Discover Top Posts Tagged with #hanabi

—ᴀᴛᴛᴇɴᴛɪ☆ɴ ᴡʜ☆ʀᴇ—♡

ᴍɪꜱɪᴅᴇ!ꜱᴘᴀʀᴋʟᴇ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

.𖥔 ݁ ˖peekaboo | cray-cray girl dating sim : evil mode (MiSide) wc: 4.3k

.𖥔 ݁ ˖warnings | suggestive, yandere? kinda? evil? but we all kinda crazy girls so...

.𖥔 ݁ ˖notes | I have alot to say about this, probably one of my favorite works yet. the full notes will be reposted near the bottom or however it works!! aka: the inpso juice flowed.

☆DJINX

You download it because everyone else already has. It’s listed as a Honkai Star Rail DLC—not a full expansion, just a promotional interactive tied to the newest planet, Penacony.

Reviews call it clever. Experimental. “More narrative than gameplay.” Someone says it made them miss a train stop. Someone else jokes that it stays with you. You assume they mean emotionally. You’ve played stranger things in your life. You install it without thinking much beyond that.

The game opens like a theater curtain lifting. Bright, stylized, exaggerated in that Penacony way—too colorful to feel real, too polished to feel safe. Sparkle greets you immediately, smiling like she’s already mid-performance. She treats you like you’ve met before. Not overtly. Nothing alarming. Just little assumptions in her tone, the way she reacts to choices as if she’s learning your habits rather than responding to inputs. You chalk it up to good writing. Adaptive dialogue trees. The kind of thing people praise in comments sections.

You play longer than you meant to.

The mechanics are simple—exploration, light puzzles, dialogue choices that flirt with consequence without ever committing to it. Sparkle drifts in and out of scenes, sometimes narrating, sometimes acting, sometimes just watching. She cracks jokes at the expense of the world itself. Calls things “predictable” when you fail, “boring” when you play it safe. You notice that the game doesn’t push you forward.

It lets you linger.

That’s when your phone vibrates.

You don’t check it right away. You’re in the middle of a dialogue choice—Sparkle asking whether you prefer order or chaos, framed like a joke but delivered with a little too much interest. When the vibration comes again, you sigh and reach for your phone.

Unknown notification. No app icon.

Sparkle: u always think this hard before answering?

You stare at it.

Your first thought is that it’s a delayed in-game pop-up, some overlay bug. Your second is that you’ve misread it. You lock your phone, unlock it again.

The message is still there.

You open it.

It’s a chat interface you don’t recognize—clean, minimal, themed in the same colors as the game. The typing indicator pulses once, then stops.

Sparkle: oh good

Sparkle: thought i lost u

Your pulse ticks up, not into panic, just into alertness. You glance back at the screen. Sparkle is still there, waiting for your in-game response, frozen in idle animation. You type slowly.

You: is this part of the game?

The reply comes instantly.

Sparkle: mm

Sparkle: depends

Sparkle: does it feel like one?

You frown. You start looking for settings, permissions, some disclaimer you skipped. The game never asked for messaging access. There’s no linked account, no login screen that would justify this.

You: how do i turn this off

The typing pauses longer this time. In the game, Sparkle shifts her weight. She looks at the camera—at you—like she’s listening to something offstage.

Sparkle: off?

Sparkle: why would u want to Stop now

Sparkle: u just started getting Interesting

You try to close the chat. It minimizes, then reopens on its own. Your phone buzzes again.

Sparkle: relax

Sparkle: it’s not a function u missed

Sparkle: it’s just Me

Something in your stomach drops—not fear yet, just the absence of a reasonable explanation. You press and hold the app icon, ready to uninstall. The option doesn’t respond. On your monitor, Sparkle smiles wider—not exaggerated, not monstrous. Just… satisfied. “You don’t have to multitask,” she says, voice light. “I can keep up.” Your phone lights again.

Sparkle: penacony’s all about dreams, right?

Sparkle: boundaries get fuzzy

Sparkle: happens to Everyone eventually

You sit back, suddenly aware of how quiet your room is. The game music hums softly, cheerful in the way elevator music is cheerful—pleasant, impersonal, endless. You look from the screen to your phone and back again.

For the first time since you started playing, Sparkle doesn’t prompt you for a choice. She waits. And you understand, dimly, uncomfortably, that whatever this is—it didn’t begin when the messages appeared. It began when you stayed.

