𝚍𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚕  +  𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑  𝚑𝚎𝚛

𝙒𝙃𝘼𝙏 𝙄𝙎 𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙍𝘼𝘾𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝘼𝙍𝘾?

𝓇𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 / 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅 𝒶𝓇𝒸. you started this story a little hard, or awkward, or stubborn. that's okay. it's harder than it should be to admit, but what you really want is love. that's what your story is all about - not just the act of loving, but the allowance of it. the confession that you do not want to fight or bleed or save the world, but to simply feel the way two hands fit so easily together. you will have two chairs and a table and you will shut your blinds, and you will say the word love without faltering. this is a happy ending, and you do not need to feel guilty. it hurts our hands to fight - never to hold.

𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙮: @manaborn​  ♡ 𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜:  whoever is curious!

“I used to dislike being sensitive. I thought it made me weak. But take away that single trait, and you take away the very essence of who I am. You take away my conscience, my ability to empathize, my intuition, my creativity, my deep appreciation for the little things, my vivid inner life, my deep awareness of others’ pain, and my passion for it all.”

— Unknown

 — To the Young Who Want to Die, Gwendolyn Brooks  

[ text ID: Graves grow no green that you can use. / Remember, green’s your color. / You are Spring. ]

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."

#Happy May the 4th to Steve Harrington <3

Send 🌿 to accidentally get caught under the mistletoe with my muse.

the freak and the cheerleader.

the reporter and the news.

tigers and sheep.

chrissy does well with opposites. 

𝘿𝙀𝘼𝙍 𝙀𝘿𝘿𝙄𝙀 𝙈𝙐𝙉𝙎𝙊𝙉                              ( hellmartyr​ )

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐋𝐀𝐊𝐄 with no intention of coming back. that’s how it felt listening to the violet-grey sadness that slowly flooded his insides with a dreaded sense of déjà vu. like listening to an old recording of his thoughts, spoken out loud in a crunchy, distorted voice. ideas eddie would’ve drowned in if wayne never took him in.

      calloused fingers curled into a loose fist. he had to, to keep from reaching over the barrier to hold her back from going any further. it wouldn’t be the first time they searched for each other in the dark, someone’s fingers feeling for a brush with skin that bore similar scars from the same place. eddie wanted nothing more than to be that reassurance again, but he hesitated. scared that if he moved too fast, whatever ledge chrissy was hanging onto would crumble.

      and who could blame her? not like eddie read her autobiography, but her life wasn’t hard to see when she wasn’t surrounded by faces with herculean expectations. chrissy cunningham’s picture perfect life was the exact reason vecna targeted her. a like a picture, it was a two dimensional facade that didn’t hold up to scrutiny. eddie first noticed tiny holes in his own assumptions when the unorthodox pair sat across from each other at a rickety picnic table. then the road trip when they were both supposed to be healthy … -er. yet sitting next to her for hours on end, chattering away, his dark eyes reflectively slipping from the road to her under an array of lightning. living in a drifter’s version of domesticity as the van hauled them ever closer to california. it was during those hours, destined to be carefree, that eddie learned laura cunningham had no right to be called a mom.

      ed didn’t want to answer. terrified of pushing her any further in a foreboding direction. seeing her eyes like the bottom of a well, unable to tell if it was the light or tears that made them shine. his mouth went cotton dry. ❝ a s-southpaw? ❞

      chris. the plea never cleared eddie’s throat, stuck like a rock in a hard place behind his tongue’s treacherous reply. it took several silent tries to dislodge it. when it did, her name scraped his throat like it grew claws. eddie felt like he was floating, even as the polyester sheets grazed his skin. he’d wanted the quiet to last longer, preferring it to hang over them like distended as he tried to figure out chrissy’s destination to prepare himself to deny their arrival.

      instead eddie cornered himself to think on the fly. panicking in the seconds between his and her respond with race to dredge up every synonym and tidbit he knew about lefties. he knew some people had a religious hang-ups. and it wasn’t too long ago teachers were still allowed to crack a leftie’s hand with a ruler, encouraging them to switch. that’s what wayne said happened to his brother, and that al went home everyday with a teacher’s brand till the bastard finally dropped out of high school.

