Israel transferred dozens of boxes of mutilated human remains to Gaza says British MP
Independent British MP Jeremy Corbyn said he received a message from Al-Shifa Hospital director reporting that Israeli forces had transferred dozens of boxes containing human remains to Gaza. According to Corbyn, hospital staff found skulls and fragmented remains believed to belong to Palestinians killed during the genocide.
Gaza’s Health Ministry confirmed that multiple sets of unidentified remains were returned through the International Committee of the Red Cross, describing them as severely damaged and difficult to identify.
Medical officials in Gaza have long reported that some remains showed unusual features, including surgical incisions, raising concerns about possible organ removal before the bodies were handed over. Local medical reports from Gaza have revealed that many of the remains consisted only of bones, making standard forensic identification nearly impossible.
TW: AFAB!Reader, Venom!Reader, Sub!Miguel, Rough Sex, Biting/Blood, Everything's Consensual But Reader's So Pissed About It, Tentacle Sex, Threesome (?), Semi-Public Sex, Implied Stalking, and Obsessive Behavior.
[Based On This Drabble]
Miguel found you in a narrow alleyway, gore dripping from your teeth and tar writhing against your skin.
From a distance, he thought you might’ve been injured. Braced against a rusting chain-link fence that could barely hold your weight, bulking arms crossed over your torso, swallowed entirely by your symbiote – he could already picture a bloody gash in your side, a lead pipe embedded in flesh and organ, a cluster of eye-searing colors and patterns slowly eating away at some vital part of you. He could feel his pulse beating against his ears, his throat tightening with a familiar anxiety no amount of anger and exhaustion could seem to drown out, but of course, his panic was wasted on you. With another step, a closer look, he could see that the blood dripping from your teeth wasn’t your own, that you were holding your stomach, not your chest.
He realized, as he stepped into your line of sight, as you shot to face him with a violent snarl, that you weren’t hurt. You weren’t injured.
You were hungry.
No, starving. He’d seen symbiotes waiting to be sent back to their original dimensions exhibit similar behavior: a slight shake in your shoulder, a certain rattle in your chest, a wildness in the pupilless eyes of the mask you rarely wore, outside of your sporadic fights. It was in your voice, too, in the hollowness your hostility couldn’t seem to fill. “What do you want?” you spat, and it occurred to him that he couldn’t remember the last time you raised your voice around him. It wasn’t your style. You were the silent, skulking type. This was pure defensiveness, the rabid thrashing of a cornered. This was desperation. “Take a step closer, and I swear I’ll—”
“Bite me.”
Your shoulders jutted upward, claws sprouting from your curled fingers. Your symbiote’s thrashing slowed, the black tar of its faux skin clinging that much closer to your own, and when you failed to respond, he repeated himself, fighting not to let his voice shake. “What are you waiting for? Take a bite out of me.”
A scarlet tongue slipped past your jagged teeth, lapping over the lips of your mask. It took everything he had not to picture that tongue wrapped around his cock, or better yet, your mouth closed around his lower body as it fucked him open. “Little heroes don’t usually ask to be eaten.”
“I said you can have a bite. Taking anything more, and I’ll be forced to treat you like a threat.” You didn’t move, but he could feel your eyes boring into him, the weight of your attention pressing into his chest, making it difficult to breathe. If only to distract himself, he went on. “Heroes help people, and you look like you’re about to—”
Whatever remaining patience you had thinned and snapped before he could finish. There was a low growl, a flash of pure darkness, and then, familiar tendrils were tangled around his wrists, his ankles, his neck and dragged him upward, until his feet no longer touched the ground. His own claws lashed out reflexively, but he stopped himself from attacking your symbiote, from so much as taking a breath before you surged forward and buried your teeth in his side, tearing through the nano-fabric in the blink of an eye and biting down.
He’d seen you eat, before – caught you hunched over corpses mutilated beyond the hope of identification, seen you strip flesh from bone in a matter of seconds. This was different. This wasn’t just gluttony, it was wrath, anger rolling off of you in waves as you tore away, rending flesh from muscle and swallowing it down. His suit reacted immediately – isolating the injured area with a plaster-like bandage and injecting a thousand microscopic numbing agents around the perimeter of the wound, but still, he could feel the burn spreading outward, filling his veins and distorting his vision. He could feel his mouth falling open, a deep groan catching his throat before he could vocalize his agony. He could feel his cock, throbbing underneath the taut fabric of his suit, already aching for your attention.
But, you were preoccupied. Your mouth fell to his thigh, tearing away another strip of flesh and tissue. The wound was smaller than the first, but deeper, the points of your curved teeth piercing his skin and sending pangs of pure electricity to the pit of his stomach. This time, there was little he could do to stop himself from reacting, from clenching his eyes shut and letting out a noise – cracked, guttural, as pained as it was wanting. It was humiliating, how easily you could make him abandon his dignity. It was pathetic, the things he was willing to do just to be close to you.
You lingered there, lapping at his blood until you’d drunken your fill before pulling away. With more than a little satisfaction, he noted that it was his blood staining your teeth, dripping down your lips and coating the slick skin of your symbiote as you snapped your fingers, as your mask recoiled and your symbiote sunk below your neck. You could never seem to hide your face, not from him, not for very long. He couldn’t say he was much better. If his society wasn’t at-risk, he would’ve given up his identity for the chance to hear his name roll off your tongue. “You’re so full of shit.” It was your voice, now – just your voice, the reverberation of your symbiote’s tenor no long playing beside your own. “You’ve been following me around for months, and you still think I’d believe you’re just trying to be a good little spider? How many hours have you spent begging us to fuck you when you could’ve been playing hero? How many people have you let me eat because you wanted to get your dick wet?”
Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. He tried to justify it, sometimes, to do his research on the handful of bodies you left in more or less one piece and tell himself that all of your victims must’ve been abusive husbands or rich bastards or cops, but he would’ve served you a new corpse every night if it meant you’d keep holding him like this, your symbiote around his neck and your warm breath fanning over his open wounds, if it meant you’d keep touching him – your fingertips skirting over the edge of his injury before coming to rest just below his hip. “Drop the suit.”
He didn’t hesitate. Your scowl deepened as his suit glitched and dissolved, leaving only the upper half of his mask in-tact, but your symbiote didn’t seem to share your animosity. Its touch was teasing, its mannerisms playful – the tendrils around his ankles rising and forcing his knees to bend, another pair binding his thighs to his calves and spreading his legs as far apart as his advanced flexibility would allow. There was a pitchy chirping noise – the sound meaningless to him but, apparently, comprehensible enough to you.
Your frown quirked but, with another round of probing from your symbiote, you reached out and wrapped your fist around his aching cock, your grip too tight not to be taken as a sign of aggression. You didn’t move, didn’t shift, but he bucked into your hand reflexively, gritting his teeth to keep himself from moaning and fueling his own degradation. Even that effort was quickly proved futile – gone the moment you drove the heel of your palm into the base of his cock and a truly broken whimper was ripped out of something weak and vulnerable in his chest. He was already leaking onto your hand, pearls of white pre-cum following the curve of your knuckles and staining the cement at your feet. You watched it drip with disgust before your eyes flickered up to meet his.
You opened your mouth, but whatever insult you planned to throw his way was immediately drowned out by a trembling moan, the fragile sound drawn out of him by the feeling of another tendril against his body, snaking down the curve of his spine. This one was flatter than the rest – wide and tongue-like, slick against his skin. Not against his will but rather his better judgement, he arched into it, his eyes remaining fixed on yours as the newest tendril groped at his ass, taking its exploration slowly. Your grip tightened, your thumb swiping over the swollen tip too quickly not to sting. “Take a deep breath, Spider-Boy.”
He tried to ask what you meant, but the tendril’s tapered point pushed into him as soon as his lips parted. He’d rolled this scenario over in his mind a thousand times, pumped his cock as he fucked himself to the point of tears on one of the silicone monstrosities Lyla liked to order behind his back when his wandering mind started to affect his multi-dimension work, but he never could’ve imagined how cold it would be inside of him, the involuntary shudder that’d run from his feet to his shoulders as your symbiote pushed farther into his ass, filling him in a single thrust. A distinct, spiraled ridge ran down the length of the tendril, adding an alien sensation that only did more to damage his tenuous composure. Its pace, too, threatened to tear him apart; back-breaking fast and unpredictably sporadic, thrusting into him with enough force to leave his hands curling around whatever part of your symbiote that he could reach. He wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to hold himself upright without the restraints around his wrists and ankles, didn’t know if he would’ve been able to survive without the oppressive weight of your repulsion – your narrow glare there to keep him grounded while your symbiote did its best to break him open.
“I—” He wasn’t sure why he bothered. He wasn’t sure why he tried when his voice caught on every other word, when he could hardly get enough air into his lung to stay conscious. “I— Fuck, is it supposed to—”
“Don’t think about it.” You cut him off before he could struggle though the rest, letting go of his cock and shoving two fingers past his lips. He gagged, but you didn’t pull back, forcing him to adjust to the digits lodged halfway down his throat. “This is already more than you deserve. Just be thankful Reaper thinks you’re cute when you’re pathetic.”
Cute.
Cute.
You called him cute.
He let out an airy moan, clenching his eyes shut and throwing his hips back, encouraging your symbiote to thrust that much deeper, to be that much rougher with him. His meager efforts were rewarded with another pair of tendrils – the writhing tissue massaging his pecs and toying with his nipples, hardened from exposure and sensitive from neglect. The tendril inside of him slowed, but whatever friction might’ve been lost was immediately replaced by a new trail of smooth ridges and defined veins, a bulbed knot at the base, a blunt head that seemed to grind against every spot that made him twitch, every spot that made him gasp and thrash and want more.
The newest wave of his desperation seemed to spark something in you – interest, maybe, or jealousy, it was hard to tell. Either way, when you pulled your fingers out of his mouth, he leaned forward to try and chase your touch, letting out a low whine when you retreated farther than he could reach, wiping your hand on your thigh. You didn’t keep your distance for long, though. Wordlessly, you allowed your symbiote to lift you off of the ground and up to Miguel’s height, keeping you suspended while you wrapped your legs around his waist. Your suit didn’t pull back, didn’t melt away, only pressing flush to your skin, only making it that much easier for you to slot yourself against him. Your symbiote held him taut as you straddled him, taking agonizing seconds to take his pulsing cock in your hand and, just as slowly, to align the leaking head with your cunt. You started to move your hips, but paused, looking toward him. “Do you know what the worst part is?” Without the strength to speak, he just shook his head. You didn’t press for more. “We would’ve gotten rid of you months ago, if I thought Reaper could stomach it.” You spared him the ghost of a smile. “She says you taste like something that’s already started to rot.”
Aided by your symbiote, you lowered yourself onto him, the tendril in his ass thrusting into him at the same time and forcing his cock that much deeper into you, giving him that much less time to brace himself before he was fully enveloped by your cunt.
He made it all of half a second before coming undone inside of you.
