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@upsides
#𝗨𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗦 , private and semi - active multi. ⁽ mo + she/her + black + 25 + orlando. ⁾ ʳᵒˢᵗᵉʳ ᵇᵉˡᵒʷ . EST. NOV 2025. ░
░ ᴾᴿᴼᴸᴼᴳᵁᴱ : 𝙟𝙪𝙡𝙮 ₁₉₆₉ .. HAWKINS NATIONAL LABORATORY. hawkins, indiana. ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴ drove an 𝗶𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗰𝘂𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲 black car along a 𝗳𝗹𝗮𝘁 ᴵⁿᵈⁱᵃⁿᵃ ʳᵒᵃᵈ, slowing when he came to a 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘦 with a ᴿᴱˢᵀᴿᴵᶜᵀᴱᴰ ᴬᴿᴱᴬ sign. the guard stationed there ᵖᵉᵉʳᵉᵈ in the window for the BRIEFEST MOMENT , then checked his 𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 and waved him through. ( ... )
BLOG ROLL. ( 3/24/2026 ) @upsides + stranger things multi. @chiefhop + jim hopper. @glossfang + regina george. ... ⋆ @bat20s + eddie munson.
𝗘𝗱𝗱𝗶𝗲 𝗠𝘂𝗻𝘀𝗼𝗻 ( 2 / ∞ )
what do you want me to say? * nancy,
secrecy curdles into spectacle under the bare bulb hum of the wheeler basement and the soft and treacherous creak of a window frame pushed too far, too fast. the night had cooperated with his plan at first, thick with suburban quietude and then suddenly there he is: backpack half-zipped, one foot already committed to the escape plan, the other still stalled on suburban furniture. a boy mid-flight who's gotten pretty good running. eddie munson has always been motion. not grace or anything akin to such a trait motion. a constant forward lurch, propelled by noise and bravado and the sacred refusal to ever depend on anyone. never had, so why now? why here, in the wheeler basement of all godforsaken sanctuaries, caught red-handed by the one person whose eyes cut straight through the theatrics and land on the marrow beneath it? “ i don't know, nance. ” it's tossed off with ease, flippant like a cigarette flicked into the dark. eddie climbs down from the table. “ ideally? somethin' real inspiring. go get 'em, tiger. hoo-rah. confetti. the works. ” blooming with sarcasm, a parade of mock-heroics designed to drown out the truth clanging around inside of his skull: HE IS TERRIFIED. the truth that hiding like this has begun to feel almost worse than running, that stir-craze might actually kill him faster than whatever's hunting him.
“ you don't have to stick your neck out for me, alright? but if they're askin'? you don't know. ” hands lift, palms up, presenting the idea like a blinking marquee. “ which, by the way ” a wink, a finger gun cocked with such ridiculous ceremony. “ isn't a lie. loophole. ” and the word is heavy and ironic, almost reverent. how he slips between the cracks, how he has convinced himself that leaving isn't the same as yielding.
＊ ☆⠀* ⁱⁿᵇᵒˣ : 400 RANDOM DIALOGUE PROMPTS. ... NOT ACCEPTING.
#legend has it that he is still holding onto her to this day
it hurts like hell. more than she would ever admit. not to heather, not to herself, not the shrink, not even to a fucking diary. for whatever reason, as if she wasn't filthy rich, her 'girlfriend' loved to bask in the attention given to her by lame, good for nothing boys. really, it didn't matter who it was, because they weren't her. it wasn't chris singing her praises, wasn't chris batting her lashes at her. she couldn't wrap an arm around her waist or flash a warning glare. nothing. nothing but a pallid face and a quiet, brooding expression. the sight of her immaculately styled blonde hair and vibrant eyes fails to elicit the reaction it normally would.
