#standalone; do not rb

[sleepdeprivedshift]

Night gets left alone with his thoughts. It takes him until the clock strikes midnight for him to come back. Right, right.

Lock in, Night. Lock in.

As with every shift, he expects a phone call as he settles in. Almost on cue, on time, it rings and he answers. A recorded message, as he expects, fills the silence in the office.

A voice of a young man plays, with Night leaning over to hear him right with his fingers clicking over cameras and searching for what's available for him.

"Uh hello?" The recording asks, Night thinks the caller sounds younger than him. "I think it's recording. When was the last fucking time someone used one of these things? It’s shitty."

Night could almost make out what's happening behind the scenes. A shuffle of a few papers, and a clear of the throat.

"Well, hello. Welcome to your first night at- at Benjamin’s! My name is—" The phone then makes an unintelligable noise, successfully cutting off his name. Night hits the base of the device with a light smack. Guess some of these technologies are a bit old school. "—I’m here to give you the training to, uh, manage this job."

The caller then tells Night all he needs to know for his shifts. First nights are always easy, they don't tell you that directly but it's always implied. At least he's acquainted with some of these bots already.

Ferris, according to the phone, is just apparently always online. Which, isn't a diss on Night's part, but more of a funny joke. What is he, a smart appliance? (Well yeah he's a robot.) Fuck he gotta be connected to the 'net for, y'know? Fucking... I-pad baby or something.

Night's kidding, though. Mostly. Just enough that Ferris isn't near to hear his thoughts.

But it's easy enough to keep him away at least.

The change in demeanor would've frightened most guards, Night guesses. One hour ago the ferret was almost too eager to meet a new guy in the arcade, and now he's almost too eager to meet the new guy. Face to face. Teeth to skin.

But again, it's easy.

Night plays cues, a little sound he's actually getting fond over, and slows the ferret as much as he could. When he does come around to take a gander at what Night might be at his shift, he greets him with a little shut of the door. He's a little lucky that his ears are good, that knock saves him power and his dead life.

But Ferris isn't the only one he's babysitting tonight, and every other night from now on.

Riley peeks around shyly, but morbidly curious. It's just the door, like Ferris, except he doesn't have to look over her all the damn time. But that's about the end of who he's (currently) familiar with.

Benjamin Bear and Maya Mouse, of who the call so graciously tells him, who they are and what they do. Close the door again when Maya's camera goes dark, play a cue, and just- fucking book it if the main man shows up. Cool, but he takes note of Friedrich's words a bit ago, that they don't leave as much as the other two.

It's still good to keep an eye and ear out.

Especially when he's suddenly forced to just use his ears. Around four to five in morning, the puppet takes over his fucking camera system like a child forcing you to pay attention. Night can see right above its stupid head is a stupider ghost giving him the middle finger as if he couldn't see. He flips the thing off with a disregard whether or not it could see.

Night jingles his keys over the camera the next night just to fuck with it.

Again, it's still easy.

And it stays easy, for the first night until the third. Although they've tried getting funny with him, and he's not sure if he appreciates it.

On the second night, his power almost drains out. (Karma for that boo boo key joke.) Not enough to blackout though. Just barely hanging by five percent to the clock to chime by six in the morning. He had to stay back on the third for an injury that took him by surprise.

Night didn't see it coming, nor did he even hear it. It just- happened so fast. So much that he's still in shock from what just happening, breathing heavily with his back pressed up against his seat, hands shaking as one folds over the other, bleeding over his work clothes and all over these papers that aren't even his.

Ferris got in, plain and simple. Like a ferret jumping out of the grass, and into Night's office. And he moves, of fucking course, lunges over his fucking desk to reach the button. It wasn't quick enough, fucking obviously.

The bastard clawed his hand (almost off), and Night's for sure going to get in trouble for damaging Ferris. His paw pressed the button again before the door could even get down in time, and Night had to kick it as he scrambled for his hand to not get taken out fully. He doesn't keep any flesh lost once he resets, so he has to be careful.

After deciding for a good while whether to keep going, he takes the easy way out and restarts his whole shift all over again. That way, whatever damage he did to the fucking ferret doesn't cut out of his paycheck and ruin whatever good reputation he has as a guard.

This is his first fucking week here. He's not even half way.

He gets through it anyway, (cheater), and keeps going. Door closes, door opens, a cue plays opin a room farthest from the office, a cue plays a little closer, door closes, door opens, Night leaves, Night comes back.

Door closes, door opens.

This shit doesn't even deter the bots either. They started to get more frantic, more active, more... hungry.

It's not the first time Night has had to multitask like a maniac to keep all of his limbs in tact, but fuck, has it been a long time for him to come back to it after calm nights all year long. He almost feels as if he was a newbie again.

But when six am hits again for the fourth time, he's not that concerned anymore. It's the first week jitters, he'll get over it.

-Is what he WOULD SAY IF HE DIDN'T KNOW NO BETTER.

Night loses his momentum again, getting too cocky for getting used to his rhythm of looking over these guys. The power also plays games with him, much like night three, but as much as he tries to save up, it dies on him.

At the worst time too, he's supposed to be out right now to hide from Benjamin. He's shut inside with his only entrance and exit closed down from an encounter with Riley. It's pitch black in this saw trap of a room. Night's flashlight is dead too. Shit, should he start over?

With his newly scarred hand holding over his pendant, giving him his only source of light. Bright blue and wispy. Night's eyes focus on it before his ears perk up at a scraping noise in front of him.

Claws, he can barely see with the small light illuminating it. He can hear mechanical whirring and steady breathing that he can't tell if it's his. Night's not going crazy. The door is opening. Slowly.

It's too dark still to find the hands of his wristwatch. He's not sure if he trusts the digital clock on the desk just yet. The hand prying the door open is still trying. No, not even trying. He's actively, and painfully, slowly pulling this door open.

Night can see Benjamin's eyes search for him through the dark. They meet him easily, with his gifted pendant's light giving him away. His grip tightens on it.

Benjamin looks over at his light, then at Night. He stares back in respect, but he starts to shift himself to his coporeal form. His feet don't touch the ground as he mentally prepares to start over.

The door's almost snapped open halfway, and Night holds his breath. To his luck, Benjamin does too. His eyes look up at him, and for a brief moment, Night could see them.

Another pair of eyes behind animatronic made ones, almost the same as the one behind the puppet's. A shine on Benjamin's eyes, ghost blue light reflecting on the plastic ball. Ghosts stare at one another.

