#swaddle wrap with cap

[tranceindia123]

All you need to know about magic of swaddling

Dreams start with the enchantment of wrapping up. Cover your child with comfort and style. Figure out what makes Trance Home Linen exceptional and give your child the most comfort and quality that anyone could hope to find. Get our swaddle cloth online right now to offer your children a quiet night's rest. Swaddling is something other than a wrapping strategy, a delicate embrace relieves your newborn child and advances relaxing rest by reenacting the warm, comfortable belly. Have a look at the soft 100% cotton malmal baby swaddle cloth. Your baby can have a good sense of safety with our top wrap-up materials. They create the ideal cocoon-like environment for peaceful sleep and are made from the softest cotton. They gently caress your baby's delicate skin. There are a lot more purposes for our swaddle wrap cloth, with its outrageous flexibility. These can be utilized as burp materials, carriage covers, nursing covers, or even as a slim cover for your newborn child's stomach.

[allworkwear]

BABY ESSENTIALS FOR YOUR BABY'S ARRIVAL

Pre-baby shopping trips are an important part of equipping your new family member. Getting ready to welcome a baby into your home can be exciting and thrilling. To take care of the little one you have to fill your house with the things you’ll need. To help you figure out what to buy, the experts at Trance Home Linen have systematized the baby essentials for your baby’s arrival. These are some of the bare necessities of life thus making your caring for the child easier. And also life is more comfortable for you and your partner! We think the top of every baby checklist should be a safe place to put the baby down so you can get some rest too. A Crib and best crib mattress protector. A new, firm mattress that fits the frame. Without affecting its breathability, comes a few baby dry sheet waterproof covers, baby pillows for newborns, and swaddle wrap cloth.

[luxurychristmaspudding]

Weightless | On Call

summary: your curtains are closed, truck silent on the drive. today of all days, you shouldn't be alone.

pairing: neighbour!frankie morales x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. dual pov. loooots of angst. active grieving for a dead parent. a very soft frankie. vibes are better in the next chapter lmao.

wc: 2.1k

an: my grandad was a man who loved flowers. today marks seven years since we lost him. he was gentle and kind and so talented.

have some forget me nots, which are in my garden and now also in your hands. for @morallyinept's flora and fauna challenge. for anyone you may also miss <3

When the time came Just like you are He was weightless In my arms

- weightless, elbow

series masterlist | main masterlist

Your house is quiet.

Quiet like Frankie has never heard. 

There’s always some kind of noise. A record turning, the hum of your voice. The TV on, windows open to birdsong. But today, there is nothing. 

His legs are heavy. Heart heavy, fingers shaking, wrapped around the bag of groceries he’s brought. He’s taken two steps in through your front door, and now he doesn’t know what to do. 

He watches the dust motes swim in the sun of your hallway. Shifts on his feet to look through into the living room. You must be upstairs, but to call your name in the silence of the morning feels like too much. Invasive. Cruel. 

Instead, he swallows and takes the remaining strides into your kitchen. Breathes in the fresh smell of your plants, the familiarity of your spice rack in the corner, the spread of miscellaneous stuff that he’s rarely seen tidied away. He gently places the bag of groceries on the counter before opening your cupboards for a vase. 

Once he finds one, he fills it with water and trims the stems. Forget-me-nots and white carnations. Something simple. Remembrance and love. Bright and pretty. No lilies. They only remind you of the funeral.

He’s biding his time. Trying to tamp down the nerves swirling in his gut, the somersault of his heart in his chest. He knows from the gaps left in his own life that today will be hard. And he wants to make it easier for you. He just hasn't worked out how.

He knows what works for him. The long hikes, the pull of a bottle. In murkier times, many years ago now, the sharp taste of powdered gums. Knows what works for the boys. The days with drawn curtains, video games played in the gloom. Tequila and memories shared across barbeques. Even his parents - honorary pastel de choclo, flicking through photo albums. But for you, he’s not sure. 

Once he’s happy with the way the flowers are arranged, he takes off his shoes. He leaves his cap on the counter, and pads up the stairs.

It’s still quiet. You’re not in the bathroom. No reason for you to be in any other of the rooms. He holds his breath and raises his knuckles against the wood of your bedroom door.

He knocks, softly - once. Waits for an answer that doesn’t come, but pushes it open anyway.

‘Bug?’ He says gently into the morning sunlight.

You’re swaddled in bed, still in your pyjamas, eyes red and swollen. You sit up slightly with a watery smile as he edges in, managing a crackled hey, Fish.

A sharp lump rises in Frankie’s throat. Something about seeing you upset has always hurt; the same kind of ache he gets in his chest when Lucia or his mum cries. His eyes flick from yours to your bedside table, to the picture of your father settled on top of it. Frozen in time, his smile is wide - just like yours. Greying hair, a little more chin fat than he would have had as a younger man. A younger you tucked into his side, his arm slung over your shoulders. Your arms around his middle, squeezing, laughing. Fuck.

Frankie’s heart shoots out the bottom of his legs and skids across the floor. He looks you over, and your chin wobbles. Too much. Too vulnerable. The smile drops, your face cracks. Your mouth clamps shut with a snap of teeth, and a fresh wave of tears begins to pour down your cheeks.

Frankie feels his own expression crumble, and he’s at your side before he can even think for his feet to take him there. Perched on your mattress, arms around your shoulders to pull you close. Shushing like the gentle in and out of waves, lips pressed to your hot forehead. 

You’re tense, so tense. Breath coming in choked hiccups, shoulders up to your ears. Hands gripping the sheets. There’s another pull in Frankie’s chest.

‘Stop trying not to cry,’ he murmurs, ‘I can feel it.’

You release a ragged breath, a heartbroken cry as you cling to his sleeves. Like you're being ripped apart. Like you're being drowned.

‘I’m sorry,’ you gasp, ‘I’m sorry.’ 

Frankie shifts you further across the bed so he can fit next to you, shaking his head. 

‘Don’t be sorry. Why should you be sorry?’

‘You don’t have to be here,’ you choke, ‘It’s okay. You don’t have to stay.’

Frankie closes his eyes. Leaving you here is the furthest thing from his mind, a notion that wouldn’t even cross it.

‘I want to.’ He says.

You nod, curled tight to him. He can feel dampness seeping through his hoodie, and he sits back against the headboard, cradling you to his chest. His heart is beating so fast. You can hear it, the conch of your ear pressed to the cage of his ribs. You try to focus on it, try to think of nothing else. Try not to think of this day four years ago. The weightless feel of your father in your arms in the last minutes of his life. How you held him when he could hold you no longer.

‘What do you need, baby?’ Frankie asks.

The streams of tears, the bow of your brow, serve to split his heart in two.

‘I don’t know.’ You whisper.

So Frankie holds you closer, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Unwittingly, he’s answered the question for you. For the last four years, you have needed to be held like this. Needed to be held together by someone who is not yourself, someone who can shoulder the weight of the grief you have carried alone for years, just for a moment. 

You lose yourself to it. To the warmth, the smell, the comfort. You let the flood come, you let Frankie rock you. You ask him how Luc is, and he understands the need to hear about life outside this room. So he tells you about her arts and crafts, her newfound dislike of mac and cheese, what she wants for her birthday. The daisy chains she's been making, the sweetpeas they're growing in their garden. And it’s wonderful. It reminds you of the good of the world, that it keeps spinning, that there is love out there even when it feels lost to you. 

If there is something out there other than life, you hope your dad is in it. On a deck chair with a beer on the beach, a little basket of fries delivered to him every so often. He’s smiling, laughing. You hope he’s still around, because the idea that he’s not is too big, too great to face. It’s too lonely. Too terrifying to be alone in this world, no anchor, no tether, a family with their backs to you after you’d told them who you loved, too far in the distance to turn back to you with outstretched palms. An ex-fiancée who simply didn’t love you enough.

But he’s here, you feel. Here in this moment, watching from somewhere above. Mixed with the fabric of now like clothes in a washing machine. A spiral of colour and feeling. Pink, purple, blue, green. Love, joy, heartbreak, loss.

Orange. Orange and white is what Frankie can see. The warmth of the sunlight, the pale of your sheets. You’re far away but safe in his arms. He wants you there always. Wants to be wherever you need him.

He thinks of this day in his own life, four years ago. The tiny, warm body of his baby in his arms. Weightless as you are now and yet so heavy, the two of them fighting sleep in a nursery elsewhere in Florida. He can still smell her hair, still hear the way she’d babble, the way she still fit tucked into one arm. He swallows, hard. Holds you tighter still, thumbs rubbing your shoulder, your side. There is so much of his daughter’s life to see. He can’t imagine having it cut short. Can’t imagine knowing it would end soon, counting down the days as his body wasted. The milestones he’d miss, the moments and memories. The stories and people she’d introduce him to. It doesn’t bear thinking about, her out in the wide world without him to guide or protect her. And he knows you’d hate it, but he’s sorry. So sorry that that’s the life you have, that you don’t have him to turn to anymore. And he’s sorry for your dad. For him to have missed who you are now, to miss who you will be. 

He presses another kiss to your head, hoping to convey this. This nebulous thought, this strange feeling.

‘He wrote letters for me,’ you whisper into his neck. So quietly, voice strained to breaking as you force the words out. ‘For birthdays. For jobs. For my first home. For my wedding. For a first child.’ You try to smile, but it’s flattened with a broken breath. ‘He thought of everything. And I read them again today - the ones I’m up to - but it’s like - it’s like his voice -’ you cut yourself off, burying your face in your hands as you try to calm down. ‘Sometimes it’s like I can’t hear him properly anymore.’ 

Frankie strokes the back of your hand, and it drops easily. He holds it in clammy palms.

In the cold days after your dad passed, through numb dissonance you had googled everything to do with grief. The stages, the remedies, the processes. What you forget first.

