#morbid writing

[leticiasilva]

One day, when I disappear, I want to desapegar like rain, dripping coldly on the earth, raining down on the railways, kissing his cheek, just to go back and repeat all over again.

[cicada-heart]

bonaventure cemetery 🤍

august 2024

[yourlocalmissingtexture]

*pries open your casket, smirking* Decomposing down there all by yourself, gorgeous?

[adiproseprose]

Incapacitate your feedees. Feed them until they're immobile. Feed them until they need mobility aids. Feed them until their muscles are so weak and atrophied that they pull them just from lying in bed, fusing joint muscles and cartilage worn out from constantly shoveling greasy fast food down their wobbling hidden jawline. Feed them until they're not human, just flesh machines for you to grow and fuck.

[xxxnightcorequeenxxxv3]

What if there is a world where Jack and Janet swapped, and who got the coma, etc part 2.

Frankly, I am as surprised as you that my brain came up with part two, but you know how it goes with me trying to go to sleep. The Joker has Tim tied up and fully ready to turn Tim into a mini-me. Joker: "This is going to be fun, having a mini-me. What a brilliant idea, if I say so myself, haha. Not even the Bat knows where you've gone, little bird. And he won't see you until we are done here, haha. What a great joke it will be when you look exactly like me, but you'll be my stepchild, haha. " Tim: "Did you ask Mother for permission "so-called-stepfather"." Joker roars out in laughter: "Hahaha ask mother for permission, What a joke. " Tim: "So that's a no, then." Joker: "Haha, of course it's a no, birdie. But calling Batman mother for sure made my day, haha." Tim: "I wasn't talking about Batman." Joker: "So your mother is scarier than Batman, hahaha." Tim: "Yes." Joker: "Well, I assure you if Batman can't find me, your mother wouldn't either, haha. " Tim: "You love to think so, clown." ---Time Skip--- Tim walks back into the cave after the Joker has had his attempt at kidnapping him. Tim is almost being tackled by the other worried bats. "Calm down, everyone, I'm fine." Tim turns to Jason and hands him a card. "Mother has acknowledged that you have been behaving and has made up a card for you. " Jason tentatively opened the card, considering how morbid Damien's card had been looking on the inside last time. The others, except Tim, looked at the card as a ticking time bomb. To everyone's surprise, Jason let out a squeal of excitement. Bruce went to look at the card, too, but Tim stopped him with a curt. "Don't." Dick sneaks a peek and abruptly turns green."Oh, gods, it's worse than last time."

Part 1:

Part 3:

[hippielittlemetalhead]

So I've seen a lot of 'Hop actively dislikes and distrusts Steve', 'Hop tolerates Steve because he's useful during UD shenanigans but doesn't like him', and the big swing to 'Hop has adopted Steve as his own and treats him the same/almost the same as he does El'

BUT, I present:

Hop pseudo adopts Steve because when he and Owens were trying to get the Harringtons to make any decisions about their teenager who saw some sketchy shit and may need government testing they legally gave Hop the rights to act in loco parentis and he takes that seriously because he doesn't want another Will Byers and he's pretty sure the Harrington kid has a concussion.

Hop who stays involved just enough in Steve's life season 1-3 that we the audience see Steve is getting attached. But Hop just sees an annoying kid who won't leave him alone when he's trying to deal with a rebellious psychic and her insane little friends and keeps asking stupid questions about highschool romance and teenage rivalry drama. Knows Joyce Byers doesn't like the kid but won't give a lot of reason why but he's mostly learned to trust that woman's judgement about people. Still gets him the job at Scoops when the kid's dad makes a stink about college and tells him if he survives a few months there he'll consider bringing him on the force, makes sense to keep him close and in a position to help should shit hit the fan again.

Hop who doesn't get it when Steve is one of the most relieved when he 'comes back to life' after Joyce and Murray bring him back from Russia. When Steve introduces him as "My Hop," (something he'd taken to calling him just before season 2 shenanigans) to his sarcastic, fidgety little friend like it means something. The girl, Robin, looks between the two of them and gets this sad look on her face for a second before smiling and shaking his hand and saying something about "Dingus has told me all about you".

Hop who complains to Murray one of the times The Party and assorted teens and adults are over at his renovated and expanded cabin (courtesy of Owens and shady government organizations recognizing these people are worth investing in, heavily if omens are to be believed) when the bald annoyance asks about what's up on there. Complains about having annoying teenagers who have nothing better to do but pester him legally put under his supervision cause their parents can't be assed to care and are spoiled little shits who are slightly more bearable versions of said parents cause he can stand toe to toe with one of those monsters they faced and the kids kind of listen to him. Complains about barely being able to breathe cause of regular visits and check-ins like Hop was still responsible for him. Says at least the extra hands are useful around the cabin what with the still healing up and El pacing herself after the showdown with Creel and still trying to find Max and the Byers not quite moved back to Hawkins yet.

Hop who doesn't realize that Steve hears every word cause he had gone looking for the older man when he disappeared for more than a few minutes, when he couldn't see him to make sure he was here and safe and alive. Steve who thought Hop actually had come to care for him in his own gruff way and had confessed to Robin that in a lot of ways the way Hop has taken care of him makes him the closest thing to the father figure he's always wanted but never thought he'd get to have. Steve who hears Murray hum and recollect a visit from Nancy and Jonathan where their romance officially started (he vaguely knows about the visit, didn't realize that's what happened, didn't realize she couldn't be bothered to even do the decent/considerate thing before moving on to something better) because it seemed it was a pattern he was seeing 'people liked Steve, but people didn't love Steve'.

