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foundtherightwords · 11 months ago

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The Hollow Heart - Chapter 15

Pairing: Hellcheer, Gothic AU

Summary: To escape her mother's control and the stifling society of Gilded Age New York, heiress Christabel Cunningham impulsively marries Henry Creel, a charming and seductive stranger, and accompanies him to his remote mansion on the West Coast. There, as Henry grows cold and cruel, Christabel must uncover her husband's sinister secret before it's too late. But can she trust Kas, her husband's enigmatic assistant, who seems to be her only ally in this strange place, or is Kas's loyalty to his master stronger than his attraction to Christabel?

Chapter warnings: violence, blood

Chapter word count: 5k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14

Chapter 15 - A World of Death

As soon as Christabel set foot inside the attic, her senses were overpowered by its dusty, musty smell, along with a more subtle whiff of decay. Clasping a handkerchief to her nose, she set about lowering the lamp that hung from the ceiling by a chain, lighting it, and drawing it up again. Its glow could not penetrate the furthest corners of the attic, but it was enough for her to see where she was going. For closer inspections, she lit a candle she'd brought from her room.

The icebox. Kas had told her to look inside the icebox. She assumed it was the large cabinet in a corner of the room. Holding the candle high over her head, she made her way there, passing the cages of the snakes and spiders with their rustling, crawling, creeping inhabitants. She expected the cabinet to be locked, but to her surprise, the doors fell open easily. She supposed Henry thought the locked attic door was secure enough. Heart in throat, she brought the candle closer with a trembling hand, afraid of what she may find there.

The icebox was full of glass bottles of various sizes, most of them containing some dark red liquid. Wine? No. It was too dark, and—she picked one of the bottles up and sloshed the liquid around—too viscous to be wine. She carefully uncorked the bottle, brought it to her nose, and recoiled as she sniffed in a coppery stench. Blood. The icebox was full of blood.

What was Henry doing with all this blood? Was it animal or human? The bottles were mostly unlabeled, except for one, which bore a tag that said "Unicorn", written in Henry's slanting hand.

Not all of the bottles contained blood. At the back was a single bottle, as big as the jar Christabel had seen at the shop window in Chinatown. Inside it was what she thought was a big twig at first, but as she shone her candle on it, she realized it was—what was it? It looked like some sort of tail, but it was unlike the tail of any animal she'd ever seen. About the size and length of her forearm, it was covered in grayish ridged scales and ended in a wicked-looking hook, like a scorpion sting. This was labeled "Wyvern". Unicorn and wyvern. Heraldic, imaginary creatures. Some sort of code, perhaps?

There was something familiar about the scales covering that tail, and as Christabel leaned down to take a closer look, she remembered—it was the same as the one she'd found in Luna's stall the day the horse died. Her prophetic dream came back to her. Luna had looked like a unicorn in it. At the time, she'd dismissed it as a fancy, the product of her imagination stirred by Henry's inane comment. But had it really been inane? He had seemed quite excited when she mentioned the bump on Luna's forehead...

No. There was no such thing as a unicorn. But Christabel was now sure that poor Luna's death had not been an accident, and that proved something even more horrific—that Henry believed Luna was a unicorn. That he was out of his mind.

The icebox had brought less clarity than she'd hoped. Shutting its doors in frustration, she turned toward the desk at the center of the room. But here she was even more out of her depth. The desk's pigeonholes and the drawers of the cabinet next to it were crammed full of paper, each sheet filled with so much writing that it all blended together into a spidery mass in front of her eyes, and she could make neither heads nor tails of it. She didn't even know where to begin looking.

In a drawer, she found printed pages, old, yellowed, and brittle, apparently torn out of books. They were written in what looked like Latin, Greek, Arabic, and Persian; some were brilliantly illuminated and illustrated; there were even a few thin pages of Chinese, fragile as tissue paper. She couldn't read them, but they disturbed her. In her mind, a person that had no regard for books, a person that could rip pages from venerable tomes in this way, was certain to have no regard for anything else.

She pulled out drawer after drawer, frustrated, anxious. And then she drew her hand back in fear—a spider was crawling out of the bottom drawer. When she raised the candle to look again, however, it melted into the grain of the wood. Nothing but a trick of the light. She lowered the candle, and the spider appeared once more, this time scampering into the drawer. It repeated this movement a few times, crawling in and out of the drawer just out of the corner of her eyes, only to vanish when she looked properly.

A prickling sensation started on the back of her neck. Christabel knew the ghosts were in the attic with her even before she turned around.

But it was impossible. It had been so long since she'd seen them. And she wasn't asleep. And even during the worst of her hallucinations, they had always stayed outside, under the cypress grove. How could they be inside now?

She turned back to look at them. They were hovering in a corner like a patch of irregularly shaped fog; only the darkness of the attic gave them some definition. But she was no longer afraid. She knew now that they hadn't been trying to take her away or turn her into one of them. They were trying to help. "Please," she whispered. "Please, tell me what happened to you. Show me."

The girl, Maxine, raised a silent finger and pointed at the cabinet. Then Christabel understood. The spider had been a sign.

She pulled open the drawer. Behind her, the figures wavered and disappeared, their work done.

There was only a notebook inside, but it wasn't so much a notebook as a thick stack of paper bound together between two leather covers, allowing for new pages to be added when necessary. She sat down on the floor with her back against the cabinet and opened the bulging cover. It appeared to be a diary or journal of some kind.

Jan. 12, 1866, N. Carolina, said the first entry.

Immortality is not the mere prolonging of one's life, it said, in Henry's familiar slanting hand. To achieve true immortality, one must preserve one's essence, in other words, protect one's soul. The only way to do this is to extract the soul and store it in a magical container, a phylactery, thus transforming the body into an indestructible vessel. This requires a complex ritual and a carefully prepared potion (or elixir). Accounts of such feats can be found in the writing of Censorinus, Hermes Trismegistus, Simon Magnus, and the Chinese physician Sun Simiao, especially his "Essential Formulas of Alchemical Classics". It is my determination to devote the rest of my life (ha!) to study these works and discover their secrets, to devise a ritual of my own!

Immortality? Alchemical elixirs and rituals? This was worse than she thought. Henry was surely out of his mind if he believed in such nonsense. She looked again at the date. 1866, forty years ago. And it was his handwriting... But the date didn't mean anything. He could have easily backdated it. The more troubling question was, why bothered? Or perhaps this was his father's work. It wasn't out of the question that father and son had similar handwriting, and it was certainly more plausible than all other explanations.

She flipped through the rest of the notebook. It was more of the same, rambling thoughts on his travels and discoveries and experiments, spanning over the course of three decades. Months or even years would go by without an entry, and then a burst of activities for a few days or weeks, followed by another period of dormancy. As Christabel read more and more, the notion that Henry was simply following in his father's footsteps became less and less likely. There was no mention of a wife and child anywhere. And all the locations of the entries were places he'd told her about. Eastern and Southern Europe, Turkey, Egypt, even India. Jumbled words and phrases jumped out at her, venom, poison, arsenic, belladonna, ritual of defilement, ceremony of endless night, sacrificial heart, and most of all, blood, blood, blood.

Then the word Kas caught her eyes, and she paused and forced herself to focus. The entry was dated from 1870, the location being the Rila Mountains in the Balkans.

Managed to trap myself a bloodsucking creature in the forest. It (for I cannot bring myself to refer to such a creature as "he") has the appearance of a grown man, but it is impossible to tell how old it is. It has all the attributes of a vampire—feeds on blood, burned by sunlight and silver—though garlic and the crucifix have no effect on it whatsoever. It is near feral, nothing like the elegant and seductive vampires of the stories at all. It still retains some ability of human speech though. Conversed with it with the help of a Bulgarian interpreter. It claims its name is Kas, it's been living in the region for over 50 years, and there are many more like it, some much older, though this may simply be a boast to frighten me.

At the bottom of the page is a crude sketch of a creature with a bald head, and bulging, vacant eyes. His mouth hung open, showing two sharp fangs and a thick, blood-red tongue like a slab of raw liver. He looked nothing like her Kas. He barely even looked human. But then again, he could not possibly be her Kas, could he, if Henry met him in 1870?

This was confirmed by another entry, a few days later:

I've been forced to kill Kas. The stupid creature seemed unable to understand that I am its savior and tried to attack me in my sleep, so I put a silver bullet in its heart. It's good to know that some legends are proved to be true. But all that effort, wasted! I've managed to draw a good amount of its blood before its death, only it won't keep for long. I am never going to resort to vampirism to attain immortality—what kind of a life would that be, living like an animal, hunting for blood, never going out in daylight? But this blood is essential to the elixir of transformation. I must find another steady supply.

Christabel scanned the subsequent pages for more mentions of Kas. It seemed that in the next year or so after killing the original Kas, Henry had tried to use the creature's blood to infect several people, but the blood drove them all mad, and one by one, they either died or got killed. Then she came upon an entry written in 1880 in Indianapolis.