      thinking of his old man sharing any similarity with chrissy made eddie’s stomach flip. if she was a mess, how fucked was  he ?

truth be told, chrissy had asked the question with no real expectation of an answer. the query was as rhetorical as it was sincerely curious. there was no way of knowing if eddie would catch her drift, especially not with sleep dancing just out of reach in the corners of her bedroom. but, not unlike the first day the two had made real conversation, looking at each other less like classmates and more like friends, eddie munson had so valiantly offered up anything he hoped might be a solution for what ailed her. a habit that became a consistent phenomenon from the previous march, through the last gasps of their school year, over the summer, all the way to the first anniversary of their deaths. or if it wasn’t death, no life had ever felt like swimming through the humidity-choked air of hawkins’ moldy, parasitic mirror, every step seemingly futile. even if the upside down and death couldn’t accomplish the same goal, they left the same scars.

the cheerleader had been all alone in that purgatory, left to suffer the consequences of mere happenstance  —  a not so miraculous resurrection. until eddie munson appeared. at school she’d felt forgotten among the aftermath, the real her with her real twisted limbs and real blank eyes left behind in the rubble. until she saw eddie in the hallway. since then, they’d left each other alone only by necessity. 

of course that’s where eddie’s head was. to assume he’d do anything else but pull her back home with oaths of understanding was honestly stupid. she should have that part of him memorized now, just like everything else he let her see. it’s why she knew the twitching in the valley beyond the pillow mountain was a contained urge to reach for the hand she’d dangled too closely in reach. 

evidently, he wasn’t holding it against her much if the next thing she felt herself do was snort at what might have been a joke.

all the stacks of emotion building a dam in her throat abated in brief as her body shook with silent laughter, no sobs or sniffles in sight. chrissy considered herself the kind of girl who cried regularly, although she never began her night hoping to curl into a ball and gasp her way to the middle of the mattress only to woozily drop off and wake up sore and salty. so, maybe this was a good replacement. even after her worst day in a long while, and that was saying something considering the spring break depression.

her lingering left hand flapped at the wrist just slightly over their all-but-pillow-fort. beyond it somewhere was his, and she aimed to fish it out again in a burst of watery grin-fueled nerve. 

                  ❝ no. i mean - yeah, that is one name for it. but not the one i’m talking about ❞  a deep sigh whistled through chrissy’s nose before her thoughts lined themselves up again in a neat, sensible row. only this way could she make him understand her debt to him and her fear for him. 

finally, softly,  ❝ sinister. ❞  the shape of the word hung in the air like the ghost of a tattered highway billboard, no context left but a single word. yellowed lights and all. if they looked out her tiny bedroom window, they might even see one.  ❝ lefties are sinister. because being left handed means you’re unlucky. or that you’re weak. sometimes both. most of the time, actually. and, that.... ❞  two hard swallows did nothing to help her breath and the harsh sound of chrissy helplessly clearing her throat seemed to shatter what remained of their cocoon.  ❝ that there’s darkness inside. ❞  

it was so easy to imagine when it shouldn’t have been: every lethal critique her mother levied against her, the thousand faults chrissy bore like ill-fitting clothes along with disgusted or jealous glances that cut truer than shattered glass on bare feet, all streaming from eddie’s face, eddie’s eyes, eddie’s mouth. an imagined nightmare questing to outpace the memory of vecna showing her why death was altogether better than the agony of living. 

                   ❝ i just don’t want to be the next person that hurts you, eddie. that’s what i’m scared of. ❞  all the tears she’d been pushing back finally crested the surface of grey ocean eyes, drizzling down her cheeks to splash mutely on an over-squished pillow. between burning droplets she could only offer a pitiful whisper in addendum,  ❝ i don’t want you to hate me. ❞

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? ❞