Night doesn't believe in anything above or below him, just that nobody deserves to be trapped in a life they can't escape. But for a brief second, he simply prays that he could make it another day with all his limbs to learn more. Explore, find, and eventually talk to these spirits.

Because fuck, if any soul deserves to stay on this world for long rather than pass on, it should be him.

Something answers his prayers though. A chime, a familiar tune playing in the room as both he, and Benjamin, look down on the digital clock. Six in the morning, and his wristwatch a minute late. Maybe he should trust this clock.

In respect to the silent agreement between all animatronics, or a built in safety program, Benjamin backs away from the door and he walks away, leaving Night backed up against the wall to drop onto the floor in relief. His limbs physical and in tact with the solid world around him once more.

He doesn't think about how close he's gotten to dying again in the arcade because he's slipped up, or how he's lost his edge to keeping everything in check. No, he thinks about Benjamin, who's in Benjamin. Then whoever's in the Prize Puppet. And all other hidden souls that haven't gotten the chance to slip up the same way he has.

To uncover themselves unknowingly to a living ghost. That's fascinating. He's hooked, definitely.

When Friedrich comes in the later morning to let him out, Night doesn't open his mouth about what ne saw back there. There's no point in saying it. After all, he already knows the older man doesn't believe in it, or rather chooses not to. He was already dismissing an assumption that Night didn't even have.

What he does tell him though, is that they need a new door. As well as he's coming back on Monday.

Congrats Benjamin's Arcade, you've gained a new part of the crew. And he's not going to fuck around to find more of it.

[bothhauntedandholy]

Creator sleeps well for someone as short as he. The creation stands tall and threathening outside the premises in the meanwhile for the full hours that he sleeps in. It gathers data, in the meantime. It learns about the server, and brand new revelations since its deactivation all those years ago. Fresh data, for a barely rusted bot.

It remembers Creator, when Creator worked in the white building of the Federation. He was freshly eighteen, landed a lucky job as an inventor after leaving his friend FitMC in a chaos of a server. His words, directly, and apart of the many many ramblings that Creator told it as he worked on it. The creation kept it all.

Well, for one, because it was needed. The storing of its eyes, ears, and mouth were vital to its purpose as a machine. It's an ever-learning database after all. The second is because it always ..."felt" right to keep them. It's Creator, and everything about him.

Shouldn't it store everything he says?

The four legged machine stands stationary outside the factory, arms close to its body as it sifts through all public information available to it. It collects online data, files the Federation hadn't properly closed, everything on Creator's account and computers strewn around his factory. It learns of names, players, locations, thoughts, and happenings. The creation stores this all in its systems for safe keeping.

It learns more about the shells, funnily enough. More than it needed to. It found names, history, and accounts. It pinpoints their location by the proper x, y, and z coordinates through their posted thoughts. A river, a camp, tents, and dozens of more... shells. Creation takes note, and uses more of its ability to access the console log.

/locate SunnySideUp

/locate Pepito

/locate Empanada

The sun rises as the moth inspired machine completes its data storage. It now has eyes and ears over every single active player on the server. Useful, for it rather than Creator. Creation debates staying for a little while longer, for Creator to wake up as well and finally, finally, greet it again.

Hello old friend, she'd say.

But it ultimately doesn't. Creator shouldn't know, what if he doesn't remember? What if he forgot? What if her Creation was never supposed to even be here? Creation doesn't bother finding out the true answer.

Its wings spread, fluttering like a helicopter blade, and it lifts off.

It could tell Creator needs help. Her health status was in poor condition. No sleep, low hunger, and since it checked, on four hearts. Creation treated him as best it could in the night avoiding detection. Creator looked worse, than he used to look when he was younger and overworked.

Creation could always pinpoint this decline on the shells. They did, after all, cause this to happen as far as it could tell. Journal entries that were left unread by anybody other than Creator were left on his desk. About how he was losing his mind, his nightmares, his dreams, and everything else he was able to jot down. No sign of his work, his most prized and impressive machinery, his Creation, however. That's alright.

But the shells, they were everywhere.

No, they were everything, to Creator.

They were on every page, every search history query, every account, and every other piece of data Creator got her hands on. It was impressed, of how rich this database was on these three shells alone. These... children. So clearly, they were important to Creator. So much, that her health declined without them.

So the most logical thing right now is to classify them as threats, right? They had caused Creator to nearly perish and add to the counter of player deaths, right?

Well, perhaps maybe not yet. Not until Creation can discern whether this was malicious intent. They are... young, after all. Small, and little. Usually not even a threat. But they're still important to find nonetheless. Regardless of their actions to its precious Creator.

Thin metal legs hit a branch of a tree, clamps acting as claws and firmly stabilizing itself on the wood. It creaks, crouching as a perched moth, with eyes narrowing to perform an area scan. Tents, about thirty blocks away, with small figures gathered around. Shells. And more than the three it had learned about. It makes quick work of connecting dots, names and faces to what's available on the server-wide web. More shells to look out for, more to study.

It's not here for any of those yet. It locks onto ones it finds on its extensive and Creator written database. The creation observes, it records audio and visuals, it learns. It watches over them, like a protective hawk.

Somehow, through its Creator, it finds an urge to allow them to be within its protection too. They are, without a doubt, incredibly important to him. It'd fail as his creation to not even consider those close to her. It could be scrapped, for this disobdience. It wouldn't mind, it considers.

Creation ceases all thoughts, instead choosing to focus on protecting this tiny civilation, from a distance. It's a guard machine, an emergency, not a person.

It needs to do as it's instructed.

[explosiveunderscore]

Time has always been a fucked up fickle thing for Tubbo.

Sometimes he would spend hours and hours just grinding away, mining and building to expand and fully immerse herself on the server. Sometimes she'd dissassociate, stare into the nothingness in the air whilst feeling chills crawl up on his wings and back.

Growing up was hard. Being put into a death game for almost all of his teenaged life, to being finally fucking free to explore servers and hop across worlds to meet everyone and anyone, then to end up in a facility one morning to be put to sleep for mule knows fuckin' long. He never knew where he came from. He only knew Tom, and the fucking ever-changing harsh world.

Some time has certainly passed ever since Tubbo started re-experiencing hallucinations accompanied by thrice as many breakdowns than he has ever had in his life. Usually, he'd keep it to himself. When the recording ended and Tom stopped having the world be riddled with mods, he'd find himself in the aftermaths clung onto a tree or something stable. He isn't the type to cry, just lash out or revel in another's stupidity.

