#diapered unicorn

[kohvan]

Was anyone going to tell me that Hurk fell in love with a damn AI WORLD PROTECTOR CALLED ANNE and got ON MARS to help her PROTECTING EARTH FROM ALIENS and LOST HIS BODY EXCEPT FOR HIS HEAD and then they decided to ABDUCT NICK RYE so he could FIND HURK'S BODY PARTS and HELP ANNE TO FIGHT ALIENS all while HURK RECIEVED A ROBOT EGG-SHAPED BODY and HIS PENIS WAS STOLEN BY AN ALIEN QUEEN and throughout their jorney HURK WHINES ABOUT NICK BEING "A HERO" WHILE HE'S A ROBOT-SIDEKICK??? AND THERE IS A MENU SECTION WITH HURK'S BODY PARTS??? AND- AND ANNE TRIES TO SEDUCE NICK INTO TURNING HIMSELF INTO A ROBOT AND LIVING FOREVER???

[that-hippie-user]

our DID is becoming more irrefutable by the day.

also hi, new day new me. literally so as this is a redesign.

i used to be Fictionary Thought, which is also the account we used to write mlp fanfic.

this look and name suits us better.

...may consider returning to those works someday.

oh, and uh, apologies for Luna's lateness on hypno scripts. she been thru a lot.

(curious if anyone can guess my color pallet. consider that permission to edit this like a coloring book.

and yes i DO still approve of the Stealthbabs and the proud AB/DLs of my blog, i was literally a Stealthbab myself when i first existed.)

[hangmanwrites]

daddy doesn’t wear a cape ━ clark kent

gif is not mine! word count ━ 2.1k words pairing ━ girl dad!clark kent x wife!reder synopsis ━ clark comes home late in the suit and accidentally wakes his daughter, who does not take kindly to being confused at two in the morning. a lot of yelling follows, some very serious tests are administered, and you wake up just in time to witness the aftermath. it's all soft chaos, bedtime hugs and sleepy floating. content warnings ━ fluff, domestic chaos, toddler logic, clark in the suit, bedtime softness, floating cuddles author's note ━ this was actually inspired from my childhood (but of course my dad isn't superman, but i used to cry if he wore a different shirt or changed his hair and was fully convinced he wasn't my real dad) part two masterlist

“You’re NOT my daddy!”

It was less of a sentence and more of a verbal attack, shrieking from behind the couch like a battle cry, followed by the unmistakable thump of something soft being hurled across the room, Clark caught the pillow just before it smacked him in the chest.

“Caroline,” he started, gently, carefully, like a man who’d just stepped into a hostage negotiation, “sweetheart, it’s me—”

“NO, IT’S NOT.”

Her little face popped up again, raging, her cheeks red, curls flying in every direction like she’d just come back from war. She was still in her tiny dinosaur pyjamas, the green ones with the too-long sleeves she refused to let you fold, and one sock was missing. 

The other was halfway off. She looked like pure toddler fury wrapped in four-year-old limbs and an oversized attitude.

“My daddy has the GLAZZES!” she screamed, pointing at his face like she was identifying a criminal in a lineup. “He wears the flennel shirt, the soft one with the pokey tag, and he has the HAIR THAT GOES SWOOPY BUT NOT LIKE THAT!”

Clark blinked. “Not like—?”

“YOU LOOK TOO SMOOVE!” she shrieked, climbing fully onto the couch now like she was about to leap into battle. “You’re all shiny and tall and you got the cape, and Daddy HATES CAPES!!”

“I don’t hate capes,” Clark said helplessly, hands up like he was surrendering, “I just said they weren’t very practical—”

“LIES!” Caroline roared, flinging a stuffed unicorn at him this time. “He doesn’t say big words like prakickle. My daddy says naptime and snack break and hey, can you hand me the diaper bag?”

Clark caught the unicorn midair with one hand and let out a sigh that could’ve been mistaken for amusement if he wasn’t very obviously on the verge of emotional collapse.

“Okay, alright,” he said slowly, crouching down and resting the unicorn gently on the floor, speaking like a man who had read every parenting book on Earth and still had no idea what he was doing. 

“Let’s try this a different way. You can ask me anything. Something only your daddy would know.”

Caroline squinted at him from her perch on the back of the couch, completely unconvinced. She sniffed like a suspicious noblewoman in a courtroom drama. Her tiny arms crossed. Her brow furrowed.

“…Okay,” she said finally. “What’s my teddy bear’s real name?”

“Snuffles the Third,” Clark answered immediately.

She gasped before she squinted harder. “Lucky guess.”

Clark bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Alright, alright. You want more?”

She nodded, arms still crossed, deeply unimpressed. “What’s the name of my snack drawer?”

He grinned. “The Secret Emergency Yummy Box.”

Caroline gasped louder, one hand flying to her chest like she’d been struck. “You’re CHEATING!!” Clark let out a tiny chuckle and held out both hands again, just softly now, trying not to scare her off. “I promise I’m not. I’m your daddy, peanut. I just took off the glasses and put on this—” he tugged at his suit, “ridiculous outfit, because sometimes I have to help people.”

She tilted her head, suspicious. “Why you got da undies on the outside?”

Clark blinked. “I—it’s not underwear, it’s—”

“It LOOKS like undies.”

Her face was pure judgement, scrunched up in disgust like she’d just seen someone eat cereal with a fork. She took a step back, arms crossed, one foot still half out of her sock, like she needed distance from this fashion disaster.

“Is it ‘cause you fowgot how pants work?” she asked flatly. “Did you get confuzzeled?”

Clark opened his mouth before he closed it again. “No, I—”

“‘Cause I know where pants go,” she said, proudly smacking her hands against her tiny hips. “They go on your butt part. Not on your outside undie part.”

He inhaled slowly, nodded once. “That’s… that’s true. That is true.”

She gave him another once-over, eyes narrowed, little nose wrinkled. “And why’s it so shiny?”

Clark blinked again. “Shiny—?”

“Your WHOLE CLODES,” she said, waving her hand up and down. “It’s like a foil wapper. Like a snack.” Her eyes widened in horror. “Oh, no! Did someone cook you?!”

He actually choked. “No! No, no one cooked me—what?”

Caroline gasped. “Did the BAD GUYS put you in the toaster??”

Clark dropped his head into his hands. “Sweetheart—”

“MY DADDY WOULD NEVER GO IN A TOASTER,” she wailed, backing away like he had just confirmed it. “YOU’RE NOT HIM! YOU’RE JUST A TOASTED FAKE!”

He made a weak noise in his throat, something like a please help me laugh, but she was on a roll now.

“AND WHERE’S YOUR DADDY SMELL, HUH?” she challenged, stomping forward to press her nose right into his stomach. “YOU SMELL LIKE… LIKE… OUTSIDE. AND WIND. AND SNEAKY THINGS.”

Clark looked helplessly toward the ceiling. “Caroline—”

“My daddy smells like macawoni cheese and bath time and hugs.” Her voice cracked a little, almost emotional. “You smell like a tree branch.”

“…a tree branch?” he repeated faintly.

She glared up at him. “One that lies.”

Clark placed a hand over his chest like she’d physically wounded him. “Okay, ouch. That one hurt.”

“Good,” she huffed, spinning around on the spot. “You deserb it.”

He stood there in full Superman regalia, arms limp at his sides, thoroughly roasted by a girl who still pronounced “police” as “po-yeese.” There was a long silence.

Then she turned back around, arms crossed again, expression suddenly calm. “…Okay,” she said, eyes narrowed. “If you’re really my daddy, what’s the voice you use when I skin my knee?”

Clark blinked. “The voice—?”

“The voice,” she repeated. “The soft one. The ‘oh, peanut, it’s okay, lemme see’ one.”

He stared at her. She stared back.

“Peanut,” he said softly, kneeling down again, warmth spreading through every word, “it’s okay. C’mere, lemme see.”

Caroline paused. Her bottom lip wobbled. Her arms dropped a little. She blinked once, twice. Her eyes were still narrowed, but not as fierce now. There was a beat.

“…okay,” she said slowly, “but—”

She held up her hand, a finger.

“—you still gotta pass da final test.”

Clark looked up. “There’s a final test?”

She nodded solemnly. “Uh-huh.”

Then she took a breath, stepped back, and asked the most serious question of all—

“…how many stuffies do I take in the car?”

Clark blinked. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she said, crossing her arms again like a disapproving CEO. “If you’re really my daddy, you know the answer.”

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then it opened again. “All of them?”

Caroline scoffed. “I’m not a baby. I don’t take all of them. I take the important ones!”

He let out a slow breath. “Okay, okay. Let me think.”

She stared him down like she was about to issue a fine.

He held up a finger. “Snuffles the Third.”

Her eyes narrowed but she didn’t say anything.

“Bun-Bun.”

A pause. 

“Mm-hmm.”

“Sir Wiggleton the… Second?” 

Caroline’s eyes widened just slightly. “You remembered his full name.”

Clark tried not to look triumphant. “And the little frog. The green one that doesn’t have a name yet.”

She gasped. “We call him Froggy in Progress!”

“I know,” he said gently, smiling now. “You said he’ll get a real name when he tells you what it is.”

She stood frozen for a second, mouth open, one foot turning on the carpet like she was grounding herself. Then, she squinted again, clinging to the last shreds of suspicion like a lifeline.

“Okay…” she said slowly. “Okay. That was medium impwessive, but you still haven’t done the bedtime song voice.”

Clark blinked. “The bedtime—?”

“You know the one,” she said, now suddenly bashful, playing with the hem of her shirt. “The soft soft one. The one that goes ‘stars are up, eyes are shut…’”

And oh.

Clark’s entire face broke. Just crumpled like someone pressed rewind on his heart. He took one slow breath, dropped to one knee again, arms wide open.

“Stars are up,” he whispered, just the way she remembered, just the way she loved, “eyes are shut… blanket’s warm and baby’s tucked…”

Caroline stepped forward, slow like she was sleepwalking.

“…don’t you worry, sweetheart mine,” Clark murmured, brushing a hand gently through her hair, “Daddy’s here, and you’re just fine…”

She collapsed into his chest.

No warning. No announcement. Just folded into him like she’d been held back by a dam and now the water had finally broken. Tiny arms squeezed tight around his neck, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, all wobbly and warm.

“…you are my daddy,” she mumbled.

Clark wrapped her up like she was made of glass and gold. “Told you.”

She sniffled. “I don’t like da cape.”

“I’ll take it off for you then.”

“…and your suit looks dumb.”

“Fair.”

She pulled back enough to look at him, tiny hands on his cheeks. “Don’t ever do that again, okay? No more shiny clothes. No more confuzzling. No more glazzes disappearing without warning.” She poked his nose hard. “I panicked.”