Hop who hears a choked sound like someone taking a claw to the gut and turns to see Harrington. Steve Harrington his bandages just peeking out from the collar of his shirt and the opening of his sleeves. (He never did get the stories behind those, too busy being fussed over and being told about the kids and how they were doing as Harrington played babysitter) Steve Harrington a kid who went through hell and still managed to smile and laugh and stand tall and unyielding looking at him with a blank face his eyes misty and his shoulders starting to curl in on himself before he clears his throat, chokes out that he just wanted to make sure Hop was alright but looks like Murray had everything under control. He'd go now, get out of his hair, let him rest, let him breathe. Steve Harrington who walks away with purpose like a man on a mission and doesn't acknowledge the kids calling out asking if he's alright, make sure he has his walkie talkie on him.

Hop, who realizes maybe he left behind two kids who missed (needed) him. Who wonders who took care of Harrington's paperwork when he was concussed and sedated because he was bleeding out and feverish from infection and Hop was busy at the cabin reveling in the comfort and warmth of his daughter and the woman he loved and her two sons who were fast becoming like his own. Hop, who realizes too late that maybe if he'd given the kid half a chance he could have had 3 sons to sit with him and his daughter and the woman he loved as they basked in surviving another end-of-the-world. Hop who has spent years barely giving a damn about Steve Harrington and realizes that he's no better than the kid's own parents.

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4.1

Part 4.2

Part 5

[sheepsfluff]

Imagine: MILF Feeder

imagine having your life taken over completely by a mommy domme feeder who slowly trains you to be as dumb and dependent on her as possible. she treats you like a spoiled child until you act exactly like one, making annoying sounds instead of talking to let her know you need more food. it comes as no surprise when she puts a diaper on you once you get too fat for the bathroom, and its just as fitting when she ties a huge bib around where your neck used to be to keep you from dribbling too much on your expanse of chins. you're her big helpless baby, for her to love and pamper until you burst 🩷

[mikeluciraphgabe]

The sins committed on ao3 STAY on ao3 - whatever god or non god or whatever you believe or don’t believe in, understand this

[crow-mortis]

.//---------ch. 0 - in which the girl arrives on the gorkhon artemy/female oc fic -- read on ao3

She moved to the town on the Gorkhon river when she was only 12. 

Her mother had been of the Kin, and upon the woman’s sudden death, the relatives there were the last of her blood with want of a 12-year-old orphan girl. Her father had never been in the picture; her mother was a runaway from the steppe for many years before she was conceived. 

She arrived at the station with barely an idea of where she was or what was waiting for her there. The endless, grassy slopes of the Eastern Steppe stretched out and onward all around her; she followed it with her eyes until she could no longer see the end from the beginning – until everything melded into one, singular shape. 

She had shivered then, terrified at the remoteness of the Town, and how tiny she felt in comparison to the wilds around her. Despite the vastness of the hills and sky, she felt so very small; her body felt constrained, like she had been packed tightly into a box of her own grief and fear. The emotions closed in around her, threatening to choke the life from her throat. Her breathing hastened, her hands gripped tightly to the strap of her bag – a singular knapsack containing the few items she could call her own. 

She had been lost in that fear until a voice – male, young, maybe a few years shy of maturing – roused her from that small, dark place. Her green eyes had met with blue ones – held there for a long moment before a hand extended toward her with a sigh.

The Burakh family were of the steppe people, though no blood relation to her. She learned that her mother and Isidor had been children together, and he recounted vividly the day she left as he fed her a meager meal of rice porridge and bread. She listened to him talk as he peeled a boiled egg for her – she studied his hands and the delicate way he pulled each piece of the shell from the membrane; the precision of a menkhu – a healer versed in the traditions of the steppe.

Her mother’s family had perished in a fire within the district named the Crude Sprawl. It started with a lightning strike, and after the winds of the steppe snatched the embers into the air, multiple houses were engulfed in flames – all the Kin screamed in agony, their voices one in the darkness as the steppe took their homes.

Isidor finished with the egg as he finished the tale, slicing the white and yolk and placing it gently into her bowl of porridge – a period at the end of that story; the book on her family name snapped shut as she watched the porridge grow cold in her bowl. 

Isidor took her as a ward, opening his home to her and granting space for her in a small bedroom in the western end of the house. She learned the boy that found her at the station was called Artemy, and he was Isidor’s son. He was two years older and had dreams of being a surgeon – they didn’t speak much. Though, that wasn’t necessarily for lack of effort on Artemy’s part.

She spent the first few weeks in silence, her face a slate carved with grief. She took up a few of the household chores. Busying herself with tasks kept her from thinking – it kept her numb. She would do the washing. Sometimes she helped with the cooking, always the first to excuse herself but the last to leave the kitchen, absently scrubbing dinnerware until her fingers ached. Anything to not think about it – anything to remain empty.

Artemy tried many times to include her in conversation. Isidor did as well, despite being a rather quiet man himself. She had decided after the first few weeks that Artemy must favor his mother. Though Isidor’s smile lines, nose and brow were prominent on the young man’s face, the blue-gray of his eyes were distinctly other. She never saw a photograph of the woman, and she refused to ask about her.

