Latest Posts by greenscrunchy - Page 5

chrissy will eventually warm up a little to the aggressive sounds of metal although she never really becomes a fan fan. however, the moment eddie/cc plays her metallica’s “one”, she immediately latches on and never lets go. that is her metallica song.

𝘿𝙀𝘼𝙍 𝘾𝙃𝙄𝙀𝙁 𝙃𝙊𝙋𝙋𝙀𝙍                           (fatherscurse​)

❛ i’m tired of dying. ❜ - &. 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

he almost has to laugh. he feels like he’s died plenty of times over in the last eight months. the last couple of years, really. it was sad, a pang in his chest letting him know it wasn’t funny. but, of course, jim being jim, he does laugh. “ yeah. jesus. me too, kid. but hey. i got you now, no matter what, yeah? you’re not dyin’ this time. ”

feat. @greenscrunchy​

years ago laura cunningham nipped the act of chrissy allowing her head to loll back lazily in the bud. an indicator of terrible posture, she announced, and chrissy would never appear polite or put together with her neck flopping about like a chicken’s. sit up straight, feet crossed, hands in lap. like an obedient princess. 

right now, chrissy is obeying none of those pointers and looking not the least bit like a princess. her body hurts and every angled limb is an attempt to soften the ache that have come to dwell in all her hollows. both legs are bent slightly to the side and her spine has begun imitating the curvature of her seat back. the greatest offender of all, her neck, has allowed her head to wander, its weight now resting on the back of her chair. as of yet, hopper has yet to call her unladylike or sloppy. just “kid”. the simplicity is balm to her lingering frightened confusion.

                       ❝ thank you. ❞  she wishes she could hear her own voice better but it’s drowned out by heartbeat drumming even in her own ears.  ❝ i guess you have experience with that now. or everyone does and i guess i was the last to know. ❞  she twitches.  ❝ i’m sorry. you’ve had to do this for....how many kids? ❞

oh teehee I'm in a silly goofy mood (I am hanging on by a fucking thread)

𝘿𝙀𝘼𝙍 𝙀𝘿𝘿𝙄𝙀 𝙈𝙐𝙉𝙎𝙊𝙉                              ( alwaysrevvedup​ )

“I love the smell of autumn.” @greenscrunchy

This admission, as small and inconsequential as it is, causes a small smile to unfurl on his features. Chrissy’s expression is so earnest, eyes agleam with an undampened enthusiasm. It’s difficult to not be endeared by it, and Eddie certainly isn’t fighting against being endeared. 

“Yeah? Me too. It’s…practically my favorite time of year.” There’s a hint of awkward shyness skirting around the words, and he breaks gaze with Chrissy for a moment, looking ahead as they walk through the woods. “There’s that crisp, dampness that hangs in the air and the smell of the fallen pine needles and how…” Dark eyes turn upward at the canopy of branches laden with colorful leaves overhead, “how the trees almost look like they’re painted with fire.” 

an array of woodland confetti crunched underfoot, the symphonic chaos of the season in full effect beneath two sets of shoes. it really was the perfect time of year; time for hooded sweatshirts and bonfires and long walks and staying outside far, far from the stale, concrete-stiff air of her house. and time, as it turned out, for getting to know eddie munson. 

chrissy had yet to put a sure finger on why she wasn’t waiting to jump out of her skin around him. but once over the hurdle over her own mental guardrails, there’s a distinct, unexpected air of confidence and....compassion? left in his wake. mixtures of sweet, dry air and eddie’s carefree grins made breathing easy. wow, who knew?  ❝ you make everything sound like it’s from a fairytale. ❞  as if there was magic in even the most mundane of hawkins details. another addition to the list of surprises she wouldn’t have associated with the resident hawkins high wild child.  ❝ i dunno that i’d have ever thought of the trees that way.... ❞  obviously chrissy needed to look up more and started almost immediately by burying her focus in the kaleidoscope of genuinely fiery colors above her head.  ❝ yeah. yeah! the branches do look a little like they’re burning! or like someone in theater threw way too much paint around. it’s really pretty, though. ❞

𝘿𝙀𝘼𝙍 𝙉𝘼𝙉𝘾𝙔 𝙒𝙃𝙀𝙀𝙇𝙀𝙍                                  (vihilum​)

@greenscrunchy asked, “Was it always this way? Was i too dumb to notice?”

Evil has tendrils, evil has roots. Nancy’s never just out of reach, even when she’s grounded, even when her feet are planted firmly against soil. There’s no security granted that comes with stillness. Steadiness. Better to shift. She’s not a shark. She can’t stop swimming. She’s like the other fish in the sea. If she stops moving, she will die.

