#that is not a human. that is not an animal. that is a machine and it hates.

[atomic-waste-of-time]

ok, maybe I get excited over being turned into a robot, or a pet. Maybe I get super excited thinking about staring into a partners eyes as they help me take my dehumanifier shots, while petting me softly, and telling me I'm doing a good job.

Maybe I just wanna be treated as an object, because objects are treated better than me by everyone I know. Maybe I hate being human because I never got treated as a human, but my entire childhood was rather spent crying and watching nature documentaries while repressing trauma I had in kindergarten when I was 7 years old.

Maybe I was only able to realize what I actually was when I was 14, by remembering the repressed memory of looking in a mirror and saying "I want to be a girl" before getting laughed at by everyone, including the teacher, and as a result my entire school life was spent in a state of panic and survival, being hurt for the amusement of others, never being heard, and often getting into detention for defending myself when I absolutely had to.

Maybe I was yelled at as a child for having a hard time remembering things, or understanding "basic" things, like 3rd grade math, or essays. Maybe I realized too late that I was actually transgender, that there were more people like me, that I wasn't a monster, just misunderstood.

Maybe I'm so sick and tired of fighting for myself, in a world that's hellbent on torturing my very existence. Maybe I dream of being something that isn't human because they don't have to suffer under laws, or currency, or conflicting emotions. Maybe I was treated as a monster my entire life, and adulthood is just adding a crashing burning flame to the comedic tragedy that has been my life.

Maybe I want to be a monster. Maybe I was labelled as a monster so much I learned to adapt to the role, scaring people away, being alone, even though I've always hated it. Maybe I never wanted to be human. Maybe I was born as a monster, labelled a freak by doctors, and told I wasn't special at all, just another cog in a machine everyone seems to hate, but nobody wants to do anything about except for me.

Maybe I want to be treated as an object, as an animal, as something that isn't human, because at least that way I'll feel loved. I'll be accepted. I can be happy, if I give away the thing I hate the most.

Maybe all these are true, maybe one or two, maybe none at all, and maybe you, the Reader, feel the same way.

Maybe we were mistreated and horribly abused, verbally and mentally. Maybe we both feel guilty for our trauma because it isn't as bad as someone else's trauma. Maybe we both hate the world, maybe we both want to change it.

Maybe we grew up in a manipulative home, maybe you grew up without a home, maybe you didn't even think about any of this until now, or maybe it's been a question bugging us our entire lives.

Maybe my family says they care for me, but they treat me like a slave and a freak. Maybe you understand how that feels too.

Maybe we both suffer, maybe we both hurt. Maybe we come here to get away, only to see more people in peril and pain. Maybe we just want to be happy.

Maybe you put everyone else before yourself because you were mentally abused and trained to do so. Maybe you wanted everyone else to be happy because you thought it was impossible for you to be happy. Maybe situations worsened when you showed up, like the universe itself hated your existence. Maybe you feel the same way I do.

Maybe I'm just venting over a silly post about dehumanization, maybe I'm overthinking, maybe I'm spiraling in on myself again.

Maybe I'm trying not to cry. Maybe I'm shaking and sobbing, my fingers move instinctively across the keyboard to communicate while I sob. Maybe my head aches from life crashing down around me.

Maybe I'm losing my home, my life, everything I worked so hard for. Maybe I'll never get to Britain to see my girlfriend. Maybe I'll never be good enough and I'll have to suffer forever, like I have been my entire life, tortured by happy memories that are far outweighed by the negative emotions and swirling hatred for myself, my mind and body in a constant war while I'm just a civilian casualty.

Maybe I can't cope with the fact all I'm doing is venting about my problems in the form of a long text post on tumblr. Maybe I just want to die, but I know I can't yet, when the world still needs someone like me. Maybe I have a greater purpose, maybe I matter. Maybe I don't, and the voices that scream in my day to day life are all right. Maybe I should just end my story before it gets any worse. Maybe my story will get better. Maybe I'll be ok. Maybe we'll all be ok.

Maybe I'll be loved as an object, or a pet. Maybe I'll feel cherished and appreciated. Maybe I'll be able to cry when my girlfriend holds me close. Maybe I'll be able to open a cafe just for us, where we sell tea and play music, and live out our dream. Together.

Maybe I'll be happy. Maybe I'll be better off.

Maybe I'm being too sincere. Maybe not sincere enough.

Maybe you have a lot to think about. Maybe you should reflect on yourself as a person. Maybe we all should.

Maybe I'm being too sincere.

But that's what you wanted, right?

dehumidifier? no. you misheard. i said deHUMANifier

[redbuddi]

Commissions are finally back open! And like I've mentioned, I'm now accepting spicier material! Below is a list of what I will and wont do!

Good at:

Breast, Butt, Belly Expansion

Mini GTS

Human and Non-Human characters

Comics and/or Sequences (Will Cost Extra)

Character Design (Will Cost Extra)

Simple Animation (Will Cost Extra)

Thick lined, thin lined, and lineless art

Action/Romantic/Comedic scenes

Pinup Style Artwork

Can do:

Simple Animals

Visible Nipples

Light wounds/blood

Macro (up to a point)

Giantess

Simple machines/vehicles

Detailed animation (Will Cost Extra)

Shrinking

Non-Human TFs (Slime, Pool Toys, Anthro, etc)

Possession/Corruption

Hypnosis (Up to a point)

Horror Scenes (up to a point)

Can't/Wont do:

Visible Genitalia

Penis Growth

Scat/Watersports

Gore

Scenes of Dubious or Non-Consensual situations

Bimbofication or other forms of Brain Drain

Vore, Absorption

Cannibalism

Expansion with popping

Detailed/Complicated animals

Age Progression/Regression

Unwilling MtF/FtM

Inanimate TF

Feet Stuff

Stuffing

Bestiality (Situations that do not pass The Harkness Test)

Horror Scenes featuring overly gruesome/upsetting situations

Macro to the point of immobility

This list is not comprehensive and may be changed/updated over time.

