Full Color YCH Commission for bestbtrolling@FA, for which they wrote a short story to accompany the image :

Timothy, at an event outside of the normal story, finds himself stranded inside of a normie family house
without his cloaker. Can he hold the position and get out with his life (though his pride may be left with
that naked Bunnie doll. :P )

---

Don’t. Move. Rangy.
I twitch my bare thighs, my pose wobbling like a ten foot house of cards.
For the sake of not getting taken to a tea party and crammed into playdough, don’t move!
I stifle my breath, the corset strings strained against my midsection. The normal Bunnie dolls stand
about two or so inches taller than my compact self, with an even thinner waist than me, but this
particular model is the micro line. No, not /for/ micros to play with (hell if I know what we would use
giant plastic mannequins for); I mean for the normies to play with while slamming us together in kissing
death pummels. The poor saps that get caught up in the toy market rarely make the month mark,
especially for kids as young as this one.

Beautiful, Timothy. Stunning poise. Dad would be proud. Well, he wouldn’t be proud of this whole outfit,
but the commitment to not being caught. “If you can’t stay out of sight, stay incognito; hidden in plain
sight,” he’d always say.

“Tin-tin, where ‘id you go?” the giant toddler slurs from a furry face matted with sugar.

The plan went well enough. Step one: guide kid to sugar. Step two: get kid to eat sugar. Step three:
sneak the hell away with my tail still attached to my spine. Secret step four: spend ten minutes climbing
down stairs before the kiddie gets her fill. With the failed plan, two out of three ain’t bad. Bless those
youngin’s and their easy-to-fool but easier-to-over-plan sugar-deprived brains. Any younger, it’d be
babbling all around; her speaking while I suffer brain damage from thwacking and whacking the table.

With a thunderous stumble, the destroyer of building block worlds fumbles into her playroom. Normies
emit an aura of awe at this size, but toddlers, especially this four year old, is just in that valley of familiar
size; about up to their kneecap, at best. Still, that almost relatable size makes them treating you like
plaything all the more terrifying when they start swinging you around with the force of a hurricane.

“I can’ find you, Tin-tin!”

Dead. So dead. Ragdoll dead.

Hissing an inhale, I freeze my thoughts. My face burns with hot blood and a shade of fear.

See? This easy. So easy- hnnnmg!

A quick tail flick saves my labored toes buckling into the plastic depressions the Bunnie doll company
calls “shoes”. I’ve seen spoons with more depth. Never thought I’d hear a micro say this, let alone me,
but I wish I had smaller feet.