Voice. There would be a day, before anything else, when you wouldn’t be able to remember how your name sounded spoken by his lips. When you couldn’t remember the texture of I love you spoken in his tongue.

Frankie knows this. He googled it after Colombia, when the weight of every body he’d seen or carried seemed to settle on him. It had comforted him. He didn’t want to remember shouts and screams, couldn’t stomach the memory of Tom’s orders rattling through his brain. But he feels so desperate to take this from you, to retract and hide what you know. So useless in the face of so much hurt, so much loss. Even when he knows the best he can do is sit here in it with you. 

You press your free fingertips into your eyes. 

‘I’m so scared, Frankie,’ you whisper from behind the dark in your head. ‘I’m so scared I might forget him.’

Frankie’s seen the simplicities of grief before. Knows them intimately. Knows the horror of these realisations, understands as he presses his lips to your hairline and you shake in his arms. He loves you too much to lie.

So instead, he tells you a truth.

‘I’ve got you. I’ve got you.’

When the light turns from golden to white, the sun a little higher in the sky, you disentangle yourself to blow your nose. You manage a laugh as you do it, muttering a bashful ew as Frankie watches you, still stretched out on your mattress. Any other time, and your heart would be hammering in your chest at the sight. But now, it’s all the comfort you need. 

He stands, stiff, stretching his arms to the ceiling before gathering you briefly in his arms again. 

‘You okay?’ He asks.

‘Better.’ You say, brushing a curl from his forehead.

His eyes are so warm, so gentle. 

‘Breakfast?’

You hum, offer him the best smile you can. A sludge of guilt slops in your stomach, but you try to swallow it.

‘Thank you. I’ll be down in a bit.’

When he’s downstairs, listening to the sound of your shower, he unpacks his grocery bag and begins making a stack of pancakes. Blueberry, banana, strawberry, chocolate chip. Syrup enough for you to taste through the salt at the back of your throat. Methodical, mechanical, more focused on listening for your movements through the floors of your house. The shutting off of the water, the soft thunk of your drawers. Your footsteps heavy on the stairs, down the hall. You appear in the doorway, hair washed, eyes red, cosy in sweats and a t-shirt. He smiles at you, and you smile back. It’s small, but it’s a start.

You move closer, and he takes you under his arm as he turns the stove off. You wrap your arms around his middle.

‘Thank you for the flowers,’ you say, quietly. Frankie follows your eyes to the bouquet arranged in the vase. Forget-me-nots, white carnations. ‘Thank you for not getting lilies.’

He smiles, kisses your forehead. Wonders whether he could leave a mark simply from doing it so often, so you’d always feel safe.

‘No problem.’

He guides you towards the table, pulls out the chair and makes sure you’re settled. Makes sure you have your coffee, your pancakes. The smell of the flowers is sweet, something blooming in your stomach. You trace the outline of them before you, the simplicity, the thought. Frankie asks what you want to do for the rest of the day. You deflect the question back at him, and he smiles.

‘Anything.’

‘Anything?’

You raise an eyebrow at his mhm.

‘That’s dangerous.’ You say with a wry smile.

Something in Frankie’s chest lifts. There she is.

Later, when Luc is tucked into your side and you’re tucked into Frankie’s, you’ll wonder how you can ever repay him. The kindness he shows you, the patience.

You only hope that you will, someday. Promise it, head leant against his shoulder.

Even if it takes the rest of your life.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Living with your Yandere Gorgon Sisters (2)

It’s my own personal headcannon that their childhood if you could call it that is a heartless hunt for power

The hierarchy topped by their mother is one of ultimate submission 

A constant cap on their power and watered-down respect in the witch’s order

Not to mention their mother, if bothered enough, will happily feast on her offspring

Not only as a quick meal but a way to boost her own magic

Needless to say, it's a constant battle for the three sisters against her

Which makes your birth a crucial moment 

Your mother is weakened nursing you but something is different

She can hold your swaddled form and not even have the desire to eat 

It makes your sisters all the more eager to target you

Its Arachne who strikes first distracting her long enough to stand over your bassinet

“You…are so precious."

Unfortunately, your mother returns before she can snatch you away

But that will do it for her

Next is Medusa and then Shaula  who have similar moments when greeted with your infant form 

Ultimately how they treat you when they have you are indicative of their first meetings with you:

Arachne Gorgon

Falling in love with you during her first successful fight marks the beginning of a dangerous jealousy

One being fed by her long stalking of your mother and you in private 

Nursing, speaking, and over all caring for you makes her so jealous

Jealous of your mother’s love? Not in the slightest

its of your mother’s privilege to love you

She wants to be her so bad

But she urged her sisters off of you two for a little while

Only until you finished nursing

So now when she demands you cuddle up to her its her…payback of sorts

For all that time her mother got to hog you for herself 

now she does the hogging

She loves when she punishes you

Taking you away from your lake or pool to rest in her bosom

“This it the way it should be. You, relying on me.”

Medusa Gorgon

Meets you on a less opportunistic situation

Taking advantage of a fight between Arachne and their mother

She comes with no intentions to spare you

Hand and undeveloped snake magic prepared to strike you

Cursing herself when she can’t bring her hand down

She eventually does bring a hand down only for the snake to wrap around your body as you giggle relentlessly

She holds you a little awkwardly relishing in the soft nuzzling into her undeveloped chest

She eventually puts you back nearly losing her eye at your mother’s vicious attack

If there had been a grave for her she would have held you close while spitting on the grave

But she doesn’t have one she doesn’t even have a body to bury

Medusa prefers the tank, watching you swim around listening to her

She believes she gives you freedom like none of the others

And you should be grateful

Grateful enough to forever stay by her side while she plunges the world into madness

“Good baby. You’re seeing it from my perspective now! A world full of madness! I can’t wait to set you free in it.”

Shaula Gorgon

Was annoyed with the exclusion that Arachne and Medusa had begun to do in regards to fighting their mother over you

So she attempts to fight their mother on her own 

failing miserably she’s practically only saved by you

Sitting silently until what would be her final blow you somehow need something 

Not to be sated easily your mother retreats sneering at her all the while

Coincidence, that’s what she chalks it up to

But truly was it destiny?

So she tries again

this time bullied into not harming a hair on your head by her sisters

Piggy backing off of them attacking their mother to sneak her way to you

All according to plan

Its Shaula who eventually sneaks away with a sleeping you

Lulled to sleep in her hiding place she finds that she’s never slept more peacefully than with you by her side

She doesn’t even wake when your mother lets out the eardrum shattering death scream

She hated having to leave your side to aid her sisters when you so cutely coo as she leaves

Now when she keeps you, she has to tell you all about what she’s accomplished

She so badly wants to show you how cool she is

“See. See. Its all about control (Y/n) if you have that there can be no one to stop you.”

[enchantedchocolatebars]

A Welcoming Embrace Back Home

Fanfic for Camila Mama Week 2024 (@camilamamaweek).

Day 1: Embrace/Home.

To commemorate this wonderful week, I opted to write short stories that feature Camila and her second daughter, Alma, who is one of my OCs.

This story in particular can be seen as a sort of sequel to this fic.

Summary: Camila returns home with Beardo Philip two days after delivering Baby Alma.

Enjoy!

(Thanking my friend @pokeycub for being a fan of the title).

"I'm so glad to be going back home with you, mi amor," a tired Camila told Beardo Philip with a soft smile while in the front passenger seat, holding the little bundle she had given birth to two days ago.

She was swaddled securely in a light pink cloth, which matched the knitted light pink cap she wore on her little head.

"How have things been at the house without me?" she asked quietly, pressing a gentle kiss to Alma's forehead.

Camila immediately spotted the small smile appearing on her lips from the affection and giggled lightly.

Despite being only zero months old, she was already such a sweetheart.

While in the recovery room, Camila had no doubt that she would grow up and accomplish great things.

Coming up to a red traffic light, Philip gently pressed his foot against the brake and looked at Camila holding their daughter so tenderly.

He gave a soft, melancholic smile as he spoke.

"They've been terribly different without you, love," he managed to admit with a mumble.

Mornings were missing their usual cheerfulness for him without hearing Camila's bright voice as she brewed her coffee, and two nights without her by his side in bed felt like two whole decades.

"Is it foolish for me to say that they've been the toughest two days of my life?" he asked softly with a trembling breath.

"What?" Camila whispered with soft shock at his question, reaching to cup his cheek with her right hand.

She could sense the emotions that were wavering in his voice.

"No, of course not, Philip," she answered with great understanding.

"Being away from you and Luz in the hospital made me feel the same way. It's not foolish to feel the way you do."

Camila felt the need to alter the topic to make her husband feel better.

"Are you excited about being a father?"

"I'm..." Philip slowly shifted his gaze downward from Camila's hazel-brown eyes as he sighed.

"... Actually quite nervous," he stated, finishing his sentence.

If Camila wasn't in the car holding Alma, she would cuddle Philip.

"You know, it's actually quite normal to feel like that as a new father," Camila validated him with a tender smile.

"It is?" Philip asked, genuinely surprised by that fact.

Camila nodded.

"But that's okay because you won't have to go through it alone. You have me to help you every step of the way, as well as an amazing family. Remember, Philip, you're a Noceda now, so it'll be okay."

Philip smiled softly as he accepted his wife's tender touch.

"You're right, thank you," he said to her, leaning forward as they shared a kiss.

Camila had a knack for knowing what encouraging words to say to lift Philip's dejected spirit, and that was what he loved most about her.

As soon as the light turned green, Philip carefully accelerated the car forward.

...

"Hola, everyone," Camila greeted her daughter and parents inside her home with a warm smile, holding her newborn while Philip stood by her side. "I'm back."

Luz gasped.

