#baby swaddle cloth size

[tranceindia123]

How to develop the skill of calming your child

As the days get shorter and a crisp coolness settles into the air, our homes beckon us to create havens of warmth and serenity. None perhaps have to pay as much special attention as the bedroom, a sanctuary for rest, rejuvenation, and repose. At Trance Home Linen, fostering exquisite bed linens, we believe that creating comfort and style in your bedroom is an art. The base of any true retreat is the material against your skin. So lie back and relax for a breath of fresh air and temperature regulation. Look forward to getting into crisp, cool sheets on a warm autumn night or snuggling under a luxuriously heavy duvet on the howling winds of winter. 400 TC Cotton Plain Bed Sheet with Pillow Covers - Sky Blue. This natural fiber, woven with mastery, presents a night's sleep wrapped in sumptuous comfort. At Trance Home Linen, you have the opportunity to fully customize your bedroom bedsheets as per your sizing requirement. Click here to see what’s customizable and how we can help you do it! Find cotton-printed bedsheets, single-fitted bedsheets, plain double bedsheets, and many more.

[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.

[drgnflyteabox]

can't get much better

pairing: ghost / simon riley x fem reader summary: simon is forced to take some time off - he makes the most of it. tags/warnings: very soft, pregnant sex, size difference, softdom!simon- he's a masculine man who doesn't let his lady lift a finger :'), oral (f), one (1) butthole kiss, dacryphilia, daddy kink (sigh), minor minor foot stuff, allusions to injuries and chronic pain, title from an adrianne lenker song w.c: 2.5k

You try very hard not to think about it, but it's hard not to notice how massive he is.

Even shirtless, he somehow looks bigger, muscles flush with heat and exertion under the sun. He toils and breathes hard like an ox, working while you sit on the porch wrapped in his big flannel. Wearing his clothes is like being swaddled in a blanket straight out of the dryer, warm and nostalgic and syrupy with love. It leaves you feeling some type of tender. You're afraid of that feeling sometimes, of how soft it is and how soft it makes you. He could ask anything of you, and you'd yield like he was pressing his thumb into a bruised peach.

You have.

"How are you two?" Simon is so quiet when he wants to be. One would think he'd clomp like a horse with how big he is, but he can float like dust. It used to startle you, but you've been sinking deeper into the memory foam mattress of this life with him and it doesn't anymore.

"Tired, even though I'm not doing anything," you squint at him through the late afternoon sun. It haloes him like an angel.

"You're growing my baby in there, love. That's not nothing," his voice is rough, it always will be. But it's rough now like earth and soil rather than rough with pain and smoke the way he'd sounded when you met him.

You're feeling especially nostalgic, it seems, not like it's hard here. His hand is warm on your belly.

"I guess so," you let him pet you for a moment. Your stomach is swollen but not as big as it'll get, just enough to veto pants. A few months to go still. "How's your back?"

"Argh," Simon says, taking a heavy seat next to you. Dismissive and yet he groans a little when his muscles unclench. Classic.

You slowly reach up and nudge him until he's facing the field opposite to you, face toward the golden afternoon sun and his back to you. He's never asked you to do this, to take care of him, but it's your favourite thing in the world.

His back is always rock-hard no matter how many times you take your knuckles and fingers to it. Just a condition of a hard life lived for him, countless falls and impacts and pushing through injuries. There's a slight slant to his spine now that isn't there in the pictures he's shown you of his youth, but the stiffness is the same. You might've said he was born to be a soldier, had you not known him as a father. He could do both, but - you'd never say this out loud - you were privately grateful for this injury. It wouldn't take him out forever, but the recovery would be long. Long enough to get the homestead started, to get you pregnant.

Simon would never be completely still. This was compromise. Sweet compromise, a life started and time with him you could think back on the next time he shipped out. Making the most of things, he would always say. Making the time count.

"That feels good, love" he groans. Bending forward slowly, relaxing, he's like an aloof stallion finally accepting an apple from your hand. Acquiescing. Showing you his back. It's trust, and you savour it.

