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You’re wedged between them on the worn-down couch, one leg thrown lazily over Jeff’s lap, Toby half-slumped at your side, hoodie bunched at the elbows and goggles hanging around his neck. The room smells like old wood and cigarette smoke, laughter still echoing from a dirty joke Toby told five minutes ago—and you’re all just buzzing off the warmth of each other’s bodies, the hum of something more under your skin.
You may be drunk. Just, maybe. Toby brought in a six-pack, and Jeff jumped onto the boy like he’s been starved of alcohol for years. So, naturally, the three of you decided to get buzzed together. And maybe that buzz has turned into nonconventional flirting.
Jeff’s fingers trace the hem of your shirt, his eyes glinting with that sharp, teasing hunger. “You’re laughing like you’re not the most terrible kisser there is.”
Toby snorts, elbowing him half-heartedly. “J-Jesus, dude. Maybe try flirting like a human. If you wa-wanna kiss me so bad, just s-say that.”
But you? You just smirk. “Why don’t you both shut up and kiss me, then?”
They pause. A beat of silence. Jeff blinks. Toby raises an eyebrow.
Then you lean forward—hands finding their collars—and pull them in.
It starts soft. Experimental. You kiss Toby first—his mouth warm, uncertain, but eager—his breath hitching when your lips move just a little too slowly against his. He tastes like cinnamon gum and nicotine, and the way he sighs into you makes something flutter low in your belly.
Jeff watches like a predator, lip twitching. “Hurry up.”
And before Toby can move away, Jeff is there, kissing you while you’re still catching your breath.
Jeff kisses like he wants to devour you—teeth grazing your bottom lip, tongue slipping in like he’s claiming something. His hand cups your jaw, rough and demanding, and you moan before you can stop yourself. In contrast, he tastes like the beer he just finished and a one-too-many cigarettes.
Toby doesn’t move. He just… leans closer. Watching. Breathing heavier.
Your hand finds the back of Toby’s neck. Jeff’s lips are still on yours when you tug Toby forward again. Even still, Jeff doesn’t pull away. He tilts your chin—and you feel both of them press in.
Toby’s lips brush the corner of your mouth as Jeff kisses the other side. You laugh—giggling into their mouths, giddy from the heat, the closeness, the way they both want you so badly they’re willing to share.
Then it’s a tangle of tongues and lips and quickened breathing—Jeff’s teeth nipping at Toby’s lip as he leans too close, Toby growling under his breath but not pulling away, just kissing deeper, messier, one hand gripping your thigh.
Your hands are in their hair. Their hands are all over you. And the three of you are kissing like it’s the only thing keeping the room spinning. And it’s not soft anymore. It’s hungry. It’s hot. It’s chaos and surrender and everything you shouldn’t want but do anyway.
You finally pull back, breathless, lips swollen and slick. Jeff’s smirking, flushed and wild-eyed. Toby’s blinking like he just forgot how to speak.
You giggle again, dragging your thumb across your lips. “Told you. Best kisser here.”
Sharp hands grab your hips to straddle Jeff’s lap, your arms wrapped around his neck, lips slick from his. Toby’s scoots closer beside you on the couch—close enough that your shoulder brushes his chest every time you shift. It’s hot, charged, breathless.
Jeff bites your bottom lip just hard enough to make your thighs squeeze around his hips. “Have you always tasted this sweet?” he mutters, grinning into the kiss.
You giggle against his mouth, but before you can answer, Toby leans in behind you and presses a kiss to your shoulder—then your neck—then your jaw. His lips find your cheek just as Jeff starts kissing the other side. Their mouths are on you in tandem—hot and greedy, almost like they’re competing, almost like they’re forgetting where you stop and they begin.
Toby kisses the corner of your mouth. Jeff licks at the edge of your lips, eyes fluttering half-lidded. Then—
Their mouths meet.
It’s accidental. Just a shift, just a second too long spent near your lips, and suddenly Jeff’s mouth brushes Toby’s.
They both freeze. It’s breath on breath. Close enough to feel each other’s inhale. Neither pulls back.
Toby’s tongue flicks against Jeff’s lip. Jeff doesn’t stop him.
You go completely still—watching as they start kissing each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. It’s clumsy at first—Toby’s fingers still curled in your thigh, Jeff’s hand fisted in your shirt—but then it clicks.
Jeff tilts his head. Toby leans in harder. Their mouths move like they’ve done it before in some dream—wet, open-mouthed, tongues sliding against each other with that same dizzying need they gave to you.
You giggle. And that’s what snaps them out of it. Jeff pulls back a hair, lips slick and pink, eyes blown wide. Toby blinks at you, slightly breathless.
“What?” Jeff mutters. His voice is rough. Disoriented.
You press a hand to your mouth, barely hiding the grin. The alcohol slurs your words a tad, so it sounds more giddy than you intended, “You two just made out.”
Toby’s ears go red. Jeff scoffs—but he’s smiling, that rare crooked grin he only gets when he’s caught off guard.
“Yeah?” Jeff murmurs, dragging his thumb across Toby’s spit-slick lower lip. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”
Toby grabs the front of Jeff’s hoodie, smirking now. “I thi-think we can try again. Ju-Just to see.”
You barely have time to gasp before they’re kissing again—deeper this time—right in front of you, hot and messy and tangled in the heat they just shared with you. And then they pull you back in—all mouths and gasps and fingers clutching too tight—until you can’t tell who’s kissing who anymore. Just warmth. Just hands. Just more.
read part 1 here! this is part 2 of the jeff the killer fic! enjoy <3
cw: gore, blood, implications of murder
part ii. "dig up my grave (save my body)"
chap. title from "you're so creepy" by ghost town.
Being Jeff’s friend back in middle school had a repercussion, especially after he was hospitalized. While he was strong enough to fight off his own bullies, you were not gifted with such caliber. The most you could do was ignore them or pretend to be unbothered, but even you had your limits as a 13 year old.
You remember coming back to school after a day of absence due to your grandma’s passing. She was dear to you, knitting you warm sweaters and always sending you off with an allowance (of too much money) as a way to thank you for looking after her.
That afternoon, you had planned to go to the cemetery to visit again. Maybe even do your homework there to pass the time and watch the sunset. You stifle a sigh. Your grandmother loved watching the sun set. She’d sit by the swing outside the house and tell you tall tales of monsters and heroes…
Walking across the stone path surrounded by trimmed grass, you observe the tall tombstones scattered across the grove. You notice they have lit candles, others have food offerings; but, your heart breaks upon seeing withered flowers sitting upon a handful of them, signs that no one has visited in a while.
A left turn and a few paces forward leads you to where she was buried. But, you then notice high pitched giggles and some shrieks of disgust upon coming closer. There’s a group of girls in the same class as you surrounding the tombstone.
As much as it pains you to admit it, you can’t remember much after that. Other than the vision of pink bubblegum stuck all over the monument, alongside pictures and cruel words written in black sharpie. The image of them standing directly over the burial site, stomping on the grass, desecrating a holy place.
You hate yourself, sometimes. Frozen like a sheep among wolves, unable to do anything but watch. But quiver in fear. But stay silent in hopes you’ll get out of it alive.
Everything comes by in a flash, police questioning, guidance counseling, your parents asking if you were alright—but nothing can move you anymore. You can’t bring yourself to visit her grave anymore, afraid that she’d hate you for being the reason why she had to be humiliated like that.
You cry yourself to sleep that night.
The next morning is a school day. You can’t bring yourself to go, eyes red and heavy, body crashing into the wall when you get out of bed. Every step you take comes with an ache in your chest you can’t bring out into the world.
Fortunately, the crime report reaches you. Your slice of justice—no, of vengeance, served in a heart-shaped box filled to the brim of chocolates. It’s signed, scrawled messily on a sticky note, handwriting so bad you could mistake it for a chicken scratch. Jeff.
Popping a piece of chocolate-y goodness in your mouth, you feel slightly better. Sure, the guy being here would’ve certainly lifted your mood more, but you feel cared for nonetheless. You miss him. You wonder if he’s okay, being cooped up in that hospital room of his.
When you reach for the next bit of chocolate, the sunset manages to seep in through your curtains, and golden light hits the note you’ve left on the table. Faint markings indicate there’s something written on the back. Channel 5 News @ 6.
You giggle at how it took you a good few minutes to decipher his handwriting, but that’s what makes Jeff, Jeff. Of course, the note throws you off a little bit. Why would he want you to watch the news?
Reaching for the remote, you continue snacking. The news reporter’s going on and on about a murder case. They’re seemingly starting to become more prevalent these days, but you shrug the idea off.
Until they mention five middle school girls being killed and stuffed into a 7 foot hole in your local cemetery. The only reason they were found was because one of the girls’ heads was impaled into a stick and used as a grave marker.
Holy shit. Did…Jeff…?