"have fun?" chris can't help but ask, and it almost sounds like a genuine question. that patented indifference drops the moment they're out of earshot. she all but glowers at heather, mouth twisted into a scowl that so clearly revealed just how jealous she had gotten. "what's your deal? if you wanted a drink, you could have just asked me." why are you trying to replace me? it takes a surprising amount of willpower to not reach out and touch her shoulder, her hair, anything. stomach twisting, chris folds her arms over her chest, constructing a nice metaphorical wall between them. "he's leaving. you might as well go with him." / for heather <3
and so she lets chris talk, lets her spill and fret and orbit because heather chandler understands, with a fluency so cruel, how comfort masquerades as dominance. the counter hums under her elbows and neon flickers around them. the world narrows to this syrup-stick laminate and even thicker energy. “ oh, please. what's your damage? ” heather says at last, the line arriving lacquered and lilting, affections pretend to be unaccounted for here. her head tilts and the curls avalanche with it, obedient and dramatic. she licks whipped cream from her thumb and leans closer, pushing off the counter with her palms, posture casual in a way only practiced girls could manage. “ if i wanted to go with him, we know i could've. ” a beat long, tectonic. she rocks in a faux-innocence. “ i like you more. like, god, you're so very chivalrous. ” the sentence is unadorned, naked in sincerity and heather feels it immediately.
how dangerous it is to say it so plainly so she rushes to gild it, to bury it under velvet and sarcasm and glittering debris of her charm.
“ chris, my, don't you worry too much ! ” heather coos, thumb brushing chris's forehead with a tenderness that would scandalize anyone who thinks they know her, tracing the hypothetical future where such worry would leave its cartographic marks. she clicks her tongue softly, a mock-disappoint, shaking her head like a condemning an admirable sin. “ you'll get frown lines. ” and a pause, then she removes their closeness. “ god, that would be tragic. ” it's said absentmindedly, lifting the cherry from the drink delicately between two french-tipped fingers as though it were a crown jewel. she offers it forward and the stem dangles. and here is where their connection gets complicated, where it folds in on itself, because beneath their performance, their "whatevership", there comes this small and warm domesticity blooming quiet, halcyon. the softness of choosing the same person again without ever saying the word choose. heather lingers perhaps, a bit too long cherry still suspended, lashes fluttering once, twice.
Anecdote of the Pig by Tory Adkisson | Mindscreen by Julia Maiuri | The Atlantic by Shirley Jackson | Unknown photographer | Alice, 1988 by Jan Švankmajer | Flannery O'Connor | forwards beckon rebound by Adrianne Lenker | Unknown photographer | @holyaches on X | Unknown photographer | Richey Edwards | @yearningkid on Instagram | Unknown | Deathless by Catherynne M. Valente | Untitled, 2016 by Kara Walker | Small Object, 1977 by Noah Saterstrom | The Torn-up Road by Richard Siken
you don't mess around with jim. .. JIM HOPPER as written by mo. + ₑₛₜ. NOV 2025.
a lodge / cabin in the middle of the woods, seemingly unoccupied for years. / eleven!
this is something precarious, more unfinished, a quiet where both parties have agreed to not to breathe too loudly. hopper's cabin hovers in a state of provisional sanctity, walls sweating pine-sap memory and settling floorboards. time, usually such a vulgar brute, has been negotiated with and temporality bribed to allow girlhood this moment. jane is on her knees before joyce, small bones arranged with deliberateness that borders on reverence. flannel sleeves hang too long over palms resting in her lap. joyce's hands continue their pilgrimage, passing the hairbrush through curls heavy with damp. bristles catch and release, catch and release. she is at peace. “ hopper is no good. he brushes.. like a bear. ” jane says. bear is a classification her, because hopper belongs to the category of large, well-meaning forces that love without finesse. “ i like this. ” the mirror across the room becomes treacherous. jane's eyes find it anyway, dragged there by such magnetic compulsion. the girl staring back her way is unfamiliar but not hostile. her hair clings to her skull in soft obedience, darker with water and full of promise. her eyes flick to joyce's reflection behind hers, maternal softness rendered here in exhaustion and resolve. the sight hits jane somewhere behind the ribs, an ache blooming where language has not been installed yet.
“ it is longer now. ” jane reaches up, carefully, fingers closing around a lock of hair. she lifts it to her nose, inhales with scientific seriousness. “ and smells like soap. ” not antiseptic or chemical sterilization, but a civilian scent. mahogany, the bottle says. she breathes it in again, greedily, terrified the sensation might evaporate if not documented thoroughly. “ it will keep growing ? ” inside, this scene is something ancient. terry ives exists as a ghost-echo behind her eyes, restrained and fragmented, a life that might have been in this exact moment if the universe had not been so savagely interventionist.