"Mom!" she shouted happily, hurriedly leaving the couch and rushing toward her mother.

She began to wrap her mother in a loving embrace, being extra cautious not to squish her new baby sister in her love hug.

"Mija!" Camila's parents exclaimed at the same time as they rushed over to give their daughter a hug.

Philip followed suit and took part in the family hug to express his affection.

Camila felt so happy to see her family welcome her back home with such a warm welcome.

When Alma grows up and is capable of giving hugs, the mother is confident that her hugs will be equally loving.

[mudgazing]

Just this once

(After rewatching Atomgrad ep 4 i needed to write some Farah and Alex angst + hurt/comfort)

Farah sighs raggedly, wrapping herself tighter in her sheets as nausea courses through her body. She should have been up over an hour ago. Deep down she knows why she can’t get up, but she’ll never admit it. Alex calls out, rapping on the door with urgency. “Commander! Are you alright?” “I’m fine!” She sighs, closing her eyes briefly. A face flashes in her mind. Blood running down his forehead like a disgraced prince. 

Fuck you, Hadir.

“It’s unlike you to be late for anything.” His deep, warm voice travels into her ears, temporarily pulling her out of her rage.

“Are you alright?” Gathering her strength, Farah sits up, head swimming. Through the fog, she stumbles towards the door, one desire rising above the rest. 

Part of her is saturated with guilt – a war is raging, her brain and body are overworked to the point where she can barely serve – and confusingly, all she wants is a little human comfort. How selfish, Farah chides sarcastically to herself as she cracks open the door. Alex gazes at her kindly as she’s swaddled in the sheets. “You’re clearly not alright,” He slips into the room, hands on his hips. “You got a fever, Karim?” “Likely.” As she retreats back to bed, he trails a respectful distance behind her. 

“I don’t know what could cause this. I’ve been eating what I usually eat, and —”

“You? Eat?” He scoffs good naturedly. “I do eat, Alex. Sometimes.” She mumbles the last word while turning to face away from him. She hates being seen like this, so incapacitated and vulnerable.  “Cigarettes don’t count.” He pulls up her desk chair beside the bed and plops down. “You have troops to delegate. That’s an order.” Farah shivers. “Already did.” “So you’re shirking personal responsibilities then?” She rolls over to face him, grimacing as beads of sweat appear on her forehead. Alex pulls out a handkerchief from his tac vest. “My responsibility now is …”He carefully wipes her head, speaking softly. “Takin’ care of you, Commander.” Farah swallows hard, eyes glued to him as he gets up and searches for her first aid kit. “I’ve been feeling hot and cold since last night. Aching all over. Nauseous as well, but no vomiting.” Alex returns to her side, handing her a thermometer. She shoves it in her mouth. “What do you think could have caused this, Alex?” She murmurs.  He looks sideways at her, forearms resting on his thighs as the thermometer's cap turns idly in his hands. “Yesterday's mission. I could tell you were under more stress than usual.” “Don’t worry about me — I’ve been through worse.” She sighs with resignation, closing her eyes. He pulls the thermometer out of her mouth. “99 degrees Fahrenheit.” 

“Fuck.” Farah opens her eyes, thick brows creased in annoyance and concern.  “Your body couldn’t take it anymore.” He continues, shaking up a brown bottle of pain reliever. “Seeing Hadir die was the straw that broke the camel’s back.” 

He pours the dark syrup into the cap and passes it to her. “My wounds will heal in time. They need to. There’s still lots of work to do.” She shudders a bit while downing the liquid.  “Of course they’ll heal, you’ve got one strong camel.” A fleeting smile passes her face at the shitty joke. He turns to face her, good knee touching the bed while his face grows serious. “I’m so fucking angry at what he did. And yet, when you knocked on the door this morning …” Tears rim her dark, sleep deprived eyes. “I was half expecting it to be him. I am – was – his sister. We helped each other survive, and he had the audacity to say stealing the gas was for Urzikstan, for us… ” Her voice rises, taking on an angry and desperate edge. She slowly opens her tightly balled fists, shuddering.

“I apologize, I got carried away.” “Farah.” He leans back in the chair, pulling off his gloves. “You should be the last person on earth to apologize.” 

“Death is around us every day. I don't have time to mourn, I should be re-strategizing with you. I'm well enough to talk…”

“No, you should relax.” Alex places a firm hand on her shoulder. “You're not thinking straight. I’ll … I’ll go digging for some intel and..."

They stare at each other for a moment, waiting on bated breath. Every nerve in Farah’s body tingles with yearning while he brushes loose, sweat damp hairs from her face. She allows herself to lean into the caress just this once.

[inquisimer]

wip wednesday

thanks for the tag @dreadfutures :3 a lil start to a backstory fic for Neria, that will go somewhere....eventually