Had a breakthrough discovery!!! it said. There is evidence to support the theory that if a pregnant woman is bitten by a vampire, her child will be born a half-vampire, or a dhampyr. This dhampyr will have the powers of a vampire without any of the weaknesses. And a child would certainly be easier to control than a grown-up. With that in mind, I've sought out and found a pregnant female, simple enough in this den of vice. Sedated and injected her with blood from the latest "Kas". She gave birth to a male child. I took it and disposed of her.

There was that casual cruelty again. Disposed of her. As though she was a piece of trash, not a human being. Christabel looked at the date and location again. 1880, Indianapolis. It fitted what Kas told her about his origins. Could this child be Kas? Then that meant that whoever took Kas had lied. His mother hadn't died giving birth to him. She'd been killed.

Over the next few months, there were sporadic references to the child in the diary, not by name, only as "the dhampyr". The dhampyr is growing well. The dhampyr has begun feeding on his own. The dhampyr is aging at a normal rate.

Then, eighteen months later: To my annoyance, the dhampyr still has all the weaknesses of a vampire, but at least he is docile. I left him without blood for three days to test his predatory instincts. He is angry, and once I fed him again, he fell on the blood ferociously, but he has no instinct to hunt or attack on his own. It makes him more biddable.

I've decided to call him Kas. After all, he was born of Kas's blood. It's quicker than "the dhampyr", and it saves me from having to think of a name.

Christabel let the diary fall into her lap. So this was Kas, her Kas. But what did it all mean? Could it be possible that he had been infected with the blood of a vampire at birth and become some monstrous half-creature? But there was no such thing as vampires... was there?

She couldn't read anymore. The attic had not brought the answers she'd expected. All she saw was evidence of Henry's madness. She didn't need more reasons to convince her to leave Creel House. It was something she should have done months ago.

Before putting the diary back, she flipped to its last pages to see if there was anything she'd missed, some mentions of herself, perhaps. She found a page written with what looked like a cooking recipe, though it was like no recipe she had ever seen:

2 drops of distilled Arsenic

1 drop of distilled Belladonna

1 pint of Blood from a unicorn yearling, killed by wyvern venom

1 pint of Blood from a humanoid killed by a giant spider

1 pint of Blood from a vampire or vampire spawn

1 pint of Venom from a giant spider

1 pint of Venom from a wyvern

1 intact heart of the sacrificial human, killed by a mixture of arsenic and belladonna

Prepare during a lunar eclipse and consume within an hour

Behind this were four pages only partially filled, rather different from the dense writing in the rest of the diary, but what was written on them chilled her to the bones.

The first page read:

SUBJECT no.1

Sex: Male

Age: 21

Acquired: June 4th, 1885

Phylactery: Pocket watch

Pocket watch? This must be referring to Patrick McKinney, surely.

Started Arsenic and Belladonna: June 10th

Ritual: Aug 8th, penumbral lunar eclipse

It concluded: Subject died during construction of phylactery. Heart not viable.

The second page was more of the same.

SUBJECT no.2

Sex: Male

Age: 25

Acquired: Sept 25th, 1887

Phylactery: Pair of spectacles

Started Arsenic and Belladonna: Sept 30th

Ritual: January 31st, partial lunar eclipse

This must be Frederick Benson then.

Again, Subject died during construction of phylactery. Heart not viable. But beneath that was another line, underlined in thick strokes: Phylactery must be my choice, not the subject's!!!

The third page:

Subject #3

Sex: Female

Age: 18

Maxine.

Acquired: Mar 10th, 1891

Phylactery: Antique ruby ring

Christabel remembered the cracked ring she'd seen on Maxine's finger in her dreams.

Started Arsenic and Belladonna: Mar 26th

Ritual: July 18th, partial lunar eclipse

This page ended a little differently, but no less grim: Subject survived construction of phylactery. Phylactery destroyed during ritual. Subject died. Heart not viable. This was followed by another note: Heart must be willingly given for phylactery to work.

There was only one page left, and Christabel was frightened to read it. She had a pretty good idea of what it was going to say. In the end, she looked anyway, unable to resist the horror, like a person being drawn toward an abyss even as she was repulsed by its dark depths.

It was written on a newer piece of paper, the ink not yet having time to fade to brown.

SUBJECT #4

Sex: Female

Age: 23

Acquired: Nov 2nd, 1905

Their wedding day. For him, it hadn't been a wedding at all, just an act of acquirement.

Phylactery: Pendant, stained glass taken from childhood home

Heart pledging ritual successful

When had he performed this ritual? How did she know nothing, remember nothing about it?

Started Arsenic and Belladonna: Nov 15th

And the final line: Ritual: Apr 17th -18th, total lunar eclipse

She looked over the other pages. 1 intact heart of the sacrificial human, killed by a mixture of arsenic and belladonna. They had all been fed arsenic and belladonna. She remembered her stomach cramps, the bottle of belladonna tincture that Henry claimed would help, the subsequent nightmares and hallucinations. He'd been poisoning her. Like the previous victims. None of them had lived for longer than four months since he "acquired" them. Heart not viable. Heart not viable. Heart pledging ritual successful.

She read the last line of the last page again. April 18th. Two days from now. What was Henry going to do to her in two days?

The clanging of the bell made Christabel jump out of her skin. Joyce. She must have received Kas's message.

Where to go now? The train station, or the dock? Christabel thought briefly and decided she would feel safer with the ocean between her and Henry. The dock, then.

She staggered to her feet. On second thoughts, she picked up the diary and took it with her. At the very least, it proved that Henry was not of sound mind. After blowing out the lamp and locking the attic door behind her, she went into her room to put on her coat and hat, and pick up her valise. Her eyes fell on her phonograph by the bedside table with the boxes of wax recordings underneath it, and a stab of pain went through her heart.

She realized she could not, would not leave Kas. If she escaped, she may be able to buy all the phonographs and recordings she wanted, but they wouldn't be the same.

She would have to find him and convince him to go with her. She could tell him the truth about his mother, then perhaps he would no longer feel bound to Henry. She still had time. If Henry's notes were to be trusted, she was not in immediate danger. Not yet. Chinatown was a confusing place, but she had a pretty good idea of where they had gone.

So she ran down the stairs, into the kitchen, where she found the sharpest steak knife in the drawer and put it in her reticule. Then she slammed the door shut and went down the drive without looking back. She never wanted to see Creel House again, as long as she lived.

The tides were in, but Christabel didn't hesitate. Glad to have something to do to take her mind off her impending doom, she launched the boat into the sea and rowed toward the shore, where Joyce and her wagon were waiting.

Seeing Christabel approach, the older woman jumped down and helped her off the boat.

"Kas sent me a message saying you need a ride to the train station and he can't take you," Joyce said as Christabel settled into the wagon seat next to her. "Is there some sort of emergency?"

"Yes," answered Christabel, for that was the easiest option. How could she explain that her husband had lost his mind and been poisoning her, and was planning some sort of sacrificial ritual that would certainly end in her death, all in his quest for immortality? People would think that she had lost her mind instead. "But I'm not going to the train station. Could you take me to Chinatown first, please?"

Joyce looked doubtful. "But Kas said—"

Christabel felt like screaming. "I know what he said!" she snapped. "Just—please, Joyce. Take me to Chinatown."

Joyce shrugged. Without another question, she shook the reins and clicked her tongue to set the horse walking.

***

Christabel found the shop on Dupont Street without much trouble. The black and white circle on its sign looked down at her like the baneful eye of a Cyclops or some ominous moon of another world. The door was locked, and there was no light on at any window that she could see. But Henry's car was parked outside, so she knew she'd come to the right place. After trying the door to no avail, Christabel returned to the wagon, chewing on her bottom lip.

"Well?" Joyce asked anxiously. "What do you want to do now?"

What she wanted was to find Kas and persuade him to leave with her, except she couldn't talk to him here or even wait for him to come out—he would be with Henry. She knew she should just go to the dock and ask Joyce to give Kas a message so he could find her later. But she couldn't stand the waiting. What if Henry intercepted the message? What if Kas didn't want to leave his master?

Then Christabel remembered the back alley—not the one where she'd been attacked, but the one where the mustached shop owner had thrown her out. Perhaps the door to the back of the shop would be unlocked. She told Joyce to take the wagon there and park at the mouth of the alley.

"I know I'm asking for a huge favor," she said, "but could you wait here for me, please? And—and if I don't come back in half an hour, call the police."

"Is it that dangerous?" Joyce asked, her eyes wide open with alarm in the yellow light of the streetlamps.

"... I don't know."

"I don't think you should go on your own, Mrs. Creel."

"I'm sorry, I already involved you too much as it is," Christabel said apologetically. Taking her valise and her reticule, she jumped off the wagon and ran down the length of the alley.

The back door was locked. There was a lattice window looking into the alley, but the lattice was covered with some opaque material that only let through the faintest hint of light and showed strange shapes moving behind it, like some sinister shadow play. Murmurs were coming from inside, and Christabel could make out Henry's voice, low and commanding.

She touched the window experimentally. Paper. The window was covered with soft, porous paper, and she discovered that by licking her finger, she could poke a hole through it without making a sound. This she did, and, with her heart hammering so hard it threatened to burst out of her chest, she put her eye to the opening.