＊ ☆⠀* I. : LOCATION PROMPTS. ... ACCEPTING.
something rancid lays a few inches away from their feet, and it had been her idea to get close to it. jesus, the thing reeked of that place, what was it— the upside down? something like that, according to eric. chris almost wants to stick out an arm to prevent heather from moving any closer, for some reason. protect the mythic bitch? how noble of her. [ i thought they called me crazy, she has me beat. ] her upper lip curls into a grimace, partially out of disgust and partially out of surprise. no way she was talking about that thing.
@upsides, heather chandler — " it's almost beautiful, isn't it? "
" uh— what? ... what the hell is wrong with you? " chris sounds exasperated now, almost as if she had been dealing with heather's antics all afternoon. because she had been. for this stupid science class, stupid ecology project, stupid partner-work. her voice rings in her ears. a complaint about a bug on her skirt, a lament about her pristine shoes getting muddy. yet suddenly, the silence between them becomes deafening. out of the corner of her eye, she glances at her, makes sure to study each curve of her face carefully. could she know? or did she just think it was some kind of fucked up animal?
or maybe, just maybe, chris hadn't dreamt all of it. maybe heather's been there too? that place; plaguing her nightmares, stealing the light from her eyes. " ... do you know what it is? " and part of her hopes she says yes. part of her hopes she wouldn't be alone anymore, that the shrink would no longer look at her with sympathy whenever she told her about the fog and the silhouette and the marred trees.
yeah right, as if.
" whatever, who cares. hurry up, we gotta finish this. " it was probably just a wolf. a black sludge covered, hairless, pale wolf that had a weird, blown-out head. right.
heather chandler does not react so much as she reconfigures. a subtle but catastrophic reordering of internal furniture. she scoffs first, instinctively, and whirls her head around to the other. “ what's wrong with you ?! ” words that snap outward, lacquered and lethal, a wielded blade meant to cauterize her tremors. it's childish, of course. i know what you are but what am i. there is a moment here ⁽ elongated and distended ⁾ where her cognition stalls in between seeing and accepting what it is in front of her, where the brain attempts to file the stimulus under known horrors and comes up blank. chris becomes a sort of collateral damage in the ritual that stretched arm across heather's front seized between french-tipped grasp, gripped a hair too tight, an unconscious attempt to borrow a throbbing pulse. “ it's just not what i expect gross, fucking freaks to look like. ” the thing on the ground, corpse and carcass and error, refuses to cooperate. it is not theatrical enough, not grotesque enough, does not obey such visual grammar. they are loud, malformed, obvious. this one is almost peaceful. the words spoken curdle and sours in her mouth. the insult falls short of the target and ricochets back, striking something rather fragile beneath her ribs. her gaze lingers despite herself, tracing lines and contours she should not be cataloguing, shouldn't be memorizing. air thick and syrupy. “ i don't know. it's like .. something from a dream. ” this admission slips out sideways, a migraine crescendos. her vision blooms with afterimages and static constellations, eldritch white noise screeching softly at the edges of her perception. dreams flash like corrupted film reel: stairwells descending into a breathless darkness, mirrors that lag half a second behind her, a clock chime of dread, the sensation that something is watching. “ it's not supposed to be here. it's ” she reaches for the back of her neck, fingers grazing skin that prickles. the sentence collapses mid-flight, shot down before it expresses something dangerous. familiar. recognizable.
reset, reboot, resume. “ god, whatever, chris. it's dead. ” who cares. an irate tone. a gavel strike, because dead means it cannot follow you into your nice, big home or crawl into your dreams or whisper your name. “ it's dead and it's devastating, i don't know. why should i know ? ” almost too honest, too operatic. she shoves chris's arm away, recoiling from her own proximity and closes what little distance lines between her and the creature. heather chandler descends into a crouch, knees fold sharply inward, elbows anchoring themselves against bone. her head tilts as she studies it, a slow and inquisitorial cant, and with it, her hair follows suit: a baroque collapse of permed up blonde curls swollen with aerosol and intention, tumbling to one side like a gilded curtain. “ .. extra credit, what do you say ? ” she hardly remembers chris's prescence. she's there, of course she's there, unavoidable as a shadow and stubborn as gravity. they've been tethered together for weeks now, assigned, paired by some fucked up alphabet or cruel cosmic humor, heather isn't sure just yet.