He does both, in times like these.

It's been .... (Days? Weeks? Months?) ...a while, since he'd seen his kids. Tubbo doesn't know where they all ran off to. He doesn't know if it was his fault or if it was just nature. If it was the Federation, or the world simply screaming at Tubbo that this isn't his life. That he wasn't made to be a father, or a fully functioning adult to persue his passions and potentials.

That he wasn't meant to be here at all.

Around and around the narrative goes, and Tubbo follows in parallel. His throat sore, with a strained voice calling out her kids' names over and over like a prayer, echoes through out the long stretching woods with the crunching of leaves, dirt, and stray branches. Sometimes silence would be in place instead, with Tubbo taking a short break to rest her voice or to reattach his leg.

Run, scream, run, rest, scream, run, repeat.

It's foolish to keep going, in all fucking honesty. They're gone, there's nothing he could do now. What she could've done, what she did. Tubbo tried his fucking best, but is that really enough? Was it ever enough? Were they happy here? Was Tubbo enough, were they happy with him? They were assigned other parents, sure, Sunny was still his, but she still had other parents out there. Empanada and Pepito were never his, and yet - they still stayed. At least... when they did.

These thoughts are exhausting. Shit, sorry. Where are we?

Tubbo collapses at the entrance of his factory, too tired to pull himself up to a bed or to even crawl inside. Heavy pants exhale from his mouth, voice too dead to even audibly gasp for breath. He'd gone over another area of the forests surrounding the chunks of his base and personal drilling project. There's so much a dragonfly can do alone, and in a headspace not suited for clear observation. He doesn't even know if they're even around anymore.

They could be tons of blocks away from him now. They could be home, they could be where they truly fucking deserve to be. But there's a small hopeful side in her, a selfish hope that they're nearby, that they could never truly part with an isolated and confused hermit clinging onto the last bits of interaction she's ever had in the last five years of her awakening from the ice.

She's never even fully met all of the prisoners. She's never met anyone outside of the prison.

Nobody even knows that he exists.

His eyes drift off in a blurry haze, conciousness fleeting faster than the exhaustion settling in her body. Tubbo could die here. He could die never knowing anyone ever again, or ever finding family and friends in this large server-wide world. He could've spent his time meeting new people, continuing his life long exploration of worlds and to just get by. But he clings, he clings onto figures who stay and who need him to stay.

Now that they're gone, shouldn't she get up to explore then? Shouldn't she leave for the sake of her life than theirs?

No, that's not something a parent would do.

He hasn't slept in days. The silver glow of the night passes through her windows and basks her in the light. Tubbo feels like passing away rather than out. He's so tired, he's so lonely, he's so vulnerable. Her scarred fingers, used to holding metal and soft tiny hands, brush against bricks and dirt. He could barely see the blocks he used to build. Her wings twitch, and he breathes softly, holding herself for warmth, for comfort.

She falls asleep then and there, body away from a comfortable bed and in sight for any phantoms to have picked upon if she stayed awake any further. Would it count if she wasn't in bed? Does her sleep draw them in or does her proximity to a bed? Tubbo doesn't care.

Her wings twitch again, like a dead animal, alerting predators to feast upon her. Alerting protection, to finally awaken. Soft breaths are heard at the edge of an empty factory, while metal and crackling are heard from a distant facility. She lays, while it creaks.

Goodnight, Tubbo. Sleep well.

> I'll take it from here.

[thediamondmodcart]

Dan had been just pacing. Pacing around and around, over and over, so much that the wooden floor has marks for the circles that he'd been going in loops for.

Do something, a part of his brain tells him. No, he'll be fine. He's grown enough to be out on his own, another part says. Trumpet goes outside already sometimes, this should be no different. But he hasn't come home yet. Maybe he's just at a sibling's house? But then another other part of him is screaming that he is just EIGHT.

The blazeborn makes a horrified face and groans, dragging his hands over his face. There is just two people in this house and it is two grown men who have barely exchanged words with one another and are romantically (sort of) involved with the only other adult in the house. Who, is also missing.

But the thing is, Dan knows where Maxo is. She wrote it on a note and Trumpet just- left. Whatever's left of this boy is tucked into a corner neatly like it was either left there on purpose or it was always this way and it would just haunt Dan on how- perfect it looks.

It really just- doesn't change the fact that Trumpet's missing.

Dan mulls over what's probably nothing for the umpteenth time before letting his impulse take over and move his feet out the door.

He'll just try.

[elbackflipo]

Claustrophobia isn't something slimes are afraid of. The purpose of their life is to squeeze in any kind of space, taking its shape and sticking to whatever surface its mass has clung onto. The mob has evolved over time, eventually diverging off to becoming a species and its subcategories.

Slimes are meant to be trapped in tight spaces.

Charlie wakes up where air doesn't reach him. It's uncomfortable, with undiscernable debris digging into his flesh. It's too dark to see, why couldn't his unknown most likely dead ancestors develop night-vision?

The first thing he does is move, shimmying his limbs to try and distinguish where he is right now. The space is crumbling, yet packed. It feels like dirt. It might be dirt, considering the taste and the way his body wholly rejected clumps seeping into the slime of his skin. Okay, don't panic. Clearly buried underneath the fucking ground. No, no, it's fine,

"WHAT THE FUCK!?" He screams, as his second course of action.

Then, turning back to moving his body, he focuses on his arms, trying to push the dirt ceiling upwards for more breathing room. Christ, he'd think he'd be okay with this, considering the brief history introduction. The dirt doesn't budge a fucking inch, and he wheezes out in despair.

Okay, cool. Cool, cool, cool.

It's not like - anything he hasn't been in before. It's just a fucking hole. A convienient Slimecicle shaped hole. As if having your life be shaped by a teenager over and over, to have your life be reshaped AGAIN by some rather handsome mysterious apple shopkeep, to then move away from all that to settle down and have an unplanned marriage and child, and to now be suddenly entrapped in his own burial, is just something Charlie can just get over with right?

"Hey, HEY!" He screams, to whoever put him in this space. "LET ME OUT! WHAT- WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM?!"

His palms push against the walls, anywhere, legs kicking as well to truly demonstrate how panicked he is to all of this. He shouldn't be here. He- He should be at home, with his Mariana, his Flippa. He should be exploring, and talking with his friends.