Clark laughed so quietly you could feel it more than hear it. “I promise that I’ll warn you next time.”

Caroline blinked slowly, all suspicion finally fading, and rested her forehead against his. “You still smell like the outside, but I guess it’s okay now.”

Clark smiled as he kissed the top of her head, still rocking her gently back and forth in his arms like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

And then—

“Clark?”

You stood in the hallway, half-asleep, hair a mess, oversized sleep shirt barely hanging off one shoulder. Your voice was scratchy from sleep and confusion and the kind of emotional whiplash only parenting at 2:17AM could give you. You rubbed your eyes.

“Why is our daughter yelling about undies on the outside, and why are you—”

You stopped. And you stared at your husband who was still in the suit. Not just the suit, but full cape, full boots, hair still all perfectly swooped like he just flew in from a commercial shoot. 

And in his arms? Your daughter, one sock off, one sock fully gone, clinging to his neck with her eyes half-lidded and her cheek smushed into his chest like she hadn’t been screaming about “the toaster” twenty minutes ago.

“…huh,” you said slowly, rubbing your temple. “She knows now?”

“She grilled me,” Clark said softly, with the kind of exhausted fondness that came from being emotionally tackled by a four-year-old. “The final test was her stuffies and the bedtime song voice.”

You blinked again. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”

Caroline shifted a little, not opening her eyes. “Mama,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “It’s okay now. He passed. He is not a cwown. He’s da real one.”

You tried to nod solemnly, like this was all very official, very dignified, very normal, but you were also laughing into your hand. “I’m so relieved. I thought I was gonna have to arrest him.”

“She almost did,” Clark muttered, kissing the top of her head again.

Then,  he looked at you as though he was still getting used to the fact that this was real; that he could wear this suit and carry your daughter and see you, standing barefoot in the hallway with tired eyes and a smile just for him. 

His whole expression went soft around the edges. Not just gentle, but like he’d remembered, all over again, just how lucky he was.

“Wanna go back to bed, my love?” he asked, voice low and warm.

You yawned. “Only if I don’t have to walk.”

Clark smiled. “Done.”

And just like that with arms still full of your daughter, cape catching the faint breeze from the open hallway window, he floated.

Just a few inches at first. A careful little hover, because he didn’t want to jostle her, like even gravity was something he refused to let interrupt the moment. Then he drifted toward you, smooth as a cloud, and dipped just enough to slide one strong arm around your waist, pulling you up with him.

You laughed, quietly, surprised even now. “Show-off.”

“I’m multitasking,” he murmured into your hair. “Daddy duties.”

Caroline let out a sleepy little sigh from where she was squished between you both, fingers tangled in the edge of his cape. “Are we fwying?”

“Mm-hmm,” Clark whispered. “Just a little. Just back to bed.”

And together, floating through the dark, the hallway bathed in soft yellow light, your little family tangled together in warmth and sleepy peace, he carried you both down the hall, slow and weightless and full of everything you didn’t know your heart could hold.

[regressionschool]

almost

The brightly lit store buzzed softly with faint chatter and the hum of fluorescent lights. Ava bounced alongside Daddy, her steps light and eager. Her eyes darted across the shelves, the colorful packages of diapers and pull-ups gleaming under the harsh lighting. She felt proud—Daddy said she'd done well enough during the day to earn this special treat. Pull-ups! She was finally getting pull-ups!

Her heart thumped as they reached the aisle. Ava’s face lit up at the sight of the packages adorned with cheerful cartoon characters and pastel patterns. She tugged at Daddy’s hand, her voice spilling over with excitement. “Look! That one has little unicorns on it!”

Daddy smiled warmly, giving her a playful nudge toward the shelf. “Go ahead, princess. Pick your favorite.”

Ava nodded enthusiastically, her pigtails bobbing, and crouched down in front of the lower shelves. The cutest pack—bright pink with sparkly rainbows and unicorns—was tucked just out of reach. Her tongue poked out in concentration as she stretched forward, the hem of her floral hoodie riding up as she squatted.

And then, it happened.

The faintest, almost imperceptible moment of release. Ava froze, her eyes widening. A telltale warmth bloomed in her diaper, followed by a heavy, unavoidable sensation settling in the seat of it. Her cheeks flushed a deep red as she whimpered softly, shifting her weight uncomfortably. The squish of the sudden mess was unmistakable, betraying her to anyone within earshot—or smell.

"Oh, Ava…" Daddy chuckled, shaking his head as he knelt down to her level. His tone was soft but dripping with amusement, and he gently tipped her chin up to make her look at him. "You didn’t even last long enough to pick the pull-ups, did you, baby girl?"

Her cheeks burned crimson, and she squirmed in her squat, the fullness of her situation unmistakable now. “I… I didn’t mean to, Daddy,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

He kissed her forehead with a grin. "I know, sweet pea. Almost made it, though. Almost."

[sweetstrawberryys]

"She’s in Labor (Again?!)"

– Part 2: Baby Down, Team Scrambling

Summary: The baby is finally here. Emotions are high. Soap might cry. Ghost might bolt. Price just wants five minutes of peace. But one thing’s for sure — that kid’s going to be ridiculously loved.

Rating: fluffy, funny, soft found family chaos

Masterlist

---

You were half-asleep, bundled in hospital blankets, the baby swaddled against your chest. The room was warm, peaceful… until the door burst open.

“We brought coffee!” Soap announced way too loudly.

“Shhh!” Price hissed. “You’ll wake the baby!”

Ghost stood behind them with a bouquet of flowers that was very obviously stolen from the front desk. He tossed them onto the counter. “Nurse said two guests at a time. That clearly means nothing now.”

Gaz poked his head in behind Ghost. “I brought diapers. Size three. That’s for newborns, right?”

You blinked. “That’s… for toddlers.”

“Oh.”

Soap was already hovering over the crib, staring like he’d just seen a unicorn. “She’s got tiny hands, look! She’s got little fists like she’s ready to punch someone! That’s my girl!”

“She’s not yours,” Ghost said flatly.

“She’s ours,” Soap countered.

“She’s mine,” you corrected, grinning.

“Technically she’s half the Captain’s,” Gaz whispered.

Price gave him a look that said Not. Another. Word.

Ghost stood off to the side with arms crossed, pretending he didn’t care. “Looks squishy.”

“She’s perfect,” Soap said, now cooing at the baby in a tone you’d only ever heard him use when talking to cats.

Gaz leaned in next. “Can I hold her?”

“Only if you don’t fumble like you do with grenades.”

“I dropped one grenade one time!”

You rolled your eyes and passed the baby over carefully. Gaz’s entire body went stiff like he’d just been handed a live bomb. “She’s so small…”

“Like a loaf of bread,” Soap whispered reverently.

Ghost shifted uncomfortably. “Alright. My turn.”

“Wait,” Gaz said, “you want to hold her?”

“No.”

But he took her anyway — and to everyone’s surprise, she didn’t cry. Just blinked up at him with wide, sleepy eyes. For a second, Ghost’s whole face softened under the mask. Then—

“She’s judging me.”

“She’s a day old, mate,” Soap laughed.

“She gets it from her mother,” Price said fondly, kissing your temple as he sat beside you.

The baby let out a tiny yawn. Everyone froze.

“She just yawned,” Soap whispered like he’d witnessed a miracle.

“She’s a baby,” Ghost deadpanned.

“She’s our baby,” Gaz added.

“You’re not putting that on a T-shirt,” you groaned.

They didn’t listen.

They never do.

[psformybss]

Tutus, Tea Parties, and Uncle Drew

drew starkey x reader

warnings: toddler chaos, uncle!drew fluff, domestic vibes, fake tea party shenanigans, emotional cuteness overload

Drew looked like a man marching straight into a war zone—with no plan, no backup, and the tiniest general perched on his hip.

One arm was overloaded with toddler survival gear: a diaper bag bursting at the seams, a cartoon backpack dangling by one strap, and a pink fleece blanket slipping from his shoulder. The other arm was holding a squirming, slightly sticky two-year-old dressed in a neon pink tutu over sunshine-yellow leggings and a unicorn T-shirt that sparkled like it was made of glitter and dreams. Her socks didn’t match. Her curls were mostly escaping from their pigtails. She was chewing on the ear of her ragged stuffed bunny and gripping a plastic tea cup like it was a weapon.

Drew’s eyes were wide with the unmistakable fear of a man outnumbered.

“She hasn’t blinked in five minutes,” he said quietly. “She stared at me the whole drive and sang Twinkle Twinkle in a whisper voice. I think she’s planning something.”

You stepped aside to let them in, grinning as you tugged the pink blanket off his shoulder and gave Liliana a cheerful wave. “That’s because she likes to intimidate her guests before the tea party starts. Establish dominance early.”

Drew deadpanned, “Explain to me again why my sister thought this was a good idea?”

“Because you’re her only brother, and I’m her favorite future sister-in-law,” you said sweetly, plucking the bunny out of Liliana’s mouth to wipe it off with a tissue.

Drew’s ears turned pink. “You’re not off the hook. She said you volunteered.”

“I did. Because I love your niece. And because watching you get bossed around by someone who can’t pronounce the word spaghetti is honestly the highlight of my week.”

Drew adjusted Liliana higher on his hip and sighed. “She looked me dead in the face in the car and said, ‘I pooped. S’okay. Not on seat.’”

From his arms, Liliana blinked innocently and held up her tea cup. “Unka Drew say yucky word,” she tattled, face serious.

“I did not—okay, what did I say now?!”

You snorted, sliding the bag from his shoulder. “Let’s just get this tea party started before she fires you.”

You turned the living room into a royal tea salon—blanket tablecloth spread on the rug, plastic tea set arranged in neat rows, and a lineup of Very Important Guests seated on pillows. Bunny, of course. Mr. Bear. A stuffed slice of bread named Toasty. And a slightly terrifying Barbie doll with one shoe and marker on her face.

Liliana plopped down in the center of it all with the authority of a seasoned hostess. “Bunny get da pink cup. No spill,” she said seriously, handing it over. “Toasty no spill either. He baby.”

Drew lowered himself to the rug, long legs folding awkwardly, his tiara already slipping down his forehead. “This is the most stressful imaginary tea I’ve ever poured.”

You stifled a laugh as he carefully balanced a cup in Mr. Bear’s lap.

“Milk for Toasty,” Liliana reminded, holding up a tiny plastic bottle with a chewed cap.

“Coming right up,” Drew said, unscrewing the lid and pretending to pour. “How does he take it—two lumps of sugar or three?”

Liliana gasped. “He too wittle for sugar! Only milk!”

“Got it. Baby rules. No sugar for Toasty.”

You joined the circle, sitting cross-legged across from them. “This is a very classy affair. I should’ve worn heels.”

