#killer chat!

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.

He was taller than you, not much but still noticeable, and his person got framed by the warm washed lights that showed down from the light pole behind you both, adding certainly to this moment. His hands held a sharp kitchen knife, covered with fresh and old blood alike, letting some of it drip down on the asphalt below. You could still see the images of him, pulling it out from behind their leather jacket, holding it with a deadly grip and not wasting a single minute with raising it into the air and letting its blade rip through the skin of the man in front of you.

The whole situation was almost amusing, iconic even. In fact, a single moment started to escalate so terribly that it felt unreal. It started with you getting the idea to go on a late grocery trip. picking up some snacks for your study session tonight, when you got pulled into the back of an alley by the hands of a very rough stranger. He was as polite, as a potential rapist could get at first, openly spilling out unnecessary comments about your oh-so revealing clothing, which was just some stuff you threw on quickly to go shopping, and how your body and eyes signaled him that you felt the same way about him, wanting some fun, a need to indulge in his actions. He was delusional if he thought that you even wasted a single thought on agreeing with his absolutely awful worldview. But as unfair as life can get, this wasn’t his first time it seems and he kept you pushed against the gross stone wall, hands above your head by pinning them with his own rough hand while his other one was busy putting his fingers on the hem of your shirt, circling the skin on your waist before giving it a rough squeeze that surely was meant as an indirect warning. This was the moment when you knew that you were in some sort of predicament as your choices came to a limited selection.

And that is when the person with the knife came into the scene, showing up and laughing to himself in overflowing confidence while swinging some rusty crowbar in his hands, right on top of his shoulder where it came to a rest. “Well isn’t that fucking gross? Might want to gore out my own damn eyeballs after seeing this.” Not only his appearance screamed dramatic but his pattern of speech as well, pulling his word as if he was in his own little stage drama. Those two sentences were enough to displease the guy holding you against the wall and he wasn’t very amused about the interruption. “Fuck off, twink. This one’s mine.” His grip got stronger, hurting your wrists in the process.

The man with the crowbar didn’t take it all too personal, according to his amused hum, back to swinging his crowbar once more before rushing over with a swing hard enough to let the man holding you crash down onto the ground, unconscious or dead. You weren’t really sure and certainly not in the mood or situation to double check and worry. It all happened very fast, to the point where you didn’t even realize that the pain around your wrist was gone and that you were theoretically free again.You all noticed it way too late, when the man with the crowbar kicked the man on the ground in the rips, making space between you and himself.

“At least he had taste. Hmm, you do look fine for a pile of rot.” His hands grabbed your cheek, tilting it to the side to get a closer look at your features. You were anything, but not fine looking at the moment. Your face must have gone pale from the shock, and your eyes are wide like a deer. “Are you going to kill me too?” Were the only words you could reply, adrenaline smoldering the fear and shock of the situation but something inside you still clenched onto that unsettled feeling. “Should I? Would I?” He was certainly bathing in the attention he got, enjoying the situation to the fullest like some sort of public performance art and he was the artist. He didn’t give you a choice either, just an illusion of mercy that will never fall upon you. “Actually, I would.” The crowbar raised once more with a swift motion, but you actually managed to dodge it barely by throwing yourself to the side, landing on the hard asphalt of the alley, slightly scraping your skin. The next attack followed quickly, he must be trained in using a crowbar for attacks based on his swiftness. He was certainly in advantage in every single field and it scared you. But there wasn’t room to be scared, not when your life was on the line.

The crowbar smashed down toward your skill, fast enough to stir the dust but you ducked it barely on instinct alone, only letting the weapon grazing your hair for a split second and then smashing into the ground with a heavy, bone-deep thud. The broken parts of asphalt fall next to your face, and it lets you feel the weight of the situation even more. You tried to get up, pain lighting up in your wrist, raw and sharp, but you forced yourself up anyway. Another swing came followed, wide and vicious, and you twisted aside once more, but too slowly. The curved steel skimmed through your shoulder with enough force to numb the arm after leaving a thin, electric jolt of agony shooting down your limb.

The man then proceeded to grab your leg as you tried a pitiful escape by crawling off, leaving you kicking instinctively, your heels connecting with something soft and followed by the grunt of the man. The split distraction was what she needed and she stretched out her arm to get hold of an abandoned glass bottle, lifting it and smashing it down on the head of her attacker. She used the moment, where he was caught off guard, to get up on her own legs again and he followed quickly. You came face to face with the man with the crowbar once more, situation unchanged and rather hopeless. The only things that might have started to be different was the amount of injuries he already inflicted and the little damage you did to him.

A crunch of shifting debris behind the man with the crowbar cut through the violent ringing in your ears and you turned to the side just in time to see the man that had molested you earlier start to rise again, unsteady but driven by something meaner than pain itself. Blood streaked down his temple but not covering the fierce glance in his eyes that he threw towards the man with the crowbar and his exposed back. The molester dragged himself upright and snatched a jagged piece of glass from the floor. His knuckles went white around it while the sharp edges buried themself in his palm. The man lifted his arm, shoulders tensing, ready to drive the shard of glass straight into your second problem of a man.

