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vandme12 · 3 months ago

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Blood, Guts, and a Lifetime Warranty- Ronin x Reader

WORDS : 11732

TRIGGER WARNING : Graphic Violence, Gore, Murder, Dark Themes

CHARACTER USED : Ronin from Killer Chat!

SUMMARY : On the way to the wedding, Dressed in black, He really did it in his way didn't he? You really had a husband right now. He proposed.

INSPIRED FROM THE ART : @scary-brainrot I love their art! ahh! This was already in my drafts, I finished it!

The art's link (The one I got inspired from)

90 followers special

“That old man keeps asking when I’ll get married again.”

Annoying. Worse than annoying. Like a mosquito buzzing in your ear when you’re already halfway to losing your mind.

The garage smells like oil, rust, and Ronin—something metallic, something alive, something that clings. You could go home, but home is a ringing phone and voices that won’t like the answers you’d give. They love you. You love them. But they wouldn’t love him. Not the way you do.

Some distant uncle, some wrinkled remnant of family dinners and polite disappointment, would take one look at Ronin and say something sharp, something final. And Ronin? He’d roll his tongue along his teeth, slow and deliberate, like a lion deciding if a gazelle is worth the chase. He’d smile too wide, say something that’s both a joke and a promise of violence.

You’d defend him, though. Because you’re his. Because he’s yours.

A year, almost. Two sick minds spiraling around each other like dying stars, feeding off the heat, off the destruction. You learned more than you should. Became something sharper, something better, something that fit in the hollow of his ribs. And Ronin, patron saint of pretty rot, never lied about the world. He just pulled back the curtain and let you see it for what it was.

He loves you, but he doesn’t say it. He shows it in the way he exists—raw, unapologetic, a brush dipped in something obscene, painting your name in places no one else would dare.

And you?

You see it now. The way he sees things. The way they were always meant to be seen.

Face it, darlin’. You lost the second you met him.

The sound of metal on metal, the slow grind of a wrench turning bolts, the scent of oil and rust clinging to the air like an old, familiar ghost.

You’re watching him—your little devil in disguise, though he’s hardly trying to hide it. Ronin leans over the open hood of a half-dead car, sleeves shoved up, grease streaked along his forearm like war paint. He works with a lazy kind of precision, every movement drawn out, every flick of his wrist deliberate, like he knows you’re watching and wants you to keep watching.

And you do.

Because how could you not?

He glances up, catches your stare, and his grin spreads slow and sharp, teeth flashing like a wolf playing at civility. His tongue drags along his teeth before he chuckles, a low, amused thing that slithers into your bones.

"What, darlin’? Ain’t never seen a man work before?"

You roll your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. He doesn’t miss it—he never does. He tilts his head, studying you like he’s about to make a meal of you, like he already has.

"Careful now. Keep lookin’ at me like that, and I might start thinkin’ you got a death wish."

And Ronin? He never breaks a promise.

He lets the wrench fall onto the workbench with a clatter, wiping his hands on a rag that does nothing but spread the mess further. Then he’s leaning on the car, watching you like he’s considering tearing you apart just to see how you’d put yourself back together.

"Y’know, a person like you could do better." His voice is slow, teasing, coiling around something darker. "Could find yourself a nice boy. One who doesn’t kill for fun, who calls his mama on Sundays, who wouldn’t snap your neck if you asked real sweet."

A pause. A smirk. That awful, wonderful, knowing look in his eyes.

"But you won’t. ‘Cause you like this, don’tcha?"

He takes a step closer, the space between you burning down to nothing. The heat of him, the weight of his attention, the sheer gravity of his existence—it's suffocating in the best way.

"You like watchin’ me. Like sittin’ there all sweet while I get my hands dirty." A slow grin. "Like knowin’ they’ll never be clean."

“You’re being too edgy again.”

Ronin gasps, all mock offense, pressing a grease-streaked hand to his chest like you just ran him through with a stake. "Too edgy? Darlin’, you wound me."

“You already established the bit, you don’t have to crank it up every time.” You cross your arms, leveling him with a look that should be stern, but the corners of your lips betray you.

He hums, considering. "Alright, alright. I’ll dial it back a lil’—for you."

But then you laugh. Because, let’s be real, you like this. Maybe not the whole performance, but the way he commits to it. The sheer audacity of him.

Ronin catches that little slip in your composure, and suddenly, he’s grinning again—your grin. That slow, teasing pull of lips that promises nothing good.

"See? You love it."

Before you can argue, he puckers his lips, exaggerated as hell, and throws a flying kiss your way. And then—the bastard throws it straight into the trash.

You shoot him a murder look so sharp it could split bone, but he just laughs, loud and unrepentant, striding forward without a care in the world.

And then, in the cheesiest, most dramatic display of affection possible, he plucks the imaginary kiss right back from the air, presses it to his chest like a treasured keepsake, and sighs.

"Alright, alright. I’ll keep this one." He pats his chest, eyes twinkling. "Right here. Close to my cold, dead heart. XOXO, baby."

You groan. He’s impossible.

“You’re an idiot.”

Ronin grins. "Yeah?"

"An idiot for idiots."

His grin stretches wider, teeth flashing. "Oh?"

"So idiotically idiotic it’s actually impressive."

That does it. He throws his head back and laughs, a sharp, delighted thing, full-bodied and reckless. Hands still smudged with oil, still clutching onto the ghost of that stupid, cheesy kiss, he leans in like he's about to whisper something profound. Instead—

"And you—" he drawls, slow and indulgent, like he’s savoring the words before he spits them out. "You got the energy of such a bad bitch. Or a bastard. Take your pick."

He flicks his fingers, like he’s throwing dice, like fate itself is something he can gamble with.

"Somethin’ real nasty about you, sweetheart. Somethin’ sharp. A bite to that pretty mouth. Ain’t that a treat?"

His eyes are dark with something unreadable, something between admiration and hunger, like he wants to see what you’ll do with his words. If you’ll bite back. If you’ll play along.

Because Ronin? He’s always playing. And he’s hoping—praying, even—that you’re the kind of idiot who won’t let him win too easily.

"It’s... nothing."

Ronin tuts, tilting his head, eyes gleaming like a wolf that’s caught the scent of something bleeding. "Oh, but somethin’ must be trickin’ your head, darlin’. I can hear it rattlin’ around in there." He leans in, voice dropping to something just above a purr. "C’mon now. Whisper your prayer to the Devil. What’s on your mind?"

You shoot him another murderous glare, sharp enough to cut, lethal enough to wound. He loves it.

And worse? He blushes.

It’s fleeting—a flicker of warmth, a betrayal of blood rushing to his cheeks—but it’s there. And then, just as fast, he throws his head back and laughs, wild and unrestrained, like you’ve just handed him the funniest joke in the world.

The audacity. The gall. The sheer joy in his eyes, like he’s never been happier than in the presence of someone who genuinely wants to kill him.

Because let’s be real—isn’t that his favorite thing?

Ronin wipes at his grin like he can smother it, but it lingers, curling at the edges. "Goddamn. If looks could kill, sweetheart—" he whistles low, shaking his head, "—I’d be six feet under already. You tryin’ to make me fall harder?"

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Ronin’s already grinning like you did.

"What?!"

You don’t even give him a chance to answer before you pinch both of his cheeks, hard.

Ronin yelps, muffled by your hands squishing his stupid, grinning face. "Owww—darlin’, what the hell—?" He grabs your wrists, but not to stop you—no, just to hold on, just to feel you, because he likes it when you get your hands on him. Even when it’s to hurt him.

Especially when it’s to hurt him.

You tug his cheeks just a little harder, watching as his face scrunches up, his nose wrinkling, eyes narrowed in exaggerated pain. "That’s what you get for talking like that."

His words come out distorted, voice wobbling from the force of your grip. "Talkin’ like wha’?"

"Like you wanna die by my hands, idiot."

Ronin wheezes out a laugh, finally prying your hands away—but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he flips your grip, lacing your fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s his right.

"Ain’t my fault you’re so damn beautiful when you’re thinkin’ about killin’ me." His voice is softer now, but the playfulness lingers. His thumbs ghost over your knuckles, a mockery of tenderness, a real display of it all the same.

"Y’know," he muses, leaning in, voice dropping low, "if you ever do get sick of me, darlin’... at least make it interesting, yeah?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but you don’t pull away.

Ronin, grinning like he just won something, kisses your knuckles

You blush. Disgusting. You look away, like that’ll save you, like he won’t see it anyway. Like he won’t catch the way your fingers twitch in his grasp, like he won’t feel the heat you’re trying to will away. Like he won’t eat it up.

“You said live, not die.”

Ronin’s grin flickers. Just for a second. Just long enough for the mask to slip, the wires beneath to spark. Then—

“Oh, darlin’.” He lets out something between a laugh and a sigh, tilting his head, studying you like a painting he can’t quite decide how to ruin. “Now, that’s just cruel.”

You roll your eyes, yank your hands away, shove him for good measure. He staggers back with an exaggerated stumble, hand over his chest like you just stabbed him through the ribs. Dramatic. Always. Even when it’s real.

“Gotta admit,” he says, pressing his palms together, as if in prayer, as if he’s ever prayed to anything other than the void, “that’s a new one. You? Wantin’ me to live? Be still, my dead, black heart.”

You cross your arms, glare. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

There it is. That look. The one that’s all teeth, all sharp edges and something deeper, something raw. Something hungry. He wants you to fight him. He wants you to win.

You don’t humor him. You don’t move. You stay exactly where you are, which is somehow worse.

Ronin watches. Waits. Always patient, when it matters. Always willing to let the moment stretch, to let the silence settle, just to see what you’ll do with it.

“Go on, then.” He lifts his chin, dares you. “Say it again.”

Your stomach twists. You hate him. You hate that he knows exactly how to get under your skin, exactly how to pull words out of your throat like he’s got his fingers wrapped around your voice. You hate that you let him.

“You’re such an idiot.”

He smirks, tilts his head. “For idiots.”

“So idiotically idiotic.”

His grin widens. “Say it.”

You swallow. Fine. You meet his gaze, steady. “Live.”

Something shifts.

It’s subtle. A breath held too long, a flicker behind his eyes. Like you just flipped a switch he didn’t know he had. Like you just changed something.

Then, just as fast, he laughs—loud, reckless, full-bodied. He steps forward, gets right in your space, doesn’t touch, but you feel it anyway.

“Darlin’,” he purrs, “you keep talkin’ like that, and I might just have to listen.”

Your heartbeat stutters. Unacceptable. You shove him again, harder this time. He doesn’t even pretend to stumble, just grins like you handed him a gift.

“You’re insufferable,” you say, turning away.

“You love it.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Ronin chuckles, something quiet, something softer than it should be. You feel the heat of him at your back, a presence that lingers, that stays even when he isn’t touching you.

Then, finally, he steps away. Leaves you with the echo of his voice, the ghost of his grin.

“Live, huh?” he mutters, almost to himself. Almost.

"Guess I can try."

And damn it—you hear the smile in his voice. That soft, dangerous edge, like he’s filing it down just for you. Like you gave him something new to chew

Your phone buzzes—loud, persistent, annoying—because of course it does. You sigh, already knowing who it is. That special brand of chaos only one person in your family can bring.

Before you can grab it, Ronin’s faster. Always is. He snatches your phone like it’s his right, thumb dragging across the screen as he answers the call with a lazy, cocky swipe.

"Hello, sweetheart’s personal assistant speakin’—" He pauses, lips curling when the sound of someone shouting blasts through the speaker.

"Hey! When will we meet the boy?!" The voice is rough, familiar, and exactly as you feared. "I’m looking at some photos—"

Oh no.

"—of some nice boys. I’ll send them to you. Tell me which one you like, so the family can arrange a date. Get you two to know each other better—"

Silence.

A beat.

Then—Ronin laughs. Real loud, too—like he wants them to hear it, wants it to stick. His head tips back, neck exposed, all sharp teeth and sharper intentions.

"Well, shit," he drawls, licking his teeth, voice sweet as poison. "You’re settin’ up a date for my baby? Kinda rude, ain’t it? I mean—" His free hand slides to your waist, casual and possessive, squeezing like he owns you. "—I’m right here."

Your stomach drops. "Ronin—"

He ignores you, because of course he does.

"I get it," he continues, mock sympathy dripping from every word. "I mean, who wouldn’t wanna line up a few pretty boys? But—" He sighs, dramatic as ever. "—gotta break it to ya, pops. They’re already taken."

The line goes silent—for a second. Maybe two. Then—

"Who the hell are you?!"

Ronin’s grin stretches, and oh, he’s enjoying this. Loves the fire. Loves the fight. He leans closer to the speaker, like he’s sharing a secret. "The Devil, baby. Didn’t they warn you?"

You slap his arm, hard, but it only makes him laugh more—warm and bright, like setting a match to gasoline.

"You—!" The old man sputters, full of righteous indignation. "You think this is funny?!"

"A little," Ronin purrs. "Kinda cute, actually. Y’care about ‘em so much you’re hand-pickin’ their future? Adorable." His fingers curl against your hip, deliberate. "But—" he hums, voice sinking into something darker, rougher, "—no one’s takin’ ‘em away from me, old man."

He means it. You feel it in the weight of his touch, the way his thumb circles your skin.

"Ronin—" you hiss again, trying to take your phone back, but he’s not done. Not even close.

"Look," he says, casual as hell, like this is a friendly chat. "I’m a real thoughtful guy. I’d love to meet the fam. Hell—" he chuckles, "—maybe I’ll even bring a gift. Y’know, to show my appreciation."

You don’t like the way he says "gift." Not one bit.

"You’re out of your damn mind," the old man snaps.

Ronin’s smile turns razor-sharp. "Yeah, well—" he tilts his head, brushing his lips against your ear, voice dropping to a whisper only for you. "—I’m your kinda problem now, aren’t I?"

Your heart pounds—too fast, too much—and you’re torn between wanting to strangle him and... something worse.

The phone crackles—your family’s favorite brand of righteous fury practically vibrating through the speaker.

"You arrogant little—what kind of punk thinks he can talk to me like that?!" the old man barks, voice sharp enough to cut. "You think you’re funny?!"

Ronin, being Ronin, grins wider—which should be illegal, really, because no one man should look that pleased while actively causing problems on purpose. His eyes gleam, wicked and bright, as he leans against the workbench like this is his personal entertainment.

"Funny?" He clicks his tongue. "Nah, old-timer, I’m hilarious."

Your head drops into your hands. Of course. Of course he’s not backing down. Not when there’s someone willing to bite back.

"Ronin—" you try, voice tight, but he holds up a hand—shh, baby—without even looking at you.

"So," he drawls, like he’s savoring every second of this. "How many poor suckers you got lined up for ‘em? Five? Ten? You hopin’ one of ‘em’s got a personality, or just flippin’ through the catalogue ‘til you find a pretty face?"

The line crackles again. Then—"You listen here, you little shit—"

"Nah, you listen." Ronin’s voice drops—still playful, but there’s an edge under it now, jagged and dangerous. His smile never wavers, but the temperature in the room feels ten degrees colder. "They’re not goin’ on any dates. Not with your pretty little lineup, not with anyone." His head tilts, lazy, like he’s considering how much trouble he feels like starting. "Y’see, they’re already busy—with me."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, torn between wanting to melt into the floor and… God help you, wanting to drag him down by his stupid leather jacket and kiss the smirk off his face.

"What the hell kind of guy are you?!" the old man demands, voice still boiling.

And that’s it—that’s the line Ronin’s been waiting for. He lifts his hand, fingers splaying across his chest like he’s been personally offended, but there’s a gleam in his eye. Something feral. Something viciously proud.

"Oh, darlin’ didn’t tell you?" His smile turns razor-sharp, voice syrup-sweet. "I’m their worst decision. And their best one."

"YOU—"

"Careful now," Ronin warns, mock-gentle. "Wouldn’t wanna get your blood pressure up. Though, hey—if you keel over, I’ll send flowers. Maybe."

Your mouth falls open. "Ronin!"

He shrugs, but his arm wraps around your waist, tugging you against him like he’s staking a claim. "What?" he says, all innocence. "M’bein’ polite."

Polite.

The old man, meanwhile, sounds seconds away from an aneurysm. "You punk! What the hell do you even bring to the table?! Huh?!"

Ronin hums, pretending to think—tapping his chin like this is a serious question. "Well," he finally says, drawing out the word like it’s a punchline, "I’m real good with my hands."

You choke.

He winks.

And that’s when you’ve had enough. With a furious swipe, you rip the phone out of his hand and hang up before anyone can make things worse. For a second, there’s silence—just the hum of the garage and your heart pounding in your ears.

Then, of course—Ronin laughs.

Deep and delighted, like you just handed him the best gift he’s ever gotten.

You whirl on him, shoving at his chest. "Are you INSANE?!"

He doesn’t budge. Just catches your wrists, lazy and loose, still chuckling like he’s having the time of his life. "A little," he admits, dragging your hands up to his lips. He presses a feather-light kiss to your knuckles, saccharine and smug. "But you love it, don’t ya?"

Ronin’s eyes narrow the second the old man’s voice blares back through the phone—louder, angrier, like he’s just realizing exactly who he’s dealing with.

“AH, FUCK—IT’S YOU! PUNK, EMO ASS, KID—”

Your head drops back with a groan. Oh, great.

The rant barrels on, unstoppable. “Look, kid. They told us ‘bout you—yeah, yeah, we didn’t even mind your ass. But then we heard you don’t like marriage. Christian-type stuff.”

Ronin snorts under his breath, lips twitching. "Oh, no. Anything but the sanctity of holy matrimony," he mutters, loud enough for you to hear, and you felt shitty—because, of course, he’s not taking this seriously.

The old man is not amused. “Look, respectfully—I get it. Some people don’t like the religion shit, fine.” A breath hisses through the receiver. “But this is an event. My lil’ baby is either gettin’ married—or gonna.”

You don’t miss the way Ronin’s jaw flexes at the word "baby."

“So, please—stay outta their way.”

Before you can respond—before Ronin can sharpen his tongue into something lethal—your patience snaps. You snatch the phone from his hand and, with zero hesitation, hurl it across the garage. It hits the wall with a satisfying crack, falling in two pitiful pieces.

The silence that follows is deafening.

For once—he doesn’t laugh.

Ronin watches you—sharp, calculating—like he’s peeling back your skin with his eyes, memorizing every new layer you reveal. His head tilts just a little. Something about that look makes your chest feel tight—too much, too fast.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair, like it’ll somehow smooth out the mess in your head. But when you glance back at him—he’s still looking. Still waiting.

And his voice—God, his voice—comes out too soft. “Somethin’ on your mind, darlin’?”

You look away.

His grin creeps back in, a little too sharp. “Y’know I love it when you get shy,” he teases, but the edge in his voice gives him away. He wants the truth.

Your heart stumbles. You press your lips together, fighting the way your thoughts swirl—loud, messy, too much. But the words—the real words—don’t come easy. Not when it’s this.

Still—you reach for him. Slip your fingers into his, warm and solid and steady. It’s too intimate for how casual you’re pretending to be, but he lets you.

You swallow hard. “…You don’t like these things because of—”

But you can’t finish. Your voice trips over itself, and rather than push through, you stop. Let it hang. Force yourself to smile. “It’s fine.”

Ronin doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stays locked on you.

You squeeze his hands a little tighter. “I’m happy. With you.”

It’s too honest. Too raw. And his grip tightens—like he’s daring you to take it back.

For a beat—he says nothing. But something shifts behind his eyes, and you know—you just know—that those words are going to stick. He’ll hold onto them like a blade tucked under his skin.

You lean up, quick and light, and kiss his cheek—lingering just long enough to feel the heat rising under your lips.

“I’m gonna go home,” you murmur. “Sleep well, Ronin.”

His fingers twitch in yours—tight, like he doesn’t want to let go.

But then—he does. And the smile he gives you as you pull away is dangerous—a promise.

“G’night, Darlin.”

The walk home is quiet. Too quiet. The kind that sticks to your skin and makes your head buzz. You told yourself it was fine—you’re fine—but the weight in your chest doesn’t quite lift, no matter how many deep breaths you take.

When you finally get home, the house is dark. Silent, except for the faint hum of that damned telephone still on the hook. You don’t touch it. Not tonight.

You kick off your shoes, peel off the day, and crawl into bed. The sheets are cold—too cold—without him. But you don’t think about that.

Not yet.

You’re too tired to fight your thoughts, so you let them fade. Let sleep pull you under.

Ronin doesn’t sleep.

Not well, anyway—not when you’re gone.

He stays in the garage long after you leave, leaning against the workbench with a half-finished cigarette burning between his fingers. Smoke curls through the air—thick, acrid—something to keep his hands busy while his mind spins.

That old bastard’s voice still rings in his ears. “Stay outta their way.” Like he’s some stray mutt sniffing around where he doesn’t belong. Like you’d ever let anyone pull that leash.

A dry chuckle slips past his lips. As if.

You told him to live. And you said it like you meant it. Like you wanted him to stick around. For you.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because Ronin’s been circling the drain for years—grinning all the way down—and then you came along. Got your hooks in him. Made it hard to fall when you’re the one holding on.

And he likes it. That’s the worst part. He likes the way you look at him—like he’s more than just teeth and blood and bad habits stitched together. Likes the way you call him an idiot and still hold his hands like you’re afraid to let go.

It’s addictive. You’re addictive.

And maybe—just maybe—he’s not ready to lose that yet.

The cigarette burns down to the filter before he flicks it aside, crushing it under his boot. His fingers twitch against his palm, and for a split second—he thinks about calling you. Just to hear your voice. Just to prove you’re still there.

But he won’t. He doesn’t want to spook you. Not when you’ve already given him so much.

Still—he’s not gonna sit here all night stewing like a lovesick idiot.

So, he grabs his keys, swings his jacket over his shoulders, and slips out of the garage with a devil-may-care grin.

If he’s not gonna sleep, he might as well have some fun.

You don’t hear the sound of his bike pulling up outside your house around 3 AM. (Just kidding)

You don’t hear the quiet creak of the gate as he slips through, or the soft thud of his boots against the porch.

The lock clicks. A sound too soft for anyone else to notice—but you do. Always.

You move without thinking, bare feet against cold floors, fingers brushing the knob before you twist it open. And there he is.

Ronin.

He’s leaning against the doorframe like he owns it, like he’s got all the time in the world, but there’s something heavy in his stance. Something coiled too tight. His knuckles twitch at his sides. The silver glint of rings, catching low light.

You don’t ask why he’s here. You don’t need to.

Your hand curls around the front of his jacket—warm leather, worn soft—and you pull. He doesn’t resist. Never does, not when it’s you. He’s already moving before the door even clicks shut behind him.

The house is still. Silent, save for the muffled hum of appliances, the faint tick of a clock somewhere down the hall. But his breathing—his—is loud in your ears.

He smells like smoke and metal and something else—something darker, sharper, like midnight and mistakes. It clings to your skin as he steps closer.

You don’t bother turning on the lights.

His hands find you first. Of course they do—always greedy, always starving—palms dragging against your waist, thumbs pressing against your ribs. Heavy. Like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

Your breath hitches when he curls his fingers into the fabric of your shirt, knuckles brushing bare skin. He feels it. You know he does, because his mouth curls—barely—and he lets out a low, breathy exhale, like this? This is exactly what he came for.

You tug him through the dark, back to your room, back to your bed—his bed, when it suits him—and he follows without a word.

The door shuts behind you both. Quiet. Like a secret.

He shrugs off his jacket as you sink onto the mattress. The leather hits the floor in a careless heap, rings glinting as his hands hover—hesitate—before he touches you again.

Always touching. Always taking.

You make room for him without thinking, shifting under the sheets as he crawls in beside you. He’s warm—too warm—like he’s been carrying heat under his skin for hours.

You should shove him. Call him an idiot for coming here in the middle of the night. But you don’t.

Instead, you curl against him, and he… melts.

His arms slide around your waist, pulling you close—closer—until there’s nothing left between you but breath and heartbeat and something too raw to name. His nose brushes against the curve of your neck, and his fingers twitch where they rest against your back.

He holds you like you’ll disappear if he lets go.

And maybe that’s the point.

His face presses into your shoulder, too much teeth against soft skin, but it’s not rough. Not really. Not when you know how much he wants this—needs this—even when he won’t say it.

Especially when he won’t say it.

He’s touch-starved in the way only someone like him can be. Starved for you, specifically. Like it isn’t enough to watch from the edges. Like he needs to feel you—to sink in and never leave.

You trace your fingers up the back of his neck, nails dragging gently against skin. He shudders. His breath stutters against your throat.

His grip tightens.

He won’t ask you to stay like this. He won’t ask for anything. But you know he’d take it if you let him.

And tonight?

You do.

You let him tuck his face against your collarbone. Let him wrap himself around you like he’s trying to crawl under your skin. His hair tickles your cheek—soft, messy, human—and for all his edges, all his sharpness, he’s warm. Solid. Yours.

His heartbeat slows against your ribs.

You stay like that. Minutes. Hours. Maybe forever.

And when his hand slides under your shirt—fingers curling against your spine, not asking, just holding—you don’t stop him.

He’s quiet, after that. Quieter than usual. Like maybe, just maybe, he’s finally gotten what he wanted.

Morning comes slow. Too slow, and somehow too fast.

The bed’s cold.

His warmth—his weight—is gone, and you feel it before your eyes even open. There’s no leather-jacketed mess tangled in the sheets, no sharp grin waiting to bite at you the second you stir. Just empty space where he was, where he always is, until he isn’t.

You sigh. Of course.

He never stays. Not all the way.

The sun bleeds through the curtains, golden and soft, but it does nothing to fill the ache curling behind your ribs. You push yourself up, stretch the stiffness from your limbs, and try—fail—not to think about the way he clung to you last night. The way his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, even when he had you pinned close.