That’s how it feels. That’s how it’s felt. A mind unoccupied teeters on the edge of unraveling. She’s never catered to the luxury of relaxing and doing nothing. That has never appealed to her.

She thinks Chrissy needs it from her right now. A sure, unmoving hand, set on her shoulder. Stillness. She can’t always anticipate the storm. There’s no way of knowing if this is the calm ahead of a downpour. There is no way to tell what might be coming.

“I used to think I knew,” where it started, when it started, just how wide this crack had spread, she thought she understood everything about it, “but so many things,” Her record’s still playing low. She squeezes Chrissy lightly. “so many things move in secret.”

Things not meant for their eyes, to any prying gaze.

“Hidden, on purpose,” she shifts so that her arm is wrapped around the other’s shoulders, “I’d say noticing it was nothing but dumb luck.”

it’s discouraging to brace for the itching crawl of dread at prospective touch, like prey in a thicket anticipating danger. prey — or a sack of meat for trimming and displayed as a “prize winning catch”. either way, chills still tend to prickle over wary nerves she keeps primed at all times.

when people unexpectedly touch her arms, even friends, chrissy feels hooks sink into skin and frigid air blasting against the skin of her neck. goosebumps sprout, a thousand fearful eyes waiting for the other shoe to drop. for anything that requires an artful dodge and a smile wide enough to blind anyone that could even hypothesize what’s happening under the surface. that fearful, flayed core of chrissy is ugly; no one told her so, she just knows.

but, chrissy is reminding herself, teaching herself, she is safe here in the wheeler house. 

nancy’s room is low-lit, but there are no knives or hooks that she can see. none made for cleaving meat from bone at least. if there is cold, it’s drowned out by hums of music from nancy’s records and the sheer warmth of the colors strewn across the room. it’s cozy and appreciated. lived in. not that chrissy’s isn’t, but there’s a difference between girl’s bedroom and a doll’s. 

                        ❝ dumb luck, ❞  chrissy parrots. dumb luck for smart people. something about it makes the strawberry blonde grin and lean, really actually lean, into nancy’s gentle grip. 

it’s been so long. so long since she had real friends. the kind of friends that truly understood. who were honest without being cruel yet invited openness, offering their own in trade. 

one deep, steadying breath where she lets herself the believe the world has stopped turning, and a breath out. she turns toward nancy unsteadily reassured, but it’s a new beginning.

                       ❝ is it better to wish i’d known sooner? even if the truth was....so terrible. you were trying to figure all of this.....stuff out, about the upside down, all by yourself. you and your brother and jonathan and steve and mike’s friends, i mean. ❞  all of them so damn young when they had to fight a monster no one taught them to look for. and chrissy is afraid that even with enough quick thinking fit to lead a squad of cheerleaders and pull off reasonably good grades while keeping everyone politely at arm’s length, she would still have been too distracted by her own inner ache to see through it clearly.  ❝ things that move in secret are the deadliest. ❞ 

she doesn’t want to miss anything else. she can’t. not just for herself, but for everyone else.

𝘿𝙀𝘼𝙍 𝙈𝙎. 𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝙀𝙍𝙎                         (blueminke​)

@greenscrunchy​​     /     chrissy   &   kacey   !

SHE’S THE LAST ONE IN THE CLASSROOM, which isn’t too far out of the norm, carefully placing her belongings into her purse - pencils, pens, wallet, car keys… she swings the bag’s strap over her shoulder as she’s preparing to head out for the day. It’s then that the door to the science classroom peeks open, causing her head to reel to the entryway. OH, CHRISSY… Painted lips curl into a pleasant smile as she stands up from her desk chair to approach the young woman. She knows that it’s been more than difficult for the poor girl to readjust to her life in Hawkins after everything that’s happened, but in the very least, she’s happy to be supportive. “Are you okay, honey?”

chrissy still heard the bats. no matter that she was in the right-side-up now, demobat screeches hid beneath the otherwise inoffensive chirping of nearby birds. the stratified sound grated against nerves in her spinal cord more frigidly than avian silhouettes on a powerline after watching the birds for the first time. hitchcock, for all his mangled and twisty brilliance, could never have fabricated a fear that clung close as breath itself.