Liliana looked you up and down with a thoughtful frown. “You need crown.”

She rifled through her backpack, tossed out a sock and two crayons, then pulled out a sparkly pink tiara and shoved it into your hands.

“You, too,” she added, pointing sternly at Drew. “Princess Unka Drew.”

Drew raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

You were already snapping a picture as he dutifully placed the tiara on his head.

“You look majestic,” you said. “Like royalty. From the kingdom of Juicebox.”

Liliana beamed. “My pwincess!” she declared, clapping her hands.

Snack time started with strawberries, apple slices, and a peace offering of bunny-shaped graham crackers. Drew sat behind Liliana, gently steadying her as she munched her way through three strawberries and offered half-chewed pieces to her tea party guests with sticky fingers.

Then… came the cup incident.

She froze mid-bite, holding her sippy in the air. “No blue,” she said quietly.

Drew blinked. “What?”

She turned, frowning. “Dis not blue cup.”

Drew examined it. “Pretty sure it is.”

Liliana’s voice rose. “It’s GWEEN!!” she announced, scandalized.

“It’s teal, baby,” you offered gently.

Her eyes welled up instantly. “I want da blue one!” she wailed, throwing herself sideways into Drew’s lap.

“She’s gonna blow,” Drew whispered, wide-eyed, cradling her like a live grenade. “I repeat—we are losing cabin pressure.”

“Let me check the bag,” you said, diving into the chaos of sippy cups, diapers, and baby wipes. No blue cup.

“I think I left it in the car,” Drew said, already standing. “She will not remember me as the uncle who failed the beverage request.”

As soon as the door shut behind him, Liliana flopped dramatically onto the floor, arms spread like a fallen fairy.

“Cup gone foreber,” she sniffled.

You crouched beside her, brushing her curls gently off her forehead. “He’ll be right back, baby. He always comes back.”

She blinked at you, bottom lip wobbling. “Pink-mise?”

“Pink-mise,” you said, holding out your pinky. She hooked hers around yours with a tiny nod, hiccuping through her last tear.

When Drew returned triumphantly waving the cup, Liliana shrieked like he’d brought her a unicorn. “DA BLUE ONE!” she yelled, running full-speed into his legs.

“You saved the kingdom,” you told him, tossing him a baby wipe for the apple juice now dripping onto his hoodie.

“I should’ve just said it was blue from the start,” he muttered. “Rookie mistake.”

Painting time was… optimistic.

You set up a washable mat, non-toxic paints, and paper. Ten minutes in, Liliana had green handprints on her belly, red streaks in her hair, and blue smudges on Drew’s jeans.

“She said, ‘paint wainbow,’ and then tackled me because the blue was in the wrong spot,” he explained, crouched by the sink, scrubbing his arm with soap.

“She’s passionate about her work,” you said, trying to scrape orange off the floor.

Liliana waddled in holding up her abstract piece—violent splashes of color with no pattern or shape.

“Dis my art,” she said proudly. “Is… um… love.”

Your heart cracked wide open. “It’s perfect, baby. I’m framing it.”

Drew blinked at the paper. “I think it’s haunted, but yeah. Frame it.”

Bathtime required all hands on deck.

Bubbles overflowed. The duckies had names. Drew wore a towel like a cape. Liliana insisted she needed “five mins more” four times. But when she finally let you rinse her hair, she sighed and leaned back against you, warm and drowsy, her little body boneless with sleep.

After pajamas—cloud-covered onesie—and one last drink of water (in the blue cup, obviously), she crawled into Drew’s lap on the couch and melted into him, bunny clutched tight and thumb in her mouth.

Drew didn’t move a muscle.

“She’s asleep,” he whispered, staring down at her like she might vanish.

You tucked a blanket over them both and rested your head on his shoulder. “She loves you.”

“She scares me,” he whispered. “But yeah. I love her back.”

Later, when his sister came to pick her up, Drew carried her to the car himself.

Liliana blinked sleepily, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Bye-bye, Unka Drew. You come tea party ‘gain?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said softly, kissing her forehead. “Even if Toasty gets mad at me.”

She grinned. “You wear crown next time?”

Drew laughed, already nodding. “Deal.”

Back inside, you both collapsed onto the couch—sticky, paint-splattered, utterly wrecked.

You looked at each other.

And burst out laughing.

There were cracker crumbs in the couch, tiny fingerprints on the walls, a tiara under the coffee table. But your hearts were full.

“She totally owns us,” Drew murmured.

“She does,” you agreed.

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

[regressionschoolpersonals]

littleabbyrose

Big Age: 28 Little Age: 2

Maturity Level: Little Abby is a gentle, shy soul with a tender heart. She is emotionally sensitive, craves reassurance, and thrives on loving cuddles and gentle encouragement. While she understands the world of grown-ups, she much prefers the magic and safety of toddlerhood, where rules are simpler and snuggles fix everything.

Potty Untraining: Abby is currently in the midst of embracing her little life more fully. She wears diapers at night due to frequent accidents and is starting to transition into wearing them during the day as well, moving away from pull-ups. While she still feels a little embarrassed about going potty in her diaper, she is learning to accept this as part of her little space and is supported lovingly by her caregivers.

Personality & Interests:

Loves movies and cartoons, especially anything from Studio Ghibli

My Neighbor Totoro makes her giggle

Dreams of being strong like Princess Mononoke

Deeply shy and affectionate

Loves cuddles and snuggling up with trusted caregivers

Favorite Comfort Items:

A beloved pink-and-rainbow blankie with silky edges — always by her side at bedtime

A fluffy caterpillar stuffie named Bastion, her nighttime protector

Super-soft, fluffy socks that keep her toes cozy at night

Snack Preferences:

Blueberries (watch out for the onesie stains!)

Apples with peanut butter

Her favorite bubba with unicorns on it, always filled with apple juice

Disclaimer: Regression School reminds all prospective caregivers that the information above is as provided by the applicant. Truthfulness cannot be guaranteed, but the cuteness definitely can.

@littleabbyrose

[regressionschool]

The Nose knows

The steady tap of keys fills your office, soft light from your desk lamp casting a warm glow on your keyboard. The house is quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional squeak of the living room floorboards down the hall. You pause, roll your shoulders, and stretch your neck.

It's been a productive morning: emails sorted, project timeline finalized, and your second cup of coffee cooling slowly beside you. You glance toward the baby monitor perched beside your monitor. Not a camera, just audio. You believe in giving your little girl some freedom… but with boundaries. And one of those boundaries is knowing when Daddy needs quiet time—and when she needs supervision.

She’s been playing in the living room for the past hour, and aside from a few soft squeals and giggles, she’s been calm. A good sign. You smile softly to yourself, picturing her there: sprawled on the plush nursery rug, her favorite stuffies scattered around, maybe her stacking rings beside her.

She’d insisted on wearing her blue denim shortalls this morning, the ones with the pink heart buttons and the silly cartoon bear on the front pocket. Underneath, she had on a pale pink t-shirt with ruffled sleeves. The moment you finished dressing her, she tugged at the hem of the shorts and asked if her “diapee was pokin’ out.” You’d ruffled her pigtails and told her it was supposed to poke out a little.

"That’s how Daddy knows what to check," you teased, tapping the seat of her padded bottom until she giggled.

Now you lean back in your chair, trying to recall how long it’s been since you last changed her. Right before her second bottle… so maybe… three hours?

Then it hits you.

It drifts in slowly. Faint at first. Almost nothing. Just a subtle shift in the air.

You inhale lightly again, lips pressing into a knowing smirk.

It’s that smell. Warm. Slightly earthy. And unmistakable.

The scent filters in like a whisper at first, clinging just under the neutral scent of your office. But you know it. It’s a scent that clings to nursery rugs, to onesies left in the hamper too long, to the back of a diaper pail when you open it just a second too slowly.

You sigh, stand up slowly, and give your back a stretch. The air swirls a little as you move—confirming what your nose already suspected.

“She didn’t even call for me,” you murmur.

You leave the office, walking down the hallway. The scent grows stronger with each step still not overpowering, just present enough to trigger that Daddy switch in your head.

She’s in the living room, just as you expected.

And oh, the picture she makes.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor near the toy bin, completely absorbed in whatever tiny drama she’s invented between her stuffies and her dolls. The late morning light pours through the curtains, casting golden stripes across the rug. Her pigtails bob gently as she tilts her head, murmuring something to her plush bunny.

You pause at the doorway, arms folded across your chest. Your lips twitch into a subtle, amused smile.

The denim shortalls ride a little high on her hips. One strap is twisted, the cartoon bear now staring sideways from her chest. Her bare feet are splayed out lazily on the carpet, and the pink ruffled sleeves of her t-shirt puff with each motion. And most of all...

In that stinky little cloud hovering softly in the air.

It’s not offensive—not to you, at least. It’s just… real. Warm. Lived-in. Familiar in the most primal, parental way. It’s not the air-freshener gloss of a nursery commercial—it’s the scent of a little girl who's fully regressed. A little girl who doesn’t ask for potty breaks, because she doesn’t take them. A little girl who uses her diapers—without thinking twice.

You take a step closer.

Still, she doesn’t look up.

She’s too busy pretending that her unicorn plushie is getting married to a rubber duck.

“…an’ then you say ‘I do,’ an’ then you get kisses on the nose,” she mumbles matter-of-factly to the toys, unaware of your approach.

You crouch down beside her, resting a hand gently on her back.

“Hey there, stinker.”

She glances up at you, bright-eyed, grinning wide.

“Hi Daddy!”

There’s zero hesitation in her tone. No guilt. No shyness. Just sunshine. She squirms a little in place, the thick crinkle muffled by her shortalls as her weight shifts from one thigh to the other. Her bottom presses deeper into the rug for a second, and you hear the faintest squelk of padded compression beneath her.

You arch an eyebrow.

“Ohhh… I think Daddy’s nose knows something...”

She blinks.

Then she shrugs casually, her hand reaching down to pat one of the toys absently.

“Mmhmm,” she chirps.

“Mmhmm what?” you ask, voice low, teasing.

She gives you a beatific smile, one finger tapping her lip in mock thought. Then, as if stating the weather, she replies:

“I’m poopy.”

Just like that.

Clear as crystal. No shame. No giggle. No whisper. Just a simple truth from a girl who clearly doesn’t even consider what’s sitting in her pants to be out of the ordinary.

Your heart gives a warm little tug.

Not long ago, she would’ve whined for you the moment she felt a cramp. She might’ve pouted, clung to your leg, begged to be changed right after. There would’ve been fuss. Sniffles. Maybe even a blush.

But now?

Now she just goes when she needs to. Right in her diaper. Right in the middle of playtime. And then? She keeps right on playing.