The hours he’d spent fucking his fist to grainy security camera footage and his own deranged fantasies couldn’t begin to compare. You were so hot around him, and wet, and the sound of your breathy laugh as he felt his own cum flood into the gaps between your convulsing walls and his cock had him seeing stars. “Fuck,” you muttered, your tone equal parts shock and amusement. “You’re so fucking needy. Just how long have you been waiting for this?”
If it’d been difficult to talk before, it was near-impossible now. You were working in-tandem with your symbiote; your hips slamming against his in time with its tendril’s thrashing, making sure he was always either being fucked full or milked dry. His climax clearly didn’t matter to either of you. If anything, his hyper-sensitivity only seemed to spur you on, make you more determined to draw choked whimpers and gasping moans out of some deep, long-buried part of him. “Months,” he managed, eventually, spitting the words out through his own ragged panting. “Years – as long as I’ve known about you.”
You hummed, and Miguel drank it in like praise. “Did you want me and Reaper, or just her? Be honest. I promise I’ll try my best not to be jealous.”
Just you. It’d always just been you. Your symbiote was like a parasite, latching onto his thoughts of you and your lips and the feeling of your skin against his and perverting them, tinting them with talons and teeth and a cock the size of his forearm. He wanted you, but he’d take anything you had to give him. “You, I just wanted— Christ, I’d give anything for you to—"
The tendrils on his chest flattened over his nipples and squeezed, forming a wet suction that had him seeing white in a matter of seconds. He threw his head forward, but you didn’t let him escape you for very long – taking him by the chin, burrowing what remained of your claws into his jaw. He could feel skin break underneath your touch, his blood start to trickle down his neck, but didn’t dare pull away, melting into your touch without hesitation. “That’s very rude. She’s doing so much for you, and yet, you still have the nerve to be so ungrateful.” Your grin was blatant, now, dripping with smug condescension. He’d give anything to see that grin again, to be at its mercy every day. He’d give anything to kiss you. “This is why no one likes you, Spider-boy. You have a pretty face, but you ruin it for yourself every time you open your mouth.”
Pretty. Pretty. Pretty. He couldn’t think about anything else, couldn’t seem to stop himself from lurching forward, wrenching out of your hold. His mouth crashed into yours, the connection all bruised lips and gnashing teeth, only sustained by your shock and his own desperation. The taste of his blood was still heavy on your lips, but he didn’t care, letting out a throaty moan as he sunk against you. He wanted to be close to you. He wanted to be inseparable from you. He wanted to be a part of you. He wanted to—
You jerked back, your fist colliding with his cheek a moment later. It wasn’t a slap, playful and open-handed, or a love-tap, but a punch, meant to get him away for you and make him want to stay away. Pain ricocheted through his skull, his ears ringing and his senses suddenly fogged. It didn’t matter, though. The euphoria of knowing there’d be a mark the next day, of knowing he’d be able to carry a part of you for weeks, was enough to send him over the edge, to leave him humping your cunt and pumping his cum into you for the second time in a matter of minutes. He could’ve stayed like that forever, for as long as you’d have him. Your symbiote could’ve swallowed him whole, and he would’ve died happy.
You didn’t share the sentiment. You didn’t even wait for the aftershocks to fade before clicking your tongue. Your symbiote recoiled, peeling itself off of him, keeping you suspended while Miguel collapsed onto the cement, the rough pavement scraping at his exposed skin. You, on the other hand, were lowered slowly onto your feet, your suit regaining its usual mass as you came to stand above him. “Next time you want to get laid,” you started, wiping off your mouth with the back of your hand. “Stick to your hand. Or else Reaper might find a way to choke down more than a bite.”
He heard your footsteps, the rattling of some rusted fire-escape, and then you were gone, off to lurk in the shadows and stalk your next meal. With a deep breath, a groan of exertion, he rolled onto his back, basking in the cloud of bliss still hanging over him. Eventually, when he was ready, he spoke into the empty air. “Lyla.”
There was a flash of yellow, a near-blinding light. She appeared to his side, hands covering her eyes. “Is it over?” Her fingers split apart. “Can I please put your suit back on?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever.” He groaned as he sat up, every muscle in his body drenched in agony. Nano-fabric crept down from his neck, covering his bruised skin and leaking cock, engulfing him entirely. He mourned not being able to see the marks you’d left on him, but it was a necessary separation and, more importantly, a temporary separation. There wouldn’t be anything able to keep him away from you, soon enough. “Cancel everything on my schedule. Jessica’s in-charge until I get back.”
“What should I tell her you’re doing, boss man?”
He flicked his wrist, a holographic screen flickering into existence at his fingertips. A grid-coded map of Nueva York splayed itself out in front of him. A couple seconds later, a blinking dot appeared only a few blocks away from his current position, moving quickly. You were in a rush, tonight.
A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He’d have to take care of the other eleven tracking chips, the ones planted in the spots you hadn’t taken a bite out of, later on. It could wait. Everything could wait until he’d gotten his fill of you – that was, if he ever could.
Dolev Yehud, 35, initially thought to have been taken hostage to the Gaza Strip by Hamas terrorists on October 7, has been declared dead after his body was identified in Israel, the military says.
Yehud, from Kibbutz Nir Oz on the Gaza border, was a volunteer medic with Magen David Adom and United Hatzala. On the morning of October 7 he left his house to aid others amid the Hamas onslaught, before being killed.
Initially, Yehud was believed by the IDF to have been abducted. Although amid the war there were no indications from Gaza of him being there, unlike other hostages, leading authorities to reevaluate unidentified remains found in the kibbutz from the onslaught.
