#cw: death of a parent

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieangstyaugust.

Different Lessons

Day #6: "Who did this?" | Word Count: 3300 | Rating: T | CW: Death of a Parental Figure, Grief & Loss, Language, Smoking | Tags: Future Fic, Established Long-Term Steddie, Hurt/Comfort, Beloved Uncle Wayne, Life Goes On, Even If You Don't Know How

It's all still here. 

Eddie stands there, hand resting on the light switch, and he doesn't know why that surprises him so much. Of course it's all still here. Where else would it go? If he didn't move any of it, and Steve didn't move any of it, well, Wayne definitely didn't. 

Not now. Not ever again. 

Eddie looks around the large shop down the gravel road, beyond the house. He didn't understand why they were building it. Not at first. Wayne worked like a dog for decades in that goddamn factory. Why would he want to continue to work in a shop during retirement? How could that possibly be fun? But Steve assured Eddie that this was different.

Making, creating, building for the love of it, was, in fact, different from manual labor for a paycheck.

They kind of looked the same to Eddie, but if Steve and Wayne both said so, well, who was Eddie to argue?

So, the land was cleared. Leveled. And a quonset building went up. Metal, rounded, and fucking huge. With big, handmade wooden barn doors installed. And a smaller, regular-sized door next to it that Eddie was tasked with painting. He was pretty sure that was just to keep him out of the way, but he chose red and painted it, and standing here looking at it today, he realizes it could use a fresh coat. 

Wayne and Steve built the barn doors themselves. Wayne taught Steve as they worked, patient and willing to answer all of his questions, as Eddie sat on the workbench, taunting them. Being annoying, he's sure. But the doors still got made, and now they're gorgeous, sanded, stained and finished. 

It took all of them to hang them. Wayne and Steve, Eddie. Gareth, Jeff and Goodie. Everybody working together to ease them onto the tracks, hoping like hell that they'd fit and work for fuck's sake once they were up there, after all that trouble.

They did fit. And they still glide like goddamn butter, so much so that Eddie can't believe Wayne and Steve made them with their own hands.

Everything in here has Wayne's fingerprints all over it. The machinery he rigged to work just the way he wanted. The coffee mugs that never seemed to make it back to the house. Now being used as pencil holders, or sorters for nuts, bolts and screws.

It's home, in here. Sure, the house up the road is home, too. But this feels different than that. 

This was Wayne's space. All his own. 

Eddie isn't religious, but this is his sanctuary now.

Because the shop is exactly the same as it was the day Wayne died in it. His last coffee mug is still on the window ledge. Liquid long evaporated, only the dark stains inside the porcelain proving that it was once there, once used. 

That Wayne was once there, using it. 

His cheaters are on the counter. And the bench. And a pair hanging from the coveralls pocket. Cheap drugstore reading glasses he needed to see anything up close. Eddie would tease, and Wayne would reassure Eddie that his day was coming.

It hasn't, not yet, but if it does, apparently he has a stockpile of glasses to choose from.

Eddie looks around, and it looks like Wayne'll be right back. Like he stepped out, just for a minute. 

Not forever. 

Eddie knows he won't be back, he knows, but it still feels like he'll come back any day now. Like it's all just waiting for his inevitable return. 

Like Eddie is still waiting for his return, because anything else is unfathomable. He can't be gone. Not when Wayne's stuff is all right here, just where he left it.

But no. He is gone, and there's not even any ghosts lingering, just his stuff. This is just a shrine that was accidentally left behind in his departure. 

The motor of the bass boat is up on a worktop, half broken down, torn apart. He doesn't know how to fix that, and he supposes Steve doesn't either. Is it destined to just sit there, just like that? In limbo? Forever?

That boat was a splurge, a want, not a need, and Eddie was happy Wayne decided to get something that he wanted, just for himself. 

After a lifetime of sacrificing for Eddie, Eddie just wanted to pay him back in any way he could. 

A boat, a home, anything at all. 

Eddie damn well knows the town likes to whisper behind their backs. Like Eddie is aimless, shiftless. The weird, queer freak that was incapable of flying the coop. Incapable of growing up. 

The one that somehow brought the Harrington boy down with him.

That they were flitting around, no jobs, living off the old man. 

That's not true, of course. 

Yeah, they were traveling around the world, fixing problems that came from beneath. Whispered secrets, unknown horrors, with very few explanations.

Experts in a field Eddie wished they knew nothing about. 

Hawkins has forgotten. Eddie hasn't been allowed to, not ever.

But maybe they were right, in some ways. Eddie still doesn't feel grown up. But they acted like his relationship was somehow less, just because Wayne was living under the same roof. 

But it was more. 

Eddie knows that. Having these extended years with Wayne, extra years that Eddie hadn't been promised, was good for all of them. 

Eddie loved having him here any time they came home. And he thinks Steve did, too. 

Wayne stayed with the house while they worked, sometimes going job to job for months at a time. Living out of suitcases. But he was always waiting here for them to return. Home. 

Wayne was home. 

And now Eddie's home has left him. 

Eddie misses him desperately. There's a gaping, bleeding hole in his heart, and in their home. 

Wayne's last pack of cigarettes sits on the wooden worktop, six of twenty remaining. Eddie has counted, and re-counted, without moving them. They're right next to a notepad and pen, and Eddie wonders if this was the last thing Wayne ever wrote. It means nothing to Eddie, just shorthand chicken scratches, measurements for something, a rough design plan, maybe? It doesn't matter. Except it does matter to Eddie. They're important because they were Wayne's thoughts, put to paper for a later date that would never come.

Eddie reaches up and runs his hands along the worn coveralls, hanging on a hook. One of several identical pairs. He died in another, that and his work boots.

Dying in your work boots and your worn coveralls isn't a bad way to go, all things considered. That's what Wayne always said.

There are worse things in life than death.

And:

I'll die with my boots on.

Both premonitions, it turns out, and painfully true. 

Steve and Eddie on the road, a message from Gareth waiting at the next checkpoint, telling them to come home. Now.

There are worse things in life than sudden, swift death. Here and gone. No suffering. One breath you're fine, and the next you're just not here anymore. Eddie's experienced both. His mother's long, drawn out death. The anticipation, the suffering, the anxiety.

And now, the opposite. 

Even if Eddie wasn't here. Even if he missed it. Even if Wayne died alone, with Eddie and Steve several states away. Eddie'll still take that option, if he gets to choose. He'll go like Wayne. Just blinking out, no fanfare. Wayne's death, exactly how he lived. Quiet, alone, and independent as fuck up until the exact moment he headed off into the sunset.

Eddie doesn't know where Wayne is now. 

Probably nowhere, Eddie thinks. Besides the ground.

Steve thinks otherwise. Steve's an optimist, though. 

Eddie often wonders what the fuck that's like? He's just too self-sabotagin' for that ever to be true for him. They go into jobs the same way, Eddie pessimistic and looking at all the bad. He wants to hear the worst of it. But Steve's beside him, ever optimistic, looking at the good. At the hope.

They make a good team, a good balance. Always have.

This was meant to be their house. Wayne was just keeping it company until they were ready to settle down. That was the excuse to get his stubborn ass into it, anyway. 

Eddie's ready now. There's no place like home is fucking true. The rest of the world holds no luster for him now, not anymore. The shine dulled and tarnished.

But, home?

At home, it's all still here.

And Eddie's just filling the spaces around it all. Around everything Wayne left behind. Absorbing it into himself. Into his bones. Wayne's stuff getting pushed to the back of the medicine cabinet. His clothes shuffled to the back of the closet. 

But still here.

There's room enough for all of it.

The phone rings. The red one. Eddie doesn't answer. He's not leaving home, not yet. Maybe never again. 

He's really sorry that the rest of the world has problems that maybe they could help fix.

Right now, Eddie can only try to fix himself. 

Eddie hears the saw. On, then off, then on again. The high-pitched whine of it.

When he rounds the side of the house, those beautiful barn doors are thrown wide open. Steve's leaning over a table, noting measurements. Scribbling with a pencil, one of the big rectangle ones, that won't roll away.

Referencing back and forth to another set of papers. 

He's got on a backwards cap, one of Wayne's from the wall inside, Eddie's pretty sure. 

Ear protection. Eye protection.

Carhartt overalls, and a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Eddie's sure it's one of Wayne's that worked its way up from the back of the closet. 

Things are starting to get moved, here and there. Used again. Time marching on.

