Mary

this Was Not on my art list... but can you blame a Devil for getting Side tracked? included an extra version, hats off

Ronin is entirely consumed by the visual juxtaposition you provide. The stark contrast between his chaotic, blood soaked existence and your naturally delicate, profoundly feminine features is an aesthetic he finds intoxicating. He views you as a rare porcelain doll left sitting on the edge of an altar, a pristine anomaly in his grotesque world (haha get it... grotesque...) He keeps you close simply because the sight of you standing beside him satisfies his macabre artistic sensibilities. The visual of his rough, bandaged hands against your soft skin is a masterpiece he never tires of recreating.

He possesses an incessant need to leave his mark on you. Because your features are so gentle and unblemished, Ronin takes a visceral pleasure in temporarily ruining that perfection. He leaves dark bruises along the column of your throat and smudges of his black lipstick at the corners of your mouth. These marks are not born of tenderness. They are signatures of ownership. He wants anyone who looks at you to immediately recognize that something wicked has claimed you. He treats your skin like a canvas he is constantly painting over, ensuring his presence is permanently felt even when he is not physically there.

His affection is delivered through a lens of saccharine mockery. He adores giving you ridiculously sweet nicknames that drip from his tongue with condescending affection. He uses them to remind you of your perceived innocence compared to his corruption. His tone is always laced with dark humor and teasing, finding endless amusement in how easily he can fluster you. He is never genuinely sweet to anyone else, and even his kindness to you is a possessive declaration disguised as a compliment.

Ronin frequently insists on sharing his aesthetic with you, or in his eyes, corrupting you. He will sit you down in front of the vanity in his bleak quarters and carefully line your eyes with his own black makeup. He smudges the kohl beneath your lower lashes, stepping back to admire how the dark pigment accentuates the innate softness of your face. He claims it enhances your features, but in truth, he simply wants to see his reflection in you. He wants to drag you into his theatrical persona, dressing you in his oversized clothes that swallow your delicate frame, transforming you into a beautiful ghost that haunts his specific corner of the underworld.

His devotion manifests as a terrifyingly absolute protection. Because your appearance invites attention, Ronin operates as a highly lethal shadow looming right behind you. When you are out in public and someone stares a moment too long at your pretty face, he does not immediately start a scene. Instead, he slides an arm around your waist, pulls you flush against his chest, and locks eyes with the stranger. The smile he offers them is sharp and promises unimaginable agony. He rarely needs to speak to make them turn away. The sheer, suffocating aura of the Devil radiating off him is enough to send them fleeing.