#suggested revisions

[slav-every-day]

[egophiliac]

new ride kamens dropped, rui, who is definitely a horobi homage; another cool choice, but at the same time, kinda wish it was someone else 'cuz now we got two zero-one homages with hayate's jin, when the trend had been one rider for each season until him, and people started claiming that takahashi must be playing favorites

aw, I was actually pretty jazzed to see it was Horobi! I think it opens up some interesting possibilities if it isn't only one-per after all, and I'm excited to see if there's gonna be something with him and Hayate or not. plus I just really like his design

(also, not to be all cynical, but. this exists because of a corporate trend-hop with a franchise that is already sorta notorious for executive meddling. I would be...let's say very surprised if Takahashi had that level of control over what riders were included, versus being handed a list to work off of that the execs had already determined would appeal to their target demographic. c'mon.)

[dayurno]

this is somewhat of a vent post & something i said i would not do again but has been plaguing me enough that i think getting it out might feel better. so. has anydoggy else been. Baffled and upset by nora sakavic’s refusal to speak on how terribly aftg has treated its characters of color? with the author of the series coming back with a new book and starting up on her online activity again, and questions of what she’d change about aftg bubbling up, it’s particularly glaring to me that we are all playing this very long game of pretend where we ignore how badly the non-white cast has been treated & her lack of thoughts on it

and i understand not wanting to bring up nicky and thea because people pick on her for it. i’m not trying to discredit nora sakavic’s terrible history of getting harrassed online by aftg fans. but i think it is very cynical, and it is very juvenile, and most of all very cruel, that she gets to ignore the very real ways the books have set up these characters to be hated. i think it’s obvious why the characters who get the most hate are the only canonical characters of color, and i think we do not get to treat this like a deliberate decision on the fandom’s part when the books have put these same characters in degrading and embarrassing and terrible positions in the first place. aftg is not a story about nice characters with clean pasts, but there is a very specific nastiness to the only characters of color being a brown man who sexually harasses and later assaults the main character, a black woman whose only scene is her lashing out at her love interest after being ignored for the first two books, and the japanese villain who gets maybe two lines of complexity before he goes back to being a terrible person. the white cast, in comparison, while not at all free from flaws, are never shown to commit mindless evil; all of their actions are ultimately justified. the book goes out of its way to give them concession after concession. we know exactly who to side with, because aftg tells us who these people are. does nicky’s assault ever get addressed in the books? does riko’s reasoning to be the way that he is ever gets more than briefly aluded to? is thea reserved even a shred of humanity or grace in her one scene?

anyway. it’s been years of talking about this and the fandom has been constantly hostile to criticism in this regard, and more recently any criticism at all, and it’s Grating to be on the other side of this discussion. it’s exhausting to know that in ten years we do not get even an acknowledgment besides the author saying she will not answer questions about nicky and thea anymore. it’s upsetting and it’s ugly and i wish no one had to talk about this again, but we do because what i thought was common sense has been washed away by a sudden influx of no-nuance adoration for the trilogy. basically i hope we all explode

[lifesupreme-if]

Did you ever think about using AIs like GPT, Claude, Gemini (all free) to help you in writing your book? They could help you in writing a scene, for example.

[heckblade]

by request of @professorfcknmoriarty, I present to you a venn diagram: blorbo edition

[anonymocha]

Madam Z and Kaalaa Baunaa should kiss I think. And also have late night discussions about the universe

Enjoy the post-Kumar Laplace Kaalaa Baunaa design while you’re at it

[writingbycatsgrave]

CALLING ALL WRITERS!

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RATE

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[oneshot-wme-archival]

Oneshot Wallpapers: Default

The World Machine

Barrens Craters

Glen Shoreline

Refuge Cityscape

Messiah

My Burden Is Light

Asteroid

[crimsongrimoire]

fucking Screams bc i erased a whole page of this fic in my sleep. it's fine i got it back so im not pressed but that's really funny

[blossom-hwa]

I fear bridgerton might have made me lose my mind once more

[cannibalistic-suggestions]

If I could pluck out your eyes to collect in a basket like fresh berries, I would. If only you had several that grew back to be replaced, after I mashed and crushed up the old ones into jam for my toast or just bit into your corneas like grapes with seeds to spit out.

