Teiknu​:

in other news, who is coming to dead girl brunch with @nonangelic and chrissy cunningham while they mourn their lost potential?

there’s going to be morgue-mosas and chai lattslays and boo-berry muffins.

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. ❞

@v1ctimplagued / @godstrayed - cont. from here

It wasn't as if he was keenly aware of many secrets. He heard gossip here and there but he wasn't too close to anyone to have many wanting to confide in him. The last thing Billy inspired was trust or a sense of safety. Rather it was quite the opposite. "Should I pretend that I know what you're talking about? Color me amused. What secrets does Chrissy Cunningham know?"

what a way to kill an already limp mood. and how is she supposed to answer such a targeted barb so quick on the heels of dismissal? it's not like she’d never been rebuffed so thoroughly before; getting shrugged off was a fact of life with jason and chrissy learned the ins and out of how to sidestep his proclivities quickly. a private little list of rules she walks around with inscribed inside her skull and carved by half moon nails in her palms. she’s prepared for a jason anywhere. however, none of hawkins was truly prepared for the hellion hurricane that was billy hargrove. including chrissy. 

his effect was like a slap in its suddenness. chrissy’s body was decidedly at school, yet the walls of home were a noose drawing in closer around her, her previous interest in gently examining billy’s persona further, almost fully dashed. a quotidian familiarity she liked even less than the immediate one pricked tender bits of her brain she’d rather leave alone completely. 

( i’ve laid awake at night, starting to wonder if going home at the end of the day feels the same way for you as it does me. dread. pure anxiety. feeling sicker the closer you get. how’s that for a secret, billy? but i won’t be telling you. )

instead, chrissy blinked, then squinted like a lamb in the sun. she knew her role to play in this conversation with certainty now.

                       “if you don’t actually care, then it doesn’t matter how you find out. word spreads fast enough. if not by tonight’s game, then tomorrow,” she added with a shrug. light, airy, careless – hoping for no fire to follow. billy’s moods were less an open secret and more like a guarantee. “i’m surprised jason hasn’t acted out more in front of you or steve since he wants the captain spot next year. but … you know, if you don’t care, that’s probably better.”

𝔻𝔼𝔸ℝ      𝔼𝔻𝔻𝕀𝔼      𝕄𝕌ℕ𝕊𝕆ℕ,                              (hellmartyr​)

𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍. no sun, no moon — only venomous strands of electrified lifeblood. hours didn’t shift as they should, and the creatures reflected the restlessness of their cruel dimension. loathsome howls haunted the winds in immeasurable rotations. with no natural period of respite, eddie divided his routine into two cycles: get shit done and an intermittent spate of z’s.

      sleep was a treat that rarely went uninterrupted. shrieks from the sky peeled open his eyes and sounds he didn’t recognize stalked the periphery of his tenuous sanctuaries. blood-curdling shadows were a ruthless reminder that nowhere in hell was safe from the devil. munson didn’t dare breathe as he waited for the strange chittering to pass, holding the warlock so tightly his joints cramped.

      eddie never let go of her, even when he did manage to spirit away some sleep. no matter how long the man was out or in what position he awoke, his guitar’s twisted sister never strayed from his hand.

      a rest fast wasn’t the only flagellation he inflicted upon himself. his eyes opened to a sharp pain in his gut. eddie curled into a ball, the warlock twanged as she was crushed into his abdomen.

      the two things a survivor needed most were just as likely to kill him. he didn’t want to remember the last time he ate, and felt sick just thinking about cracking open another ungodly can of something parading itself as edible. but the tight ache could no longer be ignored.

      keeping parallel to the thoroughfares, it was a steady crawl into hawkins proper. the rhythmic crunch of rotten leaves under his sneakers turned to grit as he picked his way over black, pulsating veins that overlapped the butchered segments of asphalt. from there it was a reluctant beeline to the canned goods. nothing in front or too far back, somewhere in the middle where the least amount of tainted air settled. his stomach objected as eddie slipped his not-so-fresh catch into his vest pocket.