The news of Randy’s death manages to reach you as you reminisce. You have a pretty good hunch you know who the culprit is behind that one. Police have started to mix you and Jeff up together, mistaking two separate killers for one full-fledged psycho. It’s…a little romantic. Or maybe you’re just sick and miss him too much.
You breathe out a laugh. Well, one down, two more to go.
It’s easy to track down their online profiles when they’ve never left town. A few scrolls through their public accounts and analyzing taken photos allow you to track down where Keith is, but not Troy.
There’s also the Jeffrey dilemma. He went after Randy, so going after either of the two almost guarantees you’ll see him again, and you’re not quite sure how to face him after five long years without him by your side. Shrugging off the heart on your cheek, you choose to hide your feelings beneath a dark jacket and a face mask.
Keith lives somewhere near your old school, a small humble home that houses him and his pregnant wife. You saw the photos he posted online, and it seems like she knows nothing of his bullying history.
Grinning, you stuff the photos in an envelope. You hope the motorcycle you rented and the facade you’re wearing is enough to fool the young couple of your innocence.
It’s his wife that opens the door when you knock. You greet her kindly, smiling with your eyes. She accepts the envelope from your hands, a little wary, but you make sure your voice is so sweet, she doesn’t notice it’s laced with poison.
“I don’t remember ordering something though…” She exhales. “Are you sure you have the right address?” Her eyes look at you, hesitant and nervous.
“The order is for Mr. Keith Davis, ma’am.” You tip your hat at her. “This is just a delivery package, so there’s no need for payment.” As if on cue, she relaxes at your casual words.
Your grin falters when she closes the door. You’re being watched—the security camera from the corner of the ceiling looks down at you with contempt. Upon flashing it a glare, you turn around and leave, putting on your helmet as the motorcycle revs.
In the heat of June, only a psychopath would wear a long hoodie with its hood draped over their head, paired with skin tight black jeans and converse that look like they’re going to fall apart at any moment.
Said psychopath just so happened to be in the neighborhood, watching a motorcycle without a plate number speed away, as if they were running away from a sin they’ve committed. He sneers. God, you really did miss him.
Well then, if you go after Keith, he’ll go after Troy.
Troy Green officially launched his self-made mechanic business just a little over a month ago. He has a few loyal customers, but Jeff’s target isn’t them, nor Troy himself. He needs to hit somewhere… closer. Closer to the heart.
There’s a young boy on the front porch, playing with a small monster truck toy while his father checks under the hood of a Honda Civic. Both seem to be minding their own business, with the older man glancing at his son every so often. Responsible parenting at its finest.
Jeff reaches for a small rock in the grass and fiddles with it between his fingers. He toys with it like he isn’t about to use it to bite. Like a snake hiding in the grass among the daffodils, he waits for the right moment to strike. The only question is, who’s his target?
His concentration is broken when the familiar jingle of an ice cream truck can be heard from the other side of the house. The young boy immediately jumps up to his feet and runs off to his father, and one can immediately suppose that he’s begging for ice cream. No one can blame the kid really, it’s 40º out.
Once Troy approaches the ice cream truck around the corner, Jeff makes his move. Plan B. When the little boy spots him, he flashes him a smile.
Troy’s words of thanks to the vendor running the truck are interrupted when his son tugs on the hem of his shorts. He laughs to himself a little, seems like someone’s eager to enjoy a cold treat on a hot day.
However, when his gaze meets with his son’s, he’s met with a wide-eyed stare instead of the childish liveliness he was so used to. The boy seems to be shaken, a look of surprise and betrayal scattered all over his face as he stares at his father. The ice cream drips down Troy’s hands.
“Papa…there was a strange man here…” His voice is strong, albeit for a kid who could barely comprehend the danger he was just in. “He left a package for you.” The boy whispers, small hand pointing towards the table situated on the porch, before grabbing the already melting ice cream from his father’s hands.
Keith comes home to the sight of his wife making dinner. There’s a love-filled pang in his chest, but as he waltzes over to her to give her a hug, she swats him away.
“A delivery came for you earlier. It’s on the table.” Swift. Cold. Distant.
The small envelope sits on top of the coffee table. It taunts the man, seeing as his name is eerily sprawled on the back. KEITH DAVIS, it calls.
He holds the envelope in his hands. After fidgeting with the seal, the contents spill all over the area. A bunch of pictures.
Pictures of an old neighbor—Jeff. One with him smiling, sweet and happy, right before the accident. One with him holding a gun. One with all four of them, Him, Randy, Troy, and Jeff. One with Jeff in the hospital. One with Jeff standing over the graves of his parents. One with Jeff smiling at the camera, eyelids singed and eyes bloodshot and thirsty, smile so wide the scars that extend from the corners of his mouth to his cheeks seem to bleed more than they should.
And it creeps him the fuck out.
Troy isn't an exception to the weird paraphernalia, but his is much more…volatile. He struggles with the tape on the package, almost dropping it in the process. He ignores the ominous scrawl of handwriting all over it, reading “TROY GREEN.” His hands shake when he opens it.
Upon unfolding the flap, a foul smell escapes into the porch. He can vaguely sense the silhouette of his son wrinkling his nose and entering the house. On the other hand, Troy fights the urge to throw up all over the wooden floor.
Inside the box lies the severed head of Randall Warren, better known as Randy, his best friend throughout middle school, before going their separate ways. And now, said best friend is dead, decapitated and has his head stuffed in a box. There’s a bloody newspaper clipping stapled onto Randy’s hair, and Troy can make out the phrase “Last seen…nightshift…burger joint…” The paper creases in his grip.
Randy’s mangled head is still oozing blood from where it was cut off. The eyelids seemed to be singed off, and one would expect two eyes to forever peer at the receiver, however there were two empty sockets where they should be.
The box strangely smells of vodka. More so, there’s a pack of matches inside—right where blood has decided to pool up. Troy can’t bring himself to reach for it. His phone starts ringing, as if on cue, to save him from this predicament.
The Caller ID says Keith.
the last and final part will be posted soon! thank u for reading this one. stay tuned!
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jeff the killer x reader who knew him during his childhood! i've broken this into multiple parts. this is part one with 2k words! please enjoy ! this brought me back from writer's block
read part ii here.
cw: gore, blood, murder. title from "xo i hope u die" by carolesdaughter
part i. "i'll open you up (and make yours beat for me too)"
chap. title from mx. sinister by i dont know how but they found me.
It comes in like a daze, a daydream wanting to be released. An ache in the cavern of your chest that wants to be filled.
Laughter and tease ricochet through the room—your room. The scene plays; A gameboy in the center, ‘The Legend of Zelda’ plays on the screen. Two pairs of eyes, watching, not the game, but to each other, pupil to pupil. With succulent grins forming, timing with the gaze.
The memory is sweet; however, you know you cannot do anything to change this outcome. His outcome. After all, this body isn’t yours—at least, not right now. Only the eyes are.
You don’t hear the joke he makes, it’s muffled and distorted, wet and raspy all at once. And yet, the body laughs.
Sunlight shines on the boy’s face, and you can’t make out his features anymore. The visage you once knew so well had lost itself to time in your remembering.
Your breath hitches in your throat. A voice speaks.
“Do you miss me yet?”
You jolt awake. The light above your desk shines on you and the drool you have on the corner of your chin.
Wiping it off, you look up to see the collection of newspaper clippings and missing-slash-wanted person posters over your bedroom wall. The gameboy sits in the corner, untouched. Never again, you tell yourself.
‘Jeffrey Woods,’ the missing person poster says, the ink fading from age. It has been five years since your best friend disappeared from the face of the earth.
You didn’t want to play detective, but the police were notoriously known for being shit at their jobs, and you were starting to miss him, that cocky smirk, disheveled hair and white hoodie.
He has blood underneath his fingernails, the same ones you painted black during summer. You want him nonetheless.
The last time you saw him, his face was on fire. You wanted to reach for him, grab water and pour it all over his body, but your father carried you to the car as you thrashed around. The sound of your fists pounding against the car window still replay themselves in your ear, a mantra for what you could’ve done.
After the incident Randy had caused during that birthday party, you knew Jeff had been different. Looked different. Yet no one would let you visit him in that hospital room, as his life was being monitored beep by beep.
What do you do now?
You had connected the dots while watching the evening news, serial killer in white hoodie? Check. Disheveled hair? Yep. Overly cocky smirk? Oh boy.
Yeah, that new serial killer on the loose? Definitely your best friend.
This theory of yours only intensified when you heard that your old high school bullies were dead. Gruesome murder, the police had said. 28 stab wounds, blunt force trauma to the head, and hung upside down on the bridge you and Jeffrey used to hang out on.
When the police finally cleared the road and deemed it safe enough for usage again, you visited the site. Under the bridge, you saw it.
“Do you miss me yet?”
Sprawled in messy handwriting, carved in the concrete before being glossed over with blood. Seems like the police never found it. You snapped a picture, and strung it on your wall.