Though, she could guess. Sometimes when Isidor saw Artemy smile and laugh at something, she could see the sadness tugging at his eyes, despite how he would gently chuckle as well. Artemy had said they were Kindred, though not Kin – they had both lost their mothers, and the quiet comfort in knowing that began to wear down the walls of her grief, even if only little by little.

One evening, after her fourth month within the Burakh household, she had blurted her name out to them – the taste of her own voice strange on her tongue as she recited the name her mother had given her. Violet.

Isidor Burakh, to his credit, did not crack a smile then, and had simply stared with his son, the two exchanging a glance in the silence that followed. She fixed her eyes on her plate of nearly-untouched food, waiting for laughter that never came. 

Isidor had simply inclined his head, slightly lifted his glass, and given a soft, “bide kharaan” – we see you.

Things felt lighter after that. The steppe began to feel like a friend and less like a foe. Artemy would lend her books and she would spend the small hours before the sun sank low reading in the shadow of the Crowstone. Sometimes she and Artemy would collect herbs together, the young man determined to make it a competition and always returning with a basket overflowing. 

She was introduced to his friends – Lara taking a specific interest in her – and the group would rarely be found one without the others in tow. 

She and Lara developed a friendship. Together they shared a love of books and their compassionate hands would heal the boys when they would get into trouble – Griff was always the catalyst, and he had taken to poking fun at the two girls frequently. Violet found a sliver of joy each time he would tense in pain as she dabbed salves on a scraped knee or bandaged a cut hand. 

Violet and Lara became the den mothers of the group, taking to calling each other by a nickname. Names were gifts in the town, and she had been nicknamed Birdie, which Lara always said was so much prettier than her own – Gravel.

Often they would read together in the steppe, and Violet found her voice in befriending Lara. She would read passages out loud as the other girl braided steppe flowers and herbs into her dark hair – the two would skip home, laughing and smelling of twyre and swevery. 

Though she hadn’t made a point of it, she began to learn the words and traditions of the Kin. They respected Isidor, and as a menkhu he was the only healer the people trusted. The man was the only healer the Town had as well, and a portion of the Burakh household served as a clinic. 

Artemy would help; Isidor would teach him to see the lines – the connections of all things. Violet would listen sometimes as he instructed. Lines represent the paths between things. The links that connect them. The laws that govern our lives. Between evil Sky and kind Earth is a Line. The veins of our lifeblood are Lines. A Line carries the inevitable retribution for evil deeds. Family ties, the way children reflect their parents… Those are Lines, too.

Artemy was smart, more than he realized. Violet would observe in silent awe as he navigated both the society of the Town, and the otherness of the Kin. He walked the line between the two much like his father did – In the way Isidor was loved and trusted, so too was Artemy. Though he was not a menkhu, the Kin would take his help and thank him with braided cords, talismans, and other handmade baubles. Artemy would accept them with the grace of a doctor - despite being a boy in his teens.

Before she realized, an entire year had flown by. Lara conspired with the other members of their gang to throw a surprise party for Violet. Artemy had asked her to accompany him to the station – he’d heard that twyre grew there sometimes out of season and he needed more for his father’s reserves. 

They arrived and found Griff, Lara, and Rubin already waiting for them; a blanket was spread over the stone of the station platform and decorated with various pies and bread and other confectionery that Violet had never even seen before. They had all yelled out a “Surprise!” and Violet had needed to blink away the burning of her eyes as Artemy tugged her down onto the blanket with the others. 

They ate, joked, and told stories over the previous year. As Violet looked out at the grassy steppe around them, she felt none of the fear or grief that had locked her voice away in that very spot one year prior. The warmth of the others as they bickered playfully, laughter floating along the breeze, made her feel lighter than air. 

Artemy had nudged her gently and shared a funny anecdote with the others about when he found her there. Violet chirped in with her own input, voice small in comparison but still jovial. They all laughed and Artemy leaned back on his hands, his fingers resting atop hers as he did so. 

They both glanced at them, then each other, before Artemy went headlong into another tale. He didn’t remove his hand, even when Griff pointed out his blush and snickered with Rubin about how much Artemy resembled a tomato. 

Something heavy had settled in her chest that day; the steppe no longer felt like a cage. As she walked back toward town with the others, the sun sinking low over the ridge, she had looked down at where Artemy’s hand still grasped hers and she felt more at home than she ever had.

Years flew by them in a blur; they all grew up, grew slowly apart as each of them took a place in the Town. Artemy’s hands felt nothing like they did that evening so many years before as she held them gently in her own at the station. 

The train whistle floated toward them, and she tried to ignore it – tried to focus on the curves of his fingers, the texture of the calluses there. He was avoiding her gaze, so she dropped her own to the stone beneath her feet. She knew what she wanted to say. It clawed at the back of her throat like a ravenous beast, sending scalding heat down where it settled in her stomach, threatening to make her sick. 

The seconds dragged, her heartbeat was a muffled thud in her skull as she tried to will herself to speak. Even when she felt the gust of wind and the heat of the brakes releasing as the train pulled into the station, she had no voice. Artemy gave her hand a slight squeeze, and her gaze snapped up to his – green eyes meeting blue.

For a single moment, the world fell away around them. For the briefest of seconds she was back at that station so many years ago; she was a girl, eyes too dry to cry anymore. He was a boy, eager to get back to his friends and their games, but too softhearted to leave her standing on that platform alone. 

