#joey death tw

[katkalis-the-fanartist]

Board of animals I love and also like to look at...👁👁

[matchingbatbites]

Steve's clock is ticking down. His timer has never had long, something that's always worried him, but now, now the time on his wrist has him nearly in a panic. 

Five days. 

He only has five days before his soulmate dies, and he misses his chance to ever meet them.

Robin knows about his short timer, and while she's unable to see the tattoo-like numbers ticking down on his wrist, she's been a great source of support. Unfortunately, even she can't erase the panic that's been building up in Steve as the clock ticks ever lower.

And then Dustin and Max rush into Family Video, and of course there has to be a Code Red while Steve is dealing with his own worries. He still goes, still helps, and in the process Steve meets Eddie. 

Eddie who is loud, and brash, and funny. Who is kind to Dustin, and patient with Steve, and claims to be a coward but is handling all of this Upside Down bullshit so well.

Steve's soul has been singing ever since Eddie slammed him against a wall, but there hasn't been any time to think about it, to talk about it, and that's the ironic part, isn't it?

The deeper they get into this mess, the more Steve ignores the numbers on his wrist, counting down from five days, to four, to one, to mere hours. 

Robin knows, knows that it's happening soon, even Nancy can tell that Steve is on edge, more so than he usually would be. Still, they make their way to the Creel house, leaving Eddie and Dustin behind.

Steve told Eddie, almost begged him, "Don't be a hero," and now he prays that Eddie has enough common sense to listen.

He doesn't.

Vecna goes down, and there are minutes left on Steve's wrist. He bolts back the way they came, knows the girls are right behind even as he outpaces them. He hears Dustin screaming and pushes faster, drops to his knees on the rough ground to find Eddie broken and bleeding out in Dustin's arms.

"Hey, Stevie," he says weakly, and Steve takes his hand between his own. 

"Hi there, Eds." Steve knows he's crying as Eddie weakly smiles up at him. He doesn't even have to look at his wrist, he can feel that his time is almost up.

"Stevie, you take care of- of everyone for me, m'kay?" Eddie asks before he coughs, expelling blood and ichor from his airway.

Steve can feel his pulse getting weaker, feels useless as he watches his soulmate bleed out, unable to stop it.

"I will, Eddie. Promise." He takes a breath. "I love you, okay? I know we didn't have long, but I loved you for every minute of it, Eds." 

Eddie slow blinks up at him and smiles. "Love you too, Stevie. So much. See you soon, okay big boy?"

Steve nods, gives a soft "Okay."

And his timer ticks down to zero as Eddie stops breathing. 

[joey-the-boy]

i love writing screenplays and stage plays but I could never write anything that goes public without being the director and producer also. it's hubris and it's wrong but I can't bear to watch someone mutilate the expression of my art. henry hidgens was so right for killing everyone who interfered with his artistic vision with an axe. he's so me.

[booigi-boi]

I finally redrew it ☄️

[insane-control-room]

i cant believe joey's dead

(again)

[skaianetsystemsincorporated]

I'm devastated to hear about the passing of Matthew Perry. Friends has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, so I wanted to throw out a little tribute 💔💔

[fishymom-art]

Metal and Ink Extra Finale Part 2

Part 1 - https://www.tumblr.com/fishymom-art/723476611223240704/metal-and-ink-extra-finale-part-1?source=share

Part 3 - https://www.tumblr.com/fishymom-art/723476677124046848/metal-and-ink-extra-finale-part-3?source=share

SOUNDTRACK

THE TRIGGER WARNINGS FROM THE FIRST PART STILL APPLY

[theinkvendingmachine]

"Oh no!"

meme

susie campbell

[thethistlegirlwrites]

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

Olivia Quintero has seen a lot of dead people. 

She never got a chance to see her mother’s body. As soon as they heard what had happened, Joey had bundled them all into the car and they’d run as fast and as far as possible before someone decided they were a loose end.

But she’s seen a lot of them since.