rich sunlight washed into ms. summers’ classroom with all the syrupy golden ease of late afternoon, bouncing cheerfully against zeus’s terrarium. the corn snake lounged on a rock feature close to the glass wall, tongue tasting the air now and again. but suddenly the snake’s head turned toward chrissy still at her desk. creature and human locked eyes for a moment, transfixed, until the snake opened his mouth and hissed that time was up. 

the words seemed to come from miles away. chrissy still jumped and surrendered to a moment of spiky adrenaline which forcibly brought her wandering mind back to attention. it wasn’t zeus at all but ms. summers closing out class discussion. chrissy blinked wildly and organized her assignment folders, stuffed her backpack, and walked out like a zombie in a fog.

that was yesterday. 

today the smell of smoke follows her everywhere like it’s trapped in her nostrils. she waves at her friends with a weaker arm than last month even though graduation creeps ever closer. her grades are getting better by centimeters. except life, existence still doesn’t feel grounded when she keeps the truth of the upside down held so close. and it is the truth. but how real is the truth when almost no one knows?

                       ❝ trying. ❞  pathetic. chrissy can do so much better than whispering from the crack in the door.  ❝ today was okay. i’m going to my friend’s house later to help with cleaning up the last of the rubble on their street. ❞  one shoulder has ticked up as she tries to pour her discomfort somewhere else.  ❝  i just....i wondered if i could ask you something? about the earthquake. and....why i got lost. because there’s parts of what happened that scare me. ❞  please, her brain begs as chrissy finally dares to look her kind, pink-cheeked teacher straight in the eye. please don’t think i’m crazy.

𝘿𝙀𝘼𝙍 𝙈𝙄𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙀𝙇 𝙀𝙈𝙀𝙍𝙎𝙊𝙉                       (comicbookcreature​)

“  I  DUNNO !  i  read  it  in  a  poem  or  off  a  cereal  box  or  something - “

“ KINDA CHEESY, HUH ?? “ 

@greenscrunchy​  ( starter call ! ) ​

                   ❝ not at all! poetry could sound exciting no matter where you found it. ❞   she’d draw the line at bathroom stall graffiti but even the plainest word choice, in the right order, could give a name to a feeling that felt undiscoverable a moment before. chrissy had always envied that ability, to make simple letters into art.   ❝ .....what cereal, though? ❞

realized i never posted this one here

chrissy deserved better u_u

𝘿𝙀𝘼𝙍  𝙏𝘼𝙏𝙐𝙈  𝙍𝙄𝙇𝙀𝙔                          (deadbride​)

“so um. i saw you going to the woods after school, @greenscrunchy”   it’s out of the blue, smack dab in the middle of the first break they’ve gotten. the big game is tonight, so if there’s any time to cram in as much practice as possible, this is it.   “what’s up with that?”   there’s no judgement, but tatum does have to ask … what the hell. with the amount of people that have gone missing from their quiet town in the past three years, taking a shortcut through the forest seems like an awful idea.

she’s been practicing. starting from before the first bell rang when she slipped the hurried note into the slats of a forbidden locker until almost running from the woods like a bat out of hell. her thoughts wrote the script over and over throughout the rest of the afternoon so that when she opens her mouth the story comes out smooth. at least, she hopes it’s smooth enough that tatum, with with her watchful gaze sharper than a scalpel, will buy it.

chrissy hates lying, but it comes naturally. it’s how she can survive until summer. 

                    ❝ meditating. i’ve been trying it out before these last few games. ❞  her expression weaves together a concerted effort to keep her smile from wobbling or seeming fixed, but the many years’ previous practice for that too is a hail mary that's yet to fail her.  ❝ it’s supposed to help with focus and relaxation. ❞  chrissy shakes both pompoms she’s clenched in one hand with a grin.  ❝ doing the opposite of cheering before a game actually helps! and i need to stay focused for the girls, so.... ❞  all the narrowness of her shoulders might end up disguising none of the helplessness tucked into her shrug.   ❝ for the championship. are you excited?  ❞

okay i think i’ve waited a healthy amount of time — here’s the inaugural starter call! any and all verses are open as options. lengths will range from several inches to a mile. may or may not also include bonus musical tracks.   no cap / no expiration.