      distant thunder and the soft rustle of his gear bumping against his steps set the rhythm of his march to the police station. vines covered the parking lot like pulsating cracks in the concrete. eddie hopscotched towards the back of the building to the spore-covered dumpster. his arms wobbled as he hoisted himself onto the lid. sneakers scrapped the molded brick as he clambered onto the roof.

      on one end there was an access door that led to the ground level. completely useless of course. vines cavorted in the stairwell, bulging into a grotesque neural network of rot as they smothered each other in vacuous greed. with no super powers to speak of, munson abandoned the route, turning his attention instead to the whirlybird. the damn thing looked more like a mushroom, it’s galvanized steel covered in a crust that glistened in the brackish light.

      eddie cracked his fingers and carefully tipped it aside to reveal a crumbling system beneath. he removed his guitar, lowering her first into the insulation before following her down with a jostle. despite the tight fit, eddie had enough room to army crawl through a decadent perfume of interdimensional asbestos and spores.

      the scattered remains of the demobat he killed during his previous visit were putrefied puddles. a ghastly stench interlocked with the moisture in the back of his throat. jesus christ, he could taste it; a pungent sweetness that tested the strength of his stomach. eddie pressed his mouth into his arm, stifling a cough as he dragged himself away as quickly as he dared.

      for the better part of an hour, eddie searched for a way down. it was a grueling process, one he’d been forced to back out of multiple times. the spoiled air was suffocating, forcing him to breath with his mouth open, which in turn made him vulnerable to swallowing something that turned his insides out. that shit was just the cherry on top too. during one attempt, he almost lost consciousness. which put a fear in the man so bad he stayed away for the equivalent of several days. even the allure of a shotgun failed to shake it.

      suddenly, a ray of gloomy light illuminated a small flotilla of dust motes several feet ahead. it took a moment for his eyes to register what they were seeing. never before had eddie made it this far. a feverish zing spread from his heart to the rest of his body as the young man rustled closer. a rutted cleft in the ceiling, not big enough for him to squeeze through without a little help.

      he maneuvered the teeth of his spearhead and sawed at the disintegrating plaster. as pieces loosened, eddie broke them off by hand and piled them on the side. by the time he was finished, sweat dripped from the strands of hair sticking out from his bandana. his head felt like it was about to tailspin, but an unwitting smile kept the young man steady as he looked down into the police station.

      now there’s a sight a munson never thought he’d be thrilled to see.

      first came the warlock, descending like a fallen angel from a cloud of insulation foam. then her guitarist. he didn’t descend so much as topple when his fingers slipped. sneakers squeaked as eddie landed awkwardly. he teetered on the edge of his balance, but caught himself before he went sideways straight into a cluster of tendrils.

      sour saliva coated the dry rush of his throat. eddie spared himself a moment of relief before he fished the can out of his pocket. with a scoff, he spotted the cursive c poking out from a film of sludge.

      ❝ so, we meet again. ❞ munson remarked dryly as he cleaned the top off on his sleeve. he angled his spear and carefully punctured the can, rotating slowly to preserve the precious contents. anticipation coated his dry mouth in a harsh brine as he precociously caught the serrated edge of the lid with his thumb. eddie hissed, jerking his thumb back as a bead of blood formed on the tip. quickly, he stuck the wound in his mouth. immediate revulsion at the taste of the grime on his skin, but stifling a gag-reflex was preferable to letting bloodscent loose in the air.

      frustration surged up from the depths of all he’d been through. pain that refused to dissipate from the infection spreading on his abdomen, the hopeless determination to keep going without a chance of actually seeing his uncle again. eddie never thought it possible to miss hawkins like this, but seeing his hometown mutilated by the evil of a child-murdering madman …

      eddie crumbled.

      folding towards his knees, eddie’s shoulders quivered in tandem with the tears turning the oil on his cheeks sticky. there was no desire to give up, but the will to keep going was leaking onto his tongue. an end, he just wanted an end. to go back in time to a moment full of copper, adrenaline bleeding out as vision turned a dark red.

      just die. don’t open your eyes. there’s no point. there’s no fucking point.

      a dangerous sob was stopped by the digit still enclosed between his teeth. eddie sank closer to the ground, surrendering to the blue devils that would pin him there till the young man finally wasted away.