Stop looking at them. Look only at ME! ME! ME! ME!

What do I have to do to finally catch your eye? Do you want to kiss up the scars when I slit open my wrists, so you can feel superficial accomplishment? I would let you drink the wine in my veins if you had higher tolerance for it.

Why can't you shower me with the affection you once did? I was a dying houseplant and your love revived me, but its gone from daily to only seeing you if I'm lucky to get a hold of you, otherwise you'd be fine leaving me to rot, surely. Did I wear your patience thin? Botanicals like me take time to bloom, too much for your liking it seems. You got tired, or you realized what you were getting yourself into and chickened out.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm so fucking needy. I need your voice, as sweet as agave, to whisper what I want to hear, I need your body in the way we handled the fervor of the spring, wet as the rain. I crumble into decolored nothingness more and more when you ignore me, for those who are "better" than me, the ones that'll actually better you, in comparison to what you had with me.

I would strangle you to hear the calming low buzz of you choking on your own blood, begging for mercy and finally bringing yourself to admit you love me, you love me and I'm your favorite and your one and only forever and ever.

You realized you ingested a poison with no easy antidote. I think you only keep me around to see how you can get out; don't you have guilt about tossing out a reminder of your own failure? I'm sorry I'm this way, I never asked for the germination of my miserable existence in the first place. I don't know what to do if I'm not the prized heirloom of your garden, I'll rip my own petals off and shove them down your throat if you might at least get a taste of my wrath and like it. I wilt more and more the seconds your attention isn't on me.

Wasn't there a bountiful harvest on both ends? Shared bites of forbidden fruit; you're damned along with me and I hate to see you trying to escape it. Don't you want us to drown together? You still fake some semblance of tolerance, maybe out of pity. It's all performative: oh, but at least you're still cute sometimes, when you're everything but yourself.

How about I bake you to finally get the good parts of you that I missed? You're like poison ivy to me in how you irritate me, but at the same time I can't get enough, it's even more maddening to be without that feeling that makes me want to scratch my skin off. You're not allowed to spread, I want to be the sole victim of your infestation. Don't fucking go to those other people. They don't deserve you.

I'll make sure your very essence becomes part of my blood if I have to, to make you stay with me forever and never fucking leave.

[virtue-and-beneviolence]

Severance Pay

literally just Hanma getting hard while beating a man to death for 1.9k words (no reader, trust me you don't wanna be in this one anyway)

TW: Dark content?, tragically unproofread, generally violent themes, blood, shuji gets a little worked up lowkey, um shoe humping???thigh riding???kinda???, is that sexual assault? i mean yeah probably, shuji really gets off on the power here etcetc.

Note: yeah sorry about this, but cheers it's time to get drunk now.

Kinda dark content; Consume responsibly.

The end of the work day. The thrill of having a singular task unchecked, a task that you know you can manage with ease - maybe even enjoy. The feeling of saving the best for last.

That’s what was stirring in Hanma’s chest as he sat on a plush velvet stool at the bar of a vacant VIP lounge. He was in relatively high spirits despite the room reeking of desperation and sex and cortisol shed by unhappily wed businessmen taking advantage of the strip club’s menu of women. Dance music reverberated in his chest, rumbling comfortably like thunder before a lightning strike. A familiar message urging patrons to grab their last drink and settle their tabs was broadcast through the establishment with all the professionalism an exhausted bartender could muster. 

The last job of the day was designed especially for him, a special case that Kisaki deemed deserving of Hanma’s special touch. A job that Hanma’s tendency for histrionics and drama couldn’t mess up.

The distant clang of metal slipping and clicking back in place brought Hanma to attention. His lithe muscles pulled taut with anticipation and a loose, sloppy smile of genuine pleasure replaced his neutral countenance and he turned to greet the newcomer, “Ah! I thought I smelled fresh blood!” Hanma joked, letting his cigarette bob lazily around his words. A younger man emerged from the shadow of the entrance way and paled from top to bottom. Hanma could all but hear the dice clatter in his brain, unsure if the gamble of dashing back towards where two huge bouncers stood guard was worth it. “Relax kid,” Hanma’s words lulled like an audible eye roll as he stood to his full height from a velvet stool, “s’a joke. Cool it. Ya made it just in time, Cinderella. Thought maybe you’d lost your faith in good ol’ big brother Toman.” The deep voice was deceptively chipper despite the trademark sarcasm.

