a-honeywine

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im so normal about them (i def wanna post more art and fanfic soon, I love seeing what everyone else in the tag creates <3)

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Thernin 🫶

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I don't typically post my art but this world needs more Luca appreciation

transparent bc I couldn't decide where to put him

also him doing a boogie

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A gaggle of ghosts 🪦

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🥀Demo now Live🥀

Gravehearts Demo is up on itch! This is the first look at my first Visual Novel, I so hope you guys enjoy this first little peak at Chapter One: Obelisk

Play it here

The game is free to play with a tipping function, it takes about 10-15 minuets to play. I really hope you guys enjoy this little bit i have for you so far 🥹💕

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Adoration's Incision

Ronin x G/N Reader

wc: 368

cw: violence, knives, brief mention of guns, i think that's it? lmk if something is needed

You should’ve brought a gun with you. You should not be walking into this empty handed. You were vulnerable, and it was entirely by choice. 

You fought Ronin barehanded, raw, desperate, dirty, and with so much passion–you could hardly tell whether it was adrenaline or something else. You were never a fighter, you may have had interest in weapons, but against a man with more bloodlust than you’d think possible and a knife? You were doomed to lose from the start. Maybe you already knew that. Maybe you didn’t care. Maybe it was enough to see him, touch him, hear him, in person. Maybe it was worth it. 

He did not kill you. 

He had you pinned to the wall, he could kill you. He said he’d kill you. A knife–his knife– was placed in your hand. You had two choices, kiss him or kill him. You could kill him, and like he said, you probably should kill him. You pointed the knife at his heart, metal lightly touching the fabric of his shirt. You kept the knife steady in your hand and pulled him in.

You kissed him. 

He kissed you back. A messy, desperate, yet passionate kiss. He kissed you like you didn’t have a knife to his heart. Like the metal was not threatening to do more than scratch at his skin. You were threatening to take his heart, his entire being, and he was letting you. 

The two of you separated, slightly. Looking at his slightly breathless lips and smirk, you found yourself thinking. 

Maybe you already had his heart. 

“Ya gonna keep that pointed at me?” he leaned closer to you, unflinching as the blade cut into him. 

“Yeah…” you smiled, “Just tryna bite the Devil back.” 

He threw his head back and laughed, brilliant and insane. “You’re gonna have to bite harder than that, Darlin’.” 

He moved closer, briefly pressing your foreheads together before pressing his lips on yours. Your knife cut deeper into him, whether it was because he moved closer to you, or you pressed it deeper into, or perhaps both, you didn’t know. With his body against yours and heart in your hands, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. 

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only been about a week but I feel like I should replay ronin's route

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Late post for valentine's day

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HIYAAA !!1!!1! could u do the killer chat w a mafia related reader????? Idk if you've done it before. Maybe a bartender that gives info out, a avvocato (the one that manages their legal troubles) or sm else entirely!!!! The possibilities are a looooott

A/N: ofc!!! I like the bartender idea so I'm gonna use that! cw: alcohol, suggestive scene, blood, ronin route spoiler

The bar you work at is older than sin and twice as dirty, a little pocket of cigarette smoke and whispered names tucked into the edge of a crooked city. The light barely touches anything but the edges of tumblers. You keep your mouth shut, your ears open, and your clientele coming back.

You're not mafia in name, not officially, but you serve them. In this line of work, loyalty is a currency, and you’ve been spending yours carefully: one pour, one favor, one secret at a time. You make your living off of people's drunk confessions, and sometimes off silence.

That’s probably why he showed up.

Ronin. Or as the server calls him, <goreboy>. That smug bastard with a smile like a knife burning slow, dangerous, a little too intoxicating. You'd heard about him through the usual whispers: a man who murders with no mercy, who laughs while he sharpens his blades. The Devil's Butcher, he found you with some digging, invited you to the server, that was 1 month ago.

But now he sits at your bar, one hand curled around a glass of neat whiskey, eyeing you like you’re the only person in the room who’s real. "Don't tell me you're quiet out of modesty,” he asks, voice smooth and low. “That would ruin the fantasy.”

You raise a brow. “Maybe I just don’t talk to devils.”

His smirk grows. “Darlin’, that’s not what I’ve heard. Word is you know everyone.” You don’t answer. You keep pouring. The first night he finally visited you, he says little, other than asking questions you pretend not to answer. The second night, he starts teasing. By the third, he’s stealing sips from your glass and telling you things no one’s supposed to know.

Like the way he sleeps with a knife under his pillow. Or the time he strangled a man in a church confession booth. Or how he doesn’t actually know how to tie a tie properly, but fakes it well enough.

It’s dangerous, how close he lets you. Even worse is how much you enjoy it.

You don't give information away for free, But when Ronin’s visiting, you slip a few things under the table. Names, meeting spots, small details.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That your heart doesn’t leap a little when he calls you darlin’, or lean a little too close when he reaches for his drink. That the way he watches you when your hands move over a glass isn’t bordering on reverence. Then there are the nights he comes in with blood on his knuckles and a split in his smile. The nights he doesn't talk much. You pour something strong for him, and you don’t ask questions.

Eventually, you hand him a rag and nod toward the sink in the back. That becomes your ritual. No questions, just warmth and a glass and the hush of jazz playing under the buzz of neon. You patch each other up in pieces. He doesn’t say thank you, not aloud, but he’ll linger longer when he leaves. Let his fingers brush yours when he takes his coat.