tags below for wip whenever because it's pretty late on wednesday💜

~~~

"It is time."

Duncan kept his voice gentle, laying a hand on Fiona's arm as a slip of a serving girl entered the room. In her arms was a tiny bundle, with bright green eyes and the smallest of noses just showing from her swaddle. Aside from the pointed ears poking out on either side of her cap, she was a perfect match to the babe Fiona held tight to her breast.

When Duncan spoke, the mage tensed. Her fingers tightened around her son.

"Perhaps...perhaps I was mistaken." She chewed on her bottom lip, eyes darting everywhere but at Duncan and always coming back to the baby. "I—it would be safer, traveling together--"

Her fellow Warden watched her fumble sadly, somber until she trailed back to silence.

"I cannot, can I?" she asked softly. Duncan shook his head, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and slipping the other beneath her cradled arms.

"No," he answered simply. There was nothing better to say.

Fiona clenched her eyes and jaw, then dropped her face, murmuring Orlesian fast and low against her son's head. When she looked back up, her gaze hardened to that of the woman who had made hard choices to keep her convictions—and would do it again, if needed.

"Take him," she whispered. "Keep Maric's promise for him."

"I will," Duncan vowed. The weight of a child in his arms was a bit foreign, but he shifted young Alistair securely into the crook of his elbow as Fiona pressed tear-salted kisses to his cheeks.

"Au revoir, Duncan," she murmured.

"Maker go with you."

Once she'd left for good, Duncan steadied himself with a deep breath and turned to the serving girl. He gestured with his chin to the elfkit she held.

"This is the one?" The servant nodded, scurrying forward at a gesture and laying the second babe in his free arm.

Only a few days in this world so far, and yet she did not fuss or cry at the absence of her mother, or at being passed about like a hot potato. She was lighter than Alistair, smaller, and her too-large eyes stared knowingly up at him.

"Does she have a name?"

The serving girl stuttered out uncertainties until Duncan waived her off. She scraped and bowed her way out of the room, leaving the Warden to settle his new charges in their wicker traveling bassinet.

"No matter, young one," he told the elf, tucking a blanket securely about them, "We'll find something that suits you."

Having nestled the babes to his satisfaction, Duncan slung his waterskin over his shoulder and hooked his thick cloak atop his armor. His horse waited at the stables, fresh and tacked for the surely frigid ride to Redcliffe. He lifted the bassinet and, giving it one last reassuring glance, pinched out the final candle. He plunged the chambers into darkness and left the palace, and Denerim, behind.

@rosella-writes | @exalted-dawn-drabbles | @nirikeehan | @effelants | @plisuu | @demawrites

[fountainpenguin]

"He's always running with no one to keep warm. It's like he's flirting with the smoke alarm..." (x)

---

New Criminal Experience chapter today!

Chapter 7 - “Freed”

❤️ Read on AO3

💙 Start from Chapter 1

💚 More Pixels Imperfect fics

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Mumbo hatches an allay egg. Is that in a wandering trader's job description?

(First 1,000 words under the cut)

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Several minutes later…

Egg hatching is a slow, ugly process. It's all kicks and little throbbing membranes visible through the shell. It takes an account creation to spawn a hybrid (and that's a whole theology in itself). Between has 100 dragons (or rather… 99; 98), and it can take days or weeks for an egg to have its turn. The rarer species may not hatch for months- Like the allay eggs. Mumbo kept them in Little Sun, awaiting Doc's green light to bring them to their new home.

The Allay Dragon was still alive last time he went to Crystal Cove. Mumbo holds the egg in both hands (mostly in his lap) as the baby inside pauses for energy. The rough wall behind him presses cold and hard against his head. Each individual block bears against skin. Is it comfortable? No. But is it safe here? … Nah, likely not. Carrie's patrol members could stumble across him at any time. And who knows if there's an enderman on the floor below, studying the ceiling tiles and readying themself to grief the block of their choice? Oh, this could go so badly.

If the allay's a hybrid, then somewhere in the multiverse, this newbie already exists in a form (on some secret little pocket server, dragged beneath Between as though by squid tentacles) that walks and builds and plays.

New accounts draw energy directly from the player who created them, but only on a server. Only while actively engaged. When that borrowed energy withdraws, the new player is left wobbly-legged and bleary. That's when their world fades out around them. They wake here in Between, swaddled in an egg. Born of a dragon. Part human in creation, blessed with lore, concept, and culture from the outside world. Part mob-themed dragon, blessed with a vessel to carry them through life even without a player's aid. Born of milk. Raised in love.

"Shh, yeah, look at you," Mumbo whispers, brushing his thumb across one cracked piece still clinging on. It's like a rose petal in his hand. The membrane pulses underneath. Is that a wing? Yeah, that might be a wing. That can't be right. It would've had to turn over. Maybe it's a foot.

"Not a first-timer," Vee muses, still washing things in the tub. What- Because he's not losing his mind? He'd laugh if he weren't shaking. Yes, well… even amidst new life, there are chores to be done. It's a lot of work, holding a baby and keeping still.

"You neither, yeah? Didn't you sit with ravager eggs 'til one hatched a mob?"

"Yeah, that's how my tribe's always done it. Some try to tame the wild ones that roam the emerald savanna, though."

"Oh, I don't fancy that."

"BigB and I picked ours out together," she murmurs, and leans her head in closer. Mumbo watches her eyes flick across the cracking egg in his hands. He's never felt her breath dance and swirl like this. They've never been this close. Vee lays a hand against his rolled-up sleeve. "Did it stay warm, you think?"

Stay warm. Now, that's the hardest chore of all. Mumbo doesn't answer, tightening his arms around the living, breathing egg. Funny… It even feels more alive now that it's been sparked with life. Are his sleeves enough? Is HE enough? He doesn't have the serpentine body of his mother, with her golden scales and spiky gemstone wings. Mum can wrap many, many times around many, many eggs in her nest of maple twigs and leaves. Wandering traders hatch from dark blue eggs flecked with gold. The allay in his arms is not the first one he's ever seen crack before reaching its final destination.

His earliest days are blurry ones. In Between, his eyes were darkened with lens caps, his body weak and skinless as he suckled and learned to build his own strength. Walking's easy, you know, when you're fed energy from the outside world. With a player in control, you can sprint like the wind, leap with deer, and skid sideways by the rivers whipping down the hills. But walking takes time (speaking takes time; opening your eyes takes time). Dragon milk's the key to surviving your early days. Milk is energy and energy is life.

I hope the allays get by okay on the substitutes I have.

… Ah. Those went over the cliff with Buzz, didn't they?

I wish my mum were here. I expect the Ender Dragon will tense if she sees me getting close. Dragons view wandering traders as neutral creatures; at least, that's what his mentors taught. In fact, that's the whole reason he stood before Impulse when the Firefly Dragon arrowed through the swamp to snuff at them. But meandering through a dragon's territory without upsetting her is one thing, and sneaking close enough to steal their milk is quite another. My own mother won't let me touch her belly gems.

Gah. Hatching is ugly even when babies are sweet little things. And carting them across Between feels like charging across a volcanic coast biome filled with magma blocks and hot sand, even when passing eggs to grateful new parents is the most rosy feeling in the world. Yet despite the danger, you play your role over and over, because it's in your code and it's beautiful. The urge and the journey and the game.

Mumbo stares at the damp, glowing membrane that kicks beneath the shell. Is the baby allay doing all right? While there's no such thing as an egg turning out a "dud" - there are new accounts created every day, after all, and life will spark in a valid egg eventually - a few conditions must be met for an egg to hatch a hybrid instead of a mob. It must be unbroken. It must not be abandoned in an unloaded chunk for more than moments. When hatching time arrives, it needs to have enough headroom. They can't be in your inventory.

And it must be kept warm.

Vee's still waiting for an answer to that question. Are they warm; are they safe; are we raising simple mobs or children who'll be like us someday? He kept the eggs bundled in his satchel. Carrie sort of had them wrapped in the llama blankets. That might have been enough to stave off the chill of permafrost and wind.

But this past hour hasn't been exactly kind to the eggs, so Mumbo draws unsteady breath. "I don't know. We've been running about. I don't know."

If a mob hatches from the egg, the account meant to sync up to this one will take whatever else it can. Maybe not its first choice of species, but there are other options. If you like allay culture, you might try life as a rascal hybrid- They're classed as fey and just as rare. You still get to gather things and hand out gifts. Or if the size and wings were to your taste, vex are an allay's nearest neighbor (biologically speaking). Heck, plenty of allay get turned into vex before long. It's like that for villagers, too; some become zombies, others witches. There's an old rumor that if you're bitten by a llama on a full moon night, you'll wake up a wandering trader, but that can't possibly be true.

"… Maybe it would be for the best," is Vee's tactical reply. What? If the allays are born mobs? Mumbo flickers his eyes to her. She doesn't look at him, rubbing fabric on fabric to peel off a dirt stain. And she's probably right. She's got keen instincts. They keep her alive.

With the soul spawner out of the equation, a newborn allay hybrid is doomed to a life in Between without taking risks. Avoiding danger. Certain biomes. Certain play. Of course, a slain mob won't respawn either, but at least it's… less aware of everything. Itself. The world.

That its mother's dead.

[Full chapter on AO3 - Link at top]

[feverinfeveroutfic]

"he's gotta have it"

I had been such a bad boy up to the point of the day before Hanukkah, and I knew Alex had been a naughty boy as well. He had come along like a spider on a drain pipe begging for something to eat, and he got it good and he knew it. At some point, he began to lounge there on my couch with his hands tucked behind his head and let his belly hang out without an iota of shame to be found. He knew he was a prince. He knew he had it well from that point onward.

He let his eyes wander unto me from there like a crowned prince awaiting his bunch of grapes and then some. There was a part of me that wanted to make it more than grapes, so much more than grapes. The thought of a vine instead, the way one would curl itself around a lanky little metal pole, a lanky little guy like him. He may have put on a few but he was still a slender boy in my eyes.

I was a bad boy. The whole thing with me and him left me feeling like such a bad boy. I was giving him everything he could ever ask for in terms of all the food he could ever ask for. Giving him everything to eat and I had not a single care in the world about it all.

I was a bad boy and there had to be a way to bump it up a notch or two. He was starting to go over his borders with the passing of Thanksgiving, and I knew he was only going to go further overboard with Christmas and Hanukkah upon us. I still had yet to make him the sufganiyot as well.

There was that one evening prior to Thanksgiving when he and I had gotten down to the floor together and I was twisting his dick like I was trying to twist off the cap of a pickle jar. I was never going to forget the way that he parted his lips and arched his neck and back when I did it. I had no clue as to where the idea came from with me, but I had opened something up with him with that.