Charlie should be outside.

Time begins to cease. He goes into a loop; scream, push, get tired, rest, repeat. His throat feels sore, slimy flesh looking like jello with every push of his lungs to cry for help. It's maddening, to be inside this confined dirt hole. He should be okay with this. He should be okay.

Charlie's fists are muddied with a murky color of brown and green. His clothes and shoes are caked in dirt and all of his slime starts collecting debris like twigs and rocks. Tears well up in his eyes as he yells.

"FUCKING LET ME OUT ALREADY! PLEASE!" His voice starts to waver, almost tapping into wet gurgles of his eldritch form. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK I DID OR- OR EVEN WHO YOU THE FUCK ARE, BUT I SHOULDN'T EVEN BE HERE!!"

"TELL ME WHAT AND WHO THE FUCK LANDED ME IN DIRT SHIT PRISON!!"

"Why you did,"

Hands raise from the ground, covering his mouth and restraining him to the bottom of the crevice. His words sound unconprehensible, he's under slime. These hands, the ones holding him down, are like his own, green and translucent in all the right places. There's no fake flesh on them, and there's definitely way more than the two he has right now. What the absolute fuck.

A weight appears next to his shoulder, right under his head. Hot breath with a hint of a smile speaks in his voice. Charlie feels a shiver go down his spine.

"Don't you remember anything?" It- he? asks himself, as Charlie struggles against clamping hands. "You got yourself in this situation, you silly funny thing, you!"

His cheek gets pinched and pulled, pain drawing from the pressure, but all he could think about is what, or why, or most importantly how. Charlie tries to talk back, thinking aloud and muffled.

"How," is all he could muster to say beneath the hand. The second him laughs almost too sweet, almost too perfect, almost too him. It would've been an exact copy, if it didn't waver in odd noises at every other "ha!".

This shouldn't feel real, but it fucking does look like it right about now.

Slime, he calls the other him for now, slithers its tongues against the walls of the hole. It's him if he was in his true form, eldritch with hundreds of tendrils spilling out of his slimy body. There's just a problem with this doppelganger however, and it's that Charlie doesn't have any black gunk mixed with his sickened green. He also doesn't think he'd twitch and jitter as much as this one does. A tendril slips under his chin like a hand.

"Oh, you poor poor sweet summer Slimecicle!" It exclaims, wriggling his chin. He keeps struggling. "Do you really want to know?" The tendrils slips away with a gross trail, alarming black sludge getting dissolved into his own slime. He feels light-headed. "Or would you rather pass out and let this happen?"

Charlie bites on the hand that silences him, slime entering his mouth, as sharp fangs cut through. "SHUT UP!" He replies, "Fuck off, you- you fucking slimepostor son of a bitch!

"I didn't- I didn't fucking bury myself in this hole, at least not this cramped and fucking underground of all places!"

Slime cackles at his struggles, squeezing his body tight enough that it illicits a dry wheeze. More pounds of slime cover over him like a thick blanket, forcing him to be stuck against the floor. The dirt has long left him, in a way that he didn't even notice as his back is now pressed against more slime.

"No, I suppose not. But you still got yourself here, buddy!

"I don't think living people get sent six feet under!" It chirps. "Don't you think so, corpse-o?" Slime moves Charlie's head to mimic a nod, "Of course you do, corpse-o! Oh you!"

Charlie jerks his head back, "Fuck you." He spits. "I- What am I even doing here? What do you want with me? Where the- Where the fuck even am I?"

He turns his head, expecting to face Slime fully, but the head leaning on his shoulder isn't there anymore. His body feels lighter even. In the rush of being free, he turns back to the ceiling, only to find Slime in front instead. Its hands stretched out like an angel, caressing his face as if it was. The tight space squeezes against his body.

"You're me." It says, body paralleling his on the ceiling. "Well, more accurately, I'm you.

"And no worries, I'm just taking over for you while you sleep in here." Slime pats the side of the left over dirt walls. "All your memories, all your thoughts, your appearance and entire life is slowly being transferred over to me overtime. So don't worry about waking up a little less like you each time.

"I'm making this as painless as possible for the dead guy."

Horror flashes in Charlie's eyes, widening at the sudden shock of the confirmation of his death. He shouldn't be surprised, he was fucking called corpse-o of all fucking things, and it was said in such manner that the other him truly was him. He needs to say something. "I-

"How are you doing this?" He questions. "I- the mimicking, the- the fucking hole! The teleporting??" He laughs nervously. "If- If I was like- actually dead, I wouldn't even be talking."

Slime thinks about this for a moment, extra hands acting apart of his expression, placing themselves under his chin with a finger pointing at his crainium. His own hands pat his origin's cheeks. "Well, I'm just showing you what I want you to see.

"Like obviously, you wouldn't be seeing and feeling this if you were actually dead, but physically? In the real world out there?"

His hands pull at Cicle's slimy cheeks.

"You're as dead as a fucking um, well dead guy." He laughs. "Yeah, no, right now? I'm using your body as we speak. We're laying in bed, as your wife's curling up against us. He's warm.

"Do you even remember her name? Do you even remember your own?"

Cicle opens his mouth, trying to process everything while finding an answer to the question. There's nothing in there. He doesn't remember anything. He goes quiet, instead, face falling to truly comprehend the horrors of being replaced. Dying isn't even what's the most shocking to him, it's that he's being drained of everything he is, and all of that is being transferred to a fucking joke of a double.

He doesn't even know his name.

"...Hey, cheer up, man."

Their chin gets lifted up to Charlie smiling sweetly at them, the blackened slime mixing into theirs. A tendril drags itself across their face, mushing their glasses to the side. Charlie laughs, voice pitching in intervals. For a brief second, his face looked like a shadow, with piercing green eyes and flickering neon scales. But it's Charlie, Charlie Slimecicle with tanned flesh and green goo, brown hair and glasses over forest green eyes. Dark mucus dotting in his sludge.

Cicle smiles, unintentionally, like an uncontrolled habit from seeing themself in the mirror. And Charlie's lips open,

"I'll remember it for you." He whispers.

Then he moves, lunging from where he lays onto Slimecicle, mushing their faces and melding their bodies together into an amalgamation of gunk and life. Limbs of varying discernity fly up and around like a brawl as the monster takes its shape. The world shakes in a tidal wave with the slimebeast as its gravity, spinning and turning surroundings into a mesh of confusion as they are the focus of everything.