You don’t know why you keep doing this. Letting him crawl under your skin. Letting him take whatever he wants, however he wants. But you do. Again and again and again.

Your throat feels tight. You swallow it down.

The floor is cold against your feet as you slip out of bed. You move through the motions—shower, brush your teeth, dress yourself like you’re preparing for war. Your usual uniform. The world doesn’t stop turning just because Ronin decided to ghost you.

Not that it’s a surprise. It’s what he does.

Still—you check your phone. Just once.

Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No smart-ass messages left for you to find.

Figures.

You yank open the closet door, grab your work bag, and sling it over your shoulder. The weight is familiar. Easy. You focus on that—the rhythm of routine, the comfort of habit—because if you don’t, you’ll think about the way he felt in your arms. The way he held you like he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance.

You don’t have time for that.

Keys. Wallet. Phone. You snatch them off the counter and head to the door, locking up behind you with the kind of practiced ease that doesn’t need thought.

Outside, the air is crisp—too bright, too sharp for a morning that feels this heavy—but you square your shoulders, lift your chin, and walk.

A job’s a job. And yours won’t wait.

By the time you make it to the office, your face is carefully neutral—expression smooth, words sharper than you mean them to be. No one notices. No one ever notices. You bury yourself in your work, losing hours to reports and phone calls and emails, because it’s easier than letting your mind wander.

But it does,

Slaughterhouse: Losers Very Good—a bloodstained corner of the internet where psychos, freaks, and murder hobbyists hang out like it’s a dive bar no one sane would step into. Coded from scratch, like everything Ronin does. Meticulous. Untraceable. Home sweet home.

And you?

Offline.

He hates that.

You’re too good to him. You let him touch you—hold you—and somehow, you’re still here. Soft edges in a world full of jagged glass. He doesn’t get it. Doesn’t deserve it. And yet.

Ronin leans back in his shitty leather chair, boots kicked up on the desk. The glow from his monitors bathes the room in electric blue, half-lit shadows stretching across the mess of papers, knives, and half-finished projects. One screen blinks with a list of names. His little collection of degenerates.

If he’s gonna do something for you, it’s gotta be good.

He cracks his knuckles, spins a blade between his fingers, and pulls up the first chat.

🐺 K9 (V):

Ronin: sup, robo-cop.

K9: Don’t.

Ronin: aw, missed u too, sweetheart. anyway, i got a question. hypothetical. romantic. u know what that is, or does ur metal heart not compute?

K9: I’m blocking you.

Ronin: no u aren’t. u love me. listen, if you were, hypothetically, in love with someone—(gross, i know)—what would you get ‘em?

K9: …You? In love?

Ronin: hypothetical. duh.

K9: A knife. Through the heart.

Ronin: aw. that’s practically a marriage proposal, k9. but srsly. i want ideas. gimme somethin’.

K9: Why do you care?

Ronin: because, steel-toes, for once in my godforsaken life, i want to be nice. write that down.

K9: …Whatever the hell you are, I do respect you for wanting to do something. Get them something meaningful. Personal. Something no one else could give.

Ronin: ur such a sap under all that righteous fury. thanks, babe. xo.

Ronin grins to himself. Meaningful. Personal. Easy words when you’re not the one tangled in it. Still, not useless. And if nothing else, bothering V is a highlight of his day.

Next.

💀 LUCA_IS_SO_COOL:

Ronin: sup, sunshine.

Luca: YO DUDE. YO. YO. THE DEVIL IS IN MY DMS WHAT’S GOOD

Ronin: don’t wet ur boardshorts, prettyboy. i need ur expert advice.

Luca: BRO ASK AWAY. I AM AN OPEN BOOK OF RAD WISDOM.

Ronin: so, imagine someone who’s not me (obvs) wants to do something nice for their, uh, partner. ideas?

Luca: BROOOOOOO BROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO ARE YOU IN LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE DEVILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

Ronin: chill. ur embarrassing urself.

Luca: NAAAAH THIS IS EPIC. OK OK OK OK. GET THEM SOMETHING FUN, MAN. SOMETHING THAT MAKES ‘EM LAUGH. OR LIKE. A DATE NIGHT. EVERYONE LOVES A DATE NIGHT.

Ronin: yea? what do u get feli? a golden shrine?

Luca: BRO. SHE DESERVES IT. LOVE OF MY LIFE. 10/10 WOULD MURDER FOR HER.

Ronin: u r so cringe it makes my teeth hurt.

Luca: NAH, MAN. THIS IS PEAK RELATIONSHIP. EMBRACE IT. TREAT ‘EM RIGHT.

He closes the chat before Luca can start writing you two’s wedding vows.

🎀 Angel (Angelic):

Ronin: hey, sweetheart.

Angel: Shouldn’t you be doing crimes?

Ronin: multitasking. i need a gift idea. something hot. spicy. devilishly irresistible. like me.

Angel: LMAO. You? Being romantic? Is this the apocalypse?

Ronin: c’mon, sugar. help a devil out.

Angel: Fine. Jewelry’s always a classic. But not basic. Custom. Something only you could give. Bonus points if it’s dangerous.

Ronin: deadly and pretty. like you. i’ll keep that in mind.

Angel: You’re welcome, loser.

Alright. Custom. Unique. That he can work with.

One last stop.

📚 Felicite:

Ronin: Hey Feli

Felicite: What do you want, Ronin? I hope you're doing fine!

Ronin: thought you academics liked answering questions. gimme ur best gift idea.

Felicite: For who?

Ronin: nosy. for my business.

Felicite: Books are an easy choice. But if you actually care, do something personal. An experience. Something only you could give.

Ronin: huh.

Felicite: For the record, Luca’s losing his mind. I think you broke him.

Ronin: lol. love that.

He leans back, phone tossed onto the desk. Mind buzzing.

Something personal. Something only he could give.

He taps his fingers against his thigh, a slow rhythm building. Yeah. Yeah, he’s got ideas.

hitmeuppp

goreboy: oi, sunshine. u busy killin’ or can i bother u for a sec?

hitmeupp: ✨ goreboy in my inbox?? is it my birthday?? ✨

goreboy: i’m the gift that keeps on givin’, baby. don’t forget it.

hitmeupp mm, flirty today. what’s on your wicked little mind, devil boy?

Ronin: hypothetically… let’s say i wanna do somethin’ nice for someone. y’know. romantic. cute. sweet. whatever. ideas?

hitmeupp: 👀👀👀 waitwaitwait—you?? doing something sweet?? for a special someone?? ohhh i am LIVING for this.

Ronin: don’t make it weird.

hitmeupp: too late, babe. so, what’s the vibe? like, do you wanna melt their heart? make ‘em blush? get ‘em to kiss you senseless? give me the deets.

Ronin: …all of the above, probs.

hitmeupp: aww, you’re adorable when you’re down bad. okay, listen up:

Custom gift—something only you could give. Unique. Dangerous, if you’re feelin’ spicy.

Surprise date—not boring, tho. They like you, so they probably have a taste for the unusual.

Handwritten note—bonus points if it’s a little unhinged. People LOVE that stuff.

Ronin: a note? what, like “roses are red, violets are blue, i’d kill for u, baby, it’s true”?

hitmeupp: LMAO okay, poet, calm down. but yeah—personal. even psychos like a little sentiment. and you’ve got that whole devilish charm thing, use it.

Ronin: u sayin’ i’m charming?

Misaki: 😏 darling, if i didn’t have standards, Stil no

Ronin: Ouch

hitmeupp mmm, promises, promises. now, get outta my inbox before i start liking you.

Ronin: too late, sunshine.

hitmeupp ugh, you’re impossible. good luck wooing your lover~ 💕

[Slaughterhouse Server – Main Chat]

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: AYO. EVERYONE SHUT UP. BIG NEWS.

Angelic: ??

hitmeuppp: what, did u finally find a brain cell?

Angelic: Doubt it.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: NO. BIGGER. Y’ALL. RONIN DMed ME ABOUT GIFTS.

K9: …The hell?

Angelic: wait. hold on. pause.

hitmeuppp: ✨ omg no way ✨

Goreboy: Liar.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: BRO, I SWEAR. HE ASKED ME FOR GIFT IDEAS. LIKE—SOMETHING ROMANTIC. I’M NOT EVEN KIDDING.

Felicite: …what's wrong about it luca?

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: HE’S SIMPIN’.

Angelic: That's fine?

K9: This is stupid. Who cares.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: LMAOOOO LOOK AT THIS HATER. HE MAD ‘CAUSE NO ONE’S SENDING HIM LOVE LETTERS.

goreboy: you’re gonna lose a limb, surfer boy.

hitmeuppp: awwww the devil’s BLUSHING~

Angelic: no because why is this actually the most interesting thing to happen all week

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: I’M NOT EVEN DONE. Y’ALL. HE DIDN’T JUST DM ME. HE DMed EVERYONE.

K9: ......

Angelic: Hold the fuck on—

hitmeuppp: 💀💀💀 GOREBOY OUT HERE TAKING A SERVER-WIDE SURVEY ON HOW TO WOO HIS BOO??

Felicite: Oh my god.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: NAH BECAUSE THIS IS TOO GOOD. IMMA SAY IT. HE’S SIMPIN’ FOR Y/N.

Ronin stares at the screen.

The nerve. The audacity.

These punks. Absolute ingrates. He gives them a space to thrive, to indulge their weird little murder hobbies, and this is the thanks he gets?

He’s cool. Ice-cold. Too smooth to care. …And yet—

The corner of his mouth twitches. A little.

They’re all still going.

hitmeuppp: if it’s NOT y/n i’m actually gonna riot.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: BRUH WHO ELSE WOULD IT BE??

K9: I hate all of you.

hitmeupp: WAIT. HOLD UP. What if Y/N SEES THIS???

Ronin’s heart skips.

Yeah. What if?

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: OMG OMG OMG I’M GONNA PING ‘EM.

goreboy: don’t you dare.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: @Y/N @Y/N @Y/N HEY, BESTIEEEE~

Ronin grips his phone a little too tight. He should stop this.

He won’t.

Because somewhere—deep down—he kind of likes it.

Angelic: luca omg ur gonna get us all murdered.

hitmeuppp: worth it.

K9: Idiots.

Felicite: …This is sort of cute.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: NAH THIS IS LORE. I HOPE Y/N SEES THIS.

Angelic: fr. like imagine logging in and seeing the whole server clowning on ronin for being a lovesick freak.

goreboy: y’all must have a death wish.

Ronin exhales sharply through his nose.

[PRIVATE GROUP CHAT – “Ronin Babysitting Squad”] (Created by Angelicc)

Members: Angelic, Eviscerator1990, Ai Hua, Goreboy

Angelic: this feels like a weird intervention

goreboy: this feels like a weird mistake

Eviscerator1990: Shut up, kid. We’re here to help.

Ai Hua: 🙂 what’s wrong?

Ronin blinks at his screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. This is humiliating. Why did he think letting Vince of all people into this would be a good idea? The guy still thinks dial-up internet is modern technology.

And Ai Hua? Pure terror in the form of a woman. Always smiling. Always watching. Respect

He should leave.

He doesn’t.

Eviscerator1990: So. What happened.

goreboy: nothing happened, grandpa.

Angelic: that’s not what the ENTIRE SERVER says~

Ai Hua: 🤔

Eviscerator1990: Be honest. You wouldn’t DM all these punks unless it was serious.

Ronin sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. Why the hell is it these three? Of all people.

His thumbs hover—then, finally, he types.

goreboy: hypothetically. if i wanted to do… something. for someone. what’s a good gift?

Silence. Too much silence.

His stomach twists. Mistake. Huge mistake.

Ai Hua: ❤️

Eviscerator1990: …Is it Y/N?

goreboy: who else?

Vince sends three dots. The dreaded “typing…” lingers for a long, long time.

Ronin’s jaw tightens. Here it comes.

Eviscerator1990: Son. You got it bad.

Ronin groans. He should burn the server down. All of it. Reduce it to digital ash.

Ai Hua: 🙂 good.

goreboy: good??

Angelic: she’s right tho.

Eviscerator1990: So. What kind of thing are you thinking? Big? Small?

Ronin exhales, tilting his head back against the couch. Big? Small? Hell if he knows.

You’re good to him. Too good. And all his sharp little edges don’t feel quite so sharp around you. It’s annoying. It’s addictive. It’s yours.

goreboy: …something they’ll remember.

A long pause. Ai Hua is still smiling. Vince sends an emoji that looks suspiciously like a knife. Angelic? Predictably losing her shit.

Angelic: oh my god. oh my GOD.

goreboy: do not.

Angelic: no because this is so cute i’m gonna DIE.

Vince, at least, is playing it straight. Mostly.

Eviscerator1990: Personal. That’s what you want. Something that means something.

Ai Hua: 💌

A love letter. Of course Ai Hua would suggest something that sappy.

Ronin scoffs—but he doesn’t immediately shoot it down. Weird.

Eviscerator1990: Back in the day, I’d leave my girl notes on the bodies. You know—real romantic.

Ai Hua: ❤️ he did. very sweet.

goreboy: romantic is one word for it.

Angelic: okay okay but what does y/n like?

He knows. Of course he knows. Your coffee order. The way you hum under your breath when you’re lost in thought. How you scrunch your nose when you’re about to call him an idiot.

You like him. Which is the real problem.

goreboy: they like me.

Angelic: ugh barf

Eviscerator1990: Okay. Make it about you, then. Something only you could give.

Ronin blinks. Something only he could give.

The thought sticks—hooks deep. A dangerous idea, curling slow and warm in his chest.

Ai Hua: 🙂 you’ll figure it out.

He hates how much that simple, sweet little emoji makes him feel seen.

Eviscerator1990: Don’t mess it up, kid.

Eviscerator1990: Listen, kid—when you’ve been married as long as I have, you learn a thing or two.

Ronin immediately regrets his life choices.

His fingers hover over the keyboard. He considers leaving. Deleting the server. Moving to a cave and never speaking again.

goreboy: oh god here we go

Angelic: oh god here we go

Ai Hua: 🙂

Vince, undeterred, continues typing like he’s delivering the gospel.

Eviscerator1990: Our wedding? Best thing I ever did. No question.

goreboy: what, was it a bloodbath?

For a second, nothing. Then—

Eviscerator1990: Nah. Garden wedding. Real classy.

Ronin nearly drops his phone.

goreboy: you. YOU. Garden wedding??

Eviscerator1990: Yeah. Had flowers and everything. I wore a tux. Looked sharp as hell.

Ai Hua: ❤️ you did.

He can feel Angelic vibrating through the screen.

goreboy: no.

Ronin scrubs a hand over his face. This cannot be real life.

Eviscerator1990: Point is— That was my gift to her.

That hooks him. Annoying, sentimental, and probably too much sugar in his bloodstream—but it sticks.

goreboy: you’re telling me the best thing you ever gave her was a wedding?

Eviscerator1990: Yeah. ’Cause it meant forever. I mean, don’t get me wrong. She still scares the hell outta me.

Ai Hua: 👍

Eviscerator1990: But that’s how you know it’s real.

There’s a long pause. Ronin swears he can hear Angelic trying to choke down her squeals.

Ai Hua: 🙂 do you like them enough to marry?

His heart lurches.

The words hang there—quiet, patient.

Ai Hua doesn’t push. She never does. It’s not her way. She just lays it out, all soft-spoken and warm, like a mother easing her child into something bigger than they understand.

And for once, he doesn’t know.

goreboy: …kinda?

Angelic: KIND OF??

Eviscerator1990: What kinda answer is “kinda?” Either you want it, or you don’t.

Ronin huffs. He leans back on the couch, biting the inside of his cheek. Want. What a word.

goreboy: i want them. i want them to stay.

Ai Hua sends a heart. Just one.

Ai Hua: 🙂 then maybe… Do it your way.

His way.

His mouth curves. Dangerous. Wicked. Oh, he can do that.

Ai Hua: I’m sure Y/N likes you enough.

Something in his chest twists.

Likes him enough to deal with his bullshit. Likes him enough to stay, even when he’s all sharp corners and messy feelings. Likes him enough to keep his name on their tongue, even when it’d be easier not to.

Ai Hua: Whatever you give them that lasts longer— They’ll love it.

He blinks. The words sit heavy.

Ai Hua: Because it’s you. That’s how I feel about my husband.

Quiet. It’s too quiet. Even Angelic—who lives to make everything her business—doesn’t send a single obnoxious emoji.

And Ronin?

He stares at the screen, stomach flipping, heart hammering out some rhythm he refuses to name.

He doesn’t do forever. Doesn’t play nice, doesn’t stick around, doesn’t—

But for you?

Yeah. Maybe he does.

goreboy: Thanks

Eviscerator1990: You’re welcome.

Ai Hua: 🙂 good luck.

Angelic: this is the CUTEST thing that’s ever happened in this cursed server...

Ai Hua: 🙂 one more thing.

His thumb hovers over the exit button. Something about Ai Hua, though—you don’t ignore her when she asks.

goreboy: what.

Ai Hua: It’s fine.

He frowns.

goreboy: what is.

Ai Hua: The way you love them. It doesn’t have to be a wedding. It just has to be you.

He freezes.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Something sharp scrapes under his ribs.

You.

He’s not soft. Not simple. Not the kind of guy who shows up with roses and a ring and a stupid, starry-eyed smile. But you don’t want that. Never have.

You want him. Exactly as he is—rough edges, black heart, wicked mouth.

And maybe—maybe—that’s enough.

Ai Hua: They love your style. Show them it, my son.

His mouth twitches.

goreboy: did you just call me your son?

Eviscerator1990: We kinda adopted you, kid. Sorry. No returns.

Ai Hua: 🙂

A beat of silence. Then—

goreboy: tch. whatever. not like i needed another family.

Ai Hua: ❤️ but you have one.

His chest aches. Stupid. Sentimental. Unbearable.

Eviscerator1990: And hey— Our kids keep asking when they’re gonna see Uncle Ronin again.

His laugh slips out before he can stop it—low, breathy. Of course they do. Little gremlins.

goreboy: tell ‘em i said to stay in school.

Ai Hua: 🙂 they want to be like you.

Oh, hell no.

goreboy: no they don’t.

Eviscerator1990: One of ‘em tried to make a fake server last week. Called it “Slaughterhouse Jr.”

goreboy: i am not responsible for that.

Ai Hua: 🙂 you inspire them.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. This is a nightmare.

goreboy: y’all are gonna give me grey hair.

Eviscerator1990: You’d still be pretty.

Angelic: oh my god.

Ai Hua: 🙂 will you be okay?

For a long time, he doesn’t answer.

Will he be okay? With this? With you—taking up space in his chest, clawing your way under his skin?

He already knows the answer.

goreboy: yeah.

And for once—just once—he means it.

goreboy: thanks. or whatever.

Ai Hua: 🙂 anytime.

Now onto, you and him

goreboy: Hey, darlin’.

A simple text. Too simple. He never starts like that without a plan. Trouble in four letters.

You barely get through your day before your phone buzzes again. And again. And—

goreboy: what, too busy for lil’ old me? tragic.

goreboy: bet you’re sittin’ there missin’ me, huh?

goreboy: wait—don’t tell me. you’re makin’ heart eyes at your desk or somethin’.

goreboy: don’t blame you. i’m a lot to miss.

He’s annoying. Even through a screen. Even when you know he’s probably lounging somewhere, all long legs and lazy smirk—half-bored, half-plotting his next move.

Still. Your heart gives that stupid flutter. You glance at your phone, biting back a smile as you finally reply.

You: you left without saying anything :(

A beat. Then—

goreboy: oh, baby. don’t tell me you’re poutin’.

You roll your eyes.

You: maybe.

He’s quick—too quick.

goreboy: fuck. now i really wanna see it.

Your cheeks warm. He’s unbearable. Always poking, always pushing. And yet—

You: you didn’t have to leave so fast.

His next text comes slower. As if he’s thinking. You imagine him slumped in that busted leather chair in his garage—legs spread, boots kicked up, twirling a screwdriver or some other sharp thing between his fingers.

goreboy: duty called, sugar. had to open up the garage. wouldn’t want my precious toys collectin’ dust.

You: you’re ridiculous.

goreboy: and yet, here you are, talkin’ to me anyway.

You: i’m soft for you, obviously.

A whole minute passes. When he finally replies, it’s slower. Something tugs beneath the teasing. Something heavier.

goreboy: hey.

goreboy: you’d like… whatever i did for you, yeah?

You blink. Where is this coming from?

You: of course.

goreboy: nah, i mean— like. if i did somethin’ stupid. you’d still like it, right?

Your lips curl. So that’s it. The devil himself, circling the point like a shark.

You: depends. how stupid are we talkin’?

He sends a dramatic sigh emoji.

goreboy: unbelievable. here i am, barin’ my heart and soul—

You: pfft. heart and soul, my ass.

Still, you soften. Because under all the bravado, you can hear it—the little twist of hesitation. And that? That gets you every time.

You: whatever you’re scheming, yeah. i’ll like it. because it’s you.

You hit send before you can overthink it. Let him sit with that.

And oh, does he. For a second too long. When his next message comes, it’s something softer—something unguarded.

goreboy: dangerous thing to say, sweetheart. you know i’ll hold you to it.

You bite your lip, warmth curling in your chest.

You: i’m counting on it.

He doesn’t answer immediately. You imagine him leaning back, teeth sinking into his lower lip, mind working a mile a minute. Because that’s the thing with him—he never stops thinking. Never stops wanting.

And you—you’re the worst of it.

His brain tells him he shouldn’t care so much. But his heart? His heart’s already tangled up in you.

goreboy: s’pose i’ll have to cook up somethin’ real special then. can’t have my darlin thinkin’ i don’t care.

It makes your stomach flip.

You: i never think that.

Another pause. You swear you can feel his smile through the screen—soft, a little crooked. The kind he only ever lets you see.

goreboy: I....see...

Uptown has an alley they call Purgatory.

It isn’t pretty. Never was. A place where sunlight doesn’t dare creep, where the air tastes like rust and regret. Blood dries black against the brickwork—his blood, most days. Or someone else’s, when he’s feeling generous. It smells like piss, garbage, and death.

A shithole. Perfect.

This—this—is where Ronin Beaufort decides to propose.

Because where else? Where better? It’s where you kissed him for the first time, after all—the devil himself, knuckles raw from the man he’d left twitching at your feet, teeth red and grin wide. You’d kissed him anyway. Kissed him like you meant it. Like he was something worth keeping.

And Ronin? He’s not one to let things go.

So, he makes a plan. A fucked-up, perfect plan.

The first body is easy.

An uptight corporate asshole. Buttoned-up, boring, all crisp lines and no soul. Ronin cracks his skull open like a candy shell. Blood spatters wide, painting the concrete. Nice start. But not enough. Not for you.

The second one’s better. Messier. He takes his time—drags it out. A real piece of work, some wannabe kingpin, all bark and no bite. Ronin guts him slow, pulls pretty red ribbons from his stomach. He uses the crowbar for the heart—your heart, darling—and carves it deep into the brick. Wide, jagged, dripping. Personal.

When it’s done, he steps back, tilts his head.

Huh. Cute.

He’s still admiring his work when his phone buzzes.

Angelic: yo, goreboy, you rang?

Of course, she picks up. She always does—his favorite little devil with a halo, sharp-tongued and twice as nosy. And yeah, he could’ve asked anyone, but Angel? Angel gets it.

goreboy: need a favor.

Angelic: what’s in it for me?

goreboy: the eternal satisfaction of servin’ the devil?

Angelic: pfft.

He snorts, tongue running over his teeth. Predictable.

goreboy: fine. order me somethin’. rings.

Angelic: wait. back up. goreboy’s proposing?

He glares at his phone like it personally offended him.

goreboy: shut up.

Angelic: aw, you’re getting soft. what kind? black diamonds? skulls? molten lava straight from hell?

“Funny,” he mutters under his breath. But she’s not wrong. Your ring—your ring has to be perfect.

goreboy: black. gothic. whatever screams “marry me"

The typing bubble appears. Pauses. Then—

Angelic: lucky you, i got a guy.

Of course, she does.

goreboy: knew there was a reason i kept you around.

Angelic: anything for the devil. even if i gotta play cupid for my ex.

He rolls his eyes. “Christ.”

goreboy: Thanks Angel, Won't give up my child for a week.

Angelic: I'll just kill it again

Yeah. Yeah, he would. Not that he’d admit it.

goreboy: whatever. send me the bill.

Her last message comes fast—too fast. He can hear the smile.

Angelic: oh, darling. it’s on the house.

goreboy: Send it, you know- I don't do these Angel.

Angelic: You're cute, No. Just take the rings

He huffs a laugh, shoves his phone back in his pocket. One thing down.

By the time the sun starts to dip, Purgatory looks like an art installation straight from hell. Bodies like broken marionettes. Blood like paint, dripping in slow, thick rivulets. And at the center of it all—the heart.

Your heart.

His.

If he had one.

And if he didn’t? Well. You stole it anyway.

Ronin leans against the wall, crowbar still sticky in his grip.

What the hell is he doing?

Proposing.

Fucking proposing.

He should be laughing at himself. Should be smirking, at least. But his jaw ticks, his fingers flex, and there’s something ugly crawling under his skin—a feeling he doesn’t like.

It’s not the blood. Not the mess. That’s easy.

It’s you. It’s always you.

And the worst part? The sick, stupid, beautiful part?

He wants this.

Wants you.

He wants to keep you—ruin you—for as long as you’ll let him.

His phone buzzes again. Another message from Angel—this time with a picture.

The rings.

Sleek. Sharp. One for you, one for him. Bound in black, wrapped in silver. Yours is thinner, more delicate—but not by much. No diamonds. No fluff. Just you and him, the way it’s always been.