She was looking into the workroom at the back of the shop, now cleaned of all the herbs and medicine, and all of the workers. There were only three men in the room, all bending over a table—Henry, Kas, and another with his back to her. By his long, salt-and-pepper braid, she assumed him to be the shop owner. She couldn't see what was on the table, because the shop owner's back was in the way.

"Now," Henry said, lifting a crate onto the table with great care, "stand back, both of you. This spider is no ordinary black widow. You have no idea the trouble I've gone through to acquire it." Acquire, like he'd acquired Patrick, Frederick, Maxine, and herself. "If it attacked either of you, I would not be held responsible."

Kas and the shop owner stepped away, finally giving Christabel a clear view of the table. Her heart stopped.

On the table was the old dwarf she'd seen sitting by the front door. He was tied to the table by stout ropes, though it may not be necessary—his limbs were inert, his eyes were closed, and his head lolled to one side. She couldn't tell if he was dead or merely unconscious.

Something was pushing at the top of the crate, eager to get out. Christabel glimpsed a spindly leg of mottled gray and heard a clicking sound. Then Henry opened the lid, and her body went cold.

Crawling out of the box was the biggest spider she'd ever seen. About the size of a dinner plate, its legs as big as her own fingers, with lichen marbling its white body, it could easily be mistaken for a rock. Milky, blind-looking eyes covered its head, and two blade-sized fangs extended from its mouth, dripping with sticky saliva. It turned this way and that, raising its head slightly like it was sniffing the air, and soon locked its attention on the dwarf.

It crawled on the victim, fangs clicking. However, it did not attack, perhaps because the dwarf was just lying there, doing nothing, and the spider kept wandering up and down his body until it got bored and turned toward Henry expectantly.

"Oh no, you don't," Henry growled. He prodded at the spider with a wire connected to a plug in the wall. There was a crackle of electricity, and the spider raised its front legs in a threatening gesture. Henry prodded at it again. The enraged spider turned toward the dwarf and sank its fangs into his neck.

The dwarf might have been unconscious before, but he was certainly conscious enough to feel the venom coursing through him. Though his eyes didn't open, his body twisted and convulsed violently as though controlled by several puppet masters at once, almost lifting away from the table at one point. If it hadn't been for the ropes tying him in place, he would have fallen to the floor.

Christabel gripped the window frame, horrified but could not tear her eyes away from the death throes of the dwarf—and he was dying, she was certain of it. Henry watched the grisly scene with a triumphant glint in his cold, cold eyes, while the shop owner stood by impassively, and Kas turned toward the wall, unable to look.

Finally, the dwarf's body stopped twitching and lay slumped on the tabletop. Henry threw a burlap sack over the spider and bundled it back into the crate. He then signaled to the shop owner, who took the dwarf's pulse and nodded. Apparently satisfied, Henry handed him a wad of money, and the man ducked through the cloth curtain and disappeared.

"Right, Kas, bleed him," said Henry, handing Kas a straight razor and a bucket.

Kas held back, hesitant. "Sir...?"

"For God's sake, man! Stop being squeamish and get a move on! One should think that you would be used to blood by now." Henry picked up a glass tube and held it under the spider's fangs. "Remember to get at least a pint."

While Henry prodded the spider again with the live wire so it would pump its venom into the tube, Kas reluctantly picked up the razor and bucket and approached the dead body. What was he going to do? Surely, he was not—not—

Kas slid the razor over the dwarf's throat in a quick, smooth movement. Blood spurted from the slash, staining Kas's face, the wall, and drops of blood even splattered across the paper window, making Christabel recoil.

Kas put the bucket under the body and watched the blood drip into it, his eyes dark and melancholy. With a sigh, he swiped a hand across his blood-splattered face, then brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them cleaned, like a child licking its fingers after eating sweets.

At the sight of that casual, gruesome gesture, Christabel fell away from the window with a strangled cry.

Henry's head whipped toward the widow. He barked out a command, which Christabel couldn't hear over the thrumming of pulse in her ears, like she was surrounded by a whole swarm of bees. She only saw the shop owner charge out of the back door, and before she knew it, he'd had her in an iron grip. Henry and Kas followed closely behind. Kas's eyes widened in shock as they landed on Christabel.

She struggled madly, but for all his reediness, the shop owner was too strong for her. She recovered her wits enough to scream, "Help!!! Somebody, help me!!!"

Joyce came running from the mouth of the alley, but Henry stepped up to meet her before she could reach Christabel. "If you don't want anything to befall your sons, Mrs. Byers, I would suggest that you turn around and go home now," he said mildly. "It would be a shame for young Jonathan and little Will to be met with an accident."

Joyce went pale. She threw Christabel a sorrowful glance before stepping back, back, back, until she disappeared down the alley.

Henry turned back to Christabel. "What an annoying little pest you are," he sneered. He then nodded at Kas, before striding back into the shop.

Kas approached Christabel, agony etched across his features. He looked at the man holding her, and back at the shop.

"Here!" Henry tossed something at him. Kas snatched it out of the air without even looking.

"Kas, please..." Christabel whispered.

Kas shook his head. Her world shattered. Not Kas... please, not Kas... not him too... But had she not just seen him licking blood off his fingers? Why should he be any different?

"I'm sorry," he said. It was the last thing she heard before a handkerchief was clamped over her face, and a pungent, nauseatingly sweet smell invaded her nose. It was either breathing it in or suffocating. She took a few gulping breaths, and everything was plunged into darkness.

Chapter 16

A/N: I spent a lot of time making up the diary pages for this chapter with the intention of putting them into the fic as part of the writing itself, but then I realized the handwriting font I used is not exactly legible, plus having so many images in the fic can mess it up for folks who use screen readers, so I only included a few as illustrations and kept the writing intact. Hopefully that works for you guys!

The "recipe" for the potion and the ritual/construction of the phylactery were based on the DnD guide to lichdom (after all, Vecna is a lich in DnD lore), with some tweaks of my own.

#hellcheer #hellcheer fic #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #joseph quinn #eddie x chrissy #eddissy #hellcheer au #henry creel #joseph quinn fic #kas!eddie #vampire!eddie munson

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sourw0lfs · 1 year ago

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the very first night part three

OR: the one where Chrissy joins Corroded Coffin, a 5+1 fic wc: 1086 | rating: M | pairing: hellcheer | modern au | AO3 written for @strangerthingsreversebigbang art inspiration by @sunflowerharrington beta'd by @just-my-latest-hyperfixation

3. after releasing their first professional album

Just like before, things between the two of them get lost in the rush of life, always just hanging on the edge of things like a tease. Chrissy finds herself more and more often wishing she could be brave enough to do something about it. She isn’t. Not yet.

Instead she puts all of her focus and attention on getting their album done with the rest of the band. She puts everything she has into it, in the hopes that with her help it’s enough to propel them even more. Because now that they have it? She never wants to lose it. She doesn’t want the boys to lose it, to see their dreams destroyed before they even really get to touch them.

The process is really nothing like Chrissy’s expecting, but that doesn’t deter her. Instead she just pushes through the exhaustion, the creative blocks, the arguments about how things should sound. And in the end, they end up with something they can all be proud of. But making the album is the easy part, or so she’s heard. The hard part is getting it out there, getting people to listen to some band they’ve never heard of before.

Waiting for the results is almost as excruciating as whatever’s going on between her and Eddie. The band spends the days leading up to the release and the first week following it all hovering around each other, moving from home to home and making sure no one is ever actually alone. It’s a sense of family that Chrissy wants to bottle up and keep for herself on the nights they’re all separated.

Most of her time is spent with Eddie, both of them silently agreeing to basically stay plastered to each other’s sides, but no one calls them on it. There are no weird looks when the others show up and they’re shoulder to shoulder on a couch or standing side by side in the kitchen. If anything, they just treat it as normal. Maybe it is normal.

Maybe Chrissy’s over-thinking things in her anxiety about the album doing well.

When the Billboard 200 finally drops, the whole band is gathered together, hunched over Jeff’s laptop, waiting for the list to refresh.

“It changed, scroll!” Gareth all but shrieks right in his ear when they refresh the page for what feels like the millionth time.

No one in the band actually expects to see Corroded Coffin on the list, they’ve all said as much, so the absolutely deafening uproar that explodes in the room when they find themselves nestled in at 184 is enough to carry Chrissy into the next year. Her grin feels like it’s going to split her face apart and she looks around to find the boys all matching.

Eddie’s phone buzzing violently across the table is enough to pull their attention out of the clouds and away from the screen to stare at it. “Fuck, it’s the label,” Eddie swears as he scrambles to answer the call.

He ducks out of the room as he gives his greeting, and the rest of the band yells after him, but no one follows. The room is still buzzing with energy and giving Eddie the time and space to focus on a conversation feels correct. Chrissy thinks she would have stopped the guys if they had tried, but as always, everyone is on the same page.

The minutes until he comes back in are agonizing, all eyes locked on the door. But then Eddie’s busting back inside with an even wider grin than the one he left with. “We’re going on tour!” he crows into the room.

“No fucking way!” Grant is the first to recover and the roar that follows this time is even louder.

The five of them all start talking over each other, shouting cities they want to see, listing things they want on whatever stage they end up on, what songs to cover to make the set longer. It’s a mess, and Chrissy wouldn’t change it for a moment.