Had it been anyone else making small talk in place of a playful greeting, the younger man might have laughed it off, played along, bowed and continued on following the rules of the organization he sought to leave. But the tower standing over him was Hanma Shuji and that tone didn’t match the unrelenting look of anticipation for something that couldn’t be predicted in his eyes. It didn’t match his reputation as-

“The Reaper.” Terror bolted the man’s feet in place. Prey always recognizes a predator. 

“Oh now, now! The Reaper was my father! Please, call me Hanma - No, better, Aniki.” He looked up and exhaled a long smoke laden breath complete with eye contact so oppressive it was sure to strip any delusion the younger man might possibly have about where the power lay. “What’d I say? Relax! I’m only here for your exit interview.” Cue the last long drag of his cigarette, savored for a moment, “And, of course, to administer your severance pay.”

A stuttered breath of relief left the smaller man who finally followed the gestured order to sit across from Hanma. Anticipation built pressure in Shuji’s chest. He was in his element. Luring his prey into a false sense of security with the ease of a master, gently swirling his glass of whiskey and smiling widely when the younger man flinched as Shuji slammed the glass onto the fine wooden table harder than was necessary. Shuji choked down the manic desire to giggle as the proverbial rope of tension began to fray just as he uttered the words, “Shall we begin?”

–

Shuji’s fist repeatedly cracked into the younger man’s face. Hanma watched with delight from where he held his ex-kohai down on the glossy wood of the bar by the throat. Dull, meaty impact made way for wet crackling as Shuji made progress beating the now hardly recognizable face. Teeth were bent in, loose from the repeated abuse, bloodied by trauma and scraping and catching along Shuji’s own unprotected knuckles. When Shuji withdrew his hand, it was red and angry and dripping. A chill of excitement bordering delirium shot down his spine at the thought he couldn’t tell where his victim’s blood stopped and his own began.

The tall man laughed with his whole body at the sputtered attempts of his victim to beg and plead for mercy that Hanma had no intention to grant. At last, teeth spilled like Chicklets over the bar. Blood gushed from severely split lips with every slurred pop of his continued pleas. Finally tired of such repetitive work, Hanma gripped the man by the back of his head, fingers knotted in greasy, sweaty hair, as congealing blood cemented it in place. Hanma admired his handiwork close up. A pool of crimson collected in the man’s mouth and Shuji shook the younger’s head to watch the reflection of himself ripple and distort and pour in messy clotted rivers over swollen, broken lips.

“Spit at me.” He spoke with the tone of a command. It was neither a request, nor an option, but an order.

“N-niki, i-I,” came the gargled response.

“Ah, ah, ah,” He cooed as if to a child, “I didn’t ask.” Hanma gripped his swollen and battered jaw and his mouth split into a sadistic smile as he slammed the man's head down, triggering a gasp turned gagging, choking fit. 

Hanma didn’t flinch when warm clotted fluid spotted his face over and over as the man coughed and sputtered. Thicker splotches ran down his cheeks then his neck to be absorbed by the exorbitantly expensive foreign silk of Shuji’s shirt. He didn’t react at all except to involuntarily roll his eyes back in some twisted relief. A throaty groan escaped him at the obscenity of the comforting ritual of feeling blood on his skin and the strain of someone desperately clinging to life beneath his grip. Shuji’s breathy giggle danced along his victim’s face. “So he can follow orders after all.” Windpipe held tightly with Sin, Punishment landed the final blow before his consciousness failed. 

Hanma made short work of securing the young man to the bolted bar stool. He poured himself another glass of whiskey and stifled a chuckle at it landing in a sticky puddle as he put it down. Calling the man to wake was useless, he got no response until he cracked the back of his hand across the poor fuck’s face. Swollen eyelids split to show a sliver of bloodshot and pinkened eyes. Golden irises and a chiseled face decorated in streaks of slowly scabbing and dusting, darkness met the man. It sounded far away when Shuji spoke, “Stay with me sunshine. You want your severance so badly, ya gotta stay awake for it.” The gangster leaned down further and all but purred in his ear, “Show Aniki how hard you can fight for it, ah?” Two fingers pressed uncomfortably at the top and bottom of each swollen eye and spread the lids higher. “Eyes on me.” Tears cut clean trails through evidence of struggle and battery and diluted the blood in the corners of his eyes. Hiccuped sobs wracked the otherwise limp body worn out from struggling.