Some victims of the Hamas massacres had their bodies burned or otherwise mutilated beyond recognition, making identification difficult.
New scientific identification tests, paired with information on where the remains were found, confirmed that a previously unidentified body belonged to Yehud.
The IDF says that Dolev's family was notified after the body was identified.
Dolev was married with four children; his wife, Sigal, gave birth to their fourth child while he was thought to have been held captive. His sister, Arbel Yehud, 28, is still being held by the terror group in Gaza.
The latest development lowers the number of hostages taken on October 7 from the previous figure of 252 to 251.
This is a scenario for the Jerv Squad (BTAS, Gotham, Arkham). Let's say there's a guard at Arkham who's been making their lives Hell lately (think Lyle Bolton). When they're out of Arkham, their adorable S/O sweetly tells him they have a surprise for him! That guard? Dead. Totally dead. Messily, brutally, dead. They can see the body, if they want! How does Jervis react?
"The only good Arkham Guard..." Hatter Party x gn! Reader
God I hate Bolton so fucking much I'm just channeling that internally.
TW: murder, mutilation, body disposal, taxidermy
BTAS
- He is rather neutral on actually seeing the body. He trusts his loved one to have done as they say. He will, however, ask if you need any assistance with disposal.
- If you do, he'll mind control someone to take care of it. Do it in such a way it won't be attached to you at all. Clean. Neat. You don't need to be there for that.
- While he understands you obviously handled a lot of gore and violence in the murder of this man, he still feels some need to not make you watch things like that. You deserve to only see good things. Sweet things, kind things.
- Knowing you did this after seeing him hurt... It makes the bruises ache less. Did you get hurt? He'd feel truly a cad if you got hurt. Kissing over even the smallest scratch you might have gotten.
- He's going to want to stay out of trouble for a bit. He just wants to cuddle next to you in bed for a while. Watch some old movies with you and order food in for a day.
- It'll be one of the moments you see him casual, his hair pulled up out of his face, pins in his mouth as he gets fabric together for sewing outfits.
Gotham
- Only wants to see the body as evidence that the man is really dead. He's certain you really did it, but... it's good to make sure, especially with how many people seem to "come back" in Gotham.
- You certainly did the deed, though. All for him...
- Similar to BTAS, he's not going to do body disposal himself. Hypnotize some big brutes to cut the guard up into teeny tiny pieces, yank out his teeth to derail dental record identification and maul his face.
- Yet all the while it's happening he's taking you in his arms and holding you close. Kissing you softly. It becomes a dance in which he twirls you in the moonlight. Slow, then moderately paced to the music in your minds.
- As the body is spread across different parts of Gotham and beyond, he wants to spend several days only focusing on you. On the both of you.
- You deserve pampering after all that. It takes hard work to do what you've done! He loves the wickedness of your mind and the planning it must have taken.
- You'll have to be careful, though, love, or else you'll have a cell right next to him at Arkham.
Arkham
- Oh~? Oh, oh, oh? A gift from his beloved? His dearest Alice?
- When he finds out what the gift is, he wants to see the body immediately. Gloat. Get all those details on how he suffered for all the times he suffered.
- In truth, he's so giddy he can hardly stand himself. Probably kicks the body and might even mutilate it further.
- If he's in a particularly "creative" mindset, he might look into giving the corpse a seat at the tea table. Taxidermy can't be too difficult, can it? Especially with a stuffed rabbits head. Fine movements with scissors and a sewing needle...
- The guard is much more useful this way! Really, it's like he's a brand new man. That makes Jervis giggle at his own joke.
- As for you... He can't thank you enough. If you thought he was clingy before, be prepared for right after this happens. Holding onto you tight. His protector.
- It makes him a little sad. He wants to protect YOU! But perhaps- perhaps you can protect each other.
Summary: In a world where ink stains the white papers of constitutions, damning the lives of ghouls, their existence is no secret or rumor, but a topic of heated debate, protests, and anonymous organ donations in shady alleys. No matter how bright the CCG appears in their white coats, their light cannot reach the dark tunnels where ghouls and sympathizers alike are plotting. And when Hide, after hours of sitting at his best friend’s hospital bed, sees him wake with one eye black and red, the difficult question is not how to get him help, but how to avoid him becoming the figurehead of a conflict threatening to turn into a bloody revolution.
AN: Notes: You ever just take a 4-year break from a fandom and return with spite fic because you remembered how much you hated canon? Yeah. This fanfic is my attempt at corralling the TG worldbuilding into something coherent that makes sense. I will keep some elements of canon, others I will throw out of the window straight away. This is utterly self-indulgent.
“And with the developments in synthetic meat production—”
Hide wanted to groan. They’d been discussing the same question for the last three hours of class and he was, frankly speaking, done with it. People were running out of arguments and circling back to topics that didn’t contribute anything to the conversation they were supposed to be having. From the way their lecturer was glaring at the latest speaker, Hide would say that she was also very done.
“Yoshimura, as stated before, we are not discussing possibilities for ghoul integration, but the mere premise of whether they even deserve the rights needed to legalize their status as citizens. The right of existence of an individual should not be dependent on what modifications would have to be made to accommodate them, but whether they deserve to live regardless.”
Hide had zoned out about an hour ago. His opinion on ghouls had always felt rather clinical, mathematically detached, despite Hide’s history. Maybe too much time had passed since he’d looked at the bloody remains of his father to really hammer home the fear-motivated rejection so many people fell to. Perhaps the CCG investigators, who had dragged him away from his father’s corpse, should have allowed him to get a little more traumatized before the kindness of his new parents had become enough to dull those painful memories.