"I bet it does," you tease back, just a little. Your fingers are nimble and attuned to his specific aches and pains. "Are you hungry for dinner?"

"I'm hungry for something," he turns, slowly, hands reaching for your thickened waist. Huge, work-roughened hands. War-roughened hands, holding you like a delicate egg. Sometimes it feels like he's the only thing that holds you together; all your pieces, everywhere, until he's holding you.

Kissing him is a contact sport. It's his hands moving, cupping your breast and then your pussy through your panties, your own hands wrapping around his broad shoulders like he's the only thing keeping you from drowning. It's open-mouthed, breathing into each other. Impossibly, you get softer, melting like ice on a hot day. 

Before you can lean back on the bench, he stands and lifts you with him. He's still hot from the day, damp with sweat, pushing you into the house while kissing you still.

"Simon-" you start, with no goal in mind. "Please."

"I've got you, love," he murmurs. He always does. Before you know it, you're laid back onto the plush armchair in your living room. Simon knows this is the most comfortable place for your newly-aching body. Affection swells in your chest uncontrollably and comes out through your eyes leaking down your face. Sure, pregnancy makes people emotional - but you're still embarrassed, touched by how considerate he is.

"It's alright, shh," he thumbs the tears at the corner of your eyes. His cock tents his work pants, aroused by them. "Let me take care of you."

The next words he murmurs are into your cunt, right over your panties, tongue laving over the already-wet fabric. "Just need your daddy, don't you?" You clench in tandem with his words, hot all over, skin prickling. He pushes your dress up, bunching it right under your tits.

It's reminiscent of how you spent the first night with him, on the very first day you'd met. Hurried, his big head between your thighs and clothes hanging off you still while he made you fall apart.

He's fucking good at it, too. Pulls your panties to the side and builds up the pressure with which he sucks on your clit, softly and then harsher until you shake. You've been extra horny lately, always wet around him and always so swollen. The scrape of his five-o-clock shadow against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh is what tips you over, clamping his head tightly and shouting your orgasm into the heady summer air.

"That all it takes?" Simon grins, chin wet, fingers moving from your hips to your pussy to gently rub along your slit.

"Give me a second, please," it's humbling how quickly you come nowadays. Quick and intense. Fireworks.

You set your foot on his shoulder and he turns towards it, kissing your ankle. Patience is rare with him, something come about only since you confirmed your pregnancy. You miss being overwhelmed by him, miss the nights where he'd guide you over the edge one, two, three times in succession.

He pushes now, just a little, not waiting for your go-ahead but watching you intently. His fingers spread your cunt in a V and he puffs a breath on your sensitive clit. You jump. He grins again, leaning down to lick you, using one hand to hold both your legs under your knees and push them until they meet the soft bump of your belly.

"Hold them there," he says. It's spoken not to you, but to your hole, which he spears his tongue into. You obey as you're helpless to do, holding your legs up and giving him an unimpeded view. It's more than vulnerable, it's not only baring yourself to him completely but giving him the authority to do what he wants. What you need.

Simon eats you out like it's a kiss, slurping you down and letting you leak until the evidence of your weakness to him is all over you. Your legs are wet, and it drips down onto your other hole. He pushes a thumb into your cunt, dipping it in and out.

"Needed me, did'ya? Watched me all day," he's so smug, sometimes. His lips find your bare foot, kissing your sole. "Been wet like this all day?" His other hand finds the meat of your asscheek, spreading you open further, letting the split of you open to him. He leans down, kissing your inner thigh, then your other hole. You whine and clench your pussy around his thumb. 

"So needy," he murmurs, finally finally moving back to your clit. Flicks his tongue over it, something that might've been teasing before but is intense now. Your hands tighten against your legs, head thrown back.

"Oh please- Simon!" You shout again, abs drawing up, stars in your eyes. "Ahh- I'm-"

"I know, honey," his lips suction again around the hard little pebble of your clit, eating like a man starved. 

This is how he likes you. Losing control, coming apart, helplessly vocal against the onslaught of his tongue. No matter how many times you've done this, it never gets old. The release almost always makes you cry, especially intense like this. You're wet all over, face and cunt and legs. He is, too.