She memorized the lines of his face; the way his eyes wrinkled in the corners when he gave a light smile. She traced the angles of his jaw with her eyes, eagerly committing every scratch and imperfection to memory. She wanted to remember him, as they were now, knowing that when this was over they would be changed, altered – other.

The vibration of his voice in the air shook her. She hadn’t caught what he said, his voice stolen by the wind and the whistle of the train. He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, and his gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips. He paused, as if considering something, but thinking better of it. With a final squeeze, the warmth of his skin left her hands, the chill of the wind replacing it. 

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, but the next sensation she remembered was a hand on her back, gently nudging her between her shoulder blades. 

“C’mon Birdie, you’ll catch your death out here.”

[charamelwrites]

he's ready for your date!

[cerise-on-top]

hi<3 if you can, can you do valeria and laswell with a gothic s/o? like someone who likes darker/morbid things and things like that! love your blog by the way! it’s definitely my favorite blog to come look at after a long ass day <333

Hey there! Sorry, but I couldn't really find too much on what counts as dark and morbid in the goth scene, so I wrote more general HCs, I hope that's alright still ^^;

Valeria and Laswell with a Gothic!S/O

Valeria: She’d most definitely be intrigued, but not too much. In all honesty, she doesn’t know too much about the subculture, she’s never really met a goth who was clearly one. However, if it makes you happy, that’s all that matters to her. While she won’t really know too many bands, or any at all, she’d be more than happy to listen to a few if you want her to. Yes, she won’t always have the time, but when she isn’t too busy she could put on some songs by Joy Division or The Cure, she really doesn’t mind. She can vibe to that sort of music, even if it isn’t her favorite. You’re more than welcome to discuss the literature with her, though. She’s probably never read a single gothic literature book, but she can buy you some. Anything from poetry to a regular novel, it’s quite alright. While she won’t be the best person to go to when it comes to discussing those, she’ll support you either way. However, something she could definitely enjoy would be going clothes shopping with you. The fashion is kind of nice, she has to admit, so she’d be more than happy to buy you whatever garments you desire. Will go out of her way to find something you might like as well. I can’t see her being too much into the history of goth culture, though. It’s nice that you are a goth, if you want to tell her about it, then you can and she’ll listen to you, but she likely doesn’t have the time to research everything by herself. Tell her about its roots and she can definitely appreciate you going against what’s mainstream and how it all came to be. She’s a very defiant and rebellious woman herself, so she definitely gets it.

Laswell: She knows so many people, I wouldn’t be surprised if she has worked with goths before. And even if she hasn’t directly, she’s likely seen quite a few walking around the city. She usually grows worried for them in summer since their attire is black, which makes it quite hot. However, she’d be very intrigued by you and your subculture. It’s something very near and dear to you, so she would put in the effort to learn about your history. Will give some classic bands a listen as well. She just really wants to have something to talk about with you. Besides, she gets to learn more about you. While she may not be the biggest fan of your interest in death, considering she’s surrounded by it more often than not, she’d be more than happy to indulge anything else it has to offer. Laswell spent a good chunk of life left alone with her thoughts, so she definitely knows a thing or two about melancholy, the state of the world and introspection. Maybe not in the same way you do, but she can definitely keep up in a conversation. She’s likely also unintentionally read some of the more popular gothic novels out there and liked them, so she’d make for a good discussion partner as well. While she doesn’t particularly understand the need to make your face completely white, she doesn’t mind. In fact, she thinks it looks quite cool, even if it’s not for her. However, the fashion in and of itself looks really good to her. Again, she wouldn’t want to wear it, but something about Victorian and Edwardian fashion has a certain something to it that she can’t quite place. Like Valeria, she’ll definitely buy you things she thinks you might like. Anything from a suit or a corset to a book about poetry. Beware, though, she will read the books before you can.

[leticiasilva]

Sam enterrou algumas rosas no vasto solo úmido da colina. Com a pá enferrujada, ele rasgava a pele da mãe terra, fazia buracos grandes e deixava seu sangue oculto escorrer morro abaixo e se perder no denso nevoeiro.

Suas mãos estavam sujas, e o cheiro de terra pairava no ar com tal intensidade que era como se estivessem sentindo o gosto da terra na língua. Ouvia-se apenas o chiado do trem ao longe e os pássaros com suas canções melancólicas.

Lembrei-me, por um instante, do cheiro do solo quando compareci, à contragosto, no enterro do tio Montague, um velho com fala exotérica e obcessão por coisas do "outro mundo".

Era um dia nublado, úmido, mórbido e nevoento, exatamente igual a este. Quando vi o caixão ser colocado no grande buraco no solo, senti meus pulmões repletos de nada mais além de terra. Meu estômago se revirou compulsivamente e eu vomitei. Quando saí dali, continuava achando partes do solo nos sapatos, bolsos e vestes. Minhas narinas estavam adormecidas com cheiro de morte e eu mal conseguia respirar.

Felizmente, não vomitei enquanto observava o garoto esquelético de cabelos negros plantar as rosas no solo e depois ajeitá-las num cobertor de terra, como se estivessem apenas dormindo e não mortas.

Sam era um daqueles garotos mal vistos na sociedade por ser esquisito o suficiente para ser um repelente vivo de pessoas. Veja bem, ele tinha um lagarto de estimação, cultivava plantas horrorosas e era espantosamente inteligente e peculiar. Uma pessoa com uma personalidade dessas tem todas as características para ser excluída de qualquer um dos grupos sociais no primário. Ele já estava no ensino médio, e eu era o único amigo que ele tinha.