𝔻𝔼𝔸ℝ 𝔼𝔻𝔻𝕀𝔼 𝕄𝕌ℕ𝕊𝕆ℕ,                               (hellmartyr​)

𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐖𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃-𝐒𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐀𝐘. three bodies fished from the east end of the bay were breaking news on every local station. each of the gruesome trio were in varying stages of decomposition, alluding to an unspeakable verdict that the beautiful berkeley-oakland shoreline had been a dumping ground for some time. images of police boats, thick-bodied men in wetsuits, and figures cocooned in white shrouds looped the screen as a done-up broadcaster delivered a sobering report in vivacious fuchsia lipstick. kgo’s on-site reporter was interviewing the most hang ten looking dude. he wore a white crop top with pismo beach airbrushed across a muted neon sunset, homebrew cut-offs, and imported havaianas. teal clubmasters pinned back his fluffy blond fringe. the carefree nature of his taste failed to belay the anxiety clearly etched on his tanned face. one of his arms was wrapped protectively around the shoulders of a distraught brunette fastened close to his side.

      ❝ we got another night stalker on our hands, ❝ an unvarnished mix of mission brogue and inland drawl crumbled into the mic, ❝ who’s protecting the girls in this town, you know? like, were they students? sucks, man. it really does. say bye to your mom and dad, come out here to the california dream, pay all this tuition, then get butchered and dumped like your dreams meant nothing. who thinks they got the right to do this, you know? it’s scary. who’s gonna protect these girls? ❞

      the reporter’s response was robustly flaccid. she was there for the ratings game. she lived somewhere safe like albany or palo alto, seemingly out of a killer’s reach.

      ❝ it’s just awful, ❞ the woman beside the surfer boy whimpered as the mic was unceremoniously dropped into her face. fingers painted tulip pink cupped around her mouth to hide her grisly expression of heartbreak. her voice, so lost in the croak of sobbing, nearly drowned in the howl of onshore wind.

      leaned over a counter not too far from where the interview took place was eddie, fingers intertwined in a pensive barrier as tragedy once again surrounded him. the interviewer, the interviewees, the human wall that collected around them protectively, the police, the bay area denizens — they’d all believe this was done by a man. a man with his wires crossed. one who only formed a connection with someone when he watched the light fade from their eyes.

      chances are they were right. the capacity for great evil rested with mankind. and the atrocities didn’t stop at the boundaries of reality. spring of last year proved there was more to human wickedness than loose screws scattered on the floor. the unfathomable was real, organic, breeding and feeding off happily boring lives. its intentions ran deeper than cruelty, illness, or a maddening cocktail of two.

      that night in wayne’s trailer was a floodgate. the laws of nature were placebo and the truth was far more frightening than anything fantasy could conjure. vecna was real. angry red reminders across his abdomen and jaw evoked how much closer humanity was to hell than heaven. he was no leviathan in the sea or ancient being tethered to a shell, but a mortal man who wanted the world to burn the inside out. and if that was truth, what other unspeakable things hungered for warm bodies?

      low-bearing shadows skittering across the road, dark shapes beneath the waves, glittering eyes watching from the corner of an empty room.

      the lich’s curse, had it followed them to california? — the beating of a thousand cold, black wings, the hot red sting of teeth a thousand more — had they brought him here?

      a quiet shuffle behind the bedroom door broke eddie free of his nightmarish daydream. the joyous sound of tom getting pulverized by jerry replaced the macabre as he quickly flipped the channel.

      news to be shared when the day wasn’t so fresh and cherry bright.

baby, it’s halloween ! — @greenscrunchy / phoebe bridgers

      foreboding so heady moments before vanished without a trace as chrissy exited their room. how was it that she outshined the autumnal sun sneaking in from the balcony and sent eddie’s heart skimming across his ribs like a skipping stone. a bear-like yawn, a siren song, messy hair holier than a halo.

      his own expression lit up as eddie unwittingly straightened his posture. ❝ ah, there she is. my favorite ghoul emerges from her crypt. just in time for a morning bite. ❞ he emphasized the last word with an exaggerated gnash of teeth. a playfully extravagant gesture indicated the souvenir plate on the table, its offerings awaiting her inspection.

      a medley of blackberries and grapes lined the one edge of the plate. cradled in its crescent, a flapjack fashioned from bisquick and pumpkin purée, carved to reflect a jack-o-lantern. triangle eyes. a serrated grin. it even had a stem with a mint leaf jabbed in its shoulder to give it a flair of color and authenticity. it was very — not convincing. the image in his metal head was much clearer on paper than on bread.

      ❝ happy halloween, scream queen, hopefully breakfast is, uh, less trick and more treat. ❞ teased the smarmy hinge of his grin, ❝ no promises. ❞

Saturday, October 31, 1987

Halloween today.