Shuji brought a knee to the man’s crotch and leaned more and more weight. Yells turned to screams that pitched higher and higher until Hanma was sure he’d destroy his voice. Beautiful vocals to the soundtrack of agony Hanma played. In this moment he was all powerful, the conductor of a symphony of his creation. God nothing got him off as much as this kind of power. 

He ground his knee deeper. “Grind on it,” he demanded and to his sadistic delight, the man bucked his hips with whatever force he had left, desperate to please his tormentor despite the pain. Hanma wrapped a hand around his throat and smirked, “Humping my knee like a bitch in heat. Fucking pathetic,” He scoffed mockingly, gleeful at having so thoroughly broken his toy. He let it go on until the man’s muscles gave out before he made a show of pulling out two stacks of bills. In salt crusted eyes, he saw it. 

Hope.

Hanma recognized it from countless other fights, other killings. Nothing brought him such elation as the moment his victim found it only to lose it. Hanma eagerly continued his show so that he might soon watch his favorite part. 

With excessive force, Shuji forced his mouth open and ignored the clunk from previous dislocation or worse to shove the currency in his mouth. Watching the muscles of his throat pulsate helplessly around dry bills and retching uselessly satisfied Hanma’s sick need for entertainment enough to finally unstick his whiskey glass from the mess of the bar and savor a long sip. He grabbed the rest of the thick Hibiki whiskey and dumped it on his victim who writhed and let out muffled screams with renewed panic from pain wherever alcohol soaked into still-fresh wounds. He was caught up in the white hot sting to realize Shuji had flicked his lighter on and set the bills sticking out from his mouth. Panic reached a fever pitch when the heat of fire met alcohol sodden lips. 

Shuji has always loved fire. Loved the way flames lick skin urging it to melt away under its intimate touch. Loved the colors. Loved the way it forced jerking, panicked movements from someone all too near it. He shunted a cigarette from his carton, “Can I bug ya for a light?” the cheeky bastard asked as if the man could hear him as he leaned in to catch enough of the flame to start with a delicious drag. He enjoyed the show with his cigarette from a loveseat a few feet away. It’d be a lie to say his dick didn’t kick in his slacks a few times.

He watched until he thought the flames might be burned into his eyes. Kisaki would be annoyed. Hanma’s eye prescription always suffers after he gets to teach a lesson this way. Eventually, Shuji got up and emptied five of six shots in his revolver starting from the legs and ending at the man’s throat. 

On his way out, he casually holds the gun to his own head and flicks the revolver. He pulls the trigger mid step to see if this time he’ll join his victim in hell. But his head remains on his shoulders in one piece after the hammer kicks, so he hands the gun to the bouncer already equipped with a handkerchief, adjusts himself in his pants, and prides himself on a job well done.

–

A few mornings later, Kisaki casually opens the newspaper to find a photo of a generic man in his mid twenties in the obituaries. A kind man, it said, who always gave what he could. A sense of humor that could make anyone laugh. Died on the job, providing for his family. Survived by his wife and their newborn. 

Ye so i posted that, cool.

I'mma tag anyone who acknowledged the post about this yesterday, big apologies if that wasn't actually interest as much as it was you being nice and supporting me and this is not fun for you

@a-nuisance-called-sam @citrusteaa @sin-and-punishment @kisa-rae @bertholdts--butt

lets maybe not acknowledge this happened

[nancywheeeler]

Why did no one come to office hours? I specifically suggested it.

[rottenlittlefink]

What if covid never fucking happened

[zsofiarosebud]

wow internet recipes have truly worsened because of ai written SEO hunting articles, innit?

[theha1r]

@starsweepers liked for a starter!

"okay, kiddo." steve started, an almost serious look on his face. he holds up two little bottles, nail polish - the sparkly kind to be exact. "what're we thinking for the nails tonight? pink or purple?" and by 'the nails' he meant his own of course. he had no qualms about walking around with sparkly pink or purple nails, especially if it made dawn happy. "and y'know what? we can do yours with the other color so we can be matching."