That, right there, is progress. That’s regression done right.

You gently ruffle her pigtails.

“Poopy, huh?” you say, nose scrunching with exaggerated Daddy-drama. “That would explain why it smells like a little stinky-pants in here.”

She giggles.

“It’s not pants, Daddy! It’s my diapee.”

“Well, your diapee is doing some very hard work today,” you tease, giving her back a soft rub. “I bet it’s extra full by now.”

She shrugs again.

“Yup.”

And then she reaches for her stackable donuts, completely unbothered by the status of her diaper. No request for a change. No pause in her play.

You can’t help but smirk.

You sit beside her quietly for a moment, watching her organize plastic toys by color. The air still carries that unmistakable stinky warmth, but there’s no rush. She’s not upset. She’s not uncomfortable. And more than anything, you want to let her be little a bit longer.

So you let her play.

Five more minutes.

Ten, maybe.

Just long enough to enjoy the view of a happy little girl sitting in her messy diaper without a care in the world.

And when you finally do scoop her up?

She’ll giggle, squirm, and probably pretend she forgot she was stinky again.

But you’ll remember this moment.

Because she didn’t call for you.

Because she didn’t try to hold it.

Because she knew her diaper would catch it—and that Daddy would be there, when she needed him.

[crow-of-ohio]

Are we going on just appearance or more? Because I feel like the pure existence of pyrovision would turn them into a heart me out for a lot of people lmao

pyro tf2

Reminder, the premise is “would a normie think it’s weird to find them attractive?” (Would they have to “hear me out?”) NOT “smash-or-pass”

[pinkpurplesunrises]

You don't know me (yet)

+/- 4000 words - the long story - Alexia Putellas x Reader - This will heal your heart, hopefully - Fluff and Smut - Mentions of loneliness and sick child - Please read with care.

I loved the process of writing this one. It's a different writing style. A different concept. I hope that you like this. Please leave some feedback if you want to. Enjoy reading!

Somewhere in the middle of a tuesday

You don't really remember when Tuesdays started feeling the same as Thursdays. Or why every morning now starts with you. Phone in hand. Scrolling emails like you're disarming a bomb instead of answering clients about deadlines you stopped caring about two promotions ago.

Barcelona was supposed to be a fresh start. A change of scenery, your therapist had said. And maybe it is. There's sunlight here that tastes different on your skin and people speak a language you don't understand but find oddly comforting. You rent a quiet apartment above a bakery that opens at 6 a.m., and every morning smells like sugar and effort.

But the stuck feeling followed you here.

You're on autopilot again today. You tell yourself you'll go outside. Maybe a walk. Maybe try the coffee shop that smells like old wood and orange peel every time you pass by. you grab a book you've only read 30 pages of, shove it into your tote, and leave the apartment.

You don't even make it to the end of the block.

Because that's when you bump into her.

Literally.

She mutters something in Spanish, soft but startled. You step back, flustered, offering a quick "Lo siento... I... sorry..." before looking up.

She's holding a baby. No. Toddler, maybe? Blonde curls tied messily. A pacifier. Big brown eyes, suspicious of you. You blink. "Oh. Sorry, I didn't see you."

The woman shifts the weight of her daughter in her arms, adjusting a diaper bag strap that's sliding off her shoulder. Her eyes flick to yours. There's tiredness there. Not the kind one night's sleep can fix.

"It's okay" she says, voice accented, but her English is clean. "She dropped her toy. I wasn't looking either."

There's a small stuffed unicorn by your foot.

You pick it up and hand it to her. "Here. Guardian of all toys returned safely."

That makes her smile-small, but real. She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and looks at you again, lingering for half a second.

"Gracias," she says, quietly.

And then she walks away.

You watch her disappear into the bakery you live above, little girl now chewing on the unicorn's tail like it's her job.

You have no idea who she is.

You'll find out eventually.

But not yet.

Café Cortado on a Wednesday morning

The next time you see her, it's raining.

Not a cinematic, dramatic rain. Just the sort that clings to your clothes and seeps into your socks. The kind th at makes everyone irritable but quiet about it.

You've escaped into a tiny café with fogged-up windows and exactly four tables. It's half-bookstore, half-coffee place. Entirely empty except for you, a barista who seems mildly annoyed to be alive, and her.

She's sitting in the corner, facing the street. No makeup. Ponytail. Black hoodie. The kind of tired you recognize in yourself, mirrored. Her daughter is in a stroller next to the table, asleep. There's a bottle tucked between a blanket and a tiny hand.

You freeze halfway through wiping rain from your glasses.

She doesn't notice you at first, absorbed in her phone. Thumb moving in slow, deliberate patterns. Then she looks up. Your eyes meet.

You do the small awkward smile. Half-greeting, half apology for existing in the same space again. She tilts her head like she's trying to place you.

You gesture at the empty table beside her. "Mind if sit?"

A pause. Then:

"No," she says. "ls okay."

So you sit.

A few minutes pass. You order a cortado. She's got a tea going cold in front of her, untouched.

"She sleeps through anything?" you ask quietly, nodding at the stroller.

That gets a tiny smirk out of her. "Only when it's inconvenient."

You chuckle. "What's her name?"

"Aïna."

"It suits her," you say. "She looks like she knows secrets."

She glances down at her daughter. Something in her face softens. "She knows too much, think."

You don't ask what she means by that. You let the moment hang.

"I'm not from here," you offer instead.

She looks back up. "You don't speak Spanish."

"Is it that obvious?"

She smiles. "Little bit."

"Im trying" you say, then add, "I know how to ask for bread. And curse."

"Muy importante," she replies with a sly grin. "You'll survive."

That's the first time you laugh, genuinely, in days.

You introduce yourself. She repeats your name softly, like she's testing it for weight. Then she says, "Alexia."

The name means nothing to you.

She seems a little surprised at that, and you don't miss the flicker in her eyes. Relief, maybe.

"You live around here?" you ask.

"Up the hill. Near the park."

"l'm just over the bakery on Carrer de Verdi." She nods like that makes sense.

The barista glares at you both for staying too long without ordering anything more. You glance outside. The rain hasn't let up.

Alexia shifts her bag over her shoulder, standing. Aïna stirs but doesn't wake.

"Well," she says, adjusting the stroller handle. "Maybe next time, you bring an umbrella."

You grin. "Only if you promise not to run me over with a stroller."

She arches a brow. "No promises."

She leaves.

You stare after her through the glass, long after the bell over the door stops ringing.

Still no idea who she is.

But you want to know.

Not because of curiosity.

Not exactly.

More like gravity.

The park bench on a Friday afternoon

The first time you see Aïna smile, it's because of a pigeon.

You're at Parc de la Creueta. Sitting on a shaded bench because your apartment was too small to breathe in today. The sun is back after three days of moody clouds and so is half the city. Children are screaming joyfully at nothing. Dogs are arguing with seagulls. Life is annoyingly loud.

Then there's a small laugh, light and sudden. Like it snuck out by accident.

You turn.

Alexia is sitting a few benches down. Aïna is in her lap, pointing at a pigeon hopping near her stroller. Alexia's hand is resting over Aïna's small chest, protective without thinking.

You watch. Quietly.

Then Alexia looks up and sees you.

You offer a half-wave.

She surprises you by waving back, then gestures toward the space beside her. So you move.

"Big day," you say. "Pigeons. The true entertainers of Barcelona."

Alexia shakes her head, smiling softly. "She thinks they're saying something."

"Maybe they are."

aïna wriggles, trying to get closer to the bird. Alexia holds her tight but lets her lean forward. "She likes you," Alexia says after a pause.

"She doesn't know me."

"She doesn't laugh with just anyone."

You glance down at the little girl, whose eyes are still locked on the bird. Delighted. She has Alexia's mouth. Her stubborn jaw. But her smile is entirely her own.

"She's perfect," you say before you can stop yourself.

Alexia looks away. You notice the way her hand tightens slightly over Aïna's side. Like she's protecting something fragile-herself, maybe.

"She's mine," she says, quietly. "Just me."

You don't speak right away. You hear what she's really saying, even if she doesn't spell it out.

"She's lucky." you say instead. "To have someone who chose her."

Alexia doesn't respond, but her eyes flick toward you. There's something almost cautious in her face now. Not defensive. Just.. unsteady.

"She has a heart problem," she says suddenly. Her voice is flat, controlled.

You blink. "Oh."

Alexia nods. "It's not dangerous. Not right now. But... things. Monitors. Medications. Doctor visits. Always watching."

"Im sorry," you say.

She shrugs like she doesn't know how to accept softness.

"I wanted to be a mother" she adds. Eyes still fixed on Aïna. "Before I had the right person. Before I was ready, even. I didn't care. I did it anyway."

You let the silence sit. You don't fill it. You just listen.

Alexia turns her head, meets your eyes again. "Do you think that's selfish?" she asks. And that's the moment you realize how alone she really feels.

"No," you say. "I think it's brave."

She looks at you like she's not used to hearing that.

Then Aïna lets out a squeal and waves both arms at a new pigeon. Alexia lets out a surprised laugh. It's soft, but real. "She's ridiculous," she mutters, kissing the side of Aïna's head. Then: "She needs a nap."

"I'm told pigeons are great babysitters."

Alexia smiles, almost in spite of herself. "You want to come with us?"

You blink. "To...?"

"Walk back. I'm just a few streets from here. I make good tea. And you owe me conversation."

You glance at Aïna, then at her.

Something in your chest shifts. "Alright," you say. "Lead the way."

Alexia stands, adjusting the straps on the stroller like she's been doing it all her life. But her hand hovers for a second before reaching for yours.

She doesn't take it. Not yet. But she looks like she might.

Someday.

Tea for One-and-a-Half on a Friday afternoon

Alexia's apartment is warm in the way that makes you lower your voice without realizing it. Not because it's fancy. It's not. But because it feels lived in.

The kind of quiet that comes from a place held together by care. There's a stack of folded laundry on the couch. A single orchid on the windowsill that's definitely struggling. And children's books stacked on the coffee table next to two half-empty mugs with forgotten tea stains.

It smells like vanilla and baby lotion and something faintly floral.

Aïna is awake now, fussing gently. Alexia moves with practiced ease. Taking off her shoes. Setting the stroller aside. Scooping her daughter into one arm while switching on the kettle with the other.

"Make yourself at home," she says over her shoulder.

You stand awkwardly in the doorway fora moment, then settle on the far end of the couch, careful not to disturb the laundry pile.

"She's got a whole system in here," you say, glancing at the small shelf crammed with board books and soft toys.

Alexia smirks. "She's the boss. I'm just management."

She disappears briefly into the kitchen. You hear cabinets opening, water running. Aïna coos softly from her little bouncer chair nearby, now chewing on what appears to be the leg of a plastic giraffe.