— Por que tá enterrando as rosas? — suspirei, me largando na grama e sentindo-a roçar gentilmente na minha pele.

— Porque elas estão mortas, August. E é comum você enterrar um ser vivo quando ele está morto — ele respondeu, enterrando a quinta rosa cuidadosamente num outro buraco próximo.

— Faz sentido — concordei. — Mas lembre-se que foi você que colheu elas. Você as matou.

— Sim, matei e estou enterrando agora. Foi um erro irresoluto, e isso é tudo o que posso fazer agora.

[trailerparkdad]

welcome to the life of a quiet lab technician

[teecupangel]

I had this unhinged crossover idea, Desmond getting yeeted into left 4 dead. Consider this like a really, really late Halloween thing.

I hadn't thought too much on how things would play out for Desmond but all I know is he fucking hates it, he's thought he hated being the main target for Abstergo? Oh he's gonna hate the undead despite feeling a bit of sympathy for them.

I mean, the green flu appeared to have started slowly before things spiraled out of control continuing to evolve and further spread, and the next thing people knew, their loved ones were dropping like flies only to rise once more and begin just attacking out of nowhere. Heartbreaking to him but now his fight for survival just got worse, there's no innocents anymore, and survivors who were once kind and generous are now willing to kill other survivors just to stay safe and get supplies.

He did find some of the saferoom wall writing hilarious though, if he found a marker he totally adds his two cents in.

Absolutely hates the special infected, avoiding witches? He can manage that unless some idiot startles her, first encounter he had was not fun- he swore his heart stopped for a second hearing the witch screech. And don't get him started on the hunters, they boggle his mind and make him internally rage. Of all special infected, he's 100,000% certain if he drops and all he'd end up a hunter, and that thought terrifies him above all else.

Like, could you imagine that? Hunter!Desmond would be a freaking menace, and unlike other hunters who aren't all that silent due to his training and bleeding effects, his stealth goes above and beyond what the typical hunter is capable of. Nightmare fuel for sure.

Well, this is obviously a very late Halloween thing because I just answered this today XD

I have fond memories of L4D as it was the game me and my friends would play between classes if we were quite bored. I even play Back 4 Blood with my friend a few months back just to get back to that L4D feel (and also because it was one of the few games we both had that we could play together hahahaha).

Out of all the infected, I prefer being the Hunter so there’s definitely some bias when I say that I agree with you that Desmond would definitely be the worst kind of Hunter.

Made for stealth and speed, compounded by his unique genetics that makes him the closest Isu among the humans if we don’t count the Sages.

He wouldn’t just be a Hunter, he’d be a mutated Hunter.

One might even call him the Apex Hunter.

His vision would stay in a heightened state of Eagle Vision, unaffected by flashbangs or any kind of tools that might impede his visions or other senses.

The heightened state of Eagle Vision meant that not even walls can hide his preys and he has… ‘favorites’, one might say.

The Apex Hunter would prioritize hunting and turning specific humans.

Humans that would turn into Hunters as well, joining him with some kind of strange pack-like intuition.

To the humans, it would seem random and they won’t realize it but the Apex Hunter…

He turns those that glowed bright to him.

Those with higher Isu genes that the rest.

And it is those nightmares that plague Desmond’s sleep.

It makes him fear being infected.

Not that it was easy for him to be infected.

He wore a mask to cover his face and lessen the chance of being hit by blood or any kind of body fluids from those he takes down. He goes to the nearest museum and ransacks their historical weapon and armor displays, going for the chainmail and leather armor instead of a full metal armor. It was as light as he could get it while offering the necessary protections as he sometimes has no choice but to get into close combat with them.

He goes for weapons his Bleeds are familiar with, a hunting bow for stealth kills that wouldn’t alert the hordes, a sword with the nearest weight to what he was familiar with, a hunting dagger that he uses more as a utility tool than anything else and an emergency pistol he got from an undead police officer he took down.

He kept his identity a secret. There was no need to tell everyone he was Desmond Miles, not when he’s not sure yet if Abstergo had already been wiped out or if they’re not behind the scenes, protected by the best security money can buy.

He woke up alone, in a room that had enough clues for him to figure out that he was about to be dissected (or vivisected since he wasn’t dead yet).

No clues on where the Assassins were.

If there were even Assassins left.

All he knew was that he woke up and the world had turned into a post zombie apocalypse.

So he continues to travel, focusing on the rooftops to traverse and only making contact with other survivors when it was necessary (or if his kindness gets the better of him).

He does not give a name.

But his existence is whispered regardless.

The White Hood.

A man clad in a white hoodie with a blank mask that covers his entire face.

You know when you see him because…

His white clothes do not have a speck of blood at all.

[adiproseprose]

A wheezing, 700 lb fatty stuffs herself into the shower while daydreaming about breakfast.

[hippielittlemetalhead]

Never Took The Time (To Forget) part 5: Man Of The Hour

Life is mildly less sucky with depression being more managed (also the mood boost from Renaissance Faires 😁) and my weekends being free again for me to travel to see my person. Still full of dumpster fires but I want to scream about it less. Also, been in feels very similar to the ones that inspired this whole endeavor so... enjoy?