Once, just once, he kisses your knuckles like you’re royalty and he’s about to die.

The Slaughterhouse Losers is always full with chats. You’re not on it often, but Ronin gets giddy when he can drag you into voice. Your screen lights up with the familiar chaos one night while you're closing down. <goreboy> Guess who just saved their pretty little bartender from being snitched on <Angelic> Did you actually kill someone for LOVE??? <hitmeuppp> WHAT spill the lore IMMEDIATELY <You> didn’t ask for saving

<LUCA_IS_COOL> okay but did you mind tho... <goreboy> Didn’t see you complaining when I showed up <You> i was holding a bat and 2 broken bottles. i was fine. <goreboy> You looked like a fallen angel in a dirty apron. I had to intervene.

Your fingers hesitate. Then you type: <You> …thank you

<goreboy> Anything for you, darling

You minimize the tab before anyone else can see your face turn warm. The thing about the life is that it always comes knocking. Doesn’t matter how neutral you try to stay, how many drinks you pour, how many names you bite your tongue not to say. One day, the wrong man walks through your doors. He’s a cop. And he’s asking questions that cut too close.

“You see Ronin Beaufort in here often?”

You clean a glass. “Never heard of him.”

“Heard he’s tight with a bartender. One who keeps a lot of secrets.”

“Maybe you’ve been drinking in the wrong bars.” You’re not stupid. You don’t send a message. You don’t reach out. You wait. But you know the walls have ears, and the floorboards here are soaked in enough sins to make evil spirits quiver. Ronin doesn’t show that night. Or the next. On the third, just as you’re locking up, you feel the chill behind you.

"You always this good at lying?” his voice murmurs near your ear.

You spin, and he’s there, blood spattered across his collar and cheek, eyes wild like a storm.

“What the hell happened?”

“FBI,” he spits like a curse. “One of them followed me. I left him unconscious in a dumpster, but the fucker had a mic. Thought you might’ve cracked.”

Your jaw tightens. “You really think I’d talk?”

He watches you, a long beat. Then his voice softens. “No. But it scared me, is all.” You should push him away. You should be furious. Instead, you reach out and wipe the blood off his cheek with your thumb.

“I’ve seen you bleed, Ronin. Doesn’t mean I’ll stop standing next to you.” He exhales like that undoes him. Like he wants to sink to his knees. Instead, he kisses you, tasting of copper and want.

The night becomes a fever dream of heavy breathing, bodies tangled in the back office where the city can't see you sin. He kisses like he means it, touch like he’s memorizing every scar. You don't let anyone this close. Not usually. But Ronin’s not anyone. He's chaos, and you're the fool who thinks you can dance in fire without burning.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters against your skin.

You pull his hair until he groans. “Then die pretty.”

He laughs, god help you.

You don’t sleep that night. You just lie tangled with him on the old couch, the scent of whiskey and sweat and blood between you, the server buzzing somewhere with chaos you don’t care about. In the early hours, while the neon dies and the street outside is silent, he whispers,

“If I asked you to run with me, would you?” You don’t answer right away. But you don’t say no. The heat dies down eventually. The feds move on. A bribe, a corpse, a misdirected tape , whatever it was, Ronin never tells you, and you don’t ask. But things change after that.

He’s softer with you. In private. Still smug. Still lethal. But sometimes you catch him staring like you’re a ghost that haunts him sweetly. You start marking his usual spot with a napkin and his favorite drink. He starts leaving you little things, like a necklace he said reminded him of your smile. A bullet casing with your initials scratched into the side.

“I’m sentimental,” he shrugs. “Sue me.”

You grin. “I’m your bartender, not your lawyer.”

“That so?” he leans close. “Then pour me something dangerous, sweetheart.” You do, every time.

<goreboy> My bartender just stabbed a guy with a corkscrew <Angelic> LMAO WHAT <You> He threatened Ronin. I got creative <hitmeuppp> im gonna SCREAM this is ROMANCE

<LUCA_IS_COOL> do you guys even need us here? i feel like i’m 3rd wheeling <goreboy> Only when you’re useful, Luca <K9> Can everyone shut up

“You know,” he says one night, “if the world ended tomorrow, I’d still come here. Just to see you pour one last drink.”

You shake your head. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”

He leans over the bar, eyes dark. “Yeah, but it’s true.”

You pause. Then nod. “Same.” You don’t need more than that. The way he looks at you, the way he stays even when he should run, tells you what he can’t quite say. You kiss him across the bar. Let him taste the parts of you that don’t belong to anyone else.

You pour another glass.

He drinks.

And you stay.

Together.

[a-honeywine]

it was p short!! i'll probably do another playthrough another time but it was fun :D

my friends are fighting over how I should do my shimeji base so I'm gonna play the gravehearts demo tn ig >0<

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my friends are fighting over how I should do my shimeji base so I'm gonna play the gravehearts demo tn ig >0<

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SILLY RONIN SCRAPBOOKING :D

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showed my friend a photo of Angel and pointed out her teeth jewelry and they go "she can take my bones and teeth anytime" 😭

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trying to take a nap!!! Instead my brain is telling me a fanfic... grrrr

"Yeah... just tryna bite the Devil back." (Quote from my noggin, reader has a knife to Ronin's heart, not stabbing just there)

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Haven't posted anything in a while

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I love yhis dumbass gender envy idiot so much

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Ronin from Killer Chat 👀

(Psst psst there's going to be a Killer Chat expanded edition you can help fund. Look at @rosesrotofficial for details psst psst)