Perfect.

He huffs a breath, tongue clicking against his teeth.

Yeah. Yeah, this’ll do.

It’s almost cute, really.

If you ignore the bodies.

And the blood.

And the fact that he’s doing this the only way he knows how—messy and wrong and completely, utterly him.

He swipes the sweat from his brow, steps back, and admires his work.

A heart, jagged and dripping. A graveyard of the unworthy. Rings on the way.

And for you? Anything.

Even this. Especially this.

Because when the time comes—when he kneels, all cocky smirk and bloodstained hands—you’ll say yes.

You have to.

(And if you don’t? Well. He’s never been good at taking no for an answer.)

Ronin lights a cigarette, lets the smoke curl in his throat.

The devil himself, on one knee.

Christ.

What the hell has he become?

Yours.

And God help anyone who tries to take that away.

goreboy: hey darlin’~

Your phone buzzes against the desk, and you barely glance down before his name flashes across the screen. Of course, it’s him.

you: hey yourself. what’s up?

goreboy: what’s up? tsk. rude—can’t a guy check on his favorite little writer?

You smile, shaking your head. Always like this.

you: oh? i’m your favorite now?

goreboy: pfft. babe, you’ve been my favorite. since day one. don’t let it get to your head, though. my heart’s fragile, y’know.

you: lmao, fragile?? you??

goreboy: i’m delicate. like a flower. 🌹

You roll your eyes, biting back a laugh. Ridiculous.

you: what do you want, ronin?

goreboy: what, a man can’t just miss you? ‘sides… i’m bored.

Of course, he is. The devil himself, restless as ever.

you: poor baby. what am i supposed to do about that?

goreboy: come see me.

You blink at the screen, heart skipping. Oh.

you: …right now?

goreboy: yeah.

you: where?

goreboy: purgatory.

Your brows furrow. He’s teasing. He has to be.

you: lmao. you’re joking, right?

goreboy: when do i ever joke, darlin’?

A pause. Then—

goreboy: seriously. come by. just for me.

You bite your lip, warmth blooming in your chest. This—this—is why you’re in too deep.

you: fine. what’s the occasion?

goreboy: pfft. gotta have a reason? but if you must know…

Another buzz—

goreboy: maybe i got somethin’ for you.

Your heart stutters.

you: something? what kind of “something”?

goreboy: you’ll see, babe. gotta keep a little mystery alive, yeah?

You roll your eyes—fondly, though. Always like this.

you: okay, fine. any special requests?

goreboy: oh, now we’re talkin’. dress in black for me, sweetheart. if you wanna, anyway.

You tilt your head, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He’s playing, but there’s something beneath it—something serious.

you: you like gothic, huh?

goreboy: on you? hell yeah.

you: good. ‘cause so do i.

goreboy: ...perfect.

Is it your imagination, or did he just… stammer?

you: did you just freeze up?

goreboy: shut up.

The alleyway known as Purgatory is as familiar as it is haunting—a place you want to hate but can’t. Your heels click softly against the cracked pavement, the air thick with the scent of blood, metal, and something distinctly him. It’s always him. Even when he’s nowhere to be seen, his shadow lingers like an inescapable ghost.

Tonight, though, there’s something different.

Your black dress clings to you like a second skin, just the way he likes it. You don’t want to think about why your heart’s racing, or why you dressed up like you were meeting someone important. But it’s him—you know it’s always him.

And when you turn the corner, your breath catches in your throat.

A heart.

Not just any heart—A jagged, messy thing carved into the wall in dripping red. Blood, fresh and dark, soaks the concrete like an offering. The heart is wide and chaotic, edges splattered like he couldn’t help but make a mess. But in the center, etched with the brutal precision only he could manage, is your name.

It’s wrong. It’s so wrong. And yet—your pulse flutters. Your stomach twists in that awful, dizzying way it only does with him.

A soft metallic scrape echoes behind you—the unmistakable sound of a crowbar dragging across the pavement. Your skin prickles, and you don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

“Damn,” his voice purrs, smooth and sinful. “Look at you, sweetheart.”

When you do turn, he’s leaning against the brick wall like the devil himself, framed in the neon glow. Ronin.

Black beanie pulled low over his burgundy hair, the devil horns stitched into the sides making him look every inch the trouble he is. His leather jacket gleams under the dim light—studded, spiked, with a pair of rusty scissors sticking haphazardly through the shoulder. A red ‘X’ pin glints beside it, careless and dangerous. Beneath, his black t-shirt clings to him—faded skull design stretched across his chest like it belongs there. His maroon pants hang low on his hips, ripped just enough to tease, and the chains hooked along his belt jingle softly with every move.

And—God—the piercings. Silver glints along his ears, across his tongue when he grins, and the delicate sword pendant resting against his throat? Unfair.

He’s looking at you like he’s starving. Like you’re already his, and tonight, he’s reminding you of it.

“You came,” he murmurs, dragging the crowbar behind him as he approaches. “Knew you couldn’t resist me, darlin’.”

Your throat tightens as he stops in front of you—towering, all six-foot-one inches of bloodstained disaster. There’s that wild glint in his blackened eyes, something feverish and yours. The air crackles between you, electric and dizzying.

His gloved hand reaches out, and before you can react, his fingers lace with yours—gentle, almost. His touch is rough, warm, and when he lifts your hand toward his mouth, your heart stutters.

“A devil’s gotta mark his territory, huh?” he hums, lips brushing against your knuckles.

And then—he kisses your ring finger. Soft, deliberate—like it means something. Like it means everything.

Your face burns, and you try to pull your hand away, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb traces slow circles over your skin, almost absentmindedly—like he’s savoring the feel of you. Always touching. Always wanting.

“What—” your voice catches, breathless. “What is this, Ronin?”

He grins, sharp and wicked. “You like it?” he asks, tipping his head toward the bloodied heart. “Told ya I had something for you, babe. Can’t say I’m not romantic.”

Romantic.

The mess—the blood—the sheer violence of it—this is how he shows it. Twisted, wrong, and so perfectly him. And the worst part? You love it. You love how much he’s willing to ruin things for you.

“You’re insane,” you whisper, but your fingers curl against his palm like you don’t mean it.

“And yet,” he drawls, dipping closer—his lips ghosting against the shell of your ear, “here you are.”

You shiver.

He steps back just enough to meet your gaze, head tilted, that cocky tilt to his lips—but something softer lingers underneath. Something unsure.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” his voice drops, smooth and low. “Whatever I do… you still gonna want me?”

The words shouldn’t hit you as hard as they do. Because underneath all the bravado—beneath the teasing and the devil-may-care attitude—he’s asking if you’ll stay. If you’ll keep coming back to him.

If you’re his.

And you should be scared. You should. But instead, you brush your fingers against his jaw—soft, almost too soft.

“Of course I do, idiot,” you murmur, and his breath hitches—just barely. “I always want you.”

For once, he doesn’t have a comeback. Just stares at you like he can’t quite believe it. Like you’re something precious.

And when he kisses you—slow and bruising, like a promise..

His arms curl around your waist—possessive, like he doesn’t plan on letting go anytime soon. Dressed in black and soaked in sin, he pulls you against him, his voice a low murmur against your ear.

“Sorry, lover,” he drawls, smooth as silk but sharp enough to cut, “you can’t look back now.”

The neon red light hums around you both, staining everything it touches—casting the blood-slick walls in a glow that shouldn’t be beautiful, but it is. Because it’s him. Because it’s you. The blood, the guts—it all looks like a twisted love letter only he could write.

And the heart—still dripping on the wall with your name carved into its center—feels like a vow.

A promise he’s daring you to accept.

He leans back just enough to drink you in, eyes black as the void and twice as deep. The silver glint of his piercings catches the light, but it’s the look in his eyes that makes your heart twist. Something dark. Something dangerous. And God, something that’s only for you.

“Pretty, ain’t it?” he muses, like the whole bloodstained mess is just a casual art project. But there’s something else in his tone—something softer when he adds, “Made it special, darlin’… just for you.”

You should say something—maybe call him out for how utterly insane this is—but your tongue feels too heavy, trapped between your teeth as you try to process everything.

It’s a lot. He’s a lot.

And yet, your body betrays you—pressing closer, heart fluttering against his chest like a trapped bird. You hate how easily he pulls you under, how effortlessly he spins you into his gravity—but there’s no escaping it now.

He tilts your chin up with one gloved finger, lips curving into a slow, wicked smile. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he teases, “Cat got your tongue? Or are you just too busy fallin’ for me?”

You try to roll your eyes. Try. But his touch burns, and when he lifts your hand to his mouth—again—you forget how to breathe.

His lips brush against your knuckles—slow, deliberate—before they linger on your ring finger. It’s so soft you barely feel it at first. Just the faintest pressure. Something warm. Something cold.

And when he pulls back, there’s a glint of silver wrapped around your finger.

Your breath stutters. Your heart stops.

A ring.

Not dainty. Not soft. It’s him—jagged edges, blackened silver with the faintest blood-red inlay spiraling like a twisted promise. It’s heavy against your skin, unapologetic in its meaning.

And you didn’t even notice him slipping it on.

Your head snaps up, eyes wide, but he’s already watching you—waiting.

“Ronin—” your voice catches, and you don’t even know what you’re about to ask. What this means.

His grin widens, devilish and sharp. “What’s the matter, babe?” he coos, as if he didn’t just slide a ring on your finger like it was nothing. “Thought you liked surprises.”

You blink—once, twice—your thoughts spiraling, and he takes advantage of the silence. His hand slides along the small of your back, pulling you flush against him while his other hand traces absent circles over the ring.

“Fits perfect,” he hums, pleased with himself. “Guess that means you’re mine, huh?”

Your heart does something awful and traitorous in your chest.

He’s too much. Too close. And you—you’re letting him do this.

Still, your fingers twitch beneath his—testing the weight of the ring, the feel of it like a brand. Permanent.

“You—” Your voice trembles despite yourself. “You didn’t even ask.”

His laughter spills out, low and rough. “Baby, if I asked, would you really’ve said no?”

You hate how easily he’s right.

The gloved hand on your back slides up—tracing the delicate curve of your spine—until it rests against your neck. He tilts your head back, just enough to force you to meet his eyes. Dark. Intense. Yours.

“You’re not mad, are ya?” he murmurs, voice softer now, like there’s actually a part of him that cares. “’Cause I can take it back if you don’t want it. If you don’t want… me.”

His mask slips—just a little—and your stomach twists at the vulnerability he tries so hard to hide.

But you don’t let him pull away. Not this time.

Instead, you curl your fingers into the leather of his jacket, grounding yourself in the heat of him. Your thumb brushes over the ring—cool against your skin—and it should feel too much. Too fast. Too everything.

But all it feels is right.

“Idiot,” you murmur, and his grip tightens like he’s terrified you’ll slip away. “I’d never take it off.”

The relief in his expression is palpable—masked by a cocky smirk, ]

His lips barely part from yours when he whispers it—low, rough, like a vow dragged from somewhere deep inside him.

"Promise you," he murmurs, the words brushing warm against your mouth, "this is forever… or ‘til one of us dies."

And just like that, your brain short-circuits.

Your breath hitches. Your body freezes. You’re too stunned to speak—because, what the hell?

Forever. Forever with him—the blood-streaked, chaos-wrapped mess of a man currently holding you like he never plans on letting go. His hands are still warm against you, firm, and there’s no teasing lilt to his voice. No wicked little joke behind his words.

He means it. Ronin means it.

And for a heartbeat—just one—you can’t process it. Can’t wrap your head around the weight of what he’s just given you.

The silence stretches. Grows heavy between you. And for once, he’s the quiet one.

When you lift your gaze to his, wide and unguarded, his expression is almost… shy.

Ronin Beaufort—The Butcher, the devil himself—looks like a goddamn kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

His lips twitch, like he wants to smirk but can’t quite manage it. His hands fidget slightly on your waist—restless energy bottled under his skin. And his eyes? Pitch-black and wide open, like he’s waiting for you to either run or ruin him.

He shifts his weight from one boot to the other, shoulders hunching the tiniest bit like a kid who just handed over a crayon drawing and is desperately hoping you’ll stick it to the fridge.

"Uh—" His voice cracks just a little—a little—and you swear you catch the faintest flush creeping up his neck. "You’re… gonna say somethin’, right?"

You blink at him. Still speechless.

He fumbles. Actually fumbles—one hand pulling back to rub at the back of his neck as he huffs, "I mean—c’mon, babe, this is kinda the part where you either kiss me back or tell me to go to hell."

The confidence—the usual devil-may-care arrogance—is still there, but it’s softer around the edges. Fragile in a way he never lets anyone see.

And you—oh, you’re doomed.

Your heart does a weird little flip in your chest as you stare at him, still clutching onto your waist like you’ll vanish if he lets go. He’s so much—too much—but under all that swagger and bloodlust, he’s just… Ronin.

Your Ronin.

The idiot who drags you into alleys for romantic blood-and-guts displays. The devil who slid a ring on your finger like it was nothing. The man who—no matter how sharp his tongue is—would burn the world down for you.

“Wait,” you finally manage to choke out, the word soft and breathless. “Did you… are you actually serious?”

His face scrunches up like you just personally insulted his entire aesthetic. “Babe. Did I stutter?” He lifts your hand again, thumb brushing against the cool metal band still snug on your finger. “Or do I gotta get on one knee to spell it out?”

And oh, he’s pouting.

The Butcher—slaughterhouse king, nightmare in leather and spikes—is full-on pouting.

You bite down on your lip, hard, trying to hold back the laugh bubbling up in your chest. He notices—of course, he does—and immediately narrows his eyes.

“Don’t you dare.” His grip on your waist tightens in warning, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “I just poured my goddamn heart out, and you’re laughin’ at me?”

And suddenly—you can’t hold it back.

The laugh escapes—light, breathless, overwhelmed—because what else are you supposed to do when your psychotic, bloodstained boyfriend is acting like a needy kid who just gave you the world’s most chaotic proposal?

His brows knit together in mock offense. “Unbelievable,” he grumbles, though his tone is softer—fond—as he watches you melt into laughter. “I give you my heart on a bloodied silver platter, and this is the thanks I get?”

“I’m not laughing at you—” you try to protest, still breathless. “It’s just… you’re… cute.”

The second the word leaves your mouth, his whole body jerks.

“Cute?!” He repeats it like you’ve committed a personal crime. “I just did the most metal, romantic shit on the planet, and you call me—” He drops his head against your shoulder, groaning. “—cute. Jesus Christ, I’m losin’ my edge.”

You wrap your arms around him without even thinking—pulling him closer, fingers curling into the back of his leather jacket. He smells like smoke, leather, and something distinctly him—something you could drown in if you’re not careful.

And in the middle of the bloodstained alley, wrapped in his arms, you realize there’s no escape. Not from this—not from him.

And, God help you, you don’t want one.

“Hey, Ronin?” you whisper softly against his neck.

“Hmm?” His voice is quieter now—hopeful, like he’s trying not to get ahead of himself.

You tilt your head just enough to press a soft kiss beneath his jaw, feeling the slight hitch in his breath. “I’m not taking it off,” you promise. “Ever.”

For a split second, he’s still. Frozen. Like he doesn’t quite believe it.

And then—he’s kissing you again.

The world could burn, and you wouldn’t care—not when he’s in front of you like this. Eyes blacker than sin, lips swollen from kissing you like he’s starving, and hands gripping your waist like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

But right now, he’s the fragile one.

Your devil—loud, reckless, always too much—is holding his breath. Waiting. Like your next words could either save him or shatter him.

And God, you love him.

Your fingers brush against the ring on your hand—cool metal, heavy with meaning—before you slowly reach for his. His hands—rough, calloused, stained in ways that can’t be washed clean—tremble just a little as you lift his left hand in yours.

"You gave me one," you murmur, soft and steady, as you slide the matching ring onto his finger. "It’s only fair I make you mine, too."

His breath catches. He doesn’t say a word—doesn’t even twitch—just watches you with this raw, unfiltered intensity that makes your pulse race.

When you finish, you lace your fingers together, feeling the cool press of metal against your skin. He’s yours now. Yours in the same way you’ve always been his.

And when you speak again—voice barely above a whisper—it’s not for show. Not a tease. Just the truth, laid bare between you.

“I’ll love you forever, Ronin Beaufort.”

Something cracks in his expression—something wild and vulnerable and so, so real.

And you’re not done.

“I’m happy,” you admit, voice trembling just a little. “Happy I met you. Happy I get this—us.” You pause, and there’s this ache in your chest when you smile, soft and almost shy. “Maybe it’ll be destructive. Maybe it’ll last forever. I don’t care how it ends, Ronin… I just want it with you.”

His grip on your waist tightens—desperate—like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go.

And you don’t. You just lean closer, until your lips barely brush against his, and whisper the words that have been burning on your tongue since the day he dragged you into his twisted little world:

“I love you, Ronin Beaufort.”

For one breathless moment, he doesn’t react.

And then—he moves.

He crashes into you, mouth slanting over yours with bruising intensity, like he’s trying to brand those words into your skin—into your bones. Like he wants to crawl inside your heart and never leave.

It’s messy, overwhelming, and so perfectly him—and you give yourself to it completely.

His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against his chest as he devours you—sharp teeth grazing your bottom lip, a low growl curling from the back of his throat like he’s trying to consume you from the inside out.

When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—his lips hover over yours, and his voice is wrecked.

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot.”

The words are rough, but his hands tremble where they hold you. “Why would you love someone like me?”

Your heart squeezes, and you don’t even hesitate.

“Because you’re you.”

And, for once, he’s speechless.

No snark. No teasing. Just the weight of your confession sinking into his bones—binding you together in a way no bloodstained vow ever could.

He drops his forehead against yours, breathing hard, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “You better be sure, sweetheart. ‘Cause you’re stuck with me now.”

Your fingers tangle in the chains hanging from his jacket as you grin. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

His lips barely ghost over yours, teasing, waiting, giving you a chance to breathe—but you don’t take it. You can’t. Because then he kisses you.

And God, he kisses you like he means it.

Like he’s sealing the promise in blood and breath, branding it into your bones with the press of his lips. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go. Like he needs to hold on just to make sure you’re still real.

It’s slow and deep—no rush, no hesitation—just pure possession.

Your heart pounds. Your fingers tangle in the chains on his jacket, desperate to keep your balance because he’s overwhelming. He always is.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re breathless—dazed—barely clinging to reality as he huffs out a quiet, wicked laugh.

Then—he grins. Sharp and smug, eyes flashing with something wild.

"Oh, that old man won’t shut up about how we’re not married, huh?" He snickers, tapping a gloved finger against the ring on your hand. "Guess you better show it off, sweetheart. Be loud ‘n proud about it—rub it in his face."

You don’t answer.

Because you’re still dizzy from his kiss...

It's gonna be a long night

#kc #killer chat #killer chat x reader #killerchat #killer chat ronin #ronin beaufort #ronin x reader #kc ronin #kc ronin x reader #killer chat ronin x reader #killer chat vn #ronin killer chat #ronin beaufort x reader #ronin x #killer chat ronin beaufort

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decayedsword · 20 days ago

Note

Hiiii, i was just wondering if you can write a ronin x reader where reader had actually accidentally killed someone back then out of anger bcs they've had it with that person and ronin found out

(I ACCIDENTALLY WROTE 2000 WORDS FOR THIS ONE.)

(but hey! here ya go!)

WARNING: Mentions of Murder, Blood, Gore-y stuff in general.

Devilish

It's always been easy for you to stomach slasher movies.

Post-graduation, your beloved friends would constantly pester you, asking you to join them for their gore-ish movie nights, which consisted of none other than A-grade thrillers and horror films.

You recall how your eyes would remain locked on the screen, observing the killer, watching how they move with such ease, such delicacy and ruthlessness. The main character, so sweet and innocent and naive, no matter how far they run, the killer would reach them—reach for their throat, their head, and slice it open with a knife, or an axe, or some other mundane object with a blade.

Your friends would scream. They would jump, yell, screech, flinch at the sight of it, but you didn't. You never did. They always took the liberty of hiding behind you in a haunted house, clung onto you when they felt scared, shivering and sore from running through strung-up props from some human anatomy playset.

You've seen this scene before. It's become a cliche for you. The image of blood, gore, intestines, organs, splattered all over the pavement doesn't make you want to retch, to imitate them and pour your guts out in the nearest bathroom. You've seen worse. For a writer with serial killers for friends, at least.

At least once a week, there's a new message in the server's #killer_shit channel. Sometimes it's Angel, a wide portrait with the lifeless body of a man in a suit, a gunshot wound to his head, pale and eyes rolled back. Sometimes it's Misaki, a selfie with half of their face in it, and a deformed figure of a human in the background, teeth pulled out and fingers cut off.

More often, it's Ronin. He's the reason for why you've built your constitution for such wicked imagery. The unfamiliar shape of a person curled into a satanic circle, carved pentagrams into skin and stomachs gutted out. Bodies hung, skinned, decapitated, bloody and bare and brutal. The first time you saw the absolute crime scene he left behind, your stomach churned, uncomfortable and weary, as if it were the next thing on Ronin's hit list.

Ah, well. You're a writer. You've gotten used to writing your serial-killer protagonist. That's all.

It's mostly a lie. It hasn't always been easy for you to see the familiar maroon-stained weapons and fucked-up corpses.

You swallow the thought back down your throat and into your stomach. Part of you starts hoping that maybe Ronin would kill you, he is in the area after all, but you've passed that obstacle in your relationship a few weeks ago, when you chose to kiss him and all his entirety.

Six years had passed since then. No witnesses, a wrecked crime scene, and the body was never found. A perfect crime. Your perfect crime.

You were afraid it would come up again.

Unfortunately for you, the world is not beautiful, nor kind, nor considerate. It comes up on a simple Tuesday morning. The clock reads 3:33 AM, the Devil's hour. Alas, who else to absolve you of your sin but Lucifer himself?

"Well seeing as how I picked dare last time and almost got caught by the police–" Misaki started, earning a few snickers from the people in the call, "I choose truth."

Ronin was their dealer, an honest mistake on everyone's part. He was unpredictable, impossible to read, especially in games that involved a lot of thinking, as if he saw right through you. Everyone stayed silent, curious as to what crazy idea he'll say next.

"Hey, I'll hit ya up with an easy one this time." His voice rang through your ears, sarcastic and teasing. You ease up after hearing his stupidly hilarious pun and how he'll give Misaki an easy question. "The Devil wants to know if ya had a serial killer experience b'fore you became one. 's all."

"Oh! Actually, there is one!" Misaki exclaimed. “When I was a wee child, back in high school, I think? We had this exchange program, so I got to go abroad for a bit. There was this guy in my class, a massive freaking bully—and when I say bully, I don’t just mean wedgies, oh no. I mean that this guy was a total monster. He beat people up so bad he almost killed them.” Their hands moved as they explained, making the flashback much more interesting than it seemed.

V coughed. “You don’t suppose he’s ever received juvenile detention?”

Misaki shook their head. “No…no, he disappeared.”

You didn’t like where this conversation was headed. “What happened?” you asked, faking your curiosity. You cared much for Misaki, but if they were talking about what you think they were, then maybe you’ve been connected to the Slaughterhouse Losers for far more than you remember. How satirically fateful.

The ravenette continued, brushing strands of their red hair out of her face. “No one really knows. One day, after he beat up a particular student, their name was Eve, nicest person ever by the way, he just…vanished.”

“Eve Eden?” Your voice spilled from your throat, small and yet audible enough for everyone to hear. You curse yourself internally.

Misaki’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, how’d you know?” Their head tilted ever so slightly to the left, “Oh my gosh, don’t tell me you studied there too?”

Your eyes moved back and forth frantically, stopping at Ronin’s web camera. His eyes were deep in thought, calculating and analyzing—analyzing you. You were being observed by a poet, a writer, just as you observed your favorite serial killers in the slasher movies you used to watch with your friends.

“Yeah! Eve used to be my best friend. We’re still in touch too, we watched the Fear Street series not too long ago.” You spoke in a way that made you look tired, eyes weary and voice deliberately faint and slow. You prayed someone would get the message.

“Aww, hey. You sound like you should get some sleep.” Angel replied, your savior, a true angel indeed, biblical and all. After a few grumbles from Misaki, and a huff from V, you pretended to concede and left the voice call.

You had a dream that night. No, not a dream. You don’t dream, and when you do it’s easier to call them visions. They’re prophetic in a way, a calling from the past or the future, a blemish upon your sleeping patterns. You wish they would stop.

A punch, a kick, a stab. Dragging a dead man walking. Throwing him across the dirt. Heavy breathing. Blood on balled-up fists. You pull.

There’s a head of hair in your hands. The adrenaline rushed through your veins, giving you strength, supporting you through your justice.

He had to pay.

A flash of white blinded you, and there you saw Eve, fast-asleep in her hospital room, countless needles struck in her skin, once full of color, yet now washed out.

Anger surged through you. You regret nothing.

He drowned that day, in the lake you and Eve used to swim in when you two were children.

You grit your teeth as he struggled in your grasp, opening his mouth to curse you, a fatal mistake. The water simply entered his lungs faster.

When he succumbed to the tide, body filled, you were sure he died, not from you, but from the weight of his own ego.

You burnt his body in the woods. You swept up the remains and buried them in a nearby cemetery. You said your prayers. You left.

When the school investigated his disappearance, Eve covered for you. She said you were in her hospital room the entire time.

The sun woke you up, rays fluttering through your eyes and blinding you. Groggily, you get up and check your cellphone. A message notification greets you. It’s from Ronin.

<goreboy> [08:34]

gmorning darling

hows My favorite writer Doing?

Incoming call from goreboy

→ Yes please …

→ no thanks …

You accept his call, snuggling under the covers and breathing in the scent from the jacket he lent you. It smells like a certain kind of men’s cologne, strong and makes you want to sneeze, but it also smells like grease and iron. You laugh to yourself.