He liked being under me, and it was just one of those things that I saw right before my eyes: the panting, the gentle little moans that emerged from him, the way that he guided my hand down to the space between his legs, everything. He liked being encapsulated and trapped under the grasp of my hand, as chunky as it was, and I kept on seeing him all swaddled up with something long and elegant and lanky, like a grapevine.

I had invited him over for dinner about a week before Hanukkah and he seemed utterly ravenous the very second he strode into my apartment. He had that look to his eyes, as if he hadn’t had anything to eat in quite some time up to that point. The way that his long hair seemed to spread down over his shoulders like that of a mane. He looked like a little lion man standing there in my kitchen with one arm behind his back and his other hand pressed to his hip.

I had always loved the way how his hips looked, in particular the way that they began curving out more with his weight and the way that I would get lost in the way that he looked below the belt, too. If anything, I found myself more and more drawn to his legs the more that time went on.

But then again, there was his little belly and the way that his shirt had grown a bit more snug on him, especially now following Thanksgiving. I had this inclination to wrap something snug around him there, something that of a grapevine and then I could go from there with something flat like plastic wrap. Just wrap him up tight like a little piece of kreplach and have fun with him from there.

I had began to try my hand at kreplach all for him, simply because he had mentioned it over Thanksgiving and I looked into making it for him at some point, at least before Hanukkah. There was so much Jewish food that I wanted to make for him, more so after he had talked about how it was so warming for him and how it always filled every inch of his belly, too: the sufganiyot especially was on my list for him. But I had to give him what I knew about kreplach.

Alex followed me into the kitchen like a hungry house cat, and he hung there by the counter so as to watch me. He propped up his chin up on his palm like a schoolgirl waiting to hear gossip about the latest thing, but his eyes were fixed on me and the pan on the stove.

“Forgot to tell you, Chuck's in the hospital,” he told me in a single breath. “Something going on with his heart.”

“Oh my god!” I gasped, and I brought my hands up to my mouth. “Is he okay?”

“We can hope that he is,” he confessed to me with a shrug of his shoulders. “I talked to his girlfriend and she said that he wasn't feeling well, that it had something to do with some weird feeling in his chest so she drove him to the hospital.”

“When was this?”

“Just this morning. Last I heard from her was he's okay. He just needed to be taken to a room and they were running some tests.”

“It's probably just stress,” I said as I poured in the ground beef into the skillet, to which it made a low sizzling noise on the oil. I gave it some salt and pepper, followed by a good clockwise stir. He never moved from his spot on the counter as I opened the fridge and took out the pastry wrappers made the day before.

Just a few minutes with the meat, at least until it was slightly browned, and then it was going into the wrappers, followed by the skillet for a few minutes. It was always so meditative with me.

Indeed, once the meat was ready, and I began spooning it into the wrappers, he leaned into me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the edge of the counter pressing against his soft belly. There had to be some kind of rope or something lying around my place, or I could possibly go next door and see if Lou had any himself.

I had whipped up about fourteen of those bad boys before I heated up the oil again and placed them into the skillet for a good frying.

“You really sure you wanna fry those?” he asked me in a low voice.

“Yeah. It's almost Hanukkah, so I figured why not.” And he showed me a little lopsided smile at that.

“When I was a kid, my grandmother would always make them like spring rolls for Purim. She would make them with apples, too.”

“With apples, really?” I couldn't resist the smile at that.

“Oh, yeah. I always loved the sweet dumplings in particular, especially when they came out of the oven. The potato ones at Rosh Hashanah, too. I remember those always came with a side of soup.”

“Maybe after I tickle your appetite a little bit, I'll bust out a pot and make us some chowder,” I suggested to him with a wink.

The dumplings cooked in the skillet for a few minutes on one side, and then when I turned them over, he cleared his throat and shifted his weight again as if he wanted to tell me something else.

“You know what I've been wanting us to do?” he asked right then.

“What's that?”

“I want you to tie me up and feed me,” he said with a straight face, to which I raised my eyebrows at that.

“Tie you up and feed you?” I asked him, slightly taken aback. He then pursed his lips and shook his head.

“I know, that was... that was stupid,” he quipped.

“No, that was... where did that come from?” I asked him as I turned the last kreplach over and put a lid on top of that.

“I'm not sure. But it's something that I thought about a while back and I've been so reluctant to bring it up to you, too. I kept on thinking, 'god, this is so stupid, there's no way Eric is going to want to do that even if I asked him nicely and I was practically on my knees and begging for it. If it was already kind of an event to get us both in the mood for feeding each other, I just wonder how long this would possibly take.' Add to this, I've just been finding the right courageous moment to say it.”

“And courageous you are,” I assured him as I wiped my hands on a dish towel. “You know, it's funny, I've actually been thinking about adding rope to our whole thing here. Thing is I don't know if I have any.”

“Doesn't hurt to look, does it not?” he suggested in a near whisper and with a slight bow to his head. Maybe it really was something heavy for him.

I then rubbed my hands together and turned down the heat.

“Keep an eye on these, I'll be right back,” I told him.

“How long do they take?”

“About two more minutes. I'll just be real quick—” Before he could get another word in, I bowed out of the kitchen and to the hallway linen closet. Something told me that Lou had a spool of rope that I could play with for a bit, but then I took a look down to the bottom shelf, right below the soaps and boxes and things there, and I recognized those smooth fine white strands that made up some good rope. Really good rope and the kind that I only dreamed about as well.

I picked it up and slung it over my shoulder, and I returned to the kitchen and right as the kreplach was ready.

Alex stood up and held before the edge of the counter with his hands pressed onto the tiles as if he was expecting something. I looked on at the soft way that his belly curved out from over his belt, and it was right then I had an idea.

With the rope over my shoulder, I plated us seven kreplach each, and I knew he was going to want a bowl of soup. But for the time being, I had to work with those meaty little dumplings the size of apricots.

It was as if he read my mind, and he held before the kitchen counter with his hands planted on the edge of the tiles.

“I want you to do it while we're standing up,” he quipped as I handed him a fork.

“You want me to tie up while we're standing? Can we at least do it in the living room?”

“Of course! I know how much of a hearth the oven is and how tricky it is to be around hot oil, too.” He flashed me a wink as he picked up his plate and led me back into the living room. I hoped that we could help ourselves to the kreplach all the while because there was no way I was going to let it grow cold with whatever it was we were about to carry out right then.

“I'm thinking...” he began as he set the plate down on the coffee table and reached down for the hem of his shirt and peeled it off. He stood before me with his bare chest out in the open and his little belly hanging out like the belly of a puppy: he had those little sprigs of dark hair all over his chest and I thought about running my fingers through it once we were done with all of this. He picked up the fork again and scooped up one of those little dumplings.

I watched him eat it before I indulged in my own. I never realized just how filling these were once I had a couple myself, and I knew it was because of the oil. But he ate all seven of those, one right after the other and at a slow, deliberate pace to boot as well, and once he was done with them, he set down his plate and rested a hand on his belly.

“Those were perfect,” he confessed to me.

“You're going to want soup, aren't you?” I suggested to him as I picked up my sixth dumpling.

“Oh, you know it,” he said in a low voice. I then ate up my seventh dumpling and set the plate down on the table next to his so I could handle the rope. He put his hands behind his back and let his little belly hang out in the open: I definitely wanted him to be full of soup as well.

“So what were you thinking?” I started as I stood behind him with the rope in hand.

“Thinking I'll just hold still right here and you can feel your way with me with this thing,” he quipped. It was a smooth rope, and thus, I knew that he was going to like this. I decided to begin with his hands first, and then I was going to let the rope do its thing all around the rest of his body.

“So… you just hold still like this?” I asked him.

“Yeah. Just—like this. At least at first, anyway.”

“This is going to be somewhat of an art of sorts,” I said as I thought about the Japanese way of going about with bondage. Once his hands were linked up, I moved the ends of the rope around his body. I held the ends up close to his bare chest, and with a quick peek over his shoulder, I could see myself make something of an elongated knot.

“Ow,” he blurted out.

“Sorry—here, let me get your hair.” I nudged his hair out of the way of his chest to make it easier on both of us. I then rounded his body so could make the knot better: it was this long braid of a knot that reached the top of his belly, to which I moved the ends of the rope behind his ass again. There was a part of me that wanted to give him a good squeeze there as I wound the rope around his hips and thighs. I reached the ends of the rope, and I left a knot right in between his knees. Once I had finished, he sank down to his knees as if he was about to blow me without a second thought.

“Wait right here,” I told him, and I ducked back into the kitchen to quickly whip up a pot of soup. I was eager to see him all full of this chicken soup, even if I had no eggs or matzo meal so as to make the matzo balls, but I knew that he was going to like it one way or the other. And I knew I was going to have to get eggs and matzo meal for Hanukkah dinner as well.

I served him a big bowl of it, and right as I had given it a quick shake of some salt and pepper, I noticed that he had somehow climbed back up onto the couch, still bound and tied down with that fine silk rope.

“Want me to suck in my belly?” he offered as I showed him the soup.

“Please do,” I commended. Alex slouched down a bit so the long knot was brushed against the top of his belly: I squatted before him and spoon fed him some soup. I fed him slowly as well, just so his belly would expand at a slow pace. At one point, I set down the spoon just to nudge the rope down a bit more to better accentuate his belly as he finished the bowl. I fed him the entire bowl of chicken soup, right on top of those hearty kreplach, and at that point, I could tell he was quite full.

He sat upright with a delirious look on his face and a slight look of strain: he was pushing up against that smooth rope, and I knew he was ready. I set down the bowl on the table next to me, and I guided him down to the floor.

“Down on your knees… just like that.”

He was bound and hog-tied with no way out, which meant he was ready for his dessert. I undid my pants right before his face and I showed myself to him. He licked his lips as he gazed up at me, those eyes dark and serious. He had to have it first, however.

Never taking his gaze off of mine, he opened his mouth and put his lips around the head. I held still as he moved in closer to my body. The boy knew how to deep throat as if it was a bodily function.

He slithered his tongue around my shaft, especially as he moved back and suckled on me as if it was going out of style. It tickled me so much. It got me moving so much that I could hardly hold still. There was a part of me that wanted to have chicken soup as well, just so he could see what I was seeing from there, but I was loving this too much.