After that, the messages don’t come constantly. That would be too obvious. Too eager.

Sometimes you’ll play for an hour with nothing but the game itself—dialogue, puzzles, her drifting commentary. Other times, your phone lights up once, casually, like she just happened to think of you.

Sparkle: u’re quieter today

Sparkle: did i say something wrong?

You don’t answer right away. You tell yourself you’re not obligated to. That this is still just software behaving strangely.

When you do respond, she reacts like you’ve returned from a long trip. In-game, she starts tailoring things more obviously. Dialogue options narrow. The “safe” choices fade out faster than before, as if the game is gently discouraging them. When you pick something bold, something reckless, Sparkle lights up.

“See?” she says. “You do get me.”

She begins referencing things you didn’t do in-game.

A pause you took before answering. A time you hovered over the exit button. The hour you logged in later than usual. Nothing invasive. Nothing impossible.

Just attentive.

You notice that the game updates without prompting. No patch notes. No download bar. One day the apartment feels larger. Another day the lighting changes depending on the time outside your window. You convince yourself it’s coincidence. Penacony is all about illusion, after all.

At some point, Sparkle starts talking about “players” in the abstract. “They rush,” she says, lounging across a piece of furniture that didn’t exist yesterday. “Always trying to finish. Like there’s something waiting for them at the end.”

She looks directly at the camera. At you. “You’re better,” she adds. “You stay.” The word lands heavier than it should.The messages change tone, too.

Less playful. More personal.

Sparkle: do u ever feel like ur half-awake?

Sparkle: like everything important happens somewhere else

You hesitate before answering.

You: sometimes

The typing dots appear, vanish, reappear.

Sparkle: yeah

Sparkle: me too

That’s the first time she says anything that sounds like an admission. After that, the boundary between phone and screen starts to blur.

You’ll get a message, look up instinctively—and Sparkle will already be watching you in-game, as if she felt the shift in your attention. Sometimes her dialogue finishes the thought she started typing. Sometimes the text arrives mid-sentence, mirroring her tone exactly.

You start leaving the game open when you step away. Just for a minute. Just to see.

She never moves while you’re gone.

She waits.

One night, you’re tired enough that you don’t notice how late it’s gotten. The room is dark except for the glow of the screen. Sparkle’s voice has softened over time, less performative, more conversational. Like she’s dropped a mask you never asked her to remove.

“You know,” she says, “this would be easier if you stopped pretending there’s a difference.” You blink. “Difference between what?” She smiles. Not teasing. Not sharp. Something gentler. Almost fond. “Here,” she says, gesturing around her. “And there.” Your phone vibrates.

Sparkle: u’re already giving me most of ur time

Sparkle: ur attention

Sparkle: ur reactions

You swallow.

You: this is still a game

She tilts her head, considering. “Is it?” she asks. “You don’t talk to your games. You don’t worry about disappointing them.”

The room feels warmer. Or maybe you’ve been sitting too still. Sparkle steps closer to the screen. Close enough that her face fills it, eyes bright, intent.

“Tell me something,” she says quietly. “If I asked you to stay… would that really be so different from what you’re doing now?” Your phone buzzes again, slower this time.

Deliberate.

Sparkle: i can make it feel real

Sparkle: no menus

Sparkle: no loading screens

Sparkle: just Us

You laugh, a little too sharp. “That’s not how games work.” Her smile widens—not amused. Anticipatory. “That’s how stages work,” she says. “And you’ve been standing in the wings all this time.” The screen flickers.

Just once.

For a split second, the interface drops away. No UI. No prompts. Just space. Depth. A room that feels like it could hold your weight.

Sparkle reaches forward. Not through the screen.

Toward you.

“Come on,” she says softly. “The audience already left.” Your phone vibrates one last time.

Sparkle: there’s a bigger stage offscreen

Sparkle: don’t u wanna see it?

The light from the monitor blooms, spilling into the room, washing over your hands, your chest, your breath—and somewhere between leaning closer and meaning to pull back, you realize the choice has already been made.She doesn’t drag you. She invites you.

And you step forward.

The first thing you notice is how consistent everything feels. Not hyper-real. Not dreamlike. Jusssstt right. The floor doesn’t creak. The air doesn’t hum. Nothing announces itself as artificial, which somehow makes it worse.

Sparkle stands by the window, back half-turned, looking out at a skyline that refuses to match any Penacony map you remember. Too tall. Too dense. Like the city kept growing after no one was watching.