“Whatcha laughin’ at baby?” Ronin’s web camera is open. He’s on his phone too, seeing as how he’s using the portrait function instead of the usual landscape. His red hair is messy, with no beanie to tame it. You stare at him for quite a while, a giddy feeling in your stomach. The devil really does look like an angel.

“Nothing.” There’s a huge smile on your face, and you can feel the heat rushing to your cheeks.

“You free later? Got somethin’ t’give ya.” he suggests, accent slightly seeping through his words. You can tell he’s just woken up with how slow and steady he talks.

“Mm, yeah? What’s the devil gonna give little old me?” you tease, playing into your role as his partner, his darling, his everything. He scoffs on the other end of the line and he gives you a toothy grin, making your heart somersault in your chest.

“Jus’ meet me in Purgatory, darlin’.”

When the two of you meet in the familiar alleyway where your first kiss was shared, you gain the strange feeling of deja vu. Ronin has you up against the wall once more, trapped between his arms and staring at his pretty face.

“Hey.” you whisper, face flushed red.

“Hey yourself.” he whispers back, eyes intense and searching. You worry about what he’s trying to find within you, you worry about how the secrets you’ve whispered to the wind in hopes to rid yourself of them are now caught in his spiderweb.

You shift uncomfortably in his gaze. He knows something. He has you all figured out. Curse you for falling in love with a mastermind.

Ronin slowly moves his left hand to your chin, tilting it upward, making you look at him.

“Got any confessions f’r the devil, little lamb?”

He knows. Your eyes dart back and forth between his face and the space on your right that he’d left open when he moved his hand to cradle your face. There’s a mental debate between your heart and your brain. You wish you could run. You can’t bring yourself to.

Sighing, you grab his hand and lead him through the twists and turns of the alley, reaching the cemetery on the other side. The two of you walk together, hand-in-hand amongst the dead, as if you ruled over them.

At the end of the graveyard, there’s a stone pillar that divides the woods into two paths. You drag Ronin to the path on your right. You still remember, scissors in hand, how far you ran to catch up to him, his hands grasping at the stab wound in his stomach.

You turn left. There’s a field of flowers there, beautiful and serene, and oh-so ironic. You’re about to look back at Ronin when a hand brushes against your ear, placing a flower there. There was something oddly romantic about it. Here you were, showing him your sins, your crimes, your mistakes, and he gladly accepted your insanity, your madness—you.

“I buried him here.” It's half-a-whisper, but the devil hears you nonetheless.

Your lips trembled, guts spilling out to the man before you. “I lured him here. I stabbed him and chased him down.” The events of that day flash rapidly in your mind, making your breathing unsteady and rapid. “I grabbed him by the hair—” You extended your hand, pointing to the body of water in the distance. “—and I drowned him.”

Ronin could only watch as your chest heaved, needing air, needing release. Your mouth, once agape and needing sharp intakes of air, broke into a smile, maniacal and crazy. Your hands reach to cover your lips, but your laugh echoes through the flowers, the trees, the lake, and through the two of you.

Your eyes are bloodshot. Ronin’s eyes are too. His grin matches yours.

“He died egotistical.” You shoot out, a dead look in your eyes that definitely does not match your smile. You wonder if Ronin's surprised at your sudden plot twist in his story—isn't it everything he's ever wished for?

Ronin, upon realizing the severity of the situation, cackles, just as you did, deranged and demented and deadly. He reaches for your face, your expressions complementing each other.

He pulls you in for a kiss. It tastes like concupiscence. You drown in him.

You’re insane. You’re adorable. You’re a devil.

In between kisses, you hear the voice of Lucifer, calling you from hell. "You're perfect."

THIS WAS SO FUN FOR ME TO WRITE. THANK U SM FOR THE ASK!!

cross posted on rottenvamp @ ao3 <3

#killer chat #killer chat ronin #ronin beaufort #kc #kc ronin #ronin #fanfic #killer chat visual novel #killer chat vn #ronin x reader #ronin beaufort x reader

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puzzledprose · 3 months ago

Note

I would love more Ronin nsfw if you have the time. I desire him carnally.

I apologise for this freak-fest I have revealed far too much about my tastes in this but it is far too late to go back now. Let’s just hope you match my freak ♥️😼

Ronin NSFW for the 𝒻𝓇ℯ𝒶𝓀𝓈

Minors please DNI

Okay so jumping right off into the deep end with some nasty shit.

I know I’ve said this before but knife play 🤤. Ronin probably likes scaring you a little. He says it’s “more intimate that way”. This usually involves him (consensually) bringing out his trusty pocket knife. Ronin would never want to give you any permanent scarring, for all the grotesque and filth he represents even he would never stoop that low. He definitely likes the idea of marking you up. Small inconsequential cuts in places people wouldn’t notice usually. Probably also carves in some on-brand satanic symbols too. It’s like he’s claimed you properly now.

“Look at you, all blissed out and bleeding for me.”

The more you like it the more he does. The idea of you hating what he gives you is deeply unappealing. What’s the fun in insanity of it isn’t mutual!?

On a similar note Ronin’s sexual energy triples after a murder. The adrenaline is pumping through his body and that buzzing behind his eyes send him to heaven.

Definitely has a fantasy about fucking you in purgatory. Having you pushed right up against a blood splattered wall while he’s knuckle deep inside you, watching as you eyes roll back. Sounds perfect.

Also this man has a tongue piercing, aka THE SLUTTIEST THING A MAN CAN DO!!! So you just KNOW his head game is like none other. The cool feeling of the metal has you cumming in MINUTES!!!

Sexual blasphemy!?!?! Any mention of god will be met with something like “no god here darlin’, just me.”

Sorry if this is a little all over the place it was just a bit of a very horny brain dump! Needless to say I love this absolute case study of a human ♥️

#killer chat #fanfic #ronin beaufort x reader #ronin x reader #puzzledwriting #killer chat ronin #ronin beaufort

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aurmisery · 2 months ago

Text

lover, you should've come over.

you guessed it, a ronin b. x reader.

small epilogue to uhhh confessions unheard: sickening sweetness from a MONTH AND A HALF AGO.... tahaha... yeah...

only reason this was written was because a good friend of mine had me thinking it up one day and i thought why not? it was really fun to write ngl (thanks alo for ur help !!)

this is short, but this is just to hold over my account until i can actually prioritize writing when i have free time and actually fix up my messed up revisions 😭

words // 2029

enjoy ! no warnings this time !!

ronin isn't one to bare his heart and soul out all carefree, he's the type to twist them with silken words and stringed innuendo, the type to keep you guessing so you never know what he's truly on about.

but damn, he couldn't lie; drifting off to sleep within the warmth of your lap as you thread your nails through his hair had to have been one of the best feelings in the world.

besides killing someone, anyway.

your fingers massage around the crown of his head and he gives a lazy sigh in response, lashes batting low and letting his cheek smush against your leg.

it's cute, the apparent need he has to interact and bury himself into everything you. maybe it came from the drunken confession outside your front door, or maybe it's the fact that he's recovering from a cold and couldn't give less of a fuck to dance around with his words.

"ronin," you hum, and he barely registers your voice, rolling onto his back so he could maintain eye contact with you instead, the way he likes it- especially now, with his voice rough from congestion.

his brows slightly bounce, as if responding 'yes?' and he runs his knuckles over your jawline waiting for you to say something, but you only sweep your thumb over the mulberry strands tickling his forehead, clearing them away from his lashes.

"feeling okay? you're not getting more stuffy from laying up on me, are you?"

he sniffles, letting a small 'mmm' falter through him and his index finger gives a light boop over your nose, a chuckle- throatier than usual, following.

"not so stuffy anymore, darlin'. jus'...a little tired, is all."

he's obviously congested, but it's clearing up and your chest falls slowly, exhaling in relief that he's not burning up as badly anymore.

you're honestly surprised that you haven't gotten sick by taking care of him. you're nursing him 24/7, and like the bastard he is, he's eating up every. second of it.

still teasing you, slinging a heavy arm around you to keep you close to him, constantly nagging for you to never leave his side.

he's as touchy as... never?

ronin had never been this...handsy in your friendship with him, and you'd never guess he was the type from how avoidant he seemed at your front door. but now?

now he's all over you.

when he gets the energy to stand, he lazily slouches onto you with his head on top of yours and arms snug over your neck like dead weight.

it's almost suffocating with how warm he is, and he takes little notice. if he does, he doesn't give enough of a fuck to move off of you.

you try to focus on whatever you're doing, elbowing him lightly in the side to make him move. instead, he only wrenches a dopey smile onto those pale lips of his.

"i ain't goin' anywhere, darlin'."

the finality of his words stir conflict onto your expression, a faint blush bleeding onto your cheeks and the corner of your lips firming themselves as to not crease into a grin. he's stupid.

and god, it makes you wanna kiss him even more.

but no! you can't, because his dumbass just had to wander the streets drunk in the pouring rain like some lovelorn loser rather than getting home and mourning his sorrows there.

you've chastised him multiple times over for it, but you can't lie- you're glad he showed up at your door instead of his. if he went home like usual, you'd have a conflicted serial killer agonizing over his feelings whilst being sick in bed ALONE.

and besides, every time you do start laying into him for his lack of caution or 'whatever' (how he phrases it), he just sloths himself over your duvet, hands up in a gesture of 'whaddya want me to do 'bout it?' as he chews his lip red.

"hey, hey- you're the one who's got my heart all strung up. i can't be the only one to take the blame, now can i, arachne?"

you roll your eyes at the correlation, ignoring the faint flicker of heat coiling in your stomach at the way his teeth tug at the already-blossoming coral of his lip.

...

it isn't fair.

he swings a love confession at you in the rain and you two are glued at the hip after. good, great, even! impeccable timing, really.

but you can't do anything about it. you have him staying over to recover and you can't even touch him the way you want.

he's sick, after all. even though he's not acting like it.

even the slasher playing out on the tv isn't enough to distract you. when watching these, you'd scoot just a little closer to him, and he'd pull you taut against his shoulder.

now though, he's soaking in your warmth, hands on your hips and head angled between the line of your jaw and the bone of your shoulder.

you should have known what you were signing up for the moment you let him inside.

still, you shoot him a look as you unscrew the cap off his medicine bottle, just in time to hear him groan, palms running to the front of your stomach.

you frown. "don’t even start with me."

he lifts his hands in feigned surrender, eyes lidding low and a brow quirking up. "eh, i could do without the medicine. leaves a weird taste on my tongue."

you shrug him off with a scoff, lips pursed. "you'll get better if you take it."

he leans against the counter, one hand propping up his head while the other pinches at the ends of his hair. "nah, i'd rather let natural selection take its toll."

..could he be any more annoying?

you roll your eyes at him before narrowing them, pinching the bridge of your nose. "oh, shut up and take it before i pour it down your throat myself."

he grins, slow and wolfish, his voice dipping just to spite you.

"that a promise, darlin’?"

if you held a mirror up to your face at that exact moment, the dusting of pink around your ears wouldn't have helped your case.

he's getting under your skin, and that's what he loves to do most.

why not give him the same energy?

you cross your arms with a sigh, turning your back to him with a shake of your head.

"damn, guess you don't want that kiss then."

the somber laced in your voice is pure mock, but it didn't stop the small grin threatening your facade.

in one...two-

"..alright, so uh- how much am i supposed to take again?"

bingo.

yeah, it wasn't too hard to get him to take his medicine after that.

he complained about the taste for about three minutes before he shut up and you dragged his ass to bed. luckily for you, he wasn't straining for an all nighter, either.

the window beside your bed is half-open, the blinds uneven where a few slits tilt just enough to let the outside in. dusky blues seep through the gaps, soft and endless, pooling onto the floor, stretching over the sheets. the night air lingers, cool against your skin, but your gaze is still fixed on him.

ronin, caught between light and shadow, the city’s breath painting him in something just shy of divine. the angles of his face softened beneath the faint glow, his lashes resting like brush strokes against his skin.

he's breathing well tonight. it's clear, not too stuffy, and his lashes lay still, undisturbed. no flutters, not even a scrunch in his nose as he tries to get comfortable.

you reach out, running a few fingers over his brow, smoothing over the faint crease that lingers there even in rest.

and your index finger falls over the bump of his nose, giving it a small boop yourself.

his lids twitch a little, once, twice, before he turns himself into the pillow beneath him, arms snaking up and around it with a low grumble.

you scoff, slowly lifting off the bed and sliding some shoes on quietly, taking light steps across the carpet and pulling an arm through one sleeve of your jacket, the other following suit as you grip your doorknob.

you turn it, trying your best not to have the door creak or the knob snap back into place, and just as you get a foot out the door-

"not even a kiss goodnight? rude."

his voice is honeyed with sleep, thick and drowsy, like he’s barely clinging to consciousness, and it's enough to have your pulse quicken.

you freeze, hands shoved in your pockets, already preparing your death glare, but you turn your head over to him, and...

he hasn't moved much, still sprawled where you left him, but one black eye's cracked open lazily, dark and luster-less in the dim light.

his head tilts slightly in your direction, cheek half-buried against the pillow, the deep red of his hair spilling shaggy and unkempt over the stark white fabric.

you chew the lining of your cheek, angling your arm against the doorway with a limpness that says 'fine, you caught me.'

"i was about to go and feed your babies back home, but i s'pose pepperoni and blackjack can wait since their father's so important."

he smirks, tongue licking over the dryness of his lips, before he raises his chin.

"you think i forgot?"

now, you pause at that. you stop the drumming of your fingers over the edge of the door, and your brow creases up.

"...forgot what?"

"my kiss, darlin'."

silence, then a scoff, and you push off the frame, crossing your arms with a wry smile.

"you're sick, ro-"

"and?"

you squint right back at him.

"fuck you mean 'and?' you think i'm trying to get sick?"

he leans onto an elbow, pushing his head up with a shit eating grin.

"c'mon, you've been sick since the day you tiptoed your way to purgatory. since you've kissed the devil, and now you're scared of contracting somethin'?"

your lips part. to retort, to deny, but you could only mutter something sly under your breath as you stomped back to his bedside.

you eye them over, and they're not so pale anymore- maybe a little bludgeoned, pink 'n pretty with the stain of crimson seeping between the light cracks softening on his skin.

your fingers hover for half a second. hesitating. thinking, as if weighing out the risk and the reward.

then, with yet another roll of your eyes, you lean down, close enough for the warmth of his breath to meet yours.

"fine. one," you murmur. "but you better pray that pepper's not plotting on blackjack."

his lips meet yours, warm despite the uneven drag of cracked skin against your own. it's slow- unrushed, lazy in a way that makes heat curl at the base of your spine. the roughness of his lips should be off-putting, the faint taste of medicine lingering between you, but it's not.

it's familiar.

it's him.

he exhales through his nose, the sound melting into the quiet space between you as he tilts his head just enough to deepen it. his mouth parts slightly, teasing at the seam of yours, and for a moment, it's softer than it has any right to be- like he's waiting, like he’s letting you take what you've wanted so badly from him.

but then, just as quick, you pull away with a scoff, brushing the back of your hand over your mouth, and your fingers linger at your lips longer than they should.

"that all i get?" he murmurs, voice husked from sleep, from you.

you roll your eyes, striding towards the door and opening it with pep in your step.

"get some sleep, loverboy."

his greed sickens me 💔 anyway ill edit any mishaps or clunky words/phrases and italics/bolds and sectioning later it's like 1:41 AM over here

#killer chat #ronin beaufort #killer chat ronin #killer chat!#visual novel #ronin beaufort x reader #ronin #kc!

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spiderlilywritings · 3 months ago

Text

a rotten angel's retribution

Trigger Warnings: blood, gore, murder, graphic depictions of violence

You've always been a good person.

At least, you try to be. Your parents always taught you to keep your head down. Keep calm and keep your temper in check. Be kind.

"Do unto others what you want done unto you."

And for the people who wronged you, let them be. Karma will find them one day.

You took their words to heart. You always tried to be kind, to grow into someone they're proud of.

—But overtime, you came to understand that this fucked up world devoured kind people. Chewed them up and spit them out as a hollow shell of their former selves.

In Uptown's Purgatory, sickening wet sounds pierced through the otherwise quiet night.

The scent is disgusting. It makes you hurl. The dead body you're thoroughly beating with a metal pipe is ugly. But alongside disgust, elation coils in your gut.

The person that tormented you so long ago is finally gone. Gone because of you. Tears streamed down your face (what are you doing? shouldn't you stop? you're better than this. stop. stop. stop. sto—), but slowly, slowly, soft giggles started escaping your lips.

You've always been a good person. But the Devil had ways of corrupting you. Or... no, instead of corrupting you, making you turn to the dark side or whatever cliché term that people liked to use— maybe the Devil was your key. Maybe he unlocked that ugliness that was already festering inside your heart and from there, you let that ugliness consume you.

Your parents must be disappointed. Maybe they're rolling in their graves, screaming and crying in heaven at what you've become. Those heavenly gates never looked so far away before.

A blood splatter there, a bone breaking here...

This person was beautiful when they were alive. And so very cruel. You kept your head down (like your parents always taught you, good people that wanted you to live a peaceful life), letting this person walk all over you like you were nothing but a dirty rag under their shoes.

"Karma will get them one day." You'd whisper, maybe to cope with the pain, the hate simmering within you. You prayed that some higher being would administer divine retribution.

Years passed. People went their separate ways. The pain and hatred seemed to have dulled. You thought you got over it. But seeing this person's face, realizing that they were still that awful monster that gave you nightmares all those years ago—

You figured it was time for one less trash in this fucked up world.

If some higher being refused to give them the karma they deserved—

You'll be their karma.

It was easy enough to lure them to Purgatory. All you had to do was act like the scared little rabbit they remembered you to be.

And then, you grabbed the metal pipe. Broke their legs. Broke their arms. Ruined their beautiful face.

Their screams were grating to the ears. Their blood looked dirty and black. Their innards looked like they were rotting, infested with every disgusting bug known to man.

You keep hitting. And hitting. And hitting. Until they're nothing but a pile of flesh, guts and gore. No matter how beautiful a person is, they're just a lump of meat in the end.

When the adrenaline, the thrill of murder and retribution finally fades, a shaky exhale escapes your lips.

The pipe falls from your hands.

You look at yourself, covered in that person's blood. Gross. You looked like you were covered in tar.

You wondered if their soul was as black as their dirty blood. 'Hah... Tar soul...' You thought, like it was some sort of funny joke. You hope they end up in the deepest parts of hell.

You sit on the dirty ground now, letting the aftermath of your brutality stain your clothes. Your gaze focuses on the body again, eyes blank.

All was silent.

"Well, well, well..."

Until the Devil's voice reached your ears. You turn, seeing Ronin casually leaning against the wall.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes, darlin'."

He comes closer, letting the blood stain the soles of his shoes.

You look away. "You need to get your eyes checked."

He laughs at your retort and you feel that familiar, fluttery feeling in your chest. You've always loved his voice.

Stupid, beautiful, murderous Ronin.

You feel his arms wrap around you. "How was it, darlin'? Did you have fun? My sweet, little fallen angel, delivering divine retribution."

"...I didn't think of murdering them at first." You murmur. "I just... I thought maybe, they might have changed. Like... like character development." A choked laugh follows your words.

"I thought... they would realize what they did wrong. Try to become a better person. But then they opened their mouth and. And. I realized that they were still the same."

Ronin listens as you start to ramble, incoherent words merging together. You're spiraling. But that's to be expected from your first kill. You don't need to worry though. You're spiraling into hell, but the Devil's there. He'll catch you so you won't crash and burn.

"...Ronin? I don't get it. You said that this..." You gesture to the dead body. "This kind of thing was beautiful. I don't see any beauty in this at all. I only see a pile of rotten garbage. They're rotten garbage."

"Because that's all they'll ever be to you, darlin'. Trash in life. Trash in death. But 's fine. Beauty is subjective, yeah?"

"...Yeah."

You bury your face in your hands. You didn't know what to do now. Laugh some more? Cry?

"God... I..."

"Baby, there's no God in this purgatory. Just me. Just your Devil." Ronin whispers in your ear, just like a devil on your shoulder. "You did well." Ronin turns your head towards him and his lips make contact with yours. As intense as ever. With teeth and tongue, like he was devouring you.

"...Can you help me get rid of this trash?" You gesture to the lump of flesh after you broke apart.

"Sure, doll. Was plannin' to have a bit of fun tonight too, but there's no way I can leave my rotten angel all by their lonesome, now can I?"

#announcements

<goreboy>: Congrats, @/killerwriter your murder Dropped this morning.

www.killer-news.com/gruesome-murder-at-purgatory-a-new-killer-strikes

#main

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL>: AYO??? LOOT DROP! LOOT DROP!

<hitmeupppp>: omg a murder from the enigma themself?! finalllyyyy!

<Angelic>: wow @/killerwriter you can't even recognize them. excellent work

<killerwriter>: yes

<killerwriter>: well

<killerwriter>: let's say it was personal :')

<goreboy>: it was Glorious, was there Myself

<goreboy>: i posted some pics on #killer_shit too

<killerwriter>: ???

<killerwriter>: since when did you have time to take photos?

<goreboy>: I got My ways, baby

<killerwriter>: 🙄

<killerwriter>: the police suck in Uptown btw

divider by: @/fawndollie

#ronin x reader #killer chat x reader #ronin beaufort x reader #kc ronin x reader #kc ronin beaufort x reader #killer chat #writings

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beanwaterontherocks · 26 days ago

Text

Honeymoon

(An x reader version of a fic on my ao3)

Fandom: Killer Chat! Pairing: Ronin Beaufort x gn!reader Summary: You didn't know why you had been been brought into this death game situation, but all you knew was that you needed to survive. If that included teaming up with a serial killer, then so be it. Warnings: Death Game AU, Blood and gore, Murder, Self-mutilation, slightly suggestive language, Reader smokes cigarettes Word count: 5015

“Contestant 89 has been eliminated. Cause of death: Contestant 66”.

An automated, robotic voice rang through the forest. You heard the slight gasp from your companion on the other side of the campfire as you wrote the announcement down. Some people had gotten a gift from the mysterious “Game Master”, lying neatly next to them as they woke up. Yours had been a sleek, leather-bound notebook and a pen. Whoever had put this thing together must have known your profession but you didn’t know anyone who would have the funds and the insanity to do this.

“Hey, number 66 has killed a lot of people, haven't they?” Jack asked, hugging his knees to his chest. You had found him crying by the riverside 5 days into the game, he was starving and disheveled. He probably wasn’t more than a few years younger than her, but you still had this itch to help him. He had looked so hopeless, just sitting down and letting himself sob, uncaring of the dangers.

“Yeah, this is their 15th one and it’s only been 12 days, whoever they are, they really want to get out”, you answered, flipping through your diary entries. “There’s 35 dead so far and I haven’t heard of a number over 100, so we can assume there’s around 65 people left”, you said, throwing another stick into the dwindling fire. You had luckily found a small cave to hide out in for the night.

“Don’t you wanna get out?” Jack asked, grabbing a berry from your ration bag. You sighed and looked to the entrance of the cave. The forest was vast but you could catch a glimpse of the towering wall that kept all the contestants in. How far were you from Uptown? Could this be a private island?

“I do, but the rules said you just have to be the ‘last ones standing’ to win and that plural means that you can team up”, you said, shooting him a soft smile. Jack smiled back and stared into the flames.

“I overheard someone talking in the forest once, he said he saw someone being killed with a crowbar, who would be stupid enough to pick a crowbar?” Jack laughed, though his voice was shaky as he was likely pictureing how brutal that death was. Something rose up from the back of your mind, murders committed with a heavy weapon to the skull, murders you had written articles about.

It couldn’t be.

“Maybe they’re confident, not stupid”, you mused, looking over at the axe that you had chosen. Most contestants had stumbled upon a depot filled to the brim with weapons and tools. The one in your area was mostly empty, but you had been lucky enough to find an axe. It was heavy to log around, but it was useful. The tool gave you a weird comfort at night, holding it like you were a kid clinging to your teddy bear, scared of monsters in the night.

“I’ll keep a lookout tonight, you’ve done it the most, so please get some rest”, Jack said, gesturing towards the deer skin you had set up as a bed.

You looked into the flickering fire as you laid down, the axe propped up right behind you. You closed your eyes, your head thumping with the stress of your situation. No good would come of panicking, but you were by no means relaxed. The game weighed on your chest and every step you took was taken with extreme caution. You wished it hadn’t delved into chaos so quickly, then you might have found a group to rebel with. You sighed as the crackling of the fire lulled you to sleep.

“Contestant 12 has been eliminated. Cause of death: Contestant 66”.

The announcement stirred you awake, the fire hadn’t gone out so you could clearly see Jack, cutting up a small brown root with his knife. Sitting next to him was your water bottle and he had opened it.

“Jack, what are you doing?” You asked, sitting up and reaching your hand behind your back, you felt the wooden handle of your axe. Jack jumped a bit at your words, he clearly hadn’t expected you to be awake. You hadn’t slept in 2 days, so that made sense.

“Oh, I’m just…cutting up some ginger for your water, it really helps with uh…dental health, I read it in my book”, he said, though his voice had a noticeable nervous strain. You were armed with an axe, but his eyes were darting all around the cave, looking anywhere but you as he spoke. Jack’s “Game Master gift” had been a little book on plants, you had flipped through it once while he was asleep. Whatever he was holding was too light and uniform in shape to be ginger. Your mind sparked with a memory of small, white flowers outside of the cave. Your mouth went dry at your realization.

“Water hemlock…what the fuck. You’re trying to poison me!”, you exclaimed as you stood up, taking the axe with you.