You perhaps didn’t think this through, but you certainly moved.

Your body shot forward, slamming into the crowbar guy’s chest with enough force to knock the wind from both of you. He stumbled out of the line of attack just as the glass came slicing through the air where his spine had been earlier. The shard cut nothing but empty space thanks to your stupidly heroic action. The man with the crowbar, now under you, shoved you off his body like a pile of discarded trash and got up, twisting around and caught sight of the attacker now fully committing to the swing of the mere glass shard he was holding.

-

you know when you walk into someone's room, you can immediately tell what kind of person they are? what posters they roll on their walls, what decor they line the edges of their room with- if they have LEDs, what merch they willingly buy and if they have a whole shelf for said merch, etc?

if you were to walk into ronin's room with no idea of who he is other than his oh so charming looks, you might just say "typical, makes sense given his aesthetic." even if the jars of human remains seemed a bit too hardcore and realistic.

it all fit though, the color palette ranging from all hues of red, black, and white, the masks, the lava lamp, the VHS tapes, the illuminated 'KORN' sign hung in the corner of his room matching the 'still alive?' frame with a cartoonishly drawn heart- it was all him- it screamed ronin.

the plainest thing in his room was probably his bed- and he knew that. it was just a black headboard and footboard, with a red duvet and pillows with a white blanket overtop it. it did match the color scheme, which was enough for now, but it was missing something.

.

.

.

but as his pupils grazed over your steady form, warm and breathing, he realized something.

the slight flush of your cheeks, the way your eyelids fell heavy over your unblinking stare, the hazy glare of his TV burning a light glow over your side-

the ruffle of your hair, your legs snaking awkwardly with his, fingers mindlessly tracing invisible doodles over his forearm, and the slight quirk of your brow as your eyes retrace back to his.

"what's up?" your lips curl upwards slowly as his eyes noticeably fade from the trance he planted himself into, brows slanted upwards as he slow blinked.

"...youuuu good?" a small giggle slewed unevenly from your grin, and he scoffs, a playful jab at the side of your waist following the roll of his eyes.

"'m fine, jus' thinkin'. what about you, darlin'? feelin' comfortable in the devil's den?"

you flop over on your right side, facing him rather than the TV, propping yourself up on one elbow with your other arm tracing the angle of his jaw.

"for a devil, you're rather accommodating, i'll give you that," you tease, and he revels in it; in your warmth, in the fiery trace of your finger along his jawline, and for once, his hell is starting to feel a bit hot.

"in a literal sense, if i'm laying in your bed, wearing your shirt, cuddled up with you, watching old slashers, i think i'm as comfortable as i can ever get."

it's his turn to grin, moving his hand from its resting position on your hip to the small of your back, letting a small exhale he didn't even know he was holding fall from his lips.

his downcast eyes flicker from the graphic tee bagging low under the curve of your shoulders to the width of your thighs, and he couldn't help but feel a little warmer.

you did look good in his clothes.

and as your hand caressed his cheek, his head melting into your warmth, he spots something along the flex of your arms.

his blackened irises almost narrow at them, but they reverted back to whatever you would call normal as his hand drags from your back to the base of your arms, fingers gently rubbing over the faded marks of your pliant skin.

at this, the knitted furrow of your brows came together, a slight wrinkle in your expression as you awkwardly chuckle, a defensive grin uneasily firming itself on your cheeks.

"what's this for?" you question, a wry smile on your face as you realize the implications of his stare, and the look on his face...was just blank.

"no reason, just glad you don't...do that anymore, i guess."

with a shiver up your spine, you firm up your lips into a sheepish smile, nodding with a creak to your voice. "aww, c'mon. can't even say that without the 'i guess' at the end?"

and then he laughed, the tiniest hue of cherry blending into his ivory skin, his onxy irises filled with amusement.

"is it like me to carve open my chest and bare it fresh? i'm not that much of a romantic, darlin'."

it was your turn to scoff, turning over onto your stomach and reaching out to cup his chin with the flex of your fingers, thumb lolling over his bottom lip.

"'i'm not that much of a romantic, darlin'," you mock, voice whiny and pitchy before you deadpanned, eyes narrowed at him.

"oh please, cut the bullshit, ro. not that much of a romantic my ass."

ronin weaved a palm through the plum tresses sitting upon his head, a dismissive hum resting in his throat as he looked you over. "i'm not really, i mean- i kill people?"

"yeah- abusers. usually, anyway."

you then fanned out your hands, your digits extending with each gesture you were about to point out, pupils darting upwards into your lashes as if recounting your times together.

"our motorcycle dates? the shirts you give me each time i come over? the way you snuggle against me while we watch movies, when you complain about being cold to get me closer to you, when you crack cheesey jokes about how lonely your lips are, how-"

"okay, okay, i get it."

and as you took a glance at your boyfriend, a bead of sweat brimmed at his forehead and neck, face flushing a hue of carmine as his words spewed out in an exasperated rush.

you grin.

