₊♱the devil's butcher♱₊

You knew testosterone was going to make you horny, you knew it was going to make you unreasonably horny. You'd read the posts, you'd seen the memes, Ronin himself had snickered while giving you your first injection, making some remark about how you were horny enough without it, and that you're in for one hell of a ride before it evens out.

You'd rolled your eyes at him and said, 'yeah right, as long as you're the one giving the rides I'm sure I'll be fine.' You weren't worried, your sex life is good- really good, so what if you have to bang it out a couple more times a week?

'What a stellar review. Careful now, or you're gonna give me a big head, darlin',' Ronin had drawled, the look on his face amused like he was in on some joke you didn't quite get yet.

'Like your ego isn't big enough already,' you'd snickered and that was that.

…Or so you'd thought. A couple of jokes and the assumption that you'd be able to have sex a couple more times a week and you'd thought you were prepared. The idea makes you laugh now.

No one could be prepared for this. It's like your entire body has been rewired so that your eyes are connected directly to your dick. Every little thing sets you off: stupid sexy perfume adverts that you used to laugh at on T.V, attractive strangers on the street, and one memorable time- the vacuum on a teleshopping advert- which was not your fault!

It sucked too well and unfortunately that was all it took to get your brain thinking about other things and types of sucking and also maybe what the vaccuum would look like if it was anthropomorphised into a human and then you were shoving your hand down your pants and pointedly ignoring the fact that it was a vacuum cleaner that had turned you on in the first place while thinking about it.

…You're taking that last one to your grave.

The absolute worst culprit though is Ronin himself, he's been driving you absolutely crazy and the worst part is that he isn't even trying. It's all the damn time. Literally everything sets you off, both things that would normally turn you on but also things that are categorically not sexy.

You were expecting it when he stepped out the shower with wet hair and the strands were sticking to his face and neck, stray water droplets rolling down his chest, towel slung low on his hips turned you on; you were expecting it slightly less when the cuteness of his sleep-puffy face when you woke in the morning and rolled over to face him for the first time also turned you on, thoughts near immediately slipping into how soft, wet and inviting his open mouth looks when he's drooling on the pillows dead asleep.

And it just doesn't stop, it's the little stretch of midriff that gets exposed anytime he stretches his arms above his head; the sharp corner of his grin when he's feeling particularly proud, the way his shirt settles around his pecs when he's leaning back on the couch watching one of his slasher movies, every. single. time. he says your name, sometimes just because he's looking at you.

It's hell. You're going through hell. You're a little worried your dick is going to fall off from chaffing with how much action it's been getting and with the way Ronin is stretched out like a big cat on the couch, reaching for the remote with his t-shirt riding up his stomach, you're probably about to chafe it some more.

Scratch that. You're definitely going to chafe it some more because just glanced over his shoulder at you with an expression that says the fucker knows what he's doing to you- what he has been doing to you. Oh he is going to get it. You're not sure in which way yet he's going to get it, but he's going to get it.

Probably the sex way. Yeah, no, definitely the sex way.

XXXXXXXXX

on another note i couldnt find this in my asks bc id put it in drafts bc i started typgin here but then moved to my writing doc bc writing here is stupid even if its short (ive lost many a drabble to this when i used to run an obey me headcanon account bc tumblr didnt have an autosave feature 5 years ago)

A second passes, and Ronin lowers the needle.

"Wait! wait, wait. Stop rushing me."

"It's almost sunset." Ronin gives a distant look to the window behind you, in response, you whip your head around to catch the fall of the blazing star.

The second your eyes connect with the very much still far up in the sky sun, a stabbing sensation pulses through your thigh. You seethe, instinctively trying to jump up. Alas, Ronin was gripping onto your torso with a free arm, pushing the thick consistency of testosterone into you.

The way he glared up at you was oddly intimate, and you'd feel flustered if the weird feeling of dense sap wasn't actively being injected into you.

"How hard was that?" He hums teasingly, sliding the needle out of you. A droplet of blood rolls down the length of your leg, and you're too frazzled to notice the way Ronin not so subtly licks at the bead of red.

As you gather your bearings, he rubs the area that was injected with one hand, holding a cotton bud to your wound with the other.

You give him a curious look.

"Helps the oil spread." He mumbles out, answering your unasked question before halting his massaging.

"..Thanks."

"Anyday. It's a gift to stab you without you actually dying."

And you try to scowl at him, to find his words offensive. But you can't help but feel endearment bubble in your guts. Oh, how far you've fallen.

𝜗ৎ Ronin often shares his experiences with you - giving you advice, tips and whatnot.

𝜗ৎ Always there to validate you in the most shrewd ways possible; it's so subtle you only notice hours later thinking back.

𝜗ৎ Ronin takes anyone misgendering/unvalidating you extremely seriously. If it's in any way purposeful, he's already planned their disposal.

𝜗ৎ Insists on doing your shots, not only because he wants to stab you, but he likes being apart of your journey

You learned fast that it's best to let him look. It's not like you have anything to hide; your biggest secret is his biggest secret. Since you started dating in earnest, Ronin has completely changed your computer setup. 

He'd laughed his ass off when you told him you didn't know what a VPN was. But now you're a lot more secure and less likely to accidentally leak something important when you save another sunset picture to your sunsets folder. 

It's nice to have him around. You're certainly never bored if Ronin is there to entertain you. 

This time, however, you're spending the weekend at his place. You've seen some of it in the background of your video calls, but you've never actually been over. Never journeyed into his most private residence. 

You're trying to tone down how excited you are about the whole thing, but you're really fucking excited. He gave you the address and told you to text when you got there. 

It took a bit more work to find the entrance than you expected. He's in a basement unit, which is already tricky to locate, but the door for it is hidden in a back alley with almost no light. You're pretty sure he didn't come get you just to watch you struggle finding the door. He's probably got a camera in the alley somewhere, too busy laughing to help you. 

You flip off the alley in multiple directions just in case and adjust the strap of your backpack as you shoot him a text: I'm here.

No one comes to the door. 

Your phone dings: Did you bring food? 

As if he didn't already know. There's no way he doesn't have a camera somewhere, even if you can't see it. Glancing down at the bag in your hand, full of the foods the two of you always order, you sigh. It's going to get cold. 

Maybe you should flip off his hidden camera again. You text back: Nah, I ate it already. 

He doesn't reply, but a moment later the metal door opens and Ronin stands in the doorway. Every time you see him, your heart seems to pick up, stomach filling with moths. The thrill of your first encounter starting up all over again.

He's in a ripped black and white sweater and baggy shorts, hair in disarray around his head. He reaches out and snags the bag from your loose grip. "You're full of shit." 

With a grin, you follow him into the low-lit hallway. He snaps the door closed, flipping the three locks. This doesn't seem to be his place but instead a back hallway for the building it's attached to. You pass a door labeled boiler room and then turn the corner to another two doors. 

Ronin unlocks one with a key, slipping it back into his pocket. It leads to a stairwell lit with a neon red glow, with music playing from inside. 

He looks over his shoulder at you, eyes reflecting the red neon below, "This is the second death, the lake of fire. Welcome to Hell." 

Without waiting, he sets down the stairs, and you, like a moth to a flame—as it's been since the beginning—are a magnet to follow. There's an energy to Ronin that started this whole thing for you. Something inescapable. 

Joining the server, even knowing your life was in danger. But everyone was so kind in their own way, and it got easier and easier with time to see their views, to discount the lives of others you didn't know. Now you're one of them, not a killer, but certainly complicit. 

So you follow, because how could you not follow? He's only a few steps down, waiting for you, stopping to close up the entrance. More locks, even a metal crossbar that slots into place before he heads downward. 

The narrow cement stairwell leads into a comfortably warm room. The room you've seen the most. It's set up pretty much like a studio apartment. There's a bed in the corner. His desk setup: four monitors, whatever the fuck he needs that many for. Oh, there's the security footage you knew he had. 

There are two camera angles for the alley, one for the hall, and one right outside the door you just passed. 

There's more you couldn't see from the webcam: a tiny kitchen area in the corner and a door leading into a bathroom. The room is lit with a mixture of red neon and miscellaneous low lights. 

It's incredibly cozy and the warmest basement you've ever been in. You spot the space heater in the corner and drop your backpack to the ground by his desk, immediately reaching for your sweatshirt, pulling it off over your head. You pause once it's off, hovering in uncertainty on where to put it. 

Ronin eyes you and snorts, "The fuck you think I am, Mother Mary? Just toss it somewhere." 