[l0ve-letter-4-u]

dumping AM thoughts in tags

[iwasntstable]

𝗡.𝗦. | 𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗢 𝗚𝗢 | 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗪𝗢 (ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ)

🗀 C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/NOWHERETOGO [projects] ﹂ [my-work] | in-progress | favourites 　﹂ all | [series] | one-shot | blurb | head-cannons 　　﹂ [nowhere-to-go]

Series Summary: You knew the decision to follow your father into the so-called 'most dangerous Ward' was a dangerous one, but you had to do anything and everything possible to keep him alive. He's the only family you have left. Growing evermore reckless after the death of your mother and blinded by his lust for retribution, this decision is one that will alter the course of your life forever. And the life of a half-ghoul half-human who never thought he'd find himself entangled with the daughter of a former CCG Investigator.

NOWHERE TO GO is a multi-chapter story set in the Tokyo Ghoul universe, centring around Half-Ghoul!Noah and Human!Reader.

Chapter Content Tags: Graphic depictions of violence and gore including: physical injury, treatment of wounds, mentions of stitches, blood, bruising, ghoul on human violence, ghoul on ghoul violence. Depictions of anxiety, depictions of an attack.

Word Count: 5.5k.

Note: please be aware this story is set in the universe of Tokyo Ghoul, before the events of the manga and anime. it will, however, contain references to content found in the source material. specific content warnings will always be applied at the beginning of each chapter.

✶ [join the NOWHERE TO GO taglist.]

➔read on AO3➔➔ PREV　/　NEXT [coming soon..]

CREDIT › image — 'Tokyo Ghoul:re - Chapter 54' - 石田 スイ (Sui Ishida). › number divider — @saradika-graphics. › image edit — @iwasntstable (me). › star divider — @saradika-graphics. › short grey divider — @saradika-graphics. › Tokyo Ghoul — created by 石田 スイ (Sui Ishida).

It’s weirdly dark in the Paper Trail Café, but it had been getting darker earlier these days with the end of the year creeping closer every passing day. The floor-to-ceiling-length wall of windows revealed nothing but inky black emptiness; not even a single streetlight could be seen through the dark. As you clean the espresso machine, something that’s quickly become second nature, the bell tolls over the door, indicating the arrival of a customer.

Serving customers, however, still had your heart rate accelerating. Something you weren’t yet accustomed to. You push down your anxieties, take a deep breath, and prepare to enter customer service mode. But the figure that rounds the corner and approaches the counter is not the one you expected to see.

Towering over you, dressed head-to-toe in all black, it was him. The twisted blood-red extensions of himself raised around him, hovering there, twitching, like they were waiting to strike. Like a cobra standing tall with fangs bared, the figure of a predator. You still couldn’t see his face, disguised by the black ski-mask. Only his eyes and mouth were visible, but the room was so dark that the shadows shrouded one side of his face. Only one eye is visible through the darkness. His iris glinting the same blood red as his kagune at his waist, and what should’ve been the white of his eye, a pitch black sclera.

Your hands begin to shake behind the register; you can’t stop them. Your knife is downstairs in your jacket in the break room, and the quinque you were using—your mother’s—remained at home. There was no way you could hold your own in hand-to-hand combat with a ghoul. Especially not one as strong as him. He let you live on the bridge, but it was a trick, or some kind of trap, and now he’s come to finish the job.

The ghoul moves, something in his hand. A forest green card, Paper Trail Rewards, scrawled across the front. You raise the scanner, which flashes and beeps when the card is read successfully. “Would you like to use your rewards balance?” Your voice doesn’t feel like your own; the sound is foreign in your throat. The ghoul nods. You apply the balance, bringing the total to zero, and with black-leather-gloved hands, he puts the card back into his coat pocket.

The kettle whistles on the stove behind you. You don’t remember there being a stove up here. You look over your shoulder at it bubbling over, then back at the ghoul, who remained motionless on the other side of the counter.

Turning your back on him despite the adrenaline racing through your blood, you take the kettle off of the flame by the handle with both hands, the heat seeping into your skin, though not enough to burn, and set it down on the counter. 

On your left, prepared and ready for use was a coffee filter. The cone-shaped opening at the top was lined with a paper filter and filled to the brim with ground coffee. The aroma hits you then—the comfortingly familiar, warm embrace of fresh coffee. Lifting the kettle once more—the weight of it surprisingly light in your hand—you pour the boiling water slowly, carefully, over the ground coffee in circular motions, the delicate drip drip of the freshly brewed drink flowing down into the pot below.

A chill, a sense of unease, creeps up your spine as you pour. And when you glance out of the corner of your eye, he’s there. Right behind you. So close that you can feel his breath on the back of your neck. 

Pain hits you instantly, sharp and searing in your abdomen. The kettle slips from your hands and crashes to the ground—boiling water splashing and spilling everywhere, all over the counter, all over yourself, but it doesn’t burn. Your hands freeze in the air, trembling, and when you look down, the vibrant crimson glow of the rinkaku ghoul’s kagune protrudes out from your stomach from where it pierced you all the way through from the back. The insuppressible urge to scream claws its way up your throat, but it won’t come out. Stuck there, choking you. The only thing that falls from your lips is blood.

The ghoul removes his kagune from your body just as quickly as he struck. Helplessly, you press your hands to the gaping wound, the heat of the blood seeping past your fingers as your vision rapidly begins to fade, and you lose feeling in your extremities. Your knees buckle beneath you, and when you fall, your eyes open to meet the glow of the TV screen in the darkness.

She screams, the woman on the screen. A blood-curdling scream of terror as the zombie crawls its way over her and sinks its teeth into her shoulder. Feeling for the remote in the darkness, you find it quickly by your leg, hitting the power button and plunging the living room into darkness. You sit all the way up, legs over the edge of the couch, resting your elbows on your knees and dropping your head into your hands. Taking in a shaky breath in through your nose, exhaling through your mouth slowly, focusing intently on slowing the pace of your racing heart, and ridding the nausea in the pit of your stomach.