The message reverberates in your head. You miss him. Fucking hell if you didn’t.
Running your hands through the various paraphernalia on the wall, you stop on a polaroid. There’s a lipstick mark on it, matching the shade of your lips in the photo. There’s an evident smudge on Jeff’s lips too.
You’ll get him back. Especially for taking your first kiss. Exhaling, you promise to yourself. You’ll fucking get him back.
The dark circles under your eyes shine in the moonlight. There’s a breeze coming from your window, whispers of the wind telling you sweet nothings.
His voice reverberates in your head like a broken record. The rasp and rawness of his throat—his eyes bloodshot when he talked. You were there. You saw it all. You know his story. You know his personality. You know him more than he knows himself.
And you know that loyal dogs always come back to their master.
The idea doesn’t please you. But how else could you get his attention other than steal his title as the latest sweet serial killer? You knew the narc. Scoffing, your face turns sour at that.
The memory of him at your kitchen counter, showing off cookies you two had baked for Valentines’ day. The look on his face as he gave one to Amelia, a crush of his. The way you had to look away as she thanked him. The way you let him in through the window when he came to your house with a black eye after her boyfriend found out.
Cold nights filled with remembrance and longing are always perfect for slasher-themed murders, after all.
Amelia sits in silk pajamas and her underwear, doing the last steps of her skincare routine. You notice luxury brands, no doubt from her long list of boyfriends (everyone wanted to date little miss pretty), decorating every nook and cranny of her bedroom.
You sit in a tree, hood pulled over your face, a mask hiding your gritted teeth. Eyes scanning the vicinity, ears alert for noise. No one is out tonight. It’s a perfect crime. The sparrow in its nest beside you looks at you with contempt. You bring your finger to your lips and tell it to keep quiet.
Sneakily dropping down, you make your way to the back door, finding the breaker box beside it and killing the lights with a slash from your knife. You can hear her yelp from upstairs.
“Ugh! Omagawd—Randy, can you believe it? A blackout in the middle of June? I’ll call you back. Maybe some godawful bird managed to make a nest in the wires or something.” She pauses for a short bit, and you can make out the sound of the masculine voice she seems to be speaking to. “‘Kay, see you baby! Love ya!”
You’ve hidden around the kitchen counter as she comes downstairs. When she starts walking towards the door—
“Mmpgh?!” The poor girl tries to breathe, but it’s too late. As she struggles in your arms, flailing like a bird with broken wings, the chloroform gets to her first. You set her down when she goes limp.
Now now, how can you make this more dramatic? Amelia, Jeff’s childhood crush, ruthlessly murdered by the latest killer, so young and so full of life—well, not anymore.
In the midst of thinking like a theater kid, something starts to ring. It must be her phone…you think, remembering her conversation earlier. No good, if she doesn’t answer her boyfriend soon, he might get worried and come over.
You scurry to the bathroom, more haphazardly than you’d like to admit. Reaching for the cabinets, you find it. The best form of revenge on an old friend from five years ago.
Bleach.
“Good evening folks, this is Finn Williams of Channel 5 News, coming to you live with the latest gruesome murder case here in West Riverton, the body of 18 year old Amelia Graves has been found brutally murdered in the comfort of her own house on 8th Street.”
The camera pans to the crime scene, where a black bag is shown. One can assume that this is the body. Her body.
A young man speaks, eyes red and nose sniffling. The chyron at the bottom of the screen saying his name, Randall Warren (her boyfriend). “I came here after she didn’t answer any of my calls, she’s always been glued to her phone,” he shakes. “ And when I got here, there was a massive fire in the backyard. I went to check and—”
Photos of the fire then flood the television screen. It’s a sight to behold. The camera flashes to the lead detective on the case as he points towards the floatie in the middle of the pool.
“Based on the information we’ve gathered, the killer found a way to make the girl pass out. Traces of bleach was found in the house’s bathtub, and further testing by our team found the same compound on the girl’s skin.” His eyes are cold when he speaks. “Then, the killer put her in the middle of the pool ... and set ‘er on fire.”
The local television buzzes in the background as the young boy gets ready to close the diner for the night. There are dark bags under his eyes as he wipes down the tables, hearing his own voice on the broadcast.
His fist clenches. Amelia’s…gone. It was just last week when he felt like he wanted to marry her, and with one blink, she’s…He can’t bring himself to continue. The thought of seeing her body, amalgamated and burnt makes his skin crawl. The very same body he used to hold.
Randall flicks the light switch off before heading back into the kitchen, getting ready to clean up before he has to clock out for the night. His coworkers pitied him, tried to tell him to take the week off, but he refused them with a smile. He needed the distraction now more than ever.
The news continues on in the background as he moves to clean the fryer. When he moves closer, he notices something in the oil, more importantly, in the reflection…his eyes widen.
Randall quickly turns around and pushes against a man dressed in a white hoodie. He notices there’s a knife in the man’s grasp and swiftly raises his hands up to spray the cleaning solution in his face. The man dodges and lands a blow to the side of his stomach, leading to Randall yelping in pain.
The server is quick to think, kicking the man in the shin before running for the exit. His hand clutches at his stomach, desperate to stop the bleeding. Randall finds himself in the alleyway behind the diner, running until his legs give in. He looks around, and after finding that the attacker is nowhere to be seen, sighs in relief.
Randall winces in pain after removing his hand from his stomach. The wound seems to be deeper than he felt, but he hopes it isn't fatal. His eyes scan the walls for a way to the main road, but it’s…a dead end.
There’s a knife in his back before he can finish the thought.
The man from before stands behind him, watching Randall collapse on the cold hard cement of the junction, face nestled amongst the grime and gunk on the pavement. Like a predator hunting its prey. Waiting to strike. Waiting to bite and tear into warm flesh. Waiting for the taste of blood.
Randall’s eyes started to dull. He felt his blood seep onto the ground through his hands, his life force fading as his attacker knelt to look him in the eye. What met his gaze was a face that would burn itself into his mind for the rest of his life—a bloody smile carved so widely the ends met his ears, and pale skin that seemed to glow in the moonlight.
“Go to sleep….Randy.” The man’s eyes, wide and full of insatiable bloodlust, glimmered as he dug the knife in deeper, twisting it between the poor boy’s guts. The once plain alleyway was now decorated with splatters of maroon and the smell of iron and rot.
After promptly fishing his knife out, the man takes a look at the lifeless corpse on the ground. Flipping the body onto its back, he lifts Randall’s shirt up, before digging his hands into the stab wound.
The white cuffs of his hoodie are drenched in blood, and bits and pieces of guts and cartilage decorate him like an art piece. He reaches in deep, beyond the ribcage and just beside the lungs—and there it is. His heart.
He holds it above him like it’s sacred. Then drops it to the ground like it’s cursed. It’s a message for you. The one who killed the girl closest to his heart.
When he speaks, he whispers it close, almost as if the corpse is listening. His callused fingers sliver over the knife’s blade, a recurring question in his mind answered by the death of two lovers. You miss him.
i so desperately need to make a ronin fic titled “i owe you a black eye (and two kisses)” and the sequel’s title is “tell me when you wanna come and get ‘em.”
actually yes! its not ronin, but heres a sneak peak of a little something ive been writing to get the spark back.
have lil ol’ jeffrey the killer sneak peak!!
It comes in like a daze, a daydream wanting to be released. An ache in the cavern of your chest that wants to be filled.
Giggles and tease ricochet through the room—your room. The scene plays; A gameboy in the center, ‘The Legend of Zelda’ plays on the screen. Two pairs of eyes, watching, not the game, but to each other, pupil to pupil. With succulent grins forming, timing with the gaze.
The memory is sweet; however, you know you cannot do anything to change this outcome. His outcome. After all, this body isn’t yours—at least, not right now. Only the eyes are.
You don’t hear the joke he makes, it’s muffled and distorted, wet and raspy all at once. And yet, the body laughs.
Sunlight shines on the boy’s face, and you can’t make out his features anymore. The visage you once knew so well had lost itself to time in your remembering.
Your breath hitches in your throat. A voice speaks. His.
“Do you miss me yet?”
You jolt awake. The light above your desk shines on you and the drool you have on the corner of your chin.
Wiping it off, you look up to see the collection of newspaper clippings and missing-slash-wanted person posters over your bedroom wall. The gameboy sits in the corner, untouched. Never again, you tell yourself.
‘Jeffrey Woods,’ the missing person poster says, the ink fading from age. It has been five years since your best friend disappeared from the face of the earth.
You didn’t want to play detective, but the police were notoriously known for being shit at their jobs, and you were starting to miss him, that cocky smirk, disheveled hair and white hoodie.
He has blood underneath his fingernails, the same ones you painted black during summer. You want him nonetheless.