If Wayne could see Steve now, he'd be proud. Eddie knows it. Even if once, he was sure Wayne thought Steve was a goddamn yuppie like the rest of Harringtons. But Wayne learned just how goddamn tough Steve is, fast. Eddie slung over a shoulder, Steve marching him back from hell. Alive. Somehow.

And that's all it took. Wayne loved Steve, and over time, loved him just as much as he loved Eddie, Eddie's pretty sure. 

He misses Wayne, and he knows Steve does, too.

They both feel closer to him here.

Eddie thought he'd have more time. A lot more. He should have listened more, learned more. He should have helped build those doors. 

But he didn't. Wayne taught him different lessons. How to play the guitar. How to do the nightly crossword. How to survive.

Wayne taught Steve others. 

And where Eddie's done it in the house, Steve's filled the spaces around the things left behind in the shop. 

Eddie puts down the lemonade, poured into a familiar mug, right next to the pack of cigarettes that are gathering more sawdust, and waits. Doesn't want to startle Steve, though, if Eddie knows Steve, he already knows Eddie's there.

It's his job to not be snuck up on. 

Eddie notices the boat motor has been moved. 

The sawing stops, and Steve comes over to him.

"Who did this?" Eddie asks. "What are you doing with it?"

"I moved it. Goodie's coming tomorrow. Thinks he can fix it," Steve answers, then he's downing a big swallow of lemonade. It's just from the canister, but made extra strong, just like Wayne taught him. 

Goodie is good with motorcycle engines. Eddie doesn't know if that translates to boat motors or not. But what can it hurt to let him try? It's just been sitting here, waiting for Wayne to pick up where he left off, which is never gonna happen.

The next night, Goodie and Steve are leaning over it, heads together. They've been tinkering all day. Thinking they've got it, putting it into a five gallon bucket of water to test run, and then shaking their heads when it refuses to fire up.

Eddie watches it all through the big, open doors. Gareth is poking at the firepit. Jeff cooking on the grill. Kids and spouses hanging out, playing or talking.

His family is here, just. It's not everyone, there's still a missing piece. And there always will be, now. It's a hurt that settles deep in his chest, and he knows he'll have to carry it there forever right next to the loss of his mother.

He hears the motor rev to life and Steve and Goodie are screaming in delight that they finally fucking did it, and Eddie smiles. 

Maybe they'll take the boat out this weekend. 

Eddie uncovers the boat, and it's another time capsule under the tarp, one he hadn't considered existing. Fishing poles, still baited with hooks and lures. Empty cans, dead leaves.

Another pack of cigarettes. He laughs, and pockets them. One shrine is enough. These? Maybe these he'll smoke. 

They take off across the lake, getting up to speed. The wind is rushing through Eddie's hair, and when they slow to turn, Eddie cups his hands, and lights one of Wayne's cigarettes. 

Breathing deep. 

Then, coughing. 

It's stale, and tastes bitter.

Thankfully, Steve and Goodie can't hear him, as he tries to expel it all in an unattractive fashion. 

He hasn't smoked in years, and his lungs are protesting. He laughs, and just holds it in his hand, and enjoys the ride. 

Gareth and Jeff are on the shore, waiting their turn, but are also the rescue crew if the motor fails mid-lake. 

Eddie can swim to shore, has done it once before in this lake, but would really rather not repeat the experience. 

The motor sings, and when they pull up to the dock, Steve and him get out, letting Goodie take the others out on the water. 

"Smoking again, are you?" Steve asks. But there's no judgment. Steve never judges him, somehow. Even Eddie judges himself. That Steve doesn't is a miracle. 

"Not well," he admits, sliding the pack back into his shirt pocket. Where he just might carry them from now on. Over his heart. 

One pack watching over Steve in the shop, one pack watching over him, everywhere else. 

"Boat's running good," Eddie offers and Steve smiles. 

Steve drapes his arms over Eddie's shoulders, leaning up against him, hands resting on Eddie's chest. Over his heart, hugging him from behind. 

Steve tells him all about the motor. What they fixed. What they can still fine-tune. 

Then.

"I miss him," Steve says. 

And yeah. That's the long and short of it. 

"Me too." 

Winter comes, and Eddie glances out the kitchen window, spotting Wayne splitting wood. 

The thought is fleeting, painful, and it sucker punches him when he hadn't seen it coming. He grips the edge of the sink, fingers digging in, as he doubles over, trying not to cry. 

When he looks again, it's not Wayne at all. 

It's Steve. 

Ax in hand, the heavy Carhartt coat on his back. Eddie's not sure if it's actually Wayne's coat, or just something that he associates with Wayne so strongly, that it feels like it's his. 

When Steve hauls the logs in later, Eddie holds the door open for him.

After he's done, Steve shrugs out of the coat, face red from the cold. 

Eddie just stares at him. 

When did Steve grow up? They were just kids a second a go, Eddie's sure of it. But Steve's going gray at his temples, and he's not old, but he is all grown up. 

That means Eddie must be, too. 

Wayne's gone. His mother's gone. Fuck knows about his dad. 

He suddenly realizes he's the older generation, and the thought of that is suffocating. He still feels like he needs to look for real adults, and now there's nobody left to turn to for guidance. 

Steve is an adult. 

So, Eddie pretends he is, too. 

The red phone rings again. And again. 

Steve finally unplugs it from the jack, and unscrews it from the wall, shoving it into the closet, on top of a box of Wayne's old boots. 

They can always plug it back in. 

Just. Not today. 

Today, the guys are coming over to jam. They've been doing that more and more since Eddie's been home. 

They will never be anything except what they are. A middle-aged Midwestern garage band. Comprised of a relucant monster hunter. A lawyer. A mechanic. A loan officer. 

Best friends. Still. All these decades later. 

Steve is in the shop, the heater red hot, and Eddie had dragged down Wayne's easy chair from the house with Gareth's help the other day, so now he can sit in front of the heater and read while Steve works. He rocks gently, his foot pushing off of the dirty floor to keep him in constant motion.

He feels better moving, always has, and this rocking soothes that part of him well. Especially since his whole life has come to a standstill. 

All the noise Steve's making is a comfort, familiar. It's a hug. A hello. 

An echo, still ringing through the night. 

Eddie can dig in the back of the closet, too. Tonight, he's wearing a heavy, buffalo check flannel coat. It's worn on the sleeves and collar, but Eddie swears it still smells of cigarettes and Wayne's cologne. 

His cologne is still in the bathroom in the house, his cigarettes are still on the table, out here. 

Still six in the pack. 

He's everywhere, and nowhere, all at the same time.

Steve comes over holding up a piece of wood, holding it up, showing it off. 

Eddie's not sure what it'll be, but he smiles encouragingly. 

Steve smiles back and then leans down, kissing him. It's quiet, this life they've decided to live. Too quiet, sometimes. But Eddie's happy.

He wasn't sure he would be again, but here he is, with Steve. 

At home.

It's peaceful.

And this becomes their new routine. Eddie sits, Steve works, and the winter wind blows against the shop. 

Tonight, Eddie must have dozed off, because he jumps when Steve touches his arms. 

"C'mere. It's done," Steve says. 

"What's done?" Eddie asks, but he takes Steve's offered hands, getting pulled to standing. 

In the back there's something with a drop cloth thrown over it. 

Steve is giddy, and it's contagious, "What is it?" 

"For you, I think. If you want it," Steve says, as he yanks the sheet off. 

It's a cabinet. A hutch. Like for storing the fancy dishes. 

Okay. 

"It's pretty," Eddie says, because it is. "Who did this? You? Wayne?"

Steve squats down and plugs it in, "Both of us."

When it comes to life, backlit and beautiful, there are heavy hooks inside instead of shelves. 

"For your guitars," Steve says, grinning. "It took me a few tries to decipher his plans. I got some things wrong. And I probably did things differently than he would hav-" 

Eddie cuts him off, kissing him. Hands grasping Steve's back. Holding him tight. 

When Eddie pulls back, he knows he has tears in his eyes. He doesn't care. 

"You really did this?" 

"Well. It was Wayne's idea, I just interpreted the plans I found," Steve says, and Eddie pulls him close again. Clinging to him. 

He loves it. He never expected to get something from both of them, not ever again. 

"Thank you," Eddie says, and he's talking to Steve. 

And to Wayne. 

Wherever he is, or isn't. 

Eddie may never get that answer, despite solving so many mysteries for other people. 

But, right now? It doesn't feel that mysterious at all. 

He's still here. 