You gingerly rest it over the back of his computer chair, which gives you a zing. Your things in his space, you in his space. It's still hard to believe that you've ended up here. 

It's not where you thought you would end up. Somehow you can't imagine your life anywhere else. It's not like you haven't been alone in a room together. He's been in your home, in your bed. You've been fucked so good you could barely get out of bed the next day. 

But there's something about being here in this space knowing that no one else has been. He's told you before he's never let anyone in. The handful of times he's met the others in person, it's always been in a location they all agree to, and back with Angel, he would visit her and not the other way around.

You're going to the next meetup. It's displayed on your calendar in bright red ink, one bold-lined skull. You mark off each day in methodical impatience. 

This is special, even if he's playing it off just like you are, in a game of cat and mouse once again. Neither of you is saying what you truly feel. His sweater is cropped short; when he lifts his arms over his head, it reveals a thin line along his stomach. 

You forget about the takeout. 

With a shuffle, you kick off your shoes, leaving them against the wall before the rest of your clothes are shed. Ronin watches you out of the corner of his eye, feigning neutrality before your boxer briefs are ditched like all the rest. 

The two of you could get sappy and talk about how much this means, or you could show him. You walk to his bed, collapsing in the pile of soft blankets and pillows, tossing your arms up over your head in surrender. 

He blinks at you, head cocking to the side. His tongue dips out along his bottom lip. You like the way it feels when he stares at you like this, as if he's dissecting every sliver of skin. The scars along your chest, the tattoos you've gotten, and the hair that's started to recently appear on your stomach. 

"Impressive," He murmurs.

You spread your legs. "What is?" 

Ronin yanks his sweater off. "That the Devil can be tempted." 

You wake up to a weight draped over your stomach. Ronin's face is pressed into your arm, face smoothed in sleep, lips slightly parted. He's naked minus the necklace he didn't bother to take off. The blankets kicked off to rest around your feet. 

Heating up your place like this would cost more than you can afford, but you like how warm it is. Like you've stepped into a different world. It feels surreal here with all the posters that coat the walls and ceiling, the red glow, and the feeling of Ronin curled against you.

You look up, eyeing some of the posters above you, and get caught on a printed photograph placed among all the others. It's a screenshot from one of your video calls. You, in mid-laugh, leaned back in your computer chair. 

He's got a picture of you above his bed. You smile, reaching up a hand to press through his hair. Ronin jerks, eyes snapping open. His body relaxes the moment he realizes what's touched him, and he goes supine again.

"Sorry." You whisper and continue running your hand through his hair. 

He groans, stretching out against you like a cat. "S'fine." 

Instead of replying, you find yourself looking up at that picture of yourself again. Normally you hate seeing pictures of yourself, never want to look in mirrors or see videos. For some reason this one you don't mind. 

There's a sliver of the real you in it. 

This is your second month taking testosterone. You know that changes don't happen overnight, but still sometimes you find yourself wishing you had a little more to show for it than a couple stomach hairs and a slight drop in your voice. 

But that's greed. 

Envy? 

You're not envious of Ronin. You don't look at his body and covet it for yourself, not in that kind of way. You covet him; you want to trace your tongue along every groove of his skin, but it's his skin, not yours. It's his changes, his scars, his hair, his voice. 

You just want a little more of that for yourself, except you're fucking terrified of the shots. A lifelong phobia of needles means it takes forty-five minutes of nerves to do one ten-minute process. Repeat that every week for the last five weeks. 

At this point you've tried all of the simple tricks. Ice, music, wiggling the skin. But when it comes to putting the needle into your skin, your body locks up. You can't do it. In the end you manage it, and there's always more blood than there needs to be, and you're pretty sure all the testosterone leaks out of you anyways. 

At least that's how it feels, and the knot in your stomach makes you uncomfortable. And the itching, the fucking itching, is the worst. For days, unbearable itching. 

Today is your shot day. 

As of right now you have no fucking clue how you're going to manage it in Ronin's bathroom. You don't want him to know you're having a hard time. 

There are days when you worry if you show too much weakness, he'll get bored of you. It's not even a worry for your life anymore; if he kills you, so be it. The idea of trying to live without all that you've gained sounds far worse than death.

There's no going back to a normal life after this. 

Better to get it over with when he's half asleep; maybe he won't notice how long you spend hiding in his bathroom with your headphones, shaking like a leaf. 

Slipping out from beneath him, you grab your underwear and backpack. He doesn't bother to open his eyes, instead only draws one of the blankets up and hides his face in the pillow you left behind.

Readying yourself, you close the bathroom door, flicking the flimsy lock on it. There's also a much fancier lock on this one, but you don't bother with that. Flipping the toilet seat down, you rest your bag against it and pull on your underwear. 

There's enough space on the counter to get everything set up, and so you go through each of your practiced motions. Step by step. 

Put on your headphones. Start blaring music. Wash your hands. Gather your equipment: testosterone, syringe, draw needle, injection needle, sterile wipe, cotton ball, bandaid. You remove everything from its packaging, neatly stacking it in the plastic container you brought. 

All of this is easy. You can do this without shaking. 

Next you twist on your draw needle. Use the wipe on the top of the bottle and your stomach. Fill the syringe. 0.3. Flick it to get the air bubbles out. Cap the needle, change needles. 

This is the part where it all goes wrong. You sit on the edge of the toilet, feeling the cold porcelain against your thighs. The music is slamming through you, lyrics you know, but your hand is shaking so bad you're worried you'll accidentally stab yourself. 

Giving up for a second, you rest your wrist down on your knee. Breathe. Fuck, just breathe. You stay like that in suspended fear for too long. 

A barely heard thunk. 

You can do this. You can do this. 

You hear your name. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

With an awkward motion you knock the headphones to your shoulders. Ronin says your name again.

"... yes?" 

"You've been in there for like thirty fucking minutes." He complains. 

"Sorry. I thought ... you were asleep." You call back aware as you say it that that makes it sound more suspicious. 

There's a pause, and you think he might have wandered off back to bed. It's not like you're making an escape; there's no window in here. The doorknob wiggles. "Open the door." 

You know that change in his voice; it's lost some of the playful tone. Sharper, higher pitch. A sliver of the grotesque making its way through. 

Do it. You need to just fucking do it so you can clean up and pretend you haven't been freaking out this whole time. 

Your hand trembles. Do it. Do it. You attempt the injection, and your body panics, pulling the needle back out. 

"Son of a bitch," You hiss, tears welling in your eyes. Blood wells in the spot. You're a failure, a coward. A little girl.

The door opens. 

Ronin stands in the doorway like a grim reaper. He's got a knife in hand, white-knuckled. He's wearing his shorts, hanging low around bare hips. There's something manic in his eyes—alley eyes.

"Did you call the fucking cops?" 

You blink at him, letting the syringe droop to your leg. You stabbed yourself pretty good; the blood is starting to trail downwards, catching in the waistband of your underwear. 

"My phone is on your desk," You say. 

The thought of calling hadn't even occurred to you. Turning Ronin in would mean giving up everything good. You have no interest in going back to being a miserable, lonely nine-to-five who can never finish a book. 

He looks behind him, seeing it there. His shoulders loosen, and then he actually looks at you, at your trembling fingers and wet eyes. 

"I've .. I've just been having a hard time," You admit. It feels good to tell him, to be able to tell someone about how hard it's been on you. 

There's no one you trust more than Ronin, even if you're terrified he won't be able to swallow your weakness. He's where you go when things get bad, when you want to give up. A quick word, a call, and he's usually around in some way. 

If you need him, he shows up even if he doesn't ever admit to it. 

He eyes your shaking hands. "Oh darlin'." 

You start crying. 

Ronin sets the knife on the counter, approaching to sink into a crouch in front of you. He takes the needle from your grip and sets it carefully on the edge of the box you have set up. "You've been going through it, huh?" 

Hiding away behind your hands, you nod. You don't want him to see you cry. He's only ever seen you cry once, the day you met. That alleyway. His arms caging you in and tears on your cheeks. Not because you were afraid to die, but because you wanted to live with him by your side. 

"I can - I can do it." You hiccup. "Just takes a long time." 

The headphones get removed, music drifting up from the floor tiles where he leaves them. His hand comes to the back of your neck, a tight scruff grab grip. You like the firmness of it, the way it grounds you to the world around you. To him. 

"You do yours in the stomach?" He asks. 

All you can manage is a shaking nod. 

He pulls your hands from your face, locking his grip around your wrists. Tight enough that it aches. "And why are you hiding this shit from me? You think the Devil can't handle a little blood?" 