I actually woke up slowly. That’s kind of a feat, I think, since the bed’s cold. And it must be a little later because the sun is in my eyes again, but I’m not sure I mind, even if I did leave the blinds open overnight. 

chrissy blinked through the last dozy fog of her half-asleep thoughts, unorganized mumbles eventually fading in favor of whatever daring breakfast preparations distant dings of silverware and thunks of bowls seemed to hint at. with remarkable ease, she found herself relaxing into the soundtrack of existence in the tiny, two room apartment. 

There’s so much noise coming from the kitchen. Eddie must be up and letting his mad scientist side take over. Him and the TV aren’t exactly working together but something about it sounds nice. Homey. I love that. 

chrissy sighed toward the ceiling, but it was a whoosh of happy effort against a fluttering of autumn sunbeams. light funneled through her tiny bedroom window, its makeshift curtain rod festooned with a gamely attempt at bloody handprints on ripped white undershirts masquerading as curtains. honestly, it was a little silly; from across the room the handprints looked more like balding chrysanthemums, their optimistic magenta shade not quite so sanguine up close or far away. no passersby taking more than a split second to look at the boo-on-a-budget would catch a lasting fright. which, as far as chrissy was concerned, was perfectly acceptable.

the hiss of something hot swapping surfaces and the surge of a breaking news jingle on their pocket-square sized television brought the threads of her wakefulness together. mental diary abandoned, bare feet hit the chilly floor in determined finality. days began with or without her, no matter what season, so it was best to break out ahead before it got the best of her. or before eddie munson got the best of the galley. 

eddie’s would-be culinary exploits were often more mis than adventure despite all the attentive enthusiasm befitting a michelin star chef. sure, he was giving their now shared kitchen a run for its money in terms of resilience (and their budget, watched over faithfully by herself, a run for its money in terms of cleaning product costs). yet the strawberry blonde couldn’t find much will to play stingy with her space when her effusive metalhead derived such joy from a task so mundane. 

yes, it was going to be a good day when the tricks befitting a halloween weekend were far more frightful than the thought of breakfast treats. that was to say, not at all. 

chrissy really hadn’t expected such a bold greeting to slip from her mouth on the tail end of a yawn. a year ago, she might not even have been capable. but away the pet name flew and her excitement with it, making a mad dash for the spark in eddie’s eyes. embarrassment folded under contentment at the vision of a cloud of frizzy brown hair leaning over the counter, snapping his jaws like a creature of the night. nothing had ever been sweeter. in the spirit of impulsivity chrissy pranced across their sliver of living room and past the counter to wind tight arms around his middle. ❝ g'morning. ❞  the air seemed to soften around them even further, melting all the essence of living down to the warmth she clung to. eddie’s shirt was soft when she pressed her forehead into it — soft and warm and smelling like pancakes. like home.

                        ❝ let’s see. ❞  hope rose with her spirits and she burrowed her way under his arm to peek at the masterpiece beyond. comfy as eddie was, his torso was in the way.

                         ❝ aww, he’s got big teeth! and a stem! i love him. thank you.... ❞  an arm snuck forward to snag three grapes, all of which chrissy popped into her mouth at once. she allowed herself the time it took to finish chewing slowly before letting the resident artist go with a squeeze in favor of admiring his presentation.  ❝ the pumpkin was a good idea, too - i can smell it. did you make yourself one or are you going to help me with this one? ❞

can chrissy season a skillet or must she undergo some training?

send me your character and I’ll tell you if I think they know how to season/care for cast iron cookware.

I don’t think she can. I’m so sorry Chrissy. Nothing about the Cunningh.am family screams cast iron enthusiasts. I feel like her mother would have some weird classist opinion on the use of cast iron. I feel like she grew up exclusively around soulless stainless steel cookware. Chrissy would probably enjoy cooking in cast iron later and learning about its care.

self + hope

a nightmare on elm street (1984) / scream (1996) / i know what you did last summer (1997)

𝔻𝔼𝔸ℝ 𝔸𝕊ℍ𝕋𝕆ℕ 𝔽𝕆𝕎𝕃𝔼ℝ                                     (blueminke​)

@greenscrunchy​  asked:   “ i’ve been having weird dreams. i wondered if maybe the right album would help. “   /   chrissy to ashton   !