He scared you, that ghoul. You were no CCG Investigator. Your parents had shown you footage of ghoul attacks and combat techniques from a young age, their own unique way of preparing you for the world, but this wasn’t you. No matter how much information your parents showed you, you were not trained for combat against monsters. You could memorise the preferred fighting styles of a ghoul depending on their kagune type, the specific intricacies of their movements as they ready for an attack, or notice the social structure within a group to prioritise a target. That was all well and good, but to put it into practice? To hold a weapon in your hand and stand toe to toe with a creature that wants nothing more than to tear you limb from limb and consume you, bite by bite?

You run your hands down your face and swallow roughly, realising just how dry your mouth felt. You stand on shaky legs, pressing a hand to quell the ache in your abdomen, and cross the room to flip the switch on the lamp in the corner, bringing a little light to the darkness of the room. It was getting dark outside; the orange glow of the setting sun cast long shadows across the neighbourhood. No cars on the road or people wandering the streets, so you can only assume it was late evening—you’d slept through the day. Stopping by the couch to check your phone. Dead. Of course it is. You sigh and plug it into the charger that was right next to you the entire time, then collect the trash wrappers from the convenience store food you ate and the plate you ate the pasta from, taking them to the kitchen with you. Throwing the trash away and leaving the plate in the sink, then finally, getting a glass of water. You drink the whole thing down quickly, quenching the thirst without taking a breath and refilling the glass immediately after to sip a little slower. There was a dull ache in your head. There was a dull ache across your whole body, in fact. You rub the crease out of your brow and decide to face the music and check your injuries in the bathroom.

When you free your hair from the hair tie, the ache in your head diminishes significantly, but as you shake out your hair, you hear the sound of little pieces of gravel and concrete hitting the bathroom tile. Shaking out your clothes, more debris falls from your body, and you groan in frustration, digging out the dustpan and brush from the cupboard under the sink to sweep it up and tip it into the little bin by the toilet so you don’t track it throughout the entire apartment.

You gingerly shrug off your coat, wiggle free from your shirt, and let your cargos drop to the ground. Luckily, you’d managed to escape any kind of severe injury—unlike your father. The only broken skin was on the palms of your hands; the sturdy nature of the cargos saved your legs from a lot of damage, and the layers of the long sleeve and coat did the same for your arms and torso. You were, however, covered in bruises. 

The largest of which had to be on your abdomen. Mostly greenish-yellow in colour, covering the entire expanse of your stomach, already turning deep blue and purple in places, especially over the bones of your ribs where the tissue wasn’t as thick. Another sizable bruise on your hip where it hit the ground; pain radiated through the joint even when you weren’t moving. One on your shoulder too, fading down the side of your ribcage under your arm.

You grip the edge of the sink and lower your head, taking another deep breath. Your heart begins to race again, reality setting in. It could’ve been so much worse. You count your blessings, but you know you won’t get that lucky again. That ghoul let you live. It’s a dangerous situation you’re in—you and your father both. You have to get him out of here before it’s too late. When you raise your head and see your face staring back at you in the mirror, you can’t help but wonder if this is the view the rinkaku ghoul had when he stood over you laying on the ground. Shaking your head and pressing your knuckles to your eyes, you desperately need to get that monster out of your head. Hoping a shower will wash the thought of him away.

The hot water was an instant relief to your aching body; you didn’t realise just how cold you were until you stepped under the spray. The water ran a murky greyish brown, all the accumulated sweat and dirt from the tedious past twenty-four hours finally being erased from your body and vanishing down the drain. You hold your scraped hands under the flow of the water despite the sting, washing away the grit and dried blood. Inspecting them closer, the wounds weren’t too deep; the fact they were in such a mobile area would be problematic for healing, though. You knew you needed to rest them before your next shift at the bookstore at the weekend. 

You lather shampoo through your tangled hair as best you can while trying to avoid getting it in the wounds on your palms, though the sting did feel somewhat nice, helping to drag you out of the all-consuming fatigue and a welcome distraction from your incessant thoughts. Once the shampoo was rinsed away, you smear conditioner along the length and ends of your hair, taking this moment to let it sit and to rest your forehead against the cold tile of the bathroom wall while the water beats against your back. Taking deep breaths again, in and out, slowly and evenly, telling yourself, “You’re safe. Right now, you’re safe. You’re alive.”

You rinse the conditioner from your hair, scrub down your body with shower gel, wash your face, and once finally clean, wrap yourself in a soft, fluffy white towel. You pause by the sink to brush your teeth before heading for your room for some comfortable clothes. The thick, grey sweats and a hoodie helped bring you back to a sense of secure normality, like you didn’t just fight four ghouls in the dead of night a few hours ago. You collect the clothes you’d left strewn across your room in your arms along with the ones from the bathroom floor and throw them in the washer-dryer. While in the light of the kitchen, you dig out some ibuprofen, swallowing down two. 

The clock on the wall reads just past 6PM. After taking care of yourself, you know it’s probably about time to check on your father. You intended to check on him every hour, but your phone dying before the first alarm could even sound thwarted that idea. You take the first aid kit from the bathroom and take a deep breath before cracking open his bedroom door.

He’d barely moved. The steady rise and fall of his chest told you he was sleeping soundly. You kneel by the side of his bed and turn on the bedside lamp, lay the first aid case on the ground, and click it open. You rummage around for some gloves and wiggle them on carefully, then pull back the sheets from your father’s body. The deepest of the wounds had bled through the dressings and needed changing; the others, the less severe injuries, when you peeked under, appeared to be fine and could be left alone. 