Some ghouls were no different than brutal serial killers, and they had to be taken down, but the rest seemed to be getting by just fine. If a new legislation would make it even easier for them to go about their everyday lives, perhaps the number of violent ghoul attacks would go down as well. Hide was well aware that this was the view of a privileged person. Growing up in the 20th ward meant that you needn’t be scared of leaving your house when it was already dark. Kamii University prided itself on the fact that it could safely offer evening classes such as the one Hide was attending now. The same certainly couldn’t be said for the other wards. Any citizen between the 9th and 13th wards would probably advocate vocally for the extermination of ghouls. The 11th especially resembled a warzone even during the daylight. Ghoul sightings were nothing unusual there, and investigators’ mutilated bodies were displayed as trophies and warnings alike. Meanwhile, nobody had died in the 20th war for something like ten odd years. Sometimes it felt like waiting for the other shoe to drop, but most of the time, Hide didn’t even think about ghouls.
By the time class was finally over, Hide had taken only one or two more bullet points. They hadn’t really said anything of interest and it reflected in his writing. Usually, Hide would be sending rapid-fire texts to Kaneki now, but his friend was still on his date and Hide didn’t want to bother him. It had taken more than just a bit of teasing and probing to get Kaneki to ask that girl out and he wouldn’t self-sabotage his hard work.
It was good that Kaneki was connecting to people that weren’t just Hide.
And it would be awesome if Hide could do the same.
Codependence needed two people to work and Kaneki was definitely not the only one struggling with independence. Hide had yet to figure out how to let go of Kaneki when his relationship to the other boy had been the only stable thing in his world for the longest time. Nothing said mental health like latching onto an abused child to escape the stifling air of his brand-new foster fathers’ home.
The next time he visited his parents, he’d bring them some flowers to make up for how troublesome he’d been as a child.
Glancing at his phone again, Hide realized he had to hurry if he wanted to take the early bus home. He was just about to plug in his headphones when an unknown number flashed up on the display. Who would call him at this time? Hide was definitely someone who preferred texting. Even his parents knew better than to call unless it was serious. The only person he ever actually called was Kaneki, and that was only because his friend sometimes got so lost in a book, he forgot to text back or didn’t even hear the phone buzz. Hide contemplated picking up for another ring, then gave in and accepted. “Nagachika Hideyoshi speaking, who’s calling?”
“Hello, I am Tanaka Akako, a nurse of the Kanou General Hospital. You are Nagachika Hideyoshi, Kaneki Ken’s emergency contact?”
The blood in Hide’s veins froze.
“Yes, I am. Has— has anything happened? Is Kaneki alright!?”
The nurse’s voice was so calm, steady, and pleasant as if this was a chat between friends. Somewhere Hide knew that it probably helped most people, but it just put him on edge. “Nagachika-san, your friend and another young woman were involved in an accident. Dr. Kanou is preparing him for surgery, but as his emergency contact, we have to discuss the possible options before we can proceed.”
Hide didn’t want to discuss any options. There shouldn’t be any besides Kaneki’s survival. Hide wanted to rush into the operation hall and hold Kaneki’s hand, wishing he could turn back time, tell his friend to remain at his side and consider that girl out of his league so he’d spent the evening with him and not getting sent to ER. This couldn’t be real; he was sick to his stomach.
“What are the options?” Hide asked, panic threatening to strangle him as he rushed to the street, trying to find a taxi to take him to Kanou General straightaway.
“Kaneki-san sustained serious injuries. Dr. Kanou is willing to transplant the deceased Kamishiro-san’s organs into your friend to save his life even if her family hasn’t consented yet. The only consent we can ask for in Kaneki-san’s case is yours and—”
“Do it,” Hide replied immediately. He didn’t know Kaneki’s date, and as much as Hide loved people, argued for a baseline acceptance every day in class, he couldn’t bring himself to care about the wishes of a family whose daughter was already dead. The only thing they were still good for once their hearts stopped beating was serving the living with their remains.
Kaneki might survive because of her; what else could matter? “Do it, whatever you need to save him— you have my full permission.”
Finally, a taxi approached and stopped right when Hide waved for it. He quickly climbed inside and, paying no attention to the driver, told him to get to the hospital as quickly as possible.
“And in case he doesn’t survive, may his organs—”
“He will survive,” Hide pressed because he didn’t know what he’d do with himself if he were to lose Kaneki. He’d built a life around his best friend and how much they meant to one another. Hide couldn’t give up on that, couldn’t let it slip past his fingers. “He’ll survive. I know it.”
Organ transplants took place every day without any complications—
Hide’s eyes widened. “Kaneki has recessive ROS!” he all but shouted at the nurse, startling the taxi driver.
Kaneki’s father had died because of it. If Kaneki got the wrong blood transfusions or anything, his RC cells were suddenly pushed to start acting up, the dormant sickness could turn on and what if Hide had just damned him to a life of wasting away—
No.
Stay positive. Don’t freak out even more. They hadn’t done anything yet, merely asked for Hide’s permission to help Kaneki at all. He was saving his friend’s life; he wasn’t cursing him.
“Thank you for telling me, Nagachika-san. I will pass that on to Dr. Kanou. You have just contributed immensely to the safety of the procedure.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Hide said. “Just— he has to hold on. Tell Kaneki he has to hold on until I’m there.”
“We will, Nagachika-san, don’t worry. Dr. Kanou will do his best.”
His best.