Hours later, the energy still hasn’t waned, though their volume certainly has. Since the initial explosion, the band has called the label again, this time as a group, to talk more in depth about this supposed tour they’re getting thanks to the album doing well.

It’s not a big thing at all, not like how bigger artists tour, but it’s a start. It’s a step in the right direction. It’s their dreams coming true.

As the day drifts into the late hours of the night, everyone finally manages to pull themselves away, to go back home to recover from the absolute roller-coaster of emotions the day has given them. It feels almost expected that the last two still sitting around Eddie’s living room are him and Chrissy. It’s just how things always go when the band finally departs.

“A tour!” Eddie exclaims as he flops himself across Chrissy’s lap, drawing a giggle from her as he does so. “Our tour!”

Chrissy reaches down to flick some hair off Eddie’s forehead, grinning at him. “A headlining tour,” she agrees. Because they have, up to this point, worked with bigger names as openers with self-published albums. This feels so much bigger, better, brighter.

It really feels like they’ve succeeded now, but Chrissy feels like she should reserve her final judgment of that until after they’ve finished the tour, because this could be the only one they ever get. But she doesn’t want to think about that right now. Instead she focuses on how excited she is, on the energy buzzing through her entire body, on the heat of Eddie’s body splayed across hers.

She wants to be brave, to use the energy still lingering around them, to finally, finally make a move towards everything she wants, but she doesn’t. A voice in the back of her mind tells her not to, to wait until the tour is planned and wrapped, to not make things weird if something goes wrong, not when they’re on the precipice of actual success.

Without a thought, Chrissy’s hand curls into Eddie’s hair, playing with the strands and smoothing them back again. Her eyes meet his and for a second, Chrissy thinks that maybe she doesn’t have to be the brave one, especially as Eddie’s eyes roam her face.

He’s only just shifted onto his elbows when his phone buzzes on the table again. Shaking his head and breaking the moment, Eddie looks away from Chrissy finally, eyes moving to see the name on the screen instead. “It’s Wayne,” he explains even though Chrissy can read it too. “I gotta… I should talk to him, tell him the good news.”

Chrissy is nodding before he’s even done talking, already untangling her fingers so he can sit up. She mourns the loss of the warmth, mourns her cowardice, but she smiles anyway as Eddie excitedly answers the phone. And she smiles when she heads home for the night. And she’ll smile through the tour. And she’ll smile when she finally tells Eddie how she feels when it’s all done.

Planning the tour is even more exhausting than planning the album, but they get it done. They have dates, they have venues lined up, they have buses full of equipment. And they have the open road in front of them.

Watching the country fly by as they drive, Chrissy starts figuring out her plan to give herself plenty of time to get it right. She doesn’t leave room for things to go wrong, because how could they?

#fox writes things #hellcheer #hellcheer fic #strangerthingsreversebigbang #halfway there!

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rose-n-gunses · 2 years ago

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🤍 masterlist 🤍

Hi! Call me Rose. I write for Hellcheer, and I post about whatever interests me (which,,, is mostly Hellcheer).

You can find me on ao3 at rose_n_gunses, but my works are also linked below! (works are locked to guest users)

My asks are open so feel free to use them! Ask about my works, chat about a headcanon, tell me about your favorite song, send me a recipe, anything. I'm always down for it.

Original posts are tagged as "just r's thoughts". Everything else is tagged accordingly (to the best of my ability).

I also now have a Spotify account where I'll be making playlists for some of my works!

🤍 works linked below the cut 🤍

💚 - teen and up | 🧡 - mature | ❤️ - explicit

🦄 - part of the Jamie-verse

🎄- ho, ho, holy shit! (series)

~multi-chaps~

hold me (and i'll make it through the night) | 💚

1996. reunions and relationships and reconciliations.

WIP | 3/6 chapters | last updated 5/25/23

roll in the sand with a rock 'n' roll man | ❤️

Chrissy goes on a Tinder date with a guy her friends met at the beach. (A modern Tinder AU)

completed | 2/2 chapters

nothing bites like i do | ❤️

Chrissy Cunningham is supposed to be dead. Then again, so is Eddie Munson. (A Kas!Eddie AU)

WIP | 2/3 chapters | last updated 10/24/24

~oneshots~

close your eyes (and just reach out your hands) | 💚

Chrissy's got end-of-year blues and Eddie's got arms to hug her with.

as long as one and one is two | 💚

Eddie's first Father's Day.

i can see you | 💚

Chrissy and Eddie have been staring at each other and decide to do something about it.

Inspired by "I Can See You" by Taylor Swift.

and feed them on your dreams | 💚 | 🦄

Eddie teaches his mini-me how to play D&D.

From this request.

you're a dream come true | 💚 | 🦄

late nights and lots of love.

From this request.

midwest monster of the highest grade | 💚

Chrissy wants to win Best Couple's Costume. Jason is no help. (Eddie is, though.)

From this prompt.

thrilling christmas, trembling fear | 💚 |🎄

Jason Carver has beef with Santa Claus.

beneath the mistletoe screaming | 💚 |🎄

Eddie needs service hours to graduate. So does Chrissy! It's a fuckin' Christmas miracle.

the streets don't change but maybe the names | ❤️

Eddie and Chrissy have succeeded at being friends for the eight months since they broke up. They should be able to fool around no problem, right? Right??

what i wasn't even looking for | 💚

The only thing Eddie is looking to do on Valentine's Day is drink and forget. Cupid has other plans.

not what you want to see | 💚

In which Agent Christine Cunningham meets her new partner. (An X-Files AU)

life moves too slowly (to hold you down) | ❤️

Chrissy has an unexpected run-in with an old friend on her way to start a new life.

Last updated 10/25/24.

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werepuppy-steve · 1 year ago

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@zerokrox-blog @steddie-island @theheadlessphilosopher @w1ll0wtr33 you asked so here u goooo <3

context for this scene: eddie's rut has just ended and chrissy's scent has changed, indicating that she's carrying a pup. their alpha and omega are very pleased about this, despite the fact that they're not actually mated.

i haven't mentioned this au much in the week that i planned it out, but if you're curious: this is from my regency au where eddie and chrissy are in an arranged mating/marriage. the basic plot can be found here, but it is steddie/buckingham/qpr hellcheer endgame with co-parenting.

*this was entirely written during my 4 day migraine so it's very rough and unpolished still. be warned.*

chrissy wakes up two days after eddie's rut and immediately feels off center. vulnerable. like she's too exposed and naked even though she's wearing the same nightgown she fell asleep in the night before.

she rolls over and as soon as she presses close to eddie's sleeping form and gets a whiff of his cinnamon and clove scent, that off feeling dissipates. her omega purrs in satisfaction that her alpha is close and will protect her. chrissy lets out a purr of her own that slides into a tinkling trill as she scents him.

eddie wakes to the heady scent of wildflowers and slick. even though his rut has ended, it kicks his alpha hindbrain into gear, telling him to mate and knot. barely even awake, he curls an arm around chrissy's waist and pulls her flush against him. she goes without protest. chirping as he tangles his hand in her hair and pulls her in fort a deep kiss, their tongues sliding together in a mess of spit.

chrissy tilts her head back with a gasp as eddie trails his kisses down her throat, to where her scent is the strongest. his alpha rumbles as he laves his tongue hotly over her untouched mating gland, growling at him to bite her and make her his. he won't, though. eddie is still in control enough that he only mouths at it to stimulate the sensation of biting.

it turns chrissy into putty in his arms, writhing against him with her pretty gasps and mewls, her omega whining at him to claim her. she gets her hands between them and pulls the front of her nightgown down, exposing her breasts to him.

her mind is too cloudy to notice the beads of milk at the tips of her puffy nipples but eddie's alpha hones it on it like a beacon, snuffling down her neck and latching onto one with a growl.

chrissy cries out as he suckles. her thighs and the bedsheets below them are drenched with her slick and she needs something to soothe the aching throb in her core. she bunches her nightgown up by her hips and seeks out the tent of eddie's cock in his sleep pants. the friction briefly calms her omega, the quiet before the storm as they rock together.

but it still isn't enough.

eddie rolls her onto her back, his broad body almost covering her smaller frame. chrissy's omega croons at him and he responds with one of his own, surging up to kiss her again. with one hand, eddie pushes his pants down to free his cock.

chrissy flushes all over when he grinds it against her bare pussy, her mind flashing to his knot filling her up over and over just two days prior. she's still sore from it, but her insides are screaming for it to stretch her open once more.

"omega," eddie growls against her neck at her subconscious begging. he laces their fingers together on the pillows by her head and she locks her ankles around the small of his back as he pushes inside of her.

they both moan simultaneously. eddie keeps his thrusts slow and deep so she can feel every inch of him. chrissy mewls, almost feral with pleasure as he rocks in and out of her.

"chrissy," eddie's voice cuts through the fog and she opens her eyes to look up at him. he looks absolutely debauched. his pupils are blown wide and his cheeks are flushed, sweat covering his brow. his mouth is open from tasting her scent and his fangs have dropped.

chrissy takes a moment to run her tongue over hers to find that they've done the same.