People died in the transient camps all the time, for one reason or another. Age, illness, violent fights, overdoses. She’d been the first to find two of them. It hadn’t really scared her, not like it scared some of the other kids.

She was pretty sure one day, it would be her. When the seizures kept getting worse, and the doctor in the camp kept turning up only half-sober, with shaking hands he couldn’t even be bothered to wash properly and coughing at the end of every sentence. 

But even after they got across the border, got Via into a good hospital, it hadn’t meant the end of death following her. She’d seen patients wheeled out of the building with white cloth over them. She’d watched the girl in the bed next to her in the pediatric ward lose her own battle with her failing body. 

And now, she’s looking at her own sister’s lifeless face in a coffin in a dingy cemetery. Her black dress itches her neck where the collar touches, and she already popped the button off one of the sleeve cuffs, but she feels oddly numb in spite of it all.

Maybe because Joey doesn’t look dead. 

Tía says it’s just what they do at the funeral homes to make people look nice for their families, but Via knows what people look like when cars hit them. She watched a boy playing soccer in one of the camps dart into the road after his battered ball and get run over by someone speeding by. They hadn’t even stopped or turned back to see if he was still alive. 

She can’t see any bruises on Joey’s face or hands at all. There’s a thick layer of makeup on her face that Joey would have hated in life, but Ramona across the hall covers up the times her boyfriend hits her the same way, and Via can always see the purple and yellow underneath. 

Joey just looks like she’s asleep. Almost peaceful, aside from the way her lips curl a little, like they’re pulling back from her teeth. 

Via chews on her own lip. She can taste the vanilla chapstick Tía is always smearing on too thickly, and the saltiness of blood from the spot where she peeled away a bit of the skin. She wonders if that will remind her of Joey now, the way the taste of ripe papaya makes her think of Mami, because it was what Via was eating when the phone rang and Joey went all stiff like she was the one having a seizure and then told them Mami was never coming home. 

Mauri presses something into her hand. Via looks down at it. The faded colors and crumpled edges of the picture of their family that Joey carried with them all the way from home. The only way Via still knows what Mami looked like.

She and Mauri both agreed, Joey should keep it. Maybe she’ll be able to look at it in heaven and think of them. Maybe it’ll help her find Mami if she’s forgotten her as much as Via and Mauri have. 

Via reaches into the coffin and tucks the photo in between Joey’s hands and the lining of the worn leather jacket she always wore when she went out at night. The edge of the photo sticks on a tear in the fabric, and Via pushes a little harder. 

Her hand brushes up against Joey’s. Joey’s skin is cool, makeup smoothing out the roughness in her chapped fingers and her chipped nails, now painted an overly garish red, scraping against Via’s thumb. She pulls back, blood welling up from the tiny gash, a single drop falling onto the corner of the photo, and shoves her finger into her mouth, sucking on the cut. 

Via doesn’t cry when they close the lid on the coffin.

She doesn’t cry when the men from the funeral parlor lower the whole thing into the ground, or when she and Mauri and Tía throw in handfuls of dirt on top, Tía sniffling into her black lace handkerchief the whole time and Mauri’s lip quivering.

She doesn’t cry when people flood their tiny apartment, bringing food and empty words and emptier cards, when the room is filled with so many voices it makes her head hurt.

She wakes up at five in the morning, when the last guests have finally gone, when the smell of spilled tequila has faded, when the moonlight slanting through her window turns everything a pale blue.

Somewhere, out in the darkness, the sound that woke her echoes back again.

A woman’s scream.

Via normally sleeps through those sounds. They’re as common in this neighborhood as barking dogs and crashing pans and breaking glass and angry arguments. But there was something high and harsh and terrified in this one that woke her.

She rubs her fingers against her thumb, slipping one blunt nail under the edge of the forming scab on her cut, and tugs it away again. 

Another drop of blood wells up, glimmers in the moonlight, and falls to her stained blanket. 

