Pairing: Ronin Beaufort x f!reader
Rating: M
Word Count: 2840
Requested By: @mrs-potatocat
Synopsis: Up to this point in your relationship you haven't been able to see Ronin's face, so when that changes you're a bit caught off guard on how good he looks.
A/N: Hope you like it, potatocat! This was a fun write.
Content Tags: AFAB female reader, immoral reader, inferred sexual content, gore, murder, religious imagery, serial killer, reader has face blindness, reader shorter than Ronin, fluff
You can say with a great deal of confidence that your life is not the life you expected to be living. People told you in your youth that writing doesn't open doors, and that goes to show what they know, because you're dating the Devil's Butcher—all because you're a writer.
And now you spend your nights in the most unusual of places: back alleys, convenience store freezers, homes that do not belong to you, and, on one particularly unique night, an ice cream truck. Today you're keeping it simple, if running with Ronin can ever be called simple, and are back in his favorite haunt.
It's secretly your favorite haunt too, honestly. This alleyway has a lot of history for both of you now. To you it's the place where your life started; to him, a kaleidoscope of complicated feelings that always draws him back.
"Hey, darlin', focus!" Ronin grunts at you. "Aren't you supposed to be filming? This is the best part."
You startle from your runaway thoughts and lift your hands back up, making a picture frame. Ronin waits until you have him and the man twitching on the cement back in frame. He adjusts the grip he has on the crowbar before hoisting it up above his head.
He's right, this is the best part. The slope of his body as he lifts the heavy metal—you may not be able to identify the expression he's making, but you can see the shape of his form. The baseball-esque pose before he brings the crowbar down.
Ronin's giggling meshes with the crack of metal against bone and then the squish of the second hit and then the third and the fourth. He doesn't stop until the metal hits the concrete beneath where the guy's head used to be.
He's out of breath, chest heaving; blood spatters his red pants, blending into the fabric. The giggles finally fade as the crowbar droops into a lazy grip. Blood pools out around the body, a wide seeping puddle. You sidestep to make sure it doesn't get on your shoes.
He sighs, flicking gore from his fingers, "What a~ gusher."
You laugh and need to take another step back. There's no face left to look at now, but you can picture the man in your mind, and that's what surprises you most. A flash of his features: wide, terrified eyes, snot beneath his nose, and too-thin lips.
Immediately you bring your hands up to frame Ronin, and you swear you see a flash of his eyes. The shape of them, long lashes, and bright, wide-blown pupils. Then he's gone again, hidden from you.
That's how it starts.
It's a gradual slope; every time you go out with Ronin, you remember more. The information just clicks in a way it hasn't before. You're not sure if it's the blood or the scent of it in the air. It could be anything; it could be age, it could be Ronin himself, but something is shifting in you.
You're catching glimpses of him. Slivers of who he is and what he looks like. His eastern ethnicity, which was before invisible to you, is showing in the slope of his eyes.
It's as invigorating as it is terrifying, and he's starting to notice. Not that he tends to miss much. When it comes to any of his inner circle, you know that Ronin is a hawk for information. But he hasn't addressed it yet, and you haven't said.
The two of you are at his place, Ronin bent over the sink scrubbing the blood out from underneath his nails, you leaning in the doorway watching him. You lift up your fingers, framing him, and you swear you see him there. See a glimpse of all he is.
The shape of his nose and mouth in profile all complement his forgone spoiled shirt. There's blood along his collar that he hasn't cleaned up yet.
When you get the whole picture, even the small glimpse, you realize the feeling zipping through you is attraction. Not to say you haven't long already been attracted to him. It's his voice, the shape of his hands, and the way he touches you.
But this feels different. You continue to squint at him through your finger frame in hopes of seeing him again. That familiar Devil's mask looks at you instead.
"Ya' thinking about killing me, darlin'? That why you got your camera out?" His voice is a low, amused drawl, all sarcasm. The two of you both know that if it ever came to that, you'd stand no chance, not unless he let you.
Feeling silly, you drop your hands. Everything drips away like sand. Maybe it was a trick of the light, or maybe you were just imagining what he might look like.
You should say something before he catches on to your morose mood, "Nah, guess I'll keep you around."
"Awh shucks, so glad I could skate by." He kicks off the rest of his clothes, and you appreciate the view you can see. "I'm takin' a shower. Go write while the iron's hot or whatever the fuck the phrase is."
You use the excuse and flee.