"chrissy," he says again, and this time she can feel his knot growing in size as it tries to catch on her rim. every nerve in her body sings with each pull and she bears her hips down. "honey, i think you're pregnant."

finally, his knot catches and stays in place, making chrissy almost scream and arch against him, his words washing over her like a shockwave. she clamps down on his knot as she comes in waves, slick gushing between them.

would yall mind if i posted a little spicy platonic hellcheer scene that goes with the regency au i posted about??? 👉🏻👈🏻

#cj talks #cj writes #platonic hellcheer #hellcheer #regency au #alpha eddie munson #omega chrissy cunningham

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she-who-the-river-could-not-hold · 2 years ago

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unnamed Hellcheer AU snippet

vaguely modern au // eventually will include: a dash of diners, Americana, teenage rebellion, and cryptids

I definitely want to turn this into at least a long oneshot, but for now it’s at a “vibes only” stage. It’s also a bit of an exercise to just letting myself writing casually so fuck it, I’m sharing it on here for now where it has a place to live while I figure out where it’s headed!

Chrissy hadn’t been able to stop watching him since he’d come into the diner.

Tall, wiry, a head full of curly hair that was currently pulled back in a low ponytail. She’d never even seen a guy wear a ponytail before but there was something attractive in the way he did it. Very off-duty rockstar vibes, especially with the leather jacket he’d thrown on the booth seat across from him and the numerous chains and jewelry he was wearing. Another thing she wasn’t used to guys wearing.

He was on his third cup of coffee and halfway through a horrendously giant Rueben sandwich—not that she’s keeping track.

Because watching strange guys isn’t something Chrissy Cunningham does.

She’s a good girl, who works waitressing jobs twice a week to add to her weekly allowance, has an above average GPA as a student athlete, and had been dating the same guy since she was in eighth grade. It all fits perfectly into her pink ribbon, cheerleading, peppy box that she lives in. She even still goes to church every Sunday with her family.

Ogling at strange guys, who look potentially older than her and definitely are more hardcore than anyone else she’s met, was not an option.

“You know you can just go talk to him.”

Chrissy squeaked as she jumped at the sound of the voice behind her. Whirling around, nearly jamming her thumb in the cash register, she was greeted by the unimpressed stare of one of the other waitresses.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Chrissy whispered fiercely.

Trish arched an eyebrow and stayed silent.

Which was all Chrissy’s anxiety needed to bloom and have her run her mouth.

“I didn’t mean to, he’s just been here for a while. I’m making sure he’s not… loitering,” she finished lamely. She had to fight the urge to not turn around and glance at him again.

For her trouble, Trish simply snorted and moved on. Leaving Chrissy to pick at her cuticles and the rest of her shift not looking over at the guy.

Because the problem is this:

Chrissy and her boyfriend from eighth grade have been on the fritz ever since he left for college and she decided she didn’t know what she wanted to do. So she still lives at home and thinks about all of the ways he’s probably cheating on her and he laments on their weekly calls about how she’s ruining their life plans. Being at home also means that her mom is still controlling her life, even though she’s nineteen. She’s not even sure she believes in God anymore either, so she usually spends Sundays daydreaming the sermon away on a hard wooden bench.

All of the reasons she’s not supposed to stare at could-be rockstars are built on a house of matchsticks and she can feel the flames drawing nearer.

So when Melinda, the old chain smoking waitress that likes to clock out early moves to refill the guy’s coffee, Chrissy steps in. It doesn’t take much to convince her to head out early and that Chrissy doesn’t mind covering her last couple tables.

She approaches his table, nervous for reasons she can’t even name. It’ll be a miracle if she doesn’t spill coffee all over his lap and mess this whole unknown thing up.

But when he looks up at her and she becomes locked into his smile and big brown eyes, she knows she’s opened a Pandora’s Box.

#hellcheer #hellcheer fanfic #eddie x chrissy #chrissy cunningham #stranger things #stranger things au #kathryn writes #kathryn writes: stranger things #eddie munson #fic: hellcheer americana #temporary fic tag while I figure this thing out!

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staceymcgillicuddy · 2 years ago

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🌙, 🌝 + 🌈 for soul! I was intrigued by a comment you made about how the fic you're writing is different than what a lot of people are reading, so I'm curious about your thoughts on it.

THANKS PAL. I remember that comment and what it was about so hopefully I can elaborate in this, my addled state of mind.

🌙 What time of day do you prefer to write? Why?

First thing in the morning. If I let the day get in my head, then I find I can't focus, or get in the right headspace. I write with noise canceling headphones on, in fullscreen mode on Scrivener, with one of those binaural noise apps playing white noise in my ears. I'm capable of writing anywhere, but I prefer when I can focus and drown out the world and just grind out a couple thousand words in an hour.

🌝 Who is one character you haven’t yet written for that you would like to?

Robin! A long time ago, post season three I started a Robin/Tammy thing that never went anywhere, so I guess I can't say I've never written for her. But I've never written anything long, and I've never posted anything for her. I would like to, though. I like Ronance, and I think there's something there I could play with, but I also like the idea of giving her an OC love interest, or someone out of left field like not-dead-Barb or not-dead-Heather (so many not dead ladies), or Eden or Kali or another character that hasn't been super developed.

🌈 What inspired you to write to get my soul know again?

Ooh, ooh! Okay, so, one of my favorite things to do as a fic writer is write mundane AUs where I spin out the most realistic possibilities I can come up with for characters from supernatural shows or superhero shit or whatever. I don't know why, but it turns my crank. So after a brief (BRIEF) dip into the uh... other Eddie ship... (they don't know me and I don't go there anymore)... I decided I wanted to try my hand at Hellcheer. I'd been reading it since the show launched and my beta and I were like "HOLY SHIT THE CHEMISTRY" but hadn't actually tried writing anything.

So I did my usual "what's a logical future for these goobers?" brainstorming, and the idea of Eddie getting out of Hawkins with his CDL jumped out at me almost immediately. Chrissy was a little harder, but the part of me that was raised around a lot of guys like Jason wanted to lean into the darker, nastier sides and play with what happens when a guy like that finds out he's not special. Much like in the show, where Jason's nice guy veneer shattered when faced with Chrissy's death.

I mashed those two ideas together, and I got something where I knew I wanted to tell the story of Chrissy's recovery mingled with Eddie's figuring out who he wants to be as a man, and how he can emulate Wayne's steadiness while also remaining true to himself.

Going back to my comment, I think that a lot of times in stories about an abusive partner--many of which I've read and, well, enjoyed seems the wrong word, but appreciated--there's this constant threat of that abuser popping up and ruining things. Which, I think, a lot of people were expecting to have happen early on in Soul. Like, when is Jason going to pop out from behind the bushes with a gun? Is he going to steal Chrissy back? Is he stalking them? But I knew from the start that this wasn't about re-traumatizing Chrissy with Jason's bullshit. I want her to heal, with Eddie, on a road trip where she rediscovers the parts of herself she's been keeping locked away. Which, ultimately, makes it a different sort of story than what a lot of "running from my abusive spouse" narratives end up being. Which isn't to say that Jason won't be in the story--he will--but not in a way where he eclipses the narrative, or is allowed to cause significant damage to Chrissy's healing.

I hope that giant, intoxicated ramble made some semblance of sense!

#bsc diaries #bisexualchrissycunningham

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astorytotellyourfriends · 5 months ago

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snippet saturday

#hellcheer #eddissy #chrissy x eddie #hellcheer lock-in au #hellcheer fanfic #stranger things

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fallingthruspace · 3 years ago

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Something that’s been eating away at my brain for a little while:

Hellcheer secret dating AU where Jason find out about it and decides to hunt Eddie down much like he did in the show but this time he actually catches up to him. One thing leads to another and Jason ends up killing Eddie.

Naturally, as a young white man whose good at sports and comes from money, Jason gets acquitted on some bullshit loophole or technicality or whatever and isn’t actually punished for what he did.

This turn of events is the proverbial “straw that broke the camels back” for Chrissy who fucking snaps and, taking her fathers gun from where he keeps it locked up, vows to get vengeance on Jason.

And the whole thing is set to Hayloft l & ll by Mother Mother

#hellcheer #eddissy #if anyone feels the urge to write this you have my blessing #just tag me if you do

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blondiest · 3 years ago

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What is “angry as hell” about?? :)

both you and @152glasslippers asked about this one!! 🥰

the core concept was for chrissy to learn to tap into and let out some of her anger / frustration... i think originally this was going to be an AU where she became a punk singer? lol. it more or less was the spiritual precursor to call it what you want, though a lot was changed between the two.

i think the following is literally the first thing i ever wrote for hellcheer (and sorry it's mostly unedited lol):

A month before graduation, after the championship game, Jason asks Chrissy the question she's been dreading, gets down on one knee in front of the whole school and makes a big speech— things haven't been easy since last year, I know, he says, but I never quit on you, because I love you, babe. Will you marry me?

She chokes on tears, face bright red as she shakes her head, panicked. No.

A hushed gasp from the crowd of students. The rush of blood in her ears. Chrissy turns and flees. Jason stays glued to his spot, frozen in disbelief as she runs harder than she ever has.

