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BLOODHOUND CHIBIS ….. yesyesyesyesyes

chibi serial killers in my game file !

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spreading the bloodhound agenda until i DIE.

bloodhound judgin u

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this is ronin, no further questions. (also yes, i am the luckiest man in the world)

ignore that its the same picture i just like the format

ronin cosplay!! (and face reveal i guess)

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ronin !!!!!

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want to get some research for your novel?

perhaps talk to someone with experience in crowbar killing?

join this rp server if you dare <3

https://discord.gg/DQByYHn8PP

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Roniiiiiiin !! Goreboy extraordinaire, crowbar enthusiast, ect ect <3

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does anyone have requests / prompts for killerchat art? >:) send em my way!

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ronin beaufort character study

i was never here.

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.

fresh air did always seem to do him good.

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V!! 💕 My favourite of the LIs and genuinely such good autistic rep !!

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Misaki and V from Killerchat! I love them so much…

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we would.

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i'm late to the party but whatever <3