i hope this isn't weird-- i stumbled across your blog because you write with a mutual of mine, and i just wanted to say you have some of the most beautiful writing i've read on here. i know very little about st so i doubt we'd interact, but it was worth sending a note because you deserved to know. again, super sorry if that was weird lol!! sending good vibes<3
oh my GOD. i wasnt sure whether to post this public or not bc i didnt want to be disrespectful in anyway but this isn't weird in the slightest, this is genuinely so so so so so sweet to receive thank u SO much !!!! it genuinely made my day <3 you're always welcome here even if u only know a little, bc i know v little about resident evil but im always willing to learn new worlds !! sending every last bit of good vibes right back, im always happy to make new friends 🫶
✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐈𝐅 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓, 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐄. ( a collection of various location prompts categorized by certain environments. feel free to adjust phrasing as desired. this prompt is likely to be updated in the future. )
[ 1. ] — URBAN :
the graffiti - scarred underpass of an old railway bridge, echoing with distant trains. the fire escape of a towering high - rise, overlooking a vast grid of sleeping lights. a forgotten alleyway behind a row of storefronts, bathed in the glow of a neon sign. the window booth of a greasy diner, blurred city lights reflected in the glass. a sheltered bus stop tagged with old stickers & graffiti, drenched in midnight rain. a food cart on a busy street corner, steam rising into the cool night air. a 24 - hour laundromat, fluorescent lights humming above rows of idle machines. amidst the initial trickle of commuters through a sprawling subway station. a park at the city's center, made up of grassy knolls & playground equipment. the shadowed corridor of a parking garage, footsteps echoing in concrete silence. the elevated walkway over a busy intersection, offering a bird's - eye view. a vibrant street art mural on the side of a decaying brick building, alive with color.
[ 2. ] — RURAL :
a cramped stall within an empty stable, moonlight shining through the rafters. a neglected orchard where wind - blown fruit rots beneath gnarled trees. a winding gravel path leading all the way to a secluded farmhouse. a field of wildflowers buzzing with bees, bordered by split - rail fencing. a street temporarily shut down on behalf of a bustling farmer's market. the sleepy main street of an eerie town, a single streetlight casting a warm glow. a dry creek bed winding through brittle grass & sun-bleached stones. a rickety wooden bridge arching over a narrow stream, frogs croaking all around. a quiet paddock under bright starlight, farm animals peacefully grazing. the middle of a deep, vast corn field under a brilliantly shining moon. a dusty, unpaved road stretching endlessly through a landscape of rolling hills. a yard sale with patrons trickling through beneath the hot sun.
[ 3. ] — NATURE :
a moss - covered trail leading deeper into a dense, mist-shrouded forest. a windswept cliff overlooking a turbulent gray ocean, gulls crying overhead. a secret lagoon with crystal blue waters & flourishing flora on all sides. the shifting golden dunes of a vast beach, meeting the endless blue of the sea. the banks of a swift, rocky river cutting through a vibrant forest. a lodge / cabin in the middle of the woods, seemingly unoccupied for years. a cluttered camping site deep in the middle of a national forest. the edge of a marsh, thick with reeds & the distant calls of unseen birds. the tranquil, glassy surface of a mountain lake reflecting a clear blue sky. a hidden clearing bathed in dappled light, exuding the scent of damp earth. a fork in the hiking trail, each path offering different adventures. a foggy moor where the land rolls endlessly beneath a grey, heavy sky. the deck of a cozy cottage bathed in sunlight & blooming flowers. a grove of ancient trees, their roots exposed & twisted like veins in the earth.
