Steve's Car Window Was Mercifully Cool Where Chrissy's Forehead Pressed Against It. Faint Radio Sounds

game day thrills came and faded all too quickly. sometimes it didn’t matter what rung of the championship ladder hawkins was on (or falling off), the whole school was filled with high voltage anticipation bordering on deadly. from the knife’s edge of the inner circle, chrissy watched as weeks leading up to important games spawn everything from handmade spirit shirts to garish posters on walls and on lockers, even culminating in creative little chants some students would come up with to shout during the game itself. never mind that there was an entire troupe of girls created for such a purpose. nevertheless something about their enthusiasm did rouse a consistent smile from chrissy — and assured her that her significantly softer cheers might go unnoticed.

when the day itself finally dawned, until the gym began filling “game day” mostly meant rushing to and from extra routine run-throughs and a day of wearing the uniform. the former was more enjoyable than annoying, and the latter was so non-negotiable that chrissy nearly abandoned feeling any way at all. she’d borderline coveted the sleek look all through middle school as if mere cloth had the power to change her life, the elegantly embroidered swoops of her name on a sweater heralding a new era of chrissy cunningham at her best and brightest. for the first few weeks of high school cheer, those dreams seemed almost corporeal. then she learned how often her bare legs would sprout goosebumps when someone’s eyes lingered too long. it took a year, but she’d successfully trained herself out of tugging at the hem after nearly pulling it off completely. 

almost worse than her self-consciousness was how jason seemed to earn his badge of “tiger” on those days, prowling around with narrowed eyes in chrissy’s wake just in case someone looked at her wrong. but there was a solution for that; sitting with jason at lunch eased his high hackles enough that he could be borderline pleasant in the hallways. in that regard the boys’ table, infinitely worse in its volleys of conversation than her squad’s, was a well-met sacrifice.

now the quarter final was upon the hawkins tigers and the high school buzzed like a provoked nest of hornets. the seniors were down one player in steve harrington, still recovering from a beating of comic book proportions, yet their “winner’s spirits” remained high and their thirst for the proverbial blood of their opponents was….interesting. the kind of make-it-or-break-it intense only high school basketball players were capable of, chrissy hoped.

the moment came at last for the levy to break and a stream of green and orange to joyously spill across the basketball court like a prairie sunset in summer. pompoms flew, legs kicked, and for the entirety of their opening routine chrissy let the blood in her veins scream to the beat of the hawkins band. gosh, was she proud of her squad. and in the middle of choreographed melee, proud of herself, too. her flier sequences were only getting tighter with each practice. while her timing had never been sloppy, the feeling of becoming one with the squad pulled her from the void of her self assurance for precious minutes at a time. 

but, as always, all that pep never lasted long enough and before chrissy knew it she was on her knees at the edge of court with the rest of the girls. normally she'd people watch while trying to keep a closely tracked eye on squeaky-shoed boys as they hopped from one end of the room to another. except her curiosity had pinned itself to a very bruised, very benched harrington. the hair was only a fraction less meticulous in its typical sculpt and his rainbow of wounds announced through a spectrum of purples and greens that they were at least healing. he just looked so tired. the kind of exhaustion that couldn’t be remedied, only pushed through. 

barely ten minutes had passed before chrissy could no longer stomach the sight. under cover of a set of free throws for the away team, she squirreled her way from the middle of the squad lineup toward the bench, only almost tripping over someone’s fingers and toes one time each. 

once at steve’s side she wasted enough time waffling over how firmly to tap him on the shoulder that the game had resumed in earnest. so, she gingerly poked him in the arm while trying to speak against the din. 

                            ❝ um, steve? are you sure you’re okay? you don’t look li — ❞  students erupted as hawkins snatched the ball and made a dash toward their hoop. chrissy dutifully wiggled her pompoms ‘til the action moved once more toward center court.  ❝ —  i mean i was just wondering, is it too loud? ❞

                                   a note for @starsinshadows​’ steve harrington

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)

💭 + knitwear

𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓸𝓷𝓼 — send 💭 + a topic to receive a headcanon about said topic

no tweed or wool. out, get them OUT. excuses can be made for wool blends.

there is a reason for this, though: her mother poured her into those abominable twin sets that were thick and scratchy and itchy and hot so many saturdays and sundays of her childhood that chrissy having to look at them at any point again would be too soon. she felt like she was dying in them. like a tiny little business woman just missing a patent leather purse and a hat on her way to an interview at nine years old. 

however, despite not often being very cold, chrissy is a big fan of cable knit and rib knit, the former for sweaters and the latter for shirts. they’re quite cozy and warm without feeling stifling. forgiving of body shape for the most part. fleece is the same way, especially for light jackets. 

she’s got simple taste. flat, smooth, and soft textures are her go-to, so you’ll sooner see her wearing corduroy pants than jeans most days. on fun days big, loose-knit and fluffy layers are what she likes to wrap up in, so as much as she considers her cheer skirt her enemy, the cheer top and cardigan are remarkably pleasant to wear. while she’s not exactly styling herself in oversized clothing there are a lot of loose and flowy elements she prefers. those fits are her go-tos and what she feels the most comfortable in. 