The last time you saw him, his face was on fire. You wanted to reach for him, grab water and pour it all over his body, but your father carried you to the car as you thrashed around. The sound of your fists pounding against the car window still replay themselves in your ear, a mantra for what you could’ve done.
After the incident Randy had caused during that birthday party, you knew Jeffrey had been different. Looked different. Yet no one would let you visit him in that hospital room, as his life was being monitored beep by beep.
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Warnings: hints at past assault (doesn't come up much but is mentioned)
Plot: Don't sleep on the job, Reader!! You might scare your shoulder devil!
Gender neutral reader :b
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You worked in a small museum, the place consisting of only five tiny rooms. The place was old, used to be a courthouse, now turned museum of justice. The place was so small that your boss figured you could work alone up there. There was no internet connection, and it was in a rural area. You were alone nearly constantly, as no one ever came to visit the old building. You wouldn't blame them, you're pretty sure it's rotting, and it's not exactly advertised.
Ronin knows of your job now that you're living together. He doesn't think it's the best idea that you're working solo there, but he's not your boss, so he can't do anything about it. Instead, he just worries, lightly, in the back of his mind while you're gone to your job. He's mostly sure you can handle it, but after that one incident, He's got it in his head that you aren't safe.
Ever since that day–the day that guy came in and hurt you–Ronin's had his lunch break changed to match yours. He comes every day without fail during lunch to check on you. To make sure you're still safe.
You don't mind at all. Having time to see your boyfriend at work, and you're guaranteed safety for an hour? A great deal, really. You always welcome him happily, showing him anything new you set up, or telling him stories of any guests who may have come in.
Today however? You were fucking exhausted. Falling asleep at your desk, and stumbling around the building aimlessly. You couldn't keep your eyes open for much longer.
You, being too tired to make reasonable choices at this point, such as calling out–or let's be real–just up and leaving the place, decided to go have a nap in the break room. Yknow, leave the whole building unlocked and you knocked out in the room in the back. What a smart worker you are.
Wondering over to the break room, you consider for just a second that you should call Ronin… nahh. You open the door to the small, visually unappealing room, looking for a nice place to nap.
Broken chairs, broken microwave, tiny table… holding cells… not exactly the ideal place to have a nap. However, the floor is carpeted, and you distinctly remember cleaning it yourself. You flop over on the floor, getting comfortable, completely forgetting Ronin will be there in a half hour to check on you.
As you sleep peacefully, Ronin is leaving work for lunch, shooting quick “see ya later”’s at his coworkers. He makes his way to his truck, the one you slapped stickers all over weeks ago. He always smiles when he sees the rainbow cat with toast on its head, its such a you thing to have stuck right on the door handle.
He climbs into his truck, adjusting the temperature, and turning the radio up. He sits for a few moments, thinking about what he'll talk to you about, what you'll tell him, if he's got anything from his day you'd want to hear about.
He looks at himself in the rearview mirror for a second, just a quick flick of his eyes, and he finds why the guys have been snickering at him all day. Somehow before he left for work you snuck a bow into his hair. He sighs, slightly defeated, mostly thinking its cute. He'll likely playfully chastise you for it when he meets you at your job, but he won't take it out of his hair, lest you request he does.
He recognized the bow easily, the one he gave you mere days after hearing you liked them. It's small, and resembles Hello Kitty's bow. You screamed and hugged him when he handed it to you. He blushed, and gave you kisses so you couldn't see his red cheeks.
You don't wear the bow as often anymore, not since cutting your hair. You've told him you still quite like it, but it doesn't feel right anymore. He told you it's alright, that you don't have to justify every action to him. Something he's had to reassure many times. You're allowed to just do things. He just wants you safe, and happy.
Finally he arrives at your workplace. He parks right beside your car, getting out of his truck and putting the roof of your vehicle, as if to say “hello” to the thing. He pulls his lunch bag out of the passenger seat, and makes his way into the museum.
He notices almost instantly, the lack of you at the front desk. That throws him off a little, but he thinks rationally, for just a moment, maybe you're in the washroom, or one of the side rooms. So he waits.
After about five minutes he starts getting fidgety, he sets his lunch bag down on your desk next to your coffee mug, and begins his search for you. First the washroom, then some of the side rooms, and lastly, the break room.
He swings the door open shakily, at this point worrying someone took you. When
he walks in he stops with a shock. You're laying on the floor like a corpse without the blood. His eyes go wide, but he keeps himself controlled. If you're hurt, he needs to keep his head on right and help you.
Unfortunately for him, you sleep like the dead. Always have, always will. So when he grabs your shoulders and shakes you, looking you right in your closed eyes, saying your name a few times, and you don't respond, he panics.
He knows you're a deep sleeper, but he doesn't think you'd sleep on your break room floor. You're many odd things, but he wouldn't assume a floor sleeper. His brain starts running through every horrible possibility of what could have happened that you'd end up here. Its easier to think something happened to you, rather than thinking you'd just veered from your usual behaviour for the day.
He starts checking you gently for injuries, sighns you fell or were in a scuffle of sorts. He checked your head first, lifting it only enough to get a hand under it and feel for blood. His hand comes back clean, and he lets out a small relieved sigh before returning his attention to your body. He checks your pulse, it's slower, but not unusual for someone sleeping. Then he starts poking around your rips, seeing if your body reacts. You flinch slightly, subconsciously, when he touches your ticklish spots, but you still refuse to wake.
After checking your whole body, and concluding you're fine, he sits back and begins trying to work out things that might be less obvious. It could have been an internal misfunction, one not visible from the outside, or maybe someone drugged you? Your empty cup was just sat on your desk when he came in, someone could have easily slipped something in. He loves you to death, but you arent the most attentive person he's ever met.
This may come off cruel, but he's desperate. He kicks you lightly, just in your ribs. He tries to be gentle about it, however he needs you to wake up, so he can figure out what the hell is going on.
You wake with a startle, whining slightly in pain. You're groggy and not sure what's going on, so out of it from being awoken mid rem sleep you just give Ronin this dreary, confused look. He takes that look, in his stressed state of mind, as confirmation that something is wrong. I mean, it is, he just kicked you awake mid nap. How dare.
Mumbling, you try to ask him what the fuck he's doing, but you really just want to go back to sleep. You end up coming off incoherent, as you close your eyes again and attempt to go back to the peaceful world of sleep.
Ronin shakes you by the shoulder again, giving you a deeply concerned look, “No, baby. Stay awake.”
You glare up at him in your exhausted state and huff, “Sleepy.” You state it like a grumpy child, just trying to get him to let you rest. You'll sleep in his lap, whatever he wants, you just need some sleep.
Starting to close your eyes again Ronin pulls you into his lap, “No no no, baby, eyes open. What happened? Are you okay?” You tries to speak cleary, hoping to get through to you. You mumble more nonsense at him about your dream before allowing the allure of slumber overtake you again, and knocking out in his tight hold.
Ronin tries to shake you awake again, but you just ignore him this time. Ronin, in a bit of a tissy at this point, decides he's taking you home. Whatever's going on, not one will benefit from staying here in this dingy place.
He runs his fingers through your hair in a comforting manner as he calls his boss to inform him he needs the rest of the day off. His boss is a bit confused before Ronin informs him it's an emergency, and promptly hangs up on the older man. He then calls your boss–he made sure to get her number after the first incident– and tells her you passed out, and he's taking you home. Your boss tells him to call an ambulance, he agrees with her, then hangs up.
No ambulance is called, Ronin is a bit over confident, and figures he can take care of you himself. He picks you up and walks you out to his truck, eyeing your care awkwardly. He'll have to come back for it later. He left his lunch, and your work bag at the museum, just taking your phone and the building keys. He sets you in the passenger seat of his truck, buckling you in, and turning the truck on to put the AC on you. Quickly he goes back to the museum, locking all the doors, then rushing back to you.
He climbs into his truck, and drives off quickly. He speeds a bit, just wanting to getting you home–somewhere he has control over–quickly. He does opt to follow the other road laws for the most part however, seeing as he needs to keep you safe. He's pretty sure he can handle speeding, but a red light might be a bit risky to run.
The whole drive home he gives quick glances to you, hoping you'll wake up, but you never do. It only adds to his stressing seeing you not respond to his speeding. Usually you complain, and he slows down, but right now, you're just silent in the passenger seat, your usually lively eyes shut, and your mouth open slightly.
When he finally reaches the house, he turns into the driveway so quickly the little bow goes flying out of his hair, and into the back seat. He watches it go out of the corner of his eye, but doesn't try to grab it or look for it once he parks the truck. He doesn't have time for that with whatever you have going on.
He rushes to get out of the truck, fighting with the seatbelt briefly, before hopping out, making his way over to your side. He unbuckles your seatbelt, picking you up and walking you over to the house. He fidgets with the handle before kicking the door open, and bringing you over to the couch. He almost lays you down there before rethinking, and taking you into the bedroom. If you really are just asleep, you'd be better to sleep on the bed. If you arent? Still probably more comfortable than his couch, and likely easier to take care of you.
