I have a little high school story for them that I imagine recently (that kinda goes with those two drawing) :
(Context for this idea: they were friends and really close in high school, it's only when they started living with edd and matt that their friendship began to fall apart)
One day Tord decided to get a present for Tom 16 birthday. The gift is a new nose bridge piercing to replace the black one Tom already had.
The one he gifted was sliver and when Tom got it he immediately put it on to show Tord. Since that day, Tom never took it off.
Well...that's not entirely true.
The day Tord left him, Edd and Matt, Tom decided to get his bridge piercing off and swear to never put it back on. ( he never did and he also never put any other piercing on his nose bridge)
Its really not much hehe and there is no real thinking behind this idea but I think sentimental piercing could be a good little sad teen story for them :) its cute and really sad in a way
Ronin x murder buddy reader perchance..? (I AM SOSOSOSO SORRY IF IM FLOODING YOUR INBOX TOO MCUH 😭😭 I RLLY LOVE YOUR WRITING. MAKE SURE TO TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF THOO!!)
OMG NO PROBLEM YOU CAN REQUEST STUFF WHENEVER!!! (◍•ᴗ•◍) I'm not sure if you were going for a more sidekick thing but I think a partners in crime typa situation is cute!!
Ronin x Reader: Partners in Crime
The blood was still warm when you took his hand.
Not a romantic gesture. A practical one. He had reached across the body, this latest body, this still-damp canvas of a man who had deserved far less than the artistry you had both afforded him, and offered his palm as though assisting you over a puddle on a civilized street. You took it. You stepped over the ruin. You did not look down.
This was the choreography you had built together: precise, unspoken, devastating in its efficiency. He killed with the exuberance of a child at play. You killed with the composure of a surgeon at work. Between the two of you, the results were something awful and symmetrical and altogether undeniable.
---
You had met at the scene of someone else's atrocity.
A warehouse. A body. A mutual interest in the macabre details that ordinary investigators overlooked: the specific angle of the laceration, the deliberate placement of the wound, the unmistakable signature of someone who considered violence a vocation rather than an impulse. He was crouched beside the deceased with the casual reverence of a parishioner in a pew. You were standing at the perimeter with the quiet attentiveness of a scholar in an archive.
He looked up. You looked down.
"Admiring the craftsmanship?" he asked.
"Evaluating it," you corrected.
His grin was immediate and incandescent and entirely unperturbed by the corpse between you. "And your evaluation?"
"Sloppy. The cervical incision was hesitant. The perpetrator wanted the act to appear confident, but the depth is inconsistent. Second-guessed himself midway through."
He stared at you for a long, motionless second. Then he rose to his feet, brushed the knee of his trousers, and extended his hand; not for shaking, but for presenting, as though offering you the entire crime scene as a gift.
"I'm going to keep you," he said.
You did not shake his hand. You did, however, follow him out of the warehouse.
That had been sufficient.
---
The partnership established itself with the natural momentum of two rivers converging. He was chaos given form: loud where you were silent, theatrical where you were surgical, conspicuous where you were invisible. He favored bludgeoning and blade. You preferred poison and suffocation.
Together, you were catastrophic. Together, you were complete.
He selected the targets with the enthusiasm of a curator assembling an exhibition. You planned the executions with the rigor of an architect drafting blueprints. He provided the spectacle. You ensured the absence of evidence. The division of labor was elegant, equitable, and profoundly satisfying to you both.
"We complement each other," he announced one evening, perched on the counter of your kitchen while you cleaned the implements of the evening's work. His horned beanie was askew. A faint trace of red decorated his jaw like a misplaced cosmetic. "I'm the thunder. You're the silence after."
"No you're the noise," you amended. "I'm the calculation that makes the noise survivable."
"Same thing, baby. Just prettier words."
---
He was devoted to you in the manner of a man who had never before encountered a reason for devotion and was therefore terrible at its administration. He was obsessed. He showed his allegiance through excess: through gifts left on your doorstep with the frequency and solemnity of offerings at a shrine, through the specific and painstaking way he memorized your preferences and repetitions, through the fact that he had killed three people who had inconvenienced you and had not thought to mention it until you noticed the newspaper headlines.
"They were rude to you," he said, as though this were explanation enough.
"They were a barista who gave me the wrong order."
"Consistently, darling. Consistently and without remorse."
You did not argue. You had learned that his logic operated on a frequency that defied conventional frequency, and that your disapproval only ever strengthened his resolve.
Instead, you cleaned his tools for him. You organized his supplies. You sat beside him in the aftermath of your shared endeavors and pressed a cool cloth to the sweat at his temple while he caught his breath and grinned at the ceiling like a man who had just witnessed something divine.
---
There were evenings of stillness, too. Rare and precious and deliberately cultivated. Evenings where the door remained locked and the curtains stayed drawn and the two of you existed in the simple domesticity of a shared space. He sprawled across your sofa with his head in your lap, your fingers working through his chopped hair while some inane program flickered across the television, his eyes half-closed and his breathing slow and even and utterly unguarded.
He was beautiful in these moments. Not the calculated beauty of his performance, not the sharp and theatrical cockiness he wielded like a weapon, but something rawer and more exposed. Something that looked almost fragile.
You never told him this. He would despise the observation.
You suspected he knew anyway.
"You're thinking too loud," he murmured once, without opening his eyes.
"I'm thinking at a perfectly reasonable volume."
"You're thinking about how soft I am right now. How tender." He said the word with mock revulsion, but he did not move from your lap. "You're cataloguing my vulnerabilities. You're a menace."
"I'm stroking your hair."
"Same thing."
---
The count climbed. You did not keep your own tally; he kept it for both of you, etched into a leather journal he carried with the solemnity of a liturgical text, each entry annotated with date, method, and a small notation regarding your contribution. He was meticulous about this in a way he was meticulous about nothing else.
"You're entry six hundred and seventy-three," he told you once, flipping to a blank page at the back of the journal.
"I haven't died."
"Exactly. You're the one I didn't kill. The exception. The singular, unprecedented, cosmically significant deviation from the pattern." He tapped the pen against the empty page. "I'm writing you in permanent ink. Indelible. You understand? You are the only entry in this book that will never be crossed out. Well... for now at least."
You looked at him—this strange, unhinged, magnificent creature with his smudged makeup and his horned crown and his appalling capacity for both violence and tenderness... and you felt the full weight of what he was offering settle into your chest like something warm and permanent and terrifying.
"Write neatly," you said.
He scoffed but did it anyway.
---
The world saw a killer in a horned beanie who called himself the Devil and left devastation in his wake like a comet trailing ruin.
You saw the man who reached for your hand across every body. Who aligned his stride to match yours. Who had rewritten the architecture of his entire existence to accommodate your presence and called it the easiest renovation he had ever undertaken.
He was the abyss, and you had walked willingly to its edge, and instead of falling, you had built a home there in the dark beside him.
It was, by any estimation, an elegant partnership.
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