"So you gonna tell me what's up, or is this going to be a three guesses type thing?" Ronin drawls. He's reclined in bed, tossing a knife up in the air like a ball. You'd be more nervous about this game of chicken he's playing with himself if you didn't know that that one was one he's left dull to use for this exact purpose.
Cutting himself likely; stabbing himself less likely.
You're sitting at his desk. Recently he added you as a user on his PC so you could write using his fancy multi-screen, glowing keyboard setup. It's very fancy, and you get a little thrill knowing that every time he sits down to use his computer, he sees your icon there.
One monitor has the server pulled up, another your current writing document, and then the top two continue to run his security cameras.
Trying to get out of answering his question, you say, "New sunset pic just dropped."
"As beautiful as they are, I'll check later." He replies, tossing the knife in the air, "Guess one, you need enrichment, and I should go find someone to beat to death?"
Rolling your eyes, you turn away from him and start typing, complimenting the most recent pic and adding that Ronin likes it too. He won't mind.
"Okay~ not that one." He hums. You do your best not to look back at him and give him more ammunition. Every time you look his way, you find yourself examining him, seeing if you can see beyond the Devil's mask to his true one beneath.
Why can you see the faces of his victims but not him?
"Guess two, being around me makes you hungry as fuck, and you really want me to order takeout?"
You chew on your bottom lip, "If you're hungry."
"Darlin', I am always starving for you, but you're busy. Gotta let you do your thing. I know~ how important it is to let a craftsman work." He keeps throwing the knife. You can't see it, but you can hear the sound of it each time the handle impacts his palm.
"Guess three, you're trying to see my smug mug." This time there's no teasing quality, no playing around the edges. Ronin states it like a fact, because it is a fact. You've been found out.
At first you attempt to play it off, keeping your eyes on the screen even though your typing slows to a stop, but you know lying to his face isn't going to do anyone any good. Ronin does not tolerate such things well.
Neither do you, really. So you pivot in his computer chair to face him. "Maybe." You admit, looking toward him. His body curls lazily in your direction, shifting on his side, legs twisting up with his blanket.
One hand still holds the knife, bringing it up to lazily scrape against his chin. "Something change?"
Part of the reason you've kept it to yourself is because you don't want to get your own hopes up. Seeing others means you might be able to see him, and you long more than anything else to know the slope of Ronin's nose and the shape of his mouth when he smirks.
To see him wink instead of hearing him sarcastically declare that he's done so.
"Sort of." You stare at the threadbare carpet until Ronin fills your frame, Devil's mask and ram horns. His hands come to cradle your face; they tighten, tilting your head dollishly from side to side.
"Sort~ of." He drawls back. "I could pull out your teeth if that would make this easier."
You snort and lean forward to press your forehead to the top of his head, breathing in the scent of his shampoo. His hand takes yours as he's wont to do and presses it to his face, tracing the grooves and contours of his skin.
It's easier to talk to him this way. He knows that; it's why he does this. "I don't know why, but sometimes I can see the faces of the people you kill; through the framed shot I can see them. Their eyes, their fear, pieces of them and I think maybe, sometimes I get flashes of you."
Ronin gives a rather dramatic sigh, "Oh no! I think this means the Devil needs to go out and play more often. Whatever will I do? The tragedy. The woe."
You giggle into his hair, tracing his lips to feel his smile. He bites your thumb.
"Guess it couldn't hurt," You joke. He's still got your thumb trapped between his teeth.
He talks even with your finger in his mouth, unperturbed by its presence. "Come now, I will test you with pleasure; enjoy yourself. Watch the Antichrist do his wretched work and see."
Ronin playfully leans back in his computer chair; he's scrunched up like he usually is, beanie in place, loose jacket falling off one shoulder. He extends his hands toward his webcam in a facsimile of the finger pose you often make.
You stare at your screen in silence, heart thudding in your ears. Between his outstretched hands you can see him, not in parts, not the alternative version of him you've crafted for identification, but Ronin himself.
He's looking at you, lip quirked to one side in a grin you both don't recognize and know as his. His eyes are dark, long lashes and soft hair framing his face. You see him.
His hands lower when you don't laugh like he expects, and confusion replaces amusement. Something else you can now identify, his emotions. You don't have to look at the shape of his shoulders, identifying his mood in a hundred different more complex ways than expression.
"Shit, baby, you're lookin' at me like I died and came back a ghost." He looks down at himself as if expecting to be incorporeal, hand patting at his chest.
You don't know what to say; you can't say anything. That's what he looks like? Seriously?
How the fuck is that your man?