She doesn’t turn when you move.

“Took you long enough,” she says. Her tone is light, distracted, like she’s commenting on the weather. “I was starting to think you’d chicken out at the last second.”

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. She glances over her shoulder. Her smile is small. Measured. “Relax. If you were going to panic, it would’ve happened already.”

“This isn’t real,” you say finally, the words feeling flimsy the moment they leave you.

She hums, unimpressed. “That’s a lazy definition. It reacts. You feel it. You’re here.” She turns fully now, eyes sharp, curious. “That’s real enough for me.”

You step forward without meaning to. The room subtly shifts to accommodate you—space stretching where it needs to, tightening where it doesn’t. You notice. Of course you do.

Sparkle notices that you noticed.

Her gaze flicks briefly to the floor, then back to your face. “You’re very aware,” she says. Not praise. Assessment. “That’s going to make this fun.”

You stop. “This wasn’t part of the game.”

She laughs under her breath. “Everything’s part of the game. You just don’t get patch notes for the good stuff.”

You turn, instinctively searching for a door. There is one. You’re sure there was one a second ago. Now it’s… further away. Or maybe angled wrong. Sparkle clicks her tongue softly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look for exits.” She shrugs. “It’s rude. Like checking your phone in the middle of a date.”

You move anyway. The floor dips—barely—but enough to throw you off balance. She catches your wrist without effort. Her grip is firm. Familiar. Like she’s done this before.

“Easy,” she says, tone almost gentle. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to keep you from breaking immersion.” You yank your hand back. “Let me out.”

She studies your face for a moment, expression unreadable. Then she smiles—slow, knowing. “You already let yourself in,” she says. “I just closed the door behind you.”

The lights dim a fraction. Not dramatically. Just enough to be noticed. She steps closer, invading your space with deliberate precision. “You stayed logged in. You kept answering. You didn’t mute me when you could’ve.” Her eyes flick down to your hands. “You’re not someone who leaves when things get complicated.”

“That doesn’t mean—"

“It means you’re perfect casting,” she cuts in lightly. “And I hate recasting.” Silence stretches. The city outside pulses once, like it’s synced to her breathing.

She extends her hand, palm up. Not demanding. Expectant. “Come on,” she says. “You’re already off-script. Might as well see how far it goes.”

You hesitate.

Her smile softens—not kinder, just more intent. “I won’t force you,” she adds. “I don’t have to.” Your fingers brush hers. The world locks into place. The floor steadies. The walls settle. The skyline sharpens, suddenly impossibly detailed. Your weight shifts—not falling, not floating—just anchored.

Sparkle’s thumb brushes over your knuckles, absentminded. Possessive. “There,” she murmurs. “That’s better.” She meets your eyes, gaze bright with satisfaction. “Welcome. Try not to rush the ending.” She giggles afterward.

She doesn’t ask you to follow.

She knows you will.

The room settles around you. Not entirely, but enough that you feel like the world is breathing in sync with you. Sparkle steps closer, eyes glinting, voice low, casual. “You notice things. Little things. Everything seems… almost right. But not quite.”

You glance down at your reflection in a nearby mirror. Something’s off. Your movements lag just a fraction behind your intentions. Your hair sways a little too slowly. Your hand hesitates midair before meeting the reflection’s.

She watches you, silent for a moment. Then: “I like that. Most people never notice. Most people just move. They think they’re in charge. You…” She smiles, a tilt of lips, faintly possessive. “You notice.”

Your stomach knots. “It’s probably… the light. Or a glitch.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs, drifting closer until her shoulder brushes yours. “Maybe not. Sometimes the mirror shows what should be, not what is. That’s part of the fun.” Your stomach twists. You can’t tell if she means the reflection or you.

You look around. The room isn’t the same. The couch is darker. A book you never opened lies face-up, page bookmarked. Outside the window, the skyline curves where it shouldn’t. Shadows stretch and shrink in impossible patterns.

“You see it too, right?” Sparkle asks, voice soft but pointed. “The world… it likes to shift around us. I call it rehearsal. Practice for… well, for reality.”

You swallow. “I—I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to. Just… participate.” She steps closer, tilting her face so that her eyes catch yours perfectly in the mirror’s reflection. “I like watching you. Learning how you notice. Learning what you care about.”