Out in the night, something howls. Clearer and sharper than a coyote, but just as mournful. Just as haunted. Via buries her head under her pillow, and lets the sob she’s been clinging to all day tear through her.

(You can read this story and others from this universe on my WorldAnvil here!)

@catwingsathena @nade2308 @the-one-and-only-valkyrie @telltaleclerk @ettawritesnstudies  @writeouswriter @the-lovely-wren

[conicalcrowd]

We've been living on a fault line... And for awhile, you were all mine...

[commoninfected]

Slasher/DBD AU :))

[fcrafcrtnight]

"I'M SURPRISED TO SEE YOU OUT HERE. NOT AFRAID OF THE SUN ANYMORE?" she supposed that she wasn't surprised that abigail was here. she supposed that she shouldn't be surprised that the other was anywhere near here and their story had always felt.. unfinished. see you around, joey. and so, all that she did was cross her arms over her chest, as she glanced at the other quite curiously. what did she want? she had no idea and yet.. here they were now. right? "it's been a long time. couple of good years, anyways. what do you want now?" @demongemz

[matchingbatbites]

bang bang (my baby shot me down)

@steddie-week Day 2: Bittersweet & Angst This is something I've had sitting around for a little while. Decided to polish it up because I figured it's pretty perfect for today's prompt!

tw: major character death

When they had prepared for their final fight with Vecna, the party had planned for a lot of things. Everything they could think of, just to be sure that they all knew what to do, what to handle in the moment. 

None of them had planned for Eddie.

They'd spotted him when they arrived, had expected Vecna to pull something, but not this. Not their friend, mutilated and warped by the Upside Down, turned into a pawn for Vecna to use against them.

None of them are sure what to do, and it's Steve who sets his resolve in place, takes the job no one else wants to do. 

"I'll distract him. Maybe… maybe he'll be okay if you guys can take out Vecna."

The others have no choice but to agree, and they split accordingly.

Getting Not-Eddie's attention isn't hard. The thing seems to hone in on Steve, crimson eyes track him across the wasteland as he draws it farther away from the main battle, keeping him from being able to help Vecna. 

It’s an awful game of cat and mouse, Steve playing keep away with his own fucking body as he tries to maintain some distance from Eddie’s mouthful of shiny new fangs. His bat is smashed early on, the wood splintering beneath clawed hands, and he burns through the ammo on the pistol Nancy had pressed into his hands faster than he expected.

The shotgun is his last line of defense, and it’s been doing a good job of keeping Eddie away from him. The creature hisses and growls with every spray of buckshot, and Steve stays vigilant as he reloads, as he continues to dance around the thing.

He’s careful, until he’s not.

His walkie goes off, pulling his attention for a split second too much. Eddie slams into him, knocking him to the ground and sending the gun flying out of his hands. He tries to get up, tries to right himself, but he’s pinned down, held in place by supernatural strength and monstrous hands.

Claws sink into his stomach and twist and Steve screams. The pain shooting through him is white hot and he's sure the adrenaline ripping through him is the only thing stopping him from passing out. His arm flies out, scrambling for anything to help him, and he brushes against the cold metal of the shotgun.

Dread and panic fight for dominance as he grabs the weapon. He grits his teeth against another scream as the claws rake downward, flaying him open. His hands are shaking as he hauls the gun up, aims it in the general direction of the thing that isn't Eddie.

And he pulls the trigger.

The force of the shot is enough to make it stumble backwards, and the noise it lets out rattles Steve to his core. He sits up just enough to take aim again, and he fires another round into the thing’s chest, and it drops to the ground just as a voice breaks over the walkie.

“It’s over! We got him- Vecna’s dead!”

And oh. Oh no.

Steve drops the gun and scrambles to Eddie as best he can, ignoring the agonizing pain in his stomach as he crawls over, as he takes Eddie's face in his hands. When the ringing in his ears fades, he can hear his own voice, "I'm sorry, Eddie. I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry." He knows he's crying, his entire body is trembling under the strain of trying to keep himself together. 