                              hello?

      anguish turned deathly still as his attention snapped like a viper towards the door. the burning of a final heartbreak extinguished into something silent, something cold. eddie rose, the ominous glitter in his eyes glowing brighter as the voice of chrissy cunningham begged for the help she never got.

      a shuddering sigh, ❝ that’s sick, man. even for you. ❞

      the young man swallowed the lump in his throat as he set aside the can and placed his warlock on one of the desks. his sights strayed from the door. no, his fixation steeled into a tranquil fury as the redeemer readied his spear. there was no feeling in his legs as he approached the entrance, futile pounding reverberating from the other side.

      seemed like the universe was finally showing a bit of pity. a worthy way out; all he had to do was unlock the door and kill whatever shit-eating beast was making a mockery of a girl who deserved more than her fair share of peace.

      he fished out the homebrew lock kit he’d fashioned from his jeans and picked the door. his eagerness steeled, munson kept his actions deliberate as to not alert whatever the hell was waiting for him. he had one chance to get the drop so that no matter what it did to him, eddie munson wasn’t leaving this hellhole alone.

      click. eddie’s heart rate spiked as the lock gave. in one swift motion, he raised up his spear and threw open the door to see —

                  ❝ CHRIST — Y — CHRISSY ? ❞

                           ❝ please let someone be here, plea  —  ❞  and as if loftily answering a prayer, the door flew open from the inside. 

but who waited beyond the knob wasn’t any kind of anticipated, if unimaginable, underworld monstrosity. nor was it a badge-toting figurehead of hawkins safety and security. it was a ghoul with the face of a terrified and bloody eddie munson, clutching a makeshift spear in one hand and the doorknob in the other. truly, he looked so shocked that for a moment chrissy almost believed he was real. 

the once-cheerleader automatically let out a strangled bleat in fright, but all the air was stolen from the sound halfway through. her shock stumbled down a cliff of surprise rolling all the way down into a pit of.....sadness. this vision of eddie looked so like the world they were in —  grungy, dusty, slathered in rot. so thoroughly mangled that there was no chance he could be alive. he could be nothing other than the manifestation of this place’s manic feeding frenzy on souls and bodies alike. ....which implied he’d entered their now shared purgatory while still alive only to fall and be consumed by the acidic hatred that had conjured this place however long ago. 

oh. 

here stood her confirmation that this barren slice of the universe was not a second chance at whatever passed as living here in this poor excuse for “hawkins", inverted. genuine existence was only mimicked. she was dead. and so was he. like a gunshot, chrissy’s chest was riven by the sensation of missing him. could you miss someone you barely knew? someone who wasn’t there? 

yet — almost-eddie said her name. as if her appearance was the least likely sight in hell he could muster up. she didn’t blame this shade his stupefaction, at least not for too long. this mutated world of darkness trapping them could very well birth all manner of hallucinations, could be dangling false hope in front of her at any moment. manufactured, cruel fictions to match the cruel imitation of life chrissy had lived thus far and a crueler imprint of the town she’d called home.

what was left of her heart sank quickly to the ichor-slicked soles of her sneakers. he sounded so much like eddie, this ghost. or.....she thought. guilt assuaged slumping shoulders as she realized how little she really knew of this young man from whom humble hawkins seemed to expect the worst. and he’d been so kind to her up until the moment her memories stopped. [ did you find it? eddie? ] generous with his time and his humour [ you’re not what i thought you’d be like ], clever with his attempts at making her smile. [ how could i forget?! ] a mere few hours after meeting him (again) was enough time gone to know he’d not lay a harming finger on her if he drove her home. ready to help her despite his confusion. 

oh, living and breathing chrissy, so starved of understanding had she been that the moment eddie munson stared through her like glass, she felt secure for the first time in... no. that was a pointless enumeration. she’d be ashamed of herself if she went any further. 