Alexia returns with two mugs-one green, one chipped and pink. She hands you the green one.

"Chamomile okay?" she asks. Sitting beside you, one leg tucked beneath her.

"Perfect," you say, even though you're not totally sure you like chamomile.

She sips hers in silence. You both listen to Aïna breathing. The click of the giraffe's plastic feet against the floor. There's something sacred in the quiet, almost like the apartment itself is holding its breath.

"She was born early," Alexia says suddenly.

"Thirty-three weeks." You look at her. She's staring into her tea like it might answer something.

"I was alone in the hospital," she continues, voice steady but low. "My mamá wanted to come, but I told her no. I needed to do it. wanted to feel it."

You don't interrupt.

"I thought I would feel strong," she says. "But I was just... scared."

You swallow, throat tight. "Did it get easier?" She shakes her head once.

"It got different."

Aïna makes a soft hiccup noise, and Alexia glances over. She doesn't move. Just watches her for a moment, breathing through the heaviness.

"I don't regret it," she says. "I need you to know that."

"I know," you say gently. "It shows."

Alexia looks at you then. Really looks. "You're kind," she says.

You blink, surprised.

"I didn't expect that."

"You didn't expect me to be kind?" you tease, trying to keep the weight off her words.

"I didn't expect you," she replies. The room goes still.

Your mug is warm in your hands. You stare down at it like it might help you hold this feeling together.

"I didn't expect you either," you say. Alexia leans back, eyes fluttering shut for just a second.

"You're not going to ask?" she murmurs. "Ask what?"

"Who I am. What I do." You shake your head. "I figure you'll tell me if you want me to know."

She opens one eye. Studies you again. "I played football," she says, finally.

You nod. "Professionally?"

"Yes."

"Do you still play?"

Her expression changes. A tiny flicker of something dark. Regret? Grief?

"No," she says. "Not right now." You sense it. There's something she's not saying. You don't press.

Aïna lets out a tiny sneeze and then giggles at herself.

Alexia smiles, soft and slow. You watch the way her whole body changes when she looks at her daughter. Like tension evaporates. Ifonly for a second.

"She likes you too," she says. You smile. "I think I'm just a distraction fromn the giraffe."

Alexia chuckles. "Maybe. But she knows things. More than she should."

You set your mug down carefully.

"Do you want me to go?" you ask quietly. Alexia glances at you.

"No," she says. "Not yet."

So you stay.

And in the soft, slow minutes that follow, something begins to settle between you. Not love. Not yet.

But something like the space it might grow in.

Fever hours on a Sunday evening

It's just past 10pm when your phone buzzes. A message.

Alexia: You awake?

You're already in bed. Half-asleep. Curled around a cup of sleepy tea that's gone cold.

You hesitate, then reply.

You: Yeah. Everything okay?

She calls instead of texting back.

You answer quickly.

"Hi" you say softly. There's background noise. Muffled footsteps. The hush of a sleeping apartment.

Her voice is low, tired.

"Sorry. I know it's late."

"No, it's okay. Really."

A pause.

"Aïna's sick" she says. "Not serious. I don't think. Fever. Crying a lot. just..."

Another pause. The kind that carries too much.

"I didn't want to be alone tonight."

You sit up. "Do you want me to come?"

You can hear the relief before she even says yes.

Twenty minutes later, you're at her door.

She looks exhausted. Hoodie. No makeup. Hair a little messy. Her eyes are soft, a little glassy. And her shoulders sag like she hasn't let herself rest in days.

She opens the door, steps aside. "She's finally sleeping."

You step inside. The lights are dim. The apartment smells like eucalyptus and baby Tylenol.

"I can't tell if l'm helping or just panicking" she says, leading you to the couch. I held her for hours. She finally passed out on my chest."

You reach out gently and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear without thinking. She doesn't flinch. Just looks at you, startled, like she wasn't expecting that kind of touch.

"Alexia," you say softly. "You're doing more than enough."

Her face crumples for half a second. She hides it by turning away, sitting down slowly.

"I havent slept more than three hours in two days," she admits.

"I'll stay," you say. "As long as you need."

She nods, once. Sharp like she doesn't trust herself to say thank you out loud. You both sit in the hush of the apartment, shoulders touching now. You're not sure how it happened. Just a slow lean, a quiet gravity between you.

"She gets these fevers when she's teething," Alexia murmurs. "Always at night. Always when I think maybe I've got the hang of it."

You glance at her. "Can ask you something?"

She nods, not looking at you. "Do you miss it? Football?"

She doesn't answer right away. Then: "Every day. Every time breathe." You wait.

"I could have gone back" she adds. "There were offers. Contracts. But Aïna came early, and the hole she left in me. When she was in the NICU, small, hooked to machines... I didn't care about football anymore. I just needed her to live."

You're quiet. It's all you can be. "I told myself l'd pause. Just a year. But then she needed surgery. Then recovery. And now..."

She finaly looks at you. "Now I don't know who I am if I'm not on that field."

You reach for her hand. She lets you take it.

"You're her mother," you say. "You're you. That's not small"

Her fingers tighten around yours, briefly.

"I forget sometimes, she whispers. You sit there, side by side, as the city sleeps. Aïna stirs softly from the next room.

Alexia closes her eyes.

And for the first time since you met her, she leans into you. Just her head on your shoulder. Barely touching. But it's enough to make something in you ache.

You don't move.

You stay until her breathing evens out, and she lets out a sigh so small you barely hear it.

Like she's been holding it in for years.

Toast and tension on a Monday morning

You wake up before the sun.

The couch is stiff and your neck aches but there's something soft and full in your chest. It takes a second to remember where you are. And then it hits you. The warm weight of last night. Of Alexia leaning into you. Of being allowed to stay.

The apartment is still and dim. A faint hum from the fridge. Aïna's baby monitor glows faintly from the kitchen counter. You check it out of instinct. She's sleeping. Curled up like a question mark. Safe.

Alexia must still be asleep too.

So you move quietly.

You wash the dishes left in the sink. Fold the laundry that's still on the armchair. Wipe the counters. It's nothing dramatic. Just little things. Just what you'd do for someone who's done too much for too long.

By the time you're cracking eggs into a pan, the sun is starting to stretch across the buildings outside. The silence in the apartment feels different now. Lighter, expectant.

You set the table with two mismatched mugs and toast that's already gone cold.

When you hear footsteps, you turn.

Alexia stands in the hallway in a faded T-shirt and joggers. Her hair tangled. Eyes heavy with sleep.

She blinks.

"You... did all this?"

You shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "I figured it was my turn."

She steps into the kitchen, slowly. Like she's not sure how to exist in this kind of kindness.

"No one's ever just... done this," she says quietly.

You smile. "It's just toast." She looks at you, like it's not.

Aïna stirs through the monitor. Alexia moves toward it instinctively, pauses. "Go," you say gently. "I'll re-toast your toast."

You're plating fresh eggs when she returns with Aïna on her hip. The baby's still groggy, clutching a tiny pink elephant with one fist. Her hair is sticking up in every direction. Alexia kisses her temple absently as she sets her in the high chair.

"She loves breakfast," she says, voice still half-asleep.

You place the food in front of them.

Aïna immediately launches a spoon to the floor. "An early critic," you joke. Alexia smiles, small but real.

Then her phone buzzes on the table.

She picks it up, freezes fora second when she sees the name.

"Mamá" she says softly. Then: "And Alba."

She doesn't answer right away. Lets it ring. Then swipes to pick up and presses speaker, probably out of habit.

"Mami," a voice chirps from the phone. "¿Cómo estás? la pequeña?"

"Estamos bien," Alexia says. "Justo desayunando."

You busy yourself rinsing a plate, giving her space.

Alba's voice joins the call. "Did she sleep better?"

"More or less."

There's a pause. You hear concern layered beneath the casual tone.

"We wanted to stop by today" her mom says. "Bring lunch. Ayudarte un poco."

Alexia tenses just slightly.

"I'm okay," she says. Too quickly. A longer silence.

"Alexia..."

"I said I'm okay."

You glance over. Her jaw is set now. Her hand lightly bouncing Aïna's chair like a reflex. But she's not really present. Her mom's voice is gentler. "No estás sola, hija. No tienes que hacer todo tú."

"I am doing it," Alexia snaps-quiet, but sharp. "And I'm doing it well."

"I know," her mom replies softly. "But that doesn't mean you don't need help." Alexia swallows. Her eyes flick to you, just for a second.

"I'll call later," she says, ending the call before they can answer.

Silence.

Aïna babbles to herself, unfazed. Toast in hand, crumbs everywhere. You sit across from them, slowly.

"You okay?" you ask. Alexia exhales.

"They mean well."

"But?"

"They still think I made a mistake." You pause. "By having Aïna?"

"By doing it alone." Her voice is flat now. "By shutting them out when I decided. And again after."

You want to say something comforting.

But this isn't a wound that words can fix. Instead, you refill her coffee. And when you sit again, you reach out and gently brush your fingers across hers. Just once.

She doesn't pull away.

"I don't think you made a mistake," you say softly.

Alexia looks at you. Tired, proud, shaken, and still standing.

"I know," she whispers.

And maybe, for the first time, she believes it.

On a Tuesday afternoon, the sky didn't fall

On a Tuesday afternoon, the air is soft with the kind of early spring warmth that makes the city feel forgiving.

Alexia had suggested getting out for a bit. Nothing major. Just a walk. Aïna is bundled into her stroller, cheeks pink and round. Blinking up at the trees like they might start speaking.

The park isn't far. You walk slowly, letting your feet find a rhythm beside hers. She glances at you as you both cross a quiet street. "You're quiet."

You smile. "Just thinking."

"Dangerous."

You nudge her elbow with yours. "About what?"

She shrugs, adjusting the stroller with one hand. "I was going to ask you the same."

You walk a few more paces in silence.

Then you say it: "I don't really know what I'm doing anymore.

She looks at you then... really looks. Aïna gurgles softly, her sock slipping halfway off her foot.

"I mean... I moved here because I thought a change would help. I took this new job, made the leap, and now l'm kind of just... floating. The days blur. Work, home, sleep, repeat. feel like I'm watching other people live lives that mean something."

Alexia says nothing. But she's listening. "I didn't plan on meeting anyone," you add. "I didn't expect to feel something again. Not in this... small, slow way."

Still no answer. Just the creak of the stroller wheels, the soft rustle of wind in the trees.

Then she says, "You feel like something is waking up."

You nod. "Yeah."

"I know that feeling."

You stop near a bench. Aïna is already starting to drift off again, her head tilted to one side like she's studying clouds behind her eyelids. Alexia sits down first. You follow, a careful distance between your thighs. Not too close. Not too far.