She should want it. It's what's logical, what's right. It's everything that she should want. There's something under the fear, the shame, the despair, though, something that blooms in her chest as she bursts through the doors of the high school, growing as her feet carry her into the darkness of the parking lot.

It takes a few moments to realize it's relief. Profound relief.

As her tears cool on her cheeks, the sound of a door swinging open and a chorus of voices sounds from across the lot. She hastily wipes at her eyes. Not people from the basketball game, of course, they're coming from the next building over— they're easily recognized by the shirts, emblazoned Hellfire Club.

She stands watching, unnoticed by the joyful younger members as they run off, still laughing, and paid no mind by the other older students, who retreat to their cars.

Only not everyone fails to see her. Chrissy locks eyes with the head of the club, Eddie Munson.

Insanely, she raises a hand to wave. He freezes, points at himself, eyebrows raised. She nods.

Behind her, there are muffled voices, students about to emerge from the game. Eddie jerks his head towards his van. Before she can think too much about it, she darts over and climbs into the passenger side as Eddie throws himself in, shutting the door behind him.

"Uh," he starts, glancing over at her nervously. "You... okay?"

It isn't the first time they've been alone together, but it's been a very long time. He sold her weed once, in the woods behind the school, less than a month after her mom died. He was friendly, kind. Easier to talk to than she had thought he would be. Still, they hadn't spoken since.

"Can you... um... sorry, can you get me out of here? Please?"

Her voice is thin and trembling, pathetically weak and pleading to her own ears. Eddie, for his part, nods jerkily and starts the car without another word.

Distantly she realizes there's a significant chance some of the students from the game see her leaving with him. Somehow she can't muster the energy to care, though.

Eddie drives in silence for several minutes, the streetlights illuminating his pale face as they swerve through streets lined with homes and businesses before eventually pulling onto the long, dark road between the central area of Hawkins and the sticks.

"So, uh," he starts, clearing his throat. "I'm... I'm mostly driving to my place now, but I can turn around and drop you off wherever—"

"I'm," she starts and then stops. "Um. Can I... I don't want to be a bother, just... I— I don't want to be alone right now." Her voice breaks at the end of her sentence.

"Sure. Yeah, okay. You're okay with going to mine, though?"

She nods. He turns his face back to the road and keeps driving.

— - — -

"Do you, uh... wanna talk about... whatever's going on...?" Eddie finally asks, eyebrows raised as he glances up at her, carefully rolling the joint.

Chrissy licks her lips. "Um," she says, unsure where to start. "Jason proposed to me, after... after they won tonight's game."

Eddie's eyebrows crawl further up his face.

"What with the crying and the uh, being here, I'm assuming congratulations aren't in order."

She laughs, a little humorless huff, and nods again, shifting to move her legs out from underneath her. Eddie's eyes follow the motion before tearing away again. It makes her feel a little warm despite herself.

"I said no," she confesses.

Eddie lights the end of the joint and inhales deeply, letting the smoke stream back out of his nostrils. It's wrong, and a little pathetic, wanting him— a sad little rebellion for a squeaky-clean head cheerleader. And as far as she knows, Eddie has no interest in her beyond basic kindness, and he probably knows girls ten times more beautiful, tattooed and confident and worldly instead of naive and scared of their own shadows.

Still, she watches his mouth as he takes another hit before passing her the joint, and relishes the brush of their fingers a little.

Thirty minutes later, Chrissy is sprawled out on the bedroom floor, staring at the water-stained ceiling, happier than she's been in years. Some hard rock music is playing kind of low in the background— when Eddie turned it on, it was at full blast, but when she jumped at the noise he quickly lowered the volume. The sensation of the carpet against her bare legs is somehow wonderful, every feeling vivid and intense. She runs her hands over it and says as much to Eddie.

He laughs, glances over at her. "Yeah, it'll do that. Music sounds better, food tastes better, stuff that feels good feels even better."

She hums.

#hellcheer #eddsy #my writing #asks

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a-strange-inkling · 2 years ago

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A bit more of the Count of Monte Cristo AU, featuring some baby hellcheer and Jason’s POV:

Christina was meant to be his.

Jason knew that.

It was predestined, written in the stars. He had known it the moment he first saw her when they were just children, playing in the fields in the countryside, her hair like honey beneath her bonnet, eyes gray and blue like the seaside. When they would run through the tall grass together, he would hold out his hand and she would take it and she would smile.

It was a small smile, shy, but it was still bright… It was. He hadn’t made it all up. He knew she loved him. She had to… How couldn’t she?

One couldn’t pretend to love. She was going to be his wife one day.

Nothing was more certain until the earth shifted beneath his feet that day in the early summer when he took Christina out to the market, her arm tucked safely in the crook of his own. Sheltered little thing as she was, she was enthralled by the people, the smells and the sounds. Jason had some coins in his pocket that Father had given him and he would buy her something pretty to wear if she liked, maybe some ribbons for her golden hair, or something sweet for her to taste on her tongue. Maybe she’d even let her kiss him in secret behind the linen stands where no one could see. They were twelve at the time and he was so eager to please her, to enchant her.

It was a perfect day, until she suddenly tugged at his sleeve and he looked down to see her staring off toward the town center, her eyes sparkling. “Jason, what is that boy's name?”

Jason’s brows lowered in confusion and followed her gaze to see just who she was speaking of. Edward—rather Eddie—Munson sat at the edge of the fountain a small distance away, playing his guitar with a straw hat at his feet, collecting dust and spare change from those passing by. His dark eyes were on them, on Christina, smiling at her like a damned fool.

Jason frowned immediately.

“Who? Eddie?” He had known Eddie his whole life. His uncle managed in his father’s shipyard and Eddie served as the cabin boy on the Loch Nora for the last three years. He was a few years older than him, illiterate and poor as the dirt he was covered in. “He just works for my father.”

“Are you friends?” she asked.

“Yes, I suppose,” Jason replied with a stiff shrug, feeling suddenly kind of embarrassed about his companionship with the penniless orphan… the ship builder’s nephew. Eddie was amusing and good at playing catch when Jason’s studies were a bit too boring. He liked him well enough, but he still felt the need to explain himself to her. He was a viscount after all. “He's the only one around who’s my age.”

Christina nodded in understanding, half listening as she just kept staring at Eddie. Their eyes still locked on one another. Jason began to feel his own sweat staining the linen of his shirt under the hot sun as he looked back and forth between them in nervous confusion. He could not for the life of him understand what was happening here. “Did you wish to make his acquaintance?”

“I already have,” she replied softly. “He just hadn’t told me his name.”

“…Where?” Jason tried not to snap in confusion, a strange sort of dread filling his lungs. Where on earth had his perfect, delicate Christina meet rough and rowdy Edward Munson? He cleared his throat. “Where did you meet him?”

She didn’t answer him, just smiled shyly down at the cobbled street. “…He plays so well, does he not?”

“I…I guess.” Before he could grab hold of her, she slipped away from him, floating toward the music, toward Edward, as if cast under some spell by his playing… or perhaps by his eyes that she had yet to look away from.

“Hey, what are you doing? Wait up.” He called after her, scrambling forward. “Christina!” She was not supposed to leave his side. She was his to look after. His Christina.

His.

“Could we go listen?” she asked as if she wasn't already going to do just that, not even bothering to look over her shoulder.

“You’re not supposed to wander off!” He huffed, pushing past the crowd, falling behind Christina's light and graceful steps weaving her through the myriad with far more ease.

Eddie’s smile grew brighter at her coming, looking almost breathless with wonder when she reached his side, it was like he was looking at the sun for the first time after living underground his whole life. “Hello again.” he greeted her, his song slowing down to something more gentle and sweet, his eyes glimmering with delight.

“Hello.” Chrissy replied a little shyly, curtsying politely.

“…I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.” There was some amusement in his tone, some secret between them that made fire burn behind Jason’s eyes.

“My family summers here, near the seaside,” she told him, folding her hands in front of her skirts. “…I wanted to thank you.”

Thank him? For what exactly?

Eddie’s gaze softened as his eyes glided over her face, his fingers stilling against the chords. “It was nothing… I’m glad you’re alright.”

#it’s mr. steal your girl #haha jason #hellcheer #eddie x chrissy #eddissy #munningham #chrissy x eddie #hellcheer fanfiction #hellcheer fanfic #hellcheer au

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foundtherightwords · 1 year ago

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The Hollow Heart - Chapter 3

Pairing: Hellcheer, Gothic AU

Chapter warnings: none (unless you count some controlling behavior from Mrs. Cunningham and Jason)

Chapter word count: 4.1k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2

Chapter 3 - The Mighty Spell

"Have you lost your mind?" Mrs. Cunningham said. "I won't allow it!"

Christabel sighed. She knew this was how her mother would react to the news of her engagement, but there was a small part of her that still hoped and wished that her mother could have been happy for her.

"You've mistaken my meaning, Mother," she said, with as much calmness and dignity as she could muster. "I'm not asking for your blessing. I'm simply informing you. I am twenty-three years old, I don't need your permission to get married. And Henry and I are getting married, whether you like it or not."

"I am your mother!" hissed Mrs. Cunningham, glancing at the closed door of their suite, looking out for eavesdropping servants. "And I won't let you marry some upstart nobody! Why, his father could have been one of those gold hunters!" She closed her eyes briefly, the idea of her daughter marrying the son of a prospector too horrifying for her to contemplate. "I will lock you up if I have to!"