The words echoed in Hide’s mind. How was he ever supposed to know if Kanou’s best would be enough for his friend? Hide excelled at being optimistic, could see the positive side of most things in life, had learned how to be hopeful at the funerals of people he’d loathed. He just couldn’t allow himself to drown in any negative possibilities.
The rest of the drive passed in the blur, either because the driver had known to speed up after listening in on the phone call, or because Hide was so out of it that he didn’t really register the streetlamps flickering by until the taxi had reached its destination. Hide passed the driver a couple bills, probably more than the transport had actually cost, but he didn’t care. What were one or two skipped meals compared to being there before it was too late? Hide rushed inside the sterile white hospital, eyes immediately set on the front desk.
“My friend,” Hide stuttered as he clung to the counter, holding it as if it were his lifeline. “He was brought in— an accident. He was on a date and there was an accident. Dr. Kanou is operating him?”
The receptionist seemed confused, needing a moment to make something coherent out of Hide’s rambles. “I need your identification before I can tell you anything about our patients.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Hide fumbled for his student ID card and put it on the counter with shaky hands. “Nagachika Hideyoshi, I’m Kaneki Ken’s emergency contact.”
“Of course, your friend is still in the operating room. You can wait here.”
Hide didn’t want to wait, but what else was there he could do? He hated feeling useless like this, unable to contribute anything productive. The receptionist sent him a kind look and, defeated, Hide crossed the entrance hall to the waiting room where he remained together with other worried family members and patients, clutching his phone so he wouldn’t start screaming. He couldn’t stop moving his legs, stress keeping him wide awake even as the hospital emptied and less and less people sat around him. How long did such an operation take? An hour? Two? Hide had absolutely no idea. He didn’t study anything like this. His major was English literature, which was about as helpful as hot air at this moment.
He could quote enough books concerned with some medical drama and family members in the hospital, but none of them brought him any comfort.
“Nagachika-san?”
Hide looked up into the kind face of an elderly man wearing a pristine white coat.
“Y- yes?” Hide replied and quickly stood up, brushing imaginary dust from his pants. “Are you Dr. Kanou? Is my friend alright? Can I see him?”
“I am sorry to have caused you such worries. The operation went well. Your friend is resting in intensive care right now. He is still asleep, but you may visit him. The presence of loved ones is often very beneficial to the healing process.”
Healing.
A sob shook Hide’s shoulders. Kaneki was alive. He hadn’t died.
“Thank you,” he managed to say in between his sobs. “Thank you, thank you for saving his life.”
The doctor only kept on smiling and kindly put his hand on Hide’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly in what was meant to be comforting. “It is my job, young man. You don’t have to thank me. Nothing is more important to me than saving innocent lives. If you follow one of the nurses, you can see your friend immediately.”
Hide thanked the doctor once more, relief slowly filling the pits anxiety had hollowed out. He followed the nurse through the labyrinth of death, decay, healing, and salvation up to the intensive care station. Quietly, he was led to a room. The door opened, revealing one lone figure on a bed.
From a distance, hooked up with so many tubes and wires, Kaneki was nothing like the person who took up half of Hide’s life. He seemed so much smaller and looked like just one push could snap his connection to life.
“Please remain quiet,” the nurse told him. “And don’t move him.” Glancing at his still trembling fingers, she added, “but you may hold his hand.”
Hide nodded, then quickly crossed the room to Kaneki’s bed and sat down on the chair next to it. Kaneki didn’t move at all; not even a single muscle twitched. Hide would assume they had led him to view his friend’s corpse if not for the steady rise and fall of his chest. Pushing up the sleeves of his jacket, Hide took Kaneki’s hand in his own.
“Hey, Ken,” he muttered, pressing his eye close so no tears would escape them. “You scared me there. Don’t ever do that again.”
Predictably, Kaneki didn’t reply. Nevertheless, Hide imagined that just for a moment, he squeezed Hide’s hand back. Slowly, the tension bled from Hides’s shoulders and he made himself comfortable in the hard plastic chair. This was bound to be a long night and he was starting to feel his exhaustion catch up to him. He tried to keep his eyes trained on his friend for as long as possible, remaining alert for a change to his condition, but it was getting more and more difficult to keep them open.
Eventually, the darkness caught him as he fell. Hide knew he stirred a couple more times during the night, likely when the nurses came to check on Kaneki. Nobody asked him to move and leave, something he was immensely thankful for. He wouldn’t have been able to let go. By the time the sun began to chase away the shadows again, Hide wasn’t sure how much he had slept, only that it had definitely not been enough. But that was alright, he could catch up on sleep sometime later. It was far more important that Kaneki was going to be alright.
Hide turned to look at Kaneki’s face and found his friend awake, staring back at him.
One eye gray like a stormy cloud before the morning rainfall.
-Contrasting to his younger self he’s a lot more serious and doesn’t take things so lightly anymore. He wants everything to be perfect, he hates making mistakes.
-He works for Slenderman as an assassin/hitman. He’s one of the higher paid ones because of his experience and skill in the field. His job is kept extremely secret, this is why he can walk the streets at night like a normal person.
-Jeff is very good at acting, this is what makes people really not like him. They can’t tell wether he’s being genuine or if he’s acting along with the situation to fool them.
-He’s lost some of the feelings in his face due to the attack. It also proves difficult for him to drink with part of his top lip clipped off.
-Regardless of this, he thinks he’s the sexist bitch alive most of the time. He usually puts on a very confident and orderly personality to fool people into thinking he’s powerful.
-By power, I mean mental power. This guys is already a roid midget that goes to the gym daily.
-He holds a lot of grudges and has a hard time letting go.