In the shop. In all the things that live here in their home. In Steve.

In Eddie's heart. 

In all of it.

Always. 

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieangstyaugust and follow along with the fun angst! 😭

Notes: I saw this tiktok the other day and cried. Then it manifested itself here, because the truth of it needed to be jotted down. Also inspired by Bass Boat by Zach Bryan. And his Pink Skies, too. It's been my sad song album this past month.

[mugloversonly]

I’m in my feelings I guess. This one is pretty personal so, keep that in mind.

Ao3

Grief

There’s a creaking sound as your bedroom door opened slowly. On a normal day, you’d be up by now. Ready and waiting for your boyfriend to pick you up. But not today.

You barely moved as you felt the bed dip with Eddie’s weight. His strong arms wrapped around you gentle and firm. His chapped lips pressed softly to the back of your neck and you sighed.

“Hey, baby.” He whispered into your nape. “How you doing?” He asked.

“Do you know what day it is Eddie?” You asked instead of answering, though the date was more than enough of an answer. He glanced at the calendar on the wall and understanding filled his eyes.

“Oh, baby. I didn’t realize it was that time of year again.” He murmured into your hair. “I’m sorry.” You melted into his embrace as your eyes watered.

“It’s been 15 years Eds.” You whispered. “I should be over it by now.” you insisted harshly even as a tear snuck by. But he just held you tighter.

“Grief isn’t linear baby. It’s been what 3 years since you’ve been on the Earth longer without her than with her?” He asked gently. Always so gentle with you. A sob rocked your body but Eddie pulled you in tightly. “I’ve got ya. Let it all out, love.”

And you did. Tears soaked his shirt, along with your snot. It was so gross but he didn’t mind, you were his girl, and his girl was hurting. A soiled shirt was hardly a worry.

Finally, the tears dried but he didn’t let you go. He’d never let you go. He thought for a moment that you fell asleep, but your voice, raspy from crying, broke the silence.

“She collected tea pots.” You whispered. “I don’t think I ever saw her use one, but she had a shit ton of them. I don’t even know if she drank tea.” You giggled a little. Eddie chuckled softly.

He never met her, but the way you talked about her made him wish he could’ve. He knew from the stories you told that you loved her and she loved you. Your mom told him stories about her sometimes.

He lost his mom around the same age you lost your aunt and the wound still ached. You’ll be right where he is in a few months, holding him, gently rocking him, loving him, through the grief, through the pain. He’ll tell you the same 5 stories about his mom, and you’ll listen to them again just like he’ll listen to this teapot story as many times as you need to tell him.

And when you go home to visit family, and they all say you look just like her, he’ll be there. Squeezing your hand as you thank them all politely before you go home and star in the mirror, looking at the echo of the face of the woman who made you who you are. The little quirks that you two shared are some of his favorite things about you.

“Can we go to the diner?” You asked quietly.

“Of course.” He said. He didn’t mention that had been the plan for the day in the first place.

As the two of you sit down, he slid in right next to you to hold you tight, even here. As you order your drinks you ask for the dessert menu.

“The dessert menu?” He asked you with a raised eyebrow.

“My aunt would always eat dessert first when we went out to eat.” You shrugged. “But we don’t have to” he shoved a finger against your lips to interrupt you.

“If you think I won’t eat a piece of pie for breakfast you are severely mistaken.” He said seriously but it still caused you to laugh.

You felt lighter than you had all morning as you fed each other pieces of pie. Everything wasn’t magically fixed, but you knew that through it all, Eddie’d be there to hold you.

And on her birthday, he held your hand as a teapot was tattooed on your ankle.

Grief isn’t linear, there’s no time limit or expiration date. You’ll feel it for a long time, maybe forever. But as long as you lean on him, Eddie will be there to support that weight. He can’t carry it for you, but he can carry you.

[fiorexiv]

FFXIV-Write 2024: #2 - Horizon

When the sun sank at the end of the funeral rites, Fiore wandered alone. After burying his mother, he didn’t expect to feel like he could run along the coast from Red Rooster Stead to Aleport and back and still have the energy to prepare breakfast. This, he concluded, must be an abnormal processing of his grief. His sisters had sobbed and whispered quietly amongst each other (leaving him out as they often did) until they both fell asleep, exhausted from the day. Fiore, contrarily, was restless. Knowing that he couldn’t stay at home, he decided a short walk might be what he needed. Even with his mother gone, he took extra care to be silent—avoid the squeaky fourth floorboard from the wall, lift the door upwards by the handle so the hinges won’t squeal, twist the knob so the latch won’t click, hold the keys with two hands so they won’t jingle while locking up.

Outside, the stars were long in full bloom overhead, their cool glow giving him enough light to walk despite the thin grin of the crescent moon. Chilled air bit into his exposed arms, but it was too risky to turn back for a coat. If he went inside, he might convince himself to stay there, or worse, be caught and scolded by his sisters. The cold was a mild inconvenience in comparison, and nothing movement couldn’t stave off. So he walked. One step, and another, and another, eyes straight ahead to where the road curved out of sight.

Every ten steps brought a thousand thoughts with it, most about his mother’s life. There were no sparkling memories of time spent with her, no bright days of laughter and kindness to reflect on with fondness. She had been far too sickly, too paranoid, too hurt to be a doting parent. Perhaps—no, he knew for certain—it was because she lamented leaving her home behind for her unborn’s sake. For his sake. While his sisters had many tales of their childhoods with their mother playing with them, bringing them treats, and teaching them skills in the “homeland,” their mother’s agony, guilt, and loneliness tainted his own. His homeland was La Noscea; his stories were of time locked inside, apologizing to her while he cooked and cleaned. The woman they knew never made it across the sea.

It wasn’t as though he was happy she was gone. There was a strange emptiness in the days since her passing that left him feeling aimless now that he didn’t have to be her caretaker. He had never considered his mother’s death—the Viera lived too long for that, and she should have had much more time. She had escaped the brutality of invasion to save her children, but in forsaking her people, her culture, and her family, she cut herself off from any answers that would have brought her a semblance of peace. His eldest sister’s words from the funeral rites echoed in his mind. ‘Grief wields death’s scythe with a firm grip.’

What of his grief? Perhaps walking a bit further, he might find it.

—

Fiore wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he left home. The route was so familiar and his head so clouded with thoughts that he had walked in a trance. When he double checked his surroundings, he realized he was already halfway to Limsa Lominsa. Hours, then. Like finding a paper cut on a finger, the knowledge of the time made his pain set in. Not the aches in his feet, nor the screaming of his calves, nor the tenderness of his skin in the cold—but the sense of sadness. He wasn’t without sympathy, no matter how much he wished she had been different. However neglectful and broken that she was, his mother wouldn’t have been in such a state had she never been forced from her home. The years of making sure she was fed and comfortable were more than enough to give. There was nothing more he could have done, even as her only son.

He lifted his gaze, tears unfurling down his cheeks in an unending stream, their warmth stinging against the cold of his skin. In looking up, he realized that the stars had already begun to wink away and acquiesce to the rising sun. How strange to see that she should raise her head over the horizon to light the realm, knowing his mother would never raise her head again.

[spicy-apple-pie]

One thing about kids is that they will casually trauma dump to you and not bat an eye

Also sorry about the nothing burgers lately, I just prepping for the... next arc...

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Commission Info / Kofi

[lynxgriffin]

Mightier Than The Sword

Gerson had one regret, but now Alvin has many. A fancomic about my thoughts and theories and who -and what- the Knight is!

While not directly connected, I'd say this one is in the same vein as the Deal With The Devil series! Hope you enjoy!

Alt text for this comic under the read more:

Page 1

Panel 1 - Wide shot of the interior of the Boom household. Several monsters are gathered in a clean-looking hall, dressed in somber clothing and talking quietly in small groups. The monsters include QC, Cat Mom, Toriel, Asgore and Mayor Holiday. Father Alvin stands waiting at a door in the hall as his sister, a red-headed turtle monster in a pink dress, exits through the door and speaks to him. “Alvin…he’s ready for you.”

Panel 2 - Mid shot as Alvin prepares to enter the room. Ms. Boom steps out of the way, and puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Both of them look somber. 

Panel 3 - Alvin enters the room, mostly dark and lit by a few candles on a nearby desk. Gerson Boom is lying on a bed ahead of him, watching him enter. Alvin closes the door behind him and says, “Father, I’m here.”