She looks at her daughter, then at you. "I pushed everyone away," she says quietly. "I didn't want to need anyone. And then I met you." You hold her gaze.

There's a pause. "You don't scare me," she says. "But this does."

"What's this?"

She hesitates.

"This quiet thing. This safe thing. The way can breathe around you."

Your heart folds open slowly in your chest. "And what do you want to do with that?" you ask.

She doesn't answer with words. Just leans in. Hesitating, slow enough that you could stop her if you wanted to.

But you don't.

Her lips are soft and unsure against yours. Not dramatic. Not desperate. Just there. Real and close and slightly trembling. The kiss tastes like her morning coffee and something warmer. Something you don't have a name for yet.

When she pulls back, she doesn't look away. The silence is warm, full. Aïna snorts in her sleep. A tiny exhale that makes you both laugh quietly into the space between you.

"You're a good kisser," Alexia murmurs, teasing lightly.

You grin. "You're not so bad yourself for a tired mom."

She groans and leans back against the bench, eyes closed now. "That's the most unsexy thing I've ever heard."

You nudge her again. "You kissed me, remember?"

"I regret everything."

"No, you don't."

She smiles without opening her eyes. And for a long moment, nothing happens. Except the wind. And the city moving around you. And two people beginning, very quietly, to fall into something neither of them saw coming.

Reaching out on a Monday evening

You hadn't heard from Alexia in a few days. It wasn't unusual. Her life was busy, complicated. But still, the silence felt heavy. Then your phone buzzed late on a Monday evening.

A message from her: "Aina is with my mamá tonight. Can come by?"

You type back almost immediately. "Of course. Come whenever."

Less than an hour later, there's a knock at your door.

She steps inside. Tired but carrying a quiet kind of hope. Her smile is small, a little uncertain. You gesture for her to sit.

"I thought maybe... since Aïna's away... I could breathe a little," she says. Voice low. "And maybe talk."

You nod. "I'm here." She fiddles with her bracelet, eyes distant for moment. "I've been trying to let my mamá and Alba back in. It's hard. They want to help, but I'm scared lose control."

You reach out and squeeze her hand.

"That's normal," you say.

She exhales. want to believe can do this. Not alone."

You smile gently. "You don't have to."

She looks at you, something soft and hopeful flickering behind her tired eyes.

"I've missed this," she says. "Miss feeling like maybe I'm not just surviving."

You take a breath. "Alexia.."

Her head tilts, curious.

"Would you want to be... girlfriends?" you ask. heart thudding loud enough to fill the room. Her eyes widen, then soften.

A slow smile spreads.

"Yes" she says.

It happens without a plan.

The night drapes itself over the apartment slowly, warm from the wine you both barely finished. The quiet music you forgot was playing, and the shared silence that had stretched long between you without needing to be filled.

Alexia sits curled on your couch. Legs tucked beneath her. Her eyes on yours. Something about her tonight feels quieter. Less guarded.

She watches you carefully, like she's letting herself want something and isn't used to wanting out loud.

You're the first to move.

You kneel gently in front of her, brushing a hand over her knee. "Come here."

She leans forward slowly, lips catching yours in a kiss that's softer than you expected. You shift, hands finding her waist and she melts into it like she'd been waiting to exhale.

Time moves strangely after that.

Slow.

Tender.

At some point... Still kissing. Still caught in that warmth... you whisper against her jaw: "Can take you to bed?"

Her breath hitches.

She nods, but then stills.

You pause immediately, searching her face.

"It's been a long time" she says softly. "Not since... not since having her." Your hands stay exactly where they are.

Present, not pushing.

"Okay," you whisper.

She bites her lip, not looking away. "I'm nervous. Not because of you. Just... my body's different. I'm different."

You cradle her face gently. Brushing a thumb along her cheek.

"Thank you for trusting me with that," you say.

She closes her eyes like the words touched something.

You carry her, slow and steady, to your bedroom. Not because she needs you to. But because she lets you. Her arms wrap around your neck. Her head resting just beneath your jaw.

When you lay her down, everything stays soft. No hurry. No assumptions. You kiss her slowly, like there's nowhere else to be.

Your kiss lingers. Slow and exploratory, not searching for anything except her. You map the soft curve of her jaw with your lips. Feel her exhale against your mouth like she's letting go of something she's been holding too tightly for too long.

She's beneath you now. Laid back across your sheets. The room still humming with the last of the music. Your lamp casting a quiet gold against her skin.

Your hands stay light, on her ribs, on her waist, the side of her thigh. Nowhere she hasn't already invited you to be.

But when you pause and look at her, really look at her, you see it: the flutter of hesitation in her eyes.

Not fear.

Not regret.

Just the weight of all she's carried.

Of how new this still is.

You lower your forehead to hers. "Tell me what you like," you whisper.

She blinks.

"I want you to show me," you add, voice low. Honest. "Guide me. I want to learn you the way you want to be known."

Something shifts in her expression. Something warm and undone all at once. Her lips part like she might say something, but doesn't right away.

Then her hand reaches up. Curling into your hair, gently pulling you back into her.

"Okay," she breathes, the word a whisper and a release.

You feel her body move with yours, deliberate now. She shifts your hand with hers, drawing it to where she wants you most. There's a trembling to her guidance, like this trust is as much a surrender as it is a choice.

And it's beautiful.

It's her choosing softness.

It's you listening like it's the only thing that matters.

Her breath catches again, but this time, it's not nerves.

It's when she forgets to be afraid.

When she's just feeling.

Just here.

And you make it your quiet mission to keep her in that space.

For as long as she wants.

She looks peacefull on a Tuesday morning

On a Tuesday morning, the city feels hushed. The usual buzz of traffic and neighborhood noise is softened by the early light spilling through the curtains. Painting quiet gold across your sheets.

You wake before her.

Alexia is curled toward you. One arm tucked beneath her pillow. Her other hand resting on your stomach like her body found yours in the middle of the night and never let go.

You stay still, barely breathing. Just watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Her face is relaxed in a way you haven't seen before. Unguarded. Her lashes twitch a little as she sleeps.

She looks peaceful.

Loved.

Eventually, she stirs. Shifting slightly. Blinking against the light.

"Buenos días," she murmurs. Voice low and rough with sleep.

You smile. "Morning."

She stretches with a small groan, and you can't help but brush her hair back from her face. "I haven't slept like that in... I don't even know," she says, eyes still half-closed.

"Maybe we needed it," you say.

She hums in agreement, then reaches blindly for her phone on the nightstand. You watch her thumb move across the screen. Her face softens instantly.

"What is it?" you ask gently.

She turns the phone so you can see. Her mother had sent pictures-three of them.

One: Aïna holding a toy duck with a serious expression.

Two: Her eating banana slices with half of one squished into her hair.

Three: Her asleep on her grandmother's chest, mouth open, one hand tangled in a blanket.

Alexia stares at them, her smile trembling just a little.

"I miss her," she says quietly.

You don't hesitate.

"We can go pick her up. Whenever you want." She looks at you, blinking like you've just said something she hadn't dared to think.

"You'd come?"

"Of course l'd come," you say softly. "She's part of you."

Alexia sets the phone down slowly and shifts closer, her hand finding yours under the sheets. It's quiet for a long moment. Then she speaks.

"I think we could be a family."

You squeeze her hand.

"I think we already are."

She leans in and kisses you. Slow, certain, full of everything she's still learning how to give.

And in that small bright roomnon a Tuesday morning, nothing big or dramatic happens.

Except everything.

At the stadium on a Sunday afternoon

On a Sunday afternoon, the stadium hums with energy.

The sun is high. Warm against your face as you sit in the stands, surrounded by a sea of red and blue. Flags wave. Horns blow. But your world is smaller. Focused.

Aïna sits on your lap. Tiny legs swinging. Her Barça jersey barely reaching her shorts. On the back, PUTELLAS 11 is printed in white letters, and she keeps twisting around proudly to show anyone who’ll look.

Next to you, Alexia’s mother clutches her scarf. Misty-eyed but smiling, and Alba leans forward. Elbows on her knees, whispering something sharp and funny that makes you both laugh.

Then the announcer’s voice echoes through the speakers.

“Capitana del FC Barcelona, Alexia Putellas!”

The crowd explodes.

You glance down just in time to see Aïna’s hands fly into the air. “Mamá! Mamá!” she squeals. Clapping wildly. Her little voice barely audible over the roar.

Your chest tightens in the best way.

She’s back.

You scan the pitch. Alexia walks out ahead of her team. Armband snug around her bicep. Head high. Expression focused. But when she glances toward your section... just for a heartbeat, her face softens.

She sees you.

Sees Aïna bouncing in your lap.

Sees her mother’s proud tears. Alba’s sharp grin. Your quiet smile.

And in that moment, she doesn’t look like the captain, or the icon, or the player returning from anything.

She just looks like someone who found her way home.

Alexia’s mother leans over, hand gently resting on your arm.

“Gracias,” she says, voice quiet in the chaos. “Por devolverle la luz.”

You swallow thickly, nodding.

“She did that herself,” you whisper.

Maybe you just held the light long enough for her to remember it was hers all along.

On the pitch, the whistle blows.

And Aïna claps again, laughing with her whole body.

Your hand rests over her chest. Feeling the thrum of joy beneath her jersey.

And beside her, your heart answers with the same rhythm.

Family.

Full and real and exactly where you’re meant to be.

[lilacwinexi]

Sam Monroe as a girl dad

— Sam’s first diaper change

Sam stood frozen at the changing table, staring down at the tiny wriggling baby like she was made of glass and explosives.

“She’s glaring at me,” he muttered, eyes wide.

“She’s not glaring,” I said, biting back a laugh as I leaned against the doorway. “She’s pooping.”

His face paled. “Even worse.”

He slowly unfastened the diaper like he was defusing a bomb. The baby, Mila, let out a soft coo, unbothered. Sam, on the other hand, looked like he was sweating.

“This isn’t natural,” he whispered. “This feels like some kind of test. Like karma or something.”

“Welcome to fatherhood,” I smirked, handing him a wipe.

He took it like it was a weapon, then paused. “Wait… does this go… here?”

I nodded, watching him struggle with a deadly mix of horror and tenderness. When he finally managed to secure the clean diaper, he let out a breath like he’d just completed an Olympic marathon.

Then Mila farted.

Sam blinked. “She’s mocking me.”

— Late night cries

The clock read 3:12 AM. The only light in the room came from the dim hallway glow, and the sound of Mila’s tiny whimpers filled the air.

I rolled over, about to get up, but Sam was already moving. Hoodie half-zipped, one sock missing, and a unicorn sticker somehow stuck to his hair.

“I got her,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

I watched from the bed as he picked her up gently, pressing a kiss to her forehead before settling into the rocking chair.