He's stunning, the kind of stunning that you're certain goes for much better girls than you. And yet, there he is waiting for your answer. The confusion increases, a furrow of the brow, a frown. His lips are so soft-looking.
You need to kiss them.
"I, um, have to go," You mumble out, hanging up the video call. The two of you talk through the server often, which is easier than making the commute out every night. But you need to see him in person; you need to know if the face you can recall right now is the face of the person you love most.
He attempts to call you twice as you make your way over. You don't answer.
After that he settles for a single text: Better have a damn good reason for making me wait.
Normally you'd assure him you're on the way, that you've received his calls, but right now your one-track mind can only focus on getting from point A to point B. The rest can come later.
You know there's a good chance that by the time you get there, whatever you saw will be gone. Replaced again by his mask, but you hold on to a kernel of hope. Maybe you'll see him. Walking down the back alley to his place, you shoot him a text to let you in and wait.
With your impulsive bad luck, he'll have left, gone off to blow off some steam or something. Instead, he opens the door, wearing nothing but a pair of low-hanging shorts.
His dark eyes meet yours, and you delight in the way he lifts an eyebrow in your direction. "Giving me whiplash, darlin', keep this up I'ma need a doctor~."
He's beautiful. Fallen angel. Lord of the damned, beautiful.
Reaching forward, he grabs you by the wrist and yanks you inside, locking the door behind him. Ronin doesn't wait, clearly fed up with your behavior, and drags you like an errant child down into his sanctuary.
Once the two of you are in his space, he pivots, presses a hand to your shoulder, and shoves you into the wall. The impact stings, the breath knocked out of you as he bends toward you, head cocking to the side.
He dissects you with his eyes. "Fuckin' spill."
Your hands come out to his face, and he lets you touch, as you often do to better understand his moods, but instead of seeking an explanation, you're exploring. His jawline is sharp, leading down to a pronounced collar.
The scars on his chest have faded some with time, but they're still there, present with all his others. Granted, you can't entirely confirm or deny if you're in his league because the way you see yourself is watery at best, but you're pretty certain he's out of yours.
Your thumb comes to his bottom lip, pulling down on it. His eyes narrow as he leans a little closer. You can smell the mint chewing gum he chews when he's irritated.
The scent ghosts over you. You want to bite his bottom lip; keep your eyes open while you kiss to know what kind of face he makes. The potential spans out in front of you, all the things you'll get to experience that you couldn't before.
The smile when he kills, how he laughs when Angel says something funny. The way his face may smooth in sleep or how he looks when he comes. You want to know all of it. Every expression, every sliver of personality kept from you.
There's a hand tugging at the strands of your hair, gripping along the back of your scalp. You hiss at the feeling of meeting his eyes. He tisks his tongue, "Making me wait again."
Right, he doesn't know. You should say; you lean forward to kiss him, but his grip tightens in your hair as he leans away to avoid it. There's something in his eyes, something old and new: hesitation, mistrust, and confusion.
"I can see you."
He stills, fingers loosening in your hair, scratching at your scalp in apology for the harsh hold. "All the way?"
"Yes." You smile, reaching out to cling to his ribs so he can't pull away from you.
Ronin straightens, his confusion dripping out into something new. Arrogance. His lip quirks up in the corner, "And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light."
He pulls back despite your touch and drops rather drastically into a showman's bow. "So am I everything you ever wanted, darlin'?"
To your horror, your face feels particularly warm. Red hot, in fact. You're blushing.
Ronin giggles, fingers coming to his mouth, "Oh, oh, you poor thing."
Before you can come up with some false excuse to play it off, his arms are caging you in against the wall, one on either side of your head, using his height against you. That doesn't help at all.
Now his face is close to your own, in detail. Smirking like he's holding Eden's apple. Ronin is already insufferable; if he knows you think he's the most attractive person to walk the face of the earth, he's going to make it everyone's problem.
He's absolutely going to rat you out to the server at the very least.
"Awh, baby, are you smitten with little 'ol me?" Ronin in all teeth as he leans in to whisper against your lips, "All for you, all for me."
Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pressing closer. The two of you tangle together against the wall, one of his knees slipping between your knees. His eyes are lazy, tongue tracing his bottom lip. "Guess it makes sense, huh. If anyone gets to see me without my mask, it's you."
Like a reader who is very soft with children and is like the type to smile and help children often LIKEEE reader who's just very great with kids
GENTILE HANDS
pairing: Ronin × Reader
genre: soft domestic fluff, emotional intimacy, protective undertones
summary: Ronin watches in quiet awe as the reader’s natural warmth and motherly gentleness draws children to her, slowly realizing how deeply her softness changes the way he sees the world - and himself.
word count: 733
c/w: minor injury (scraped knee), implied violence off-screen, emotional vulnerability
a/n: Thank you for such a sweet request<3
➤ killer chat masterlist
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Ronin notices it before you even realize you’re doing it.