Panel 4 - Alvin approaches his father, lying in bed. The bedroom has a few amenities, including a footstool set off to the side, a large rug bearing the delta rune, and a massive bookcase filling the entire back wall. A few books and papers litter the ground. Alvin bows his head, and says, “The hammer is ready for…for afterwards.”

Gerson just smiles, and responds, “Wa ha, is it? Well, it’ll do fine, I suppose.”

Panel 5 - Closer shot of Gerson extending his right hand towards Alvin. He’s smiling still, content with where he is. “Come here, son.”

Page 2

Panel 1 - Closeup as Alvin takes his father’s hand in his own, and clasps it tight. “Whatever you need…I’m here,” he says from offscreen.

Panel 2 - Alvin kneels by his father’s bedside, still clasping his hands. Gerson says, “Of course you are. Wa ha…you’re such a good and kind man, Alvin.”

Panel 3 - Closeup on Alvin as he just holds on to his father’s hand. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. 

Panel 4 - Focus on Gerson as he holds up a hand to conspiratorially whisper to Alvin. “And I know I can trust you with a secret, right?”

Panel 5 - Closeup on Alvin as he looks back up, face earnest. “...Of course.”

Panel 6 - Gerson holds up one finger as he speaks to Alvin. “I told your sister I had no regrets, but that was a BIT of a fib! I’m afraid I have one regret…”

Panel 7 - Side view of Alvin as he learns closer, his face now worried. “Father?...”

Page 3

Panel 1 - Focus on Gerson as he leans back on his pillow, looking up at the ceiling. “I wish I had started earlier. Writing stories, I mean. Seein’ you an’ your sister’s eyes light up whenever I read you a new chapter…and then seeing all that joy from so many young folks after those stories were published!” he says, looking wistful.

Panel 2 - Alvin watches on sadly as Gerson continues, “It was the greatest feeling in the world, Alvin. It’s what life’s all about, y’know. Helping the young folks grow.”

Panel 3 - Gerson closes his eyes and looks back towards the ceiling again, still wistful. “So, I wish I’d started writing stories sooner.”

Panel 4 - Closeup on Alvin as he bows his head, still holding Gerson’s hand. “I truly do cherish those times you read to us, father…” he says.

Panel 5 - Closeup on Gerson as he closes his mind with happy memories. “Me too, Alvin. It’s a shame…I’ve still got so many tales to tell! But–”

Panel 6 - Gerson is interrupted by a round of hacking coughs. His time is fast approaching.

Panel 7 - Gerson settles back in to his bed and says, “The Angel’s given me SO many good, happy years. Doesn’t seem fair to ask for more.”

Panel 8 - Closeup on Alvin as he continues to hold his father’s hand tight. “This doesn’t seem fair, either…” he says, tears still pricking at his eyes.

Page 4

Panel 1 -  Insert closeup of Gerson as he smiles at his son. “That’s life, Alvin!” He doesn’t seem bothered by his imminent passing.

Panel 2 - Side view as Gerson leans in closer to Alvin again, hand raised, back to sharing his secrets. “But, knowin’ my secret…there’s something I’d like to ask of you.”

Alvin faces his father with seriousness. “Anything,” he replies.

Panel 3 - Closeup on Gerson, as he looks hopefully at Alvin. “You have a good heart, Alvin. I want you to know this joy, too.”

Panel 4 - Gerson continues in the next panel: “Please try writin’ stories of your own, alright?” Closeup on Alvin as he looks shocked and a bit worried by the request.

Panel 5 - Mid shot as Alvin holds up a hand to Gerson in protest. He says, “Father, I…I have no talent for writing fiction. Not like YOU.”

Panel 6 - Closeup on Gerson as he refutes his son: “Hogwash! I know you can.”

Panel 7 - Wide shot as Alvin stands up, and looks around the room. “No, I…”

In the foreground, there’s Gerson’s desk, currently showing some lit candles, some paper, an inkwell, a notebook, and his favorite fountain pen.

Page 5

Panel 1 - Closeup as Alvin grabs two objects off of the desk: the small notebook and the fountain pen. Offscreen, he says, “If you just…”

Panel 2 - Back at Gerson’s bedside, Alvin pulls up the footstool and puts the pen and notebook in front of him, intending to use it. He faces his father, and says, “Tell me your ideas, I could write them down, and–”

Gerson interrupts him: “‘Fraid it doesn’t work that way, Alvin!”

Panel 3 - Gerson holds up both of his hands and smiles as he explains: “My tales are between my soul and the pen. You’ll need to make your own.”

Panel 4 - Gerson watches as Alvin, tears in his eyes, looks down at the notebook and pen in hand. “I–I cannot…” Alvin starts, looking despondent.

Panel 5 - Side view of Alvin as tears continue to stream from his eyes. He says, “Not without you!” In the background, in grayscale, there is a scene from Alvin’s memory: Gerson reading a book to his two children by the fire. Gerson looks happy, and both kids are enraptured, with Alvin clinging to a cat doll that looks like Seam.

Panel 6 - Closeup on Gerson, his face now more worried and pleading towards Alvin. Gerson says, “Y-you can… It’s all I ask…”

Panel 7 - Gerson turns away as he’s again interrupted by a round of terrible sounding coughs. Alvin stands holding the notebook and pen in the foreground.

Page 6

Panel 1 - Horror comes over Alvin’s face as his father continues to cough loudly, clutching his chest. He realizes that his father might be close to death now.

Panel 2 - Wider overhead shot as Alvin turns away from Gerson, looking frantically around the room. “No! Not yet!--” he says desperately. Gerson is still racked with coughs.

Panel 3 - Closeup as Alvin grabs the candles from the desk–

Panel 4 - And then pulls a book from the bookshelf, with the delta rune on the front –

Panel 5 - And then finally pulls out what appears to be a beaded rosary, with the delta rune made of beads at the end of it.

Panel 6 - Wider shot as Alvin places the objects in front of him, candles to the side, holy book in front of him. Gerson can only lay there as he does so, trying to catch his breath.

Panel 7 - Front view of Alvin as he clasps his hands together in front of his face, the rosary threaded between his fingers. He closes his eyes and bows his head in prayer. “Angel…Angel above! Please, heed your servant’s prayer!”

Page 7

Panel 1 - Closeup on Alvin as he continues to pray, the candles glowing around him. He keeps his eyes shut even as tears well in them. “I know you call back my father’s soul, but please! Please refrain!”

Panel 2 - Gerson desperately reaches a hand out towards his son, shaking, but unable to reach him. In the foreground, the fountain pen sits on the footstool between them. “A-Alvin…” Gerson’s voice is shaky now.

Panel 3 - Aerial shot as Alvin prays over the book, and Gerson is still confined to the bed, only able to watch. “This world still NEEDS his gifts!” Alvin says. “I pray to you, don’t take them from us now!” The shadows around Alvin start to grow strange, not matching the candlelight.

Panel 4 - Gerson continues to hold out a hand, now not looking well. “No…”

Panel 5 - Closeup on the candles as they spark to life, now glowing stronger.

Panel 6 - A strange bright glow begins to emanate from Gerson. Behind him, the books in the bookcase all rattle and shift as if in a localized earthquake. The colors of the room grow brighter and stranger.

Panel 7 - Still reaching out a desperate hand, Gerson lets out a soft breath. His soul, an upside-down white heart, comes up from his body. On the footstool in the foreground, the fountain pen also begins to levitate, as if by magic.

Page 8

Panel 1 - Front shot of Alvin as he continues to pray desperately, his head bowed and hands together. “Grant us the love shown between his soul and the pen!” Behind him, the colors have grown stark and bright, and a shadow resembling the angel looms behind Alvin.

Panel 2 - Alvin looks up to discover something amazing and terrible: Gerson’s soul has been drawn to the fountain pen, and begins to flow down into it.

Panel 3 - Closeup as Gerson’s soul is completely absorbed into the pen, hovering high over the bed.

Panel 4 - The candles turn strange blue and pink colors, and the books in the bookcase shake and rattle relentlessly.

Panel 5 - Extreme closeup on Alvin’s eyes as he sees this miracle; the light of his father’s soul reflected in his eyes.

Panel 6 - Closeup as the pen suddenly drops, and clatters back on to the footstool.

Panel 7 - Wide aerial shot as the room very suddenly goes completely dark and silent, the bright colors and lights now gone. Alvin stands up and backs away from the bed, still clutching the rosary, his face filled with horror. Gerson now lies unmoving in his bed, having passed away.