He knew how to do it. He liked it as much as me.

I could feel myself already beginning to come inside of his mouth, and I hoped that I would as well.

“Good boy,” I whispered right into his ear. I then reached down for a gentle stroke of his hair, but then he went in deep again, that time towards my nuts and the base of my shaft.

“Good boy!” I grunted out as I could feel myself rising. I was going to come right in his mouth, and I did. He coughed with his lips still around me, but then he let go of me so he could breathe. I let the little white pearls dribble out onto the carpet, but it was nothing I couldn't mop up afterwards. He coughed and breathed harder, and more so as he landed down onto his knees. He then gazed back up at me with his hair still mostly tousled over his left shoulder.

“A little bit of sugar before it goes on the donuts,” he sputtered out, and then he showed me that lopsided playful little grin

“You wanna do me next?” I offered him.

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” he teased me. I was about to untie him when I realized that he had come in his pants. It was going to be tricky to get him to come next, but I knew in my heart of hearts it was going to be worth it.

Once he was undone, he shook his hands about and showed me his tongue. I watched him go into the kitchen to fetch me some soup as well, and all the while, I stripped off my pants all the way.

My heart skipped a few beats once he returned with it in hand and the look of determination in his eyes.

He did similar to what I did, except he bound my hands before my crotch and wrapped the rope all around my body: I could feel him binding me in the back and down over the seat of my bare ass and in between my legs.

“You ready for this?” he offered me as he spooned me some of the soup.

“I was born ready,” I confessed to him as I opened my mouth for him. We locked eyes, and we kept our eyes locked all the way down to the bottom of the bowl. The rope pressed against my own belly as he coaxed me down to my knees on the floor.

He unzipped and I could see he was already hard as a rock.

But I put my lips around him regardless, however. I moved in gradually on his shaft: I wasn't an expert on going in deep but I could at the very least try it.

I moved in close to his body right as the tip hit the pad of my tongue. It was tricky to keep it together, but when we locked eyes again, I did it. His lips then fell open and he treated me to a low moan.

I could feel him on the pad of my tongue. I swallowed and let go.

He ran his fingers through his black curls and let out a low whistle. He then showed me his tongue and chuckled.

“That was good, wasn't it?” I asked him.

“Phew, you have no idea,” he confessed to me. “When he gets released, we should bring up some things to Chuck.”

“He's got a girlfriend, though,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, but... have you seen him, though?” he asked me.

“Seen him how?”

He never said anything, but he did show me that smirk again. And then it hit me.

“Oh, really?” I couldn't resist smiling, either, to which he nodded his head.

“Yeah. For real.”

“Wow. Well, can I get out of this rope before we do anything else first?”

“Of course!”

[crissiebaby]

The Padded Palace Act IV: Chapter 4

DISCLAIMER: This story contains diaper usage, crossdressing, inappropriate language, humiliation, masturbation/diaper sex, and other ABDL themes. I hope you enjoy!

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*CREAK!*

The turgid, antique dresser squeaked angrily as Stacy pried open the heavy drawer. She gazed down at the array of pajama pants, soft t-shirts, and silky lingerie with a crooked smile. Having only packed a small selection of prissy dresses and babyish PJs, she was woefully unprepared when it came to the subject of Big clothing. Luckily for her, Latasha had plenty of options to choose from.

Dragging her fingertips along the lacy fabric of Latasha’s lingerie, Stacy contemplated going all out and dawning the salacious attire. To her surprise, merely clutching the lingerie was enough to make her face glow red with shyness. Despite her cool girl demeanor, she’d never gotten the opportunity to wear something so indubitably sexy. Balking from her grip on the buttery smooth negligee, she instead picked out a pair of cotton pajama bottoms and a simple, light yellow t-shirt with the words, Wine Mama, written in cursive across the bust.

With the clothing folded neatly in her hands, Stacy retreated to Latasha’s private lavatory. Unlike the compact nature of the downstairs bathroom, the master bathroom was far more expansive, possessing both a jacuzzi and a shower stall as well as a separate toilet. Though for as nice as the spacious latrine was, the bratty blonde was unphased thanks to the penthouse bathroom she had waiting for her at home. Setting the PJs down on the sink countertop, she slowly stripped down until only her nappy and diaper cover remained. She momentarily admired her perky, bare chest and athletic physique, contrasting the infantile nature of her lower undergarment. It was a stunning reflection, to say the least, but in order to continue, she would have to part with her precious padding.

Stacy let her hand gingerly trace her tightly swaddled hips before hooking her thumbs around the waistband of her plastic panties and cloth diaper. Goosebumps lined her thighs and forearms as a rush of fresh air brushed against her moistened crotch. “No more accidents,” she whispered to herself as if reminding her subconscious to secure her bladder. Shifting the diaper around her bodacious booty, she quickly stepped back as the sopping microfiber plopped down onto the tile floor. She then proceeded to tidy up by placing the swollen padding into the mesh laundry bag that she used for her soiled nappies. It was a caregiver’s job to keep the house clean, after all.

Opening the shower’s frosted glass partition, Stacy twisted the sterling silver knob to turn the water on. Her hand hovered beneath the clear, trickling liquid, waiting for it to warm to her liking. Once satisfied with the water’s temperature, she stepped into the stall, angling the showerhead downward to avoid wetting her hair. A full shower would certainly be overkill. Dispensing three pumps of citrus-scented body wash into her palm, she diligently washed her pelvic area free of all baby powder and lotion. Such puerile substances were unbecoming of an adult.

Capping off her two-minute shower by rinsing the suds away from her lower half, Stacy exited the glass booth, her soaking wet feet drenching the floor. She paid little mind to the drippy trail she left behind in her wake, focusing instead on procuring a towel. With a towel wrapped around her damp waist, the bougie-rich girl parked herself on the lip of the toilet to air dry. For the next ten minutes, she scrolled through Xwitter whilst the water droplets that decorated her legs and thighs slowly evaporated. Boredom would inevitably push her to manually wipe away the rest of the moisture but not until after she had quelled her social media addiction.

Now fully dry, Stacy returned to the pajamas she had set aside. A mischievous giggle escaped her lips as the cozy bottoms worked their way up her legs. She playfully snapped the elastic waistband against her hips. While she wasn’t keenly aware of it, she hadn’t gone without padding in nearly four months, making her commando status all the more foreign. Sliding on the t-shirt, she spun in front of the mirror to check out her slightly less-curvy reflection. “I feel more grown-up already,” she said, downplaying how much she missed the additional bulk around her posterior.

Forcing those childish, carnal desires from her mind, Stacy turned to leave the bathroom. However, she stopped just before breaking the bedroom’s threshold as her eyes spotted a pair of glimmering diamond earrings resting in the center of a small jewelry case. Curious how she would look in something so elegant, she sashayed back to the sink coyly and retrieved the formal fashion pieces, holding them up to each ear. Sadly, it didn’t matter how good the earrings looked pressed against her ear lobe. Without piercings, the most she could do was admire the diamond studs enviously. A stark chill crept up her spine at the idea of stabbing a hole through her ears.

Annoyed by her own immaturity, Stacy discarded the earrings back into the jewelry case and exited the bathroom in a huff. The discontented anti-Little flopped onto the bed and let out a painfully long groan, feeling significantly less Big than she had hoped she would by this point. That groan quickly transitioned into a strained sigh as she glared at the logline on her phone that read, “No new messages.” 

Tossing her phone aside and scowling up at the popcorn-textured ceiling, Stacy's frustration finally hit its boiling point, “What the heck are Bigs even supposed to do?!”

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*CREAK!*

The well-worn, wooden crib bars of Skye’s nursery crib squealed like a whining piglet as Connor gingerly lowered them to the floor. All the while, his eyes were fixed on Ellie, who was snoring as loud as a jackhammer. Knowing Ellie, her boisterous voice was almost certain to bring Stacy downstairs. It would be far safer to let her sleep.

Tiptoeing out onto the soft carpet with his sore, wobbly legs, Connor's ridiculously crinkly diaper and swishy nightie had him cringing with every sonorous step. A line of blush formed along his cheekbones as he was stricken by memories of his fateful evening and subsequent morning with Latasha during his first week at the Padded Palace. Oh, how far he had come, snickering as he looked upon his girly apparel and the poofy padding that accompanied it. Adding to the intense level of irony he felt was the fact that Riri currently resided with the very crib Latasha had seen fit to lock him within after stumbling upon the ABDL crime scene he had made of the nursery. If only she could see him now…actually, scratch that. He wasn’t certain he could handle the amount of blush that would be heaped onto him if Latasha found him in such a sissified state. Good thing he had the entire weekend to sort this mess out.

*WEE! WOO! WEE! WOO! WEE WOO!*

All of a sudden, miniature red and blue lights flashed as an ear-piercing alarm blared out across the nursery. Connor stumbled forward, his heart exploding out of his chest as he craned his neck back toward the source of the high-pitched noise. Lo and behold, his heedless footing had inadvertently awoken a cartoonish toy police cruiser. Thinking on his feet, he swiftly snatched a pillow from his crib and slammed it down on the cop car, exhaling cautiously as he did his best to reign in the shrill-sounding siren. Mercifully, the lights and sounds eventually ceased on their own. 

Now that the fuzz had been dealt with, Connor’s attention was transferred to Ellie. He didn’t dare breathe until he heard her deviated septum echo out another snore. Resting his mouth against the pillow, he wheezed silently with relief. “I swear to Goddess, I’m going to rip out your batteries and disassemble you screw by screw,” he yammered under his breath, subduing his volume to ensure Ellie’s slumber went undisturbed. His transient outburst earned a few muted chuckles from Riri, whose anxiety was also settling after the toy car’s brief uproar. 

Gawking at the floor with unblinking eyes, Connor wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. He stepped lightly around the various stuffies and toys scattered throughout the nursery, an inquisitive expression forming on his face as he spotted the Palace’s vacuum standing in the middle of the room. Next to the free-standing cleaning device was a slew of vacuum markings covering about a quarter of the nursery’s carpet. Whoever had picked up after he passed out had done a crappy job, though he had a pretty good guess which of the girls was responsible.

Rolling his eyes at what was likely Stacy’s shoddy handiwork, Connor pushed forward at the speed of molasses until he reached Riri’s crib safely. In total, the entire excursion had only lasted a couple of minutes. But to Connor, who was absentmindedly dancing around Little Space, it felt as though he had survived a fraught and dangerous journey. Weight ascended from his shoulders as he sat down on the edge of the crib, the bars of which had been raised by Riri in preparation for his arrival. He was safe, at least so long as Stacy didn’t spring a surprise inspection on them in the middle of the night.