"You still with me, love?" He pets your flank like you're a horse.

"Yes," but that's not what he wants.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, daddy."

"Good girl," and fuck if that doesn't always fill you with warm fuzzy energy. Wipes your brain, keeps you soft and floaty.

He guides you up and out of the armchair, lifts you into his arms when your legs shake too much. That electric feeling is still coursing through you, tingles in your extremities as they come back to life.

The hand he strokes over you is half affectionate, half proprietary. You've been his since the first time he laid eyes on you.

He reminds you of it as he sets you down gently on the bed, your hair a halo around your head and hands reaching to his face where you pull him down for a kiss. Hands find his shirt, pulling it off you, and then the dress. Fingertips touch the headboard, your arms stretching up, making room for him. Slips your panties down your legs.

It's a lingering, indulgent kiss. Breathing each others air, gasping into his mouth, he puts his elbows by your head and lays as much weight down as he can without cramping your full belly. He's as vocal as you, groaning and rutting like a dog.

"Ready for me, sweet girl?" He leans out of the kiss, sitting back on his heels. You nod, desperate and pulsing between the legs again like you didn't just come twice.

"Daddy's gonna take care of you, don't you worry," he rearranges you like a doll, turning you to your side and getting between your legs. A pillow is tucked under your belly, and he tests your flexibility by holding your leg tight to the length of his body. Your hamstring burns a little with it.

A hand holds your knee, another to your waist. His jeans scrape against your sensitive skin.

You focus on little details. His scar, touching his eyebrow and splitting through his nose, ending down by his jaw. The knuckles on his fingers holding your knee, and how rough the pads of his fingers feel on your waist. This man has never had soft hands in his life. Those same hands capable of so much force, so much violence, the very same that hold you and guide you. A shepherd, you his lamb.

The weeping head of his cock kisses your hole, catching there and traveling up. He taps it against your clit until you're tensing, whining, needy again. Tears down your cheeks.

He steadies you, pets your waist, guides his cock inside and it feels like you can breathe again. His mouth laves hot kisses over your ankle, the sole of your foot again, reverent and controlling all at once. The stretch burns - it always does, and maybe always will. Simon is just so big, thick all around and the mushroom head of him could always bump your cervix if he's not careful.

He's careful now, but only just. You can sense his control fraying, his hips driving forward steadily but his thighs tensing and his grip getting meaner. This is your favourite part. Watching him sweat, breathe hard, taking his pleasure in you.

"Yeah-" he cuts himself off with a long, drawn out groan. Deep, from the bottom of his belly and out. "Already so full of me, aren't ya? Can't get full enough."

You plead with your sounds, words out of your grasp. Your hands clutch at the sheets but it isn't enough. He's solid, he's your anchor, but he's losing himself in your cunt and you're free falling.

"Play with your tits for me," he commands, pumping faster. You're reflexively tightening around him, clit jumping for attention, squeaking each time he lets himself in as deep as possible and touches the mouth of your cervix.

Sunlight slowly fades on the bed, the last golden rays escaping out the window as you're bathed in dusk. 

There's nothing to do but obey, hands finding your swollen breasts and squeezing. They've been sore and huge, like that week before you get your period only it's been a couple months. None of your bras fit anymore.

Simon appreciates it, he loves it. Has you cooking for him with your tits out, nipples peaked and pussy leaking. They bounce, now, stopped only by your hands pinching and twisting. It's insane - no one in the world could replicate the feeling. No artist, no musician. Electricity zips from your breasts down to your clit and shit - you might come just like this, untouched, just full of your man and fondling yourself.

"Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me. Fucking," he pants, leaning over you, bending your leg. "Pinching my dick, sweetheart. Your pussy's so fucking good."

The orgasm begins in your toes, tingling. Your muscles tighten, drawing up, up, towards your cunt, which is making obscene sounds around him.

Simon sees the signs, sees your eyes rolling and your body going taut. He abandons your leg in favour of rubbing your clit with two big fingers quickly, up and down.

