#c. nancy

Snake Eyes was a feast for the senses.

When she was alive, Nancy wouldn't be caught dead near a place like this. Not because she disagreed with anything going on inside (though, if she knew then what she knows now, she certainly wouldn't have approved of it) but because she didn't think a girl like her—meek and mousy and not much to look at—had much place in a nightclub. A strip club, if you wanted to be crude.

But she had to come into her own skin. Her new skin. This was her new life as a succubus and she needed to learn about it if she wanted to survive, as her coworkers (and fellow succubi) advised her. Dressed in a coquettish yellow dress and her hair done up in perfect scarlet curls, she headed out of the back room and onto the floor, scanning the room for unoccupied "clients."

Then she saw him.

Biting her lip, she did her set of checks she'd been told to do before finding a client. First, make sure they weren't taken by anyone. Second, make sure they weren't law enforcement. And third... shoot, she forgot third. Nancy approached the gentleman, a shy smile on her face.

@monsterxlayer //

There's something strange going on with Nancy.

Something she doesn't quite know how to explain. At least, not yet. The only person she can think of who can help her figure things out is sitting right in front of her. Probably a little bit concerned and most definitely confused, seeing as she doesn't ask for help much. If at all.

She sits at the chair across from the other and fiddles with her hands, unsure how to go about this. Outside, the air is still and the moon is high in the sky. Cicadas sing together. Like nothing's wrong. Except for this one strange thing.

After a beat, she takes a sharp breath in before finally speaking.

"You know that guy we met the other day?" She gulps. "Well, I just don't think we should be seeing him anymore."

@someotherdog // from this

"I was thinking about it, and I don't know if a club is the best—"

Nancy stopped in her tracks. Her hand, which had been up behind her head undoing her claw clip, fell suddenly, releasing her red tresses. Her other hand, which had kept her towel taut around her body once she got out of the shower just seconds ago, stiffened. She swallowed, recognizing—even on the other side of the room from the other—what they'd been looking at.

What a foolish thing to have forgotten to put her sacred photographs away. She'd been looking at them this morning, reminiscing, and stowing them back away must have slipped her mind. Perhaps she was excited about celebrating her birthday with the other. Who knew? At this point, she had to dig out her alibi and prepare her manufactured set of stories.

Oh, she's my great, great grandmother. She looks just like me. I get it all the time in my family. Her name was Nancy, too.

Otherwise, how could she explain a shoebox full of dusty photographs and daguerrotypes, all featuring a woman who was the splitting image of her? From as early as the 1850s, if the other thought to flip the ephemera over and read more details. She put on a casual face, though anyone who might have been suspicious could sense something was a little off.

Still gripping her towel, Nancy took a seat beside the other and wore a smile. "It's kinda silly. On my birthday, I always like to look back at my family history. Especially her," she said, pointing at the woman in the photograph who looked just like her (because, well...) and then giving the other a gentle smile. "I think about how she was once my age, with all her hopes and dreams. And I wonder if she ever went through with any of them."

EVIL DEAD (2013) SENTENCE STARTERS. // @wynterlanding

Was this a momentary lapse back to normalcy?

Landon's voice cut through the thick wooden floor. It sounded loud, loud as ever, as if he was in the very same room as her. In fact, she was in the kitchen, seeking a lock. He was locked in the cellar, beyond a trap door in the living room of the cabin. Locked up, but only temporarily. She knew her time was ticking; the furniture she hastily barricaded the trap door with wouldn't hold much longer.

After hurriedly sifting through every cabinet she could find, she realized she couldn't locate the lock. She half-wondered if it was any worth it to place the rug back on the trapdoor. That's how they found it anyway, earlier tonight when they first checked into the cabin for their writer's retreat.

Maybe if she just placed the rug over the trapdoor it would act as a time machine, bringing them back to before everything changed.

Before Landon changed. Before Landon... attacked her.

"Good morning," Nancy spoke, giving the other a gentle smile. She was sat beside them, hand holding their forearm, checking vitals. There was no trace of panic in her expression; only concern for the patient's well-being. "You're probably a bit confused. I'm not sure what you remember, but you're at the library blood drive. And, well... I don't want you to panic, but you passed out."

It was true. She was a volunteer nurse for the morning, one of two in a stuffy van converted into a mobile health clinic that was hosting blood donations for Valentine's Day in the parking lot. And this lucky (or, not-so-lucky) patient had lost consciousness after their turn.

"Don't worry, it's only been about five minutes. Are you feeling okay?"

He’s never paid much attention to her.  Billy knows Nancy in passing, through the grapevine.  The nebulous concept of her as Steve Harrington’s girlfriend (although as he understands it that didn’t last.) or a face in the crowd.  There is an awkwardness to knowing her as anything else ⁠— though it’s hardly fair to reduce a whole human down to the dredges of what you know of them.  Especially when it’s bottom of the barrel, sludge, low hanging fruit.  Now, he knows Nancy to be smart, resourceful, capable. 

It’s weird.