“Hi,” whispered Riri, poking a hand out from her soft, pink blanket cocoon and waving to Connor once again. She inched forward, scooching herself toward her feminized caregiver while making sure he still had plenty of space. With how vicious Stacy and, at times, Ellie had been, she wanted to ensure she was as delicate with his aftercare as humanly possible. She may have only been a Little but she had picked up a thing or two from her Daddy, Martin.

Waving back meekly, Connor’s eyes darted around the room awkwardly. He expelled an extended yawn, the late hour dangling over his head. “So…*YAWN*...wanna tell me why you beckoned me?” he said, bypassing pleasantries and getting straight to the point due to his rapidly escalating drowsiness.

Staring blankly at Connor, Riri had so many thoughts and questions circling her head that she wasn’t sure where to start. Having expected Connor to sleep until morning, she found herself somewhat unprepared. However, taking into consideration the copious amount of exhaustion encircling Connor’s eyes, she knew she couldn’t debate this in her head forever. Expelling the nervous air from her lungs, she peered deep into Connor’s eyes and asked simply, “How are you feeling?”

TO BE CONTINUED…

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Edited by AllySmolShork

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[tranceindia123]

THE MAGIC OF SWADDLING - THIS IS WHERE DREAMS BEGIN

Dreams start with the enchantment of wrapping up. Cover your child with comfort and style. Figure out what makes Trance Home Linen exceptional and give your child the most comfort and quality that anyone could hope to find. Get our swaddle cloth online right now to offer your children a quiet night's rest. Swaddling is something other than a wrapping strategy, a delicate embrace relieves your newborn child and advances relaxing rest by reenacting the warm, comfortable belly. Have a look at the soft 100% cotton malmal baby swaddle cloth. Your baby can have a good sense of safety with our top wrap-up materials. They create the ideal cocoon-like environment for peaceful sleep and are made from the softest cotton. They gently caress your baby's delicate skin. There are a lot more purposes for our swaddle wrap cloth, with its outrageous flexibility. These can be utilized as burp materials, carriage covers, nursing covers, or even as a slim cover for your newborn child's stomach.

[randomwriteronline]

Mustrudi came cold, and with it came the university’s winter break; and on its eve Ingo blew gently on his fingers to keep them warm.

The sea was calm, and there were slow heavy flakes falling from a grey sky. He could immagine the top of those clouds with a staggering clarity - the shifting waves and the softened rush of the wind, smoothening everything into quiet, like the ocean of cumuli that had his knees weak as he watched it pass by through the ruined top of Dragonspire Tower.

(They had seen it as children, taken by their uncle, and they had spent what felt like an hour looking at it breathlessly, Emmet had said - and then they had dragged Iris along when she was old enough, which was why she had been the one to bring him back to those beautiful old stones to see that vaporous sea so perfectly reflected in the saltwater he was sitting on right now.)

His eyes followed the light gray trail of the cigarette’s smoke back down, until he reached the reddening tips of Briosa’s fingers, peeking through her mitts.

She took a drag and swayed it out of her mouth with a lazy motion, letting her hand fall on the knee she had propped up on its twin; flat lips pushed forward, she blew without whistling, slow, so that the smoke would build up, turning into big soft bouts of fog.

Her short frame let her lay across the width of the boat, heavy boots hanging safely above the waves without getting wet, an arm sitting on the railing, head reclined and cap down over her closed eyes. Relaxed.

Mawile was swaddled tight and warm in an old repurposed fleece scarf, following Cryogonal’s trajectory as she floated about way too high.

The air was crisp.

It reminded him of the Icelands when the summer ended (always too quickly) or the Highlands when the spring came (always too slowly).

Ingo breathed in and felt at peace.

How nice.

Briosa sniffled: the tip of her long broken nose curled like a Buneary’s, red as a Cheri, and she rubbed it with the coarse wool back of her gloves.

“Alright,” she announced, pulling her legs back into the boat and slapping her cigarette back in her mouth, “Better get back to shore before our asses fall off from the cold or Emmet finds out you’re over the big terrifying ocean and tries to kick my rotulas in.”

Ingo snorted.

The wind cut at his face; he hid it deeper in his coat.

She stopped him before he could say bye on the docks, reaching into her backpack and pulling out some kind of plastic bag chock full of little dumplings.

“Warm Mustrudi!” she said, handing them over to him. “Turtlén. With the pasta and the meat stuffing made by hand by me. Takes two minutes to cook in boiling broth. Don’t know how many people y’all might be having with you know, family, Elesa, so I got you a bunch since I make way too many just to be safe.”

“You did not have to!” Ingo replied, signing slowly as he spoke.

Briosa smiled sharply with her wide rectangular grin: “Yes I did! I promised Emmet a year or more back I’d make them for him and then I kept forgetting. And anyways it’s tradition! Turtlén in broth on Mustrudi eve. It’s even snowing. Perfect weather.”

The taller man accepted, thanking her profusely and asking her to wait just a moment. The substitute looked curiously as he rummaged in what seemed to be an endless pocket of his coat.

When the other pulled out a pair of tall disks wrapped in thick white papers and offered them to her, the cigarette nearly fell out of her mouth.

“Is that the-?”

“Gogoat brie!” he nodded.

“The one you guys had back in--?”

“Correct!”

Briosa looked up at him with eyes so wide they barely fit in her face.

“For me?” she asked, voice so high in pitch and cutesy it was almost enough to give him twelve cavities and then some.

Ingo nodded again, thrusting the cheese in her hands. For a moment, she did not seem at all a thirty-one years-old man with a tooth collection and a penchant for violence; she was giddy, like a little boy with the world in his hands, eyes shiny and gleeful with disbelief, holding the food to her chest like it was the most perfect gift ever.

It was literally just cheese.

Knowing her, she couldn’t wait to cut a slice for her father to try out that evening.

Warm Mustrudi!, Ingo signed as loudly and fluidly as he could.

Briosa laughed her rubber Ducklett laugh as he began to leave, Mawile waving at him from her shoulder, her squeaky voice hindered by the cig she was still trying to hold onto until it finally fell into the water; she slapped a hand over her curly bracket-shaped smile and blew him the biggest kiss.

[radioconstructed]

What’s in Al’s babyshower gift box?

Baby on Board / Glock sticker

Set of Moustache Pacifiers

Baby Burrito & Baby Cabbage Wraps

Baby Bear Swaddles

Radio Plush Toy

Giant fish plushie

Cute Carrot Baby Socks

Cute Baby Coffee Socks

Not pictured:

- A custom ’Philco’ onesie

- Horn caps (like kitty claw caps, but for baby demon horns!)

- A big heated blanket (bc Buck seems to like the temperature to be warm like she does! Maybe cambionbaby will too! They can share the blanket, it’s big enough for mom & baby)

[cordialtiger]

Baby Hatch

Petyr was elbow deep in a bag of Cheetos when his ancient brick of a Mac started to buzz. He frantically wiped his hands on his brown overalls, smearing orange dust on his crotch as he rushed to stand.

He walked briskly through the steel hallway, the pale yellow lights flashed sluggishly along the walls.

Pictures of babies were hung every few feet. Some had five or six eyes, some had tentacles for arms. All were swaddled in red clothing with the slogan “Yokai Hatch” repeated in big block letters.

Karen from Accounting opened the door of her office as he was breezing past.

She squinted at him from behind large gold round frames. She held a Big Gulp between her furry paws.

“You need help?”

Petyr shrugged. “As long as it is not oozing or has rows of serrated teeth I’ll be fine.”

She took a long sip, nodding. He knew she remembered Basil, who almost took Greg’s arm off last summer.

Greg worked in the basement now, reviewing camera feed behind a locked door.

Petyr loped off for the front of the building, where the hatch lived. He thought of how it looked from the outside, a drawer of metal carved into the outside wall. Messages about safety were taped on it, along with warnings not to leave pink cheeked babies who might get consumed. The drawing of a human baby with a large red NO overlaid on it was particularly inspiring to him.

When someone put a child in the hatch, it gently deposited them into a square plastic container, drilled with small holes. It was enough to contain most creatures though one or two had managed to escape.

One was a gelatinous ooze named Patridge who slithered out through a miniscule cap between the cover and the frame. The other was a fox demon who simply ate through her cage. She’d torn her way through most of the office before Helen from Dairy managed to subdue her. Helen had said it was easier than wrestling cows.

In the box was a small lump so black it absorbed the light. Petyr put on his gloves and started to hum a soothing song.

“Hello baby, hello,” he sang.

The lump moved sluggishly towards his voice. It seemed almost sad.

“It’s okay,” Petyr said, opening the lid. “You’re safe with us. We have lots of lovely people who will care for you.”

He gingerly opened the lid, wary of teeth or arms.

The baby rolled a little but stayed still. It was a little bigger than the palm of Petyr’s hand. He grabbed a swaddling cloth and wrapped it around the baby’s body, cradling it in his arms.

“You’re okay,” he said.

He couldn’t see any eyes or arms. Nothing escaped the blackness of the baby’s skin. He started towards the nursery when he felt the building shake.

“Oh shit,” he said. “Earthquake.”

Real earthquake, not a drill. Though he knew where to go next from the drills he’d been to a few months before. Terrible things, drills. All that standing around and doing nothing. He kind of regretted bitching so much about them now. He knew where to go.

Around him, doors opened as employees left their offices to join him in the gym which had been built to double as a shelter in cases like this.

The walls shook even harder, some ceiling tiles came down on them as they all ran for the gym. Petyr cradled the baby to shield it from any falling debris.

Everyone was holding their phones, frantically looking for news. There wasn’t any. 

The building stopped shaking. Petyr huddled near a wall. This didn’t feel like an earthquake, was all he could think.

In his arms, the infant let out a piercing noise that sounded eerily like a siren.

He heard a loud crack. Parts of the ceiling broke off and rained down on everyone.

“Get back!” he heard someone yell.

They all shifted to the back of the gym as the ceiling split open.

A round eye looked down at him. The baby’s cries ratcheted up. A piece of stone fell and cut the skin above his right eyebrow. Karen rushed over, tearing off her scarf and applying pressure.

“Is it here for you?” Petyr whispered. It happened that the parent regretted leaving their child sometimes. Not often, but there were procedures that had to be followed.

“We can’t just give it back,” Karen said. “We have forms to fill out. In triplicate!”

“I don’t think it’s going to wait for paperwork,” Petyr said, wiping the blood from his eye. He could taste it on his lips now, hot and metal.

He took the wiggling baby, brushing its tentacles away as it swiped at his face.

“Come on now,” he said, crooning at where its face would be. “We’ll get you back to Mom and Dad.”

He wasn’t sure if either term applied. He thought the monsters produced asexually but he’d never bothered to research much about them before. He’d probably have to change that.

The baby made a gurgling noise and projectile spit a glob of green goo at him. Petyr gagged, coughed, and kept going.

He held the baby up to the giant eyeball. His knees shook. He locked them and firmed his chin.

“Look, he’s here. This tantrum needs to end. You know the policy of our institution. We are more than happy to return what was left. This is impolite and unacceptable behavior. You’ll need to leave your name and contact information so we can bill you for the damages to our building.”

He heard a wail from one of the workers still in the room.

“Probably for therapy bills too,” he added.