You work quietly, carefully peeling tape from skin, throwing soiled dressings in the trash, cleaning wounds with antiseptic, reapplying clean dressings, and moving onto the next one. His pulse had strengthened, and his temperature had increased, almost back to normal. None of his wounds were showing signs of infection, and the rest seemed to have done him good, though he definitely needed to eat. He began to stir when you were almost finished. Groaning and cracking his eyes open, squinting against the light.

He cranes his neck to look down at himself and asks through cracked lips, “How bad is it?”

“Could’ve been worse,” your own voice uncharacteristically rough. “You needed a lot of stitches this time.”

“Hmm,” is all he says, resting back flat against the pillows. “Did you kill any of them?”

Your eyes snap to his face, and your hands cease their movements. “That’s seriously what you ask first?” You’re unable to hide the anger in your tone. “No. I didn’t kill any of them,” you snap the gloves off your hands and throw them in the trash, slamming the first aid kit closed. “I was too busy trying to save your life.” Shaking your head in disbelief at his complete disregard for your wellbeing, you stand and take the case and trash bag in hand, turning your back on him to leave him alone. “Oh, and I’m fine, by the way.”

You slam his bedroom door behind you when you leave, maybe a little too hard because the force sends a jolt of pain through your bruised shoulder. It was a childish move to slam the door like that, but the anger racing through you demanded to be released even just a little bit. You risked your life for him. You could’ve died last night, and he cares more about the state of the ghouls than you, his own daughter. Blinking your eyes hard against the burning threat of tears, you tie off the plastic bag and throw it out in the kitchen, then leave the first aid case on the counter and attempt to distract yourself by rummaging through the cupboards to check on the food situation. There are a few cans of soup; they’ll suffice for a while, but the state of the fridge was a little more dire. Though it was getting late and dark, you decide getting out of this apartment is probably a good idea. 

Collapsing on the couch to turn your phone back on, your heart drops when you see zero messages. Not from your friends back home, not even from Sara. Opening the map app to see if there are any stores closer than the ones in the centre of town, you find a small 24/7 corner store the app says is a seven-minute walk away. Seven minutes there, seven minutes back. You can do that. 

Reluctantly, you change out of your comfy clothes into a pair of black jeans and a black tank top. The load you’d put in the washer had finished, so you fish out the jacket—still warm from the dry cycle. You slip your boots back on and tie them tight to your aching feet. Scouring the apartment for your wallet, you find it on your bed and add it to your jacket pocket along with your phone.

Your muscles protest when you drag the couch away from the door. You don’t pull it all the way, though, just enough for you to slip through a small crack in the door. Wrenching the door closed behind you on wonky hinges, you tell yourself you’ll fix that when you get back. Sliding the key in the lock and pulling on the handle to double check the door was secure before you leave. You take, for what felt like the millionth time today, another deep breath to calm your nerves, then head out into the cool night air. 

The corner store wasn’t hard to find, but you don’t spend long there. The fluorescent lighting hurting your eyes, and the creeping sense of unease at being out so late made you anxious to get back to the apartment, even though you’d desperately wanted to get out of there in the first place. 

On the walk back, the extent of your injuries begins to catch up with you. The ibuprofen had worn off and the ache in your hip returned, causing you to favour your other leg just a little, a slight limp in your step. The plastic bag filled with bread, some fresh vegetables, a package of chicken, some packages of instant ramen, and a bottle of bleach thudded and rustled against your good leg with every step.

Unfortunately, the distraction of the pain left you unaware of your surroundings, and the ghoul in the shadows that had watched you all the way from your front door saw that little limp and decided you would be an easy target.

All at once, you become acutely aware of the footsteps behind you. How long had they been there? A chill ran down your spine. How could you be so stupid? How could you forget where you were? 

The sound of the footsteps gets closer and closer, and when you glance over your shoulder, the face hidden beneath the hood breaks out into a grin. You scan the streets around you, your throat tightening when you realise there is nobody around. You’re alone. 

With a twitch and a roll of his shoulders, the figure of the man unashamedly reveals his ghoul nature to you, his ukaku-type kagune bursting free at his shoulders, shimmering before your eyes beneath the streetlights. It happens so fast, the wing-like weapon rising high above him, poised in the way you recognised from all the times you were forced to study the attack patterns of ghouls by your parents, priming itself for an attack.

Without a second thought, you drop the bag of groceries and sprint as fast as you can for the closest cover you can find—a dumpster down an alleyway. THOCK-THOCK-THOCK came the sounds of the shards hitting the metal, reverberating through the air like metallic drum beats. A sting in your arm tells you you're hit, and the warm feeling of blood running down your arm inside your sleeve confirms it. Instinctually, you reach for the blade in your coat pocket, your heart plummeting when you find it empty. You forgot it. The one thing you fucking needed, you forgot.

The ghoul pants heavily as he runs, a growl present underneath when he rounds the corner, desperately clawing at the metal of the dumpster to drag it away. 

“Fuck!” You can't help but scream when it's wrenched out from under your hands and launched across the alleyway, slamming into the brick wall opposite and crumpling in on itself. You scramble backwards, the unhealed cuts on your hands stinging when they meet the tiny stones on the ground. 

He's salivating. The ghoul licks his lips in anticipation of his first bite. Mania practically glows in his crimson eyes as he stalks slowly towards you into the shadows. You know there’s nowhere to go when your back hits some smaller metal bins, the lid of one tipping off and crashing to the ground like a cymbal, the sound harsh in your ears, ringing continuously even after it stopped moving. 

The ghoul lurches forward, crawling over you animalistically on all fours and leaning in close, deeply inhaling your scent by the skin of your neck. With no other option, your fingers curl around the cold metal trash can lid, swinging your arm with all your strength, twisting your body to the side, and striking the ghoul square in the face with the edge. He cries out in pain, falling sideways following the force of the hit. With just enough room and just enough time, you scramble to your feet, making a break for the mouth of the alleyway. 