He shucks your work shoes off, fighting with the laces at first, before just pulling them off. He then covers you with a soft blanket, not wanting to overheat you with the ones already on the bed.
The next few hours are spent with him pacing around the bedroom, occasionally sitting on the bed beside you, playing with your hair, whispering soft reassurances into your skin, holding your hand, really anything that'll keep you tethered to him as he's worried you're headed elsewhere.
You finally stir slightly, prompting Ronin to sit up quickly, and beeline to the kitchen. He gets you a glass of water, a straw, and some cookies… because those are easy to eat, right? He'll put them in milk if he has to.
He gets back just in time to catch you opening your eyes and sitting up. Setting the glass and plate down quickly he gently helps you sit up, putting a pillow behind your back, and leaning you against the headboard. He kneels on the floor beside you, looking up at you with concern imbedded in his usually confident face. His eyes search your own, looking for any sign something is wrong. You meet his gaze, a look of confusion on your face, as he grits his teeth with worry.
“Baby..?” He mumbles hesitantly, his voice shaking uncharacteristically.
Your face twists into more confusion as you notice you're in your bed, and not at work. You give him a weird look, silently asking what's going on. He meets you with a similar look. He'd spent the past few hours worrying about you, and you're just sitting there looking at him like he's insane.
You let out an awkward puff of air, “So- what's-uh.. this about.” You question him, still tired enough to be fighting your own brain to make a cohesive thought, then verbalize it.
Worry shoots back across his face as you stumble over your words, “It's okay, baby- it's gonna be okay. I've got you.” He reaches for you, holding your hand in one of his, reaching for the glass of water with the other.
You hold his hand back, thinking something's wrong with him, and deciding it'll do him better to comfort him in some way. You mumble at him, “ ‘sokay, Ro..”.
He shakes his head at you, holding the glass close to your face, “Drink, darling. Please.” He sounds almost desperate.
You conced, putting your lips around the straw and taking slow sips. His thumb rubs over the back of your hand, his eyes quietly checking over you, looking for anything he may have missed when looking you over at the museum.
When he finds nothing he pulls the cup away from you, setting it down, and picking up a cookie. “Can you..? Please.”
You giggle at him and nod, he tries to bring the cookie to your lips, while you try to reach for you. You both have an awkward moment of who's doing what, before he softly slaps your hand away and holds the cookie near your mouth. You snort slightly, then take a bite of the soft cookie.
He watches you swallow, ensuring you don't choke, or struggle, before softly encouraging you to finish the cookie, “Finish it, baby. Finish the cookie for me?”
You comply, happily eating the rest of the cookie in his hand, looking at him like he's a little silly.
After finishing, you inquire into what's going on. He replies by giving you a bit of a judgemental look before speaking, “Baby. What? I found you passed out at work. I should be asking you what happened. So, darling, what happened?”
Before you can respond he starts panicking a little, shooting off possible answers. All wrong, all those of a man who's just worried.
You put a finger to his lips and tell him to hush for a second. He obliges, closing his mouth, and looking at you. You explain to him you were just napping, and now that you think about it, it was probably a bad idea.
He sighs and puts his head down on your lap, “So, I spent the past few hours stressing about some idiot who decided to nap on the floor?” He sounds exasperated.
You chuckle at him, petting his head as if he were a cute dog, and not a scary serial killer. Which to you, he's effectively both. The cute good boy, who bites. Squeezing your hand before looking up at you, his black eyes trained on your giggly little smirk. You try to hide it as he playfully glares at you.
You thank him for his efforts, even if pointless. You appreciate that he cares enough to do all that. He smiles at you softly, before his smile twists into a conniving smirk, and he quickly moves to your stomach, blowing raspberries against it. You laugh and pull his hair lightly by accident.
He looks up at you, “If you're gonna pull my hair, actually pull it, baby.” he teases, that devilish glint back in his void-like eyes.
You lightly smack the back of his head before grabbing a hand full of his hair and tugging with intent, giving him a playfully smirk similar to his own. He lets out a soft grunt at the sensation, glaring at you lightly.
“Like that, baby. Good job.” He taunts lovingly, squeezing your hip, and pressing a kiss to your thigh closest to his mouth.
You give him one more tug, earning a another soft groan from his lips, before moving your hand slowly down his neck, letting your nails run across his skin, leaving pale red lines. Finally you stop at his back, just between his shoulder blades, and you start rubbing his back soothingly, thanking him, and praising him.
He giggles about it, but is visibly appreciating the affection, laying his head down on your lap, and moving his hand from your hip down to your thigh. He squeezes gently before rubbing his thumb across it.
“Love you, darlin’.” He mumbles against your skin.
You smile softly and return the words, gently encouraging him to lay down, and have a nap with you. He easily complies, getting up, and crawling onto the bed with you. You realize the bow isn't in his hair anymore, and ask if he didnt like it.
“I loved it, baby. Just like I love you. Its in the truck, okay?” He helps you lay back down, even though he no longer needs to help you. Lovingly he brushes your hair from your face, pressing a kiss to your forehead, and laying down himself.
You giggle softly, sleepily, ready to nap with your shoulder devil. He looks about ready to knock out too, looking you in the eyes one more time, sticking his tongue out, then relaxing his face, closing his eyes, and allowing himself to drift off into the land of dreams, where you'd resided for the past few hours.
You watch him for a little while, his slow breaths, his relaxed face. You think of how he spent the day caring for you, how much he loves you, how much you love him. You smile to yourself, mumbling a soft “I love you” to his sleeping form, deciding instead of sleeping, for now, you'll just admire him.
You run your fingers through his hair, pulling him close so his face rests against your chest. You just hold him for a while, pressing kisses to the top of his head, braiding his hair, brushing it back out. You spend the next little while loving him softly, until your eyes finally fall closed, and you join him in a comfortable sleep.
tws for: gore, murder, small mention of eye horror
uptown was dark and still. there was nothing around to breathe anymore - not the living room lights up and down the street, not the fallen leaves scattered across the path to Purgatory. nothing, save for the horribly beating heart trapped rattling in ronin beaufort’s ribcage.
his heel dug into the wall, his back pressed into the brick, he waited patiently. ronin was never in real rush. the stained cobblestones he’d only seen in direct moonlight, witching hour, confirmed it. if nothing else, he could only trust himself - himself and the crowbar that fit his hand, trident-like - to be willing to stick around.
there was, in addition, something to be said about stopping to smell the lilies. most of ronin’s days had an irritating tendency to blur together, flickers of screen light and the vague smell of motor oil. both, he’d noticed, required at least some sort of rapt attention and an aching spine. it was now only after hours that he gave into the crack of it, stretching out and allowing himself to consume.
and consume, he would. ronin’s ear, more machine than man, suddenly snagged on something sharp and distinct. the steady patter of businesslike shoes hitting the ground, mimicking his taunting heartbeat. the first note in a symphony of thrill.
as luck would have it, those eighth notes made a turn down the road to Purgatory. the pads of ronin’s fingers pressed into the metal, his eyes fixated on what he could see of the poor soul’s face through his slasher mask.
the Butcher only sometimes made appointments, stowed away from whispers on the street or glimpses of masks slipping in public. his heart rate ticked wildly like an out of control compass, desperate to rid someone of another iron fist.
pale light, washing across the sight of a sharp jawline. black tie. perfectly ironed shirt collar. name tag.
a nauseated feeling gripped ronin’s stomach, the probing ever so familiar. the hand of god, forcing his way up through his liver and clawing at his throat. he could nearly smell the sickening divine.
no.
this wasn’t today’s plan - or, mission, as it were. but the Devil would oblige all the same.
the target, who perhaps hadn’t caught sight of the dead end, kept approaching. clearly new blood. clearly unaware that the Devil’s Lair was unoccupied by everyone but ronin past a certain time, clearly about to spare only five seconds before he turned back around to find a different way home.
five seconds was all ronin needed.
had it been anyone else, virtually any other sort of person who’d wandered their way down Purgatory, he would’ve taken his time. but he didn’t want to spare the thought or the breath, not yet, not until his palms were stained.
he broke through the shadows of the alley, crowbar wrenched tightly in both hands, waiting firmly until the look of realisation set in. it was possible to remain unaware of the dangers of being in Purgatory after hours, as proven by his new friend here. it was, however, impossible to wander into uptown without knowledge of the Devil.
the eyes stretched wide and glistening, the weak attempt to tighten his jaw in defiance. ronin couldn’t help but slip a grin underneath his mask. he barely stood a chance against ronin’s bare fists. if he calculated correctly, he had a few seconds before his patience would run out.