[ 4. ] — SHOPS & ENTERTAINMENT :
a warm, dimly lit antique shop overflowing with forgotten treasures. the too - cheery gift shop near the front entrance of a hospital. a comic book store sporting bright posters & dozens of tradable goods. amid long aisles lined with thrifted goods at the local consignment store. a cluttered, cozy bookstore smelling of old paper & freshly brewed tea. the incense-heavy interior of a well maintained smoke shop. the warmth of a small-town bakery, pastries piled high in the display case. backstage, the space cluttered with costumes, props, & nervous energy. a shop in an unfamiliar country, every label written in a foreign language. the chilled interior of an ice cream parlor offering refuge on a hot day. under the harsh yellow lights of the only liquor store that was open at 2am. a tourist - trap shop full of cheesy knick-knacks catered to travelers. an unassuming corner shop concealing the entrance to an exclusive club. a vibrant flower market overflowing with fragrant blooms & vendors' chatter. under the flashing lights of a dance club, bass thrumming through the floor. the hushed, reverent interior of a grand theater just before the curtain rises. a pop - up carnival at night, rides whirling & distant screams mixing with music. a karaoke lounge drenched in LED's, lyrics scrolling across a bright screen. the rewards counter of an arcade, stacked wall-to-wall with countless prizes. a classy high - rise rooftop bar with countless city lights sprawling beneath. a brightly lit arcade alive with the sounds of chimes, explosions & laughter. the neon - drenched interior of a retro - themed diner with a jukebox playing old hits. a casino floor buzzing with noise; slot machines chiming, cards shuffling. the open air of a summer music festival, crowd gathered under the twilight. a classic, dimly lit bowling alley- the crash of pins echoing down the lanes. the back row of a mostly - empty movie theatre right as the lights go dark.
time what a wicked concept. it comes & goes. yet you have not returned. he has known the five stages of grief : denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. though last not ever fully able to be achieved. it must look similar — (he). the analogy of a dying dove, wings broken & dislocated from body. ( WAITING FOR SOMEONE TO PUT IT OUT OF IT'S MISERY ) but michael wheeler wasn't merciful. he sat every night in the same spot. begging to the uʍouʞun. DAY 353. COME AND GONE. knees turn in on dainty body. a wretched sob begs its way to the surface. “ — P-PLEASE ” a choked plea, practically gagged upon as emotion stirs. lips shake as the radio slams to the ground. WHEN DOES THE FOOL SURRENDER ?
but then he hears it. ( A STATIC LINED - ᵐⁱᵏᵉ ᵐⁱᵏᵉᵐⁱᵏᵉᵐⁱᵏᵉᵐⁱᵏᵉᵐⁱᵏᵉᵐⁱᵏᵉᵐⁱᵏᵉᵐⁱᵏᵉᵐⁱᵏᵉᵐⁱᵏᵉ ) it hits like that of a car crash. glass shattering & the initial loss of air. fingers shake in a worthless fight to remain brave. — WAS THIS REAL OR A NIGHTMARE ? a voice that resembles fall & the gentle breeze of memorial. five heavy blinks ! he grabs the communication device so quickly that tumbles in own hands. “ EL - ELEVEN ” fingers dig themselves a home in sleeve line. MIKE THE BRAVE ! “ COME BACK , we - i need you. ” the confession holds the unfamiliar wave of sinking. the depths of never being quite the same. because all that is good has come & gone. so he clutches the radio like a lifeline. hoping that it might anchor the two of them, once again. “ IF YOU CAN HEAR ME...... i- need you to come back to me ”
THERE IS NO HERE. not where she is, now. somewhere in the in-between. white. not light absence sharpened to a blade. a place where sound does not travel, sedimentary layers of UNSPOKEN NAMES and almosts and what-ifs. only the eldritch, white noise. jane kneels, but there is no floor. jane listens, but there is no measurable distance. and for a moment, she is nothing but a conduit, a girl-shaped hole punched through reality. and mike is everything she feared: LOUD & HURT. the kind of plea that fractures inward and doesn't pulls its punches. “ ... i hear. ” the words are small, small that they shouldn't survive this place. static collapses inward, bends around the syllables like iron filings to a magnet. her vocal chords tremble, strained like glass under pressure. and she forces the next truth through a thick breath, through the screaming architecture of wrongness. “ everyday. i hear. ” the noise thrums in answer.
MIKE: whom she thought the world of. SHE DOES NOT HAVE THE WORD FOR THIS FEELING. that is the first document. there are many things she does not have words for, but this one is worse because it is nonstop. arriving uninvited, settling warm and yet painful in her chest. she has heard the word passed around between mouths on the television, how it sounds when other people say it easily and carelessly. because she must feel it to listen to mike for 353 days. although, images slam into her unbidden: men with guns. men without faces. men who would follow any echo she leaves behind. men who would burn the rope she walks upon. THEY WOULD FIND HOPPER. AND THEY WOULD FIND MIKE. and it would be all her fault. her head shakes again, harder now with such frantic refusal and the tears leak sideways into a nothingness. “ you are not safe. ”
"i do care." eleven <3 hit me hard i dare you
ROOM HOLDS ITS BREATH. stacks itself in layers dust on forgotten shelves, old breath trapped in wallpaper. PICTURE JANE: standing inside the center of it, a small gravity well pretending to hold together. her being remembers cages. her being remembers unopened doors. she does not pace and she does not scream and she does not THROW anything. “ i care ! ” flat, not emotionless but compressed.
