Basically a continuation of offering to spend Christmas with ronin in the dlc! Credits to rosesrot for the first two lines of dialogue (from the dlc). First time writing one of these sorry if it sucks </3
"I can't fix it but... If you want we can spend it together? I'll be here and we can just... talk, hang out, game, whatever you want. Help you through today. Does that sound good?"
"Yeah... Guess that's better than murdering godforsaken parents out there. You're... heh... you're a rotten saint. I appreciate it."
You shut your laptop like you’re closing the coffin on your responsibilities, bag slung over your shoulder, the apartment door creaking closed behind you like a final breath. It's cold out, not enough to bite, but enough to make you feel something. Christmas, of all days. And for once, it’s not bitter. You’re walking the path to Ronin’s place, a slow, familiar trail. Phone out, map open, not because you need it but because your fingers are too restless to stay still.
This is your first Christmas with him. Your first time calling him yours in December, Christmas.
Ronin’s house is a strange little den of sins and warmth, contradiction etched into every wall. You don’t knock. Would feel too formal for the devil you’ve chosen to love. Instead, you creep to the window, peer in — and there they are: those stupid little red horns peeking above the couch. A twisted halo for the man who once swore he’d never celebrate a holiday again.
You slip through the window, quiet, not sneaky. He turns his head, smile slicing across his face like a knife carving joy.
“Saint Nick, that you?” he grins, a devil dressed in mockery.
“Merry Christmas, loser,” you say, just before tackling him into a hug like you hadn’t been starving for it the whole damn week. His arms close around you like iron chains. It’s been weeks since you’ve touched him, busy drowning in half-written stories and deadlines that don’t care you’ve got a heart. He breathes out into the crook of your neck, and the world stills.
You glance around, the same clutter, the same ungodly symbols scratched into the corners. There's more of them now. It’s his way of surviving the season, probably. Drawing sigils instead of slashing parents. But that’s why you’re here. You’re the talisman this year.
Before your thoughts can crawl too far, Ronin scoops you up like you weigh nothing, deposits you on his bed, and looks through his stack of VHS tapes.
“Wanna watch somethin’?” he asks, the corner of his mouth curled up in a smile.
They’re all horror. Of course they are. Slashers, hauntings, twisted little films with too much blood and not enough plot, his idea of romance. You nod, because you love that part of him. The grotesque. The familiar.
You close your eyes for a moment, but open them again when you feel him crawling toward you, jacket off, expression soft in the low red light. He straddles you, arms on either side, hovering like a question.
Then he pulls something from his pocket.
“Found it,” he says, trying to hide the smile. Dangles the mistletoe above your head like it’s a weapon. “Misaki said this plant’s got kissing powers or somethin’. We oughta test it.”
You blink. “Ugh. Guess I owe you a kiss, then. What a tragedy.”
He leans in. Stops just shy of your lips. Breath warm. Voice lower. “Pretty,” he murmurs, and you forget how to inhale.
His hand slides to your jaw, firm, and then his lips meet yours like a slow exorcism. Desperate. Familiar. There’s a hunger in him that didn’t exist in spring, a softness laced with too many broken things. The kiss deepens, jaw tilting, hands gripping, and then he breaks away to mouth at your neck. Kisses, bites, teeth scraping skin like he wants to leave a map of himself behind.
You laugh, breathless. “Ro—hey! That tickles!”
He grins into your throat. “Thanks for coming by. Haven’t not killed someone on Christmas in...well. It’s been a bit.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead, voice suddenly quieter. “Still. You here. In my hellhole. Warms the heart, if I had one.” He flops beside you, hand brushing yours. “You takin’ care of yourself?”
“Trying,” you reply, rolling onto your side. His fingers trace your face, nose to lips, slow and thoughtful. No smirk. Just him, raw, honest, a little haunted.
He’s clingy tonight. But you get it. December’s cruel. Especially to men like him.
“I knew you missed me,” you tease.
“Shut up, darlin'.” He shifts closer, buries himself against you like he could disappear inside your skin. One leg hooked over yours, arms curling around your torso. You breathe in: citrus, iron, gasoline — Ronin. Your fingers card through his hair, and he exhales, moving his hands under your shirt.
The TV flickers, painting him in pale light. He looks unreal. Beautiful in the way fire looks beautiful, right before it devours.
It’s mad, isn’t it? A year ago you were barely surviving his death threats. Now you’re surviving each other.
But this—this is different. This is sacred.
Your shirt’s ridden up. His fingers skim your waist, light and exploratory. Your breath stutters. He notices. Of course he notices. He’s a predator before he’s a boyfriend.
His hand drifts up, slow, thumb grazing below your ribs. You stop breathing. He hovers again, that same question in his eyes.
And then he’s kissing you again, fierce now, greedy, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Like you’re a ghost and he’s never believed in the afterlife.
He pulls back, just enough to look.
You're laying there, flushed, hair a mess, neck covered in marks.
His face shifts. Something like reverence, or horror? Like loving you might actually be the thing that kills him. He kisses you again, hard.
Your phone vibrates. A message from your agent.
You groan. Reality, that miserable beast.
Ronin chuckles darkly. “Can’t catch a break, huh, sweetheart?”
“No, no, don’t worry. I’m here for you, remember?” you say, brushing the notification away.
He scowls. Ruffles your hair. “Tch. You bein’ here doesn’t mean you gotta bleed out for me, babe. I’m your fuckin’ boyfriend. I do love you a li, y’know.”
You raise an eyebrow. “A little?”
He hops up, grabs his old Gameboy like it’s a sacred relic. “Wanna play?”
You sit up, grin spreading. “Hell yeah.”
“You’re already in hell, darling,” he says, that devil’s smile back on his lips.
And you are. But it’s warm here. And the devil’s arms are wide open.