Page 9

Panel 1 - The same shot as the first panel of the first page, with the other monsters waiting in the hallway. No one says anything as Alvin emerges from the bedroom, leaning on the door for support, his head bowed. Everyone in the room knows that Gerson has just passed, although they don’t know the rest.

Panel 2 - An establishing shot of the forest and mountains surrounding Hometown…the skies are a dark, gloomy gray.

Panel 3 - Above shot of Gerson’s newly dug grave. At the bottom of a small pit lies Gerson’s hammer, covered in his dust. Politics Bear stands over the grave, holding a shovel. 

Panel 4 - Closeup as the shovel begins to dump dirt over the fresh grave.

Panel 5 - Another closeup of Gerson’s headstone, with bundles of fresh funerary flowers laid in front of it.

Panel 6 - Wide shot of Gerson’s funeral. Alvin stands over his father’s grave, reading last rites from one of his books. Lots of monsters are in attendance, including Alphys and Undyne, Napstablook, the Holiday and Dreemurr families, and more. A very young Kris, Noelle and Asriel are present, but Dess is not. Everyone is dressed in dark mourning attire.

Panel 7 - After the funeral, Toriel approaches Alvin and puts a hand on his shoulder. She says, “Beautifully said, Alvin. I know your father is watching proudly by the side of the Angel.” Alvin looks distant and mournful.

Panel 8 - A closeup of the fountain pen laying forgotten on the desk in Gerson’s room. Gerson is, perhaps, not actually with the Angel right now.

Panel 9 - Back at the funeral, Alvin bows his head, eyes closed. “You are too kind, Toriel,” he says.

Page 10

Panels 1-3 - We see the seasons pass through the changing of the trees…from the barren white trees of winter, to colorful pink blooms for spring, to the bright oranges and reds of fall.

Panel 4 - Sometime much later, Alvin again enters his father’s old room, alone.

Panel 5 - Much of Gerson’s room has remained untouched. The fountain pen still sits on his old writing desk in the foreground. Alvin steps inside, and carefully turns on the overhead light. “It’s been years,” he says.

Panel 6 - Alvin cautiously approaches the pen, which seems to loom large ahead of him. He hesitantly picks it up.

Panel 7 - Alvin places some blank pages on the writing desk. “Surely…”

Panel 8 - Alvin sits in front of the blank pages, still holding the pen cautiously. “Surely by now, I can do it.” He’s going to try writing.

Panel 9 - Closeup as Alvin dips the pen in the inkwell, and it comes away full of ink.

Panel 10 - Closeup as Alvin holds the pen over the blank page. The pen trembles slightly in his grip.

Panel 11 - Alvin tries to put pen to paper, but he’s still trembling. He looks down with great anxiety. “I…I…”

Panel 12 - Closeup on Alvin’s face as he looks more panicked, shaking and sweating. In the background, his memory of his father’s soul being absorbed into the pen plays back at him. This is still his fault.

Panel 13 - Closeup again as Alvin’s hand shakes uncontrollably, and the pen with it. Ink spots begin to dapple the blank page–

Page 11

Panel 1 - Alvin’s shaking hand accidentally knocks over the inkwell, and it spills black ink all over the blank page.

Panel 2 - Alvin picks up the ruined paper and folds it in half to try and stem the ink spillage. He quietly curses to himself. 

Panel 3 - Closeup as Alvin holds his head in his hand. It’s clear that this isn’t going to work. “I can’t…” 

Panel 4 - Closeup as Alvin puts the ink-stained paper back on the desk, and quickly grabs up the pen and inkwell.

Panel 5 - Taking the pen and inkwell, Alvin exits his father’s room again, head bowed and expression sad.

Panel 6 - Left behind, the folded paper slowly peels apart and unfolds…

Panel 7 - To reveal that the spilled ink has created a rorschach ink blot image of a titan. 

Page 12

Panel 1 - Wide shot as Alvin trudges down the streets of Hometown, alone. His head his bowed, and he’s still clutching the articles he took with him. It’s almost nighttime, and the sky is dark. “I cannot bear this kind of burden,” he says to himself.

Panel 2 - Shot from behind Alvin as he approaches the school building. It’s dark, and no students or teachers should be there. “Maybe you belong where you always have…”

Panel 3 - Now indoors, Alvin continues down the empty hallway towards a particular destination. “With the youth.”

Panel 4 - Alvin opens the door to the storage closet at the end of the hall. It opens with a soft creak. “Teaching. Telling stories,” Alvin continues to say to himself.

Panel 5 - Alvin places the fountain pen and inkwell on a small shelf in the storage closet. The closet is almost completely black. 

Panel 6 - The inkwell and pen are left on the shelf as Alvin closes the door behind him. His expression is mournful as he locks these reminders of his father away. “Inspiring someone better suited,” he says, hoping this is a suitable escape of his responsibility.

Page 13

Panel 1 - But in the storage closet, the objects are subject to something else already there: the grand Dark Fountain. The pen, ink and papers all fall into the darkness of the fountain–

Panel 2 - And start to change, the pen seemingly turning into liquid itself–

Panel 3 - As the pen falls deeper and deeper into the dark, the liquid begins to reshape into something new, something resembling a person–

Panel 4 - Until it lands on empty ground, now a person in knight’s armor, knelt over and holding his head in his hands.

Panel 5 - The Knight comes to, and starts to become more aware. He’s dressed in armor resembling the dark metallic sheen of the fountain pen, his mask resembling the pen tip. A bright deep red cape flows from his shoulders, and a single red-orange feather tops the helmet. “Where…am I?”

Panel 6 - The Knight again touches his helmet with both hands, as if not sure exactly what he is.

Panel 7 - Interior shot of the helmet, which reveals a figure much like Gerson…but much younger, more idealized-looking, with colors not matching his actual self. A Dark World interpretation. “WHY am I…?”

Panel 8 - A closeup of the Knight’s hand, slightly trembling.

Panel 9 - The Knight stares down at his own hands as realization begins to flood him, or at least something that looks like realization. “Wait. I see why. I KNOW.” he says.

 Page 14

Panel 1 - The Knight holds up his hand, and a sword appears in it in a flash of lights. The sword resembles the tip of a fountain pen, almost split neatly in two. “I serve the Lightners! That is my purpose!” Says the Knight. 

Panel 2 - The Knight draws the sword back with great fervor and determination. His thoughts echo around him in strong letters: “A purpose so bright, so clear…”

Panel 3 - In the final panel, the Knight drives the sword into the ground, causing an eruption of black ink-like material to spew from the ground…the creation of a new Dark Fountain. In the fountain itself, words reflect his purpose: “I EXIST TO GIVE THEM STORIES FOREVER.”

[schnuffel-danny]

The info is right there on his wikipedia page, Danny, you really have no excuses for this one

[twinliches]

where is that post that is like at a certain level of serving cunt misgendering becomes funny because i had to attend a funeral in my conservative hometown and the urge not to wink and do finger guns at every old person who looked at my mother puzzled as she answered the question "and who is this young man?" with "that's my daughter" through clenched teeth was immeasurably hard to supress

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 136

 There is a small child floating in the Watchtower. 

They’re visibly not human, a too-big cloak of purple (what shade no one knows, all they can describe about the cloak is purple, nothing else) hanging from them as big Lazarus-green eyes glare down in something of a pout. The child huffs, blowing white hair out of their face despite it shimmering and shifting on its own already. 

How the child, inhuman or not, found their way into the Watchtower- without setting off an alarm no less- is a concern. A very large concern, but it can wait because there is a four-year old (if the child is the equivalent of a human child that is) at oldest staring down at them. 

 “Do you know where the speedsters are?” the child piped up after an awkward stare-down, none of the league members present quite sure what to do in this situation. It was probably around time to call Batman… or they could call Flash instead. 

[steddieas-shegoes]

cw: discussion of past parental death due to overdose, mention of drug use

Steve stumbled upon the article when he was helping Robin collect articles for a project for her Industry Studies course.

He didn’t think much of reading about another small time musician getting caught up with the wrong crowd, and overdosing or getting in a drunk driving accident. It seemed like a pretty common theme. It was terrible, sad, horrible, but he’d seen about 30 stories like that in the last two days and he was kind of getting numb to it all.

Until he saw the name Munson.

Until a picture of a woman with long, curly hair and Eddie’s smile stared back at him next to a headline that read: “Kentucky Country Queen Dead at 27.”

He read the article with tears in his eyes.