It feels like a nightmare, then a hazy dream, then the morning where he creaks his eyes open again.

He turns to his side, expecting another him to show up, but he gets greeted with a sleeping beauty. His hand brushes against Mariana's hair, moving a couple stray bangs just to see him fully.

In the back of his eyes, Charlie lights up in a soft adoring glow, while the front seems to be staring too intently. As if he wasn't looking at Mariana at all, but rather the air before her.

Slime lifts himself up, hand continuing to comb through his wife's head. While Charlie screams in muffled cries, buried deep below in the recesses of his mind, slowly being eaten away by the parasite that's claimed him.

Slimes are meant to be trapped in tight spaces.

[bonestrouslingbones]

suddenly realizing there's no reason i can't make the atbb crew visit the half-formed au idea i had a million years ago with the king mettaton ending & toxic/codependent papyton...........much to think about............

[bonetrousledbones]

saw some fanart that reminded me so very strongly of the mishap au that it had me reminiscing over it like a long lost lover. the one that got away..................

[thecensusbureau]

It's been exactly a full week and a half since Cucurucho got denied for that meeting, and a half a week since they got the consequences for it.

The scars can't heal, so they've just been redoing each stitch every so often. Their paws started shaking less with time, and their patchwork could almost seamless. Almost.

Cucurucho rushes this time, however. Their fat jiggles as they hold their top over their stomach with another paw pulling the needle through and from the torn open silicone. The need to hurry stitching themself up takes priority over looking normal, if they wanted to leave the house in time before Asha wakes up from her nap. (They always fixed themself when she did. The timing just had to be done.)

Hastily pulling its undershirt and sweater over its body, Rucho wriggles out of the bathroom door of the master bedroom and kisses Asha's forehead on the way out.

The trip felt the same. Warp, reminsce in the office, leave, small talk, walk. Warp, reminsce on the floor, leave, pep talk, walk. At least the hallway sounds with the pitter patter of quicked paws than trembling legs.

Cucurucho had been practicing everyday, facing itself (at a broken mirror) and conversing as if it was talking to its partner (they can't imagine how he looks at them). They rehearsed, and rehearsed, editing and tweaking a script that seemed to change depending on how Rucho predicted his reactions.

Oh honey, I can't still, I'm sorry. Are you serious? You've got to kidding, right? No. The final answer is still no. I'm doing this for you, for us. If it's really for the best of the Island... Of course you can go.

(I can't lose you.)

What Cucurucho can't predict is what they find once they opened the door.

The Bureau stands at the front end of his desk, arms crossed and a stoic (more annoyed now) look on its face. It turns around with a smooth whir, ear twitching at the interruption. Rucho shrinks.

Their partner however, perks up. Jeremy stands, immediately coming over, (muttering "Thank God,"), and holds their paws. He stares at their intertwined hands, for a second, then realizes.

"What are you doing here?" His head shoots up, alarmed in a subtle way. "Is there something wrong at home? Sorry, if I didn't get your call if you did call me- Is Asha okay? What—"

"No, no, no... It's fine, everything's fine at home." Cucurucho laughs softly. Their fingers grip his firm, yet gentle. They hope he can't see their scars from here. "I'm.. just here to talk about the meeting."

"Meeting?" The Bureau interrupts from the side. They both turn to look, and it looks even more uncomfortable. "Sorry, I did not mean to bother this... intimate moment." It gestures to them both. Cucurucho stifles a snort, but nods along anyway. "But we were just in discussion of a meeting ourselves. In fact, you were mentioned, were they not?"

It takes another second for Jeremy react. Distracted, she assumes. They did interrupt after all, that might've screwed with the entire groove. But he confirms in the end, nodding and facing them back. "Right, right. Yes, yeah. We were just talking about you."

"You mentioned about going to the Board meeting, and as I found out through the Bureau, you kind of already told us both about who they are." He says, "Honestly, you really don't have to go at all if that's what you're here for. You can just... I don't know, tell us more about this meeting, and I'll send word that the Bureau is going."

"Wait what."

The Bureau sputters, visibly shocked by this sudden drop in of plans. The former doesn't become surprised, not because Jeremy had already told them that it would be going instead, but because the Bureau has a system. A schedule and a calculation for everything. Everytime something gets added or does not add up at all, they short-circuit.

Sorry, not Cucurucho, the new Bureau.

"I- Pardon? Is this why you asked me to discuss today?" It asks. "I did not prepare for myself to enter this meeting." (Liar. Cucurucho assumes. It probably already wanted this to happen.) "I simply assumed we were just discussing what oppurtunies this could be made of."

"That's alright, Bureau." Rucho starts, voicebox trembling a bit from the fear of another rejection. They press on. "You won't be going to this meeting,"

"I will."

"What?" "Excuse me?"

Jeremy interjects first, hands tightening theirs. "I- Rucho, I told you that I don't want you to go. I don't want you being hurt-" As the Bureau overlaps, brows furrowed and ears pressed. "-I'm sorry, but am I or am I not entering this meeting for you? Frankly, I am rather offended by this ordeal—"

"-again by those people who fucked up your life! I don't want you to go just because they always expected you to—" Their voices mix and yet separate in their ears. "-as your superior other, and how dare they not ask me instead? I've done more than you ever could have and yet—"

"-go out of your way just to hurt you again, and I just geniunely, can't stand the thought of..." Jeremy's eyes trail down to their paws again, with Bureau's twitching and staring at them irritated. "- here I am being left alone to work for your mistakes, while you get to do nothing and play house! Are you aware that—" Cucurucho tunes out its voice out of their ears.

Jeremy looks like he's done the same too, simply staring, admiring, observing, their paws. Fingers rubbing over fur and metal joints before he moves one of his hands to the plush pink pad of their palm. He notices the thin line over it.

Cucurucho says nothing of this discovery.

"Bureau, that- that's enough." The higher-up says, turning over to the second-in-command. It stops, addressing the request, and smoothens its fur. "Right. I apologize... for that outburst. Continue."

"Thank you." Cucurucho nods, mechanically clearing their throat. "It's... honestly rather complicated to even explain how this even happened."

"We have all day," The Bureau says. "I'm sure crucial information like this is beneficial to better our situation, is it not?" Instead of turning to them, it turns to their partner as if they weren't even in the room. Their paws tighten.