"You've used that threat once too often, Mother," said Christabel coldly. "Aren't you afraid of what people will say?"

Mrs. Cunningham sputtered in outrage, and Christabel's heart pounded with exhilaration. She had never been able to speak to her mother like that, but now, when freedom was so close she could practically taste it, it had given her a boost of courage. But her triumph was short-lived, for a vindictive glint came into her mother's eyes, and she said slowly, "Mrs. Carver told me Jason has made you an offer."

"Yes, and I refused him," Christabel said warily. Her mother was planning something, and she didn't like it. "Didn't Mrs. Carver tell you that?"

"She did," her mother continued in that same awful, calm voice. "But I told her it was just silliness. Now that you've had time to think it over, you have accepted him, and we're going to announce your engagement at the ball tonight."

Now Christabel thought it was her mother who had lost her mind. "What are you—"

"What would it look like then, when you run off to marry someone else? Aren't you afraid of what people will say?"

Christabel stared. She didn't imagine her mother could be this extreme in her control. "You would humiliate your own daughter?" she asked in disbelief.

Her mother was all smiles and sweetness now. "I'm only doing what's best for you, darling."

"Jason would never agree to it," Christabel said, desperate to regain some control.

"He already did," her mother said smugly. "Now go and try on your costume. I'll send a maid up to help you." She went out, and Christabel heard the lock click shut. So her mother had locked her in, for good measure.

Alone, Christabel slumped down on the bed and let the tears of anger and desperation flow down her face. They were all ganging up on her, including Jason. By publicly announcing the engagement, they would force her into it, binding her hands and silencing her voice just like a kidnapped bride of some savage land, and she didn't know if she had the strength to stand up to all three of them. If only she had Henry with her! Could she risk bribing one of the maids again? Or—who was that servant of his, the strange, rather impertinent young man? Perhaps she could find him and ask him to bring Henry a message...

But Christabel never had the chance to write a message, let alone to send one, for her mother didn't leave her alone for a moment that entire day. She hovered over Christabel, ordering the maid to tighten Christabel's corset so she could fit into her costume, and telling Christabel to stick to the soup at lunch if she still wanted it to fit by that evening. And then she spent the rest of the day supervising the maids in packing their trunks—they were returning to New York the next day—in a state of false cheerfulness that oppressed and infuriated Christabel, like a summer storm that refused to break. Christabel thought about feigning a headache or illness to avoid going to the ball, but it wouldn't change a thing—her mother would still announce the engagement, with or without her. She held on to the hope that perhaps, when he found no message from her, Henry would know something was wrong and come to her rescue... But what could he do? No, she couldn't count on that. It would be best to steel herself for the inevitable and stand up for herself, if she could.

She tried to think of what she would say to the announcement. What my mother said is not true. I have rejected Mr. Carver, and I have no intention of marrying him. In fact, I am engaged to someone else... Too much? I'm sorry, my mother seemed to have been mistaken—No, she shouldn't place the blame on her mother. That would only worsen her mother's ire. I'm sorry, there seems to have been a mistake. I was honored by Mr. Carver's offer, but... Should she mention Jason at all? Her mother had said he was going along with this farce, but perhaps that was a lie to convince Christabel that it was no use fighting back. Should she fight fire with fire and preemptively announce her engagement to Henry before her mother could announce the sham one? But without Henry there, she would look rather foolish, wouldn't she?

Christabel's legs were shaky as she descended the stairs in her costume—a red velvet dress with long puffed sleeves and a huge lace ruff framing her neck and face, the skirt split open to show a petticoat of gold satin. The dress was trimmed with gold hearts, and a bejeweled girdle made of red hearts encircled her waits. Her hair was done up under a red velvet-and-gold crown, and a scepter also in the shape of a red heart in her hand completed the look. It was ostentatious and heavy and not at all to Christabel's taste, who would prefer to go as Psyche or a fairy, but she'd decided it wasn't worth it to fight her mother on this.

The Carvers' enormous ballroom was thronged with people and ablaze with light. The candle flames reflected on the silk and satin of the guests' costumes and on the jewels—both real and paste—that adorned their heads and necks and wrists, casting brilliant flecks over everything, dazzling Christabel's tired eyes, so she could not see who was dressed as what. The orchestra was striking up a quadrille. Someone took Christabel's hand and drew her into the circle. She danced along other young men and women, following the steps mechanically without seeing who her partner was. All she could think about was the announcement and what she was going to say. I'm sorry, there seems to have been a mistake. I have rejected Mr. Carver, and have no intention of marrying him—I'm sorry, there seems to have been a mistake. I am engaged to someone else—I'm sorry, I can't—I'm sorry—

It all sounded so clumsy, so childish. What was she apologizing for? None of this was her fault.

Then the quadrille was over, a polka began, and Christabel found herself dancing with Jason, who was dressed as Louis XVI.

"What's this I hear about our mothers planning to announce our engagement tonight?" she asked him, without preamble.

Jason was slightly taken aback by her accusing tone, but he soon recovered. "Your mother said that she could convince you to change your mind," he replied with a placating smile.

At that smile, any hope Christabel had of turning Jason into an ally vanished. "So all of you just go around deciding my life for me? Am I not a person, with my own thoughts and feelings and opinions? Or they just don't matter?" She realized she was getting loud, and people's heads were starting to turn toward her. She forced herself to lower her voice. "Why don't I just attach strings to my limbs so you can jerk me around like a puppet?" she hissed.

Jason's arms tightened around her. "Come now, Chrissy dear—don't be like that—"

"Don't call me Chrissy!"

She pried his hand from her waist and turned away, but the dancers closed in around her, a crowd of kings and queens, of French marquises and Oriental princesses, of cats and demons and birds of paradise, their eyes staring inquisitively, their mouths whispering gossip behind their fans or gloved hand, all blocking her way. The ballroom was a gilded cage, and she was trapped in it.

Suddenly, the crowd parted. Coming toward her was a figure dressed all in red—red brocade doublet and hose, red stockings and shoes, and a red velvet hooded cloak. An hourglass shape, half-red and half-black, adorned his chest. Nobody at the ball wore mask, but this person's forehead and nose was covered by a half-mask in the shape of a skull. Red spots splattered the lower half of his face like blood. The figure caught Christabel and whirled her into the next dance, a waltz.

"Excuse me, sir, but I'm not interested—" she tried to say.

"Hush, my dear Christabel," the figure said. "We are being observed." Her heart leaped at that rich, melodious voice. So he had come after all!

"Henry!" she exclaimed, almost sobbing with relief. "I wanted to send you a message, but I couldn't—"

"I know, my love, I know," he said, caressing her arm. "That's why I came. It took me a while to find the appropriate costume though. Do you like it?"

Though worried about their predicament, she couldn't help feeling thrilled at the way he called her my love. She ran an appraising eye over his costume. "What are you supposed to be?"

"The Red Death, from The Masque of the Red Death. Did you not recognize it?"

"Oh! Of course." She lifted up her red velvet skirt. "Look, we're matching!"

"And you are—?"

"The Queen of Hearts. You know, like in a deck of cards." She rolled her eyes. Now that Henry was here, all her fear was gone. "So silly. My mother insisted on it."

A strange smile spread across Henry's red-splattered lips. "The Queen of Hearts. Of course you are. How fitting."

She didn't ask him what he meant. "Listen, we don't have much time—" Maneuvering him through the crowd to the edge of the ballroom, where they could have a modicum of privacy, she gave him a brief summary of her mother's intention. "I believe they're going to announce it after the firework display," she concluded. "What are we going to do?"

Henry's eyes, brilliant blue behind the red polished surface of his mask, were thoughtful. "Do you want a big wedding?" he asked.

Christabel frowned at the non-sequitur, but she answered anyway. "No." Most of her friends dreamed of big lavish weddings with white satin and lace and pearls and orange blossoms, but none of it had ever mattered to her. "Why do you ask?"

"Then we can get married tomorrow morning, if you so wish."

Understanding dawned in her mind. "You mean—eloping?" she whispered.

He nodded, his smile widening under his skull mask. "We'll slip away tonight, get married in New York tomorrow morning, and be on the train back to San Francisco before they know it."

Christabel's heart hammered. By this time tomorrow, she would be Mrs. Creel and on her way to San Francisco! It sounded almost too good to be true.

"But"—she glanced back at her mother, who was watching her from the corner of the room with the other chaperones, a mistrustful frown on her face—"how are we to slip away?"

"I have a car at Brenner's," said Henry. "But we can't leave now, it will look suspicious. Before supper, I'll go and bring the car around. When the fireworks start, meet me by the back gate. They're all going to be looking up at the sky then, nobody will notice."

The waltz ended. Henry gave her hand a brief squeeze to lend her some courage, and slipped into the crowd.

Mrs. Cunningham questioned Christabel about her mysterious partner, of course, but she only answered vaguely that he was some friend of Jason's and danced the next three dances with Jason to soothe her mother's suspicion. All the while she kept her eyes fixed on Henry's red hood as he moved amongst the other dancers, praying that her mother wouldn't suddenly decide to make the announcement earlier than planned.