Anywho, here's part 5! Enjoy, my little nerdlings. As always, feel free to yell at/with me in the comments, tags, reblogs and/or ask box. If you see any mistakes feel free to message me about them. 😬👌

Part 1: Hop Fucks Up, Part 2: Pride and Prejudices (Joyce Edition), Part 3: One of Us, Part 4.1: With A Capital P, Part 4.2: Robin's Boy

Steve Harrington was an odd duck. That's what his grandmother always used to say. She would pat his already proudly coiffed hair as he hung off the arm of her rocking chair and tell him as much whenever his parents took him to visit. He would beam at her with his big (reportedly pinchable by every aunt and grandmother in the family) cheeks and quack at her before cracking up at himself like he told the funniest joke and she would let him laugh until he rolled himself off her armchair to the plush carpeted floor. She would laugh and reach way over the arm of her chair to poke his stomach or cheek or nose, sometimes just his little forehead, before leveraging herself up out of her chair and taking herself to the kitchen to boot his mother out of it. Steve Harrington was a certified 'odd duck'.

Steve isn't sure, as he sits in that old rocking chair he had stolen liberated from his parent's house when he moved into his new apartment, when he became whatever he is now. He slowly rocks himself back and forth, the chair creaking a little as his weight shifts. The kids and other teens are chattering on the walkie but it's nothing too pressing, just nonsense and junk food emergencies, Mike cursing out Hop. His ribs hurt and his nose is sore but it doesn't feel like anything is broken. It sucks he knows what broken feels like. It sucks that Robin is kind of mad at him for getting hurt enough Owens pulled rank and had him dropped off at home and assigned someone to be the Party's chauffer for the rest of the day. It sucks that all the kids have their own plans tonight, leaving him to try and find ways to keep himself distracted without their usual insanity. A lot of things just kind of suck these days.

He feels himself smiling and picks up the walkie to confirm that he was alive and resting like ordered when he hears Dustin bickering with Robin about invading his apartment to check on him. That doesn't suck he supposes. He knows Robin and the kids care and he knows that eventually the soldier tasked with driving his hellions around is going to be bullied into driving them to see him, other plans be damned and the thought makes him smile.

The smile drops when he hears what sounds like a soft knock at his door. It's too sharp to be Widow Bea two doors over who leans on her walker and kicks the bottom of his door with her soft leather slippers that belonged to her late husband when she needs him to fix a cabinet or mix batter for whatever pastry she was making that week. And it's not the distinct pattern of Clara Damon from down the hall who will come and tap at his door to ask if he has an extra cup of sugar or spoonful of flour as she bats her eyes at him simpering about how she's making cookies or a pie or a casserole of some kind and inviting him to dinner with her and her folks to have some. He's always got an empty pantry and a surplus of plans when Clara Damon comes knocking. He and Widow Bea have standing poker nights with the other older ladies who all meet at the recreation building.

(It used to be the Harrington house. But his parents decided to sell to prove a point when they up and kicked him out and Owens needed a place to set up a promised recreation space and the gym was already a relief supplies warehouse.)

But the knock at his door isn't either of those. It could be someone else in the building. Could be one of his neighbors who have started to associate Steve Harrington with fighting mutated wild dogs caused by government experiments gone wrong and hauling around kids who seemed to cheat death and holding I.O.Us signed by the U.S army instead of the absent Harrington socialites who are known for swanning into town, flaunting their wealth and making themselves scarce again. The ones who he can sometimes hear whispering about him as he makes his way down the street or through Melvald's.

The knocking comes again, louder this time and firmer. It could be a lot of things and he doesn't want to deal with any of them.

Steve sighs, it could be important. He gets up to answer the door, breathing slow and shallow and letting himself lean on walls as he makes his way to the door. A third round of knocking and he's starting to get tired of it. He takes a slightly painful breathe to call out to whoever is trying to knock down his door to calm themselves down when, "Hey kid, Harrington, you in there?" That stops him a foot from his door.

His ribs hurt and his nose is sore and his leg is throbbing where a demodog got a lucky swipe on the meat of his thigh. But nothing is broken. His leg will be fine in a day or two. He hates that he knows what broken feels like. He hates that he knows what infected feels like. He hates that he knows the stone in his stomach and the clenching vice around his lungs has nothing to do with his injuries. His ribs scream at him when he pulls himself as tall and straight backed as he can, shifting himself so his weight is on his good leg and he can (hopefully) use the hallway wall and doorframe to support himself long enough to talk to Hopper and send him on his way.

He opens the door with a smile and feels himself falter a little when he sees Hopper standing there in a big tan canvas jacket and baseball cap and he's reminded of the times the older man would show up on his parent's doorstep with the same look on his face asking questions Steve didn't always know how to answer.

"Hey, Hopper." His voice is light and smile wide and loose and he just needs to keep this up. "What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"Heard you got a bit banged up on a patrol?"

Steve shrugs. It takes more than he'd like to hide the pain that causes. "Just a couple bumps and bruises, nothing I can't walk off after a decent night's sleep. Owens is just paranoid these days, ya know."

"Owens huh?"