Fingertips brush over his cheek, and there's a weak "Stevie," from underneath him.

He looks up, and where once was glowing red, there's now chocolate brown, and he only cries harder. "Eddie."

The brush turns into a touch, and Eddie cups his cheek in one chilly hand. "You turned me into a real Nancy Sinatra, baby."

Steve sobs, swipes his thumb over Eddie's cheek and vaguely realizes that he can't feel it, that his hands are numb. "I can't believe you're cracking jokes while we're dying in each other's arms."

Eddie gives him a weak, lopsided grin, brushes his own thumb over Steve's mouth. "Got you to smile, though."

And yeah, he is smiling. He can't not smile, not when he's holding Eddie like this, even though the circumstances are the least ideal. He didn’t get near as much time with Eddie as he wanted. The sparks between them during spring break were undeniable, but he hadn’t even gotten to kiss Eddie before the older man was ripped from his hands, torn from existence. 

Steve swallows against the metallic tang filling his mouth. “Wish I could have taken you on a proper date. Wanted to take you out to dinner, listen to you ramble about your nerd game.”

The red staining Eddie’s teeth is hard to ignore as he speaks. “I dunno, I’m kinda digging the whole Romeo and Juliet thing we’ve got going on.”

“You would think this is romantic.”

Eddie chuckles softly, moves his fingers up to brush through Steve’s hair. “Eyes, look your last. Arms, take your last embrace. And, lips, oh you the doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss a dateless bargain to engrossing death.”

Steve barely gets out a “You’re such a dork,” before he’s leaning in to kiss Eddie. It’s messy, both of them too tired to make it anything close to proper, and Steve feels like there’s something poetic to be said about them swapping spit and blood between them as their last act.

He pulls away after a moment and rests his face in the crook of Eddie’s neck. “ ‘m tired, Eds.”

“S’okay, Stevie.” Eddie’s voice is weak, but Steve can’t bring himself to look at him. Everything is going hazy, all fuzzy and soft. “It’s all over, now. Just go to sleep, everyone’ll be here soon, m’kay?”

Steve just hums softly, eyes slipping closed. 

He’s so, so tired.

[daydrcamings]

@fcrafcrtnight

“what the actual fuck?” this couldn’t be real. no. she… she had seen sammy die. she’d mourned for the other once she had gotten out of that fucking place but she knew that was it. there was no coming back so how the hell was she standing here now? “you fucking died, sammy! you… you turned into one of those things and you died… what the fuck are you doing here?” she questioned with wide and fearful eyes.

[canofhappy]

why Two Minutes is about a car crash, an analytical tumblr post.

the wallpaper peeling of the singer’s heart is representative of a final vulnerability. when everything is lost, our protagonist allows himself to show his truest, rawest insides. this reaction is caused by the haunting voice in the background being someone close to him who has died in an accident. he is in the car with her.

“We've left all the blinking lights and shouting Behind us now” refers to the blinking lights of a car run off the road, flipped over. there is shouting from bystanders and assumably, paramedics on the scene.

“and I'll stare at you, as you stare, as you stare right back at the sky” she is looking up and out through the window and he realizes she’s dying as he’s looking at her, through his own dizziness/other concussion symptoms.

“If there was one place I could be right now I'd be standing here between you and him” he will stand between the dead/dying woman and potentially, God. the man proceeds to sing about how he will fight God and the woman, presumably not out of justice but pure reactionary rage.

“give me two damn minutes and i’ll be fine” are the last words from the woman OR the words the protagonist will say as he gets pulled out by paramedics.

the children singing “if i’m good will you come back?” is the protagonist’s subconscious longing for his dead friend back.

[insane-control-room]

rinse and repeat

His job was a grisly one- find the works of the avatars, document them, and then undo them. Then prevent them. Most of the avatars did not like him constantly 'destroying' their work. Most. Not all of them.

rated: T warnings: described death. AU: TMA Length: 1,500 words (short-medium) notes: i don't know much about TMA, but im having a fun time with friends talking about aus so :3

gift fic for @halfusek ft. magenda (as i unaffectionately call this one)

ao3 link here

The pervasive smell in the room clued him off before anything else. It was the sense of dread worsening that immediately followed, an apprehension that made his stomach knot. A flashlight was beaming towards his feet, red slick appearing at the edges of the fallen beam.

