fic masterlist...
i am also on ao3 with the user rottenvamp. enjoy <3
for ronin beaufort...
for jeffrey woods...

Janaina Medeiros
Cosimo Galluzzi
wallacepolsom
dirt enthusiast
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

ellievsbear
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
sheepfilms

Product Placement

Kaledo Art
🪼
will byers stan first human second
hello vonnie

Andulka
noise dept.
Today's Document
todays bird

Discoholic 🪩
Show & Tell
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States

seen from Austria
seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
@decayedsword
fic masterlist...
i am also on ao3 with the user rottenvamp. enjoy <3
for ronin beaufort...
for jeffrey woods...

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
threeway kiss with jeff and toby... giggles...
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.
꩜ .ᐟ
jeff the killer...
he's gonna jeff the kill ya.
you and i (a crime scene photo): part 1, part 2, part 3.
~ more soon.
okay and if i make a part 2 to the streamer ronin shirtless fic
you and i (a crime scene photo)
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!

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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you and i (a crime scene photo)
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.
…Her boyfriend. Her. Boyfriend. Holy fucking shit.
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.
The master will find its loyal dog.
read part ii here.
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.”
writing idea ther estridge lives
U alive
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?”
im back my bad guys

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Sleeping Terror
Ronin Beaufort x Reader
3.2k words :3
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
♡●♡●♡●♡●♡
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 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.
a thought occurred.... enjoy
commissions!!
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.
He grinned like it was love.
Addicted to the devil (Ronin x Reader)
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.
He loved you. Forever and always.
Ronin Beaufort

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Fan Behavior
Ronin x Reader (Killer Chat)
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
Who am I?
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
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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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Da Masterlist
Ronin Fics ⸸
Angel Fics ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
V Fics 🗡
Misaki Fics ᓚᘏᗢ
Others ⋆✴︎˚。⋆ - Poly, Kc cast, etc. (Constantly looping is in here)
Gluttony gods .˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚.
My art ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