The streetlights at the end are your guiding light to relative safety. You push through the pain in your hip, though it screams at you with every beat of your feet on the ground; the ache in your abdomen makes breathing deep a near impossible task, but you have no choice. You can hear that he's right behind you. 

You could never outrun a ghoul, you knew that, especially not in your current state, but that glance you take behind your shoulder, the blood dripping down his face from his brow and the insatiable hunger reflected in his feral eyes, makes you try regardless. Three more steps, and you're there, back onto the street. Maybe you'll scream? Run straight for the nearest building and bang on the door; beg for help.

You don't get the chance to decide, though. A silhouette walks calmly, confidently into your path, and as you run closer, the shape becomes clearer. Dark eyes peering through two black holes in a ski-mask. Him. You try to stop so quickly that you skid to the ground, your feet slipping out from underneath you, and you fall at his feet. The leader of The Omens is standing tall over you once again. 

When he speaks, he looks directly ahead at the ghoul that was in pursuit of you. “This is not your territory to hunt. You've been warned before.” 

“Who the fuck are you to decide that?" He spits. You glance back and start to panic when his kagune is primed for attack again, twitching anxiously behind him. The glint of shards catches your eye, and you flinch preemptively at the anticipation of pain. Only it never comes. The Omens leader is in front of you now; having moved so quickly, you didn't even see him. His own kagune free and curled around himself in a makeshift shield, blocking himself and you from the blades of the ukaku ghoul. 

Blood drips from the lacerations in his rinkaku kagune as the shards dissipate, and the second the barrage is over, he moves. Leaping forward and closing the distance with lightning speed, he strikes the ghoul, impacting him in the chest with a sickening thud. He spits up blood as he staggers back, his ukaku the only thing keeping him upright and steadying his balance. He turns on his heel and scales the walls of the alley, ukaku propelling him upwards in an attempt to gain the high ground.

The masked ghoul slams the points of his kagune into the bricks, the shock of the impact dislodging him from the wall, causing him to slip down lower. One of his tendrils strikes out, wrapping around his leg, and he drags him back down to the ground, slamming him hard into the pavement.

You haven’t moved. You didn’t know if you could. The pain from your injuries spreads throughout your body, making your limbs feel like they’re locked in place. And the fear has you frozen to the spot too.

The two ghouls tangle down the alleyway, the rinkaku ghoul always having the upper hand. It was clear your attacker was fading. The glow from his kagune dimmed with every exertion of energy. He needed to eat. To replenish the RC cells from your flesh and blood, and then maybe he might stand half a chance against his opponent. 

It was clear that this was like playtime for the man you fought last night. His movements are simple and coordinated, side-stepping attacks and vanishing from the line of fire with an ease you didn’t think possible—even for a ghoul. He grasps the ukaku ghoul by the collar of his hoodie and tosses his exhausted body at the wall, where he ricochets off the brick almost comically, rolling and coming to a stop just a couple of meters away from where you sit.

The masked ghoul never failed to maintain his threatening aura. Looking at you for the first time, the long, shining, serpine tentacles flared behind him as he approached. The weaker ghoul, sensing his inevitable end, raises his head from the ground to look at you too, and in a last-ditch burst of energy, once more scrambles across the ground on all fours to loom on top of you. With teeth bared, he wraps his hand around your throat; struggling to his feet, he pulls you up with him. He turns to face his own attacker—who had stopped dead in his tracks halfway down the darkness of the alleyway—using your body to shield his own. 

His wild face is all you see; you fear it’ll be the last thing you ever see. His hand tightens, the pressure in your head increases, and your eyes begin to water. Like a boa constrictor wrapped around your throat, every time you exhale, it’s harder to take in air on the inhale. With superior strength, he lifts you higher, your feet slipping out from under you, the toes of your boots only just scraping the floor.

A gentle breeze brushes your cheek, and when you look to your left out of the corner of your eye, the masked ghoul is there. His own hand wrapped tightly around your attacker’s throat. The creak of his leather glove is accompanied by the wheeze of the ghoul’s breath reaching a higher and higher pitch as he squeezes.

Your feet return to the ground, but he still doesn't let go. Digging your nails deep into his arm, you pull, desperately trying to get away as you rapidly become lightheaded. Your eyes flick back and forth between the two ghouls, wondering which one will kill you first. But the masked ghoul’s eyes are only locked on the man that has you by the throat. That’s when you realise the masked ghoul, the leader of The Omens, only had one ghoul eye. 

“I'm not letting my meal go, man,” the ghoul rasps. “I haven't eaten in months.”

“We gave you your chances.”

You feel the warmth of blood hit your face first, then see the shining scales of the masked ghoul’s kagune glimmer just as close to you now as it was last night. It was beautiful up close. Like rubies shimmering in the sunlight. Or diamonds dripping in blood. It pierced the ghoul in two places, abdomen and chest; the two other appendages poised behind his back, angled towards him like knives ready to strike. Just like in your nightmare.

Despite the massive physical trauma, his hand remains tight around your neck. A flash of silver in the rinkaku ghoul’s mouth on his teeth catches your eye before your senses are overloaded with the ear-piercing screams of the ukaku ghoul. Guttural and feral, the leader of The Omens tears out the flesh of his throat with one quick snap of his jaws. The ghoul gargles, choking on his own blood as it seeps down into his lungs. 

It’s then that he drops you. At last releasing his hold on your throat, but your legs can't bear the weight of your body as you collapse back to the ground, gasping down air desperately, while your eyes remain locked on the horror unfolding above you. 

What was clearly the ghoul’s carotid artery—sliced cleanly in two—spurted blood all over himself and the rinkaku ghoul, pumping in time with his fading heartbeats. The masked ghoul spat, a sizable chunk of blood-stained flesh slapping wet against the concrete, the lines of what was once a tattoo still visible on the skin. Bile burns in your throat at the sight.