"That's it, sweetheart, come all over my cock. Go on," his voice is a snarl, barely distinguishable as human, beastly. "Be good for daddy.”

It's like the crescendo of an orchestra, like a summer afternoon in august, like waking up without a clogged nose after being sick, it's - really fucking good. You're near sobbing, crying out his name, abandoning your tits to reach for him desperately. He meets you halfway, shuddering his own orgasm into you. The press of his hips against yours is better than buttered toast, the delicate press of his chest against yours as he lets your leg go is bliss.

"Si-imon," you slur, hands on his cheeks. He laughs and kisses your forehead.

"What's that, sweet girl?"

"I love you," you cry a little more then, feeling him pull out and lay next to you. You're boneless.

"I love you too," his arm reaches across you, pulling you into him. "Both of you." Hand on your belly again.

"That was insane," you pant. He barks a laugh against your hair. "I'm serious."

"I know you are, love," he kisses your forehead, petting your stomach. You can tell it's meaning, can feel the gratefulness behind the kiss. He's saying thank you, for staying with him, for making him a father. Your hand finds his, squeezing back a wordless reply. Of course, it says.

<3

[comfymommy]

Big Cactus Print Maternity Robe and Swaddle Set - Matching Dad Shirt - Personalized Baby Hat |Comfy Mummy

Explore the perfect family hospital matching outfit in our Big Cactus Swaddle Print collection at ComfyMommyShop. Discover our maternity robe and swaddle set, including a matching dad shirt and personalized baby hat. Create cherished memories with our mommy and baby robe and swaddle sets.

[luveline]

Spencer’s oldest child (either with reader or previous relationship) wanting to help out with readers baby!

“So…” 

“So,” Spencer echoes, hooking Amy under the arms before she can wriggle away. He props her on the counter, cloth already in hand. 

“About the baby.” 

“What about the baby?” he asks, encouraging her head back gently to wipe her mouth. She’s covered in butter and omelette, a chive stuck to her chin. 

“You know how she’s little?” 

“Yes.” Spencer wipes her face clean very gently. It’s not a good plan, Amy wriggles and squirms away from the warm water and it takes a long time, but Spencer can’t bring himself to be rough. “She’s really little. I know all about it.” 

“And mom is tired.” 

Spencer grins. “Yes, mom is tired.” 

“Can I look after the baby? ‘Cos I’m big?” 

Spencer isn’t in the habit of lying to her, perhaps to the detriment of his own easy life. “Probably not. You are getting bigger, but she’s so little she’s actually quite fragile. We have to be careful to hold her the right way, and to carry her gently, because she’s not done forming. You don’t have the dexterity to do this all the time. Plus, she’s heavy.” Spencer puts the cloth aside. He leans down enough to be face to face with Amy, puckered up for a kiss. 

Amy frowns. Spencer kisses her damp cheek. 

“I do too have dex-trity.” 

“What do you want to do?” 

“I want to look after the baby.” 

“Then who will look after me?” Spencer asks cheekily. 

“Mom.” 

“Okay. Listen,” he takes her face carefully into his hand, wiping at the place where he’d kissed affectionately, “there are ways you can help with the baby. Lots of ways! Stuff we already do, like making dinner, and stuff we’ve been doing to help mom, like washing her clothes and watering her plants.” 

“I love mom so I water the plants, that’s not the baby.” 

“I know,” he says, rubbing her cheek. “That’s why I do it too. But I promise it helps mommy more than you realise when we do this stuff for her.” 

“Let’s do something else.” 

“Like what?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Spencer opens his arms for her and she latches on like his baby sloth. He used to say it to her all the time, how she was his lazy sloth pup, always on his chest. “How about we ask?” 

He carries her out of the kitchen and upstairs to find you, only you’re not where they left you in the master bedroom. Instead, you're sitting on the floor of Amy’s bedroom with the baby swaddled to your chest. “Oh, hey, it’s big Reid and little Reid.”  

“What Reid does that make you?” Spencer asks. 

“I’m ambiguously sized Reid.” You look down at the baby. “And this is tiny Reid.” 

“What are you doing?” Amy asks. 