-One of his biggest and most fatal flaws is his rage. If he gets angry there’s almost no way to stop him from ripping someone apart. He cannot control his rage well at all, he has an awful temper. If you get him to a certain point he will absolutely go batshit crazy. On a few mission he has gotten so overpowered by rage from the crime the target committed he has mutilated their body far beyond identification.
-This is one of the biggest reasons Liu and the dispatch team do not tell him what the targets did to have him be called to kill them. Jeff is generally set for harder targets to kill. Such as mafia leaders, drug cartel, and people who have just gotten away with the worst shit imaginable.
-He hasn’t been in a relationship since he ended it with Keith. He was rally fragile and is still very unstable at the moment, he’s extremely afraid he might hurt or kill his significant other. He’s still extremely hung up on Keith, he was probably the best thing that happened to him, and feels like absolute shit for leaving him without a goodbye.
-Appearance matters to him a lot, he constantly makes sure he looks as good as he possibly can. The scars on his face make him extremely insecure, he hates the way they look, especially the missing part of his lip.
-Jeff fell back into the habit of smoking as an adult, go figure.
-The scariest part about him is that he’s so small that he’s very hard to see, he’s also pretty fucking fast. But the worst part is hi uncontrollable rage as mentioned earlier. It’s like seeing the devil possess someone.
-In contrast to his edgy temper his bed is crowded with stuffed animals.
-He and Jane spend a lot of time together. Mostly they just sleepover in each other’s room because in the mansion their rooms are like, right down the hall from one another’s.
-Most of these sleepovers consist of roasting their highschool enemies in a self made burn book Jane has and dressing each other up in each other’s clothes sine they are somehow the same size despite Jane being almost a foot taller than him.
-He and Jane are a dangerous team and if you include Liu it’s just game over automatically.
-He’s still very good with kids. He often watches over Sally when the others aren’t present. He absolutely adores her and he treats her like the baby sister he never had.
-Most of his music taste currently contains a lot of rap, alt rock, and indie music.
a/n: enjoy this quick update! i may not be able to write for a few days because my finals are this week and i have a huge thesis due, so enjoy this early gift~
Life often imitated art, at least that’s what you believed as you perused the local gallery. Houses in the middle of oceans, staircases made of 88 ivory and ebony keys, disembodied heads, all painted in muted colors, highlighting the dismal world of Surrealism. You viewed the world similarly to the likes of Breton, Magritte, and Dalí: strange and beyond rational explanation. Perhaps that was the reason why you were with Jimin in the first place, how you overlooked his murderous side. In your mind, none of it was real, just bizarre fantasies and delusions.
Gazing around the small venue, you scanned the crowd for Jimin. He was sat on a bench, wistfully staring at a painting, unmoving, unblinking— and Gods, did he look beautiful. While you looked and felt fragmented, like a Surrealist Exquisite Corpse, Jimin appeared as if he could have delicately crafted from the hands of Pre-Raphaelites. Every ounce of him held poise, from the soles of his feet to his rosy, cherubic cheeks. Seemingly captivated by his ethereal beauty, you joined him on the bench, studying the painting that enthralled him. An optical illusion of a skull, its bony structure comprised of various weapons. Knives, guns, hammers, brass knuckles, instruments of violence, torturing devices. Any other sane person would look at the painting, mumble ‘aha!’ as they contemplated the meaning before moving on, but Jimin was utterly transfixed, borderline obsessed with the painting.
You kept your voice low, barely above a whisper, “Jimin?” Although his gaze was still fixed beyond him, towards the painting, he replied with a noncommittal hum. His response, or lack thereof, bothered you, so you pressed him again. “Jimin?”
“Hmm? What is it, jagiya?”
“Why?”
Apparently, your gentle nagging was enough to recapture his attention, his mahogany eyes now focusing on you. Ringed fingers curled around your cheeks, affectionately cradling your face in his hands. “Why do I call you jagiya? Because you’re my girlfriend and I really li–”
“That’s not what I mean. Why do you do it,” you mumbled, eyes downcast. “How can you do it?” It pained you to ask about his heinous side, especially knowing just how quickly Lee Jimin could end your life. But in all honesty, after witnessing his remorseless brutality without the protective barrier of your peephole, you craved to dig deeper into is psyche. After a scarce few seconds, as if he were testing himself and his patience, Jimin relinquished his hold on your face, his hands dropping to his lap. “You know,” he said, focus returning to the macabre skull, “I think I should be the one asking you, Y/N. Why are you alive?” You blinked, caught off guard by his rebuttal, hoping you had just misunderstood. “Wh-What?”
“It’s difficult to answer the question ‘Why do you kill?’ just as it is to answer the question, ‘Why are you alive?’ It’s simple: to live is to kill.” Flabbergasted by Jimin’s response, you found yourself speechless. His attitude had not changed, he was still the lively, warm Jimin, whose voice was full of mirth. But the words which he spoke were detached from his persona— full of indifference. “Human nature is inherently violent,” Jimin began, hands laced together in his lap idly, “But whether we act upon that or not is up to us. Like a praying mantis who decapitates her mate after sex, I target those who I see as weak— vulnerable. And I just do it, like it’s a natural instinct. There’s no reason why I have these impulses, other than I just do. But unlike those weaklings who might kill in self-defense or for self-preservation, I don’t feel any remorse.” Jimin pauses, drawing in a shaky breath as a small tent forms in his slacks. “Only complete serendipity. Like as if I were on cloud nine.” Unclasping his left hand, he carded through his hair to relieve the itching, murderous, delicious tension that riled him up. “Plus,” Jimin paused, “My rule is that I only kill those that deserve it. Criminals, rapists, scum of the Earth.”