Johan did not want to turn on the light, though he could see the words superimposed on the wall above the small switch, a demand rather than a thought. Steeling himself, he flicked it on, filling the room with an unsteady, buzzing light. 

Immediately, regret- no, not regret, some other sad emotion- filled him. 

The filing room had a desk with three chairs in the center- or usually situated in the center, as they had been moved aside for a ladder that now took stage center left. A few papers were scattered about, ruffling Johan mildly. However, his job was not a pleasant one, and sometimes included observing mis-managed paperwork, and… other, worse things. Such as the corpse - his true purpose for entering the room. He noted the body, at true stage center, was perhaps two or three hours old. 

It was a gruesome death. 

Suffocation, electrocution, and decapitation all played their roles. 

It was hard to tell which had killed him, though Johan snapped on a pair of gloves, and set himself to documenting the gritty scene. 

A ladder. 

A box of tools. 

Electrician’s gear taken out. 

It seemed like Bert- the man had taken upon himself to fix a faulty wire. Johan followed the trail to the circuit board and fuse box, and broke past the paneling to see the back of the fuses. 

A group of four were miswired. The dead man had turned off the wrong one, without even knowing it. 

It made Johan frown and sigh. How pointless. 

He returned to the ladder, climbing upwards. Several wires were already dangling loosely, and Johan narrowed his eyes as he attempted to determine the sequence of events.

One of the wires hummed quietly.

Johan traced its path, noting the bloodied loop at one ridge. That would be the decapitation, potentially if the man had fallen forward. Pulling out a tape measure, he checked the likely trajectory. Unfortunately, it lined up. Which meant that indeed, the decapitation had happened last. 

A pity. 

It would have been the fastest death. 

Johan nudged the ladder. It was sturdy. He looked along the wire, along the corpse. 

The bruising by the neck was no longer severe, as it all had been, well, cut, but from what he could see, there had been significant pressure upon it. If Johan were to piece together the order of events (which was exactly what he was doing at the moment), he would have said as follows.

Bertrum turned off the fuse box, unaware that what he was turning off had nothing to do with the task he had taken upon himself. As the light switch was off, and the flashlight lay dimming, Johan decided that the man had not bothered to check the lights when he entered the room, setting down supplies. Had he paused to ensure that the fuse was off, he may have survived. 

Doubtful.

Some other unfortunate happenstance would have occurred, perhaps more grisly than this. 

Regardless. Continuing reconstruction. 

Bertrum had then climbed up the ladder, and began working on rewiring the faulty electrical system. A significant burn on his hand, searing through to his flesh, explained the rest. While he was removing the old wire, he had gotten entangled, and as he had tried to pull it off, his hand brushed an unexposed part of the live wire. Then, with his body stiffening to the current, he must have lost his balance.

Severing his throat on the wire. 

Johan was meticulous in his documentation. If he was not, he may miss something in the next run that would result in another failure. Or he might get himself… quite hurt. Usually the latter always left him snapping awake in his threadbare bed, gasping for breath and with a dull painful sensation in his chest, ready to try again. However, that was an outcome he tried to avoid. 

Speaking of things that one tried to avoid….

Johan heard him before he saw him, the slightly off rhythm gait giving him away. Glancing around the room with a sigh, he acknowledged that:

Magenta had some connection to the death;

OR

Magenta was drawn towards it, like a fly to rotting flesh.

It may have been both. 

He said nothing as the other lanky man entered the room, smiling. 

Magenta surveyed the scene calmly, suppressing a shiver of delight. He said nothing to Johan, who was marking which of the wires were live. Johan rolled his eyes, and went back to examining the bad wire to determine where its true source really was to make sure that when he corrected this misconstrued blip, he did it properly - once. Magenta watched him work with a smile blandly painted over his face.