“I’m cleaning up your humongous mess, angel.”

“What!” Amy shouts. Spencer laughs at her outburst. “Mom, I’m supposed to help you!” 

“Says who?” 

“Says me! Daddy, put me down.” 

Spencer obliges her and sets her down. Amy runs to you and takes the doll from your hand, to your surprise, sweeping the pile of her dolls away, mixing the ones you’d redressed with naked and ragged ones. You cover the baby’s back, sighing. Spencer knows from experience those dolls are finicky. 

“I was just trying to help,” you say, pouting at her. “It was a big mess, you can’t do it all by yourself, you’re just my little girl.” 

Spencer appreciates the way you say it. It’s good to love someone, but it feels like great luck to have fallen in love with a mom who couldn’t adore her children more than you do. He wanted kids so badly, and your love for them cements a great decision. Amy doesn’t feel so lucky, throwing herself against the side of her bed with a dramatic, forlorn whine. 

You tip your head back as Spencer kneels by your side. “What’s wrong?” you ask. 

He pulls the swaddle from the baby’s face to see her. She’s awake but quiet. Recognition lights her features when she notices his poking, giving him a gurgling smile. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says to you. “Amy just wants to help today, ‘cos she’s our lovely girl.” His voice turns to sweetness as the baby’s smile widens. “Hello, angel. Hi, hi, hi.” 

“You wanna help me?” you ask. 

Amy pulls her face up from her messy bed sheets. “Yes, please.” 

“Well, nobody’s given me a hug in a while.” 

“I want to help with the baby!” 

“Nobody’s given her a cuddle today, either.” 

“She’s cuddling you right now!” 

“She’s just resting. What she needs is a good hug and a good kiss.” You stretch your legs out in front of you and reach back to pull at the swaddle. Spencer helps before you can stretch your shoulder in the wrong way, taking the fabric down your arms and releasing you from its confines. You cup the baby’s weight in one hand, her head the other, and slide her into your arm. “Come on, best big sister. Come and hold her for me.” 

Amy rushes to do as you’ve said. Spencer smiles to himself and pulls the mound of dolls toward him —there’s a lot of work to do in here, you weren’t kidding about the mess. 

You put the baby in Amy’s lap. 

“Now,” you say, leaning into Spencer’s, arms opening expectantly, “for me?” 

Spencer can’t wait to abandon the doll and bend down over you. He almost pokes your kidney out with a Barbie, but he’s never been any good at resisting you when you ask for a cuddle. It’s not your most comfortable embrace, and yet it’s as perfect as any other, his laugh lost in your shoulder, wrapping his arms behind your back. 

“Keep an eye on the babies,” you whisper. 

Spencer checks that Amy’s holding the baby the right way and makes you into a Reid sandwich. “She told me she is too dexterous.” 

“Did you imply she wasn’t?” 

“I said,” he relents, smiling to himself as you squeeze his waist, “that she’s not dexterous enough to carry the baby all day long.” 

“But how do you know?” 

“I read a couple parenting books a few years ago, I tend to have a pretty good memory.” 

“Do you remember how to rub my back?” you tease, softly, still a little shy after all these years. 

Spencer rubs your back. Amy babbles loving nonsense at the baby for a few minutes, and then complains of being bored and wanting another omelette. 

[a-leg-without-fear]

Heartbeats

started watching xmen '97 and seeing logan standing in the doorway of jean's hospital room, watching jean and scott be happy parents together, gave me parasites like you wouldn't BELIEVE. enjoy the tender, calm moment shared between you and logan after giving birth

Ship: Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader

Rating: E for Everyone

Wordcount: 522

Warnings: birth, pregnancy, hospital visit, and hoLY SHIT I'M CRYING THIS IS SO CUTE

The steady beat of a heart rate monitor was the only sound that filled the calm silence. Smooth, even, computerized beeps that tracked your pulse, consistently relaxed in their beat. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Logan breathed a content sigh into the crown of your head, stirring the hair he had brushed not two hours ago. The strands were tangled loosely in his beard and tickled along his chin. He smoothed his palm along your bare arm. Rough calluses passing over once sweat-soaked skin.