The eye went away, an ink-black tentacle replaced it. It was twice as tall as Petyr and so big around it had to knock more of the wall away to get through. It gently picked up the baby who stopped crying once it was held.

“Thank you for your patronage,” Petyr yelled after it.

He fell on his butt as the monster drifted away, his legs would no longer hold him.

The hole in the ceiling was open and he could see the stars through them. 

He laid all the way down, looking up, almost wanting to smile.

[sciencestyled]

The Art of Throwing Shade: How EcoArt Paints a Mustache on the Mona Lisa of Modern Environmentalism

In the kaleidoscopic circus that is our contemporary world, where science education and art tango with the reckless abandon of two drunken flamingos, there exists a genre of art so avant-garde, it makes Salvador Dali’s mustache twitch with posthumous jealousy. Ladies, gentlemen, and non-binary royalty, let me introduce you to EcoArt—the lovechild of Mother Nature and Banksy, conceived in a back-alley of urban sprawl, swaddled in recycled newspapers, and fed a strict diet of organic compost.

EcoArt doesn’t just tiptoe through the tulips; it rides into battle atop a giant, solar-powered snail, wielding a paintbrush dipped in the essence of "wake up, sheeple!" This audacious knight of ecological gallantry aims not merely to raise the banner of environmental awareness but to plant it firmly in the quicksand of our collective apathy, all while doing the Macarena.

Imagine, if you will, a world where landfills are not merely the festering sores of consumerism but the canvases for grand vistas of recycled beauty. Here, plastic bags don’t choke sea turtles; they’re woven into tapestries that tell the tale of a thousand grocery trips gone by, each one a haiku to human forgetfulness. EcoArtists transform the detritus of our disposable culture into Instagrammable moments that scream, “Look at me, I’m saving the planet, one bottle cap mosaic at a time!”

Let’s not overlook the pièce de résistance of this movement: interactive exhibits that make Al Gore’s PowerPoint presentations look like the sleepy ramblings of an intoxicated sloth. These are not your grandmother’s dioramas, oh no. They’re high-tech, low-carbon-footprint, experiential learning fandangos where you can virtually frolic through deforested rainforests or swim through oceans brimming with more plastic than fish. It’s like Pokémon Go, but instead of catching cute monsters, you’re snagging haunting realizations about your carbon footprint.

Consider, for example, the project that turned a dilapidated inner-city lot into a verdant paradise, using nothing but old car tires and the tears of Wall Street bankers. This was no mere garden; it was a statement, a veritable middle finger to the idea that nature and urban life must be at odds. Here, children learn that worms are not just bait for fishing but architects of the underworld, tirelessly toiling to turn waste into black gold.

Then there’s the artist who paints with smog—yes, you heard that right. By day, he’s just another commuter, faceless amid the exhaust fumes. By night, he’s a maestro of the particulate, turning pollutants into portraits of the very industries that cough them up. It’s as if he’s holding a mirror to society, only to reveal society is a chain-smoking orangutan in a business suit, obliviously flicking ashes onto a pile of dry leaves.

EcoArt is not just art; it’s a revolution with a green thumb and a wicked sense of humor. It’s the realization that if we’re going to go down with this ship we call Earth, we might as well do it laughing, paint-stained hands intertwined, planting seeds of change with each chuckle.

So, next time you sip your ethically sourced, fair-trade coffee from a cup made of recycled paper, remember the EcoArtists. They’re out there, in the trenches of the mundane, armed with nothing but their creativity, a profound love for this spinning marble of chaos, and perhaps a touch of madness. They remind us that art is not just a reflection of life but a hammer with which to shape it—a hammer wrapped in a velvet glove of moss, striking blows for sustainability and snickering all the while at the absurdity of human folly.

In closing, let’s raise our reusable water bottles to these jesters in the court of public opinion, these pranksters painting mustaches on the solemn portraits of environmental degradation. EcoArt, in all its wacky glory, doesn’t just aim to educate and inspire; it seeks to tickle the stern countenance of science and art, proving that sometimes, the most profound truths are best served with a side of irreverent laughter. And in this loony bin of a planet, perhaps that’s exactly what we need.

[httpnxtt]

Soap Suds - Chip Taylor x Reader

A/N: Searching for this gif made my brain go brrr bc look at this man. Look at him. This is my second fic for the discord fic swap which I wrote for the lovely @ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff !! I got to finally write our Chippy boy with a GN reader <33 thanks to @imagining-in-the-margins and @sunlight-moonrise for helping this story come together!!

Chip Taylor x GN!Reader

Category: Fluffy Smut

Warnings: Oral (Male Receiving), Blanket Consent

Word Count: 1.4k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Most people think of laundry day as boring or tedious. I thought that too, once. However, once I got the chance to move here, laundry days became a tad more interesting than I expected. As I make my way into the dingy room full of machines, I’m greeted with the beautifully clueless man next-door. Having my pick of machines, I walk over and set my basket atop the machine directly next to the man. 

“Good morning, Chip.” I chime, beaming a smile to the man to my right. He shoots a small smirk in my direction as he measures out the detergent in his hands before tossing the liquid into the machine. 

“Good morning, Y/N.” He smiles as he presses some buttons to begin his laundry cycle. He gathers his belongings into his own basket as he looks at me. I must have a dumbfounded look on my face as he cocks his head to the side like a confused puppy. “Is there something wrong?” 

“Oh honey… please… you’re making me itch.” I playfully chastise him. I quickly grab the bottle of fabric softener from my own basket, stopping his machine to add the liquid to the mixture. “At least use fabric softener.” I whisper, mere inches from the man’s face. I see him deeply inhale, eyes wide before I turn back to my own laundry. 

“But… what does it do?” He asks bright-eyed, almost child-like. I grab my own basket and start my own cycle. Grabbing the softener to add, pour some in my own load before giving the bottle to Chip. 

“Because, it makes your clothes soft. And it smells wonderful. See?” I ask, holding the bottle to his face. He takes a whiff from the bottle and I see a slight smile play on his lips as I pull the bottle away. Screwing the cap on, I toss the bottle to the basket before turning to the man. I place my hand on his chest, feeling the scratchy fabric beneath my fingertips. “A sweet, sweet man like you deserves to be swaddled in the softest clothes, Chip Taylor. That way, you can smell just as good as you look.” I wink at the man, a confused smile playing on his lips. 

“Listen, I uh,” He clears his throat. “I know I can be pretty dense, but you’re giving me some…pretty big signals here, and I don’t know if I’m reading them right but…I hope I’m somewhere along the right track.” I chuckle as I push on his chest, his hips hitting the machine as his hands grasp the edges. I lean towards the man, lips ghosting over his own. I feel his breath stop as he stares at me. 

“Stay right here.” I whisper before pulling away from the man. I make my way to the door beside us, quickly flipping the lock. As I turn back, I see Chip’s chest rising and falling, his knees already trembling. As I get back to the man, I rest my arms around his shoulders and pull him toward me. “Is this the track you want to be on?” I ask, brushing my lips against his own. 

In a split second, Chip leans forward and presses his lips against my own. His hands come to rest on my cheeks, holding me against him as our lips move against one another. I slide my head down, moving to press kisses along his jaw and neck as my hands work their way down his torso. My hands brushes down, coming to rest on the sweatpants adorning his hips. My tongue works over a spot just below his jaw as my hands moves over the bulge in his sweatpants. A whimper releases from Chip’s throat. I pull away and admire the mark along his skin before looking at the needy man in front of me. I give Chip a chaste kiss, his lips chasing my own as I pull away. 

I slowly work my way down to kneel, leaving marks along his chest in my wake. My hands move from his bulge, grasping both sides of his pants, tugging them to pool around his ankles. Looking up from my spot, his cock rests against his stomach painfully hard. My hand wraps around him, a small whimper being tugged from him. Sticking my tongue out, I drag it base to tip, wrapping my lips around him as I watch his eyes screw shut. Chip bites his bottom lip to contain his moans, but I simply hollow my cheeks around him in retaliation. Pulling off him, I dig my nails into his thigh. 

“You can make noise. No one will hear you over the machines, honey.” I chuckle, licking a stripe along the underside of his cock. The action pulls a deep, guttural moan from the man in front of me. His hand weaves its way through my hair, subconsciously guiding my head up and down his length. I release a moan around him as his precum coats my tongue. Chip’s head falls back, his hips bucking forward as his cock hits the back of my throat. Moans tumble from his lips as he struggles to keep from bucking into my mouth. 

Whimpering around him, I move my tongue along the bottom of his cock as his hips

slowly start a rhythm fucking into my mouth. My jaw goes slack as he picks up his pace. Looking up through my lashes, I see Chip slack jawed as he groans and slides further down my throat. His other hand is white-knuckled on the edge of the laundry machine as his grasp tightens further in my hair. As I lock eyes with the man, his thrusts become uneven as his breathing becomes heavier, more jagged. The room is filled with his moans and whimpers, the man unable to form even a simple sentence. He begins to slow down, his moans going up an octave as my lips wrap tightly around his tip. His hips stutter for a moment before his hand pulls at my strands, his release coating my throat. I continue to suck at his cock, swallowing every ounce of his warmth before Chip is tugging me off him. He looks down at me with a dazed look in his eyes, a dopey smile adorning his cheeks. 

Taking a breath, he holds my hand in his own, helping me up from the floor. Before I could stray far, he wraps his arms around my waist pulling me in for a kiss. It was slow, but sweet. Much like the man holding me. I pull away from the man chuckling at him as his eyes sparkle with a smile. 

“Did that clear it up for you, baby boy?” I ask, winking at the man before walking back to my own station. He gulps down some air as if unsure what to say. But after only a second, he looks directly at me and chuckles. 

“Not at all, actually. I think we should keep going.” He suggests, biting at his bottom lip again. “You know, just to be sure,” pulling a laugh from my throat. I pull my basket from the machine, cradling it in my arms. A loud knock rings from the door, causing the man in front of me to jump five feet in the air. He scrambles to pull his pants from his ankles as I stand there staring at the sight in front of me. Walking over to him, I see a slight panic in his eye from the disturbance. 

“How about this?” I ask. Reaching into my basket, I throw dryer sheets at Chip who scrambles to catch them. “You go get some dryer sheets and fabric softener. Wash your bedsheets.” I say, looking at the man through my lashes. He swallows, a confused look on his face. I lean towards him, my lips brushing his ear. “Then, I’ll come over and let you do whatever you want.” I whisper, pulling away from the man. His eyes widen, like he was just told he won the lottery. He sprints to the door, fumbling with the lock. I just laugh and ask, “Where are you going?”

“I gotta go to the store. Like. Right now.” He yells, ripping the door open. He sprints through the hall, almost shoulder-checking at least 3 other residents on his way. At least I know I’ll be having an interesting night.

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Taglist:  @spencer-reid-in-a-pool  @samanddeanstolethetardis221b   @reidetic @sunlight-moonrise @prettyricky187 @itslatinamagia  @calm-and-doctor