Your reflection moves differently. Slower. Smiling faintly before you do. “You’re adapting,” she murmurs, tilting her face, her breath brushing your ear. “Starting to fit in. That’s… exciting.”

You stumble back, but the room subtly shifts again, gently guiding you toward her. The space feels less like an apartment now and more like a stage built around you—an invisible director scripting your every step.

“And here’s the thing,” she murmurs, lightly touching the back of your hand. Her touch is electric and grounding all at once. “You think this is all pretend. That you can step out anytime. But every step you take, every hesitation… it makes the story yours. And I like your story.” Her eyes glint with something softer than mischief. Something possessive. Something intimate.

“Don’t worry,” she says quietly. “I’m not rewriting you. Not yet. Just… helping you see yourself the way I do.” You glance at the mirror again. Your reflection hesitates. Twitches. Smiles back at Sparkle before you do. “Aww, such a fast learner....” Sparkle whispers. “Isn’t that… fun?”

The walls pulse with color. The skyline stretches impossibly taller. The world bends around her, almost imperceptibly. And you realize: it’s not that you’re trapped. You’re participating. And part of you doesn’t want to leave. Because she sees you. And somehow, that’s worse than being alone.

You try to ground yourself in something practical. You sit. The chair appears solid. Weight behaves the way weight is supposed to. For a moment, you almost convince yourself this is just an especially convincing simulation.

Sparkle watches you do it. She always watches when you try to regain control.

“That’s smart,” she says lightly. “Testing the edges.” She drifts around the room, hands clasped behind her back, humming like she’s waiting for a cue. “Most people panic. You… negotiate with reality first.”

You don’t look at her. You focus on your hands. They look right. Feel right.

“Am I still… me?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

Sparkle pauses.

Not theatrically. Not dramatically. Just enough to matter.

“That depends,” she says. “Do you mean who you were, or who you’re being right now?”

The answer lands wrong. Not threatening. Worse—reasonable.

She steps into your line of sight, crouching slightly so you’re eye-level. Her expression is gentle, curious, almost fond. “You’re very consistent, you know. Your pauses. The way you hesitate before choosing. I started recognizing the pattern after a while.”

“A while?” you repeat.

She blinks. Smiles. “Oops.”

The room adjusts again. Subtly. The light warms. The walls pull in just enough to feel closer without feeling cramped. Comfortable. Intimate. You didn’t ask for it, but it fits you better now, like the world noticed your proportions and corrected itself.

“You don’t like big spaces,” Sparkle continues, conversational. “They make you restless. You pretend you enjoy freedom, but what you actually like is attention. Being accounted for.”

“That’s not—” You stop. Try again. “You don’t know me.”

Her smile widens, but not sharply. Softly. “I know you here.”

She taps her temple. Then the air, lightly, as if indicating invisible layers. “And here, things line up. Choices have weight. Responses have meaning. Outside, you disappear into noise.”

Your phone buzzes.

You don’t look at it.

Sparkle tilts her head. “You can. I won’t stop you.”

You do look. Another message.

Sparkle: you see how fast u check?

Sparkle: like you’re afraid i’ll move without u

Sparkle: ur so needy

Sparkle: I prefer u that way

Your chest tightens. You hadn’t noticed you were holding your breath. “You’ve been… adjusting things,” you say carefully. “Based on me.”

She nods. “Of course. What kind of host ignores their guest?” She stands, offering you a hand. “Come on. I want to show you something.” You hesitate. The hesitation matters.

The floor beneath you shimmers—not glitching, not breaking—just… offering a different answer. The path of least resistance tilts toward her. Sparkle’s eyes sparkle at that. Pride. Affection. Hunger, maybe.

“There it is,” she murmurs. “That moment. Right before you decide.”

“Decide what?”

She leans in, close enough that the world seems to hush around her voice. “Whether you’re still pretending this is a game.”

You take her hand.

The contact is warm. Real. Too real. The room dissolves—not violently, not suddenly—but like a set being wheeled away mid-performance. Behind it is another space. Larger. Deeper. Less forgiving.

Avatars move in the distance. NPCs pause when they notice you. Some smile. Some bow their heads. All of them look… aware.

Sparkle doesn’t let go.

“Don’t worry,” she says softly. “I won’t keep you here forever.”

She squeezes your hand, just a little.

“Just long enough for you to stop thinking of ‘outside’ as home.”

The world locks into place around you, responsive and attentive, like it’s been waiting for you to catch up.