“ i say things. ” nods to herself once, as if counting is the only thing that keeps the floorboards solid beneath her feet. “ i say i love you. ” ⁽ THIS IS WHAT FRACTURES THE ROOM. ⁾ the blunt weight of a truth learned the hard way, in pieces, learned while bleeding and hiding and surviving. and still choosing him. “ you do not say. ” eyes do not leave the fixtures of his visage, watches him the way you watch a storm decide where to land. for flinches, for tells. “ you lie. ” lips tighten to a thin line, holding together with stitches. “ .. why do you lie ? ”
＊ ☆⠀* ⁱⁿᵇᵒˣ : 400 RANDOM DIALOGUE PROMPTS. ... ACCEPTING.
"i screwed up. i know." for eleven
INSTINCT DOES NOT ARRIVE POLITELY. it does not clear its throat, does not ask for permission. it breaks through the ribs, tracks mud across the mind, and sits there. HE KNOWS. knowledge, however, is not absolution. her gaze does not wave. she has learned that bad things happen when you blink at the wrong time. her shoulders are taunt, a girl who has survived monsters and therefore should be immune to boys with dumb apologies but fear does not care for expertise. fear is loyal and stupid. “ yes. screwed up. ..i did not like it. ” the phrase sounds almost academic. observational. she is naming a specimen under glass ⁽ ANGER: NOUN. ⁾ TEXTURE: sharp. EFFECT: chest tight. duration? .. unknown. a shift, inward and not outward. a misalignment of past and present, where the now folds briefly into the before. the days without him stack up in her head, the silences, the radio, the nothing. it is all triggered by mike's decisions that are made without calling first.
“ i thought ” stops, words snag. eyes flick away and back again, as if the sentence might be hiding behind his shoulder. “ i thought you would be gone.. and i would not stop it. you scared me. ” quiet now. contained. images attempt to surface: doors closing, backs turning. THIS TERRRIBLE MATH OF BEFORE / AFTER / GONE. “ i am mad. ” stated plainly, no decorations or apologies.
＊ ☆⠀* ⁱⁿᵇᵒˣ : 400 RANDOM DIALOGUE PROMPTS. ... ACCEPTING.
"no way, i'm not doing that." for heather
LUNCHTIME. it is a condition, rather than a time. a sanctioned chaos interval where the building exhales its inhabitants in one greasy, fluorescent-loud convulsion. trays skid, forks scream, milk cartons burst their seams. ⁽ HEATHER OCCUPIES THE SPACE THE WAY A HEATHER WOULD ⁾ with entitlement, volume, inevitability. roy wagner's birthday party is the crime of topic: dumb jock, dumb keg, dumb music. will mutters, barely audible. one knee hooked on the bench, sunglasses indoors because she has decided the world is so offensively bright. she peels them up onto her perm with two fingers and rolls her eyes so hard the motion might cause a shift in gravity. a whine, “ oh my gooood. pump the jets, drama dweeb ! ” she is one to talk about drama. heather chandler reaches across the narrow, laminated gulf between their strays and steals a single fry from his tray: pops it into her mouth, CRUNCH! “ don't be such a total drip on purpose. ” heather leans in, chin in palm, bracelets clacking. “ like, god, it honestly makes me violently fucking ill. ” with relish and flair. you'd have to understand this unlikely friendship ⁽ FRIENDSHIP? ... I GUESS SO. ⁾ is born from an entity. vecna hangs between them like an invisible watermark, shared horror and shared secrets. the end of the world has a way of flattening hierarchies just enough to let strange friendships root: queen bee, zombie boy. annexed, adopted, claimed. so, this connection to heather chandler and .. THE LOSER'S CLUB. heather straightens rather abruptly, decision made and spine snapping into place. “ i'm not asking anymore. now i'm abducting you. congratulations. ” final, ceremonial, almost irrefutable.
＊ ☆⠀* ⁱⁿᵇᵒˣ : 400 RANDOM DIALOGUE PROMPTS. ... ACCEPTING.