“So that woman from earlier–”
“She was embezzling money from Hoseok, the studio owner, and I just happened to catch her red-handed,” Jimin explained, laughing at his own morbid joke. Instantly, you perked up, now more intrigued. “So you’re basically a vigilante then?”
With a scoff, Jimin shook his head, “You’re too naïve, Y/N. I’m not a good person, not in the slightest.” Cocking an eyebrow, you waited for clarification, while Jimin returned his focus to the painting on the wall. “I kill lowlifes because it makes it less suspicious. If I were to take an innocent woman off the street and mutilate her beyond identification, all of Seoul would be on the lookout for a serial killer. But if I end the life of a convict who had previously assaulted three women, no one would bat a fucking eye.”
Without warning, Jimin abruptly stood and stretched, a sliver of his abdomen peeking out from under his dress shirt. “Let’s go check out the next exhibit,” he said, offering you a hand while changing conversational topics expertly. You silently accepted both alternatives, mindlessly trailing behind the blonde as he led you to a less populated section of the quaint museum, one that mainly focused on sculptures and pottery. It baffled you— how could someone as considerate and wholesome as Lee Jimin find satisfaction in plunging a blade into another human being? You struggled to wrap your head around his philosophical justification behind his murderous tendencies. Jimin made killing seem simple, easy, understandable, which made him all the more frightening.
“Jimin, I just,” you faltered, unsure of how to proceed, “I don’t really get why it is that you kill, but you should really stop.” The dancer’s eyebrows furrowed in irritation, visibly annoyed by your declaration. “I just… Don’t want you to get caught by the police.” Jimin immediately called your bluff, a coy smile twitching at the corner of his lips. With a breathy laugh, Jimin strode past you and towards a sculpture, it’s weathered marble now a dull, aged yellow. Back turned to you, he spoke without a care for confidentiality, “What is better: a virgin who kills, or a bastard that doesn’t?” Your eyes widened in shock, the small room suddenly feeling like a sweltering desert as heat traveled to your face. Swallowing thickly, you attempted to ward off the blush that tinted your cheeks, “I-I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
The blonde turned around, umber eyes sparkling with raw, unbridled lust. “I’m a virgin, you know,” he giggled while winking flirtatiously, only flustering you further. “I was always waiting for the right person, the one who would accept me. All of me.”
•·················•·················•
Being in a relationship with Lee Jimin taught you a lot of things. For one, he mainly preferred sour foods and had a distaste for mangoes. You also learned that he wore contacts due to poor eyesight, but only donned his thick-framed glasses for night-time reading. Most importantly, Jimin never verbalized when he was bringing home the next kill— he simply sent you a text message with a time. Those texts were his own way of asking you to accept him.
Accept him as a boyfriend.
A lover.
A murderer.
When you watched Jimin from your side of the peephole, it was as if you were watching a movie starring the blonde bombshell next door. You paid little mind to the blood and gore, each occurrence leaving you more desensitized than the next. And after each session, Jimin would come over and make you dinner, chatting idly about your day or his latest choreography. Every night after he would retire to his neighboring room, you would lie awake and curse your initial impulse to look through the peephole. You were a pervert, and this was your punishment.
Fatigued, as usual, you began your morning routine, or lack thereof. While the daytime consisted of you browsing the internet and participating in paid surveys as a form of income, it was sporadic at best. Most of the time, you would stare at the ceiling in a stupor, waiting for the inevitable arrival of Lee Jimin. Today, though, deviated from its usual lackadaisical schedule. The ringing of your doorbell drew your attention away from your cellphone’s screen, the arrival of an uninvited guest urging you to rise from your sheets. Sliding into house slippers, you trudged across the room and into the threshold, unlocking the deadbolt, but not the security chain. Peeking through the sliver of open door, you were surprised to see a well-dressed man sporting a brown blazer and charcoal turtleneck, his black hair coiffed into a lazy pompadour. He was scribbling something into a small notebook, the pen furiously scratching against the tiny sheet of paper. Noticing your presence, the man flashed a dimpled smile and introduced himself before procuring a badge that was concealed behind his lapel.
“Good morning, Miss Y/N. My name is Detective Kim Namjoon, from the Seoul metropolitan police. May I ask you a few questions concerning your next-door neighbor Lee Jimin?”
I saw this band live once when I was a teenager. The singer was rocking put and accidentally slammed his head into an ill placed stone column that was near the stage. His head instantly started gushing blood. He wrapped it up with duct tape and finished the show. I was sold. I bought everything I could (a cd and a cassette). This album has been on my short to get list, but it was always outside of my agreed on budget. Then Discogs sent me an email with a reasonable price...here it is.
This was released in 1995, so it was at that period where anything could go into your music. It doesn't do the rap rock crossover, but it goes from punk to metal to an almost poppish feel at times. It is extremely aggressive, but it isn't boring and full of tough guy music. I stopped everything I was doing when I saw this was delivered in order to play it, and I am not sorry. This is an almost perfect mix of energetic songs that fly by. My only complaint is that the vinyl doesn't sound great. I mean good enough to listen to it repeatedly, but you can tell the record company wasn't really into it.
They have a few albums out, one came out a few years ago but overall I find this to be their greatest album. I think it still holds up today. I think this is an excellent listen.
My wife just paid this the best compliment ever, she asked if this was Mike Patton. She hates Mike Patton so I'm guessing she wasn't a fan.
Don't take my word for it listen for yourself and tell me what you think.
Spotify Link to Album:
I was surprised but here is a youtube clip of the whole album…..