When it comes to putting your weaknesses out in the world, you make an attempt not to do it. To never reveal your hand. Always terrified that today will be the last of the good old days. 

But you never tell him that. You hide it away. 

I love you is one thing. I would be nothing without you is another. 

Maybe you should; maybe you should rip off the band-aid. Last night was lovely. Surrounded by him in the warmth of his hearth and heart. Fingers to your pulse, hips to your hips, lips on your throat, and dirty nothings in your ears. 

You felt so special beneath his fingertips. This would be a beautiful place to die. 

Ronin quiets when he looks you in the eye. Maybe he sees where your mind has taken you, to the half surrender. To giving into the void. 

"I think I'm not nearly interesting enough to keep the attention of the first Trickster. I'm a coward." 

Ronin giggles. He sinks to his knees, settling down onto his ankles as he continues to laugh. "You know - heh - you know what you did last night?" 

You shrug, not sure where he's going with this. 

"Okay, okay." He wraps his hands around the plush of your waist, digging his fingers into your skin. "You're writing a book, googling all sorts of fun little details. How to dispose of a body. How much blood can someone lose? Blood loss symptoms." 

Ronin snorts. Another giggle.

"And then you join a dark web server full of actual fuckin' serial killers. Any sane person leaves, makes a run for it, and tells the cops. You stay. You stay for months. You fall in love~ with the Devil himself. A butcher, The Butcher. You come out to meet him. You get the chance to stab him, and instead you stick your pretty little tongue in his mouth." 

He reaches out, pressing a thumb into your mouth. You give in, letting him part your lips. "This tongue." He murmurs, touching the tip of your tongue until you taste the salt of his finger. 

"You let a man with a body count in the dozens take you home. You let him into your house. You let him rail you for hours~." Ronin smiles, bright as summer sunshine. "And then you stay in that server. You stay with that killer. You come into his sanctuary. You come three times over in his sanctuary," He winks. "You make the choice to get rid of the grotesqueness in you."

He's leaning in closer. You're captivated by how he looks in the pink-tinged bathroom light. The way the necklace rests on his collar. The Devil is an angel—you forget; he reminds you.

"You're many things, baby; a pussy ain't one of them. And I ain't ever gettin' rid of you." 

You let yourself droop forward, a pile of bones into his arms. He cradles you, nuzzling his cheek against the side of your head. "I'm gonna let you in on a secret." He whispers, warm and comfortable in your ear, "And maybe you've heard me before but never really heard me, but I fucking love you. That means your weaknesses are my weaknesses to fix or exploit. Depends on the potential, I suppose."

It comes down to trust. You have to trust him. That means all chips on the table. 

You press a tentative kiss to his ear. "Will you help me?"

He huffs out a breath, "Coulda saved us all some time by starting with that." 

Against your wants, he pulls away, eyeing the blood on your stomach. He trails a finger through it, shoving his finger in his mouth as he stands. You stay sitting as he rustles around beneath the sink, pulling out a sticker-covered black tackle box. 

He pops it open, and you realize it's his own setup. Silently you watch him sink to the floor, shoving up his shorts on one leg. He follows most of the same steps you do, minus going through the proper hygienic steps. 

Ronin doesn't seem to give much of a damn about washing his hands or his leg. He fills the syringe with the steady hand of familiarity. It's strange to watch someone else go through the process. All you've done is watch some online videos. 

When he switches needles, he looks up at you from his spot on the floor. "This the hard part?" 

You nod. 

"Scared the needle will break?" 

You nod again. That's something you think about constantly. What if it breaks? What if you can't get it out? 

"God, you're adorable with your eyes all wide like that. Like a buck about to get shot." He grins at you, "Watch me." 

At his whim you watch as he neatly presses the needle into his thigh. His hand doesn't shake; it slides right in without difficulty. He's steady as he does the injection, no signs of discomfort on his face. 

He sighs, an exhale of breath that feels like a concession. 

Then because he never lets you know peace, he lets it go, syringe sticking out of his leg. "Ronin! Be careful." 

He winks again and smacks the syringe. It wiggles in his leg. You squeak, and he does it again. The syringe falls to the floor, but you're stuck on the needle still in his leg. 

"Oh no." He hums, sarcasm heavy in his voice. 

Ronin may be calm, but you sure as fuck are not. You drop to your knees beside him. "Fuck, fuck. Why did you do that? What do we do? We need to go to the ER?" 

His hand catches your chin, forcing your eyes from the spot on his leg to his face. There's nothing but cold calm and the edge of amusement. "Honey." His grip tightens on your chin. The pain sharpens your focus. "Watch me." 

You steady yourself and watch as he reaches into his tackle box. He pulls a pair of rubber-tipped tweezers from the box, lines it up, and pulls the needle out of his leg. 

It was that easy? 

"Did you see how hard I had to hit it to break the needle?" He asks, holding the small piece of metal out to see. Blood begins to well up from his leg, spilling down to the floor. "And you see how little I'm bleeding even though I smacked it around?" 

He hurt himself to make a point to you. A part of you is offended on his behalf, but then you think of all the crazy shit Ronin has done in his life. It's hard to be that worried knowing he's gone toe-to-toe with plenty of people. 

But he made his point. The needles are hard to break and removable if the worst were to happen. He made the injection look easy. 

His blood trickles to the floor, but still he's unconcerned. What's a cat scratch in comparison to some of his scars?

"Not so bad, huh?" 

You swallow the knot in your throat and shrug. It helps a little, but when you think of doing it yourself, you go straight to prey panic. 

"C'mere." He pulls you into his lap. You fumble forward, one of his hands coming around your waist. The other reaches for the needle he's left on the counter. 

The two of you settle on the floor. He surrounds you, your bare chest to his, legs to legs. The feel of him is everywhere. His palm comes to your sternum. "Put your head on my shoulder." 

You do as he asks, letting your head droop backward.  You close your eyes, feeling his hand scrape down your chest.

Hot breath. He murmurs directly into your ear. "For he is a liar and the father of lies." 

Everything feels warm, heady, and light. He grips your stomach. You surrender. A pinch of pain and Ronin's lips on your neck. He bites you; the sting rushes between your legs. 

Something clatters to the floor. You barely hear it, barely feel anything other than his mouth to your pulse point. A hand dips beneath your boxer briefs between your thighs, and your body sings from the claiming touch. 

He laughs, licking your neck. "Lie with your Devil." 

You fall again, willing as Adam into temptation. 

Maybe it would be an easier pill to swallow if you didn't make it so goddamn obvious for the rest of the world. The hat you wear with he/him stitched into the side. The trans flag shirts and the binders and height inserts in your shoes that hurt your ankles. You even got brave and corrected him once.

But still every morning: 

Need anything from the case, ma'am? 

Good morning, miss. 

Coffee for you and the girls? 

Little things that add up higher and higher, and maybe he doesn't mean anything by it, but maybe he does. You collect your two coffees, 'for the girls'. 

You and Ronin. 

The girls, apparently. 

Ronin leans against the side of your car, filling the tank. It's a rare treat to spend a morning with him, but he's waiting for a part to fix his car, so you're giving him a ride to the shop until then. You don't mind; it's kind of couple-y, to be honest, and you like that. 

You hold the coffee out to him, and he collects it with a yawn. He returns the nozzle, reaching up to pull his beanie harder into his head before heading for the passenger seat. 

It takes you longer to get in the car, stealing a second to try and shake off the unpleasantness of the exchange. But somehow this guy just gets under your skin, makes it itch. Makes you ask yourself, am I real? Am I just a fake?

Is this a phase? Am I just acting out? Do I exist?

You know deep down none of this is a passing fad to you. This is who you are, and since you started all this, you feel better, healthier, the laughs come easier. But still he gets under your skin like a sliver, this nameless motherfucker. 

Dropping into your seat, you burn your mouth on your coffee and shove it into the cup holder, turning the engine. 

Ronin holds his coffee forward, eyeing it. "You didn't spit in this, did ya'?" 

You roll your eyes. 

"Not that I'd really mind, kinda romantic~ actually." 

"Take the lid off and I'll see what I can do." You reply dryly, turning out of the lot. 

Ronin smirks toward the lid, but instead of taking it off, his hand comes to your thigh. He squeezes your leg, fingers dancing upward and down again to some invisible song. 

The way it feels makes you all too aware that your thighs are part of the problem, part of why no one looks at you, and things, boy. You've tried all sorts of pants, but none of them seem to quite mask what your mother called birthing hips. 