HE WASN’T THE BIGGEST FAN of the black and blue uniform that he was required to wear at the record store. It’s no secret that he’d rather be in his leather jacket - and if you ask him, that’s still a perfect fit for selling music. However, he desperately needs to keep this job, so… uniform it is. There’s a little chime at the door as she enters, which is what first grabs his attention - and then he sees just who is stopping by, which truly is the catalyst that has him approaching her. While the two weren’t very close, OF COURSE he knew the face of Chrissy Cunningham. Hell, he’d recognize most of the Hawkins faces, but hers… has him grinning as he slides his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “It usually works for me - and that’s not a sales pitch, it’s just the truth.” Words are interrupted by a light laugh. “You want somethin’ relaxing or that kind of music that just makes you let it all out?”

chrissy had been trying a different approach to small talk lately, at the behest of ms. kelly: even when admitting the entirety of how she felt seemed dangerous, hiding just a little bit of honesty here and there would lighten the load of keeping up appearances. ms. kelly promised others wouldn’t show her their backs so quickly if chrissy just gave it a go. so this was her giving it a go. with the guy at the record store. and it....worked? 

                         ❝ yeah? ❞  if consolation were a lipstick shade, she’d be wearing it. her smile stretched beyond the measurements of conversational to something appreciative. thankful. status as the perennially bright face of school spirit aside, the square footage of the high school appeared paltry in comparison to the places chrissy wanted to be cheerful just because. if she’s lucky, maybe the pleasant feeling she’d grasped would follow her outside into the clean air. because of music. she could talk about music. there’s more than enough material here and if his nameplate is to be believed, “ashton” actually has some salient thoughts on the topic.  ❝ i like options, ❞  the array of which is probably in the hundreds; it’s exciting. if this works, she’s going to sail into the land of nod quicker than a blink. at least, quicker than she had been.  ❝ maybe one record to dance to, and then one with lots of instruments?  ❞

chrissy had paced the boundary of the football field for twenty solid minutes before feeling any modicum less like crawling out of her skin and leaving it behind on the turf. it would take more than twenty minutes or a half hour or hour or the rest of the semester to make any sort of harmony with the disastrous state of affairs back at school, but that was ticking time chrissy did not have. 

                            we’re so sorry, chrissy. you must miss him so much. 

a surge of petulance rattled so fiercely in her gut that chrissy kicked at a clump of damp soil and grass hard enough to send it flying, nearly sending her sneaker with it. 

                            it must be so difficult. i always envied you two.

yes, shedding her skin sounded perfect. she would leave behind the deflated organ like a trash liner, right there at the edge of the football field. someone would find it and scream in terror that “chrissy cunningham’s dead again!” and run away or even faint dramatically on the spot. but there would be no body, only the ghoulish sausage casing polite company called flesh. chrissy could walk away from the smiles that wobbled and wavered, the lips that gloss never stuck to, the cracked and dehydrated nail beds she had to mask religiously with stinging nail polish. off she’d go, nothing but muscles and tendons and trailing blood like bread crumbs, a devil straight from a nightmare. her mother would open the door in horror and chrissy would demand an answer. what about now, mom? will i fit in the dress now?

                            just the perfect hawkins couple.

❝ your boyfriend was adamant that you wouldn’t have gone to someone like young mr. munson for help if you were afraid. ❞  

hhmph. jason was more wrong than he knew.

❝ it’s what he wanted people to think. ❞ a hard blink; her lashes felt light without mascara.   ❝ ....and where is jason now? ❞  there had been a strange lack of visits from him - or information about him, which was arguably preferable to a visit. chrissy didn’t want to watch while jason pointedly looked away from her bruised eyes and joints and wrist and knee braces. she could see it now, his bald discomfort with her appearance, not so doll-like anymore. not head cheerleader material, looking like that, her mother had already spewed to an attending nurse when she thought her daughter couldn’t hear.  

chief powell swallowed and glanced away. avoiding. chrissy froze.

❝ ch - chief powell? ❞  

❝ i’m sorry, ms. cunningham. ❞  his posture had noticeably shifted as if a load were suddenly dropped upon his shoulders.  ❝ we found your boyfriend beside a fault line. it’s likely that jason was killed during the earthquake. ❞  

❝ .....oh.... ❞

then he isn’t my boyfriend anymore, is he?

                            it seemed like jason really loved you.

                            don’t you think it’s weird hanging with the freak after your boyfriend died?

                            you’re friends with the hellfire weirdos? what the shit, chrissy, since when?

that was it. she couldn’t hold in the storm a moment longer. 

with an unusually savage cry, chrissy unloaded every iota of frustration on an unlucky blocking sled the football team had left out along the touchline. she felt the drag of an angry yelp as it flew out of her throat. again and again and again. the pull of muscle was refreshing and nauseating in turns. a kick for every stupid comment she’d heard since resuming classes. a pitiful grunt for every time she let the cheer squad, her friends, every oblivious classmate at hawkins high believe a lie about her. another, harder grit of her teeth for every time she didn’t do a thing to make anyone assume otherwise, too petrified to admit to herself just how miserable she truly was. 

now, chrissy cunninham was paying for her stepford bullshit and plastic smiles along chewing gum-stuccoed hallways. a perfect picture never meant to last. everything she was told to work for, gone.

four oil painted smiles flashed across her mind’s eye, each one more painfully frozen than the last. on the left, the girl in pink’s eyes started to bleed.

