
But right now, heâs the fragile one.
Your devilâloud, reckless, always too muchâis 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 handâcool metal, heavy with meaningâbefore you slowly reach for his. His handsârough, calloused, stained in ways that canât be washed cleanâtremble 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. "Itâs only fair I make you mine, too."
His breath catches. He doesnât say a wordâdoesnât even twitchâjust 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. Heâs yours now. Yours in the same way youâve always been his.
And when you speak againâvoice barely above a whisperâitâs not for show. Not a tease. Just the truth, laid bare between you.
âIâll love you forever, Ronin Beaufort.â
Something cracks in his expressionâsomething wild and vulnerable and so, so real.
And youâre not done.
âIâm happy,â you admit, voice trembling just a little. âHappy I met you. Happy I get thisâus.â You pause, and thereâs this ache in your chest when you smile, soft and almost shy. âMaybe itâll be destructive. Maybe itâll last forever. I donât care how it ends, Ronin⌠I just want it with you.â
His grip on your waist tightensâdesperateâlike heâs afraid youâll slip through his fingers if he lets go.
And you donât. 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:
âI love you, Ronin Beaufort.â
For one breathless moment, he doesnât react.
And thenâhe moves.
He crashes into you, mouth slanting over yours with bruising intensity, like heâs trying to brand those words into your skinâinto your bones. Like he wants to crawl inside your heart and never leave.
Itâs messy, overwhelming, and so perfectly himâand you give yourself to it completely.
His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against his chest as he devours youâsharp teeth grazing your bottom lip, a low growl curling from the back of his throat like heâs trying to consume you from the inside out.
When he finally pulls backâjust enough to breatheâhis lips hover over yours, and his voice is wrecked.
âYouâre a fuckinâ idiot.â
The words are rough, but his hands tremble where they hold you. âWhy would you love someone like me?â
Your heart squeezes, and you donât even hesitate.
âBecause youâre you.â
And, for once, heâs speechless.
No snark. No teasing. Just the weight of your confession sinking into his bonesâbinding you together in a way no bloodstained vow ever could.
He drops his forehead against yours, breathing hard, voice softer than youâve ever heard it. âYou better be sure, sweetheart. âCause youâre stuck with me now.â
Your fingers tangle in the chains hanging from his jacket as you grin. âI wouldnât want it any other way.â
His lips barely ghost over yours, teasing, waiting, giving you a chance to breatheâbut you donât take it. You canât. Because then he kisses you.
And God, he kisses you like he means it.
Like heâs 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 heâs afraid youâll slip away if he lets go. Like he needs to hold on just to make sure youâre still real.
Itâs slow and deepâno rush, no hesitationâjust pure possession.
Your heart pounds. Your fingers tangle in the chains on his jacket, desperate to keep your balance because heâs overwhelming. He always is.
By the time he finally pulls back, youâre breathlessâdazedâbarely clinging to reality as he huffs out a quiet, wicked laugh.
Thenâhe grins. Sharp and smug, eyes flashing with something wild.
"Oh, that old man wonât shut up about how weâre not married, huh?" He snickers, tapping a gloved finger against the ring on your hand. "Guess you better show it off, sweetheart. Be loud ân proud about itârub it in his face."
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