Elizabeth “El” Munson, a hopeful country singer and guitarist, was found dead in her home by her six year old son, Edward. The boy reportedly tried calling his father at work with no luck before finally calling his uncle, Wayne Munson.

Toxicology reports show that she overdosed on multiple illegal substances. At this time, it is believed to have been accidental and no foul play is suspected.

It has now been made clear that Elizabeth was seeking a divorce from her husband, Al Munson, but had not been successful as lawyers were unable to locate him until her funeral. Their son has been put in the care of Wayne until further notice.

Robin found him 20 minutes later, staring at the page with swollen, red eyes. She took the paper, read the article, and put it back in the files wordlessly.

“I don’t think he wants us to know,” she finally said.

She was probably right.

But Steve had grown pretty close to Eddie over the last six months, had opened up to him about his parents, his fake friends, his concussions and nightmares. Eddie had started opening up to him, too.

He thought he had, anyway.

He told him about how his mom died when he was young and his dad was awful so he moved in with Wayne. He told him about how his dad appeared every couple years looking for money or a place to stay and Wayne always turned him away.

But he never really talked about his mom, always said he barely remembered her.

Did he know what happened?

——

Steve asked Wayne the next morning.

He’d come by to pick Eddie up for a day with the kids, but Eddie hadn’t set his alarm and was still asleep.

Perfect opportunity to find out more.

“So. Eddie’s mom.”

Wayne tensed over his plate of toast and scrambled eggs. He didn’t look up, just took another bite of food.

“Does he know how she died?”

“Do you?”

“Newspaper said overdose,” Steve tapped his fingers nervously against his thigh. “Says Eddie found her.”

“Trauma messes with your memory.”

It was final, a statement that left Steve with more questions, but a certainty that he’d get no answers.

“Yeah.” He gulped. “I’ve heard.”

——

Steve doesn’t bring it up to Eddie for a while.

He figured Wayne’s reaction said a lot about what Eddie knew or would be willing to share.

But they were a little high and alone and Eddie’s hand was warm in his and his filter was broken.

“I’m sorry you had to be the one to find your mom.”

The air around them was thick. The silence was deafening.

“Me too.”

Eddie’s voice was quiet, nothing like his usual playful tone.

Steve immediately wanted to put this conversation in reverse, pretend his curiosity didn’t matter.

“I’m sorry.”

Eddie moved closer to Steve, his arm a constant pressure against Steve’s. His head leaned against Steve’s shoulder.

“Wayne doesn’t know I know how she died. He doesn’t know I know my dad gave her bad drugs, convinced her all the up and coming musicians were doing a new strain of heroin. She’d kicked him out of the house,” Eddie’s breath caught. “She shouldn’t have let him come back that day. I heard them arguing before I left for school. She told him she was finding a manager and recording an album and that she was divorcing him. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew it was bad.”

“Eds, you don’t have to tell me.”

“I know, Stevie. But you know everything else.” Eddie’s face turned until his nose and mouth were pressed against Steve’s arm. “I went to school. Didn’t think about it. Figured my dad would be gone when I got home and might come back in a few days once they cooled off. But when I got home, he was gone and my mom’s bedroom door was closed. And I opened it and there she was.”

Steve turned so he was face to face with Eddie, cupping his jaw and rubbing his thumb along his cheek in encouragement.

“I don’t even know why I tried calling the store first. I didn’t even know if he still worked there. But then I called Wayne and it’s like he just knew.” Eddie’s eyes closed for a moment. “Don’t think he’d ever gotten to our house so quick.”

“Did he know all this?”

“He knew enough. I stayed with him and then my dad gave up his rights. Lied to the counselor about what I knew so Wayne wouldn’t freak. Kept it up for a while,” Eddie let out a small exhale that slightly resembled a laugh. “I read the article about eight years ago. A kid in my class made a joke about me being an orphan because of the drug problem in America as if he even knew what that meant and I decided to see what the newspaper reported.”

“Do you play because of her?” Steve asked.

Eddie blinked back at him.

“I play for a lot of reasons. But I started because of her, yeah,” he whispers. “You’re the first person to ask me that instead of give me that look of pity.”

“I’m sad about how it happened, but giving you pity doesn’t change it. I’d rather hear how it changed you,” Steve whispered back.

They were close, legs intertwined, hands touching bare skin under shirts and on faces and necks.

“It changed everything for me. Wayne packed us up and moved us here as soon as he legally could. Probably for the best. Well,” Eddie gave a small smile. “Definitely for the best. Wouldn’t be here with you if he hadn’t.”

“Do you ever go back?” Steve did his best to ignore the fluttering in his stomach.

“Her birthday every year. She’s got a nice spot near her mom.” Eddie bit his lip. “It’s actually coming up in a couple weeks. Maybe you could come with me?”

“Me? Are you sure?”

Eddie nodded. “If it doesn’t weird you out that I talk to her. I like to give her updates on my life, Wayne’s life, music. Think she’d find it quite funny that I bring the guy I’ve had a crush on for two years.”

It takes a minute for the words to sink in.

“Two years?” Steve’s lips curled up into a smile. “I hope I live up to expectations.”

“I think she’d like you. She’d definitely make fun of me for having a boyfriend who wears polos though.”

“Is that how you’d introduce me?”

“If you’re okay with it.” Eddie leaned his forehead against Steve’s. “I know we haven’t talked about what we-“

Steve pressed his lips to Eddie’s, nearly knocking their noses together painfully in the process.

After the initial shock, they both relaxed into the kiss.

“I’d love to go. As your boyfriend,” Steve said after pulling away for air. “What was her favorite flower?”

“Gardenias. Always wore perfume that smelled like it. Why?”

“Because I have to impress her, right?”

“You realize she’s not gonna actually see or hear you? She’s definitely dead.”

Steve snorted. “I know. But she can still have nice things. Maybe us bringing her nice things in death is a way to apologize for the not nice things she had in life.”

“You’re a pretty incredible boyfriend, sweetheart.” Eddie kissed the tip of his nose. “And you now know more than Wayne, so it’s time for a pinky promise.”

Steve giggled before holding up his pinky. “I swear I won’t tell Wayne anything.”

“And you’ll kiss me whenever I want…”

“That’s a guarantee.”

“And you’ll let me win at Go Fish…”

“Not a chance, Eds.”

Eddie laughed. “Worth a try.”

Steve curled his pinky against Eddie’s. “So do you think she’d like me?”

“Oh. Oh god. She’d love you. You’re exactly who she’d want for me,” Eddie rolled his eyes when Steve flipped his hair back confidently. “And she’d braid your hair every night while you gossiped and sipped tea.”

“And what would you do?”

“Probably just soak it in. Appreciate having her and you around. You’ll just have to gossip with Wayne.”

“Wayne doesn’t strike me as-“

“Oh, he’s got you fooled! He’s a worse gossip than the ladies at the hair salon. Just ask him about the mailbox at the end of the road sometime. Make sure you’ve got an hour to spare.”

“Really?” Steve’s eyes lit up. “Is he home now?”

Eddie pulled Steve forward until he was flush against his front. “No and I have much better plans than gossiping with my uncle.”

“Oh?” Steve’s brow raised.

“It involves my bed and handcuffs. You in?”

“Hopefully you’re in.”

“God, you’re ridiculous. C’mon, now I’m even harder from your stupid flirting,” Eddie sat up and tugged until Steve followed. “Can’t believe this is how my night’s going.”

“Believe it, baby.”

[gffa]

Update on the Lumi: I'm going to try not to disappear, because I've already spent a lot of time away from friends and social hobbies over the last month+, but I recently lost a longtime friend suddenly and, with it being in the same week as the one year anniversary of my dad's death, it's been hitting me hard, so be a little extra gentle with me if I'm more scattershot than usual. I'm processing the feelings, it's just very sudden and deeply unfair, so it's hard to get my heart around it. I'll try to get to messages and asks soon, but just know that sometimes I'm going to seem very upbeat and cheerful, which may even sometimes be genuine, but that I'm going to be easily slipping from one mood to the next. Thank you for your patience and compassion ahead of time. <3

[winniefrez]

Wasn’t sure about posting this one, but peeps seemed to like it on bird app so here it is, with a maybe excessive angst warning BUT basic comic premise is “spar sessoin goes wrong and Irep accidentally gets everything he used to think he wanted >:3c

Part two will be posted momentarily!

[aghostnamedcalamity]

🪻The life of Miss Millicent Mae Ames 🪻

A Milly art dump, a bit in chronological order of her storyline too I suppose; my beautiful porcelain dancer 💜

I’d love to dive more into her and her relationship with her son, Benjamin, eventually.