"I am aware it is, but it is... honestly, just... really long to explain in full detail." Rucho grits her teeth. They don't want to spend all day here just explaining family drama related to the context of board meetings for the past decades. It can't verbally summarize everything for the sake of a decision to go to this meeting.

It can't verbally describe the (needed, correct, and deserved) disciplining it gone through. Not with him, not with them who never and will ever experience this, not now.

A tap interrupts their quicked thoughts, several even. (Frantic yet gentle. Familiar.) Cucurucho looks down to his finger tapping the top of their paws. (L/O/V/E-Y/O/U) Their grip tightened too much. Shit, sorry. They mumble aloud, letting go slightly. He just nods, silently as if they were conversing to themselves only. "Sorry." They say again, this time to the room. (I/T/S-O/K)

"For withholding information?" Bureau asks with a raised brow (and a disgusted look). It gestures to the two of them. "Honestly, for the better of our understanding, I think you should—"

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to." Jeremy interrupts, shutting the second bear in the room again. Its paws tighten, Cucurucho lessens their own in turn. "Just, tell us at least enough. We'll figure it out, right Bureau?" He continues, pointedly asking it as he turns to it.

It simply, and stiffly, nods.

Osito just sighs, thinking over what they'd be willing to share. Just enough, but what counts as enough in this context? And what is enough to share that context without outing anything? They need to be careful.

"What... I am allowed to say, that isn't confidential by any means..." They gnaw on her lip. "...is that for the longest time, I was the sole representative for this side of Federation's Islands. With that, they had gotten used to me, and because of that familiarity, they did not allow anyone else to come instead. So much to the point that the address of the meeting's location has been secretive towards later and most staff."

"As of right now, I am the only one, at least within this building, who is aware of the location, the Board members, and the itinerary for the whole meeting. The Board usually discusses points such as Island and job status, progress on current projects, and future oppurtunies."

"And I'm sure as both of you are aware, our status is... rather awful."

The Bureau looks at them directly in the camera lenses. By stare alone, they already know what it's saying. "You did this. Your fault." They know.

Jeremy, on the other paw, bites his lip. He keeps having his eyes at their conjoined hands. They can assume he's thinking about their past conversation. "That's why," they think, "that's why they asked for their failed job back."

Cucurucho continues.

"Anyways, I... After- a recent event," They awkwardly reword their thoughts. "I am now being... threathened, let's say, to push through with my invitation to this meeting."

"I completely understand if you still want to say no, though." Cucurucho mumbles, head and gaze pointing towards the floor. "I failed at being the Bureau, and with that mistake has led us to where we are now. This was all my fault. I didn't want it to be this way, but it has. I understand if you still want the current Bureau to go. I'm sorry for-" Quick recovery. Do not choke now. Cry later. "-for putting us all in this position. I'm sorry for failing my only job." And they tilt their whole body down now, a polite and pleading bow. An apology.

"Rucho..." The manager before them starts. "I- It was never your fault. Don't say that." (Not now.) His hands curl tightly into theirs. "I didn't know this was why you wanted to come back, or why you wanted to go to the meeting." (I wish you told me this sooner. That you got hurt again.).

"It- I- As much as it pains me to say, honestly... I think you should go."

Both Bureaus shoot their heads up, directed at him. "Really?" "What?"

"I- I don't have to, you can just have it instead!" Cucurucho exclaims, as if they hadn't come all this way to refute that. It got what it came here for, why is it rejecting this? (They can take it, they can handle it.) "I-I'm just, I just- I didn't really think-"

"No, I'd have to agree because it sounds as if neither of you acknowledge as if I'm in the room." The Bureau's ear twitches. It quickly smoothens out a patch of fur on its chest. "I can take the offer still, I can simply learn—"

"No. They're going." The higher-up decides. Jeremy squeezes their paws, getting Osito to refocus.

"I think it's better for them to go right now." He says, seemingly thinking over his words this time. "Cucurucho's a veteran, and they just said they knew everything already. If they want them, then we should let them go." (It's for the better.)

"It's for the better." He finishes their thought aloud. "Meeting dismissed."

The Bureau sputters, baffled at how the meeting has turned out this way, and Cucurucho can only assume it had simply gained infortmation and gained nothing in return.

(Because that's exactly what happened.)

It huffs, fans whirring so loud, that Cucurucho understands the popped up emotions in its program are overloading. It's angry, and possibly at them. More even. That's alright.

It leaves with a walk that if it wasn't subtle enough, nobody would notice that it was positively fuming. That is if the sharp slam on the door wasn't enough. Jeremy almost exhales way too quickly.

"Fuck, I knew it'd be pissed about this." He sighs, rubbing their fur. "I'm sorry about it, and like, everything that happened. I didn't know." He then moves a hand over to rub against their cheek.

Cucurucho instinctively nuzzles against the touch. Melting as they sigh themself. "It's alright. Honestly, I didn't know either." "...Mhm."

With the Bureau gone, he gets touchy. Both hands on the sides of their face, trailing down to give them a hug underneath their layers of clothing just to feel their fur. Osito can feel his hands ghost over their poorly stitched wounds. He's frowning, and they don't even need to ask why.

"Oh baby," Jeremy breathes. "What happened to you?"

"I didn't want to tell you," Cucurucho breaks in a whisper. "I didn't want you to say yes just because I'm like this."

"Rucho, you're hurt." He says. "It's my fault, this- this is the event you're referring to, right?" Jeremy nervously laughs. "They did this to you, didn't they? Just because I didn't let you go?"

"I'm sorry," It hiccups. "I handled it. I'm fine. It'll be fine." Cucurucho lies, covering their eyes to stop any threathening tears.

"I didn't want to worry you."

"Not telling me is worrying me. Baby, please, just because I'm at work all the time doesn't mean you can't tell me when shit like this happens." He shakes his head. Jeremy brings his hands over their own, gently bringing them down to fold over and intertwine again. "We're partners now. I want to know when shit like this happens to you. I don't care if I'm working, I don't care if you think I'll be mad, because I'm not!"

"I just want you and Asha safe, okay? I'm sorry that I'm not around for this." He then moves his hands over to engulf them in another hug. Tighter and deeper, more desperate. "I'm sorry I'm not around for you. I'm sorry this even happened in the first place. I just didn't want you hurt again."

"I love you, okay? I fucking love you."