“oh, i love it when they deliver themselves,” he drawled, taking a staged, heavy step towards his target. “where’s your friend? don’t they usually send you in pairs?”
the missionary, hand outstretched, tried to form a proper sentence, as they always did, and stammered something about the Devil’s Butcher - as they always did. how fuckin’ annoying.
“no, no, no,” ronin said irritatedly, scraping the head of his crowbar against the brick as he drew nearer. his chest tightened in anticipation. “not the Devil’s. get rid of the apostrophe, would’ja?”he dragged the crowbar away from the wall, leaning into the force, the metal threatening to just barely scratch skin. “fuckin’ press. can’t get a word in around here.”
his target jumped back predictably, and a laugh threatened to burst from his throat. ronin exhaled it like a sigh, his blood flush with adrenaline. he swung, muscle flexed and eager, and felt the crowbar thud against skull.
the metal sang in tune with the crack of bone, so overwhelmingly beautiful that ronin almost considered stopping to listen. the missionary probably would’ve preferred it if he had, leaving enough time for god to hear his useless prayers before he met his maker, but ronin wasn’t in the interest of reunions. he was going to drag - he swung again - and drag, until every last jesus-loving silhouette was brought down to his dizzying darkness.
the man was collasped against the brick, chest just barely heaving, though they both knew it wouldn’t be for long. there had been no struggle, no desperate grasp for a chance to live - boring. but satisfaction heated his skin all the same, and he was going to chase it out as far as possible.
ronin dropped to his knees next to the now dying man, a hand yanking the string holding his anonymity together, the mask tumbling to the floor. he grasped his chin, staring death in its eye, grinning as its endless perpetuator. “tell hell the Butcher sent you,” he murmured recklessly, regardless of if he was heard or not.
the one still shining, half-open eye called out to the end of ronin’s crowbar, practically begging liberation. what else could ronin do but give, give and give? he drove the metal into the socket, twisting - there was no practiced pull, no routine path. every instance was different, and this time around was especially gratifying.
it was particularly difficult to live without an eyeball, as the missionary would go on to prove. ronin knew well and good when a man’s heart stopped beating, because his own began trembling with adrenaline.
laughter banged against his ribs, exploding past his lips with an unrestrained fury, his arm driving the sharp end of the crowbar down a sharp path straight down the missionary’s body. ronin’s vision spun, heady and breathless from exhilaration, but he was lightweight and free.
after that, it was easy. the organs practically rearranged themselves, only a matter of pulling the right thread until the aorta laid in the middle a beautiful satanic circle. it was destruction and reconstruction, a translation of ronin’s own bones breaking and contorting in the Devil’s image.
ronin stepped back from his work of art, pride bursting through his every vein. he would have to snap the mask back on and take his leave soon - but not before he took a quick picture.
Thank you for answering my question about the boundaries!! I don’t think this is crossing any that you listed, but ofc feel free to just ignore if this isn’t something you would be interested in writing 💕
Could you write Ronin and Reader who is squeamish/scares easily having a horror movie date?? I personally think he would eat it up, especially if Reader isn’t actually phased by him being a real life serial killer, but falls for every cheap movie scare lol.
HCs or FF format, up to you. Thank you!
A/N: ofc!!! also sorry guys for the slow pace unis been kicking my ass </3 I'll be uploading more once I'm done the next wave of exams BUTTTT here's a fic of this lovely ask
Eek a rat!!
You weren’t scared of Ronin.
Not when you saw the crowbar tucked into his case, or the stains of blood splattered on his skin. Not even when you opened your freezer once and saw something inside you absolutely should have screamed over, but just quietly shut the door again and made a mental note to stop storing your ice cream in there.
No. You didn’t flinch around the real stuff. But jump scares? Something with dramatic violin stings and predictable jump scares and actors making impossibly bad decisions in the dark? You turned into a human heart attack. Which is exactly why Ronin looked like he’d just been handed Christmas on a bloodstained silver platter when you suggested a horror movie night (It was Terrifier 3.)
“You sure about this?” he asked, already queuing up the the tape. You gave him a half-hearted shrug, trying to act casual despite the tight grip you already had on the throw blanket.
“Yeah, I mean—it’s fake. I can handle fake.”
Ronin snorted. “Oh really, must I recall how loud you screamed the last time we went to watch something, baby?”
“That was a very loud clown,” you muttered.
He leaned over, brushing his lips against your temple. “Mmhm. We’ll see.”
Fifteen minutes in, your legs were pulled up to your chest, blanket cocooned around you like a human burrito. Ronin hadn’t even blinked. “Don’t go in there, don’t go in there, don’t—idiot!” you hissed at the screen.
Ronin looked delighted. “You know it’s her house, right?”
“She saw the door open by itself, and she’s going down the stairs in socks. This woman has a death wish.”
“Technically I do that all the time.”
You turned to look at him with wide eyes. “Yeah, and I yell at you too.”
He raised his brows, mock-surprised. “Oh, my bad. Next time I’ll wait for permission before chasing someone into a basement.”
You elbowed him weakly, and he caught your arm, grinning as he dragged you into his lap like it was the most casual thing in the world. “Don’t worry,” he said, chin on your shoulder. “If anyone breaks in, I’ll go check the noise. Real slow. Shirtless. With no weapon.”
“Ronin.”
“What?”
You stared. “You’re so stupid"
The next jump scare hit while you were mid-sip of your drink, and you nearly launched the can across the room. Ronin actually paused the movie, laughing so hard he nearly fell backward off the couch.
“I hate you,” you muttered, face flushed.
“You love me,” he corrected, tugging you back against him like a smug little furnace.
Your heart was still hammering. “Why do people even watch these? You’re not even scared! You haven’t blinked in, like, twenty minutes!”
“Because I think it’s hilarious,” he said, nosing into your neck. “Also you get very clingy when you're scared. And I like it.”
You smacked his thigh. “You’re awful.”
He beamed. “I know.”
Eventually, the movie got dumber. The characters started splitting up. The acting got worse. You even started laughing a little, burying your face into Ronin’s hoodie every time the villain popped out in bad prosthetics or the fake blood looked like cherry syrup.
“You’re doing better,” Ronin murmured against your hair.
“Mm,” you mumbled. “Not so bad when I’ve got a real killer next to me.”
His hand stilled on your hip. “You say that like it’s comforting.”
You tilted your head, lips brushing his jaw. “It is".
He looked down at you and you ruffled his hair before turning back to the screen. But you shrieked like a banshee when a rat jumped out onscreen, and he lost it all over again. “Alright,” he said later, shutting off the TV and rubbing his eyes from laughing. “That’s enough emotional trauma for one night.”
You sagged against his chest. “I have never hated you more.”
“You say that,” he said, trailing his fingers up your arm, “but your heartbeat says otherwise.”
You groaned. “Ronin, if you’re about to try to make being scared hot—”
“Try?” he echoed, all mock offense. “Baby, I succeed.” You smacked him with a throw pillow and stayed curled up in his lap for another two hours anyway.
Author's Note: I was forced to upload this by @6feathered6siren6, (who also helps me doing this post rn thank youuuuuuuu, bro literally gave me title and banner) help me, save me.
Trigger warning: Ronin's route (his last name), death, gore, insanity
Word count: 2335
You hear his breath, slow and steady as it hits your hair, swirling your loose hair strands up and down. His heartbeat pumping in rhythm, hitting your ear each second. He laid there, eyes closed, arm around your back, holding you tightly. One of his arms loosened and leaned over the bed, the exposed skin pale. To you, this creature looked beautiful, peaceful even. It was a force of nature, having you in its hands, pulling the strings when it wanted too. Your personal devil, your butcher, your everything.
You described it as a bliss and when he slept like this, so content and so…. peaceful. You almost wondered if you were the crazy one.
You love him. The devil. The butcher. Ronin Beaufort.
But he's a psychopath. A killer. Ronin Beaufort.
He's that type of guy that goes out in the middle of the night, crowbar clutched in hand, heavy steps halling through the streets. He'd wait for his victim, slowly stalking behind them and smashing the crowbar across their head. One blow, two blows, maybe a third. The victims would fall, blood pooling from their heads. Then the devil would proceed to do his work. It would vary, but everything ended in a grotesque scene. Slit throats, ripped guts, cut of limbs, carved symbols. He's a picture book serial killer. Whoever you'd ask to describe a serial killer, Ronin’s imagery would be the answer. A psycho that kills for pure pleasure, for the thrill, for his own sense of happiness.
Yet, was he really the bad guy? Of course he was! He had corrupted you, had threatened you, controlled you. He was the killer.
You were the saint, he was the sinner.
A saint. The same saint that played along. The same saint that has done as he pleased.
You were an angel. The angel that shot the next person if the devil would ask too. The same angel that has awaited every single command. The story wasn’t over there, wasn’t it?
You didn’t want to admit it, but Ronin didn’t do a thing towards you.