Eventually, Johan pulled out a chair, on the opposite side of the table from the corpse, and sat in it heavily, another sigh fighting to escape him. Magenta watched keenly, though his eyes were half open. Johan moved back a second chair, silently expectant, and Magenta sat in it. 

“This one is fun, isn't it?” Magenta commented lightly, a smile still on his face. Johan shrugged glumly, staring at the paperwork before him instead of the body just beyond the desk. Unique, certainly; saddening, yes. Not quite so ‘fun’ for him, especially when one considered what his job entailed.  “Don’t look so down, Jo!”

“Kinda hard not to when there’s a dead body in f-front of me,” Johan retorted, brow furrowing and mouth twitching downwards. Magenta shrugged, smiling still. “And when it’s so….”

“Purposeful?” Magenta questioned, teeth glinting in his smile. Johan stared at him, not enjoying the shudder of upset that he tried to hide. Magenta noticed it anyway. “Well, maybe that’s not the right word. Artistic might be a better one.” 

“Right,” Johan mumbled. It surely was an artistic death. “Maybe the creator might have done well to warn me. Content warnings or w-whatever.” 

Here Magenta frowned. 

Johan looked away, abashed. 

“S-sorry. That was unkind of me. I’m on edge.” 

“Sure,” Magenta rolled his eyes, leaning back. Johan stood, picking up the clipboard, making some final measurements and documentations. “Don’t forget the dead fuse.”

Johan tilted his head as he looked at him. Magenta raised an eyebrow, a silent dare to check him. Johan saw no need to do so- as he would be able to check when he would do his… ‘cleanup’. Not to mention, despite the man’s goals, Johan trusted Magenta. Which may have been the fault of memories not his own.

The older man matched the tilt of his head, humorous.

“What?” he asked, a slight grin at the edges of his mouth. Johan’s lips parted to say something, and then closed. Magenta’s smile broadened cheekily, eyes flashing. “Oh, dear. Be more careful, Jo! We wouldn’t want…” Magenta glanced at Bertrum’s mutilated, burned corpse, fighting his smile from growing wider. “An accident.” 

“Why d-did you tell me about it?” Johan asked, faced with a troubled emotion that he locked up and decided that he would not think about or confront. Magenta’s smile remained unchanging. “Mag….”

The other man stood up, still evenly looking at Johan.

“You’re smart, Jo,” the avatar of The End chided, tapping the end of Johan’s nose. “Think about it.”

“The resetting, I kn-know,” Johan replied, pursing his lips. He knew why Magenta was much more tranquil and compliant around him than the other essences of fears, who generally disliked watching Johan undo their work time after time. Not Magenta, though. Magenta was quite happy with the fact that he was able to expand on his medium repeatedly thanks to Johan’s role. “But why warn me a-about the fuse not working? You know what h-happens to me if… an ‘accident’ does occur.” 

Magenta shrugged, smile still on his face. 

“Thought it might make your day a bit better,” Magenta brightly replied. Johan looked away, face warming. “I’m sure that whatever weird process renews you is no party.” 

“It’s… it’s definitely not, no,” Johan agreed, feeling pain creeping along his spine. He exhaled, softening, managing a small smile on his stressed visage. “So… I thank you.”

“It’s nothing, Jo,” Magenta’s own relaxed smile was dazzling, toothy and bright; yet sharklike. It made a trickle of fluster bloom in Johan’s chest, worsened by his next words. “I’m sure you’ll figure out a nicer way to thank me, don’t you think?” 

Johan did not reply, looking away, face heating considerably. Magenta laughed a little, a chuckle, and Johan’s blushing intensified. A hand brushed his cheek as Magenta sauntered out of the room. 

Johan watched him leave, words he could not describe resting on his tongue, unsure if he should go after the man, properly ‘thank’ him.

Instead, Johan checked his paperwork, inhaled, and reset.