It’s small things at first—the way your voice softens without effort, how you instinctively kneel to be eye-level when a child talks to you, how your hands are always warm, steady, reassuring. You smile easily around kids in a way you don’t with adults. No walls. No second-guessing.
It unsettles him.
You’re walking through the neighborhood together when it happens. A little boy trips on the sidewalk ahead of you, scraping his knee. Before Ronin can even react, you’re already there.
“Oh—hey, hey,” you murmur gently, crouching down. “That was a nasty fall, huh?”
The kid sniffles, lip trembling.
Ronin expects panic. Crying. Noise.
Instead, the boy looks at you like you’re the safest thing he’s ever seen.
You pull a tissue from your pocket, clean the scrape carefully, murmuring reassurances the entire time. “I know, it stings. You’re being really brave though. Look at you.”
The boy straightens a little at that.
Ronin stands back, silent, watching something in his chest tighten painfully.
You tie a quick knot in the boy’s shoelace, then smile up at him. “There. Good as new. Can you show me how fast you can walk now?”
The kid nods enthusiastically and scurries off, waving back at you like you’re someone important.
Ronin doesn’t speak until you rejoin him.
“You do that a lot,” he says.
You blink. “Do what?”
“Kids,” he replies. “They… trust you.”
You shrug, a little embarrassed. “They’re just kids.”
That’s the problem.
To Ronin, kids have always been fragile. Loud. Vulnerable. Something the world chews up without mercy. He learned early not to get attached to things that break easily.
And yet—here you are. Treating them like they’re precious, not weak.
Later that week, you’re at home when a neighbor knocks, flustered. Her babysitter canceled last-minute. She doesn’t know what to do.
Ronin opens his mouth to decline.
You don’t even hesitate.
“I can help,” you say warmly. “It’s okay.”
He shoots you a look. You smile back like this is the most natural thing in the world.
An hour later, there’s a toddler sitting on your living room floor, stacking blocks while you sit nearby, praising every wobbling tower like it’s a masterpiece.
“Wow,” you say softly. “You built that all by yourself?”
The child giggles.
Ronin leans against the doorway, arms crossed, completely out of his depth.
You don’t talk down to the kid. You don’t rush. When the blocks fall and the child’s face crumples, you’re there instantly.
“Hey,” you murmur, rubbing small circles into their back. “It’s okay. We can try again. I’m right here.”
The child melts into you like that sentence alone is enough.
Something sharp twists in Ronin’s chest.
You look up and catch him staring.
“What?” you ask softly.
“…You’re good at that,” he says.
You smile, a little shy. “Someone has to be.”
That night, when the house is quiet again, Ronin sits beside you on the couch. He’s tense, thoughtful in that way that usually precedes violence or bad decisions.
Instead, he reaches for your hand.
“You ever think about havin’ kids?” he asks quietly.
The question surprises you. You don’t answer immediately.
“I think about… keeping them safe,” you say honestly. “Giving them the things I didn’t have.”
He nods slowly. “You’d be good at it.”
You laugh softly. “You don’t exactly sound like the type to agree with that.”
He squeezes your hand, grip firm but careful. “I ain’t sayin’ me. I’m sayin’ you.”
You turn toward him. His eyes are dark, serious—almost reverent.
“You make things feel… less cruel,” he admits. “World’s ugly. Kids don’t deserve that.”
“And you think I can fix it?” you ask gently.
“No,” he says. “But you make it survivable.”
Silence settles between you.
Finally, he adds, quieter, “You scare me.”
You blink. “Why?”
“Because you make me want to protect somethin’ that ain’t just mine.”
Your heart aches at the honesty.
You lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You already do.”
He exhales shakily, pulling you closer, his forehead resting against yours.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs. “Just… not in the way I am.”
You smile, arms wrapping around him instinctively—soft, steady, safe.
And for the first time in a long while, Ronin thinks maybe that kind of danger is the one thing he never knew he needed.
What do you mean “chat” is now referring to ChatGPT and not twitch chat? What? What? What the fuck? No?
When I address chat I am speaking to a presumed Greek chorus of real human people shitposting on their lunch break, not a machine that devours lakes to covert electricity into slop.
Fanmade Witch Hat Atelier spells come in two flavours
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