"Uh, yeah? That's who told you right? Cause I took a couple hits?" Hopper doesn't say anything, just looks at him with something that Steve might have once thought was concern about his potential injuries. He doesn't know why today of all days Hop decided to show up cause he got knocked around a little more than planned but it doesn't bode well when something in his face shifts and he lets out a tired sigh. "Oh, but don't worry!" That came out louder than he intended. "I'm totally fine. Like I said, I just need to walk it off and I'll be back out there in no time. You don't gotta worry about a thing, I've got it handled. Like I said, Owens is just overreacting. Nancy can cover for me tomorrow and then I'll be right back on the roster I promise. You and Mrs. Byers don't have to worry about a thi-"

"Steve. Shut up." He feels his jaw snap shut, the edge of his tongue and inside of his cheek getting caught in his teeth. "I didn't hear it from Owens. The kids told me. Owens knows you're hurt?"

"Uh, ye-yes sir. He's the one who sent me home. Gave the kids a detail to transport them and keep them protected while I'm out of commision. One officer to drive them around and they're being tailed by at least 3 others in case anything happens."

"Four soldiers just to replace you?"

"Oh they're not in that much danger! I'm perfectly capable of watching them usually, its just that Owen's guys are still kinda green even this deep in. Most of them just can't wrap their heads around the whole 'other dimension stuck in 1983' side of things." Hop's eyebrows shoot up under the bill of his cap. "But again, it's fine! I always take point whenever we go into a new sector and those guys are good as backup at least."

"But you're hurt." His eyebrows have come back down but now they're furrowed like he's confused or upset.

"Just a little!" He is not making things better. "I swear Hopper, you guys don't have to worry about a thing. I've got it handled, you don't have to-"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Harrington! Just shut up!" Steve flinches back, stepping further into his doorway as Hopper yells. The older man sighs, a big hand coming up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He tries not to think of the times Robin and the kids have made fun of him for doing the same, calling it one of his 'dad poses'. "Look, I didn't come to try and give you shit about getting knocked around a little being stupid and playing soldier. I came to- I was going to ask." He sighs and his shoulders slump a little forward and his eyes are focused on the toes of Steve's (very comfortable) bat slippers that had been a gift from Wayne once the kids had told him Steve had been the one to drag Eddie out of the Upside Down. "Did you want to come over for dinner?"

Steve doesn't think he heard him right. "What?"

"Joyce is making some sort of spaghetti casserole-"

"Isn't that just baked spaghetti?"

"And we wanted to have you over. We haven't talked much since I came back. I'd like to change that."

"What?"

"You, dinner, at our place? With me and Joyce and the kids? I think Jonathan is bringing Nancy." Steve flinches and Hop silently curses himself bringing up the ex who cheated on him and the guy she cheated with.

"Why?"

"Uuh... Talking?"

Ah, he had it now. "What did the kids do? Just, lay it on me man, and I'll take care of it. Did they say something? I can have them over tomorrow and talk to them. Was it Mike, it was probably Mike, I'll get him to apologize, just-"

"Goddamn it Harrington I just wanted to ask you over for some dumbass spaghetti casserole thing and a decent conversation. Maybe watch a football game cause no one else in that house seems to enjoy a good game."

Steve isn't sure what's happening. "You want me to come to dinner. To talk?"

Hop sighs again. "Yes, kid. Just. Dinner and talking."

"Uh huh. Right. I'm just- I just need a minute." He tries not to slam the door in the man's face but he's definitely trying to be as fast as possible. He's not sure what the hell is going on but it has to be something because Hopper wouldn't just invite him over. And Joyce Byers definitely wouldn't want him in her house for something as simple as a talk and to watch football. It takes him longer than he'd like to reach the walkie on the little side table by his grandmother's rocking chair. His ribs are screaming at him and his elbow smarts from banging it on the corner as he turned into the sitting room.

"I need some sort of backup at my apartment. Like now please?!" He waits a second before pressing the speaker button again, "Over."

The walkie crackles and he hears an assortment of concerned chatter. "Steve?" Dustin's voice breaks through the general din. "What's the problem? Over."

"I- I'm not sure how to classify it? I've Got Hop at my front door but I think there's something wrong with him? Or something is trying to trick me it's him? Oh shit did I get Vecna'd??"

"Steve," Nancy snaps, shutting up most of the chatter and giving his rising panic something to focus on. "Why do you think it's not Hopper? Or that he's not in control of himself?"

"He- He invited me to the cottage for dinner?"

"What?"

"Yeah just dinner and talking? And that- that's weird right?"

Nancy sighs and Steve hears Hop say something from outside his apartment. He's running out of time. "Why is that so weird Steve?"

"Cause he doesn't like me. And Joyce really doesn't like me." He feels like that's obvious. "They don't like me and they're busy with other stuff. They wouldn't willingly ask me over for dinner and football or some shit so something has to be up."

"Seriously kid?"

He doesn't scream as he drops the walkie-talkie, spinning around to face the voice behind him.

"You're calling an emergency cause I invited you to dinner?"

Again, he feels like this is obvious. "Yes. I don't know what happened but we're going to fix it Hop, I promise. Or, like, if you're something controlling Hop or wearing his face or some shit I will figure it out and I will find the most painful way to kill you."

Hop runs a hand down his face again, he's going to have so many wrinkles after this. "Fucking Christ, kid. Is it so crazy that we wanted to try and get to know you? Make sure you're fed and taking care of yourself since apparently Owens isn't making sure you're alright?!"

What the fuck?