Jack stood up too, holding the knife out and pointing it at you. You could see sweat start to form at his brow as his legs shook. He looked like a frightened baby deer, like he had done the day you had found him.

“You’re too calm! I started thinking…” he exhaled shakily, "what if you’re the Game Master, you seem to know everything!” you gritted your teeth as anger bubbled inside of you. You had gathered food for this guy when he was too weak to even move and you had spent days awake keeping a lookout. But he had tried to kill you, maybe you had put too much faith in him.

After all, people were being killed left and right not 2 weeks into the game and he wasn’t any different, even if you had been kind to him.

“Why would I be the Game Master, why would they play their own game?! It’s clear that they’re probably sitting in a fancy room somewhere, sipping expensive booze and getting off to us killing each other!” You yelled and Jack shrunk in on himself at your tone. “And I don’t know anything, I’m just drawing conclusions”.

“I just don’t get how you’re so calm…if we’re drawing conclusions, then you probably don’t have anyone to go back to, you don’t need to get out”, he said, suddenly leaping forward with the knife raised above his head in shaking hands. you took a step back, your heart pounding as you flipped the axe, holding by the head and using your whole weight to swing the wooden handle.

It collided with the side of Jack’s head with a thud, sending him barreling to the cave’s floor. He hit the dirt and you saw the mauve bruise blooming on his head, you crouched down and looked at his face. Luckily, he was still breathing. You hadn’t been aiming to kill him, you would like to get out of here without having to kill anyone. You felt a pang in your chest as you packed up your things. You had spent nearly a week surviving with this guy, had he really been suspicious of you the whole time? Your chest stung, guilt creeping up on you and sending your heart to your stomach.

“I’m sorry”, you spoke quietly, slinging your bag over your shoulder and grabbing the knife from his hand.

“Contestant 28 has been eliminated. Cause of death: Contestant 70”.

You had frozen up when you heard that announcement, Jack had been contestant 28. Had he still been unconscious? It had been 3 days since you left the cave, had he been completely defenseless against number 70? He had betrayed you and let paranoia get the best of him but your heart still ached for him. He was scared and terrified when you weren't, he had done it all in fear and desperation to get home.

To blame him completely would be taking blame off of the twisted bastard who was watching them.

You peered out from the bushes, watching as a man left the cave. 70’s clothes were spotted with blood as he carried Jack’s supplies, leaving his body. Your grip on your axe tightened as your knuckles turned white. You couldn’t take that guy on, especially not since he had a gun sitting in his belt. The splatters of blood didn’t look like he had shot Jack though, the gun was probably for emergencies.

He never got the chance to draw it as a figure stepped out from the trees, raising a crowbar and swinging it right into 70’s skull. The sharp hook buried into his head, blood pouring down and coating the side of his face.

The man yelled, disoriented as his attacker pulled out the hook and swung again. That impact brought him to the ground. The assailant brought their crowbar down on 70’s head one last time, blood and bits of brain splattering onto their red pants. You could make out burgundy hair, dark eyes, a striped beanie with devil horns and a tall stature. The stench of blood filled your nostrils, making you retch slightly.

“Contestant 70 has been eliminated. Cause of death: Contestant 66”.

So 66 and the crowbar user were the same person. The way the head was violently smashed in was all too familiar. You had stared at pictures like that late at night, guzzling coffee and chasing a deadline. Your growing suspicions were confirmed as 66 began to contort the corpse’s limbs with loud, sickening cracks and drawing on the ground with his blood.

A scarlet pentagram began to take shape in the dirt. A serial killer in a death game, like a kid in a candy store. 66 stood up from his crouch and looked right at the bush you were hiding in.

“You enjoying the show, darlin’?” He asked, an amused smile stretched across his face. You cursed under your breath, he had known you were there the whole time. You stepped out, your axe slung over your shoulder.

“So you’re 66 or should I say the Devil’s Butcher”, you said, looking down at the corpse. He would have killed you straight away if he wanted to, maybe you could get out of this alive. “Not your best work, but I guess you don’t have all your tools”. He laughed as he poked the body with the tip of his boot.

“Are you a fan? I’d be happy to give you my autograph, if that’s your last wish”, he spoke, blood dripping from his crowbar. It was probably heavier than your axe, but he sure did know how to use it.

“Not a fan, I’ve just written a lot of articles about your murders, so thanks for paying my rent”, you said sarcastically, you were eerily calm in the face of this danger, more than you had been at any point of this game. Maybe this whole thing was chipping away at your sanity too but that probably would work in your favor.

“How did they manage to kidnap you? I mean you’ve eluded the police for years”, you commented. There were a few tears in his jacket and his pants were stained with both old and fresh blood. His expression turned sour, his brows furrowing.

“Dunno, I was just finishin’ up a kill and someone came at me with a syringe”, he kicked some dirt on the ground as his eyes filled with a simmering rage “I got that fucker, but there were more of them, last thing I remember is passin’ out and I’m kinda pissed”.

You nodded at his words, either the Game Master had figured out he was the Devil’s Butcher or they thought he was a random killer. Anyway, they likely wanted to spice up their game.

“Are you aiming to get out? I’d think someone like you would have fun here”, you said and immediately realized how suspicious you sounded. No wonder Jack had thought you were the Game Master. “Well, I guess the options are pretty limited here, must be constricting”, you added.

“You’re right about that, but I’m not not havin’ fun, you’re pretty relaxed though, think I’m not gonna have fun right now?” He asked teasingly, a dangerous glint in his ink-colored eyes.

“I think you would have done that already if you wanted to, I’ve got a proposition for you”, you said, lowering your axe. Your heart was beating wildly in your ears, your life was on the line every second you spent not running from him. But it thrilled you, in an odd way. There was no time to unpack that.

“Aren’t you polite, what can you offer me?” He asked, tilting his head in an exaggerated manner. you shuffled around in your bag and pulled out your notebook.

“I’ve been writing down where the people who dispose of the bodies are coming from, I might be able to find an opening in the wall”, you flipped through the pages and showed him your notes.

“I’m pissed as whoever made this whole game too, so let’s team up and find the guy”, you said., watching his face. He raised an eyebrow and ran a finger over the metal of his crowbar.

“So all you have is some notes, that’s really temptin’, I’m almost convinced”, he said, his words dripping with sarcasm. you scoffed and tucked the book away, of course he wouldn’t team up with you that easily. You were crazy to do this, but maybe you had to be a bit crazy to survive.

“I also noticed that there’s a bump under the skin on my arm, they have to be using chips to track us”, you explained as you put down your bag you pulled Jack’s knife from it as you felt around for the spot on your bicep.

“I like that they’re keepin’ score, as far as I can tell I’m top of the leaderboard”, he said, watching you curiously. “What the hell are you up to?”

“I think you know already”, you said, putting the leather strap of your bag in between your teeth as you raised the knife to your skin. “Enjoy the show, 66”, you spoke, your words muffled slightly. A searing pain shot through your arm and warm blood ran down like a creek. You bit hard on the leather as you used the tip of the knife to dig around in the wound. It was the worst pain you had ever felt, your entire arm went numb as your flaming nerves yelled at you to stop.

Suddenly you felt a hand on your shoulder, you turned your head to look into those dark eyes. Maybe the pain was getting to you, but you could have sworn his eyes had a glint of…some twisted form of respect.

Finally, through the horrible agony, you found something small and hard, you scooped it up and pulled out the knife. Scarlet coated your arm, the wound wasn’t big but it was deep. You panted as the wound stung even without the blade in your flesh.

“Well, would you look at that, there was a chip in there”, 66 took the knife from you, inspecting the small metal square, it had a blinking green light. “My name’s Ronin, by the way”, he said, like now was the optimal time for introductions.

“Ronin…put the…oh fuck” you hissed as you held your arm, your head was starting buzz from the loss of blood “put the chip in that corpse”. It was the last thing that left your mouth before your consciousness slipped from you, leaving you to hit the ground.

___

When you came to, you were propped up against a tree, your sore arm was banaged and you could feel some stitching under the gauze. Ronin sat next to you, a hand on his cheek as he grinned, there was an open medical kit in his lap.

“So you’re contestant 88, they announced your death when I put the chip in, they said it was a heart attack”, he explained, closing up the box. your head was reeling, as you turned to face him, your forearm was dirty with dried streaks of blood. You told him your actual name.

“I take it you wanna team up now, seeing as you didn’t leave me to bleed out”, you said, glancing at your arm. Ronin hummed in an exaggerated way.

“I think I’ll give it a shot, you seem like a little daredevil, so maybe we’ll get along”, he said, smiling and you caught a glimpse of a black tongue piercing. Looking at him up close while you were fully conscious, he was good-looking. That was a dangerous thought to have, you realized and quickly averted your gaze.

“I had a plan with all of that, it’ll be easier for me to sneak around if they think I’m dead…wait, we need to-”, you didn’t get to finish your sentence before Ronin held up your chip, it had stopped blinking after your “death”.

“Right here, don’t think I didn’t see what you were doin’, darlin’”, he spoke and you exhaled in relief. You leaned against the tree.

“That means you’ll know if I ever decide to betray you”, you stated, the blood loss clearly making you less wary of sounding suspicious. “You think I can kill you?” You asked, a slight smile on your lips. Ronin chuckled in response, a dark joy lacing his voice at your words.

“You’re a character, let’s make that deal but I have one condition” he leaned in, forcing to look at him as he whispered in your ear: “You can stand by for all of my kills here, but once we find the big boss, you’re helpin’ me kill him”.

You sat there stunned for a minute, your mind racing at 100 miles an hour. You wanted to get out without any blood on your hands…but maybe that was already too late. You had unarmed Jake, left him vulnerable and stood idly by as Ronin had killed a contestant. You were mad at the sick fuck who had orchestrated all of this, the one who had put people in a death for entertainment. You gritted your teeth as you thought about it, maybe it was doing the world a service.

“Fine, it’s a deal”, you said firmly, raising your hand for a handshake. Ronin took your hand, his fingers were cold and he held your hand tight.

___

You stared at yourself in the bathroom mirror, the guard uniform was a little big on you, but nothing too noticeable. Ronin sat by the sink, cleaning the blood from his crowbar. He handed you the security pass he had grabbed from the guard’s corpse.

“We need to be quick before they find the body”, you said, tucking back your hair and revealing a dark purple spot on your neck. Ronin’s lips turned up into a smile and you felt your face flush and heart speed up as you recalled that night. Those lips on yours and an unusual softness to the way the killer’s hands held you. His voice speaking lowly in your ear and his lips leaving the skin on your neck tingling warmly.

You shook your head as you snapped out of it, that had just been a way to relieve stress and nothing more. Even if it had been nice…comforting in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time, even before this death game.

“Aye aye captain but don’t you forget your deal with the devil”, Ronin said, walking up behind you and placing a hand on your shoulder. A memory bloomed in your mind, the look in his eyes the last time he had done that. You humored him, put your hand over his and intertwined their fingers.

“It’s not like you remind me every day with that annoying look on your face”, you said, rolling your eyes as you grabbed the helmet from the side of the sink. With the visor pulled down, you looked enough like the guard to calm your nervousness a bit.

“Get out there and make me proud”, he said teasingly, giving your shoulder one last squeeze.

You flipped him off before exiting the bathroom, you spotted another guard holding a tray with a crystal carafe filled with amber liquid, a cigar box and a glass.

“Can you believe this? Bringing him his afternoon scotch isn’t in our job description”, the guard sighed. you really wondered what the description for this job looked like. You stiffened up at the casual tone though, had you gotten unlucky and ran into a friend of the guard you were impersonating?

You glanced behind you, the door to the bathroom was ajar and you spotted a peek of burgundy hair. Your nerves stilled, he was right behind you if things went south.

“How about I do it?” You asked, ready to signal to Ronin if your voice gave you away. The other guard happily handed over the tray and pointed at a door down the hall.

you took a deep breath before opening the door. The sight that greeted you was straight out of a movie, so cliché it almost made you laugh. A suit-clad man sat in a plush velvet chair, his eyes glued to a screen displaying camera footage from the forest. The TV showed a contestant brutally attacking another with a hunting knife.

“Contestant 47 has been eliminated. Cause of death: Contestant 92”.

The automated voice poured out from a speaker and the man leaned back in his seat, his hands folding behind his head. You fought back the fuming urge to break the carafe over his skull right then and there.

“You’re late, you’re lucky I drink it neat, or else the ice would have melted by now”, he spat, turning around to face you. He patted the table in front of him impatiently with a frown. Your eyes widened as you recognized the face scowling at you. Now you knew how he knew of your profession, what a petty asshole. You shoved down the anger boiling inside as you placed the tray on the table. The man crossed his arms, gesturing to the bottle as he tapped his foot. You really had to pour it for him too?

You uncapped the carafe and poured the likely expensive scotch into the glass. He grabbed it as soon as you finished, looking back at the screen and sipping the booze. you stepped towards the door, stopping at the back of his chair. Your blood rushed in your ears and your heart started beating so hard it was almost painful against your ribs.

You felt the cool blade of the knife hidden up your sleeve as you stepped closer, you had to honor your promise, you liked to think you were a person of your word.

“Would you get out already? I don’t pay you to stand around-”, his words were cut off by you grabbing his thinning hair and pulling harshly to tilt his head back. He had no time to shout for help as you brought out the knife, biting your lip in disgust as you ran the blade over his neck.

The blood poured out like a running stream, staining his crisp white shirt with deep crimson, he let out a choked sob as he dropped his glass. Crystal splintered against the floor and, as if on cue, Ronin entered the room with his crowbar slung over his shoulder.

“Simple, but a throat slit’s a classic for a reason”, he said, his smiling showing that he was all too pleased with himself. The man held his hands to his bleeding throat, choking out pleas and cries as his body convulsed. You stepped away as Ronin took his sweet time sauntering over, eyes gazing at the wound. He looked overjoyed, like you had gotten him a present that he had always wanted.

“The knife is short, stabbing him would have taken too long”, you rationalized, pocketing the damp knife. Ronin crouched down to the man, reaching out and grabbing his chin, the motion made the wound gape like a red maw.

“Did I put on a good show, sir?” Ronin asked mockingly, the man’s eyes welled up with tears as he nodded, hoping it would please the Devil’s Butcher. “Aw thanks, how about you get a live performance this time?” He asked before letting go and swinging his crowbar to the man’s head.

He did it again.

And again.

you could only watch the wall as the white was splattered with blood and dark bits of brain matter. You heard the disgusting cracks and squishing as Ronin beat his accumulated anger into the man’s skull.

“Ronin, I said we had to hurry, I think he died on the second strike”, you said, listening as the sounds stopped, Ronin walked up behind you, his shoes splashing in the blood. He rubbed his chin like an art critic as he looked at the wall. Ronin reached out and dipped his fingers into the blood, drawing lines on the plaster until there was a dripping crimson pentagram on the wall.

“As my biggest fan, what do you think of this?” He asked teasingly as he glanced at you. You shoved him and turned around to hide the smile you couldn’t believe was on your face

“I think we need to get out of here”.

Ronin walked over to the corpse and reached into his pocket. He pulled a pair of car keys with a shining Mercedes logo on them and jingled them with a wide grin.

___

“I knew the guy, he was CEO, I wrote an article about claims of OSHA violations in one of his factories”, you spat as the two of you sat in the 6-figure car, getting blood all over the cream seats. Ronin tapped his finger against the steering wheel, in tune with the song on the radio.

“Hey cheer up, you’re like a martyr now”, he laughed, looking over the empty, dark highway.

“Since I have to spend 12 hours in a car with you? Fuck yeah I am”, you said, glancing out of the window.

You had opened the door to the control building and announced over the intercom that the contestants were free. Maybe some were pissed at their ruined chances for the cash prize. You hoped they all found their way home though, but right now you were exhausted. For the first time in weeks, you truly felt like you could relax. The only thing that was missing was a…

You looked to Ronin, who was holding a cigar out towards you, like he had read your mind. “Ronin! Stealing cigars, I’m so disappointed in you”, you said, chuckling as you took it. Just your luck, there was a lighter in the glove compartment. You took a drag of the expensive tobacco, the smoke filling lungs, burning in the way you loved.

But you definitely preferred your cheap cigarettes. You handed him the cigar, he hadn’t said anything about being a smoker, but he took a drag nonetheless. “How does the fruit of your labor taste?” You asked as he handed it back to you. You rolled down the window to let the smoke pour out.

“It sucks, let’s get some food, I’m so sick of fucking berries”, He said, glancing at a sign advertising a chain diner a few miles ahead. You just now noticed how hungry you were. You hadn’t had a proper meal in a while. All that was available in the forest were fruits and the occasional wild game.

“I was thinking blueberry pancakes actually”, you said, pulling out a wallet filled with cash from the glove box.

“I’m gonna get apple pie”, Ronin stated, the red lights of the diner shining in the distance on the highway exit.

“That’s not a breakfast food, but I guess you deserve it”, you said, looking at the clock that read 4AM.

“Shit, a compliment from you, darlin’? You’re makin’ me blush!” He said as they pulled into the parking lot. You rolled your eyes and opened the car door.

“That’s just blood, wipe that off before we go inside”.

The two of you sat in the virtually empty restaurant in a comfortable silence as you scarfed down your food like starving hyenas. You felt cold fingertips against your hand under the table, you looked to Ronin, who only answered with a smile. You sighed and held his hand, but your heart warmed as he squeezed it softly.

You would make it back to Uptown and ditch the car on the way. You reached into your back pocket and placed your notebook and pen on the table.

“You finally want that autograph?” Ronin asked as he grabbed the book.

“Write whatever you want, I just wanted a keepsake from this”, you spoke as you took another bite of your pancakes.

Once he was done scribbling, he slid the book back to you. You read the words with a raised brow. “What’s ‘killrch8t_b00t.mango?” You asked, you had expected his phone number or at least a signature.

“You’ll find out when we get home, I’m sure you’ll fit right in”.

___

SLAUGHTERHOUSE_LOSERS

@ goreboy:

rejoice losers, your resident Devil has crawled his way outta hell

@ Angelic:

Ronin! What happened? You haven’t been active for weeks and when I went to your place you weren’t there! I looked everywhere for you. God, I’m so relieved.

@ K9:

Your absence has been most puzzling, attempting to track you became entirely impossible. I am however pleased that you did not die before being brought to justice.

@ hitmeuppp:

holy shit i thought you were dead or something

glad to have u back tho

@ goreboy:

Aw thanks for The warm Welcome

i hope you’ll show my new Friend the same Hospitality

@ Angelic:

What do you mean?

@ goreboy:

welcome the Newly Christened @MC

@ MC:

Ronin? What is this?

@ goreboy:

Go Introduce yourself And Let’s tell Them all about our Little Honeymoon darlin

#killer chat #killer chat ronin #ronin x reader #ronin beaufort #ronin beaufort x reader #killer chat vn #x reader #visual novel #dating sim

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z0mb13b1tez · 4 months ago

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WHY IS THE KILLER CHAT FANDOM LITERALLY ALLERGIC TO HAPPINESS

I just wanna read a fanfic where ronin and i are happy and in love WHY IS THERE SO MUCH ANGST 💔💔💔💔

I love angst but cmon let me be happy </3

#killerchat #ronin beaufort #ronin beaufort x reader #killer chat ronin #killer chat

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moonlitchimes · 1 month ago

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Today - Ronin x G.N Chronically Ill Reader

First time writing for this fandom as well as fanfiction itself in over a decade so please excuse any grammatical errors, oocness, etc dhsdhh. Might come back to revise it later, hope you enjoy it nonetheless!!

Reader has an unspecified chronic illness and is experiencing flare-up symptoms in this, I tried to be as vague as possible to leave their diagnosis up to interpretation.

word count | 1133 no warnings for this one <3

Today you wake up cold.

Which is, by all accounts, a bit odd. Soft sunlight filters through the curtains, sleepily draping over your form and that of the strong frame curled around you. You should feel warm, but you don’t. Instead, it feels as if you’re standing outside in a winter storm—drenched in icy rain—and not wrapped in the arms of your furnace of a boyfriend. You drift for a while, taking a minute—or perhaps several—to bask in the rare calm that has settled as the sun begins its slow crawl over the horizon.

However, the biting chill festering in your bones only becomes harder and harder to ignore. And as consciousness eventually creeps upon you once more, you become aware of a dull ache in the small of your back.

That’s where it begins, anyway—it always does—before slinking its way up your spine and stretching itself languidly across your shoulders like an overzealous cat. It takes its time digging its claws into your skin, sharpening the ache into a searing that tears into your veins and blights your blood until all your body knows is pain and nothing else.

You screw your eyes shut, doing your best to ground yourself: rough hands curled firm but careful around your waist, warm breath puffing against the crook of your neck, soft hair tickling your cheek. Some days, the easy repetition is enough to help you focus—to function with the pain. To ignore it—as much as it can be ignored—until you can stumble into some form of normalcy.

Today is not one of those days.

The torment that has been simmering throughout your body finally comes to a boil. A pitched keen escapes from your parted lips before you can stop it, and you stiffen as you feel Ronin stir from behind—no doubt roused by the sounds of your suffering. You bite down so hard on your lip to trap any more whines that you taste the sharp tang of copper on your tongue, another wave of agony wracking your hunched form. Wordlessly, you pray to whatever higher being that may be listening that he settles.

No such luck.

“Darlin’,” mumbled against your shoulder, still rough with sleep. “Way too early t’be up an’ about, y’know.”

His words are met with tense silence, the only sign of acknowledgment from you being a slight twitch in your taut frame.

Ronin’s brows draw together, the teasing edge fading—if only slightly—into cautious concern. “Baby?” he tries again, more alert this time. “Look at me.” Firm—not a request, no matter how undemanding it sounds.

You’re terse when you finally gather the strength to choke out a response. “It’s nothing, Ro.” A beat—your tone shifts into something more casual, an attempt at nonchalance. “Did I wake you?”

“It’s something, darlin’.” He’s always been able to see right through you. He exhales softly, shifting until he’s propped up on his elbows before repeating, “Look at me.”

When you finally face Ronin and see his dark, knowing eyes—always so perceptive, always seeming to know you better than you even know yourself—you’re unable to hold it in any longer. Your facade crumbles like withered bone, pain etched clearly across your face.

Whatever composure you had been feigning, you are still only human—still unable to ignore your own suffering, no matter how hard you try.

It felt ridiculous, in a way.

All these years, you had walked this same road alone, time and time again. Never had you had someone to lean on; never had anyone—beyond some choice doctors—bothered to truly concern themselves with your condition. You had long since grown used to this—to saving yourself.

The support of another had always been something foreign to you—a nice dream, but still a dream all the same. Back then, it hadn’t mattered that no one cared for you (but you had wanted it—god, how you had wanted it). You had come this far on your own, so why bother changing that now? Today you will smile—biting your tongue. You will grit your teeth and bear through the pain. There is no need to cry like some sort of child, to weep about how badly it hurts. You can get through this on your own.

Alone. Always alone—

You’re shaken from your thoughts by a sudden brush against your cheek, eyes snapping open to meet dark ones—like a void, like oblivion.

“You’re not alone,” he murmurs, catching a stray tear on his thumb from where it rests against your cheek—and oh, when did you start crying?—”So get out of that head of yours, ‘fore it swallows you whole.”

He didn’t wait for you to answer, leaning back with all the self-assurance of a predator, his eyes as sharp as blades. “Shoulda woken me,” he drawls—low and smooth as sin—as he watches you. “You don’t gotta suffer in silence like some damn martyr, not with me.”

He doesn’t touch you—not wanting to cause you any more pain—but he stays close, waiting with all the patience of a darker saint.

Something in you comes loose at the sight, your breath shuddering as you acquiesce, “I’m sorry—” But he doesn’t let you finish, huffing in fond exasperation as he inclines his head. “Not wantin’ an apology, darlin’, just let me take care of ya.”

Because that’s what he always does, isn't it?

Ronin—who, despite all his threats and talk, had seen you, a no-name writer in need of inspiration, and become your muse.

Ronin—who had placed a knife into your hands, lips against your ear, who had given you a choice of how you wanted your shared story to end.

Ronin—who had kissed you in a blood-soaked alleyway with a wolfish smile, like he had known what you would choose all along.

Ronin—who had barged into your life with a wild grin and bloodstained teeth—planted himself firmly by your side and refused to leave, like he belonged there. Like you belonged to him.

(He did, you did.)

Ronin—who knows you better than anyone else, who has slasher movie marathons with you just to have an excuse to hold you close, who stayed up all night researching your condition when he found out just so he could take better care of you.

Ronin who loves you.

“You don’t have to.”

“Wasn’t askin’ for permission, sweetheart.” His voice is quieter now—not quite soft, because what part of Ronin is?—but gentle. Warm, despite the teasing edge. “‘Sides, what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?”

For once, you don’t meet his banter with your own.

“I love you, Ro.”

A pause—his eyes soften. A small breath. His voice dips into something more genuine, more real. “Yeah. I love you too, darlin’.”

Tomorrow, you hope to wake up warm. But if you don’t, Ronin will be there.

And maybe that’s enough.

#killer chat #killer chat ronin #ronin beaufort #ronin beaufort x reader #killer chat x reader #ronin x reader #kc ronin #kc ronin x reader #ill cross-post this to ao3 later #once my new account gets approved dhsdhs #my writing #not used to writing ronin so hopefully its not horribly ooc #ill improve as i go haha

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yuukskillsworld · 8 days ago

Note

I was wondering if u could do headcanons of what summer would be like with all the killer chat love interests with a reader that HATESSS summer bc of the heat and all the bugs and if you don't wanna do all the li just ronin is fine!

“Hot, Bothered, and Yours: Summer" - Killer Chat LIs X Reader Headcanons

Hey, sweetheart—thanks for the fun request!