The rinkaku ghoul releases his hold, his kagune pulling free from where it penetrated the other ghoul's body. He remained standing for a fraction of a second, like his body hadn’t yet caught up with what had happened to him, but it wasn't long before his almost lifeless body crumpled to the ground with a sickening thud, joining the chunk of his throat. His face is turned towards you as his blood soaks into the concrete. A vibrant pool of red spreads out around him and reaches for you as you watch the light leave his eyes. A twisted grimace of pain forever locked onto his features.

“We can't stay here.” The voice was so close to your ear that you flinched when you heard it. The rinkaku ghoul had crouched down at eye level, his kagune gone, and both eyes once again deceptively human, but there was something there: sincerity. And again, a familiarity in your mind, like you’d seen those eyes before.

He holds his hand out to you, and you don't know why, but you take it; the blood on his glove smears across your palm. He pulls you to your feet, and with a hand resting gently on the small of your back, he escorts you on shaky legs away from what quickly became a crime scene. 

Thankfully, you don’t walk far—maybe a minute down the road. He leads you towards a towering apartment block that was structurally similar to the one you lived in. Cool grey concrete walls stretching up into the sky, broken up by panes of black and the occasional warm glow from an occupied floor. He pushes the door open, gesturing for you to walk inside. The shock that had clouded your head dissipated in an instant when you realised you were about to enter into a secluded location with a ghoul that wanted you dead just the day before. Noticing your hesitation, he nods slowly. A wordless acknowledgement of a treaty between the two of you.

The hallway was empty, two sets of footsteps echoing through the passageway towards the elevator at the end. The ghoul presses the button to call the elevator down with the knuckle of his gloved hand, tactfully avoiding smearing blood on the surface. You squint your eyes against the garishly yellow painted walls that were harshly illuminated by the fluorescent lighting. The red numbers ticked down one by one to the ground floor until, with a ding, the doors opened. He gestures with an open palm for you to enter first again before he presses the button for the second floor.

Every muscle in your body throbbed with exhaustion, and the wound on your arm stung sharply now that the adrenaline had worn off. All you wanted to do was collapse against the cool metal wall, to lay your head back, and close your eyes, but you couldn’t show weakness. Not in front of this ghoul.

You wondered how he would kill you. Would he make it quick? Carving up your corpse into bite-size pieces to be consumed over the next few months. Or would he do it slowly? Maybe letting you live yesterday was all part of his game.

The elevator shudders to a stop, and the doors open. This time, the ghoul steps out first, pausing in the hallway to gesture to the left, leading you towards one of the two doors. He takes a ring of keys from a pocket on his coat, unlocking the door and leaning in to flip on the light inside. One final time, holding out a palm for you to enter before him.

You wondered how long your dad would last on his own. He’ll probably be able to survive his current injuries, but without you there as his conscience, he’d be back out on the streets hunting ghouls. That most likely would be his downfall.

The apartment was small and less than sparsely furnished. A single black leather couch in the centre of the room, covered with a plastic sheet, facing a TV stand with no TV and a standing lamp in the corner. Your boots track dirt across the wooden floor; no rugs. Easier to clean up the blood, you suppose.

You turn when you hear the door close behind you, the ghoul blocking your only exit. Silently, he pulls on the fingers of his gloves to loosen them before pulling them off completely and tucking them into his jacket pocket. Long, slender, familiarly tattooed fingers grasp the fabric of his ski-mask, pulling it from his head.

Your breath catches in your throat, almost like the dead ghoul’s hand was clasped back around your airways. “You,” your voice was a hoarse whisper.

To be continued in part two. PREV　/　NEXT [coming soon..]

➤ 𝗣𝗢𝗣𝗨𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 (34) :

⌞1𝗌𝗍 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖢𝖧𝖨𝖸𝖮𝖣𝖠⌝ ‣ @somebodyels3 ‣ @fadingangelwisp ‣ @english-fucker ‣ @missduffsblog ‣ @amelia-acero

⌞2𝗇𝖽 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖢𝖧𝖴𝖮⌝ ‣ @fadingintothegrey ‣ @babygirlchuuya ‣ @bluebird19 ‣ @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard ‣ @lil-garbitch

⌞3𝗋𝖽 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖬𝖨𝖭𝖠𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @thisbicc ‣ @clingylittlebun-blog ‣ @queen-foraday ‣ @astridwesson ‣ @dethroneackerman

⌞4𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖲𝖧𝖨𝖭𝖩𝖴𝖪𝖴⌝ ‣ @blairboo ‣ @themorticians-world ‣ @comforting-madness ‣ @savaneafricaine ‣ @tosoundlessdarkistare

⌞5𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖡𝖴𝖭𝖪𝖸𝖮⌝ ‣ @aubrey-melinoe ‣ @badomensls ‣ @theaudraeymarie ‣ @psychomaniacmind ‣ @stardust-and-starlight

⌞6𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖳𝖠𝖨𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @looney-goose ‣ @sadbitchenergy ‣ @friedchildblaze ‣ @touyas-princess ‣ @strltsaiuki

⌞7𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖲𝖴𝖬𝖨𝖣𝖠⌝ ‣ @lovesick-evangelist ‣ @sanekiii ‣ @dravenskye ‣ @minah2020

[black-ak9]

Pre-Halloween survey. Day 7.

What weapons do your vampires prefer to use?

That concludes your marathon, my friend. I hope you discovered something new by answering the questions. I'll be looking forward to our next meeting!

This marathon is useful and fun. Thank you!!

It is commonly thought that vampires do not need weapons since they themselves are a weapon and fight very well due to their abilities.

However, not everyone has the same strength, strategy and speed to fight hand to hand or the well-developed ability of telekinesis.

Something important: weapons are a second option for convenience, and they do not act as common as with humans, in fact, the moment a vampire exercises action with it, it changes to be:

More to letal

More precition

No cartridge or ammunition changes, magic is a very useful aid.