                          freak, freak, chrissy, you’re a freak! 

her shoe flew in one more perfect arc, a final blazing strike for good measure.  ❝ UGH!! ❞  

“looks like it’s absolutely necessary.”       /      @tempesttragedy​‘s veronica sawyer

sounds of exertion pivoted from growls to a terrified squeak. that whole performance had been witnessed. oh god, oh god.  chrissy waited, all tension and electricity, for the derision or the utter shock and horror, but none came. instead, all she saw upon turning was an almost.....blasé pair of eyes.

                  ❝ o-h......um. yeah. ❞  dainty wrist shaking with adrenaline, chrissy tried to dab at her forehead with any elegance she had left. halfway through the motion she gave up, a regretful grin taking the worry’s place.  ❝ kind of. it got built up....over a while.  ❞

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN DUSK AND DAWN I LEFT THE CHILD I WAS BEHIND, WITH ALL HER HOPES AND DREAMS AT HER SIDE (BUT I STILL HEAR HER CALLING) /// landslide (2), r.i.p to my youth, iguanamouth (3), portugal (2), older than i am 

my dear friend from high school just snapped me her joyce byers halloween costume that uses a jacket I GAVE HER and ngl, i’m kind of over the moon.

other than max and lucas, the girl who died in ep 1 was my favorite this season. theres just something about really sweet, soft, and sad cheerleaders i guess, so i had to doodle doodle (also practicing diff brushwork)

also. ahem. hellcheer amirite

Some steps need to be taken alone. It’s the only way to really figure out where you need to go and who you need to be.

Mandy Hale (via mentalquotes)

𝔻𝔼𝔸ℝ 𝔻𝕌𝕊𝕋𝕀ℕ ℍ𝔼ℕ𝔻𝔼ℝ𝕊𝕆ℕ                               (barhd​)

                 FAMILY     REFERENCES    /     SENTENCE    STARTERS  .

@greenscrunchy​ asked: ​❝ you remind me a little bit of my brother. ❞ 

                       HE   WAS   TAKEN   OFF   GUARD   BY   THE   COMMENT   coming   from   Hawkin’s   queen.   Soft   eyes   glanced   up   at   her,   head   inclined   to   the   side   as   he   did   so.   He   was   quiet,   sat   alone   after   school   until   the   halls   cleared.   It   was   better   this   way.   Less   people   to   pick   on   his   curls,   the   way   he   dressed,   or   by   the   fact   that   he   was   in   Hellfire.   Of   course,   that   didn’t   matter   much   anymore.   That   wasn’t   the   reason   why   he   stayed   so   late.   That   was   just   the   bonus,   “   I…   uh…   ”

            LIPS   PARTED   TO   SAY   MORE   WORDS,   BUT   THEY   were   lost   in   a   small   grunt.   Dustin   put   down   his   pencil   and   closed   his   notebook.   Homework   was   already   done,   just   one   more   problem.   Besides,   he   should   be   going   to   get   his   bike   to   go   home   now,   “   Your   brother?   ”   he   didn’t   know   much   about   Chrissy,   but   he   didn’t   know   she   had   a   brother,   “   I   do?   Is   that   a…   good   thing?   ”   words   questioned   as   he   started   to   slowly   pack   away   his   things.

according to ancient history class, there were three ways to become royalty: take the throne by force, earn the throne by feat or battle or lineage, or be crowned by civilians. the resulting level of power seemed to be the same, but the most beloved of monarchs historically were chosen. 

chrissy cunningham had landed squarely between earning the throne through dating jason and her leadership of the cheer squad, and being pulled to the top ranking by public opinion. the former was a side effect she hadn’t asked for, and the latter was flattering if confounding. all chrissy did was smile and say hello, and hawkins high seemed to think she had it all. each day they assumed so was another day chrissy succeeded in hiding the hideous thoughts populating her mind with damning growls. outside pressure crystallized the voices into sharp barbs more difficult to shatter than diamonds and far more dark. 

then sometimes, when eyes were turned elsewhere, when the hallways were quiet, she could temporarily abandon a title festooned with never-ending rumours and expectations. that late-afternoon illusion was broken by the outline of one dustin henderson slouched against the wall, head buried in stacks of homework. chrissy slowed her nearly silent pace to her locker. the image radiated with a passing, familiar bittersweetness that urged chrissy to remark on it, already knowing her interruption would startle the freshman when it was too late to stop. 

yet chrissy found herself hoping she looked less of a gawk-worthy queen and more like an average senior coming from cheer practice in her tank top and hawkins tigers shorts. it was a long shot. though, she’d not properly traded words with dustin since the school year began. he might surprise her. 