If summer’s your sworn enemy (ugh, the heat? the bugs? the sweat??), just know these killer love interests have their own... steamy ways of dealing with it.

Let’s get into it, yeah?

written by yuukskillsworld<3

WARNINGS: Mild swearing, flirting and suggestive language, heat-induced irritation

(No serious triggers—just vibes and summer suffering.)

Ronin Beaufort

Ronin finds your summer misery hilarious.

♡ The second he sees you flopped on the couch in a tank top and an ice pack down your shirt, he smirks: “Aww, what’s wrong, darlin’? Can’t handle a little sunshine?”

♡ He refuses to turn on the AC unless you threaten violence. “Heat builds character. Or were you always this dramatic?” (He’s already turning the AC on behind your back. He just likes watching you flail.)

♡ When the bugs get bad, he pulls out an old-school fly swatter like it’s a weapon and declares war. He’s unnecessarily aggressive about it. “This one’s for you, baby,” he says, smacking the air dramatically.

♡ If you’re grumpy, he gets handsy. Not necessarily helpful, but distracting. “C’mon, sweat looks good on you. And I’ve got a few ways to make you forget the heat…”

Maria de la Rosa(Angel)

Angel actually loves summer—but she loves you more.

♡ She notices how miserable you are and immediately adapts her plans. No more long hikes. No open fields. Just shaded walks, indoor picnics, and cool drinks.

♡ She gets you one of those handheld fans—and decorates it with your favorite colors or stickers. “Gotta keep my baby cool and cute.”

♡ If bugs come near you? She’s ready with the spray. “Not today, Satan,” she mutters, shielding you like a bug-slaying guardian angel.

♡ She brings you popsicles. She wears flowy clothes. She sets up soft pillows in the coolest part of the house so you two can nap together. “See? Summer’s not so bad when you’re wrapped up in me.”

Misaki Katsuo

Misaki doesn’t love the heat either, but they’ll never admit it. Their whole vibe is “adapt and cause problems.”

♡ They turn summer into a game. Every bug you swat earns you a point. Every time you complain, they tickle you.

♡ “You hate summer?” they grin, already dragging you outside with a squirt gun. “Then it’s war, babe.”

♡ They set up a kiddie pool and force you to sit in it with them like a pair of gremlins. “We suffer together. It’s romantic.”

♡ And when you finally snap and say, “I’m going to melt,” they grin and pour an entire pitcher of cold water on your head. “Better?” (They’re soaked right after, don’t worry.)

Valentin Viljoen(V)

V hates inefficient suffering, so he becomes your personal anti-summer strategist.

♡ Blackout curtains. High-end AC unit. Bug-repelling plants and scents. He has it all set up like a military operation.

♡ You wake up one morning to find the thermostat pre-programmed, your clothes chilled in the fridge, and the patio sealed from insects.

♡ When you say, “Ugh, I hate this season,” he just hands you a glass of cucumber water and kisses your forehead. “Then we make it tolerable. Together.”

♡ He’s surprisingly clingy when you’re hot and annoyed. Always brushing damp hair off your face or sitting close without touching unless you let him.

♡ And if you’re hiding in a dark room mid-heatwave? He joins you silently and reads aloud until you calm down.

Thanks again for the request, sunshine (yes, I said it).

Whether you're melting, swatting bugs, or just trying to survive the season—these killers have your back. And if not... well, they’ll at least keep you distracted. Hope you had fun reading, sweetie! <3

Credits:

-> dividers: @dollywons

-> photo: Pinterest

#ronin x reader #ronin beaufort #killerchat #ronin #killer chat x reader #ronin beaufort x reader #killer chat ronin beaufort #ronin killer chat #killer chat ronin #kc ronin x reader #angel #killer chat angel #killer chat #killer chat misaki #misaki #misaki katsuo #v #v killer chat

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bloodied-blossom · 1 day ago

Text

What if you're actually just a stupid serial killer?

1.9k Words; Ronin x Reader

Basically, what if mc was a serial killer who was one slip away from getting arrested (They're not good at hiding the fact they're a killer)

`don’t be so obvious smh`

`You’re Gonna Get Caught`

EXE | file.exe

`ReceivedKey:k!llrch8t_b00t.mango`

`here Ya go there’s your Key`

`Whenever you’re Ready`

You stared at the incoming message and thought about it. Shit you were being obvious, but maybe it could be played off? You groaned, wanting to delete your post.. But that would make you look suspicious. So, you left it up and reread the messages you received. Who was this? Was this an ip grabber? Maybe law enforcement? Whatever it was, why not test your luck with it. Because clicking random links that strangers send you is definitely something you should always do without a second thought. When you clicked it, a tab opened up asking for your key. You remember the message also had this specific key for you to enter, and so you typed it up. After you finished typing, an app opened itself on your computer..

SLAUGHTERHOUSE_LOSERS_v.4.4.4.mango

What the hell. You were taken to a server with very few people. What exactly was this for? People who had the answers for the questions you were asking? Or idiotic people who just need more people to talk to. Whatever the case was, you would sit it out and see what was happening. As you were having your debate, you received a message.

`<goreboy> [00:01]`

`welcome the Newly Christened @\user`

`<hitmeuppp> [00:01]`

`AAA omg omg!! Welcome to helllllll`

`<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> [00:01]

`WELCOME WELCOME HIIIIII`

`<felicite> [00:01]`

`Nice to meet you!`

`<Angelic> [00:01]`

`Hi there! Glad to have another one with us ♥️`

`<goreboy> [00:01]`

`make Sure to take a Peek at #rules`

`there is Barely Anything but You Never Know`

Okay what the hell was going on? You didn’t expect most to be online, let alone greet you. What was this server? Slaughterhouse was a strange name for it, who were these people? All these questions circled in your mind.. And then you turned your attention back to the server.. You should probably start becoming active if you want more intel on it. You checked out a couple channels, including rules. It was literally only two messages and both were short.. One was a response to the first.. Something stood out to you though, the first sentence of the first message. ‘Be a serial killer.’ Either these people were a bunch of roleplayers, or they were like you. And you needed an answer fast. You did something any logical person would do.. And ask the most important question…….

` <user> [00:02]`

`So… what serial killer are you? @\goreboy`

`<goreboy> [00:02]`

`I’m on the News if you Must Know`

The news? There are a number of murderers you’ve seen on the news and idolized.. The Butcher being your favorite.. But there was no way this random person would be them.. Right?

It was worth a shot.

`<user> [00:02]`

`That means you’re…`

`you’re the Butcher?’

`<goreboy> [00:02]`

`ding ding Ding`

Your heart started racing. Your idol.. Your literal idol was talking to you! He had to be the one who invited you to the server! But how could you be sure that it was him? Would he confirm it? Give you proof? More and more questions flooded your mind as did your excitement. You couldn’t leave the server now, not with the chance this was actually The Butcher you were talking to.

`it’s Uninspired but Alas`

`that’s the Price Paid for Letting the Media Name you`

`<Angelic> [00:03]`

`Like you’d choose a cooler name`

`<goreboy> [00:03]`

`Well`

`mine would At Least be Devil Related`

`You'd think they’d Get That from the Satanic Circles that i Curl the Bodies into.`

Your smile widened. It was him alright. Through some digging, you were able to snag photos of his murders, and the media never discussed the state of the bodies after a good while. Curled up and distorted in a sinister way.. Oh you had to stay on this server. But you didn’t want to just give all your information away at once. You were going to play it safe and silent, stay as mysterious as possible. This would allow for some leeway, you could be whoever you wanted to be here.

------

It had been a while, and you were genuinely enjoying the server.. You were.. More awkward than most of them, confused and wanting to say the right thing but it always sounded strange. You could tell a few thought that as well, but had not commented on it… except for Ronin . He had been the thorn in your side that would not stop prodding and poking and urging you to reveal who you are. You didn’t comply, threatening him all the while. Who did he think you were? Would you have to admit to who you actually are soon enough? This whole persona you’ve put on to hide your identity was going to come crashing down.. They wouldn’t judge you, why keep it up. You were conflicted. You were already sure they were serial killers now, you were all the same. So why was it so hard to come out with the truth?

Is it because you think they’d call you a liar? Hunt you down and murder you for hiding the truth? Lose trust in you? It could be a number of things that you didn’t want to experience. This was a dangerous game you were willing to play. Besides all that confusing, conflicting shit, you’ve been having a good time. You’ve been flirty with The Butcher , playing into his hands knowingly. It was nice. He seemed weirdly into the fact you’d want him, want to date him. That you would place your aorta, as he put it, right into his hands. It was thrilling, exciting even. You were playing with the devil , you were playing his game. And you could not be more happy with how it was turning out.

------

`<goreboy> [19:43]`

`come on Darlin’`

`i’m waiting on That Proof`

`<user> [19:43]`

`The devil’s an eager one, isn’t he.`

`It’s almost adorable.`

`<goreboy> [19:44]`

`can You blame me?`

`you refuse to tell me about yourself, so mean.`

`you refuse to Give me proof of your crimes.`

`Just give me a name darlin’ and I could Look you up.`

`<user> [19:44]`

`Why do you want to know my killer name so badly?`

`<goreboy> [19:44]`

`i thought I made it obvious that i don’t Exactly trust you.`

`come now, my divine darlin’. just tell me.`

He’s pushy, really pushy. But in honesty, you couldn’t blame him. You should have been honest from the start.. But why doesn’t he believe you? You talk like a serial killer, though that's stereotypical, you’ve talked about your past murders, and even your planned future ones! Why does he need to know specifically which you are? Why is it so important?

What if he’s in love~ and wants to track you down? Or maybe hunt you down to kill you off. Whichever it was, both filled you with excitement. Maybe you should finally admit to him who you are.. Maybe then you’d be able to romance him without the faulty sense of trust you both share. You stare at the chat bar, wondering how to admit it.. Before you begin typing. You spilled your guts to him, thankfully not literally. Told him everything.. You even provided photo evidence of who you were.

------

Ronin’s smile contorted into a twisted one, he thought you were some stupid writer who got themselves into a situation they couldn’t escape. You were.. Stupid, really stupid with your methods. You acted strangely in the server, off put by any conversation about murders and what not.. But he could see it all now, it all finally clicked. You were acting that way to stay mysterious, to not show your true self. He felt himself falling in love in a strange, sick way. You were so much more than he thought you to be. He was in love with his divine experiment, his twisted little angel. He was in love with you, but he wasn’t going to let you know that easily.

`<goreboy> [19:47]`

`oh the truth. The sweet, enticing truth.`

`And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.`

`John 8:32`

He leaned back in his chair, his smile never really fading. He was enticed by your true nature and wondered how you would react in the server from here on out. You were playing his game nicely, you were even a deranged serial killer like him, or at least a serial killer. Twisted thoughts filled his head, all the things you two could do together.. All the people you could hurt and kill.. He’d be your little shoulder devil, urging you to be his little corrupt angel. It was perfect. You were perfect. The perfect victim for his little fantasy.

`<goreboy> [19:47]`

`this is making Me more and More excited for the day we meet.`

`keep your eyes peeled, sweetheart.`

`once I get my hands on you, i won’t Let You Leave`

He watched as you reacted hurriedly, confused and questioning what he would do, if he would tell the others, but he didn’t respond at all. He only watched you spiral in your private channel while chuckling. You really were cute, something of his most disgusting dreams. He stood, taking off his beanie and stepping to his dresser. He needed his iconic little outfit. He was getting impatient waiting to get to you, he wanted to be with you already. He needed to be with you. It was driving him insane really.

He laid his outfit out, grabbing his pocket knife and placing it right on top. If you changed your mind, if you didn’t want him like he knew you did, he’d give you the chance to end it all. His smile fell slightly, sad thoughts trying to wiggle their way back to the front of his mind. He pushed them down quickly. He wanted to replace those shitty memories, those shitty fucking feelings with these new ones. He wanted new memories with you. The one he loved in the present.

He left you with one final message.

`<goreboy> [20:01]`

`one more month, my angel`

`you can figure out who I am by then`

`can’t you?`

By the time you could go to respond, get mad at him for not answering your other questions, he had already logged off and started getting dressed for bed. He finished changing rather quickly, tugging at his hair and chuckling quietly. You were going to be the death of him. He fell onto his bed, a hand holding the shirt he had on right above his heart. It was racing. His face was flushed. He was becoming manic. Thoughts of you, your pretty face, your stupid hair. Your dumb voice. All of it flooded his mind. One month. That’s as long as he needed to wait. He’d keep toying with you from then, hoping you’d grow irritated and angry. Hoping you’d want to kill him all while wanting to kiss him like there was no tomorrow. He wanted to drive you fucking crazy, he wanted to see you go mad. He was excited to see you break under his hold.

“Oh darling.. You’re driving me insane.”

#killer chat #ronin x reader #killer chat ronin #ronin #ronin beaufort #killer chat!#x reader #reader insert #gender neutral reader #killer chat x reader #killer chat ronin x reader #ronin beaufort x reader #writers on tumblr #🌸; cherry writes #🦴; ronin

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goose-duck · 27 days ago

Note

Maybe Ronin with a reader who is selectively mute? Including his reaction to them being able to talk to him for the first time?

I've so totally got this.

Maybe.