No, he didn’t tell you to join the server, he didn’t tell you to make your proof real, he didn’t tell you to meet him, not ever and not in HIS alley. It was you who wanted it. You desired it.
Life had been tough, surely that was the fault. Friends had ignored you. You were lonely and that loneliness Ronin fulfilled fully. He gave you all that you needed. The attention, the love, the advice. Fuck he was what you had been longing for so long, something you desperately searched for. So what if he was a supposed killer? How can HE be yet more understanding than anyone you knew? You don’t need to fix him; He fixed you. He cured what you despised in your body. Saved you from your own feelings. Pulled you up when no one else could. Only he could do it. Only the devil.
Ronin Beaufort
Maybe you were insane, but wasn’t that worth it?
The thoughts you just clung onto like a lifeline disappeared as you heard a grunt. Eyes meeting one another and you saw almost a concerned expression on Ronin. His arm clutched you closer, the other that had been hanging down, now pulled up as his hand touched your cheek. The soft texture of his fingers swiped over your eyes. Had you been…crying? You feel the wet spots on your face. Not just tears, but sweat. For once you saw the devil, THE Ronin beaufort losing his smirk. For once you saw him wondering what may have gotten into your head. It was almost overwhelming. Everything felt overwhelming.
You couldn’t remember what happened. Suddenly everything crashed. Shots, blood, screaming, laughing, death. Everything spinned in your head. Everything was so loud in your head. The images of what you read, of what you knew Ronin committed. You laid there with him, saw everything, witnessed it all. Yet you weren’t concerned about that. You were concerned about what HE thinks of you. Pathetic, alone, you barely meant a thing in the world. He was known. Hated, yes. But known. He meant something, even if that was for all the bad reasons. But you? What did you offer to him? Nothing. You could’ve been swapped out with anyone else. It wouldn’t have changed anything.
And once again, the thoughts, gone. You felt his lips. Felt his touch. The overwhelming feeling, gone. You held him close, if not the other way around being enough. His lips tasted like iron, you knew why, you simply couldn’t care less though. Arm so tight on your back, squeezing those thoughts away as if he knew what they were. Everything burned in your body, clothes clutched against you. Yet, him being there? It made these feelings lessen. Once again you ask yourself, why you? What was it within you that made him cling to you? Was it just a game to him? Maybe it was to humiliate you?
And there it was again. That feeling. That feeling that clutched into you, ripping your skin apart. That feeling that burns your insides, making them feel heavy. That feeling that made you twist and turn mentally. The feeling that made you breath heavy.
You held your body close, tears streaming freely now. You simply couldn't take it anymore. It was all so loud in your head. As if something was banging your head from the inside, slowly scratching your brain until it was bleeding, and now that noise was incarnated in you. His touch wouldn't do it anymore. It didn’t get you out of that space. It didn’t satisfy that lonely heart anymore. It desired more than that. It desired his love, his attention, his devotion to you and you only. If you could you would rip out your aorta by yourself and hand it to him, just so he could kiss it better. You needed him. You wanted him. You desired him and him only.
Ronin spoke up. It didn’t make the feeling stop like before, but it made you share your attention to him.
“What’s the matter, darling?” His voice was rough, raspy and filled with sleep. The slightest hint of worry and curiosity mixed within his words. You didn't believe him. His sudden kindness, his humain posture, his gentle smile.
This isn't Ronin Beaufort.
Not the Ronin Beaufort.
No, it was just some stranger. An imposer to what you didn't need. The pity. What pity do you want from the devil? Truly spoken sarcasm you could call it. And you hated yourself for it. The fact you couldn't trust him being nice. Like you needed his attitude. Like you needed his….hate? No, it wasn't hate. The word you searched for just didn't find itself. It was his…his control you need. When he breaks you so deeply. When he tells you to watch out, to be aware, to be….
“Darling?” The voice snapped you back, this time it wasn't as calm anymore, a sweet sound of impatience ran across it. That is what you wanted to hear.
Ronin Beaufort.
Your eyes fixated on his. They were small, looking sharply at you like the knife's he cut his victims open with. His smile turned slowly into a frown. He couldn't keep up his nice side for much longer than a small timespan and you already overstepped it. But you didn't mind. You wanted him, not them. Those who laugh in your face, cheer you up just to spit on it in the end. It made you realize something.
Shots, blood, screaming, laughing, death. You didn't think of him here. No. Your mind got it all wrong once again. You think of their words, how they shot you directly in your heart, letting it bleed out. Your screams at night for anything. For hope, for love, for a better life. Their laughter as they stare at you, judge you, hate you. You wished them to be dead. Dead in your head, dead in your life. Oh how much you would sacrifice to the devil for it.
But you didn't need to.
You gave him his proof already. You ended it on your own. You did it. You and you alone killed them.
It wasn't for you. It was for him. For him and him only. The devil, The butcher.
Ronin Beaufort.
You felt his hand tightly in between your neck and your back, scruffing you up like a vet with a cat to paralyze it. It worked a charm on you because there was no movement in your body any longer. Your body was stiff, hanging there like dead meat, your breathing temporarily stopped as he pressed tighter before releasing your skin ever so slightly again. His impatience ran out and you couldn't be happier. Yet, the thought crossed your mind. The thought that made you stand still. The thought that terrorizes you every day since you're the devil's helper. Your mouth was dry, burning even, unable to let out real words. But you needed to share it. Your ideas, your visuals. It's what he asked, no, what he demanded from you. It took a deep breath and all your strength to hit out a single tone. Soon it was followed by a letter, then a word.
“Why?”
It wasn't much. Three letters. One word. But the question was heavy. For Ronin it didn't take long to understand the context of his long awaited response. He remembered when you two got together right in his favorite alley. Him pinning you down, having expected to get stabbed the minute he started getting explicit. Instead you followed the dare, kissing him like the world dependent on it. It's been a week since then and you stayed with him. Stayed in his room, stayed in his clothes, stayed in his mind. Yet it appears to be that even the most messed up ‘normal’ human still gets damaged by the initial thought of staying together and especially close to a psychotic killer. The full question his favorite little helper wanted to ask was ‘Why did you pick me? Why not everyone else?’. He would remain silent every single time. There was nothing to say for him. The most obvious reason already laid there, pouty face, small eyes. But after an entire week all he could let out was a chuckle. It sounded so cocky, sarcastic even, as if you had answered with ‘3’ when he asked you what 1+1 equals to. Humiliation, that’s what it felt like, but you didn’t even know for what. You tried to leave his grasp only for him to tighten it back up, giving you no space to react. Like a dog he chewed tightly onto your body, teeth sinking in. The metaphor worked greatly since you can feel his fingernails practically poking into you, making you almost tear up from the pain. He stared at you with such an intense stare you’d swear he was gonna eat you alive here and now.
"Why not, Darling? You were given an apple, but it was you to bite it. Tasting the forbidden fruit.” (This came from @6feathered6siren6 btw)
His voice was low, filled with an undefined tone. Was it rage or was it reassurance? Love or despise? You were never sure but that’s what you loved in him, needed in him, wanted from him. Your devil, your butcher.
Ronin Beaufort
“I gave you a fucking place, gave you all the love and took you in, you took the devil's hand without any hesitation.”
He wasn't entirely wrong and you get what he was trying to say. Although you were just another human, you still were far from being the same. Who would willingly date a serial killer? Who would willingly stay in his house? Willingly shared his clothes, the same that he had covered in his victims blood? Who willingly ate the devil's meals without a care in the world about what it contained? No one but you. No one but his darling. No one but the devil's little helper. No one but someone as psychotic as you.
He wanted you, because you desired him like no other ever could. You and you only let yourself drop into his arms. Only someone like you trusted him fully. Only you sacrificed everything for him.
It made you feel comfortable, safe even. Every problem you had, just gone, as the devil pulled you back down, holding you against his body. He was warm, reassuring. It was something you missed out the entire time. His behaviour, his reactions, his breath. They were for you. Everything was for you, just like you were everything for him.
After all, he was your devil, your butcher.
Your Ronin Beaufort
Tears clinged onto your face as you held him back, the same way he used to do earlier. He was right, as always. Your hands grabbed his hair, feeling the soft texture. It always surprised you how this man kept his hair so soft with how much blood he tangled in it. Arms shaking so badly as you let yourself drop, practically naked right in front of the devil's eyes. You hated looking weak, it made you look pathetic, but he loved it. He loved when you let go, even if he’d never tell you the truth. It wasn’t the power he loved, it was the trust he had truly desired. His hands caressed your back slowly. No words were needed, he had you right here. Times passed by slowly for him, but he would wait. Wait till the thoughts disappear, wait till you can finally rest. He could feel your breath slowing down, your body slumbing as you started to drift off to sleep. Once he was sure you were fully asleep he leaned his head over, giving you a kiss on your forehead before laying back down, closing his own eyes again.