If one has perfect mastery, the weapon itself will have a will and will obey the vampire and his attack.

Weapons used by some in past centurys

Swords and spears for those who are comfortable fighting hand to hand

Bows, harpoons and crossbows: for those with good aim

Axes and spike balls: for vampires who like to add their touch of originality in battle

Whips: to attack from a considerable distance, hit, get closer, etc.

Weapons for the modernized vampires

Grenades and Bombs: For those chaotic types who prefer to create damage and buy time

1 to 3 barrel pistols: it depends on whether it is for aesthetics or because it is useful to them To intimidate.

Shotguns: Hunting mainly, whether human or animal, is more to create some drama and style and leave behind the wild hunt with bites and scratches.

Machine gun: it is not common to find them in action, it must be because they are military

Drones: If you don't have soldiers, better robots that follow your orders without needing electronic commands but rather mental ones

Although many vampires are old school and traditionalist, they prefer to strike with their own hand and power, rather than rely on a weapon.

Maybe some weapons are missing or it is not written well, sorry, I am open to corrections and comments.

[jonathan-cranes-mistress-of-fear]

Could you give your top 5 Scarecrow quotes of all time?

Not in any order: and I'm doing ten.

He's more than just scrawny Jonathan Crane, more than just the Scarecrow. He's s scientist, too. A trained psychologist who made fear the center of all his research. The gas was just a tool, one of many. He will show them, these doubters and bullies. These small men. He will show them and then all gotham (and yes, even that other manipulator of fear, The Batman!) that he doesn't need his special gas to strike terror in others. He will show them what real fear is all about

Fear is primal. Raw. Blood pressure increases. Veins in your skin contract. Your immune system shuts down. Even if you attempt to steel against fear, ... it is undeniable. Fear makes us human. That was the conclusion of Charles Darwin. Who am I to argue? I'm a man of science, too. A psychologist. But few know my academic achievements. If you know me at all, you know me as ... the Scarecrow!

But fear reveals the truth, erodes your self-control. Soon you will kill and become that which you hate the most. Soon, the Bat will be broken!

It's gone, Dark Knight-the grip you had on Gotham. Your long reign of fear. I'm sovereign now.

It's not fear that drives the Batman, not exactly. It's loss. The man behind that striking cowl lost something dear to him--something that made him afraid. Something that made him refuse to ever be afraid again. But he is afraid. Of losing Robin. Of losing Gotham. Of you.

I made this just for you. I admit I'm anxious to see what you think. When I work, you're the audience I'm trying to please. I hope you're flattered by that. You should be.

The sinister Scarecrow is free once more -- a living heart attack loose in the dark!

Your fears got the better of you I see. How fitting that I will win and Batman's life will be over... not because of what I have done to your precious city, but because you are scared of what I will do to your friends, your family. They are your weakness, hiding just below the surface. I'm sure that you're scared of what will happen when I tear that mask from your face. What will we find? Your true identity, or proof that without your mask you are nothing. Impotent. Powerless, Afraid.

I was a professor of psychology, specializing in phobias. Inducing terror has always intrigued me. Even, as a boy, I liked to frighten things. People, animals, it was all the same. I became obsessed with fear's crippling power. Later, when I became their leading professor of subliminal psychology at the university, I began performing experiments on fear and its subsequent effects. Dr. Long thought I went too far. He called me a lunatic. So now, they will learn the true nature of horror!

I fear nothing and no one. Not even you -- the biggest and worst bully of all, the one who shattered my confidence and buried the pieces in that dark pit of madness -- locked me fast in the grim stone of Arkham. But I'm out now! Risen again! And I am a strong-willed, single-minded, bat-hating machine! I've spent years honing my violent dance -- endless hours mastering the Crane style of martial arts. I am a new Scarecrow -- the invincible agent of your doom... I am the vengeance reaper!

[swiftgod003]

For the new saga, I have some of my own ideas, well, I hope many people will accept them, but unfortunately, in my country, many fans don't listen to what I say and just want to hear what they want to hear(My English level is not very good, the following are machine translatisee):

What I'm saying is that everyone has assumed Jay's goofy animations (which I would consider goofy enough) as the official established plot (note that plot and storyline are different, the storyline serves the plot). But in reality, Jay's first album did not have the long animations found in his new album, at most there were some short clips to help understand the storyline. The animators at the time drew their animations based on their own interpretations of the lyrics and their own imagination, creating excellent works one by one. Later albums saw Jay adding more and more long animations, it is likely that he did so because he saw more and more animations and wanted to try it himself (or at the request of his fans) to create his own animations. Jay has also said that he is not good at visual design, so he may have known that the animations he designed would not be good. (It seems that they were used to help understand the storyline, telling us that we're going to drown here, or that we're about to fight here.)

So, I think that what Jay thought of can be considered just one of the countless works, and if you don't like it, you don't have to watch his works.

In summary, the plot was something that Jay had thought out in advance, but the storyline was not. His animation was simply his own idea of the storyline, so if you don't like it, you don't have to watch it. (I think there will definitely be an animation where Ody has an epic battle with Poseidon, both of them getting badly hurt in the process, and Ody just barely wins in the end. Even if there isn't one, we can create our own, again, to reiterate, the plot is predetermined, but the storyline is free.)

Regarding the plot where a mortal defeats a god, and in the end, Poseidon is injured and says "Please," if you simply cannot stand this scene, then you can stop reading here and leave (thank you for your cooperation).

Epic, in essence, is a large-scale, adaptation and re-creation of the original work, rather than being completely based on the original classic. Why could Ody defeat Poseidon? It's not about who is stronger or weaker, it's about skill counter! Skill counter! Didn't Jay post his setting for the gods earlier? In his setting, even Hermes can fight Poseidon. Then, it makes sense for Ody to wear a windbag like Hermes and use speed to fight Poseidon. If Poseidon were as powerful as in myth, the fight between Hermes and Poseidon would be a joke, let alone Ody. (Of course, the jetpack is a little bit unrealistic.)