You reach for his hand and move it off your leg without saying anything. Guilty the moment he takes the hint and returns his hand to his knee. You crank the music, blaring music filling the car. 

Shit like this really shouldn't get to you; it's stupid. That guy doesn't even know you, but here you are letting it ruin what would have otherwise been a perfectly enjoyable morning. 

Ronin turns the music down. "Spill."

You don't want to talk about it because you're aware of the illogical. It's selfish, but you can't help but wish you looked more like Ronin. Tall, post surgeries, deeper voice. People don't see a woman when they look at him. They don't call him miss at the diner. 

But that's cruel, and you'd never say it out loud, never even consider trying to make him feel guilty just because he's further along than you. 

"S'nothing." You shrug and reach for the volume. He smacks your hand away. 

"Lie to God, not me." He huffs. You come to a stop at a red light and glance over at him. His dark eyes are set on you, waiting for an answer. He's never been very good at handling the word no. 

Anger zips through you. Frustration at the situation, frustration at your own body, and frustration with him for making you talk about it when you don't want to. 

"Gas station guy's a dick. That's it." You snap. The light turns green, and you use the excuse not to look toward him again. 

"What'd he say~?" He pushes—always pushes. You're certain he's lost all ability to drop a subject.

"It's not - it doesn't - fuck." You fumble through your words, jerk into the parking lot of Ronin's work, and throw it into park abruptly enough that both of you jerk with the motion. "It's me. I'm the problem. The way I look. Doesn't matter what I do or what I wear or how I act. Or if I nod up instead of down. Or sit with my legs spread or crossed. I'm just ... her." 

His hand is on your jaw, fingers digging into flesh as he tilts your head toward him. You know that look, have seen it time and time before. The first time you saw it was in the early days, his low voice asking you to find out his name. 

The night you met, his arms caging you in. The eyes of the Devil. 

Ronin says your name, sharp, inarguable. "She's dead. Buried. Worm food. You'll never be her again." 

They're the words you need to hear even if you don't know how to ask for them to be said. You relax in his grip, letting him hold your head up. 

"I think," He leans in until you can feel his breath on your face and smell the coffee he's been drinking, "It's time for you to let a little of the rot in. I'ma text you an address. Be there, say ... midnight tonight."

His hand loosens, thumb tracing your cheek. "Wear white." 

The address ends up being in the shittiest part of town, an area you've never been keen to drive at night, but you do so anyways. It's Ronin, and when he tells you to do something nine times out of ten, you find yourself doing it. 

So you step out of your car into the dark of the night, crickets chirping in the distance. There is a subtle breeze, a bite hinting at a change in seasons. You run your hand along your face, walking toward the tall, nondescript building. 

The door opens, unlocked, but your gut tightens with that feeling of warning. Illegal entry. A place you're not supposed to be. It's dark inside, but there's a light at the end of the hall. You travel toward it, the hair on the back of your neck rising. 

You hear a single scuff of a shoe against concrete, and then there's something cold against your throat, with arms over your shoulders, holding it in place. A mouth to your ear, hot and familiar, "Boo."

The instant gut reaction to throw an elbow tappers. It's his crowbar, likely, against your neck. He's not applying any pressure; it feels like a tease, a hello.

You roll your eyes even as you smile, "Oh no, I'm terrified." 

Ronin chuckles, "You should be." He murmurs your name like a compliment; your stomach flutters. "After desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death.  Are you ready to dance with the Antichrist?" 

Perhaps it is not the shift in seasons you felt but instead a change in yourself. The start of something wide and vast in you. This is one of his tests. 

Ronin loves to test you, push and pull. Spread the rot. 

"What are you up to?" You whisper, leaning your head back until you're cheek to cheek.

His lips trace along your skin as he speaks, "I got ya' a present." 

Ronin's presents vary. He removes the crowbar from your throat and takes your hand instead, squeezing your palm as he leads you into the dark. 

Once you reach the light source hidden inside this spanning warehouse, you have to blink hard to adjust. It's a small room, no windows, empty of furniture. Tarps laid out across the floor, a single plastic chair in the center. 

There's a man in the chair, tied to it, blindfolded, gagged, and with a pair of headphones taped to his head. You can hear the metal blasting from here. 

It's the gas station attendant. 

With a dramatic clap, he gestures out toward the man, "Ta-da!" 

At this point you've seen Ronin kill a multitude of people, all sorts, sometimes for a reason, sometimes for no reason at all. It's never been because of you before, at least not that you're aware of. 

This is different. The tone in the air has your whole body flooding with adrenaline. 

His voice is in your ear again, the Devil on your shoulder. Your shoulder Devil. "I want ya' to do something for me, darlin'." 

You know what he is going to say. 

"Kill him for me, would~ ya'. Could ya'?" He presses the crowbar into your hand, curling your fingers around it. "Fall for me. Bury the grotesquerie in his skull. It would be so~." 

He sighs like a lover in lieu of the last word. 

Your hand tightens on the cool metal, feeling the weight of it when he lets go. Kill him. Become one of them. 

No longer the deceitful writer hiding in a den of wolves. No longer having to lie to your friends. Make Ronin happy. Do you want to?

This guy hasn't really done anything wrong to you. Sure, he's a bit blind to the obvious, or he doesn't care to be correct, but is that enough to justify murder? 

When Ronin kills, when you watch him lash out, you no longer think of the person beneath the blow. You're always caught on him—the way he smiles, the sound of his laugh, the shape of his arms on the downswing. 

Somewhere along the way you stopped seeing his victims as people. They became paper targets in a gun range. Something that didn't keep you up at night. The first one you witnessed stuck out, bringing back the memories of when you were a teen and you had to put your pet down. 

The life vanishing away and the tears that followed as you realized they were gone and that the vanishing itself was something bigger than you. Bigger than anyone. 

There's something about watching the life go, flickering away to some unexplored place you can't follow. It's the part you can never look away from. 

Could you be the one to do it? 

"Can we take the blindfold and gag off?" You ask.

Ronin steps back. "It's your kill, baby; you can do whatever your heart desires." 

He approaches the man, slipping a knife from his pocket, and cuts the blindfold instead of removing the headphones duct-taped across his forehead. His eyes are wide, flooding with tears as he looks between you. 

You're not sure if you can do this. It's too much, too permanent. 

Ronin removes the gag next, pressing a finger to his lips in warning. There must be something in his expression because he doesn't shout for help. 

You step closer, fingers flexing against the crowbar. You've seen him use it so many times; you know where to hold and how to swing, in theory that is. But you don't know if you can. 

He'll do it for you if you chicken out. Ronin will probably give you shit for a few days, might be disappointed, but the guy will be dead. There's no letting him go if he's seen your faces. 

Are a few off comments and a dismissive personality reason enough? Ronin doesn't even need a reason; he picks people at random. You've seen him select targets because he didn't like the shade of their hair. 

Maybe you're just not meant for it, not one of them. There's something in you incompatible with the rest of the group you view as family. Never really fitting in anywhere. Not even the place you want to fit in most. 

The attendant looks at you with big glassy eyes, his lips part, and he says, "You're the girl who comes in all the time in the mornings. Why are - ." 

Something breaks. 

Something integral in you cracks like old glass. Spider-webbing upward until the whole core of you shatters. 

That rage in which you were told from the very beginning to repress, rises up like a tidal wave and swallows you whole. Sit pretty. Smile bright. Give. Give. Give. 

Little sweet girl in her Barbie plastic case. Never taken out to be played with. 

You grip the crowbar like a bat and swing. The metal catches him right in the face. Blood spurts from his nose, and the power of it topples him over onto his back. He lets out a gurgle of agony.

Fuck you.

Another swing, just as steady as the last. 

Fuck every asshole who doesn't pay attention to the obvious signs. To every diner server who can't get it right. To every attendant. To every shit family member. Every annoying co-worker who told you you'd regret not having tits in the long run. Every doctor who insisted you'd want children someday.  Every book written about the transgender epidemic. 

You shriek and bring it down again. There's more blood now; his face isn't quite his face in the same way. The shape has changed. You look him in the eye. 

Still alive. Terrified. 

You are either the woman he never expected to be capable of this or the man he should have been scared of. 

You are everything. A culmination of every experience. 

The final swing squelches, and you watch the life fade like an LED lightbulb being turned off. There and now gone. Dark. Vanished. Finite. 

You stay there, crowbar in hand, the world at your feet, and Ronin's laughter in your ears. You don't smile, and you don't laugh. That's for him, not for you. 