Somehow, that's what gets the dam bursting for them in the office. Rucho sobs, breaking down from the build up of their overwhelmed mind. They cry ugly, and he holds them like this isn't difficult.

As if they aren't making a huge mistake, and they're so caught up in it that it hurts. He holds them close, with an arm around their back and another on the shoulder to stabilize as if this was the easiest thing he's done today.

They breakdown, and he comforts them as if it's no big deal. Cucurucho could burst into more tears.

After a few minutes of letting it out, and taking the time to calm down, they sit on the floor where they stood. Jeremy sits beside them with hands going up and down their arms in support. He chuckles. "...Feeling better?"

"I..." Cucurucho sniffles, wiping their eyes. "Yes, yeah." They sigh. "I-I'm sorry I just did that, I just-"

"Shh shh shh." He interrupts with a finger pressed to her mouth. "You don't have to tell me, okay? You're fine." They just nod with glazed eyes, and they both fall back into a comfortable silence for a little while longer.

"If it helps, I can stitch you up when I can." Their boyfriend offers, "Or I can just... I don't know, call Tubbo or something to help you. I don't want you covered in stitches while you don't feel safe in our home." (In you.) "Is that okay with you, Rucho?"

They nod, and he goes into a grin. Jeremy stands up with hands pulling them up with him, (they do it by instinct not that he's actually strong enough to lift their weight), and starts to lead them towards the warp plate in his office. "Wait- are you taking me home? You don't have to, I can just go back on my own."

"Well, who's going to be helping you with dinner?" He asks with a smile. "I'm on my break now, I've decided."

Cucurucho blinks, subtly feels a weight lift off their shoulders, then it sighs affectionately with a shake of their head. They're smiling now too.

"Just promise me not to talk about this over dinner. I don't want Asha to know about this just yet." "We can talk about it another time then."

The meeting is in two weeks. They have plenty of time to prepare. It'll be okay now.

They'll be okay.

[carre-less-skater]

It's empty when you walk into the adoption center. Maybe whoever was supposed to pick up those guys already came.

Doesn't mean you couldn't check out the scene right? You step off the skateboard, pushing it up into your hand with your left foot.

It's pretty sterile, but not obnoxiously plain, you supposed. The little nooks all had names on them. Empanada, Pepito, SunnySideUp.

You snort a little, did they really name these eggs after egg dishes?

"Debieron tener hambre." You snicker to yourself. "Ah?" Your eyes catch on the paper under their names.

Multiple parents? Per egg?

Well, your tail flick idly. Most eggs have TWO but this is more than two, so you think you're justified in your confusion.

Your eyes wander each paper, mumbling the names.

Yeah, most of the people you remember seeing the name of on the cells—

Wait was that—

You blink slowly, your eyes locking on Pepito's paper.

Huh.

It was your name there. You look around again, a little more nervous. They wanted YOU to raise a kid?

"¡Ni en pedo hago eso!" You smack your forehead, rolling your eyes. Not a chance! You drop your skateboard, giving it a little push as you skate off.

The kid has multiple parents anyway, they wouldn't miss you.

[sleepdeprivedshift]

Dying sucks. A lot.

Sure, it's not the first time he's died. But it sure as hell a fucking drag.

He's half conscious on the floor, barely breathing as he stares unfocused onto the ceiling. Night's laying in a pool of his own blood. It doesn't even faze him one bit.

Another incident of a break in. Night feels like deja vu isn't even a real phenomenon at this point. When's he getting paid for all the times he's gotten shot from a stranger at a pizzeria joint? Two nickels doesn't even cut it.

There's vague sounds ahead. Screaming in high-pitched frequencies and the sound of tearing meat. Oh well, at least they're having fun. Bon mostly, he's gotten so protective of him since the original incident. The red really matches his light blue colored casing. And-

Clack-clack-clack.

Someone's snapping their fingers in front of him. Attention- they're trying to get their attention. Night can barely focus where the noises are- or where his eyes glaze over. His head rolls over towards long black spindly fingers.

"Night," A soft spoken voice catches his ears. "Get up. You fucked up big time."

He lets out a small chuckle, liquid trickling from his mouth. "Charlie,"

"You can't swear."

"Yes, I can. I'm older than you." A masked figure in front of him argues. The puppet tilts her head at him. Blank expression with all emotion put into her voice.

"You are like ten years old."

"Doesn't matter." She pats his head. "I learned most of them from you anyway."

Night's too tired to grin, but they both know that he would've. "That's such a lie. Get me up."

"You're already up if you're talking."

Night rolls his eyes weakly and strains to pull himself up. It's as if he was just laying down for a nap, and that the only inconvenience was all the blood. The gifted pendant around his neck flickers light blue, before dying down as he smoothens his hand over it.

"You should've reset it." Marionette says, rolling over on her back as she floats in the air. Her head dangles as if she's at the edge of a bed. "You wouldn't have died, or that guy too. Even if he deserved it."

He ignores her first comment. "I don't think anyone deserves to die." Night says, unzipping his jacket to check his brand new scars underneath. They're already healed, found out the hard way that they heal automatically once he's revived. It'd be cool one day to just- have an open gaping wound. That's something people would be into- right?

"It was just- a weird coincidence." Night shrugs.

"..." She rolls back over to float into the hallway, presumably going back to her box. "Whatever you say..."

Night rolls his eyes, taking much longer to stand up from his puddle of blood. He's covered in so much red that all his purple accents have turned pink.

Ugh... Whatever.

He looks over to the Toys, Chica and Freddy giggling to themselves as Bonnie goes to town on the intruder that shot him. Deja vu, right.

"Alright, that's probably enough." He holds his fingers over his mouth as he whistles at the three. "I appreciate you guys protecting me, but you gotta stop mauling them."

A chime of wavering voices and beeping clicks fill the office and hallway. Night raises his hand up.

"Up-up-up, I don't want to hear it. You all better help me clean this up before six, or none of you are allowed to stay up past your bedtime."

More noise, this time louder and more garbled. He waves his hands around.

"Ah ah ah. You guys heard me. I don't want to hear arguements from any of you." Night picks up his jacket from the floor and hoists it over his shoulder, to join the rest of his blood caked attire. "That body better be disposed by the time I'm done changing, alright?"

He hears his kids disgruntedly agree, and he nods with a smile. "Good. If you even get to cleaning the floor, I'll call Glam for you guys."

Delight and whimsy as he leaves into the hallway. Bots immediately start moving, while items pick up and float around to clean as best as they could.