He cradled her like she was the most precious thing in the universe.

“Hey, baby girl” he whispered. “What are we doin’ awake again, huh? You miss us that bad?”

She quieted almost instantly, little fingers curling around one of his hoodie strings. He smiled.

“Me too,” he said softly.

I don’t think he even realized I was still watching. But in that moment, all I could think was God, I love him.

— Fashion struggle

Sam stood in front of the closet holding up two tiny onesies like he was trying to pick between life paths.

“One has bats on it. That feels like it aligns with our aesthetic,” he said seriously. “But this one says I Love My Daddy and… I mean, come on.”

I walked in, brushing past him. “You’re actually overthinking baby fashion?”

“Her look matters,” he said. “First impressions are important.”

“She’s four months old. Her audience is mostly stuffed animals.”

Sam held up the I Love My Daddy onesie again. “Okay but look at this and tell me it’s not illegal levels of cute.”

I gave him a look. “You just want her to wear it so you can post a photo.”

He grinned. “Yeah. And I’m gonna cry about it later.”

— Afternoon naps

It was late afternoon and Mila had finally fallen asleep on Sam’s chest. He was lying on the couch, head tipped back, a quiet song playing from the old speaker near the window.

I walked in to find him completely still, hand gently covering her back, eyes closed.

“You sleeping?” I whispered.

He peeked one eye open. “Almost. She’s warm.”

I sat on the arm of the couch, watching the way his fingers unconsciously rubbed slow circles on her tiny back. His hair was messy, his face soft.

“You’re really good at this,” I said.

He blinked at me. “At… what? Accidentally getting spit on my shirt?”

I smiled. “At being her dad.”

He looked at her, then at me. “It’s scary,” he admitted quietly. “But I want to be good. For her. For us.”

And that right there, that’s what made me fall in love with him all over again.

I love Sam as a girl dad 🙏

[babywriter]

"Uh-oh, does somebody need a change? No? But your pull-up is pretty soggy baby girl... No need to yelp when I grab your butt. Are you going to deny that you like it? Alright, just feel my hand smooshing that wet bottom. Oh dear, oh dear. I really have to change you. Don't throw a tamper tantrum little girl, you're going to leak if you go again. Let's slid that pull-up off you. Left, right. Must feel good to be nakey. Such a pretty baby girl

Come on, let's do a upsies. There you go. It's nice in Daddy's arms, right? Right. There we go, there's the changing table. Daddy's is going to slid this nice big diaper under you.

What? No, actually, I'm not going to tape it up right away.

Yes, Daddy is taking off his underwear too. Mmm, feels good, doesn't it? Come on, keep moaning little one.

Ahh, Daddy's done. You're not? Well too bad, the diaper gets taped up anyway to hold all that Daddy juice. You can finish by humping Ms. Unicorn though."

Photo credit: @nepies

For more stories by me: https://reamstories.com/babywriter

[widdlebabywilly]

Good Boy Clothing Company Part 2/? - Story

Jason woke up again with a groan, rolling over in his new twin sized race car bed with Spider-Man sheets and a thick, loud plastic sheet underneath. The diaper underneath his lamb onesie was soaked, like most were now when he woke up. Fuck, that was going to be another frowny face on the bedwetting chart, Jason thought to himself as he got up with a squish and waddled down to the breakfast table,

“What the fuck, man?!” Bryce, Jason’s 21 year old brother home from college exclaimed. Oh yeah, he’d only gotten in last night. He didn’t know about…everything,

“Now enough of that language Bryce,” Jason’s Dad admonished, “Jason’s just regressing a little cause he’s finally being a good little boy.” The clothes, Jason thought of again briefly before noticing he was uncontrollably soaking his diaper with more pee. It bulged out against his cotton onesie pants obscenely, like a balloon in a children’s glove.

“You could learn a thing a two about obedience, young man. That’s why I bought you some new clothes as well, after your last grade report I’m hoping we can turn things around with you.” Jason’s dad sternly ordered Bryce, much to his dismay.

After breakfast Jason took a bath while his dad dressed Bryce in a new outfit: hot wheels underoos, long jean shorts, and a red and white striped polo buttoned to the top and tucked in. To top off he had to wear a belt with Sesame Street characters covering it, truly heinous.

Jason almost wanted to laugh at his older brother’s humiliation, until his dad reminded him he was still the baby by taking his towel off him and dressing him in double ultra thick diapers, plastic pants, a pink onesie decorated with unicorns, and then white shortalls. Jason gulped as he realized any messes or spills would become ridiculously obvious in his new ensemble. And he was already christening his new diaper with fresh hot piss that immediately got wicked away by the soft comfortable padding.

“Come on, follow me boys.” Their dad ordered as the two boys, both men in many’s eyes but certainly not appearing to be those right now, shuffled after him all the way to the car.

Another new development awaited the brothers in the backseat, unsurprising to Jason after all his turmoil but horrifying to Bryce; two giant adult sized car seats, one red and blue. Jason’s dad picked up each boy and sat them in their respective new car seats, locking them into the five point harness that stretched across Jason’s diaper and rubbed Bryce’s penis into the lining of his underoos, reminding them both of their humiliation. They had never been so embarrassed, and they had no idea where they were headed but they were not eager to get there.

Jason’s dad had even purchased a CD from that good awful website, which he dropped in and immediately forced Jason to sing along.

These were all his favorite songs from when the boys were in pre-school, much to their humiliation; I’m a Little Teapot, Barney Is a Dinosaur, Tickle Time Is Fun, and Jason’s least favorite: Not Ready For Potty Training (Stinky Diaper Remix.)

Sometimes when Jason’s Dad drove him to school he furthered his humiliation by rolling the windows down while Jason was singing along. There was nothing like the seven am humiliation of being seen by your AP chem lab partner wearing an Elmo shirt and a diaper, sitting in a car seat, and singing along to I’ve Got the Bedwetter Blues.

Jason’s Dad didn’t roll the windows down today though. It was a short drive to the packed Sunnyview Mall.

Both boys groaned as they realized where they were as their Daddy got out of the drivers seat and came around to let each of his adult toddlers out of their car seats.

As they were walking in and people began pointing and giggling, Bryce started rubbing his tummy and walking funny.

You see, The Good Boy Clothing Company had spent a lot of time improving their clothes since they had taken two weeks to make Jason wet himself. Now they were a lot faster acting.

Bryce began to realize this as he slowly let out a loud fart. He NEVER farted in the public. His daddy didn’t acknowledge this as Bryce whined, his stomach rumbling and something moving downwards dangerously. Oh god, he thought to himself.

Jason, meanwhile, was just a large child. His diaper was soaked already, almost leaking, and he had drool sliding down his face. He was embarrassed, but he didn’t know how to stop. And he kindve enjoyed being like this.

Suddenly Bryce stopped walking, cried out in turmoil, bent over, and began shitting his pants. Jason gasped in empathic horror as his dad only sighed and shook his head,

“Damn baby, what’d you do that for?”

“I couldn’t stop it!” Bryce cried,

“Alright, let’s get you changed.” His dad said gruffly. Bryce began to protest, knowing what that meant, but his dad waved it off as he picked his son up and threw him over his shoulder; his bulging poopy pants in the air,

“WOOWEE STINKER!” His dad cried, causing more people to look over and laugh. Bryce wanted to die then and there, “YOU REALLY MADE A MESS LITTLE GUY!” He continued, before loudly and forcefully slapping Bryce’s ass; poop smashed everywhere across his butt and his stupid new toddler underwear.

Ten minutes later and as you can see above, Bryce was all double diapered up and dressed in a brand new outfit since his old one got a little poopy on it. He’s devastated, but Jason’s Dad can’t wait to see what The Good Boy Clothing Company comes out with next!

[regressionschool]

Dreamland Dribbles

Alright, sweetie, let’s get you ready for bed. You’ve been such a drooly, messy little thing all day, haven’t you? But now that you’re all nice and clean after that stinky nappy, it’s time to get you tucked in like the good baby you are.

I wipe that little drool off your chin, even though I know it’ll be back in no time, and start by guiding you over to your bed. You sit there, paci bobbing in your mouth, completely oblivious to the world around you, and I can’t help but smile at how adorably helpless you are. Your little unicorn bib is still in place, catching every little dribble as you suck away.

I get out your cozy nighttime onesie and help you into it, guiding your arms through the sleeves and zipping it up carefully, making sure it hugs that thick, crinkly diaper of yours just right. It’s so cute how the padding bulges underneath, giving that unmistakable shape. I pat your bottom gently, hearing the familiar crinkle, and you giggle, not even realizing just how well you’re padded for the night. Now, I lay you down and pull the soft blanket up over you. You’re squirming a bit, wiggling in place, but I can tell by the way your face softens that you’re already drifting off, that paci still gently bobbing between your lips. But before I can even say goodnight, I notice something… your diaper, freshly changed not even ten minutes ago, is starting to feel warm again.

Without even realizing it, you’ve already had a little accident, haven’t you, sweetie? And you didn’t even notice, just lying there like the oblivious baby you are. You’re already wet, just like I knew you would be. Of course, you’re far too little to control anything, and even if you could, you wouldn’t want to. That’s why your thick, crinkly nappy is there to catch every little “oopsie” while you drift off to dreamland, completely unaware of how soggy you’re becoming.

With a chuckle, I give your padded bottom one last pat, feeling that familiar squish starting to form. You’re already halfway gone, eyes fluttering closed, blissfully unaware that you’ll wake up even wetter by morning.

All captions also availabe on my Patreon

[goldfades]

𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐍 & 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐖𝐄 ' 𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐓 ☆ DONCIC⁷⁷ (ev's 6k celly!)

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ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and luka were never supposed to be the blueprint. you are both fan favorites — technical fouls, postgame quotes, highlight reel meltdowns. that’s how it started. a mutual respect forged in chaos. now? you’ve got a toddler who won’t wear shoes, sunscreen in your eye and a suitcase full of tiny swimsuits that no one’s wearing.

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | toddler tantrums, descriptions of parenthood (duh), nothing else!

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | i was thinking about what to name their little toddler daughter and i was like... huh, mandy is such a cute name!! then i realized maybe, i think it's bc i've been watching slushy noobz for the last week (like constantly, it's so bad) and i didn't even put two and two together until right now!! LOL

You never thought you'd be the kind of person who packed three kinds of baby sunscreen and still forgot the one your daughter actually liked. You never thought Luka Dončić would be the kind of person who read the ingredients on organic juice boxes like it was a game film breakdown, either but here you both are.

A beach resort. Croatia. Off-season. Your first real vacation as a family of three.