I researched a bit; but I can totally still be wrong. I apologize in advance ♡

~~~~~~

•When you were first added to the chat, Ronin nagged you to get on call with him.

•Eventually you gave in.

•He tried to talk to you, but you only responded by nodding or shaking your head.

•He was confused and frustrated, so he hung up.

•Then after a few hours of mulling it over, he shot you a message, asking why you didn't talk.

•After he gets his explanation, he chills out, and is pretty understanding.

•When on call with you now, he just has you type in chat and enjoys just looking at you.

•If the others try to get you to talk, he'll tell them off.

•If you allow him to, he'll explain your situation to them, or just help you out with getting everyone's attention so you can do it yourself.

•After getting to know you for a while, you finally make it official, and meet in purgatory.

•While there, he carries the conversation, paying close attention to your body language as that was your language of choice.

•He kissed you like you meant the world to him, and in that moment, you really did. You really do. Dead silent or loud as a freight train, you'd still be his world.

•Eventually you two decide to have a date. A stay in kinda date. Just watching movies together in his room, cuddled close in bed.

•Nearing midnight, you begin to get tired and start dozing off.

•He notices and gives a soft chuckle, "Goodlight, Darlin'."

•You barely whisp out the words, "Love you..." before falling asleep.

•Your voice was like a light breeze blowing by. It was quiet but crackled lightly; likely from lack of use.

•It wasn't a sound he was used to; always hearing his own voice–or those of the others in the chat–but it was perfect. It was like a soft melody that would now be stuck in his head forever. It was you. Your voice. The only one he truly wants to hear.

•The next day, he doesn't mention it or push you for more. He just gives you soft smiles.

•Eventually he whispers softly to you, "Your voice is beautiful."

•It makes you blush.

•After a few months of being together, you slowly get more confident with him, speaking more and more each time you see eachother.

•Hearing your voice may not be as much of a novelty anymore, but it's still like the singling of an angelic opera to Ronin.

•Every time you open your mouth to speak, or even just utter out a sound, he feels as though he's hearing something truly amazing. As if it's something only for his trusted ears.

•He's glad he can make you feel safe like this. He wouldn't change it for anything in the world.

•You are his flame, and he is your lighter ♡

#killer chat #killer chat x reader #ronin beaufort #ronin x reader #killer chat ronin #ronin beaufort x reader #ronin killer chat

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vandme12 · 2 months ago

Note

Ronin x Reader, where the reader is a nurse by day and a serial killer by night—delivering judgments on those who drove their son to his death through bullying?

TW : Mention of Suicide, Gore etc I'm not really happy with this one

What is life?

A question too big for anyone to answer. Too cruel for someone like you.

Because for you—life was a little boy with bright eyes, messy hair, and a laugh so sweet it could rot your teeth. It was tiny sneakers left in the hallway, sticky fingers tugging at your sleeve, and a voice that always asked, “When will you be home?”

Life was your son.

And the day he died, it stopped being anything at all.

It was his birthday. You should’ve known better.

The school counselor called it “seasonal triggers.” Grief was a shadow, and anniversaries sharpened its claws. But your boy—your sweet, kind boy—he wasn’t like that. He was stronger. He had to be.

That’s what you told yourself when he didn’t come out of his room that morning. What you kept telling yourself when hours passed—when his phone buzzed, untouched, and your stomach twisted itself in knots.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

(Right?)

The wind was sharp when you stepped outside, jacket tugged tight around your ribs. His usual spots—empty. No trace of him on the soccer field, in the park, by the bookstore he used to love.

Your heart pounded too hard, too fast.

The cliff—he liked it there. Said it made him feel free. You should’ve known. You should’ve known.

And when you found him—

God.

He was standing too close to the edge, sneakers half-off the crumbling dirt. His face turned toward the horizon, where the ocean swelled against jagged rocks. The sun hung low—soft gold over everything.

Beautiful. Too beautiful for what happened next.

"Hey," you called, voice cracking. "Baby, what are you doing? Come here—please—"

He didn’t move.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t even flinch when you started running.

Just a small tilt of his head—like he was listening.

(To you?)

(Or something else?)

And then—

He jumped.

You don’t remember screaming.

Don’t remember how your knees hit the ground, or how sharp the air felt in your lungs. Only the sound—God, the sound—when his body crumpled onto the highway below.

Too loud.

Too final.

By the time you made it down the slope—hands shaking, mouth dry—you barely heard the brakes screeching. A truck. Late delivery. Wrong place. Wrong time.

His body—broken and bloodied—crushed beneath wheels that never had a chance to stop.

You tried—God, you tried.

Tore at the door. Dragged his body out. Called his name over and over and over—

"Baby, come on, please—wake up—"

But there was so much blood. Too much.

He was still warm when you held him.

Still soft when you brushed his hair back and pressed trembling fingers to his cheek.

But when you pulled him against you—when you begged, prayed, bargained for anything—he didn’t hold you back.

He didn’t say a word.

The police called it suicide.

Just another statistic. Just another kid who couldn’t handle the weight.

Did they think it was easy for you? Losing him like that—watching him slip through your fingers? Did they know how it felt to sit in his room, surrounded by everything he left behind?

The half-finished drawings. The crumpled homework. The photos of you—of him—smiling, frozen in a world that doesn’t exist anymore.

You screamed yourself raw.

Begged a God you stopped believing in to bring him back.

Because no parent—no parent—should ever have to bury their child.

No one should know what it feels like to hold the whole world in their arms—

—only to lose it forever.

Grief is supposed to end.

That’s what they tell you—like there’s a finish line somewhere, like if you scream and cry and break enough, one day it’ll be over.

But it never ends. Not really. It just sits there—heavy, cold—waiting for the next moment to crush you.

And you? You’ve been crushed so many times, you don’t even fight it anymore.

Until you find his diary.

It happens on the kind of night where the silence cuts too deep—when the weight of an empty house presses against your ribs until you can’t breathe. You’re in his room again. You shouldn’t be. Everyone says to stop doing this—to stop burying yourself in his ghost.

But you can’t.

Because it still smells like him. His shampoo. His detergent. Him.

And tonight—tonight, the need to hold on is too much.

You pull open his nightstand drawer—just to touch something that was his. Just to feel close again.

That’s when you find it.

A black leather notebook—edges worn from nervous fingers. Tucked underneath, a flash drive, taped to the inside cover with shaky handwriting scrawled across it.

“If something happens—it wasn’t me.”

The world stops.

You sit at his desk, hands trembling as you open the journal.

The first few pages are innocent—doodles in the corners, notes about school, lists of things he wanted for his birthday.

Your breath hitches when you see your name.

"Takeout night with Mom. She was tired again, but she still remembered to get my favorite. I think she worries too much. I wish I could make her laugh more."

The words blur, and you have to press your hand over your mouth to keep the sob inside.

He was always like that. Always thinking of you first.

But the tone shifts—page by page—until it’s something else entirely.

“They took my backpack again. Said I’m ‘too stupid to be here.’ I wanted to tell a teacher, but last time that just made it worse.”

“I didn’t tell Mom. She’s got enough to worry about.”

Your heart pounds in your ears as the entries darken—accounts of bruises hidden beneath sleeves, notebooks torn to shreds, whispers that followed him down every hallway.

And then—

"They said if I told anyone, they’d make me disappear."

"They said no one would believe me."

"They said they could make it look like I wanted to die."

The flash drive is cold in your palm when you plug it into your laptop.

Folders. Videos. Screenshots.

Evidence.

The first file plays automatically—a shaky phone recording. Your son’s voice trembles through the speakers, too small, too scared.

"Why are you doing this?"

Laughter—cruel and sharp. A boy’s voice answers, dripping with malice.

"Because it’s funny. And because no one’s gonna miss a freak like you."

Another file—footage of them cornering him behind the gym. The fear in his eyes cuts through you like a blade.

A screenshot of text messages:

"Do it, or we’ll make your mom suffer too."

"No one cares about you anyway."

"Jump, coward."

Your hands shake so hard the mouse slips. It takes everything—everything—not to scream.

They did this.

And the police—those lazy, blind, useless bastards—just accepted it. Never questioned. Never dug deeper. Just another "suicidal teenager," right? Easier to wrap it up and move on.

Your sweet, brave boy didn’t want to die.

They pushed him.

They killed him.

And no one stopped them.

You sit in the dark, heart pounding like a drum against your ribs. Your tears dry somewhere between rage and clarity.

Revenge is too soft.

Justice? Too kind.

What they deserve—what they earned—is judgment.

You gave yourself two years. Two years to erase your old life, to bury the broken parent who sobbed over an empty bed and cold gravestone. Two years of plastic surgeries, forged identities, and blood-soaked determination.

And when the time came—you slipped into their world like a shadow.

The school. His school.

Where they laughed. Where they tormented him. Where they pushed him to the edge and called it a joke.

You became the new nurse.

The first to die was the woman who should’ve protected him.

That bitch—with her saccharine smile and snake-pit heart. You remember her name on the incident reports—dismissed concerns, no further action required—while your son faded right under her nose.

A kid comes in with a black eye? She says, “Boys will be boys.”

A girl too scared to speak? She rolls her eyes and mutters, “Drama queens.”

Your son—your baby—came to her broken and bleeding. And she did nothing.

You made sure her death meant something.

No one questioned her disappearance. They said she “retired early.” A footnote in the morning announcements, a passing thought—like she never existed.

The students didn’t care. The staff didn’t notice.

But you did.

When you slipped into her office, you savored the irony. They left her memory cold. But you? You left her body colder.

In the end, she went out screaming—a sound no one heard beneath the hum of school life.

And you took her place.

Because your work had only just begun.

You smile politely as students shuffle through the nurse’s office—some too loud, some too quiet, but none of them innocent.

Not the ones who took your son’s laughter. Not the ones who made him bleed.

You remember their names. You memorized their faces. And now? Now you get to study them up close.

The ringleader—the golden boy with dead eyes and a cruel mouth—sits in front of you, cradling his wrist.

He doesn’t recognize you. Why would he? You made sure your old life was buried—the way he deserves to be.

"Does it hurt?" Your voice is soft. Sweet. A trap in silk.

He smirks, cocky and careless. "I’m fine. You’re not gonna cry on me, are you?"

You smile back—warm and patient. The way a mother should be.

"Let me take care of you."

Three years.

Three years since you buried your son. Three years of blood and patience.

And now, it’s the third one’s turn.

A third-year boy—one of the shits who laughed the loudest. Who spat venom in the halls and whispered lies no one questioned. He didn’t break your son with his fists—no, he was smarter. Sharper. He used words like scalpels, carving into every soft place until there was nothing left.

He made your son feel small. Powerless.

And now? Now it’s his turn.

You’d been watching him. Waiting.

He loved puzzles—riddles, mazes, anything that made him feel smarter than everyone else. You used that.

You left clues. Notes hidden in lockers, coded messages only he could solve. A game—a perfect little trap wrapped in curiosity.

And like the arrogant little shit he was, he took the bait.

You locked him in a storage room deep beneath the school—a maze of boxes and broken furniture, the walls slick with mold and secrets no one cared to find.

The puzzle? Simple.

Find the key. Unlock the door.

Except you never gave him a key.

You watched from the shadows as his confidence broke.

The smirk faded first—replaced by furrowed brows and trembling fingers.

"Where is it?" he hissed to himself, ripping through crates. Hours passed. The air grew thick. Stale. His breathing hitched when the lights flickered—when he realized he wasn’t alone.

When he realized—this game wasn’t meant to be won.

And when he screamed—when panic swallowed him whole—you felt nothing but cold satisfaction.

But he was smarter than you thought. Clever.

The little bastard broke the lock—cut himself raw forcing the rusted bolt free.

And now?

He’s running.

The boy ran blindly—panic pounding through his veins, tearing through the dark alleyways like a rat in a maze.

But this wasn’t just any alley.

Locals called it Purgatory.

The place where sinners lose their way—and their lives.

His breath hitched as his sneakers slapped against the pavement, but his steps faltered when he saw him.

A shadow leaning against the wall—no, not a shadow.

A devil.

The man stood tall—too tall—like he owned the ground beneath his boots. A black beanie clung to his head, streaked with gray stripes, but it didn’t hide the devil horns curling out from burgundy hair. His eyes—God, his eyes—black and hollow like the universe had carved out his soul and left nothing but a void.

The metal gleam of his jacket flashed as he raised his arm—a crowbar, heavy and rusted, already slick with something too dark to be water.

And he was laughing. Laughing.

A sound jagged enough to cut.

The boy froze—feet rooted in place—as the Butcher brought the crowbar down, again and again, into some poor bastard’s ribs. The sickening crack echoed through the alley.

“Aww, c’mon—don’t tap out on me yet!” the man cooed, voice syrup-sweet and poisonous underneath. “We were just getting to the fun part…”

The bloodied figure beneath him gave a weak twitch. Not that it mattered. They were already done.

He should’ve run. Should’ve turned back.

But panic makes people stupid.

So instead—he reached for the pocket knife hidden in his jacket.

It wasn’t much. A child’s weapon. But fear does funny things to your survival instinct.

He lunged.

And for a second—a single breath—he thought he had the bastard.

The blade sunk in. Warm blood trickled over his fingers.

Then the Butcher laughed.

A low, broken sound—like someone dragged barbed wire through his lungs.

“A kid—killing me? What a joke.”

He staggered back, grinning down at the knife buried in his side like it was a love letter.

The boy tried to move—to run again—but his body wouldn’t listen.

Not with that gaze pinning him in place.

But then—something changed.

The devil fell silent. His smile flickered.

And his head tilted—just a fraction—like he was sensing something the boy couldn’t.

For the first time, his focus wasn’t on him.

Which is why he didn’t see it coming.

The metal pipe struck the boy’s head with a crack—sharp and final. The world spun—colors bleeding together—before everything went black.

When he woke, his head throbbed—pulsing in rhythm with the panic gnawing at his gut.

But the first thing he saw wasn’t the Butcher.

It was… someone else.

A figure standing over him, bathed in the faint glow of a flickering streetlamp.

They weren’t like the devil.

No, they were something worse.

They were calm.

Gentle, even—like a mother tending to a wounded child. But there was nothing warm about their eyes.

Eyes that saw through him.

“Your greatest sin…” their voice was soft—almost loving. “...wasn’t driving that boy to his death.”

They knelt beside him, a gloved hand brushing his bloodied cheek.

“It was the fact that you were born.”

The boy trembled—tried to speak—but the words wouldn’t come.

“You’re a selfish liar,” they continued, tone velvet-smooth. “Compared to your friends, you believe in ties connected by profit. And because you always use lies to manipulate everyone…”

Their hand curled into his hair—tight—yanking his face up to meet theirs.

“You don’t believe in anyone.”

A pause.

“And no one believes in you.”

The boy’s breath hitched—a sob clawing up his throat.

“Have you finally realized?”

Their smile sharpened—serene, like a saint.

“You’ve been making yourself the loner all along.”

And as the blood pooled beneath his knees, one final thought clawed through the panic—

He was never leaving Purgatory.

You saw the man. He laughed—sharp, breathless—like pain tasted sweet on his tongue.

And you—God. You looked like Saint Maria and Lady Themis and the Goddess of Death all wrapped into one. Holy and hellish. Justice with a smile.

He staggered, legs folding under him like a broken marionette. Collapsed at your feet. Pretty in the way dying things always are.

"Hey, person—why don’t you kill me?" His voice, raw and reckless. Daring. Like it’d be a kindness. Like it wouldn’t be the first time. "Finish the job…?"

But you didn’t.

You knelt—soft, deliberate—and cradled him in your lap. Gentle. Too gentle. Too much like—

He blacked out before the memory could choke him.

The next thing he knew—he was awake.

Shirtless. Bandaged. The sharp tug of stitches pulled when he shifted, but what really gnawed at him—you’d seen. The faint, silver lines across his chest—surgical, deliberate—impossible to miss. No point hiding it now.

His fingers brushed the edge of the gauze. Neat work. Too neat for someone who left bodies in alleyways.

A shadow moved. You.

You walked over—slow, smooth—and knelt beside him, fingers brushing his forehead like you had all the time in the world. Your touch burned.

His breath hitched—just for a second—but his mouth curled into that same devil-may-care grin. The one that never quite reached his eyes. “Aw, sweetheart—got a thing for broken boys?”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t bite back. Just tilted your head—soft, steady—like you were measuring him. Like you’d already decided something.

"You shouldn’t move," you said—low, smooth—like Eve whispering in the dark. It wasn’t a suggestion.

He should’ve cracked a joke. Teased you. He didn’t. Something in your voice—calm, warm, too gentle for someone like him—cut right through. Mother-God.

"Why did you save me?" The words slipped out before he could swallow them.

And you—you apologized.

"Sadly," you murmured, voice soft enough to sting, "it’s sadder that you were the one who got hurt instead of him."

That knocked the wind out of him. Him. That brat. That waste of breath who stabbed him. And here you were—acting like he was the tragedy.

A slow, bitter laugh scraped from his throat. His head tilted back against the wall, like it was all a fucking joke. "Do you even know who I am?"

You met his gaze—calm, unshaken. “I know.” Your eyes drifted to his jacket—hanging by the chair—the infamous mask still tucked in the pocket.

“The Butcher,” you said. Quiet. Certain. “666 kills, isn’t it?”

He licked his teeth, leaning closer—wrong in all the ways that made people run—but you didn’t move.

"So," he drawled, voice sweet as poison, "you think I’m broken? Or just doing it for fun?"

And you—you didn’t care. You just looked at him. Worried. Like he was something worth saving.

You didn’t care.

Didn’t flinch at his grin. Didn’t rise to the bait. You just—patched him up. Quiet hands and steady patience, like he wasn’t a monster, like the blood on his hands didn’t matter.

His chest ached—not from the wound, but from you. From how soft your touch had been when you pressed the gauze to his skin. From the way you didn’t ask for anything.

"Your clothes are washed," you said, your voice smooth and warm in the quiet. "You can leave in the morning."

That was it. No lecture. No judgment. Just kindness—unearned, unexpected—and it tasted worse than blood.

He should’ve laughed. Mocked you. Told you he didn’t need your charity. But instead—he just watched you, tongue flicking against his piercing, as you turned away like he wasn’t still watching.

Like you hadn’t touched him.

And for the first time in a long time—he wasn’t sure if he wanted to leave.

“Ah… who are you?” His voice was low, rough—like he’d been screaming, or maybe laughing too hard for too long. His black eyes gleamed under the dim light, sharp and curious. "They call you Saint Judgment, right?"

You didn’t answer at first. Just pressed your palm gently against his forehead, checking the heat beneath his skin. The touch burned him more than the wound ever did.

His breath hitched—but he didn’t pull away. Not yet.

“So,” he drawled, cocking his head, “you’re the one who’s been offing kids.” His lips curled into that devil’s smile, sharp enough to cut. “Real charming hobby—though, can’t say I’m not a fan. You get bored of PTA meetings, or what?”

Your fingers lingered just a moment longer—then slipped away. Smooth. Unbothered. Holy.

“I kill monsters,” you corrected, voice like honey and venom. “The ones who bullied my son.”

For a second—just a flicker—you thought you saw something shift in his eyes. Something close to understanding. Something close to… recognition.

And then he laughed. Low, wild, wrong. “A mother’s love, huh?” His tongue flicked against his piercing, teeth flashing in the dark. "Gotta say—you're putting the other soccer moms to shame."

You said nothing.

Not to his teasing. Not to the sharpness in his smile or the way he stretched out on your couch like he owned it—like the blood on his skin meant nothing.

But you felt it. The ache. The weight of it all. If only you’d known sooner. If only you’d seen the signs.

Your hands were steady when you adjusted the bandages across his chest—over the scars, the fresh wound. You could still feel the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers, the faint rise and fall of his breath. Alive. He was still alive.

Lucky.

"You patch up all your strays, or am I just special?" His voice cut through the quiet, smooth and dark. Always smiling. Always pretending it didn't hurt.

Still, you said nothing.

He took that as an invitation. Of course, he did.

“Y’know,” he murmured, tilting his head, "if you wanted to undress me, you could’ve just asked. But hey—I'm not complaining.” A pause. His grin sharpened. “Unless you're planning to keep me—then we gotta talk custody arrangements."

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t rise to the bait.

But your silence only seemed to amuse him more. He liked the chase.

“C’mon, Saint—what’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” His voice dipped low, teasing. “Or do I make you nervous?”

He stayed like that the whole night—smirking, pushing, flirting—testing the edges of your patience, your grief.

But you never answered

He was a good boy—well, as good as a devil could be.

Flirted the whole time you patched him up, all smooth words and sharp edges. But when the teasing faded—when the blood was cleaned and the bandages secured—he got quiet. Let you work. Even helped, fingers surprisingly gentle as he fixed the last strip of gauze over his ribs.

“You’re a natural,” he said, voice softer than it had any right to be. “If this whole vengeance thing gets old, you’d make a killer nurse.” A beat. His grin curled wider. “No pun intended.”

You just rolled your eyes, pushing his hand away when he tried to touch your wrist.

And yet—he lingered. Close. Dangerously close.

The heat of his body brushed yours, and you should’ve pulled back. You didn’t.

“You know,” he murmured, eyes dragging over your face, “I could use someone like you. Sharp. Quiet. Hot in a terrifying kinda way.” His lip ring glinted when he smirked. “Join my server.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Serial killer server. Don’t worry, babe—it’s invite-only. Very exclusive. But I’ll vouch for you.” He tilted his head, watching you carefully. “I mean, you’ve got the whole Saint Maria death goddess thing going on—pretty sure everyone’s gonna love you.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

His smile softened. Just a little. “Didn’t say it was.”

The silence stretched between you—heavy, electric—until you sighed, standing up. “Get some sleep,” you said, turning your back to him. “And don’t bleed on my couch.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, sweetheart,” he called, but you were already walking away.

The next morning—he was gone.

No note about where he’d gone. No goodbye. Just a faint trace of leather and blood lingering in the air.

But on the table—right where you’d left his jacket—was a folded slip of paper.

A link.

A server link.

And underneath it, scrawled in messy, sharp handwriting—

“For my favorite Saint. Don’t miss me too much. – goreboy

You laughed. Goreboy. What a name. What a pain in the ass.

Maybe it was the first real laugh you’d had in years—sharp, breathy, and gone too fast. Still, it was there.

No.

No distractions. No weird murder servers. You had one goal—your son. And this? This wasn’t part of the plan.

But then you caught your reflection in the mirror. Jesus. You looked like hell. Blood under your nails, shadows carved under your eyes—when was the last time you even slept?

…Yeah. You’d join. One look. That’s it.

“k!llerch8t_b00tmango”

“What the fuck is this brainrot bullshit,” you muttered, but you typed it in anyway.

The screen flashed.

A new window popped up—blindingly neon and hideously cursed—and before you could even think about leaving—

PING!

💀 Welcome to K!LLER CH8T 💀 Newly christened @y/n

The chat exploded.

[goreboy]: babe you made it 😈 didn’t think you had it in you [hitmeuppp]: OMG OMG NEW PERSON NEW PERSON HI HI HI HI HI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! [Angelic]: Welcome, darling. Don’t be shy—we don’t bite. Unless you ask nicely. 😉 [K9]: Another one. Great. [LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: yooooooo new homie 🤙 u surf??? [Eviscerator1990]: Welcome. I like sunsets. What’s your deal? [Felicite]: …What’s your kill count?

You stared at the screen. This was a mistake.

Another PING!

[hitmeuppp]: AAAAH UR SO QUIET TALK TO ME PLS PLS PLS 💖💖💖

The little raccoon profile picture bounced obnoxiously in the corner, flooding the chat with stickers—hearts, knives, some horrifically cursed Garfield gif.

[goreboy]: you’re gonna love it here, Saint. [goreboy]: unless you’re scared

You exhaled, slow. Steady. Fingers hovering over the keyboard.

And against every ounce of common sense—you typed.

[@y/n]: …Hi.

The moment you hit enter, all hell broke loose.

[hitmeuppp]: HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! [hitmeuppp]: OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG NEW PERSON AAAAAAA [hitmeuppp]: WHAT’S UR FAVORITE COLOR?? FAVORITE WEAPON??? DO U LIKE CATS???

You blinked. What the hell did you just walk into?

Another PING!

[LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: YO DUUUUUUDEEEEEE HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII 🤙🤙🤙 [LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: u skate?? u kill?? what’s ur vibe bro??

More messages flooded in—stickers of knives, blood splatters, and some… questionable emojis.

In the chaos, goreboy was chilling, of course.

[goreboy]: aw, look at that. [goreboy]: ur already the life of the party. 😘

[K9]: …They’re going to scare them off. [Angelic]: Let them have their fun. We don’t get new blood often.

Meanwhile, hitmeuppp was STILL going.

[hitmeuppp]: R U A CAT PERSON OR A DOG PERSON I NEED TO KNOW RN 😤💖💖💖 [hitmeuppp]: WAIT WAIT MORE IMPORTANT— [hitmeuppp]: CAN I CALL U BESTIE?????

This was fine.

Totally normal.

Absolutely not a mistake.

[you]: I’m sorry. This is all… sudden.

The words felt small—too small—against the whirlwind happening on-screen. Your pulse thudded in your ears. What the hell were you supposed to say? Hey, thanks for inviting me to your murder club—by the way, I only stitched you up because you looked pathetic bleeding out in an alley.

Yeah. No.

[goreboy]: awh, take your time, darlin’. [goreboy]: promise i’ll be here when ur ready 😘

Darlin’. God. Of course, he’d flirt like that—like it was easy. Like this was normal. Like he hadn’t been covered in blood the night before, laughing while a kid tried to stab him.

And now? He was treating you like a skittish little thing. Like you’d break.

[hitmeuppp]: OMG UR LIKE THE QUIET MYSTERIOUS ONEEEE 😳

Your screen exploded again—hitmeuppp back in full force.

[LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: yooo do u kill w/ like knives?? or poison?? or do u do the psychological thing where u drive em crazy first??? [hitmeuppp]: NO WAY THEY’RE A POISON PERSON. TOO CLASSY. BET THEY DO HANDS-ON STUFF 😏

You rubbed your temples. This was insane. Absolutely insane.

And yet—you didn’t leave.

A soft ping.

[Angelic]: Don’t let them overwhelm you. They’re all bark. Mostly.

Her words felt like a lifeline—cool and steady, like she knew exactly how heavy it felt to be here. And for a second, you almost believed it.

But then—

[goreboy]: hey, Saint.

Your breath hitched.

[goreboy]: did u think about my offer yet? [goreboy]: i bet u’d be real fun if u loosened up.

Of course, he couldn’t let it go.

He always had to push.

[you]: That’s why I joined… y’all remind me of my son’s jokes. Haha—

The chat froze. Just for a breath—long enough for your words to settle, to sting. And then—

[hitmeuppp]: OMG WAIT. YOU HAVE A KID!??!?!?!?!? 😱😱😱 [hitmeuppp]: DO THEY KNOW WHAT U DO?????

[K9]: …you’re a parent and a serial killer? Why?

You swallowed hard. That question—why?—like the answer wasn’t rattling inside your ribs every single day. Like you didn’t already know. Like it wasn’t the only thing that still mattered.

[you]: My son is dead.

The chat died.

[you]: He was bullied. They made him… do it. And I—

You stopped. The words trembled too much if you held them too long.

[you]: I kill the people who killed him.

There it was. Laid bare. No point dressing it up with pretty words—it was ugly, and it was true. You didn’t breathe. Didn’t move.

For a second, you wondered if they’d kick you out—too raw, too broken for even this place.

[you]: Don’t mention it. Please.

Still. Silence. Even hitmeuppp had gone quiet.

Until—

[goreboy]: hey.

His tag lit up like a flare. Bright. Immediate.

[goreboy]: everyone’s got a story, Saint. [goreboy]: u didn’t do a damn thing wrong.

The breath you’d been holding—released. Maybe it was the nickname. Maybe the way he said it like it was simple. Like anyone else would’ve done the same.

You almost wanted to believe him.

[you]: …thanks.

His response was immediate.

[goreboy]: now, c’mon. ur here. play nice.

[goreboy]: introduce urself, Saint. What should we call u?

Your fingers hesitated over the keyboard—but there was no point lying now, was there?

[you]: Y/N L/N. I work as a school nurse. [you]: Only because that’s where the people who killed my son are.

No one laughed.

No one questioned it.

[hitmeuppp]: that’s kinda badass tbh.

[LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: fr. like. nurse by day, vengeance by night?? sounds like a movie.

[Angelic]: …They should’ve been kinder.

You closed your eyes. Saint. That’s what they were calling you now, like you were some holy figure when all you did was stain your hands deeper in blood.

[you]: thanks <3

It was small. Stupid, even. But it slipped out before you could stop it—a half-joke, half-shield, because if you didn’t laugh, you might actually break.

[goreboy]: awh, Saint’s got a heart after all. 💔

[hitmeuppp]: OMG THEY DID A HEART BACK LMAOOOOO [hitmeuppp]: WE GOT ‘EM BOYS

[LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: Saint’s one of us now 😎

[K9]: …This server is insufferable.

[goreboy]: u love us.

[Angelic]: unfortunately.

You huffed—a quiet sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, but close enough. For all their chaos, they weren’t pressing. No pity. No awkward apologies. Just… noise. Noise that made it easier to breathe.

[goreboy]: stick around, Saint. u might actually have fun.

A part of you wanted to deny it. To say you weren’t here for fun. But another part—the one still clutching that stupid note he left—didn’t want to leave.

And maybe, just maybe… you wanted to see what he’d do next.

[you]: We’ll see.

And fuck yeah, you did.

For a bunch of serial killers, they sure knew how to keep things interesting.

Every time you thought about leaving—about logging off and never looking back—someone would drag you back in.

Ronin’s edginess, for one. The bastard had a mouth on him, always circling you like a shark with a flirty line and a devil emoji to match. He made being a menace an art form, and the worst part? You were starting to enjoy it.

Angel’s charm—smooth and cold, like silk wrapped around a knife. She didn’t talk much unless it mattered, but when she did? You listened.

V’s mysteriousness, the guy had layers. Always analyzing, always watching—he made you nervous, if you were honest. But there was something grounding about him. Solid. Even if he did judge the shit out of you.

Misaki’s chaos, though? Pure energy. They were everywhere, all the time, like a sugar-high gremlin with a knife collection. Every conversation with them felt like a whirlwind. And somehow, you never wanted it to stop.

Luca’s sunniness—what the fuck was his deal? How did someone that bright end up here? Surfboards, bad jokes, and a body count. The cognitive dissonance gave you whiplash.

Felicite’s kindness. Yeah. Kindness. The kind of warmth that made you ache—like a ghost of the life you’d lost. She never pried, never pushed, but she was there. And that mattered.

Vince’s sunsets—because of course the old slasher had a soft spot for pretty skies. Every other message was him sending blurry pictures with captions like "life’s still beautiful, huh?" And for some reason, that always stuck with you.

And Ai Hua’s thumbs-ups. Quiet. Steady. Occasionally, a smiley face. Simple, but weirdly comforting.

It was a joke. It was ridiculous.

But… it was nice.

And maybe it was because you were older than half these brats—pushing twenty-five and already feeling ancient—but there was something about their chaos that made the silence in your life a little easier to bear.

It didn’t erase the grief.

Didn’t fix the hole your son left behind.

But when the nights got too heavy….

The “killer-shit” channel was a lawless wasteland.

It wasn’t for the faint of heart—graphic videos, blood-soaked photos, and the occasional artistic flourish of a well-arranged corpse. Some members posted sparingly. Others? Way too often.

And today? Today, your eyes were blessed—if you could call it that—with Goreboy’s latest masterpiece.