“—oh God, it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!”

𝑤𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠

𝕃𝕀𝕊𝔸 𝔾𝔸ℝ𝕃𝔸ℕ𝔻'𝕊 𝕄𝕀𝕏𝕋𝔸ℙ𝔼  X  𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝒸𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓈𝓈𝓎   ( @nonangelic​ )

as long as nobody’s listening, this fate of our is worsening ( 24 - flor )  /  heaven can you help us where we can’t go ( covered by roses - within temptation )  /  angels fall like rain and love is all of heaven away ( the ghost in you - the psychedelic furs )  /  ghost duet - louie zong

chrissy + dustin content <3

serendipity in deadtown.                        /                   @nonangelic​

there’s theories aplenty about the other side of death postulated by the living, but the problem is that no one actually knows anything about it unless they’re....well, dead. anecdotes about lamps or beckoning angels or loved ones or long ladders up to someplace bright and shiny were just that: anecdotes. unconfirmed even by dreams and near-death experiences alike. because it wasn’t the real thing if you came back from it. 

what does come after that anticipated, glorified transition from life on earth to the great beyond turns out to be, aptly, deadtown. the great city in the...sky? hell? either way, it’s the end. most times there isn’t any leaving.

exiting deadtown wiped the memories of death after death clean out of the brain. at least that’s the impression chrissy got from witnessing the one one or two exits followed by a reentrance not long after. brevity was long opined the soul of wit, but it the heart of heartbreak, too. no life was long enough, and not even the wizard or superhero or guy-who-knew-a-guy-who-knew-a-guy could stop the wheel of mortality from turning. all things ended.

except who chrissy was when she died. she was confused. shy. hopeful. looking for someone.

someone absolutely not here in deadtown, but that she’d look for eternally until further notice.

a gargoyle who introduced himself as neil lurked pleasantly behind a café counter, watching chrissy from the corner of his eye, as if her presence was both brand new and absolutely expected. chrissy hadn’t thought she’d died before the first friday of spring break, but at this rate anything was possible. best to stop asking questions.

                       ❝  so — how does this work, exactly?  ❞     ......after that one.

neil just chuckled. the door blew open in answer instead of him. evening and the scent of autumn trickled in like a discontinued department store perfume. considering the setting, that might have been true. chrissy watched from the corner of her eye as moonlight blew its way over the doorjamb in ruffled, yet smooth, locks. she used to be that put together, once. the cheerleader stared into the sudden appearance of a cup smelling like black coffee with just a hint of sugar. steam wafted up to her nose languidly, buoyed by the last vestiges of the entryway breeze. 

                      ❝  oh.  ❞  it’s easy, then, to smile. despite the missing and the looking over her shoulder, the answer was there before she knew the question. chrissy kept the smile pinned in place to level at the shadow near her shoulder.  ❝  do you have a usual, too?  ❞

hi friends! first of all, thank you for being here and interested in this little chrissy blog. second [spoilers], across the fandom the prevailing aus for chrissy seem to take place during the events of season 4. that is not the case for this portrayal’s main verse. chrissy remains dead for the entirety of the season, only reviving when robin/nancy/steve blast vecna. first killed, first revived.

as vecna emulates the lich of the same name from dnd lore and has noticeably displayed the bodies of chrissy, fred, and patrick in his mind space for max to stumble upon, which, coupled with the line “they’re not gone, eleven. they’re still with me,” provides some implication that the consciousnesses (or souls) of vecna’s victims still exist somewhere inside vecna or in a place of his choosing. this is only emphasized by his stealing of their eyes upon killing them, since “eyes are the windows to the soul”. especially powerful liches possess phylacteries, aka a protective central storage of power for their soul to draw upon when they need to regenerate. the three victims’ souls may very well have been stored in vecna’s “phylactery” mind space - his family’s deconstructed house - for that purpose. when vecna is attacked he is weakened to the point of potentially letting souls slip from his grasp. in a similar fashion that max can enter and exit, chrissy is released from the immediate bondage of vecna’s “phylactery” and able to slip through the cracks. although, unlike max, she isn’t released into the real world but the realm that vecna dwells in: the upside down. until she can find her way out, it’s there that she stays. in the real world, her buried body dissolves and her casket, when exhumed, is discovered to be empty.

long story short, all this can be found on my verses page and this drabble explaining how chrissy woke up. all this is to give chrissy her own unique story that both gives her a chance at agency, a solo story of survival, and manages to keep the timeline of s4 unchanged. thanks so much for reading!!!