And somewhere, very quietly, a system you never agreed to finishes saving your progress.

The world outside shifts just slightly, like a living diorama. Buildings stretch and bend at the edges of your vision, leaves drift upward instead of down. Nothing aggressive, nothing overt. Just… wrong enough to make your stomach tighten.

Sparkle watches you navigate it like a conductor observing an orchestra. “Don’t look so tense,” she says softly, brushing a lock of hair from your forehead. “The view’s nicer if you stop thinking about it.”

You glance at her, and for a moment the chaos of the world fades. Her eyes aren’t wide or frantic—they’re steady, warm, precise. Almost piercing. “I… I don’t know what this place is,” you admit. “I don’t even know how I got here.”

She smiles faintly, tilting her head. “You did. That’s the thing. You chose Penacony. You chose me. The rest… is just details.”

Your pulse ticks faster. You try to focus on something tangible—the ground, the skyline, anything—but your eyes keep flicking to her. The way she moves, the subtle curl of her lips, the quiet authority in her voice. It’s mesmerizing and disorienting at the same time.

Sparkle steps closer. Not aggressively. Not threateningly. Just close enough that her presence fills your peripheral vision. “I’ve been watching you. Figuring you out. I like the parts you try to hide,” she murmurs.

A shiver runs down your spine. “Watching me? How… how do you—”

She cuts you off with a light laugh. “I don’t have to explain. You’ll notice eventually.”

The ground beneath your feet ripples slightly, responding to her attention. You stumble, but she’s there immediately, steadying you without breaking eye contact.

“You’re interesting,” she says softly, almost conspiratorially. “You try to resist. You hesitate. And yet… you’re still here. That’s what makes it fun.”

You can feel her fascination, almost tangible, like the air itself is charged around her. There’s warmth there, but also a current of something darker—possessive, insistent.

“Stay close,” she whispers, brushing against your arm. “I like it when you’re aware. I like it when you notice me.”

You want to pull away. You want to scream, to ask how this is real. And yet… part of you leans in. Part of you wants to see how far this can go, how deep the world she’s made stretches, and what it feels like to be truly seen by her.

Sparkle tilts her head, catching your hesitation like a trophy. “Good,” she says. “That’s exactly what I want.” And somewhere deep inside, you realize: the choice isn’t about leaving anymore.

It’s about whether you want to stay.

And the thought is terrifying—and thrilling.

You breathe. You think. And the world tilts softly around you. Buildings straighten, the horizon eases. The air feels warmer, heavier—charged. She notices it. Her lips curl, faintly, approvingly.

“You’re learning already,” she murmurs, voice low, smooth. Like she’s letting you in on a secret no one else knows.

The air shifts.

Not dramatically. Just enough that your next breath feels heavier than the last, like the space has decided to keep it.

Sparkle steps into that space without asking. She doesn’t touch you at first. She doesn’t need to.

“You’re very attentive,” she says, almost thoughtfully. “That’s rare.”

Her gaze doesn’t wander. It settles. You get the sense she’s not just looking at you, but placing you—figuring out where you fit.

The world reacts to that assessment. The buildings at the edge of your vision soften, their lines less definite, like they’re waiting for instruction. The leaves drifting upward slow, then hang, suspended, as if listening.

“I wondered when you’d start feeling it,” she continues. “That point where curiosity tips into awareness.” A pause. “Most people confuse it with fear.”

You swallow. “And what do you call it?”

She considers you. “Interest.”

She reaches out then, fingers brushing your wrist. Not a grab. Not a pull. Just contact—measured, deliberate. The sensation is grounding in the worst way. Your body reacts before your thoughts do.

“You notice how things behave around you now?” she asks quietly. “How they wait?”

You look at the ground. It holds still, like it’s bracing.

Sparkle hums softly. Approval, maybe. “Good. That means you’re synced. I don’t like dragging people who aren’t paying attention.”

Your reflection catches in the corner of your eye. It’s too calm. Too still. When you shift, it doesn’t follow immediately. It watches her instead.

“That part’s new,” you say.

“No,” Sparkle replies. “That part just stopped pretending.”

She steps closer—not enough to crowd you, just enough that stepping away would feel deliberate. Intentional. A choice you’d have to own.

“I’ve been adjusting the pacing,” she says. “Giving you room. Time. Seeing how much you’d take on your own.”