It was… satanic. No, worse. It was the anti-Christ’s wet dream.

The scene unfolded in shaky, handheld footage—Ronin’s signature style. An alleyway. Dimly lit. Blood smeared across the brick walls like finger paintings. At the center of it all? Some poor bastard, already half-dead and strung up like a sacrificial lamb.

"Smile for me, sweetheart," Ronin’s voice drawled, smooth and vicious. Then came the crowbar. He swung it like he was born with it in his hands—cracking bones, caving flesh, a rhythm that was too methodical to be anything but intentional.

By the time the video ended, the guy was nothing more than a pulped offering. And scrawled on the wall behind the body?

"The Devil Was Here."

Subtlety? Not Ronin’s style.

You closed the video, shaking your head—but you couldn’t help the faint, amused huff that slipped out.

Because, somehow, despite that—despite all of that—you and Ronin had become… friends.

Weird friends. Dangerous friends. But friends, nonetheless.

He respected you. Rare, considering he treated most people like they were there for his entertainment. But with you? There was something softer beneath all that violence. Something… human.

Maybe it was because you were one of the few people who didn’t treat him like a freak.

You knew. Of course, you knew.

The night you patched him up—when he was half-conscious and shirtless—you’d seen the faint, surgical scars across his chest. Trans surgery. Clean work.

And you hadn’t said a word about it.

Not then. Not now.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t throw knives at you like he did everyone else. You weren’t weird about it. You didn’t pry. You were just… kind.

And in a server full of killers, that was a rare thing.

Even if he’d never admit it—you could tell he appreciated it.

A notification popped up—@goreboy is typing...

"So, Saint…"

You tilted your head, fingers hovering over your keyboard. He only ever dragged out your little nickname like that when he was either about to flirt—or cause trouble. Probably both.

"Wanna post any of your kills?"

You blinked. What?

"In the killer-shit channel," he clarified, like it was the most casual thing in the world. "Memorial, y’know? Sins of the past and all that."

You hesitated. Not because you hadn’t thought about it—because you had—but… this was your son. His memory. His pain. And yet—

"You don’t gotta," he added, just a beat softer. "But… I figure you might wanna share one day. You’re good at what you do. Be a shame not to flex it."

A small, warm ache twisted in your chest.

"Actually…" you typed, the words slower. "One day. I think I’d be happy to."

"Awh, look at you, Saint," came the almost-instant reply. "Getting all sentimental. Break my heart, why don’t ya?"

You snorted quietly, shaking your head—but before you could reply, another message flashed across the screen:

"Hey, wanna do a quick call?"

Your heart skipped. A call.

You hesitated. For all his teasing, his chaos, his constant flirting—this felt… different. Not just some devil in an alleyway. Just him.

"Sure."

And just like that, your screen flickered. A call request popped up. You took a breath, clicked "accept," and—

"Hey, Saint."

His voice poured through—low, smooth, and just a little too close. Like he was whispering straight into your ear.

"Hey," you answered softly, your voice steadier than you expected.

A low chuckle—dark and warm—curled through the receiver. "Man, you sound like a worried mother. Cute."

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse quickened. "I asked about your surgery. Doesn’t mean I’m adopting you."

"Awh. Shame."

The call settled into a rhythm—his voice weaving between sharp edges and softer threads. He told you about the surgery. Back-alley work. Illegal. You figured as much.

"It wasn’t pretty," he admitted, too casual. "But, hell—neither am I."

You frowned. "You don’t sound like someone who regrets it."

"’Course not," he scoffed, like the idea was ridiculous. "Best thing I ever did, sweetheart." Then, quieter, "Still—it’s nice to hear someone ask like they give a damn."

A pause. Long enough to feel heavy.

"I do," you murmured. Simple. Honest.

The call lingered in that warm, delicate quiet—the kind that felt like neither of you wanted to hang up.

You didn’t, at least.

Your fingers traced the edge of something on your desk. The doll. Worn-out, small—stitched up in places with clumsy hands. A rabbit, a little crooked, but loved. His.

"You still there, Saint?" Ronin’s voice cut through—lighter now, teasing around the edges. "Did I finally make you speechless? Damn, shoulda called sooner."

You huffed softly. "I’m here."

His voice shifted—still playful, but softer. "Whatcha holdin’?"

Your breath caught. For a second, you almost brushed the question aside. But instead—you reached for the frame beside it. The picture.

Without thinking too hard, you tilted your phone camera, angling it toward the doll and the photo. The screen pinged as the image sent.

"What’s this?"

"You asked," you said quietly.

The line fell into a rare, weighty silence. For once, he didn’t joke.

He saw the doll first—stitched ears flopping to one side, the seams faded from years of holding on too tight. Then—the photo. You and your son. His smile was bright, a little gap between his teeth where a baby tooth had just fallen out. You had your arm around him. He was everything.

Ronin didn’t say a damn word. But you heard the breath he took—long, slow, heavy.

And that silence? It was loud.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. But he understood—far too well.

"...He was cute," Ronin finally said, voice low. Careful, almost. "Takes after you, huh?"

A small, broken laugh slipped out of you—more breath than sound. "Yeah."

"You made that doll?"

"His favorite," you admitted, fingers curling around the worn fabric. "I—stitched it back together. When it ripped."

"Bet you did." He exhaled softly, then added, "Still keep it close?"

"...Always."

A beat passed. Something shifted in his tone—deeper, more honest. "Shit, Saint… You didn’t deserve this."

His words sank into you—so easy, like he believed it without question. And maybe it was dangerous, how warm that felt.

"You know," he mused after a moment, that devilish edge creeping back in, "You should show that sweet side more often. I’d probably behave."

You snorted softly. "You? Behave?"

"For you?" His voice dropped—smooth, warm—like he knew exactly what he was doing. "Maybe."

You stepped out of the shed, the cool night air biting at your skin. A breath—too tight. Your fingers curled into your palms as if that could stop the tremor building in your chest.

Ronin’s voice stayed easy—too easy—in your ear. "You good, Saint?"

A laugh slipped from you—sharp, bitter. God. "I—" You stopped, swallowing down the ache. "Can I just… vent? I need to—"

"Saint." His voice dropped—low and steady, with that razor-softness only he could pull off. "Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of. You put up with my bullshit—never dissed, never pissed. You wanna scream? Cry? Let it the fuck out."

You exhaled shakily, hand running through your hair. "It’s just—" Words tangled on your tongue. "It’s a joke, you know? The police. This whole justice system—a fucking joke. I sit there, I smile, I play the sweet nurse—like it’s not killing me inside."

He laughed—low, wicked. "Tch. And here I thought you were the poster child of purity. What happened to my little Saint?"

"I’m not—" Your breath hitched. You shook your head. "I’m not some saint, Ronin."

His chuckle hummed against your ear, playful. But he was listening. "Funny," he drawled, "I still see you that way."

Your throat tightened. You had no answer for that.

Instead, you shifted the phone, angling it toward the well at the far end of your yard—its mouth yawning wide, pitch-black against the moonlight. A pit. A grave. You crouched, gathering a jar from beside it. Inside—bugs.

He caught the motion immediately. "Uh… What exactly are you doing?"

"Spiders," you murmured, almost absently. "Roaches. Beetles. Whatever I can find." You twisted the lid, letting the insects spill down into the darkness—a thousand tiny legs, crawling toward something much worse.

There was a pause. And then—he cackled.

"You’re throwin’ bugs in the well?" He wheezed, like this was the funniest thing he’d heard all day. "Shit, Saint—what are you, building some biblical plague down there?"

You sighed, fingers tightening on the jar. "I’m making something."

His laughter softened into a curious hum. "What kinda ‘something’ we talkin’?"

"A judgment," you said simply. "For the ones who hurt him." You swallowed hard, teeth gritting. "Because that’s all this is—revenge. Simple. Brutal. A parent’s rage. And if they think it’s scary now, they have no idea how deep that goes."

The other end of the line stayed quiet for a beat—too quiet. When Ronin spoke again, his voice was lower—smoky, and silk-smooth. "Damn," he murmured. "And people think I’m scary."

You shook your head, glaring down the well. "It’s not enough. Nothing’s ever enough."

"You’re wrong," he said softly. "You bein’ here? Scarin’ the shit outta these assholes? It’s enough. And fuck—if anyone deserves to make them suffer, it’s you."

Your heart twisted. He said it too easily—like he meant it.

"…Thanks," you mumbled, feeling something warm creep into your chest.

You pulled the rope taut—testing the knots with a steady, practiced hand. The rough fibers bit into your palm, but you didn’t flinch. Precision mattered. And for this one—the last one—everything had to be perfect.

Ronin's voice crackled softly through the call, velvet-smooth and teasing. "Y'know, for all the doom and gloom, all I see is a parent's love. Pure as hell."

You huffed, shaking your head. "It’s not that simple, Ronin."

"Sure it is," he drawled. "They made him suffer. Now you make them suffer. Ain't rocket science, Saint." His voice dropped to a near-whisper, syrupy and sweet. "And besides… They deserve judgment, don’t they?"

The word judgment hung heavy in the air—so much sharper than revenge. Revenge was messy, chaotic—this was something else. Deliberate. Methodical. Righteous.

Your hands stilled. "You always talk like that?"

"Only when I’m feeling inspired." He laughed softly, but there was no mockery in it. Only… something close to admiration. "You’re somethin’ else, Saint Y/n. Makes me think of Saint Maria—the kinda love that burns everything it touches."

You swallowed against the warmth curling in your gut. Don’t. Don’t let it get to you.

Instead, you focused on the photo clutched in your other hand. The last one. His face. His name. The final piece of the puzzle. "He’s the last one," you said quietly. "The last person who bullied my son."

A pause. Then— "…Do you want me to come?"

The question hit harder than it should have—the ease of it. Like it was obvious. Like he’d be there the second you asked.

You blinked down at the rope in your hands, lips parting—but before you could answer, a chaotic mess of pings exploded across the screen.

@goreboy soft as hell for Saint, omg 😭 @goreboy never thought I’d live to see the day lololol @goreboy is this the same guy who posted a satanic disembowelment last week?? @goreboy bro... you blushing???

Your brow furrowed as the messages scrolled by. "…What are they talking about?"

Silence. Then— "Nothing," he said, far too fast.

"Ronin."

A dramatic sigh filtered through the speaker. "Okay, okay—maybe I’ve been a little…" He trailed off, like the words burned his tongue. "…Soft?"

"Soft?" You repeated, trying to piece it together. "What, because you’re not being a total asshole for once?"

"Nah, it’s ‘cause I like you," he said without missing a beat, voice curling warm at the edges. "And apparently that’s a crime around here."

You almost dropped the rope. What.

"Relax, Saint," he purred. "I don’t bite. Not unless you ask."

You should’ve shut it down. Should’ve rolled your eyes, scoffed—something. But instead, you found yourself asking, quieter than before:

"…So, are you coming or not?"

The silence stretched—thick, heavy. And then, soft and lethal, he murmured:

"Anything for you."

Your fingers trembled against the rope—knuckles pale as you twisted the coarse fibers tighter, tighter, tighter.

"It’s not fair," you whispered, voice cracking under the weight. "He wouldn’t have wanted this—he wouldn’t have wanted me to become… this."

But here you were. Drowning in it. Blood under your nails. Hate in your bones. And you couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. Not until every last one of those monsters paid.

And still—still—it didn’t bring him back.

Your breath hitched, sharp and uneven. "I’m doing this for him. For myself. Because…" Your throat burned as the words clawed their way out. "It’s a sin. A fucking sin that those idiots were born—but my son had to die."

You doubled over, clutching the ropes to your chest like they could hold you together—but they couldn’t. Nothing could.

A sob ripped free—raw, broken. It wouldn’t stop. God. Your body shook with it, tears hot as they slipped down your face and stained the rough-hewn fibers.

A whisper buzzed in your ear—low, familiar. Ronin.

"Hey… hey." His voice was softer now—none of that teasing edge. No jokes. No deflection. "Let it out, Saint. You gotta let it out."

"I—I can’t—" You hiccupped, choking on your breath. "I’m—I’m worse. Worse than them. I’m…"

"Nah." The word cut through your spiral—firm, unyielding. "They killed him for fun. You’re not like them. You’re doin’ this ‘cause they deserve it. And you know they do."

"But I’m still—"

"You’re still his parent," he said, smooth as honey. "You’re still the only person who gave a damn about him. What you’re doing—" He let out a low, breathy laugh. "—this is love, Saint. Ain’t nothin’ evil about that."

You clung to the sound of his voice—because God, you were slipping. And somehow, he knew it.

"You think I don’t see how much this tears you up?" he murmured. "How bad you hurt?" A pause, just long enough to sting. "But you’re still here. Still standing. Still fighting for him." His voice dropped to a purr. "If that ain’t love, I don’t know what is."

The ropes slipped from your fingers, falling limp at your sides. Your chest heaved as you sucked in a jagged breath.

"You—you really think that?"

"Saint," he chuckled, low and wicked, "I don’t just think it—I know it."

"Kidnapping," you repeated, casual—like you weren’t holding a whole-ass rope in your hands. "Why? Y’all want in?"

The chat exploded.

—

hitmeuppp: MOM. MOM. WHAT.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: BROO 😭😭😭

Eviscerator1990: 👀

K9: …Why am I even surprised.

angelicc: You’re telling us this why, exactly?

goreboy: 🥹 Saint invited me, not y’all. Stay pressed.

—

Ronin’s voice crackled over the call, smooth and teasing. "So, you’re invitin’ me to your first date, huh?" His laugh was syrup-thick—too much, always too much. "Aw, Saint, you shouldn’t have."

"You’re impossible," you muttered, shaking your head.

"Yeah, but you like it."

You did not respond to that. (Mostly because he wasn’t wrong—damn him.)

—

hitmeuppp: BUT WHY RONIN THO.

hitmeuppp: WHY NOT ME. I’M CUTE.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: YO SAME THO??

goreboy: Because I’m her favorite, obviously. 😌

—

You sighed, fingers hovering over the keyboard. This? This was insanity. Why were you even entertaining this?

Still… you typed anyway.

—

you: We met when I patched him up.

you: He got hurt, I helped. Simple.

—

"Simple," Ronin mocked under his breath. "You were cradlin’ me in your lap, Saint. Like—" He laughed, sharp. "—like some divine fuckin’ mother."

Your cheeks burned. Why did he have to say it like that?

"You’re lucky I didn’t leave you to bleed out," you shot back.

"And miss out on all this?" His voice dropped—dark, warm. "Nah, I’d crawl to you if I had to."

—

angelicc: 🤨

hitmeuppp: 🤨

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: 🤨

—

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Can you not flirt while I’m preparing for a felony?"

"Nope," he said, popping the "p" with a grin. "Multitaskin’s my strong suit, babe."

You did not dignify that with a response.

—

angelicc: Just to be clear—you’re literally kidnapping someone right now?

you: Yes.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: LOL WHAT

K9: …Why.

—

You glanced at the shed door—your target still unconscious, slumped against the wall. One of the last ones.

"For my son," you murmured, barely realizing you were still on call. "Always for him."

The chat went dead silent.

Even Ronin—always the loudest, always too much—didn’t say a word.

The chat exploded—not with chaos, not with jokes—just… love. All at once. Too much. Overwhelming.

—

hitmeuppp: MOMA I LOVE YOU SO MUCH WTF

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: BRO U R THE COOLEST EVER IF U NEED HELP I’LL SURF THERE

Eviscerator1990: If you ever need a body disposed of—just say the word, Saint.

angelicc: You’re… incredibly strong. I hope you know that.

K9: You shouldn’t have had to carry that alone.

goreboy: Hey. Hey. Don’t cry now, Saint—I’m gonna start thinkin’ you like us or somethin’.

—

Your hands trembled. The rope slipped from your grip. It was too much.

"You guys…" Your voice cracked, unsteady. "I didn’t join for this."

"Yeah, well," Ronin hummed—soft, almost teasing, but there was a warmth beneath it. "Tough shit. You’re stuck with us now."

You huffed a weak laugh, brushing at your eyes. "Why are you all like this?"

"Trauma," Misaki said, like it was obvious.

You laughed. Not a small one—a real, full laugh that hurt a little. Maybe the first one in years.

And they heard it. Of course, they did.

—

goreboy: Ohhh. Oh, Saint.

goreboy: That laugh? Dangerous.

hitmeuppp: I WOULD DIE FOR U

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: SAME.

—

"You’re all insane," you muttered, shaking your head—your heart pounding too fast, too loud.

"And you’re still here," Ronin drawled. "Guess that makes you one of us, huh?"

And… maybe he wasn’t wrong.

The basement door creaked open. Barely audible over the sound of their shaky footsteps—but you heard it.

"Huh…" The target mumbled, stepping into the cold air. "Did I forget to lock the door?"

"Yes." Your voice was soft—too soft. Too sweet. You stood just behind them, hands steady, heart calm.

They turned. Confused. Too slow.

The crowbar in your hand swung upward in a smooth, practiced arc—CRACK. Skull met metal. Their body crumpled to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.

You exhaled. Relaxed. A faint smile curled your lips—not kind. Not warm. Just… satisfied.

"Oops," you murmured, crouching beside them. Your fingers brushed against the fresh bruise blooming across their forehead. "Clumsy thing. Should’ve been more careful."

Too late now.

Your phone buzzed faintly from where you left it on the workbench—messages flooding in. They could wait.

This? This was personal.

You snapped a photo—angled perfectly. Blood dripped slow and steady from their forehead, pooling against the cold cement. The faint outline of your boot pressed into their jaw where you’d nudged their face up. Nothing too gory—just enough. Enough to make a statement.

You sent it to #killer-shit with a simple caption:

"I don't know what to say, But.."

The chat exploded immediately.

goreboy: on my way. don’t start the fun without me, saint.

hitmeuppp: YO MOM WHAT THE FUCK?? LET ME HELP??

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: bro… y/n is kinda terrifying lowkey.

angelicc: Terrifying? Please. I’m swooning.

K9: …I’ll ignore this.

You snickered quietly, wiping a stray splatter of blood off your glove. Ronin’s response didn’t surprise you.

The ropes creaked softly as they swayed, the person dangling like a broken marionette—pathetic. You stood below, eyes cold, arms crossed as their frantic thrashing made the pulley whine. Blood crusted over the side of their head where you’d knocked them out.

“WHAT THE FUCK—YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, CRAZY HAG?!” Their voice cracked as they twisted against the binds. “YOU THINK I WON’T HURT YOU?! LET ME DOWN, OR I’LL—”

You tilted your head, bored already. “If you cut the rope, you fall.” Your voice was flat, cold—no room for argument.

They flinched. For all their bravado, the threat sank in.

“W-Wait—don’t!!” Their tone flipped, sugary-sweet, like you’d forget they tormented your kid.

Pathetic.

“Shut up.” You didn’t raise your voice—didn’t need to. Every syllable hit like a gunshot. “You think I care about your little threats? I’ve already broken people better than you.”

The panic in their eyes flared. Good.

A soft creak behind you—Ronin.

You didn’t turn. But you felt it—his smile curling sharp and wicked the moment he laid eyes on your work.

“Damn, Saint,” he drawled, voice as slick and honeyed as poison. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

You didn’t look at him—didn’t need to. Instead, you focused on the girl trembling above, her breath coming out ragged and broken.

“I’m done playing nice.”

She was crying—loud, messy, pathetic. Snot dripping down her face as she squirmed against the ropes, the bucket beneath her swaying dangerously.

“Why is this happening to me?” she wailed, voice cracking.

You tilted your head, gaze cold and distant. “Oh, please.” Your voice was soft—too soft, too calm. “Stop playing the victim. We’re tired of your antics. This is happening because you did it. Because you—" your lip curled, disgust bleeding through—"killed him. Just like you did to that boy.”

Her breath hitched. Panic flashed across her face. "W-What are you talking about?!"

You stepped closer, slow and deliberate, the heels of your boots clicking against the cold concrete. Your expression didn’t change—empty, hollow, done. And when you stopped, the light above cast a shadow across your face—half angel, half executioner.

She swallowed hard, eyes darting, searching—for mercy, maybe. But you didn’t have any left.

“How… how do you know what happened to that boy?” Her voice trembled, weak and shaking—like she already knew the answer.

Your fingers twitched at your side. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

And then—she understood. You saw it in the way her face twisted, the color draining from her skin. She saw your cold, detached face and compared it to the one burned in her memory—the bloodied face of the boy she tormented.

“No…” she whispered, voice cracking in fear. And then she screamed, “GO TO HELL!”

A sharp breath pulled into your lungs.

“GO TO HELL—TO YOUR SON! WHERE HE’S ROTTING AND FCKING SHTTING!”

The words hit you like a bullet.

Your vision blurred. Your chest tightened—painful, suffocating. You couldn’t breathe. Your hands trembled as they flew to your face, fingers digging into your skin as if you could claw the grief out—pull it out before it swallowed you whole.

“Ah… ah… ah…” Your voice broke, shattered—raw pain ripping through your body. It hurt. It hurt.

You barely felt it when warm hands cupped your face—gentle but firm.

“Hey. Hey.” Ronin’s voice cut through the chaos—a low, smooth drawl that shouldn’t have been comforting, but it was. His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek. “Look at me, Saint.”

You did. You couldn’t help it.

His black eyes were steady, locked onto yours—no jokes, no teasing, just him. And for a moment, the world narrowed to that touch—his warmth against your skin.

“Breathe. C’mon. You’re not there. You’re here. With me.” His voice dipped lower, a slow purr. "And she’s nothing. Don’t give her the satisfaction."

The girl snapped her head toward Ronin, tears streaming down her face. “Who the hell are you?! You think you’re scary?! You’re just some freak—some pathetic little boy pretending to be tough!”

Ronin? He laughed.

A low, cruel sound that crawled up your spine and curled around the air—a sound too easy for someone like him. His grin stretched wide, sharp and mean, as if her words were nothing but a sweet little joke.

“Aw, sweetheart—” he drawled, tilting his head as he leaned closer to her hanging body. “You’re adorable when you beg. Keep going—I might actually start feeling bad.”

The girl squirmed against the ropes, wild with panic. “You— you’re insane!”

He laughed again, harder. This time, it wasn’t just cruel—it was personal. His teeth flashed as he stepped around her, slow and casual, like a predator circling prey. "Insane? Nah… I’m just thorough."

And then—he leaned down, face inches from hers, voice dropping into something cold, something that ate people alive.

“If you think I’m bad, sweetheart—” he gestured toward you with a flick of his hand, “wait ‘til you see what she can do. ‘Cause me? I don’t like hurting girls."

A wicked little smirk tugged at his lips.

“But you? You’re not a girl. You’re a bitch.”

Her breath hitched—a sharp little sound that made his smile stretch wider.

“And bitches like you?” He let out a mock sigh, stepping back toward you—his favorite spot, right at your side. “Well… you deserve everything coming.”

He slung an arm around your shoulders—too comfortable, too familiar—pulling you against him like it was his right. His warmth burned through the edges of your pain, pulling you back into focus.

“So… what’s the call, Saint? You wanna finish this?” His voice was velvet-smooth, honeyed and dangerous—for you, only you.

And when he glanced down at you, his smile softened—just a little. A smile meant only for you.

The girl screamed—a raw, desperate sound—her body twisting against the ropes as Ronin held the scissors to the frayed strands. Each subtle snip made the fibers groan beneath her weight, swaying her closer to the pit below. The writhing mass of bugs—spiders, centipedes, crawling, biting things—stirred eagerly beneath her, as if they knew.

"Please—" she sobbed, voice cracking, "I-I’m sorry—please, I’ll do anything—don’t—"

Ronin? He didn’t care. He smiled, slow and lazy, like her suffering was nothing but a sweet little bedtime story. "Aw… cute when you beg, aren’t you?" His fingers twirled the scissors playfully before handing them off—to you. Your decision.

You took them, hands trembling. She deserved this. You knew it. Every single tear, every broken scream—she earned it. But still… still…

Your fingers tightened around the cold metal. Your breath stuttered.

Ronin leaned down, his voice soft—too soft. "What’s wrong, Saint?" His fingers brushed your trembling hand, like he was steadying you. "Guess you’re still scared of killing, huh?"

His words dug in—sharp and cruel—because he knew. He knew you weren’t scared of the act itself. It wasn’t the blood. It wasn’t even the weight of death.

It was the part of you that liked it.

And that part? That part was hungry.

With a snap of your wrist, the scissors sliced through the final thread.

She fell.

Her shriek echoed—high and broken—before the sound was swallowed by the squirming, chittering mess below. Bugs crawled over her skin, skittering beneath her clothes, and she screamed. Loud. Beautiful.

And you? You were trembling—still trembling—as you collapsed onto the cold floor, knees giving out beneath you.

You should’ve felt sick. You should’ve felt ashamed. But instead…

A laugh bubbled up in your throat—small, breathless, and wrong.

"See?" Ronin murmured, crouching in front of you. His fingers tilted your face up, forcing you to watch as the girl writhed and sobbed in the pit. "That’s better, sweetheart. No more tears. Just… this."

His thumb brushed over your cheek—soft, almost gentle—but his eyes burned with something else. Something proud.

"Accept it," he coaxed, voice as smooth as silk. "No more guilt. No more pretending. This? This is you now, Saint. And you know what?" His lips curled into a slow, wicked grin.

"You wear it beautifully."

"Please—" she sobbed, voice cracking, "I-I’m sorry—please, I’ll do anything—don’t—"

You took them, hands trembling. She deserved this. You knew it. Every single tear, every broken scream—she earned it. But still… still…

Your fingers tightened around the cold metal. Your breath stuttered.

Ronin leaned down, his voice soft—too soft. "What’s wrong, Saint?" His fingers brushed your trembling hand, like he was steadying you. "Guess you’re still scared of killing, huh?"

His words dug in—sharp and cruel—because he knew. He knew you weren’t scared of the act itself. It wasn’t the blood. It wasn’t even the weight of death.

It was the part of you that liked it.

And that part? That part was hungry.

With a snap of your wrist, the scissors sliced through the final thread.

She fell.

And you? You were trembling—still trembling—as you collapsed onto the cold floor, knees giving out beneath you.

You should’ve felt sick. You should’ve felt ashamed. But instead…

A laugh bubbled up in your throat—small, breathless, and wrong.

His thumb brushed over your cheek—soft, almost gentle—but his eyes burned with something else. Something proud.

"Accept it," he coaxed, voice as smooth as silk. "No more guilt. No more pretending. This? This is you now, Saint. And you know what?" His lips curled into a slow, wicked grin.

"You wear it beautifully."

Tears blurred your vision—hot and endless—as you clung to him, your whole body trembling like a leaf. But beneath the heartbreak, beneath the ache in your chest, something else burned. Something ugly. Something hungry.

And when the last breathy scream died out below, swallowed by writhing bugs and darkness—you couldn’t hold it in.

A laugh—wild, broken—ripped from your throat. It bubbled up uncontrollably, curling into something sharp and wrong as you buried your face against his chest.

"She’s dead," you choked out between sobs, your shoulders shaking with every breath. "A-ah… that bitch is dead—" Another peel of laughter escaped, half-delirious. "Did you hear her scream? Did you see her—squirm? Oh God—"

Your hands—sticky and trembling—gripped his coat like a lifeline. You should feel guilty. You should feel… something. But all you could do was laugh.

And Ronin? He loved it.

"Ahhh… there’s my Saint," he purred, voice dripping with warmth that felt almost… fond. His fingers curled under your chin, tilting your tear-streaked face up to his. "So soft. So sweet. And yet—" He leaned closer, eyes glittering with glee. "So deliciously rotten underneath."

His thumbs brushed over the tears on your cheeks—slow and deliberate—even as your lips trembled with another breathless, shaking laugh.

"You’re not crying ‘cause you’re sad," he murmured, leaning in until his lips almost brushed yours. "You’re crying ‘cause it felt good. Admit it, sweetheart. You loved every second."

And God—you did.

Your breath hitched as you stared up at him, vision still hazy, still spinning. Your chest burned—tight with grief, raw with something darker—and you just… let go.

A grin split your face, wide and wicked, even as fresh tears kept falling. You laughed again—louder, messier—throwing your head back against his hand.

"Ahahaha—! She’s gone!" You gasped, breathless, curling closer into his warmth. "That… that fucking bitch—she’s gone—rotting like she deserves—"

He beamed. Pure, twisted pride.

"God, you’re beautiful," he whispered, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "So broken. So perfect. My lovely little Saint—look at you now."

And when you grabbed the front of his coat—desperate, shaking—he didn’t pull away. No, he held you tighter. Kept you close while you cried and laughed and fell apart in his arms.

Blood cleaned. Body dumped. Another judgment delivered.

You stood beside Ronin in the moonlit alley, the chill of the night biting at your skin—but inside? You felt… lighter. The weight, the ache that had carved itself into your chest, wasn’t gone—but it had shifted. Eased. Sharpened into something clearer.

"I killed them all," you whispered, your voice soft but steady. "Every last one who hurt him. I could rest now…" Your breath hitched, and you looked up—meeting his eyes, warm with twisted amusement. "I thought about it, y’know? Joining him."

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just tilted his head, watching you with that devilish gleam, like he could crawl under your skin and make himself at home.

"But…" You exhaled slowly, the air trembling as it left your lungs. "There are still so many kids who suffer. Kids like him." You laughed softly—bitter and sweet all at once. "So, I’ll keep playing the Saint—to protect them. And the Devil…" Your smile curved, sharp and cruel. "For the ones who deserve it."

A low whistle slipped from his lips. "Ain’t that just the sweetest bedtime story?" His grin stretched wider, all teeth and sin. "A school nurse by day, a serial-killing Saint by night—oh, babe, I’d buy a ticket to that show."

You cackled, wiping the lingering tears from your cheek. "You’re the reason I made that choice, y’know?"

Ronin’s head cocked slightly—something gleaming behind the devil-may-care exterior. Something you couldn’t quite name. "Is that so, Saint?"

"Yeah." You smiled—soft, almost genuine. "Thanks."

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you—hanging between blood and laughter. And then, without a word, he held out his pinky.

You blinked. "What are you doing?"

His grin turned wicked. "A promise." He wiggled the pinky mockingly. "Unless you’re too old for that kinda thing, sweetheart."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart twisted—tight and warm—as you linked your pinky with his.

"You do this with your kid?" he asked quietly.

"No," you admitted. "Always wanted to do it with someone I…" Your voice caught in your throat. You swallowed the rest. "Someone I care about."

The alleyway felt too small—too heavy. You didn’t know what to call this thing between you. Didn’t dare name it. But whatever it was—he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he pulled out his phone with a flourish. "Hold still, Saint," he purred.

"What—?"

Before you could finish, he snapped a selfie—your face still flushed, your smile half-wrecked, his arm slung around you like he’d always belonged there. Blood still stained your gloves, but neither of you cared.

He typed fast, cackling under his breath. Then—PING!

A notification from the server.

➤ You: killed myself lol but found the new me 🖤 @goreboy

You burst out laughing, shaking your head in disbelief. "You’re a menace."

"And yet—" He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. "You still keep me around."

The server BLEW UP.

Notifications flooded in—your phone vibrating like it was about to combust.

➤ hitmeuppp: MOMMA??? MOMMA YOU TOOK A SELFIE WITH THAT LOSER??? OMG OMG OMG AAAAAA

➤ LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: DUUUUUUDE I LEAVE FOR FIVE MINUTES AND YOU’RE IN A WHOLE ROM-COM??

➤ eviscerator1990: I was literally in the middle of a sunset, wtf is this?

➤ K9:What did he do to you?

➤ felicie: awww this is kinda cute tho…

➤ ai_hua: 👍👍👍👍

Ronin? Thriving. He leaned against the wall next to you, phone in one hand, watching the chaos unfold with a shit-eating grin. "Man, you’d think I posted a wedding announcement or somethin’."

"You practically did," you muttered, though the corner of your mouth twitched.

➤ hitmeuppp: MOM. EXPLAIN. WHY HIM. OUT OF EVERYONE. WHY.

You sighed, typing back.

➤ Saint_Y/n: …he was there when it mattered.

That shut them up.

For a moment, the chat froze. No jokes. No chaos. Just… silence.

Then—

You groaned, burying your face in your hands while Ronin cackled beside you, clearly having the time of his life.

"Regrettin’ your life choices yet, Saint?" he teased, voice low and rough.

"No," you said quietly. And… you meant it.

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