                          ❝ eddie? ❞  even to her own ears she sounded devastated. wrecked. what misfortune had laced the atoms of his essence together into so ripped and chewed a shadow of sentience? nothing that could comfort her in the presence of his ghost, certainly.  ❝ what happened to you? you’re.... a mess.  ❞

chapped lips closed, then opened, then closed again, rendered suddenly unable to string any kind of sufficient thought into speech. all she could feel was sorry. everything she knew was sorry. sorry to see him in such a place, sorry to be haunting the haunted, sorry to have possibly done anything that could drag him into this tartarus pit, this realm of refuse. he’d paid dearly for every act of heroism, judging by the looks of things. a shining, blood-soaked knight in shredded ribbons, complete with a sword.

either all her tears had evaporated or weariness sapped every reaction in extreme from her system. a limp swallow clenched her throat shut long enough to pause all thought of caution and chrissy stepped forward. her bruised arms lifted, powered by winces of pain, to wrap gingerly around this not-quite-eddie’s torso. no breath to reconsider, just the driving force of mourning a life half lived and a thousand chances missed. in cheer, missing by inches brought injurious disaster. what brought them here was miles.

                         ❝ it’s alright if you’re not real, ❞  chrissy mumbled into ruined fabric, utterly depressed. anything above a whisper scraped murder across her vocal cords. her fingers dug into a bony back until spinal ridging uncomfortably collided with the juts of her knuckles. the skeletal pattern was grounding. so frustrating in its physicality. he still faintly smelled like leather and hawkins humidity. you didn’t deserve this. you didn’t deserve anything you were getting. i’m sorry i thought so badly of you. if i could go back i’d make up my own mind about you and never listen to anyone tell me what to believe again. how tantalizing a thought, to admit as much to the real eddie. but his ghost was no replacement. admission to a phantom was like begging a stone for help. like pounding on the door of an abandoned police station that might never have held any remote promise of safety. absolute miserable insanity. still, there was a small childish comfort in embracing a figure that could only be meant to fade from her gaze the moment she gripped it too fiercely in a bid to regain her balance.  ❝ i'm just glad to see you. ❞

so chrissy let go.  easier, when the battle was already lost. 

                        ❝ this place is.....is twisted. i don’t know why it made you look like this. it’s messing with my head, eddie. but i can’t be losing my mind anymore if i’m dead, can i? ❞

𝔻𝔼𝔸ℝ   𝔹𝔸𝕐𝕆ℝ   𝕆ℂ𝔸𝕄ℙ𝕆                (athousandmilesandcounting​)

Even before he looked up and saw who had spoken to him, their voice carried with it a disarming and unexpected kindness that he couldn’t help but smile at. When he got a look at the young girl’s aura, he was only surprised that the reality managed to surpass the expectation-as well as the deep sadness coiled around it.

Her question earned a small, sad smile that grew somewhat after a beat. “Got it in one. Thinkin’ about a real good someone in my less than awesome hours here. It’s real sweet of you to ask, my dude.”

immediately all chrissy’s tentative assumptions were blown far and wide by such a carefree cadence. she gently pressed her lips together so a laugh wouldn’t accidentally spill out. the amusement sourced more from her interest than his oddity, but considering the mood he might be in chrissy wasn’t keen on taking a chance. 

                   ❝  where are you from?  is that where she is?  ❞

less than awesome hours here.  hawkins here or.....or hours on earth here? the realization that she could empathize with both tasted sour on the back of her tongue. he absolutely didn’t need to know that.   ❝  it was just a question. but being alone missing someone is hard. i’m sorry. ❞

From one Chrissy mun to another; I want to give you a little reminder that your portrayal is one of a kind! You put so much into the writing and into making her your own version and it shows! (Plus you have great muse taste). I'm rooting for you endlessly and wish you a happy hump day! May the rest of your week go swimmingly!

^^^ me when you

in all seriousness, what a lovely thing to see today!!! it warms my heart so much to know chrissy has such sweet rep in this little community and your positivity in particular is a gift. 🧡 tysm victoria!!! keep on keeping on yourself, and cheers to spectacular muse taste ;)

much love from me to you 🧡💚🤍 team chrissy always

Supernatural & Paranormal Sentences, Vol. 4

(Sentences from various sources for muses exploring the unexplained. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"So, at this point, we have no human suspects?"