Night knows he'll have to throw it on his own, double-checking that they don't just chuck a mangled body into the dumpster, and actually take the time to sever it. Guess being friends with a murderer has some of its perks.

Still, it's a bit annoying.

Night groans, on his way out to get his duffel bag from a locker. What a fucking pain to deal with later.

[aquatic-anxiety]

You're heavy. Too heavy. Your skin felt heavier than the structure underneath. Your teeth felt heavy.

You heave every breath like you couldn't get enough air in your lungs, vision blurring. The pillows under your fingers crinkles under your fingers.

You can feel every beat of your heart against your ribs. Your body expand and compress with your laboured breathes. It hurts. You can feel your lungs stretching.

You're keenly aware of the way your eyes sat in your sockets, your gills twitch under your bandages. You're not breathing enough, you're breathing too much.

You can feel your organs shift with every movement of your body. Your diaphragm nudging against your lungs and scraping against your ribs.

This was a reminder you were still alive.

You're too small, too aware of what you are.

Your bones can't contain you but they have to.

You can feel your muscles contract and relax, stretching around your bones and pulling taut against your tendons.

Your eyes burn. You can feel the tears, you can feel your tearducts.

You can feel the pulsing of your brain as your neurons light up. You gasp and you can't feel anything but yourself and it's so overwhelming.

You move your leg and you're suddenly more aware that something was wrong. You're heavy. You're so heavy. You shouldn't be this heavy. But water wouldn't help you this time.

Your tail twitches and you want to scream. More sensations cover your senses in ways that you wish never existed.

You feel like you're in a coffin of your skin and you're drowning.

[minibuilder777]

Leo knew she wasn't a bad kid. At least to Dad's eyes. Papa knew too, but it still didn't stop him from scolding Leo before eventually leaning in to comfort her as he tried to sleep.

Emphasis on tried.

Her thoughts buzzed aloud in his little head. Like a school of piranhas consuming prey. Leo was the food, and did they feel being eaten alive by the awful versions of herself.

All said different things, in different fonts and colors, different volumes and in different intervals.

"It's your fault." "Dad probably lied." "All your things are gone." "The things he gave you are probably gone like him." "You'll be left in the center."

But they all ended on the same message,

"You're a bad kid, Leonarda."

All said in their voice.

That shouldn't have bothered him as much. He's... he's a big boy! Six years old and here she is on the verge of tears.

Well, they are in tears right now. But nobody needs to know, she's trying to make sure nobody knows.

Covering her mouth to silence the sobs and trying to play off the occassional hiccups as him shifting positions on Papa's lap. They want to warble, they want to talk, they want to howl up upon the Dragon and tell the stars everything.

Tell Flippa how every flower she passes by reminds him of the ones in her hair. Tell Tilin how every birthday the presents remind them of the big red bow on her head. Tell Bobby how every art supply and painting reminds her of the art on his walls. Tell Trump how every bomb and dynamite reminds them of her best friend's playful behavior.

Shark, he thinks Trump would be proud of her for that explosion. She hopes that every flame rising towards the sky would eventually reach the star he'd see her.

A near howl escapes her throat but they were quick enough to stop it. She can hear Tío Bad yelling at Dad and that overpowers her thoughts.

Everything is so loud.

Everything but Leo is so loud.

Leo loves the loud, but not this kind.

Everything is so loud.

Leo is not.

[thediamondmodcart]

The last few days have been productive. Actually, it was the most productive he had ever been.

He spent all his days underground, the cold and dimly lit cave below his crudely mined home from the early days of this server. The only torch is him.

The murder was helpful, well, what's left of them anyway. Peg sometimes visits, hops between him and the better outside. It's kind of pitiful knowing a handful of birds stayed better than actual people.

(Better than him? No- Couldn't be. He deserves to be selfish. He deserves to be angry.)

He deserves nice things. And nice things did he get.

The pickaxe hit the stone with ease. Base diamond, Dan was pretty surprised at the lack of announcement, and was relieved at that fact. Good. No one has to know.

He misses the ruby armor, iron was alright for the time being and Dan hadn't brushed up on his mod knowledge in a bit. Do they have ruby here?

Oh does he miss the ultimate battle axe— the ultimate sword, the overpowered weapons that were large and hefty to wield. Enchanted netherite given to players who had nothing. Kindness.

He missed Kindness. And Kindness missed him.

And the true meaning of the word did not miss him.

Pity would be a fitting name if Dan ever got a good sword. Better than base diamond. Better than Kindness. Better than-

Tick.

A crow flies by, pecking him on the hand. Bread dropped on the stone adjacent to him.

Oh. Right. Food.

He hadn't even noticed he was hungry, and he was on 3 hearts. Wow, was he really asking for it.

(Surprised that he hadn't died yet.)

The crow pecks him again, nipping him at the skin. Eat. Right, right.

That was nice of it.

Maybe kindness did miss him.

In little ways.

[builderfreak]

Foolish looked at his communicator- he hadn't been on it much with the much needed fixing of the dragon. Leo had been on though, so he had to catch up- and quickly. He didn't necessarily need to, but it sated a want to know if everyone was okay in him. Scrolling- he knew he shouldn't look at bads posts, it would only make him a bit upset. But.. What was he if not nosy?

Hm- it was a list of symptoms. Symptoms he was only somewhat familiar with- but maybe it was something else? He didn't want to be wrong on this- maybe bad had a long going fever or something. He had noticed bad was.. angrier. He hadn't wanted to say anything, bad was probably working through some things anyways- he deserved to be a little angry foolish supposed. She sighed to herself, she'd apologize to bad soon enough. She had long since stopped being mad and started becoming bored of his attitude.

She leaned back and sighed, heading back to work, she had a house to finish up.

[mars-ipan]

watching my shitpost that took maybe a couple hours to make blow up way faster than the illustration i spent days on is. bittersweet.

[procrastinatingwritersblog]

hello, mind dropping some book recs for me?

-💐anon

OK OK SO

to kill a kingdom for a short standalone (ok it’s part of a series but it has a complete narrative arc)

the entire secret shanghai series for a longer one. both of these are romantasy <3

you could hate-read kotlc lmao (i do Not like kotlc)

ooooh crimson moth series! it’s a good witch x witch hunter duology, and i think it’s better than the gods and monsters series or whatever which has the same trope

i’m in a reading slump lmao 😭 i’ll rb if i have more <3