There's blood coating your clothes, sticking to the white fabric of your t-shirt. You understand why he wanted you to wear white now. The breaths heave out of you as you look at what you've done. 

He giggles again before reaching out to touch your face. His hands slick against your skin, and you realize there must be blood on your cheeks. Ronin smiles with a hum, biting his bottom lip, "Darlin', you're divine." 

It's late; you were at a bar with a few friends. They left earlier, and you stayed a little longer in the hopes Ronin would come meet you, but he got held up. All that to say is you got clocked by two assholes with too much to drink, and now there's blood smeared across your teeth and a deep ache in your gut.

The bar is closed; the parking lot is empty outside of your own car and what you assume is theirs. No one is around, which you think is a very bad thing.

Not for you. All you'll have in the morning is a couple bruises, a split lip, and a clingy boyfriend.

Things are about to go very poorly for these two when your six foot one, pissed-off, vengeful, serial killer of a fucking boyfriend makes an appearance. You spit blood onto the tarmac, sinking onto your knees as you look up at them.

You smile, asking with blood in your mouth, "Do you believe in God?" 

They share a look. "What the fuck you talking about?"

Ronin's car pulls into the parking lot, illuminating you in bright light. They look back and then to you. All that matters to them is they're not flashing red and blue. The headlights dim and go out as he shuts off the engine.

He keeps his crowbar in the trunk of his car. It's close enough that you can hear the trunk pop. Your smile widens at their confused hesitation. One of them calls out toward the darkness car and Ronin's shadowy form as he steps out, "Fuck off, this is none of your business."

You click your tongue to get their attention. Only one of them meets your eye; you beam at him in the dark. "I don't care if you believe in me," You hum, the taste of copper heavy in your mouth, "As long as you believe in the Devil."

"This bitch is nuts; we should leave her and get out of here." 

There's an energy to Ronin that precedes him, some kind of innate survival instinct that always seems to make people understand they're in danger. It's invigorating, because you don't feel that fear, only the static charge of his excitement.

He's nothing but a black mass as he loops around from the trunk, crowbar loose in his hand. It took him long enough to show up. 

"You want to play, darlin'?" He calls, unbothered by the two men as they start mumbling a plan to each other.

"Been waiting for you to join me. Took you long enough." You call back. Taking a few hits had been no big deal, all about buying enough time for Ronin to show up so he wouldn't miss all the fun. Besides one on one are more fun odds. Like being told sharing is caring as a child.

"Awh~," Ronin's footsteps scuff against the concrete. "You hear that, fellas? My man missed me."

You move in practiced unison. Ronin tosses you your brass knuckles and swings the crowbar. It takes no more than a moment to slip the metal in place as you lunge for the smaller target. He falls to his back with a startled yelp. He discounted you; that was a big mistake. 

Gods never bleed for free. There's a price. There's a flash of metal as you lift your fist and bring it down with a hard crunch into his nose.

You've always been fond of that sound, the shift of metal and bone. He shrieks, gurgling on the blood in his mouth before you hit him again. 

Pain rips up your side. You yelp, throwing as much power as you can into the next hit, and look down at the source of the thrumming pain. There's a pocketknife sticking out of your side.

"Motherfucker!" You snarl. It aches as you keep swinging, face turns to blood, to brain, to nothing at all. When you stumble back, there is blood running down your leg. 

Shit.

Ronin lifts his head from where he stands over his own target. His chest heaves, crowbar dangling loose in his hand, hair hanging from the curled prongs at the end. "Well~ that was fun."

Normally you'd agree with that assessment, but given there's a knife sticking out of you like you're a rotisserie chicken, you'll have to disagree today. It hurts. This isn't the first time you've been stabbed, but you'd love it if it could be the last.

You're dripping blood everywhere, which isn't ideal. DNA just spattering the concrete. "I have, unfortunately, been stabbed."

Ronin finally notices the knife. He blinks at it before his face twists up into something ugly. He takes a step around the corpse he's already beaten and starts wailing on the other one. You watch him work with a mix of amusement and growing discomfort.

When he looks up, you spot the concern hiding in the edges. "Dammit, I was hoarding that favor."

He steps away from the body, holding the crowbar between his legs as he wipes off his hand on his shirt. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and brings it to his ear. "Hey~." He greets, all cheery and bright.

You're far enough away and distracted enough by the pulsing pain that you can't tell who is on the other end of the line. He's got favors with plenty of people, so you're not sure what he's trying to get out of whom.

"About that teeny, tiny favor you owe me." He says lightly, grinning into the receiver. "I'm cashin' in."

Ronin chuckles before pointing at the passenger side of his car. You know the drill by now, slowly making your way over as he drops his weapon in the trunk and loops back by you with a crinkling tarp in hand.

He's giving whoever he's talking to the location of the bar. It's a cleanup call. Someone is coming to cover your tracks. That's a relief; you really weren't keen on the idea of retiring young.

He hangs up, shoving the phone in his pocket before covering the passenger seat with the dark blue tarp, "Your chariot." He drawls, gesturing for you to get in. 

Sitting down feels significantly worse than standing up. You groan, head falling back against the plastic-covered seat. Ronin is at least showing some urgency, even if he does spare a moment to kick the corpse a final time before getting in his car.

"Don't pull it out." He mumbles, backing up.

You roll your eyes. "Who are you talking to?"

He snorts, "You'll have ta' forgive me if I don't want to scrub blood out of my leather."

Tilting your head to glare at him, you huff. You'd give him more shit, but he's white-knuckling the wheel. His voice is light, playful, and though he's maintaining the speed limit, driving under the radar, his fingers continue to flex.

He's angry with himself. He's thinking of a different life and a different loss.

"It's a Swiss army knife." You say lightly, "Didn't hit anything important."

Ronin's fingers flex again. "You shouldn't have waited."

It hurts, but not enough that you're all that concerned about it. Creatures like you don't get taken out by injuries like this. You're too good for it. God and the Devil.

Normally you'd joke, saying something like you should have been faster, but you know as much as he jokes that he'll take it literally. He'll think to himself that he should have been there, that this could have been avoided. A dangerous slope to fall down.

So you don't. Instead, you reach across the median and press your hand against his thigh and squeeze. He drives a little faster.

"Would you fuckin' stay still?" Ronin snaps. He's leaning in front of you, cheek smeared in blood. You stand in his bathtub, back against the plastic.

"Would you just rip the fucking thing out?" You counter.

Neither of you is a particularly methodical killer. Not when hitting it until it stops twitching works just fine, so medically you're both a little lacking.

There are back alley clinics if this doesn't work, but you don't like when people touch you. Actually, you despise being touched. God skin is not for mortals. So that's a last-case scenario.

"Come on, Antichrist? Scared of a little blood?"

He glares at you, and you know that's all it'll take. Ronin reaches out, curls his hand around the cheap plastic, and yanks it free in a fluid motion. He tosses it into the sink as you look down at your side.

It's bleeding freely now that the blade is removed. Blood pools along the spot and drips steadily down your side to soak into your jeans. You liked this pair. Shame.

Ronin has his suture kit at the ready, so you wait patiently for him to sew you up. He's good with needles; you're not concerned. You press your hands to the wall behind you as he does the first pull, always your least favorite part. 

You grit your teeth as he works, all poised concentration. He's ditched his beanie, hair fallen in his face. Every few seconds he'll look up at you through his lashes to make sure you're okay. 

"Next time try not to get stabbed, yeah?" He mumbles, pulling the needle through.

You reach out a tacky hand and run it through his hair. Blood twists in the strands, yours and those you've killed. You like the way it looks, filthy and perverse.

His eyes dart up toward you again, and you smirk. "What do I get in exchange?" You ask, falling back into old habits. A game the two of you like to play.

"Pack of spearmint gum and~ hmm, a blowjob?"

You chuckle and pull his hair. "God accepts."

He ties off the suture, lifting to full height. Your hand slips free as he reaches for a disinfectant cloth to wipe you down before he puts on the bandage. 

You have Angel to thank for this kit; she got so protective after the last time Ronin got shot in the shoulder. That was a hell of a day. The scar looks good on him, though. 

Ronin hums as he works, placing the bandage and wrapping it with gauze. He's going to hover for the next few days, caring for you like a doting parishioner. You don't mind the attention—not if it's him. 

After all, how could there ever be a God without his Devil?

At first you thought Ronin would refuse. He knows your family is a bunch of small-minded snakes with big opinions, so you really expected him to snort and say something like, 'fuck that.' He didn't. 