"We're going to a cabin in the woods in the middle of nowhere?"

"That's a superstition. It doesn't mean it's true."

"You can't tell me that what happened didn't freak you out just a little bit!"

"What could you possibly be looking for by probing up there?"

"I can't follow any of this!"

"People believe what they want to believe."

"Look! It's a spaceship!"

"Did it just get cold?"

"Maybe this is a sign?"

"The living and the dead belong in different places."

"Is there not just one tiny part of you that wonders if I'm right?"

"Call me crazy, but that looks just like an alien implant."

"I'm not sure, but I believe I was visited by a giant."

"Is there anything that you don't believe in?"

"It's definitely a spaceship."

"What I'm saying is, that ship didn't crash - it parked."

"It came down in the rock."

"I've never seen so many trees in my life!"

"What touched this place cannot be quantified or understood by human science."

"I have a gift. I look at people and I see things."

"What year is this?"

"I assure you, my intentions are pure."

"Some mysteries aren't meant to be solved."

"Is it me, or is this just... Wrong?"

"You look like you've paid a visit to the Devil himself."

"You can't charm your way out of a bullet."

"I've seen you in a dream."

"I'll advise you to keep your eye on the woods. The woods are wondrous here, but strange."

"Every place is dangerous to the ignorant."

"I am done being afraid. It's your turn now."

𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐀𝐘. bold for what always applies. italicize what sometimes applies. repost, don’t reblog.

0 7 : 3 0 a.m.   —   paperwork. school bells. documentaries. rainstorms. tapping of a pen. dogs barking next-door. hopping to bed after a long day. crumpled notes. detailed encyclopedias. drowsy eyes. world maps. fogged eyeglasses. messy desks. bedheads. smudged-on whiteboards. old atlases. the smell of breakfast first thing in the morning. bare feet on cold marble. museums. worn-out wall paint.

0 9 : 0 5 a.m.   —   hydrangeas. sunrise. soothing walks in the park. the sound of birds chirping. crop tops. light seeping in through the window. denim overalls. flower vases. hair ties. freckles appearing under the sun. pins & patches. leaves falling during autumn. fairy lights. running shoes. botany textbooks. cloudy weather. laughing with eyes squeezed shut. jerseys. school bleachers. grass fields.

0 1 : 2 2 p.m.   —   expensive perfume. hair-twirling. the smell of vanilla. lollipops. blowing a bubble gum. arms crossed. snapping fingers. leather purses. sunglasses. laughing with a scrunched nose. skater skirts. cotton candy. lipsticks. vintage boutiques. heels clicking along the school hallways. old convertibles. hair in the wind. class councils. shopping bags. playing with the telephone cord.

0 2 : 0 0 p.m.   —   old dictionaries. warm mugs. striped blouses. soft bell chimes. cold-weather breath. a ticking clock. cardigans. light tapping of a finger. dusty typewriters. unread letters. dangling keys. wristwatches. doorbells. disconnected telephone beeps. endless film marathons. nail-biting. staying in uncrowded cafés. falling asleep in working clothes. unused bottles of ink. quiet nights.

0 8 : 3 4 p.m.   —   bows & ribbons. dressing rooms. black stockings. hair brushes. velveteen. drinking from ceramic tea cups. tall mirrors. tucking loose hair behind an ear. fuzzy slippers. comforters. stuffed animals. soft knocking of a door. rehearsing play scripts. bubble baths. lace. sauntering around the house in silk robes. solid-pastel clothes. crossed legs. carpeted floors. dimly-lit bedside lamps.

1 2 : 0 2 a.m.   —   snow-covered coats. heavy footsteps. faint classical music. red wine. creaky floorboards. missing pages. year-old newspapers. dusty bookshelves. door creaks. fireplaces. chiming grandfather clocks. passing by library aisles. the woods. black umbrellas. porch lights. turntables. the piano playing from another room. mute corridors. embers. isolated train stations.

                  ❝ i've never been in a gang before. what am i supposed to do? do we have meetings? is it like a school club? ❞

@roastyoualive warren said to join the scooby gang so here she is

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.