When Mrs. Carver clapped her hands and the orchestra stopped playing, Christabel's heart almost stopped as well, as she was certain they had decided to make the announcement early after all. But no, Mrs. Carver was only inviting people to go in for supper. Christabel searched for Henry. There he was, standing on the very edge of the crowd. He gave her a subtle nod before disappearing through a side door.

Christabel hardly knew what she was eating at supper. The meal seemed to go on forever, and every time Mrs. Carver or her mother or Jason stood up, her body would grow numb and cold with fear. But eventually supper was over, and people started drifting outside for the firework display. Christabel hung back until she was certain her mother was with the others, and then she ran upstairs and into her room.

She didn't give herself time to think. If she thought about what she was about to do, she would lose heart and never be able to go through with it. Thank God they had packed! She tore off her satin-and-velvet costume, heedless of the glass hearts on the girdle, which tinkled as she tossed it on the floor, and removed the ridiculous crown from her head. She threw on the traveling suit that had been laid out for the next day and picked up the valise containing some changes of clothes and her traveling case with some essentials. Did she need more? How long did it take to travel to San Francisco? Should she pack more? There was no time for that now. Had the fireworks already started?

She scribbled a few lines to let her mother know she'd left, without saying where or with whom—her mother could work that out easily enough—and put it on the desk. Then, valise and case in hand, she cracked open the door and looked down the long hallway, just as the tip of her mother's Duchess of Burgundy headdress with its fluttering veil came up the stairs. Christabel's blood froze in her veins. Was her mother coming to check on her? Either way, she could not possibly go down the same way now. What to do? What to do?

Locking herself in the room, Christabel turned around like a caged bird, frantically searching for a way out. Her eyes fell on the large elm growing outside the window. One of its branches almost reached the window sill. If she climbed onto the branch, she would be able to slide down the trunk...

Her mother was moving about in the room next door. She may come into Christabel's room any moment.

She threw the valise through the window and thanked God when it fell soundlessly on the grass below. Then, gripping the traveling case with one hand, she gathered up her skirts with the other and lifted herself on the windowsill. From here, she realized that the branch was much smaller than she'd thought. Would it hold? Only one way to find out. She stepped across the gap onto the branch. One foot, and then another, and then—

Her foot slipped. She reached out—for the window frame behind her or the tree trunk in front of her—but her hands only found thin air. The world tipped over, and Christabel fell, the canopy of the elm quickly receding over her head and the ground rushing up to meet her at an alarming speed—

She was too startled to scream. She only shut her eyes tightly and waited for the inevitable, sickening crunch of her body hitting the ground.

It never came.

Instead, there was only a jolt, and then a heavy grunt. It took Christabel a moment to realize someone had caught her, and the grunt was her own, made by the air being knocked out of her lungs as she fell into the arms of her rescuer.

She opened her eyes. In place of Henry's blue ones, she found herself looking into the dark, dark eyes of the strange young man who had introduced himself as Henry's servant. For a second, when their eyes met, Christabel felt as though the air had been knocked out of her again.

Then fireworks burst over their heads, breaking them both out of the spell.

"You all right, miss?" the dark-eyed man asked.

"Y-yes, thank you."

"Can you walk?"

"I— I don't know." She wasn't injured, but the rush from the fall had left her weak and trembling.

"Then, with your permission, miss, I'll carry you to the car. Mr. Creel is waiting."

She nodded. He leaned down to pick up her valise and traveling case, and, with Christabel in his arms, walked to the back gate in long, easy strides. For a confused moment, Christabel was reminded of the day she first met Henry—had it only been two weeks ago?—and the same matter-of-fact way that he had picked her up and carried her. The only difference was that this young man had asked for her permission first.

A small two-seat roadster was parked by the back gate of the Carver mansion. Henry was in one of the seats, waiting. He'd changed back into his usual clothes, though there were still some red spots on his jaw and chin. The man put Christabel next to Henry, placed her cases at her feet, and took the driver's seat. Soon the car was rolling down the path through the trees, while the fireworks continued to flash and crackle on the sky above, their boom and the pop of the car engine unable to drown out the the delighted oohs and aahs of the revelers.

"I thought you'd changed your mind," Henry said, hugging Christabel close.

"She had a fall, sir," the dark-eyed man said on her other side. "She's a bit shook up."

"All's well now," said Henry. "I see that you've met my assistant, Kas."

The dark-eyed man—Kas, what an odd name—nodded at Christabel briefly. "Please to make your acquaintance, Miss Cunningham," he said, before turning his attention back to the road.

"Soon to be Mrs. Creel, Kas," Henry corrected him, laughing. "Soon to be Mrs. Creel. Isn't that right, darling?"

Christabel was still too dazed after her fall to answer, and she was unsettled by something she thought she'd glimpsed in Kas's eyes when he glanced at her—something almost like pity. It reminded her of his enigmatic words the day he'd brought her Henry's message. I wouldn't go if I were you... But surely she'd imagined it. What did he have to pity her about? He didn't know her, and besides, she was on her way to marry the love of her life. What was to be pitied about that?

"Did you bring this car all the way from San Francisco?" she asked Henry, to change the subject.

"No, it's Brenner's. But he doesn't have much use for it now, does he?" Henry grinned and winked at her. She smiled back, though she didn't see much humor in the situation. "I do have my own car in Frisco though, a much better one," he continued. "You'll see."

They hadn't gone far from the Carver mansion when Henry suddenly called out, "Stop!"

Kas pulled the car over by a bend on the road. Christabel looked around, confused. "Why are we stopping?"

Henry grabbed her hand. "Come. There's something I want to show you."

"We don't have time—my mother may have already realized that I'm missing and raised the alarm—"

"It will take but a minute."

Christabel let him drag her through the woods to a clearing. A crescent moon shone its silvery light over the ivy covering the ground. Startled, she recognized this was the same clearing where Henry had proposed, where the ruins of his family's cottage still stood. She hoped somebody had removed the dead hare.

"Here." Henry pulled something out of his pocket. It was the same piece of stained glass she'd helped him find amongst the stones, the one depicting a rose, now polished and attached to a chain to form a necklace. "I had this made for you." He put the chain over her head and settled the rose on her chest. "I know it's not a ring, but I wanted to give it to you, because, well, because it's half yours, really. You found it."

Christabel lifted the stained glass pendant to examine it more clearly. "It's beautiful. Thank you."

Henry clasped her hands in his, closing her fingers around the pendant. "We have this tradition in our family," he said, "that the bride and groom will have a separate Celtic ceremony and exchange their own vows, in keeping with our roots, before the church ceremony. We can't have much of a ceremony here, but I can't think of a better place to exchange those vows, do you agree?"

His eyes were shining with a fervent light, and Christabel, caught up in his excitement, found herself excited as well.

"What are the vows?" she asked.

"Repeat after me," Henry said. "Heart bound to heart, soul bound to soul. I pledge to you my life and undying love. I'm yours, my body, my spirit, my being whole."

"Heart bound to heart, soul bound to soul. I pledge to you my life and undying love. I'm yours, body and spirit, my being whole," Christabel repeated, trying to suppress a delighted giggle, not wishing to ruin the moment with her girlish nervousness. How terribly romantic. Not just an elopement, but a secret pagan ritual in the middle of the woods, under the moon as well! Oh, wouldn't Mother throw a fit if she knew!

A red glow seemed to emanate from the pendant clasped between her palms, but when Christabel opened her hands and looked again, it was gone. Under the moonlight, the rose wasn't even red—it looked almost black, like volcanic rock. She must've imagined it, or it had been a flash from the fireworks.

"In the eyes of my ancestors, that means we are married now," Henry said, leaning forward to kiss her. "Nothing else matters."

They ran back to the car. Kas started the engine, and they flew down the road back to New York, as the last of the fireworks died out over their heads.

They arrived at Manhattan just as the city was waking up. The electric streetlamps were still burning, but they were already dimming in the approaching gray light of dawn, and workers were filling up the streets, ready to start their day. Kas dropped them off in front of a chapel and headed to the station to secure their passages on a train to San Francisco, while they waited for the chapel to open.

It was probably because she was too tired, but Christabel didn't remember much of the ceremony—afterward, in her mind, the memory was forever shrouded in the grayish light and fog of a Manhattan autumn morning. What she did remember was the minister being rather grumpy about having to perform a marriage ceremony first thing upon waking up. She remembered, too, how Henry had brought in two men who were on their way to work to act as witnesses, and how he gave them each a silver dollar once the ceremony was over. But what she'd said, what Henry had said, how he'd looked when he slipped the gold band over her finger—when had he found the time to buy a wedding ring?—and how she'd felt at that moment, it was all a blur.

Then Henry called a cab, which hurried them to Grand Central, and Christabel was bundled into a compartment. She barely had time to remove her hat before collapsing onto a bed and promptly falling asleep to the soothing rhythm of the train as it rolled westward, taking her toward a life new and unknown.

Chapter 4

#hellcheer #hellcheer fic #hellcheer au #eddissy #eddie x chrissy #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #henry creel #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic #kas!eddie #vampire!eddie munson

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