"oh, and that time you rushed me through your front door after i got drenched by the rain despite the fact that you were also soaked. when you prepared me soup in worry that i would get sick, and while i didn't get ill, you did the next day."

you were trying to be subtle, but with how his pupils were blown out and watching your every move, he was probably more aware of your slow crawl over to him than you were, the mattress making a small dip where your knee paused.

"then, i stayed over the whole time and nursed you back to health while we watched your favorite movies? or when i stopped by your job and you purposely wiped your face with the front of your shirt to flash your-"

"okay, fine! fuck, you win!"

his face was hot and covered by a thin sheen of sweat, a hand flayed out over his jaw to hide his most-likely embarrassed expression, brows arched downwards into a glare. he couldn't even look at you.

ronin beaufort, flustered? ronin fucking beaufort, embarrassed?!

you just made the devil bow his head.

a boisterous laugh bounced out of the pits of your stomach- jesus christ, you've rarely never seen him like this before, all shy and flustered.

your arms snake over your own abdomen, trying to pat down the rumbling giggles orchestrating from your gut with a roll onto your side, and you feel his elbow butt between your ribs playfully.

"give ya an inch and you take a mile, huh?"

he grumbles, giving you a nudge as you only cackle further, slapping a palm over your eyes to smear the tears pearling at your lash line.

"god, your face is fucking priceless when you're embarrassed! geez, i shoulda taken a picture, would've been amazing to have that spammed in mai-"

without skipping a beat, he reeled you into his arms, before turning and slamming you down right in the middle of the bed, hands jabbing and feverishly dancing over your sides.

all the sudden, your laughing increased tenfold- tears springing out of your eyes like sprinkles as you jerked, bucked, and kicked in protest of his tickling, but you couldn't do anything against his iron grip.

you felt like you were dying, stomach exhausted as you guffawed and blabbered, hiccups along the lines of "i can't-" "wait, my stomach hurts-" "have mercy-" following between the tears pitifully steaming down your reddening face.

he lets out a soft-hearted snicker, his body over yours and his knees pinned on either sides of your hips. his plum locks tickles your forehead, reminding you of the teasing grin on his face as he mercilessly dug at your sides- before his fingers traced upwards to your collarbone, and-

his fingertips padded over your neck, before your head jerked instinctively and you could only cackle further. is he trying to kill you?

and finally- you fought back, hands reaching up into his shirt.

he stiffened, eyes widening as your hands snaked up into the black fabric and wandered over his lower waist, making him jump and bubble his cheeks- as if that would quiet his laughter.

but you powered through the pain in your gut from laughing your vocal cords out and frenzied your hands up his abdomen, he gave out, falling pathetically besides you as you took your sweet, sweet retribution.

his arms flexed over his head in defense, lashes clenched shut as his face buried itself into the pillow besides him, almost as if taking cover from your violent antics.

you curl over against him, hands jabbing and frantically scurrying up his shirt as his laughs and pleas muffle besides you, and then-

your hands seemingly touched a sore spot, his laughs dying out and his breath hitching, as if he was in pain. finally taking a second to feel the skin below your palm, you handle it with deft, and...

it's smooth, slightly arched in size, extending from the middle of his chest to the side of his pecs. you lift up your head to look up his already hiked-up shirt, and...

it's his scars. a cringe forms in the side of your gut, fuck- did you piss him off?

"sorry," you usher lowly, withdrawing your hands, only for his to grab your wrists, placing them back right back on his chest.

his thumbs roll over your wrists, reassuring your tense frame back into ease, and you eye his facial expressions carefully.

his eyes are beady, sucked into the way your thumbs navigate the faded discoloration of his torso, brows furrowed and watching with a slight quirk in his lips.

and then his eyes harden.

"do you, uh," he begins, tone devoid of that usual bite he has to it, gaze wandering away from your hands on him, from your face and to the corner of his room.

"do you see me as, y'know, uhm-"

"the devil? hell yeah."

he smiles.

it was so... genuine, so adoring, blooming through the erasure of his doubts, of your validation- even as his soft hair messily spiraled into his vision, he couldn't take his eyes off you.

and as you slink besides him, letting your head sink into the pillow conjoined with his- he realized something, and this time he took full joy in memorizing it.

your touch, your voice, your sweet, sweet lips- even the messy, unbothered display you shroud around.

the way you smile at him in the dim light of his room, the warmth radiating from your body as your lips brush against his.

you're all the decoration he needs.

-

hi ok this is a pre made post cuz im on holiday rn so like yea ANYWAY MARIA DE LA ROSA U BEAUTY ILYY

uhmmm ok so like funnily enough my favourites are actually ronin & luca but like maria is lowkkk prettier...ha...anyway so i obviously went for her because i love pretty girls and i love pink!!! yay!!! pink!!! such an easy colour to edit

got the sprite from likeee uhm some random ass thing i actually dont know where i just found it lowk anyway i watched a review on xo kitty s3 + emily in paris since i love watching movie reviews on badly done shows 🥹✌️

im def wrong about the second credits mb i genuinely have no clue i havent played this in like a month or two .. the only other person i could think of is rosesrot mb mb

i really need to experiment more w my style lowk ok thats me done uhm #ilovetwstmumsandnajma bye chat

this was wrote 27 / 4 / 26. . . hello future