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: before the nightingale sings

---------

for my batdad blood blossom au, the one where Vlad poisoned Danny with blood blossom extract and Danny ran away from him and ended up tumbling into the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman :). A quick oneshot telling the tale of the tragic deaths of the Fentons

TW: Major Character Death Warning

-------

Not all deaths are created equal.

That is a valuable lesson in life to learn. One that Danny learns when he is eleven years old, standing in the pit of his parents’ creation; the culmination of their life’s work. The portal to the other side, the realm of the dead. To the infinite. 

He learns that when he’s eleven years old, in a hazmat suit that sags on him, and boots that clunk when he walks because the only ones that fit are his mom’s, and even those are too big. In gloves that he has to clench his fists in because otherwise they fall off. In goggles that slide down his nose even when he’s tightened them the farthest they can go. 

He learns that when he’s eleven years old, choking on giggles that harmonize with the laughter of his friends’ who stand at the mouth of the tunnel. Sam’s holding a polaroid in her hand. They’re just being kids. 

They’re not laughing when Danny’s hand hits the safety lock — the one with faulty wiring, the only one in the tunnel. The only one he could possibly hit. They’re not laughing when the portal buzzes to life, and the lights inside switch on row by row as the generator begins to rumble and hum. 

They’re not laughing when Danny dies. They’re screaming. They’re not screaming when he comes back.

Not all deaths are created equal.  

Some are poetic, beautiful. The satisfying close of a book as it comes to an end, of the hardback thumping soft against the pages like the sound of a door closing. A train run its course.

Some are violent; unsatisfying; unfair. The unexpected shattering of an egg as it rolls off the countertop when nobody is looking, the unmistakable crack as it falls to the floor. It is abrupt and messy. 

But most are just… unremarkable. Unintentional. Clumsy. 

Danny’s family dies one night in late January. He is thirteen years old, barely a month away from fourteen. It is unforeseen. It is preventable. It happens. 

It happens like this: 

Their water heater breaks one Monday in January. It’s old, sitting in the garage, and has dealt with nearly sixteen years of Fenton-grade chaos and shenanigans. Of parents tossing scraps and junk into the garage as brief storage to come back to later. Of illegal tune-ups on their vehicles that result in something exploding. Of little children running around and knocking things over, playing with poles and sticks they find on the ground, on the shelves. Of being lived and used.  

Something had to give. 

Jack Fenton notices it immediately when he comes upstairs that very afternoon — his children at school, his wife downstairs — to grab something from the garage. The very same scrap and used material they store like squirrels to use later. 

He stops what he’s doing to fix it.  

It wasn’t supposed to be permanent. 

Despite what many believe, Jack Fenton is not the idiot people make him out to be. He knows what he’s good at, he knows what he’s not. He knows he can be passionate and obsessive and single-minded about things. He knows that he is a scientist, an inventor; an engineer. 

He knows that he is not a plumber. That fixing water heaters is not something he knows how to do, not safely. And he loves his family. What he does is only meant to be temporary — a fix meant to only last a few days until they can call someone in who can fix it for them. 

So Jack Fenton futzes with the water heater, gives it a temporary stitch to last a short while, and reminds himself to call a plumber later that day to come in and fix it. He turns and leaves the garage with the part he came for —  a sheet of metal for his wife to melt down — and disappears back downstairs. 

He does not make that call; it slips from his mind. 

It is not his fault. 

One day passes, then two, then suddenly it is Thursday. The water heater has still not been fixed, the water heater has been forgotten. It is nobody’s fault.  

Danny asks his parents at breakfast if he can stay over at Tucker’s house for the night. Just one night. They’re going to study for their math test and then play video games until midnight, but he only tells his parents that first half. 

He’s been doing well in school. Really well — better than he has in a while. There’s been a delightful lull in ghost appearances for the last few weeks. The living don’t know why, but Danny does. The Winter Truce always calms the dead down for a while, something about how the Zone cleanses itself twice a mortal year and that fresh wave of ecto clears out the old and brings in the new. 

This year Danny got to participate. He’s feeling the effects of it too, and he’s been sleeping consistently well for the first time since the accident. 

It’ll never happen again. 

His parents agree under the condition that he doesn’t stay up late, and Danny harmlessly lies through his teeth and agrees. He goes and throws overnight clothes into his school backpack, and when he leaves for school with Jazz his parents are already departed into the lab. 

The last conversation he has with his sister is in her car on the drive to school. Inane, mindless conversation to fill the air and pass the time. Jazz comments on how relaxed he’s been lately; Danny tells her about the Winter Truce. She listens in rapt attention. 

She tells him that she’s glad to see him so well-rested. She thinks her little brother’s been growing up too fast these days. She thinks he’s been too tense. Too caught up with the spinning of the world around him that he forgets about himself sometimes. 

When they reach school, before Danny can get out of the car, Jazz looks to her little brother and says; “I love you.” 

Her little brother’s cheeks turn an embarrassed shade of red. He makes a scrunched up, grossed-out face, but can’t hide the smile pulling across it. “Don’t be a sap, Jazz. I’ll see you later.” He tells her, yanking his hood up over his head. She hears the bashful, ‘love you too’ before he walks away. 

That is the last conversation she ever has with her brother. 

Thursday is unremarkable, passing by in its normality as it always does. There’s one, maybe two ghost sightings; shades lurking around in curious infancy that are easily spooked away by the presence of a greater being. Danny doesn’t even have to go ghost. 

Thursday evening is even less so. Danny goes to Tucker’s house — Sam has a prior arrangement with her slam poetry club — and the two of them study for an hour before they toss their textbooks aside and reach for the game console. 

Danny sleeps in Tucker’s room with one of the extra blankets on his bed, curled across the room in one of the bean bag chairs. It shouldn’t be comfortable, but to Danny it is. He sleeps throughout the night, the portal shut down by his parents before they’d gone to bed. 

Early Friday morning, before the sun has even risen yet, before it’s even so much as a concept to grace the horizon, the water heater breaks again. It was supposed to be fixed. 

Carbon monoxide is a silent killer. Odorless and scentless, it kills within minutes. It fills the house like a shadow casting over the ground, creeping into the rooms. 

Danny’s family die in their sleep; painless and unaware. 

It’s not Jack Fenton’s fault. He didn’t mean to.  

Nobody wakes up with their alarms. 

Danny wakes up to Tucker Foley’s alarm on Friday morning, and he turns his head intangible and shoves it into the beanbag chair like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand. Tucker gets up before him, and throws a pillow at him as he reaches for the alarm. 

There’s laughter, messing around. The both of them get dressed, and Danny has breakfast with the Foleys that morning. He takes the bus to school with Tucker, and they meet Sam by their lockers. 

To him, everything is as normal as it should be. There are no ghosts for him to fight right now, school is as school does, and he’s on top of all his schoolwork. 

He does not see Jazz at all that morning, he doesn’t notice. Their schedules are so different, their routes on different paths, that it’s not uncommon for Danny to not see Jazz until he gets home some days. That’s if there’s no ghost attacks. 

At lunch, he gets approached by her friends. Worried creases between their brows, they ask him if he’s seen Jazz. She hasn’t shown up to any of her classes. She’s not answering their texts. It’s unprecedented of her; unheard of. 

Danny doesn’t admit to the concern that swells in his gut when they tell him this. He shrugs at them, and says he hasn’t seen her either. But it was probably nothing to worry about; she might just be sick and sleeping it off. 

He offers to text her and let them know if he gets a response, and that seems to ease her friends enough that they shuffle away in uncertainty. He keeps his word, and does exactly that. He pulls out his phone and opens her contact, and shoots her a message.

‘Where are you?’ 

He doesn’t get a response back, Danny is left on sent. He puts his phone in his pocket, and with a sense of unease creeping in the back of his mind, goes on with his day. He gets no response by the time the final bell rings; and he tries not to be worried. 

The house is quiet when he opens the door. Unusually quiet. He drops his backpack to the floor, it lands with a hearty thunk, and begins to take off his jacket. “Mom! Dad!” He yells. He hangs it up, and slips his shoes from his feet. “Jazz skipped school today!”

A laughable untruth that would get his sister all riled up normally; she should be able to hear him from the front door if she was in her room. The house just stays dead silent. 

He can’t even hear the usual banging and crashing from the lab. His unease returns. He reaches for the intercom that leads directly down to the basement, and presses the button to turn it on. A burst of static, and then he speaks;

“Mom? Dad?” 