                             ❝ yeah, i do. his name is matty. you’re a freshman, right? he’s two grades below you. ❞  fading sunlight caught the sweat-curled ends of her ponytail, strawberry blonde blinking copper as chrissy scuffed her left sneaker against a seam in the linoleum.   ❝ he loves to read. always gets this....focused look on his face when he does. like you had just now. ❞  she stalled the sudden, misplaced urge to chew her lip and smiled instead.  ❝ it’s really sweet. ❞

also, while we’re here, this tweet pointed out something veeeeeery very important about the past decade plus of science fiction, especially within star wars: that being present is not synonymous with representation. just the appearance of a character of color is not some box to be checked and moved on from. they are people and deserve full story-building effort and care. there SHOULD NOT BE ARGUMENTS ABOUT THIS. where the need for even more, even deeper societal change lies is that when representation is given, people behave like they are currently behaving about rings of power, house of the dragon, andor, book of boba fett, and the list goes on. since so many social media users are so fond of saying “grow up”, now is the time. it’s your turn.

well well well. some of the lotr fandom has shown their true colors. i'm both surprised and not surprised at the frankly outlandish amount of complaints that dwarves and elves and hobbits of color seem to have elicited. the rage is more outlandish when you discover the reasons for these complaints are 1) tolkien on occasion neglected to describe skin color which apparently renders everyone pale or 2) nostalgic attachment to the peter jackson films makes it unfathomable to picture the above listed races as anything other than pale/white.

here is all i’ll say about it: A WORLD WITH ONLY WHITE SKIN IS AN INCOMPLETE ONE. yes, even a fantasy world.

okay i think i’ve waited a healthy amount of time — here’s the inaugural starter call! any and all verses are open as options. lengths will range from several inches to a mile. may or may not also include bonus musical tracks.   no cap / no expiration.

the brevity of chrissy’s story matters because what’s the prevailing mood after she dies? that she had so much potential. that she had so much to live for.

what, then, is the takeaway?

so do you.

“ it’s right between ‘ouch’ & ‘boing.’ “               /              @quietresistance​

not bursting into chuckles felt out of the question. the word choice, so far-flung yet oddly specific, captured chrissy’s fascination in an instant. how obvious, in retrospect, that a reporter would have a grip on language so unrelenting that they could make words dance in patterns more complicated than any cheer or ballet routine. chrissy crushed her brows together, an image of pure concentration, already sensing herself slipping down a rabbit hole of wondering if she’d ever experienced something in parallel. 

certainly chrissy’d had her fair share of ouch. perhaps the reporter’s wordsmithing magic had seeped into the stale hawkins general hospital air, because that simple sound, ouch, was beginning to take a thousand shapes inspired by eighteen short years of near constant physical activity. come to think of it, there was a surfeit of boings, too. before the events of a week and a half ago, chrissy hadn’t known the breadth of disasters it was possible to bounce back from, or that she could survive so many in a row, even just barely. 

right... a week and a half ago. the upside down and the earthquake. likely the whole reason the reporter had come. and she was the whole reason chrissy had asked how it felt to be a woman with a pen in a business so full of men. somewhere in between painful and disorienting. bruising and frustrating. difficult, but so, so interesting. 

                        ❝ i haven’t read any newspapers or news stories that sounded half as creative as what you just said. hopefully when by the time you finish your hawkins story, everyone will take you twice as serious. ❞   a blush pink, chipped-polish painted fingernail found a snag in the rough hospital blanket. chrissy paused.   ❝ but you still must be trusted a lot if you’re here, to try and make sense of....everything. ❞

no one wants to shake laura cunningham harder than me when i remember chrissy’s full name is “chrissy elizabeth cunningham”. her parents (read: her mother) named her chrissy. not christine, not christina, chrissy. a childish nickname meant to preserve her girlishness, like a living doll, her entire life.

(lays back all sexy for u on the bed) (bangs my fuckign head on the headboard)