Instead, when you asked if he'd go with you, because you want the chance to see your little cousins, he cocked his head in contemplative silence and agreed. You weren't sure, at the time, what his angle would be, but you've since figured it out.

Ronin has decided to be the giant moving target.

When you picked him up to head over there, he was dressed about as dramatically as a peacock come spring season. Red pants, a torn-up shirt, a beanie, an excessive amount of accessories, and not one but three different trans flag patches. One on his hat, one on his jacket, and one on his boot.

As if that weren't enough, he's wearing his heeled boots that give him an extra two inches he does not need. Plus, eyeliner, the most delightful-smelling cologne, and a shit-eating grin to cap it all off. Your parents are going to need a fast trip in an ambulance upon meeting him.

They don't know about Ronin; you're not particularly fond of sharing information about your life. They know you've transitioned, though they're pretending it's not happening. It's easy for them to ignore, given you haven't started your medical transition yet. 

Every time you see your mother, she stares at your tits like a fifty year old man standing in a girls' high school locker room. It's lovely. You really enjoy it. Doesn't make you want to throw yourself in a woodchipper at all.

Sighing, you lean back in the driver's seat, trying to encourage yourself to get out of the car. Ronin waits patiently, or as patient as he gets while he taps his foot, in the seat next to you.

Like you tend to do when showing up for anything involving your family, you don't bother with the bells and whistles of your own comfort. There's no point in binding or anything like that because they'll see right through it to what they've dubbed 'the little girl that you are.'

This is all one very big, very elaborate act of rebellion on your part, and with enough disappointed looks, you'll one day wake up and realize that being a woman was something you've always loved being. 

You think at most you might one day wake up to realize Ronin's trying to fuck you in your sleep. Seems much more likely.

Ronin's head tilts toward you as he lifts one dark eyebrow. "You have the Devil himself on your shoulder." He leans in humming, "Who should be more afraid, you or them?"

This is a half comfort, because he's right, but also, "You can't kill anyone."

He lets out a long sigh that dances across your cheek. "I know~ we shook on it."

You felt like you had to make him promise, or otherwise you might find your uncle drowning in a lemonade punch bowl. Family reunion meets red wedding is not really the approach you're trying to take, even if your paramour would no doubt enjoy it.

With one last huff and a few gentle slaps to your cheeks, you step out of your car. It's not a huge event, but there will be a good thirty people at least, you think. Your mom hosts a reunion every two years and gathers up as much of the family as she can.

You press your hands into your hoodie pockets and head for the gate. Everyone will be in the backyard; you can smell the barbecue. It's all very suburban. Ronin sticks out like a giant neon sign that reads FAG in all caps.

Without a shadow of a doubt you've never loved anyone more in your life. You flip the gate and shove it open with your hip. Some of your little cousins have taken over the rusted swing set. They crow when they see you, rushing in a small horde toward you.

This part you don't mind, even if they shout a name you've long since buried in greeting. No one here uses your name. Your little cousins don't even know it.

You curl your arms around two of them as you register this. Though you're certain Ronin knows it—he, after all, tracked you down in an elaborate game of cat and mouse—you've never told him your dead name.

Like poison going into his ears, you illogically think about how that name could be turned against you. How he could pull it up in an argument like your ex did. You know Ronin would never do that; he understands too much of what that would feel like.

Ronin is a Devil not an asshole. Not in that way. He's more likely to stab you than turn your name around on you.

"I'm starving." You tell your cousins, patting heads and sharing quick greetings, "I'll come hang with you guys later after I get some grub."

There are a few groans of disapproval and curious looks sent Ronin's way, but none of them are brave enough to address the over six foot goth elephant in the yard.

As soon as they're gone, he loops an arm around your shoulders, voice hot in your ear, "Darlin', not ta' be mean, but that name fucking sucks." He makes a disgusted face as you grin in delight before he says your name. Soft and sweet, and dripping with ichor. "Sounds much better."

You lean into him as you loop around the corner to the rest of the yard, where all the adults are spending their time. It's not one of those movie moments where everyone stops talking in unison and they all stare, but you're definitely getting some looks.

You hold your breath and wait, "My girl!" 

There it is.

Your mother hauls toward you with all the tact of a bull in a china shop, grabbing your face in both hands and fully pushing herself between you and Ronin. "It's about time you came home. You don't call, text, come for holidays, or nothing!"

Why would you want to come home? There's no good reason, no joy to be found in the action. The only thing that brings you back each time is a misguided sense of loyalty. This is something you've talked to Ronin about in detail.

Despite his grandstanding, he's actually the perfect person to go to for advice. He always listens, he cares, and he tells you exactly what he thinks without sugar-coating it. He's told you to cut them off like a moldy piece of bread, but you can't quite manage it. Every time you think you will, something happens and you're pulled back in all over again.

"Sorry, mom." You apologize, but it falls a little flat. Maybe it would mean more if you could mean it, but you're not sure how to do that.

She squeezes your cheeks before taking a step back to look you over. Her magical x-ray vision sees through your clothes to make sure all the right Barbie attachments are there before she smiles and you ready yourself for the insult, "Been eating good!"

You've been spending too much time with the squad; you want to punch her in the throat, which is not the normal human reaction to that. Angel is rubbing off on you.

Ronin steps up to bat, shifting an inch in front of you. She's forced to take a step back. "It's cause I keep feeding him after midnight."

You snort, "That's awful."

"And who might you be?" Your mom is already on the offensive, sniffing for a weakness to make a new underhanded comment. The truest form of southern hospitality. 

"The boyfriend, Blackjack."

"Your name is Blackjack?" She asks, confusion coloring the question. 

You, however, have to fight for your life not to hide your face in his shirt and laugh. It shouldn't surprise you that he's not giving his actual name to your family, but you didn't think he was going undercover as his pet rat.

"Jack works too." He shrugs, oversized jacket falling off one shoulder.

You cover your mouth with your hand and pretend to cough. Ronin smirks, reaching out to press his palm to your back. You're going to tell the server; they'll be calling him rat boy for weeks.

If your mom scanned you, it's nothing like the way she scans him. It's a good thing her x-ray vision isn't real, or she'd get a nice close look at scars on his chest and other more compromising details about his anatomy.

"Well, Jack ... welcome to our little get-together. I trust she can show you around and get you a plate to eat."

Ronin hums, "I'm sure he can, thank ya'. Won't you show me around, baby?"

You nod, leaving behind your already offended mother, and head toward the fold-out tables covered in a hodgepodge of dishes. This is always the best part.

"You're a match to a hay barn," You mutter to him, but you don't mind if. Talking back to your family faded in appeal after you grew up. Now you just accept it and hope everything goes by quickly.

Ronin reaches for one of the paper plates, holding it out to you. "What can I say?" He gives a shrug. "Devil's love~ a blaze."

You'll be lucky if he doesn't light the house on fire. The two of you fall into companionable silence, filling your plates with food before you look around, scanning for the best place to park.

There are two chairs left at the kid's table, perfect. You head right for it, Ronin chuckling beside you when he realizes where you're headed. None of your cousins complain when you settle into one of the chairs, with Ronin across from you.

There isn't a single kid over twelve, but that's fine. As you spear into your food, they gawk at Ronin. He's not exactly the kind of guy your family keeps around. They're looking at him like a tiger on display. You smile at the sight of it, winking over the glass of your plastic lemonade.

The questions begin with the truest tact of innocent children, "Why do you look like that?"

Ronin fights a laugh, reclining his chin on a fisted hand. "Like what?"

The kids share a look, silently communicating on how they want to approach the question, "You're wearing skinny jeans."

This is stated like it is some great cardinal sin. You love the way he looks in those pants, always have. No one else notices the blood stains along the hems. You know he gets off on dropping hints about his identity, little drops of metaphorical blood in his wake.

This time Ronin chuckles, pointing a piece of speared watermelon at them, "I am. What about it?"

"But you're a boy!" Your cousin whispers. She's in a frilly pink monstrosity that her mother no doubt insisted on. Poor thing, knowing like you do that she has a deep love for mud puddles.

"So~?" He drawls back, shoving the watermelon into his mouth.

"Boys can't wear skinny jeans." One of your older cousins offers up. The jealous look in his eye says he wants this to not be true. He's in plain jeans and a polo shirt that's likely a hand-me-down. They'd all have so much color if they could express themselves the way they want.

Ronin sees that, and you get the chance to witness that rare part of him that hides most of the time. One would never guess it, but Ronin actually likes kids. You remember the surprise you felt when you found out he donates over half of his money every check.