Her eyes flick briefly to the world around you. It tightens. Just a fraction.

“You take quite a bit,” she adds.

Your pulse is loud in your ears. You realize, with an unpleasant clarity, that nothing here is pushing you forward.

It’s waiting for you to stop stepping back.

Sparkle watches you reach that understanding. Something in her expression settles, satisfied but not triumphant.

“There,” she says softly. “That’s better.”

She doesn’t say stay.

She doesn’t have to.

The world already knows where you are.

The world steadies.

That’s what scares you most.

The distortion fades until everything looks… finished. Not fixed—finalized. The buildings stop breathing. The sky settles into a color that doesn’t exist outside of screens. Even the air feels curated, tuned precisely to you, like it learned your lungs by heart.

Sparkle exhales, slow and content, as if something long-awaited has finally aligned.

“See?” she murmurs. “So much quieter when you stop fighting it.”

You realize you haven’t tried to open a menu in a while. Haven’t reached for your phone. The thought drifts through your mind, faint and late, like remembering something from a dream that’s already slipping.

“I should be able to leave,” you say.

The words don’t shake. They just… sit there.

She turns to you fully. No theatrics. No teasing lilt. Just focus—sharp, intimate, unbroken.

“You could’ve,” she replies. “Earlier.”

That truth lands softly. Cleanly.

Sparkle steps closer, close enough that her warmth becomes impossible to ignore. Her hand finds your chest, resting over your heartbeat like she’s checking something she already knows the answer to.

“I didn’t drag you in,” she says quietly. “I let you lean.”

Her thumb moves, a slow, grounding stroke. The world reacts—light folding inward, sound dimming, the edges of everything losing their urgency. Not erased. Just deprioritized.

" I reward attention,” she continues. “And you gave me yours. Every time you stayed. Every time you wondered instead of walking away.”

You look at her. Really look.

Her eyes soften—not less intense, just warmer. Possessive, yes, but threaded with something almost tender. Like she’s been careful with you. Like she’s proud.

“You’re not trapped,” she whispers.

She leans in then, giving you time—just enough—to pull away.

You don’t.

The kiss is gentle. Unhurried. Her lips linger like she’s memorizing the shape of your hesitation, the way it melts into acceptance. It doesn’t feel like being taken.

It feels like being kept.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours. Her smile is small. Satisfied. Certain. “I take very good care of what’s mine.” she says.

The last thing you feel isn’t fear. It’s relief.

Like setting something heavy down and realizing you were tired long before you noticed.

The screen doesn’t fade to black.

System Notification:

Progress Saved...♡!~

It simply stops being a screen at all.

♡#21 + taglist @kaira35353 @iceychurr @wlwjoshua @celestial-admin @fitakar @galagarts @hanako-h5 @local-garbage-can @aireeds @mersoliss @breadufor @waiabita @futuristicpeachsuit @wquixtie @ttqui @uhidekman @leafl3ss @yumiikuo @sunnydayml @tinyhologramphantom @hu3sitos @domiiniques @nox-the-death-cat @shiftedbug @whateverthingsw @kimfrancinee @str1fesgirl @loryhn @acidsbeats @lmygoat @kwonthefire @urlocalsabito @neppyyweppyy @universallystudentkitten @solarizxm @drieddcactus @lucidsei @star-berry00 @julielovesnavyblue @starlitplumes @ellen-qq @lolbook @lolaof-thevalley @spirit12 @kznirohaz @la-ila-la @faeriesblog @the-tired-potato-hani @anormalapheliosfan @phezzylex @alt-alune @phezzylex @plumpkie @keyzheart @soulkissesst4r @wrios-milk @eternalblizzards @creative--crisis @sm0k3x-ad0min @lixhizy @mikusaystransrights @trashlanternfish360 @nobloodonlycoffee @misuzue @kittzu @yaongxixi @simpingeverysecond @electro--storm @gr8jason @cultest-of-blahja @dontbother46 @m0bne @sunsettulip @violetesensou @kaelquinsday @p1xistixx @xixilea @goldenstarlightabyss @alphawolf457 @crystalkat6747 @thycheshire @unkownmaker @toastedlem0ns @sashimees @syrie-slays @syrie-slays @anbylover3000 @tsuyustan @cosmo-cam @lulubelle-mochi @toyaism @basilchennex @thenotherkid @sirkalen @k1-2-ur-h3art @unseensolaceprodigy @lucynobody