It’s supposed to be relaxing. That’s what everyone keeps saying when they see the photos you’re remembering to post — the glossy sunset shots, Luka’s hand curled around Mandy’s little foot, your oversized sunglasses hiding the circles under your eyes. But behind the scenes, it’s chaos. A slow-burning, sun-drenched, sticky-skin kind of chaos.

Mandy screamed for twenty solid minutes on the flight because the apple juice was “wrong.” Luka forgot the stroller in the car back at the airport. You tripped over a floating unicorn raft at check-in then got sunscreen in your eye within the first ten minutes of stepping foot on the sand.

You and Luka were never supposed to be the blueprint.

People loved you because you weren’t tidy. You were loud. Messy. The postgame interview where you dropped the f-bomb twice before walking off. Luka’s seventh technical of the season, earned because a ref “looked at you funny.” Fans joked that your love language was mutually assured ejection. And they weren’t wrong.

But here you are now. Married. A baby. Vacationing.

You’re in a rented villa that smells like jasmine and ocean salt. There are six different flavors of baby snacks scattered across the kitchen table, a stack of swim diapers on the counter and Luka snoring softly into the couch cushions while Mandy smears watermelon across his shoulder.

You rub your eyes and feel the grain of dried sunscreen around your lashes. Your back hurts from carrying a wriggly toddler to and from the pool. The swimsuit you picked out for yourself has never seen water.

And still — still, when Mandy laughs so hard at the waves crashing over her toes that she hiccups when Luka wraps his arms around your waist and kisses your temple like it’s just the two of you again, you get this rush in your chest. A weightless, dizzy kind of warmth.

You're doing it. Not perfectly. Not quietly. But still, you’re doing it.

“Okay, Mandy,” you say, crouched at the foot of the bed, holding up two swimsuits like you're conducting a very high-stakes negotiation. “Pink strawberries or blue dolphins? You pick.”

Your daughter stares at you like you’ve just asked her to explain quantum physics. Her curls are slightly damp from the shower, cheeks flushed from a post-nap meltdown that involved exactly zero explanation and ended in a mutual timeout, for all parties involved. Including Luka, who’s currently rummaging through a suitcase in the corner, muttering to himself in Slovenian.

“I don’t like blue dolphins,” Mandy finally announces, pointing dramatically at the strawberry suit.

You nod like this is a major breakthrough in diplomacy. “Perfect. Strawberries it is.”

“But I wanted the blue one.”

You blink. “Okay… you just said-”

“I wanted the other blue one.”

You don’t know what other blue one she’s referring to but it doesn’t matter. She’s now walking away from you completely naked, a gummy snack in one hand and an invisible grudge in the other.

Luka groans from somewhere inside the closet. “Where is the damn sunscreen with the purple cap? She only lets me use that one now.”

“She threw it in the toilet yesterday.”

“She what?”

You stand up slowly, hands on your hips and breathe through your nose. You remind yourself you are on vacation. You remind yourself you chose this. You also remind yourself that if you don’t laugh, you might start screaming into the decorative driftwood centerpiece.

Luka turns around, holding up a pair of tiny sandals triumphantly. “At least I found her shoes.”

You glance over at Mandy, who is now under the bed, humming something suspiciously off-key, still very much naked.

“She’s not going to wear them.”

“She wore them yesterday.”

“She wore one,” you clarify. “Then she threw the other into the ocean like a message in a bottle.”

Luka sighs, setting the shoes down next to her outfit anyway. “Do you think if I bribe her with ice cream-”

“She already had ice cream today.”

“It was sorbet.”

You give him a look. He gives you that boyish half-grin that makes your stomach flip even after all this time. “Different texture,” he says, shrugging. “Doesn’t count.”

You're about to argue when Mandy reemerges from under the bed, dramatically crawling out on her hands and knees like a sitcom burglar. She looks up at both of you, wide-eyed and suspicious.

“I need the popsicle swimsuit,” she declares. “Not strawberries. Not dolphins. Only popsicles.”

“There is no popsicle swimsuit,” you say gently. “That was at home, remember?”

Her lip trembles. Luka, sensing disaster, jumps in.

“How about the strawberry one and we draw popsicles on it later?”

Mandy squints at him, considering. “With marker?”

Luka nods solemnly. “With whatever you want, princess.”

That earns him a slow, very adult nod of approval. “Okay.”

You hold your breath as she walks over and lets you dress her without incident. Luka meets your eyes behind her back, mouth open like he can’t believe it either.

She lets you slide on the suit. Arms. Legs. Snap. No complaints. The shoes, however, are still a no.

“Feet need to be free,” Mandy says seriously, holding up one finger like she's about to start a TED talk. “Feet get hot.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Nod. “Okay, fine. No shoes.”

She runs off again, still barefoot but at least this time, she’s dressed. Luka collapses onto the edge of the bed like he’s just finished a five-set playoff game.

“You know,” he says, “I used to think playing against Draymond was hard.”

You snort. “Draymond doesn’t scream for apple juice at 2AM and then throw it when it’s too cold.”

Luka leans over, pulls you into a quick, salty kiss. You both smell like sunscreen and baby wipes and something vaguely tropical, and somehow, it’s still the best kiss you’ve had all week.

“She’s kinda cute, though,” he mumbles against your cheek. “Even if she’s a terrorist.”

You laugh. “She gets it from me.”

“She gets everything from you.”

You smile, watching Mandy press her face to the window, fogging it up with her breath as she waits for the beach.

And then you both hear her yell: “I NEED MY FLOATIE THAT LOOKS LIKE A DUCK. NOT THE FROG. THE DUCK.”

Luka groans. “Oh my god. I left the duck in the rental car.”

You close your eyes, already grabbing the keys. “I’ll get it.”

“No, no. I’ll go.”

“She’ll yell at whoever stays.”

You both look at each other. Then at Mandy.

Rock, paper, scissors it is.

Vacation. You’re doing amazing, sweetie.

The car ride to the beach is exactly what you expected it to be, which is to say: hell.

You’re in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, window cracked, and your left hand pressed flat against your temple like it’s the only thing holding your sanity in place. Mandy is in her car seat behind you, full-volume, screaming about god-knows-what with tears she’s not even wiping anymore because she’s too busy flailing her feet like she’s auditioning for a mosh pit.

“Mandy!” you try. Calm. Authoritative. Hanging on by a thread. “What is it, baby? What’s wrong?”

“THE SUN!”

Luka’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror. “The sun?”

“IT’S LOOKING AT ME!”

You blink. You turn toward her. “You’re mad at the sun?”

“YESSSSSS!” she wails, kicking the back of Luka’s seat for emphasis. “IT’S TOO BRIGHT! I DON’T LIKE WHEN IT LOOKS AT ME!”

“Okay,” you say slowly, hand now gripping the edge of your seat. “We talked about this, remember? The sun has to be out during the day. It’s how we can see. And… you’re wearing sunglasses.”

“I HATE SUNGLASSES!”

She rips them off. Throws them. You don’t even flinch when they bounce off the back of your seat and clatter to the floor. Luka, bless his patient heart, just turns up the air conditioning and keeps driving.

“She didn’t nap long enough,” you mutter, rubbing your forehead. “That’s what this is.”

“She’s overstimulated,” Luka agrees. “Too much sugar. Too much sun. Too much freedom. She’s gone feral.”

“Don’t say feral.”

“She bit me earlier.”

You snort. You can’t help it. “Okay, yeah. That’s true.”

The screams continue. A mix of sun-hating, snack-requesting, leg-itching nonsense that no toddler dictionary could ever fully translate and it doesn’t stop, not even when you pull into the parking lot. Not when you unbuckle her. Not when you offer to carry her. Not even when you hand her the godforsaken duck floatie that Luka went back for and which is now the only thing keeping you from turning the car around and spending the day hiding under hotel pillows.

She wails and thrashes and wriggles in your arms as you stomp toward the beach. Luka has the cooler strapped across his back, the beach bag in one hand and the towels slung over his shoulder, looking like a sherpa who made a very romantic mistake two years ago and is now carrying the weight of it in literal pounds.

Your swimsuit is already sticking uncomfortably to your back. Your thighs are chafing. You haven’t eaten since breakfast. And now your toddler is crying because the sand is “wrong.”

You stop halfway down the path and just stare at the water, eyes glassy.

“Babe,” Luka says softly. “You okay?”

You inhale through your nose. "No."

He leans in. Kisses the top of your head. “We’re almost there. Five more minutes.”

“She’s not gonna last five more minutes. She’s gonna spontaneously combust.”

And then, of course — it happens. Right as you step onto the beach proper, right as your feet sink into the hot sand and the full heat of the sun wraps around you like a wet towel, Mandy just… stops crying.

She hiccups once. Looks around.

Then, as if none of the last thirty minutes happened, she lights up.

“Oh!” she gasps, pointing to the waves. “Look, mama! OCEAN!”

You blink. “Yes, babe. That’s the ocean.”

“It’s huge!” she yells, wriggling out of your arms. “I wanna go see it!”

And then she’s off, duck floatie under one arm, legs pumping, curls bouncing, squealing with laughter as she sprints across the sand like she’s never known a single bad thing in her life.

You and Luka just stand there. Staring. Silent.

Then you glance at each other. And burst out laughing.

It’s not even full-volume laughter. It’s the kind that escapes when you’ve been holding it in all day. When your brain has been in fight-or-flight and you finally get permission to exhale. You lean into him and rest your forehead on his shoulder, giggling so hard your knees feel wobbly.

“She’s crazy,” you whisper.

“She’s our kid.”

“God help us.”

“She’s perfect.”

You watch as Mandy runs up to the water, shrieks when it touches her toes, then runs back up the sand before turning around and doing it all over again. She's lost in it. Giddy. Wild. Untouchable.

And that’s the moment it hits you.

This — this — is what all of it’s about.

Not the pictures. Not the “relaxing” part. Not the perfectly curated family moments you see on social media. It’s the ugly, sweaty, scream-filled in-between that somehow leads to this: the smile on her face, the way Luka’s hand finds yours and squeezes, the way you both know this day will be burned into your memory not because it was perfect, but because it was yours.

You spread the towels. You settle down. Luka opens the cooler and hands you a cold drink. You lean back into him, legs tangled, your daughter shrieking happily in front of you like the beach was made just for her.

“She’s not wearing her hat,” you murmur.

“I’m picking my battles,” Luka replies, eyes closed, a peaceful grin on his face.

And for the first time all day, no one is crying. No one is screaming. No one is asking for the blue juice or the green spoon or the popsicle swimsuit that doesn’t exist. Just laughter, and waves, and sand sticking to your ankles.

You lean your head on Luka’s shoulder and feel his arm wrap around you instinctively, fingers brushing your elbow.

“We’re doing it,” he says softly.

You don’t answer right away. Just nod. Smile into the breeze.

Yeah. You’re doing it.

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