Sixty-six percent, in fact. Devil that he is, and a lovely contradiction to boot.

"Boys can wear anything they want." Ronin leans in conspiratorially, "Even dresses."

"No!" Your cousins all laugh in unison, but something in your chest warms at his soft words. He means them; it matters that he means them.

"Yes!" Ronin says back, shoving another piece of fruit in his mouth, talking with his mouth full, "They can wear makeup too, see." He points at the eyeliner that curls around his eyes.

One of your uncles is approaching with a plate for his kid. Some of the jubilation you feel mellows as he walks over, but that doesn't dissuade Ronin. You doubt he pays it any mind at all, too distracted by the laughter of children.

"Boys can even wear heels." He goes on to say, eyes sparkling at the shouts of childish dismay. He's having fun riling them up. You're having fun watching him.

"You need to watch your mouth." Your uncle says, and the hairs on the back of your neck rise. People don't speak to Ronin like that; you know this from experience. You know this from the blood hidden on his red jeans.

The two of you have never been in a situation where Ronin wasn't in control. You've collared him for this, and he's let himself be collared. He tilts his head, looking up at your uncle, and forks a piece of fruit. Unconcerned.

He turns back to the kids. "You know, when I was your age, I loved playing dress-up."

By dress up he means carving away the marble of the statue he would later become. Chipping it away piece by piece until he became le génie du mal. 

Upon seeing that Ronin isn't going to listen, your uncle's red-faced anger turns to a more susceptible target—you. "I accept that you come around, because you know how to act appropriately. Don't care what you do out there, as long as you behave here, but bringing this faggot around my kids, what the hell were you thinking?"

You thought you were over this, had found the backbone in you, but the moment he speaks, you turn into a little kid all over again. Quiet, scared, confused, being screamed at by your father for being scared of seagulls. For wanting to live.

Your shoulders fall, head lowering automatically in submission. You open your mouth to apologize.

"Don't even fuckin' think it." Ronin's voice is sharp. Words like whip lashes.

He's told you before never to apologize for existing. To never say sorry unless you mean it. He's promised, while you sobbed in his arms, that he'll help you beat the grotesquerie out of yourself.

So you don't say sorry, because you wouldn't mean it.

"This is the third time I'm telling you to watch your mouth, kid. She should never have brought someone like you."

Ronin stands, and you think about his promise. Don't kill anyone.

You realize your error; he's not collared. He's free roam. Ronin is a hellhound heeled but not chained. You told him not to kill anyone. You said nothing about hurting them.

He's taller than your uncle, and you know that beneath his clothes is streamlined muscle. Your uncle is a beer-gutted asshole who has probably punched two guys in his life. He probably only won those fights because he had friends around to help.

Against the Devil's Butcher, he stands no chance at all. 

Others are starting to notice now; the yard is getting quiet. You could call out to Ronin, tell him to stand down. He will if you ask. You know him well enough to know that. But you don't, because as much as this makes your heart pound, his anger feels cathartic.

He's the fire you can never seem to start. So you say nothing as he looks down at your uncle.

"Who are you talking about?" Ronin asks, his voice like hot oil. Your shoulder Devil, your boy. Yours. Yours. Yours.

"The fuck you mean, who?"

Ronin's head tilts slightly to the left, considering. "Who'd I come to this little shindig with?"

Your uncle looks at you in confusion. He's not putting the pieces together, but you already have. Oh, you love him. 

Your uncle says your name, resurrecting it from where it's been buried. It grates like nails on a chalkboard.

Ronin smiles.

Don't kill anyone.

Ronin socks him in the nose. One strong, hard swing that connects with a crack of knuckles to bone.

Your uncle stumbles back. Across the yard your mother lets out a yelp, and there are other men rushing forward to break up a fight Ronin has already finished. He lifts his hands in a playful surrender that means nothing. His splayed fingers are a lie.

Ronin is never harmless, and he never surrenders. He steps back before anyone can touch him, and that's the kick in the ass you need. You're on your feet, putting yourself between Ronin and your family. If any of them lay a hand on him, he's going to hit someone else, harder than the first time.

Your mother is crying, holding her brother's arm as he glares daggers at Ronin. His nose is broken; you've seen a few at this point. It leaks blood down his face, spattering the grass.

Ronin doesn't seem all that concerned with the goings-on. Instead, he turns and looks at your cousin, meeting his young eyes. With his dreams of skinny jeans and a different life. Ronin points at him, "Remember kids, you can be anything ya' wanna be. The Devil on your shoulder told ya' so."

Your body calms; this isn't good. None of this is going particularly well, but for some reason all you feel is happy. Your asshole of an uncle took a hit he deserved. Your cousins seem to like you still. They might even like you more now.

So you point in their direction, matching Ronin's pose, with the widest grin you can muster, "With the right outfit, you too can be a tranny!"

Your paramour's laugh makes it all worth it.

After all, he's taking time out of his afternoon to dye your hair to begin with. The two of you are in old clothing; he's wearing an already bleach-stained NIN t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts. You're in a ratty tank top and jeans with more holes than fabric. 

Music plays from his bedroom, the door to the bathroom left open. There are no windows in his place, so it reeks of chemicals, but you don't mind it. Being at Ronin's always makes you more comfortable than anywhere else. 

You're propped up on a stool, feet tucked between one of the bars as he smothers more dye on your treated hair. He hums along with the music, methodically going through the process of adding the raccoon stripes you asked for. 

Technically you could have done this yourself, but it would have taken double the time and triple the amount of stress. Ronin has plenty of experience, and beneath that, you like the feeling of his fingers in your hair as he works. 

It's oddly domestic, all things considered. 

"So is the red to please the Devil?" He asks, reaching for more foil. 

If you tell him the truth, his head isn't going to fit through the doorway, but then that's what you like about him. "Maybe." 

"Tsch, maybe." He grunts and tugs at a strand of your hair. "Maybe my ass." 

You laugh, looking toward the mirror. Normally this is something you make a point to avoid, but you want to see him in the reflection. He's got dye on his fingers, clearly unconcerned about it. It's cute the way he squints at the spot he's working at like it'll help him focus better.

The sight of you, however, sort of dampens the view. There's a delay, a disconnect when you meet your eyes. It's you, but it's not you. That's how it's always been. Once you look, it's hard to stop looking, getting caught on that delay, focusing on it. Trying to speed up so it matches. It never matches.

Ronin meets your eye through the reflection and tugs on a strand of your hair again. "Feel that?" 

You glare at him. Yes, obviously you felt that. It hurt. 

He giggles, finishing the last section of your hair, pulling back to let it sit. You stay dutifully in your spot as he rinses the excess dye on his hands down the drain. It still leaves his fingers reddish-pink, stained for the time being. 

Your eyes track him in the mirror as he flicks water at you, feeling the droplets collide with your cheek. He sticks his tongue out, piercing glinting before he takes up residence in the spot he vacated. 

Instead of your hair, his hand loops around to your throat, palm to where your adam's apple should be, fingers on the underside of your jaw. He bends down, cheek against cheek, getting more dye on himself.

His hand slides up to your cheek, puffing your lips apart in a way that makes you look like a fish. You laugh. He smiles. 

"And all is right in Hell." He murmurs, turning to kiss your squeezed cheek. "When you see yourself and smile." 

“New haircut?”

You startle, looking up from your writing to stare at him through your computer. His posture is relaxed, hands thrown behind his head with his knees drawn to his chest. Ronin’s eyes flick over your face, seemingly inspecting the “haircut” in question.

“Uh, something like that,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. “I just cut it a little shorter, um, last night with some craft scissors.”

He raises an eyebrow at that.

“…wasn’t feeling great last night.”

His face relaxes and he shrugs, seeming to accept that. “Doesn’t look half bad, darlin’. Maybe you should panic chop more often.”

He’s teasing you. You scoff before laughing softly. “You think so? I was trying to add a couple layers. Not sure how successful I was.” You laugh again, eyes looking back at your writing just so you don’t have to look at him again.

“Nah,” he grins. “Looks good to me. You know I love some DIY.” He starts laughing so hard at his own bad joke that he starts coughing loudly into his mic. You lower your volume, roll your eyes, and grin while you wait for his laughter to recede.

It’s not the first time he’s noticed little things about you. You can’t remember the last time anyone noticed anything about you, let alone all the small details. You think it’s because he’s a serial killer; Ronin’s probably used to being paranoid and remembering everything all the time in order to get away with murder constantly.

You can’t help but feel special anyways when it happens. Even if for only a moment.