There's also the fact that Ody is fighting with Poseidon directly, which is just not realistic. Does Ody have to be the same wise and cunning as in the original? I think a human, no matter how powerful, is still just a human. After going through so much pain and suffering, he would break down, lose his mind completely, and give up. Let's not talk about the original here. In Epic, Ody is already a completely different person from the beginning. Epic's Ody would feel guilty for killing a baby, would he? He would, right? He would just pat himself on the back and walk away without any burden. Epic's Ody is suffering from the goddess's harassment on Calypso's island, would he? He would, right? He even had a child with the goddess.

For me, I would rather accept the epic version of the Odysey. If the epic version of the Odysey, which has endured all the sufferings over the past 20 years, can go home immediately, but then be stopped again, and still be able to play mind games with Poseidon as before, then I suggest abandoning the epic version and going back to the original work. The original version of the Odysey is more in line with everyone's mental standards.

Finally, I ask loyal readers not to curse me 🧎🏻‍♂️. If my opinion has made you uncomfortable, you can simply exit. Please don't curse me, I really fear it. Thank you for your cooperation 🙏🏻.(However, I welcome friendly discussions.)

[urlocalwhumper]

living weapon whumpee who's never known anything but pain and violence.

their existence hurts. they were made to be effective, not happy, and their masters decided that keeping them in constant pain provided better results. they're wilder, more unpredictable, and the pain keeps them from thinking straight enough to question anything.

they're only given painkillers, only allowed a respite from their seemingly endless suffering, after a successful mission. it keeps them loyal, and most importantly, teaches their brain to associate acts of violence with relief and rewards.

everyone they've ever met has treated them as a tool, a monster, or both. they don't know how to be anything else.

that is until they're rampaging through a village, destroying, killing, whatever their masters demand of them. whatever will give them a few blissful hours of numbness.

one of the villagers steps out of a ruined building and looks them straight in the eyes. whumpee expects fear, hatred, disgust, the things they see in the faces of every person who's ever crossed their path. but they see something completely different.

compassion.

whumpee is so stunned, they don't think to move or do anything at all as the villager steps closer, gently reaching out a hand to cup whumpee's face.

"oh, poor thing." they murmur, taking in the creature in front of them - part human, part animal, part machine. "they've done a number on you, huh?"

whumpee blinks at them. pain continues to course through their body, but the gentle hand on their cheek distracts them, even if just a little. all the indistinct noise in their foggy, addled mind finally goes quiet.

caretaker had stepped out in front of the being destroying their home with the intention to get through to it or die trying, and the expectation to absolutely die trying.

they did not at all expect the seemingly feral mishmash of metal, fur, and flesh to lean so heavily into their touch that they nearly collapsed into caretaker's arms.

[prolibytherium]

Would kill to read animal POV fiction that has the animal POV’s interaction with humans be like, semi realistic to the level of caution most predators take with large prey and/or competitors (including humans).

Like instead of the usual - “the human is such a weak, pathetic creature... so slow, no claws, blunt teeth… completely helpless without its 'Fire Sticks'. how is it the master of the earth?” type crap it’s like, the bear protagonist or whatever approaches some dude who spreads their arms and yells and the bear is like “FUUUUUUUUCK THAT THING JUST GOT HUGE. IT'S LARGE AND MAKING NOISES. HOLY FUCK.”

[digibash]

not a regular digibash, BUT I made these graphics last month and wanted to share them far and wide. They are available in various sizes and you can post them, print them, use them as banners, wallpapers, whatever! just don’t steal and sell them please. no credit required! but it’s cool if you do

all images are here: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1WHpfVem5SM1qGrsBEYqbSPa7dIPy2c6W?usp=sharing

happy pride month

[thechaotichorselord]

WIP that i hope to finish

i just wanna post what i got so far because i’m proud of it :3

song is QUEEN- english cover by trickle

Black belongs to @blackkatdraws

[covertblizzard]

jaykyle au where they're theatre kids in the same school but they're not the actors jason's the scriptwriter/director and kyle is the prop manager (i don't know the official terms sorry) and they'd probably do an amazing job on the backstage setting if they could stop arguing for 5 whole seconds about their artistic visions and ideas and how "this would obviously work better this way"

[doomdoomofdoom]

any trans person should get HRT for free (no insurance required) and in exchange they should participate in the occasional study/survey.

research into sex hormones and their effects is so scarce and you have a whole ass population group who's willing to not only switch up their hormones but keep it up for very long periods of time. you could run some incredible long term studies with participants across all sorts of demographics.

while it's impossible to conduct any blind studies on this due to observable change in appearance, there's still so so so much data we're giving up on because we'd rather...

lemme check my notes. that cant be right.

...because we'd rather deny trans people health care and let them die. huh.

[thefigureresource]

Nendoroid Bendy & Ink Bendy [Bendy and the Dark Revival] from Good Smile Company coming April 2024.

[sinistersinita]

Being both a Transformers fan and other mecha media fan is like. So tiring lmao. The discourse about "Transformers ≠ Mecha" on Twitter is just painfully headache inducing.

Transformers is Mecha. Super Robot genre, to be exact. It falls under the same category as the Brave/Yuusha series of sentient robots. And no. Not all Braves were human-made. In the same way, in some canon, Cybertronian were created, not born.

Take Death Drives from Bravern, for example. They are fully sentient, they do not require a pilot, they are an alien lifeforms that evolved over millions of years AND have an after life. They are still considered Mecha because they are mechanical life forms.

Mecha as a genre is very important and very influential. Transformers being considered a mecha series is not a bad thing. It can be alongside other mecha series as the inspirations for many things yet to come. And that is a beautiful thing.

[jrueships]

older white men who have to announce how much they prefer college sports over professional sports & obsess over it kinda creep me out idk