Danny lets go, and waits for a response. He gets none back. That never happens, not when the house is this quiet. Not when he knows they should’ve heard him. 

Something sickly and fearful borns in the pit of his stomach, and begins to snake upward. He heads for the lab. The cool metal of the door is familiar in the grooves of his hand, and he doesn’t even need to think about the code as he punches it in;  he simply lets muscle memory guide him. It’s been the same since he was little. 

The door hisses as the pressure is released, and he swings the door open. He takes the stairs down two at a time. Something is wrong. His parents aren’t answering him. His feet pound against the metal. 

“Mom? Dad?” He calls again, more worried, more frantic. More scared. His voice echoes down the stairwell, and he reaches the bottom before it’s fully faded. The lab is empty. The portal is still shut down. 

It was four in the afternoon, they should still be down here. 

Danny races back upstairs, fear-raised nausea coiling in his throat. “This isn’t funny you guys!” He yells when he reaches the top, shoving open the door with more force than necessary. His head swims, his voice cracked. 

He checks the garage, the car is still there. 

“Mom!? Dad!” His voice bellows out throughout the first floor, loud enough that it bounces back at him and rings against his ears. He’s never raised his voice this much — mom would scold him if she heard him. But she doesn’t show up. “Jazmine!” 

Finally, he goes upstairs, and he can’t tell if what he’s feeling is anger or terror. Something is very, very wrong. 

He swings the door of his parents’ rooms open first, and there they are, with the lights still off and the curtains still drawn. As if they hadn’t left their bed all day. Some of Danny’s fear lifts from his shoulders just by the sight of them, but he’s still trembling. Something is still wrong — the room smells… off. Not good, not bad. Just… off. 

He swallows dryly, his throat still thick, and steps into the room. “Mom, dad?” They do not stir. “Didn’t you guys hear me yelling?” 

There is only room static. Danny’s heart shrivels in his chest with a tenfold return of terror, he feels ill. He remembers, just now, that they’re not heavy sleepers, and his dad should be snoring like a freight house. 

Danny reaches their bedside in seconds, hand outstretching for the covers, “Momma? Dad?”

Not all deaths are created equal. 

But many of them are accidental. Unmeditated. Shocking.

Danny Fenton finds his family dead in his childhood home. He runs to his neighbors in hysterics, inconsolable, in tears. Nine-one-one is called, but there is nothing that can be done. They were dead for hours by the time Daniel Fenton returned home. 

He sits on the front steps of the neighbor’s house beside FentonWorks, his jeans slowly becoming wet from the snow that was unable to be scraped off, and watches the paramedics cart out his family beneath white sheets. There are police cars blocking off the street, yellow tape blocking off his house, red-blue lights lighting up the block, an ambulance on the scene. He is wrapped in a shock blanket, and he is missing his jacket and his shoes. His tears are freezing onto his face, he can’t feel the chill. 

Not all deaths are created equal

But all of them are unforgettable. 

[dreamwatch]

Know When To Hold 'em

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest

Day #17 - Prompt: This One's For You | Word Count: 999 | Rating: T | CW: death of a parent, depression, grief, referenced drug abuse, alcoholism | POV: Steve | Pairing: Steddie | Tags: Wayne Munson, Eddie needs a hug, protective Steve, hurt/comfort

I'm sorry. :(

The first time it happened totally out of the blue.

It was their first big show in Indy, their home show, and of course Wayne wanted to be there, as much out of curiosity as anything. He didn’t hear a thing; Steve gave him a set of ear plugs and it was like he’d been handed a pot of gold. “I could have done with these years ago.” But he saw everything and he talked about that show to anyone that would listen, and a few that wouldn’t.

Eddie was over the goddamn moon about it so he told the audience, “My Uncle Wayne’s here tonight, everyone say 'hi Uncle Wayne!'” and five thousand people just— did it. Because Eddie asked them to. Even through the ear plugs Wayne heard it. Steve’s not sure he’s ever seen the old man blush before.

So it became a thing completely by accident. If Wayne was there they played The Gambler as the last song of the encore; like the flag at Buckingham Palace telling everyone the Queen was home: Uncle Wayne was in the house. The fans latched onto it straight away, and it was one of only a couple of songs that Eddie would sing. Wayne didn’t see the band play often but it didn’t matter where they were, the moment that song started up the crowd went wild; the roar of “Hi Uncle Wayne!” rolling through the audience before everyone sang along. And Wayne there at the edge of the stage shaking his head, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Eddie was in Germany when Wayne died. 

‘The best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep’, sang The Gambler, and that’s exactly what he did. Wayne would have got a kick out of that.

Breaking the news to Eddie was the most painful thing Steve’s ever had to do.

Tonight is their first night back after a two month hiatus. It feels too soon, but there are contracts, missed shows, obligations, and there’s only so much their manager can do to keep the label, promoters and lawyers away. 

Eddie’s dead eyed and lethargic; he’s started drinking again, Steve discreetly hid his pain medication when he noticed the bottle emptying faster than it should have. He sleeps with a belly full of Ambien and spends his day wrapped in Zoloft. Neither help.

But the show must go on, right? 

Despite everything, the grief, the fog of depression, when he walks out onto the stage he’s a supernova, the brightest of lights in the deepest of darks. He’s fucking dazzling. 

The crowd at the Market Square Arena are on fire, they explode when the band run on stage but Steve doesn’t miss the extra noise when Eddie gets out there. Eddie loosens up as the gig goes on, and by the end, when they take a bow together, he looks like a different man to the shell thats been haunting their home. 

There will be a crash later. Steve is already prepared for it.

The band come off drenched with sweat. Steve can see the pinched expression on Eddie’s face, the exertion after all this time lying around like a ghost has taken its toll on a body that has seen better days. But he still smiles at Steve as he hands off the guitar to his tech, his Sweetheart, only brought out for the encores now. 

“Was it okay?” Eddie asks him, towelling the sweat from his face.

“You were amazing,” is all Steve can manage right there, but he’s buzzing inside and there’s more he wants to say. But that’s for later, when it’s just them.

The band are handing off instruments, roadies scurrying around, breakdown already underway. There’s a lot happening, and you know, Steve’s hearing isn’t that great these days but there’s nothing wrong with his eyesight. He sees the little commotion over Eddie’s shoulder, the way people halt, ears pricking up like labradors. Jeff turns to Steve with wide eyes and Matt has stopped in his tracks. And then he sees the exact moment Eddie picks up on it, the furrowed brow, the soft tilt of the head.

The crowd are singing Wayne’s song.

Everyone stops. Roadies stand there like marionettes with their strings cut.

And Eddie…

He looks devastated, his hand flying up to his mouth like he’s trying to bury a sob, stopping the grief from breaking containment.

Steve can see the band over Eddie’s shoulder, heads nodding before they’re grabbing guitars back from their techs. He knows what they’re going to do, but there’s no way Eddie is up to it, they have to know that. Jeff slings an arm over Eddie’s shoulder, pulls him in, knocking his forehead against Eddie’s. And then Matty does it, Matty who doesn’t have a sentimental bone in his body, but Gareth is long gone, already running back onto the stage, crowd cheering at the sight of him, before Matty and Jeff follow him out. And they pick up where the crowd are and they play. Eddie usually sings it, but Jeff takes it tonight. 

Steve grabs Eddie’s hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “C’mon,” he says, pulling Eddie toward the side of the stage.

Steve loved Wayne, so fucking much. And maybe with all the help and care Eddie needed afterward, still needs, maybe Steve didn’t get a chance to grieve properly. He feels the ache in his chest, before he notices the calloused fingers wiping his tears away.

“He loved you, Steve.” He can’t reply, just nods, and Eddie holds him like he should be holding Eddie. And then he’s gone, out on to the stage, back with his band. No guitar, just sharing a mic with Jeff and joining as much as the tears will allow. And then the music cuts, Matty and Gareth joining them at the mic, and it’s just voices, nineteen thousand and four. Corroded Coffin, arms slung across shoulders, singing Wayne’s song. 

Singing to Wayne.

Yeah... I went there.

So, I had this idea months ago and parked it because I didn't know what to do with it. And then this prompt came along and BOOM!

[incognitopolls]

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

Still very wild to me when people try to gotcha Jason with the whole "if you can kill other people for being evil why can't they kill you" when jason is like. One of the most passively suicidal characters I've ever seen. What if man