A couple weeks later you try out a new perfume. It’s subtle, but you like it. It makes you happy when you catch the scent faintly clinging to your skin. You figure it will be your own little secret.

Of course, Ronin catches on.

You’re out with him on a night walk, your intertwined hands swaying softly between the two of you. You’ve been going on and on about your book, excited to share bits and pieces with him. You don’t usually get this way about your work, you usually don’t have an audience to talk in circles happily. 

He throws his head back and laughs at something you say before bringing your hand to his lips to place a soft kiss on the back of it. 

(You’ve always loved that about him. Ronin’s a romantic through and through. He loves how he kills; passionately, loudly, and intentionally.)

His lips linger on your skin before a grin splits them apart. “Trying out a new scent, darlin’?”

Your reaction is to jerk your hand away bashfully but Ronin holds you close. You struggle to get the words out. Or any words at all.

He lets your hands fall back to your sides and chuckles. “Suites ya.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and laugh with him.

Sometimes you forget how good he is at noticing you. Sometimes you wish he would pay you less attention.

You lay in bed half the day. The other half of the day was spent trying not to tear your hair out over deadlines, pacing the length of your room again and again and again like a caged animal. You felt caged. It felt like the walls were closing in while they simultaneously were so far away, isolating you from everything and everyone.

You didn’t talk much in the server that day. You occasionally read the messages that popped up, every now and then forcing yourself to say something that left a bittersweet taste on your tongue. You couldn’t bring yourself to talk about you. Instead, a falsely cheery message or dumb joke filled your silence. 

The others vaguely acknowledged how you seemed off. You were quick to incorrectly correct them that you were fine.

The Devil didn’t take kindly to your lies. 

He texted you first. He asked you to open up, to spill your guts and present your aorta to him. When you insisted that you were okay, it escalated to a call.

“Darling,” Ronin deadpanned. “No one can help you if you don’t start talking.” You swallowed around the lump in your throat. The lump stayed stuck uncomfortable and stiff. 

You started a sentence and stopped. Tried it again. Retried that. You felt hot all over. You were looking everywhere but at him. Your tongue was going in circles. The pressure behind your eyes was building.

You were all too aware how Ronin’s gaze tracked your every movement. 

“I take it back. Stop talking.”

You froze in place. It was like all your worst fears coming true at once and you felt like you could only blame yourself. You had told him you were fine, right? He shouldn’t have to read between the lines to understand you. He was going to leave you alone. 

“--and stop spiraling too. Look at the camera.” 

Teary eyed and trembling, sobs attempting to wrack through your body, you stare at the screen again. 

And Ronin had the audacity to look worried about you. You wish you could curl up and die.

“I’m gonna be over soon, baby. Think you can open the door for me?” 

A squeak that you're not even sure picks up leaves your throat before you resort to simply nodding quickly. His eyes seem to soften again. You think you’re gonna be sick.

You pace throughout your house, sobs wracking your body. (If you cry before he gets here, maybe you can put on a brave face and pretend to have tricked him. That you were never really sad and hurting and everything was fine and he’s been worried for nothing.)

A heavy knock startles you out of your own thoughts. Your first instinct is to run back to your room and pretend you don’t exist. Like nothing exists.

Your brain screams as on autopilot your feet shuffle towards the door. You take several shaky breaths and open the door an inch. An onyx eye meets your gaze and forces the door open the rest of the day, knocking you on your feet.

The Devil towers above you, grinning.

“You look like shit,” he states. “Aren’tcha glad your devil dearest is here to take care of ya now?”

You start sobbing. Loud and ugly sobs. Ronin only clicks his tongue and leans down to pick you up. Fueled by shame and anger, you scream and hit and kick him away from you.

“I said I’m fine! Why can’t you leave me alone!” You stutter through your tears. Uneasy silence settles between you both, broken up only by your shaky breaths and sobs. You don’t dare look up at him.

A hand grabs your face and squeezes, forcing you to meet his gaze. You squeal and flail as Ronin pins you to the ground fully with his body weight. 

“Go on then, cry. Get it all out. Devil can’t help ya until learn how to fuckin’ talk,” he grits out of a toothy grin that doesn’t match his eyes.

Sobs turn to sniffles. All your energy drains and your limbs go slack. Ronin’s gaze softens and so does his grip on you. He collapses next to you and you roll weakly into his arms.

“Feelin’ better?” He murmurs, massaging the back of your head. You hum softly.

“I’m sorry. That…I was a lot.”

“Nothin’ to be sorry for. Ya had to get it out one way or another.” 

Ronin sits up and looks at you, cupping your face. “You ready for the devil to actually take care of ya now?”

You nod, and this time, you let him pick you up.

He brings you to the bathroom, willing you to shower while he preps some food for you. You thank him as he shuts the door before slowly and shakily taking off your clothes. Lacking the energy for a proper shower, you instead opt to enjoy the warm water washing over your frame. 

You leave the shower after a few minutes and change into soft clothes. You find Ronin in the kitchen, having just finished making simple sandwiches for the both of you. He leads you to the couch and sits you down before giving you your food. Another ‘thank you’ falls from your lips as he presses a kiss to the top of your head. Ronin turns on some shitty horror movie you’ve both seen a million times at this point for background noise.

You swallow the last of your food before leaning against Ronin’s side. He wraps an arm around you and squeezes. 

“Better?” He asks quietly. 

“Much better.” You whisper back.

A loud scream emits from the TV causing you to jump. Ronin snorts at you as you grumble and turn the volume down. “Oh, you’re definitely feeling better already, darlin’,” he snickers out.

You cuddle into him more. “Shut up, it’s getting to a good part.”

He rolls his eyes and holds you closer.

a/n: I think if anyone ever handled someone’s emotions how Ronin tried to handle MC’s it be controlling and toxic but like also it’s Ronin and this is self indulgent sooooo he gets a pass

Ribbon dividers by cursed-carmine

He got his done very gruesomely behind some shady ass back alleyway, just the way he wanted. Recovery was uninformed, painful, and rushed as hell. That was perfect for him (at the time).

But he learnt something, not to ever let anyone else go through a situation they must resort to that.

And of course the most important person in his life is you, hence, he’d make a million percent sure you stay safe.

He drove you to and from the surgery center, to because he was telling you you better “get used to it” but he just didn’t want any energy to be wasted, you’ need it when you were done.

And from obviously because of pain, healing and medication.

He does choose the most high quality place, but he knows the pain of waiting hurts a ton more than the pain of a bad post op, so he does it FAST.

He immediately fetches you some water or juice, not an energy drink or any alcohol, and some simple crackers after. “Don’t want ya eating anything that’ll fuck it up.” He’s just worried for you.

Later on, when you’re safer after a few days, he immediately goes to get you your favourite takeout before you wake up to finally enjoy.

If you can’t look at the gashes or scars, he’ll help you out and apply treatment if needed. He’s seen guts spill open, please, I think fresh wounds off the love of his life in the name of freedom and reclaiming your autonomy won’t get him too squirmy.

He’ll take the drains out for you don’t you even worry.

Though he likes doing high risk things, you two won’t be having any vigorous movement or sex afterwards.

If you go to the gym damn right he’s stopping you for a while, “you’re already pretty fucking massive, better have ya rest up for a few days darlin”.

WILL carry you in his arms if you ever ask.

Has some late night talks with you about what you wanna do when it heals, how happy you must feel to have such a leech off you, him telling you how hot your pecs are now, just letting you rant and enjoy the excitement of what just happened.

Post op depression is SCARED of him, if you ever feel gross and cut open, he’ll show you the beauty of it. The passionate divine in shredding open and cutting out your own body to your taste, your image. You’re a god of yourself, a sculptor, and a survivor. You’re fucking sick (in a good way).

PLUS he always has things to cheer you up fast when he seems you slipping into deterioration.

Constantly checking up with your doctor, probably more excited than you, like holy hell that’s his beautifully cut off and slashed up to his liking husband right there holy fuck you’ve been waiting for this it’s insane.

Maybe not the best at showing excitement but you do notice the “I’m so fucking proud of ya”s increasing.

Biggest hype guy.

Will take the binder off after a week or two or three or whenever your doctor says so.

Oh and if you want your pecs to be developed more now that you can see the muscles clearly? This guy has creatine monohydrate and a training split for years. You will be so disgustingly strong in just months if you want to be. Yeah he’s your boyfriend and enthusiastically romantic at that but there’s also this bromance in getting you to GRIND HARD at the gym.

Haha grinding hard haha.