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premise: Going for a walk around Uptown one night, Ronin sees a man talking to someone in an alleyway. Not liking the man’s tone, Ronin watches for a bit. A scream emits from the darkness; he finds you covered in blood.
word count: 1255
warnings: violence and murder typical of killer chat, brief sexual harassment, spoilers for Ronin’s route, possibly ooc
Heavy, spiked boots are deathly quiet on asphalt as the Devil’s Butcher prowls the streets of Uptown. He’s already made a stop at Purgatory, and he’s now basking in the pale moonlight. Almost lazily, Ronin’s eyes flit around at the buildings and alleys surrounding him. The streets are almost empty tonight.
Almost.
A man is standing up ahead, gazing into the darkness of an alleyway. Ronin halts in his tracks, a few meters away; he ducks behind a building, watching.
“What’s someone like you doing in there?” The man grins into the shadows.
A voice responds. “Nothing.”
Eyeing up whoever was hiding in the darkness, the man’s smile widens unnervingly. Ronin’s eyebrows furrow, his hand reaching towards his bag to get his crowbar. He stays quiet.
The creep hacks up a laugh. “Well, baby, you look like a doll to me. Wanna get played with like one?” He utters before disappearing into the shadows himself.
Ronin quickly follows, crowbar in hand. A scream echoes through the alley’s walls.
He turns the corner, his crowbar raised. His eyes widened.
Collapsed on the ground lies the man breathing heavily. Crimson pools around him, his own hands clawing at his chest. Any attempts to scream or curse seem an impossible feat as he chokes on his own blood. A figure stands above him, their phone raised and giggles racking through their body.
Ronin’s breath hitches.
“Darlin’?”
You whip around, eyes wide. “It’s not what it looks like.”
Ronin raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Really? Cause it looks to me that you got an art project with ya.”
Internally, you begin to curse. Of course Ronin would find a way, intentionally or not, to ruin your hard work. It had taken months to gather the courage and make the plans before seeing your kills through. This was meant to be the last night before you would finally confess to Ronin that you had taken his advice.
You had sacrificed so many in the devil’s name. Your hands were stained crimson for the devil. Another giggle bubbles up as your brain works overtime; you can’t be too shocked that Ronin appeared, all the bloodshed was to draw him to you. And apparently the summoning had worked.
The man on the floor tries to scream again; blood bubbles up from his open throat. Grumbling, you pick up the weapon lying by his head and lunge at him once more.
The breathing stops. Ronin snorts.
The butcher walks up to the body, kicking it with his black boot. “When’d you pick up the hobby?”
Frowning at the blood on your clothing, you sigh. “...this was supposed to be a surprise.”
Dark eyes bore into your figure, eager to hear more.
You begin your confessional. “...I started a couple months ago. I decided to take your advice.” Splashing into the blood puddle, red further stains your clothes. “…it sounded kinda fun too.”
“Aw, I didn’t know I was that influential.” He grins like a shark, quickly making his way to your side. His hand reaches to tousle your hair.
You swat his hand away. “But! This was all supposed to be a big surprise and you’ve ruined it!” You pout. “I’ve been collecting pictures of all my kills. I did all of this for–”
You freeze, realizing what you're about to admit. You stare at the butcher from the corner of your vision.
He looks right at home in the gore and grime of the alleyway. Moonbeams cradle his face; he appears almost otherworldly. The devil’s body language is casual, as if you two had met in a coffee shop and were making small talk. But his gaze matches the blackness of the night sky. His eyes are fixated on your every movement and mannerism.
“Go on, darlin’. Confess your sins to the devil.” Only a small smirk graces his features. You know a toothy grin is threatening to crack his face open.
You swallow the lump in your throat. “I did it all for you.”
Ronin feels his heart beat faster in his chest. He ignores the new warmth spreading across his face. “Aren’t you fuckin’ adorable,” he grins. His figure looms over yours. “When do I get to see those pretty pictures?”
Scoffing, you look away. The warmth on your face matches his. “I could send them to the server now. If you want.”
His grin widens.
Now laughing, you begin to create your first post to #killer_shit. You include pictures of all your previous murders. Selfies of yourself covered in blood, mutilated corpses, guts spilled onto pavement. Your finger hovers over the ‘send’ button.
“Wait,” you look over at Ronin, who has taken to removing the man’s eyeballs and squishing them in his hands. “I wanna commemorate this.”
He chuckles darkly, and in a few quick steps he’s by your side again. An arm wraps around your shoulders as he leans into you, half-lidded eyes gazing into the camera. The corpse lays motionless behind you both. Smiling, you snap the photo. With a few more taps, you send the photos to the Slaughterhouse Losers.
[user]
Been having some fun lately!!
9 attachments
[hitmeuppp]
HOLY SHIT WE GOT @/user KILLS???
THESE ARE AMAZINGGGG
[felicite]
Ooo, incredible knife work in the second picture!
[K9]
Really @/goreboy? You couldn’t leave them alone?
I’ll have to keep more of an eye on you, @/user. But…the photos are fascinating.
[Ai_Hua444]
😊❤️.
[Eviscerator1990]
Agreed. This Is Talented Work.
[Angelic]
Ronin, I hope you’re not pushing them too hard 😭
But I’m glad you’re opening up to us @/user! 🤍
[LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]
You’re 🫵😩 fucking ❌scary 😱😥bro ❤️🔥
Heaving a sigh, you slide down the brick wall behind you. Ronin quickly drops down by your side. “So,” he starts, smiling wide. “How’s it feel being one of us?”
You hum softly. “Is it weird if I say it’s not that weird?”
He cackles, leaning into you again. “Oh, darling, how far you have fallen.”
His smile softens as his laughter subsides; the devil almost appears at ease. Softly, he takes your hand in his and guides it to his lips. A faint kiss is pressed into the back of your hand before he withdraws it, rubbing comforting circles instead. “My rotten fallen angel.”
Blush blankets your face at the unexpected gesture. Burying your face into his shoulder, you scream internally.
He only chuckles and pulls you closer. A grin snakes its way onto his face again. “Although, you could use a little more practice. Find your signature style. I see room for improvement, darlin’.”
You shove him playfully, barely hiding your own smile. “Be quiet, Beaufort.”
“Maybe some messages drawn out in blood? Paint the corpses some wings?” Ronin continues, purposefully ignoring you. His eyes sparkle with mischief.
“...shut up.”
“But I still want that aorta, baby. Don’t deny the devil his dues.”
You glare at him. He smirks back.
“Close your eyes, I’m gonna make you shut up.”
With a low whistle, he grants your wish. “Damn, sweetheart. What’re you gonna do to me? Bleed me, punch me, the possibilities are–”
His sentence stops at the sensation of soft lips on his temple, and Ronin’s eyes shoot open. A toothy smile appears again.
“Oh, darling,” the Devil’s Butcher leans closer to your flushed face. “You’re never gonna get me to shut up. I’m your shoulder devil, remember?”
You feel his breath against your ear. “You’ll never get rid of me.” He drawls.
His lips devour yours. A metallic tang floods your senses.
You could get used to this.
a/n: this is my first killer chat fic, i hope you liked it!! im hoping to post more in the future; any criticism or feedback is appreciated! <3 take care!!
Ribbon dividers by cursed-carmine
Fic title from song - fan behavior by Isaac Dunbar
Howdy, I’m Siren. Your local fanfic writer and artist. I use they/he(I use all but I prefer these please ^^), I’m trans masc aroace. I write fanfics to improve my own writing and improve storytelling. In this account I work on fanfics, it’s mostly Killer Chat! but you can probably get something else. If you want to see a project I’m working on called Kisses of Chaos(a VN I’m currently making) or other works I dabble in, you can check out my main at @sirensfeathers ! :3
If ya want to stalk my other socials, here ya go! I promise I don’t bite and my dms are open to chat.
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About my asks and art
My asks are always open, I do look through them, and I will get to them. I know I get to them quickly, but I might be slowing down to work on my projects soon, but I will get to them, and will get the request I get done. Unless of a few things, which please look at this. Again, anything that makes me uncomfortable I will not do, which entails to S/A, anything transphobic, homophobic, or any harmful talk, and mischaracterization. And to add, while this has stopped, do not promote yourself into my inbox.
For my art, while I forget to put my watermarks into my work pieces sometimes, please credit me for my art, I work hard on them. While I’m grateful no one has claimed my work as theirs yet, please do not steal them.
General things, please do not pressure me into working into pieces, I already have bad anxiety, and recently has gotten worse. So pushing will make me, not only slower, but can and will refuse the request if it is that, or maybe block you for my well being. So please keep that in mind.
Do not put any of my works into AI, I work hard for both writing and art pieces I do. It's harmful and highly disrespectful.
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On another note, I have comms being made, I will announce when that happens :) and recently art trades are for moots only(please note, I might take a while).
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Others ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ - Poly, Kc cast, etc. (Constantly looping is in here)
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