"Yes!" That seems to make Hop take a step back. "I tried for years to try and get the slightest acknowledgement from you! I've spent the last year taking care of the kids and monitoring the gates and fighting Powell and Owens every time they decide to try something stupid and almost get their men killed cause I realized you never meant it!" God he can hear his voice breaking and feel the tears starting to roll down his face. "You never meant it. But you meant it for El and Will and fuck, even Jonathan. And they deserved that. They needed you and you couldn't be there if you and Joyce were fighting with Owens and-" He can't hold back the sob that rips out from deep in his chest. "And I don't- I can't- I just-"

"Hey, hey kid. I need you to breath for me. Okay? Can you just let it out in one push and take a deep breathe in."

There's a large, warm hand rubbing up and down his back. His running nose is throbbing, his sore ribs are probably cracked now from how tightly he's folded in on himself and his injured leg feels wet like he pulled the stitches when he dropped to his knees on the threadbare rug. There's a deep rumbling voice talking to him, telling him how to breathe and asking him to sit up, let go of the walkie he can hear crackling as people call his name and ask Hopper what's going on. It's all just too much.

Why?

"What was that, kid?" Oh. He didn't mean to say that out loud.

"Why?"

"I fucked up. I'm trying this thing called owning up to my mistakes." Steve lets out a wet laugh that turns into a pained groan when it shakes his ribs. "Come on, let's get you up here." He tries not to cry out when Hop lifts him up from under his armpits, pulling at his ribs, but he knows he lets out a sharp whimper. "You fuck up your ribs?"

"What do you think?"

"Yeah, dumb question." Hop chuckles self-deprecatingly. "Look, let's get your ribs wrapped and we'll get you down to the hospital to get checked out an-"

"No. No hospital. Can't do 'em."

"Kid you need to get looked at and maybe some pain meds and antibiotics while you heal up."

"No fucking drugs." Steve practically growls, his teeth clenched and eyes burning as he stares up at Hop. "I'll take your fucking antibiotics but I can take a couple of ibuprofen and call it a day."

"A couple of- What the fuck, kid? You can barely walk and you're telling me you're not in serious pain?"

"I've had worse."

"Bullshit." The kid winces and the look on his face closes off. "Stop trying to be a hero and just admit you need help." Steve rolls his eyes.

"I'm fine, Hop. I've walked off worse."

"Again, I call bullshit."

"You know how thorough our Russian friends could be."

"What?"

Steve shrugs, an angry grimace on his face. "Once you live through Russian military questioning and hiking through Upside Down Hawkins, most everything after that's a piece of cake."

"Jesus Christ-"

"I don't think saying his name is gonna make him listen to ya now."

"Ya ain't cute, kid."

Steve gives him the same smile he always did whenever Hop crashed one of his 'King Steve' parties. "I'm adorable." He chuckles at himself and Hop finds himself laughing along at the kid's attitude. "What do you want, Hopper?" Steve's voice is quiet. It wavers in a way that tells him the kid is sad and hesitant and tired and Hopper can feel something niggling at the back of his mind. "You come over out of the blue asking me to dinner with your family like that's something we do. What the fuck man? What are you trying to do?"

"Like I said kid: I realized fucked up. Bad. And I'm trying to fix it."

"That's it?"

"Yeah. Yeah it is."

Steve leans back, the rocking chair leaning farther back than Hop feels comfortable with considering the kid's injuries but he manages to not rock back so far he falls. "Alright then. So what do you need?"

Hop can't follow this kid at all and he's not sure when that happened. If it's always been like that. "What are you talking about kid? You're the one that's all beat up." His mind goes back to swollen eyes and bruised knuckles covered in a rainbow of haphazardly placed bandages being fussed over by a group of dirty but uninjured kids. Bloody sailor uniforms rounding up rowdy kids without a mark on them despite obvious injuries and a slight limp and what might be bruised ribs. Bandages being removed to expose red raised around a strong neck that looks like someone took barbed wire to it and bulky bandages poking out from beneath stolen shirts. "What are you talking about what I need?"

Steve lolls his head to look at Hopper. For the first time all evening his eyes are trained on the older man unflinching and not anxiously darting away. His smile is more a resigned grimace. "What do you need to get Robin -and I'm guessing the kids- off your back?"

"It's not just because of them."

"But it is because of them."

"I want to make this right."

"It's not yours to fix, Hop. I've made peace with that. Thought I'd made that clear to the rest of them."

"I thought the kids didn't know."

"Not about you being my emergency contact and like, in charge of making big medical decisions if they couldn't get a hold of my parents. But that you'd stop by the house to make sure I hadn't like drowned washing my hair after I took a beating. That I put more stock in that than I should have."

"You were right to put stock in that stuff Steve. Fuck, if I knew anyone else in that situation I'd assume they'd basically adopted you. It makes sense."

Steve shrugs, wincing less this time. "That's life, can't fix it now."

"Will you let me try?"

"I mean. I'm giving you a get-out-of-jail-free card here man."

"And I'm not taking it."

"Well. It's there, whenever you decide to take it."

"Thanks but no thanks, kid."

"Hey, your choice Hop. Ever get tired of the boardwalk just say the word and it's yours. Do not pass 'Go!'. Do not collect $200."

"Monopoly, really?"

"My head may have gotten a knock too. Not a concussion but I'm a little... swimmy."

"Swimmy?"

"Uhm-hmm"

Hop chuckles, "You're an odd duck, kid, you know that? An odd, pain in my ass, duck."

Steve feels his face splitting in a wide smile that pulls at a small cut on his lip and lets his head fall back, his body finally starting to come down from the adrenaline rush that has been this entire interaction.

"Quack quack."

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