Some Killer Chat! fanart I did a little while back. I just finished posting this to a couple other sites so just pretend I put a very witty and original caption here
Wishlist Killer Chat! Definitive Edition on Steam Now! 🔪
hello rotterlings!
we want to make KC! even bigger and bloodier in 2025, and have so many exciting stories we want to tell.
thanks to all your support and everyone’s interest in the survey we sent, we are officially planning a kickstarter for Killer Chat!: Definitive Edition early next year!
this version will significantly expand on the game’s content with brand new storylines and more time to spend with your fave serial killer(s) <33
how ambitious we can be will depend on your support 🙏
help us to make Killer Chat! the best it can be by sharing the steam page with your friends, reposting our social media posts and wishlisting now! your support helps us massively :D
more updates on the kickstarter launch coming soon!
TW for the following: suicidal ideation, descriptions of gore, unhealthy relationship dynamics(?), bad writing because I don’t write DHGDGD this is an angst fic but kinda fluffyish
3 months. It had been 3 months since Norms started dating the devil. Satan incarnate, Lucifer in the flesh, ever-so-repulsive Ronin Beaufort. The boy he loved like a moth loves a flame, and who loved him like a maggot to rotting flesh.
The two were terrible for each other, and in that, they were perfect for each other.
It’s all Norms had ever wanted. This grotesque form of love, the kind that destroys and rebirths just to destroy again in the tenderest ways possible. The kind that felt like tender decay. It was everything Norms needed.
So then, why, even now, did he feel so fucking awful?
Those were the thoughts swirling in Norms head as he lay against Ronin’s chest in the other man’s bed, cradled like a grieving man does a fresh corpse. He was happy, he supposed. There was no better feeling than this, being warm and safe in the arms of a man that could kill you in an instant, the arms of a man who promised him mutual bloodshed and delivered. But even so, Norm couldn’t shake the never ending hollowness in his chest, a gaping emptiness that made his head hurt as pressure built in it.
“What’s goin’ on in my little god’s head there, darlin’?” Ronin spoke, stroking the back of Norms’ head with one of his hands while the other held around his torso. His dark eyes were unusually soft, though not entirely gentle. He was Ronin, after all.
“Nothin’, I’m just happy to be in your arms.” Norms’ replied with his usual shit-eating grin. Was it real? He couldn’t tell anymore. There was no difference to him and the lines between true emotion and performance were long dead.
“Yea? ‘S nice, damn right, but I want more darlin’. Why stop at limbs? Let’s tangle in each others intestines.” Ronin replied with his own smirk.
“That’s all I’d ever want” Norms breathed out, closing his eyes.
He knew Ronin said it mostly as a joke or attempt to shock him, but a large part of Norms became instantly excited at the notion, as if mingling their entrails and dying as one would fix his hollowness.
Maybe it would.
Ronins voice cut through the silence again, but this time, the sarcasm was gone. The playfulness was gone. All that remained was a kind of knowing, like how his tone was whenever Norms talked to him about his dysphoria.
“Christ, darlin’, just let yourself fall apart.” He whispered, and norms’ heart stopped. His eyes reopened, but ronin beat him to speak.
“You’re festering, rancid, rotting in yourself. Where’s the fun in doing that alone? Fall apart, Norm. I’ll kiss your broken, bloody pieces.”
There was a stillness that hung in the air for a moment. Norms’ eyes stung, his head and chest aching in grief over his very existence. He never wanted to be *this* pathetic, this exhausting and annoying. An attention-seeking burden. At least, that’s how he viewed it. But as Ronin’s grip on him tightened, nails digging into his soft flesh in a way that made it feel as gentle as a kiss, his own guilt for being so sad gave in to his emotion.
A sob. A cracked, trembling, throat scraping disgusting sob was choked out from norms’ throat. His despair was on full, visceral display.
The devil cradled the young god’s emptiness in his hands and kissed it into rotten ichor.
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