I was wondering if we can get a fic of the ronin just being absolutely flustered by the reader and reader doesn’t even know what they are are doing

Or just flustered ronin pleaseee 🙏

OH MY WORD I LOVE THIS???? final exams are over so watch out I'm back cw: ronin being ronin, ronin route spoiler

It started with a hoodie.

Not just any hoodie... Ronin's hoodie. Black, oversized, fraying at the cuffs and still faintly smelling of blood and motor oil. You didn’t even ask before you threw it on one morning. You were cold. You didn’t think it’d matter.

You were wrong.

Ronin, upon seeing you curled up on the couch with his hoodie swallowing your frame, stared like you’d just skinned a god in his living room. He dropped the grocery bag in his hand. Apples rolled across the wooden floor like they were fleeing the scene.

“…You good?” you asked, blinking.

“Y-Yeah,” he coughed, turning away so fast you thought he pulled a muscle. “Fine. Just. Forgot something.” He didn’t come back into the room for twenty-two minutes. You timed it, but the hoodie was only the beginning.

It got worse when you leaned over him one day to grab a drink from the fridge, body brushing his shoulder like you didn’t just light his nerve endings on fire. You sipped the soda and mumbled, “Thanks for buying the cherry one, I know you hate it,” and walked away. Ronin sat there, blinking at the fridge door, completely unaware that it had been closed the whole time. He would later realize he hadn’t blinked for 47 seconds straight.

You weren’t trying to do anything. Not really. You just existed like you always had: comfortably, casually, like his space was yours now and had always been. You danced barefoot in his kitchen to songs he didn’t recognize. You left your toothbrush next to his, as if you’d always planned to. You’d scroll your phone, legs tucked under you on the couch, while he sharpened knives nearby.

And it wrecked him. He could carve a man’s spine out through the back and not flinch, but one look at your bare thighs in his hoodie and his brain turned to static.

You started noticing it after a while. The way he choked on air when you absentmindedly licked whipped cream off your finger. The way his knuckles went white when you chewed on your necklace, totally unaware you were staring directly at his mouth while doing it.

The way he nearly dropped a blade when you asked, casually, sweetly, “hey, do you think I’d look cute with blood on my cheeks, or is that more your thing?” That’s when it hit you.

You were flustering Ronin. The Butcher of Uptown. Your terrifying, eloquent, blood-drenched boyfriend, undone by whipped cream and accidental innuendo. So.... you decided to test it. You started running your fingers through his hair while he's focused on something else. Leaning on his back while he's working, chin on his shoulder, breath warm by his ear. You noticed the way he’d pause, every time.

You bent to pick something up and stretched deliberately, just once. He made a noise that sounded like a dying laptop fan and excused himself with the phrase, “I forgot I have to… sandpaper… something.”

You twirled a knife once while cooking and cooed, “I think I’m getting better at this. Might put you out of a job.” And he straight up dropped the dish towel, stared at you, and said in the most cracked voice imaginable:

“…You’re gonna kill me.”

You blinked, all fake innocence. “With the pasta?”

He looked away, hand dragging down his face. “With everything.” Eventually, you cornered him. Not with threats, not with blood. Just with a smile, and a bowl of strawberries, and that look on your face that made him feel like he was the one getting hunted. “You okay?” you asked sweetly, popping a berry between your lips. “You’ve been acting weird lately.”

Ronin stared at you like he wanted to bite something. His jaw ticked. “I’m not acting weird.”

“Mm,” you nodded. “Sure. So it’s totally normal for you to fumble a crowbar when I put on lip balm?” He inhaled sharply. You leaned closer. “Totally normal to walk into a wall?”

“You were singing.”

“I was singing 'my dead gay son'.”

“…”

You tilted your head, feigning confusion. “So… you are flustered.”

“I am not.”

You leaned in, resting your chin on your hand, grinning like sin. “Wanna kiss me again?” His ears went red.

“…Don’t start something you’re not ready to finish,” he warned.

You smiled sweetly. “Who says I’m not ready?” He stared at you. And then walked away, again.

From the hallway: “I hate you.”

“Love you too Beaufort.” And that was your new favorite game. Not teasing him to hurt him. Not pushing too far. Just… making him feel it. Making him realize that you weren’t afraid of him, not when he was ten seconds from combusting every time you so much as tied your hair up in front of him. Flustered Ronin wasn’t a myth. He was very real.

And he was yours. Crowned in blood. Brought low by soft smiles and cherry soda. And absolutely incapable of surviving one innocent wink.