You stirred slightly against his flannel-clad chest. Shoulders, clothed in a hospital gown, burrowed against him. He could practically feel the groan of your sore muscles under your skin. You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, breath breezing across the stubble under Logan’s jaw.

He let his eyes fall open. Dimmed fluorescent lights bathed the hospital room in a dull, white glow. Shiny linoleum floors reflected the rising sun streaking through the wall-length windows. Vases of flowers, all your favorite kind and color, sat on the windowsill, petals practically glowing in the sunrise.

The TV nestled in the upper hand corner of the room was still on. Blessedly silent, as Logan had muted it once you’d fallen asleep, yet still playing a collection of your favorite movies on repeat. He chuckled quietly while remembering how insistent Jean had been about getting the nurses to play the discs she’d shoved into their hands.

Logan’s gaze shifted from scanning around the room to the bundle you held to your chest. A thick, heavenly soft hospital blanket was bunched in stripes of blue and green. The cloth rose and fell with your deep breathing.

Tucked away inside the blanket cocoon was the result of the fifteen hour labor you’d just endured. Eyes too big for her tiny head squeezed shut, small hands tucked against her chest under the swaddle, mop of dark curls brushed along her scalp. Quick heartbeats pumped life through her bite-sized body.

April Saige Howlett. Born at seven pounds, ten ounces. All the fingers and toes a baby could need just where they should be. Completely healthy, with bright, hazel eyes set under a deep brow bone. 

A warm hum rumbled in Logan’s chest. The two people most important to him were cradled in his arms. You, his exhausted wife, and April, his newborn daughter.

Daughter.

The word sounded foreign to him. 

Not once had he ever imagined this kind of happiness for himself. Never would have pictured himself propped up in your hospital bed, chin resting on your head, arms embracing the love, now loves, of his life. Steady beeps coming from the heart rate monitor, flashes of bright colors on the TV, the calming scent of dozens of flowers floating in the air.

He pressed a soft kiss into your hair. Warmth bloomed in his chest like a blossoming rose. Petals of light and peace drifting through his blood, leaving him utterly enraptured by the world held in his arms.

Logan closed his eyes, cheek resting on the top of your head, as he let himself drift off into the first tranquil sleep of his long life.

i'm crying now

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[hsnlv]

soft beginnings | s.jy

pairing: dad-to-be!jake x mom-to-be!reader

synopsis: you and jake are getting ready for your baby, but jake’s full of doubts about fatherhood. with plenty of laughter, love, and tiny socks, you learn that even the smallest moments can mean the world.

warnings: fluff!, jake has self-doubt but it’s adorable dont worry >< reader is pregnant if that is not clear (i love pregnant tropes actually because it’s cute hehe)

wc: 1.1k

a/n: ive been writing a lot lately since im currently on semester break but enjoy ^^

jake sat on the nursery floor, holding a pair of impossibly small socks between his fingers like they were some kind of alien artifact. his brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a pout that you would’ve called adorable if he wasn’t so deadly serious.

“okay, babe,” he said finally, holding the socks up for emphasis. “these cannot be for a human. i don’t care what you say.”

you couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing from your spot on the rocking chair, where you were sorting through a mountain of baby clothes. “jake, they’re for a newborn. they’re supposed to be that tiny.”

he squinted at the socks like they might reveal their secrets if he stared long enough. “nope. sorry. these are for a hamster. or maybe a very small rabbit.”

“are you calling our baby a rabbit?” you teased, grinning as you leaned back in the chair.

“i’m just saying,” he continued, waving the socks around like he was making a grand point. “what if their feet don’t fit? what if their toes are too big? i don’t even know what baby feet look like!”

you laughed so hard that tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. “you’re ridiculous.”

“i’m serious!” he insisted, though the twitch of his lips betrayed him. “what if i try to put these on and they just… fall off? or what if i lose one? it’s not like i can run to the store and ask for replacement jellybean-sized socks!”

that did it—you dissolved into giggles, your belly shaking as you leaned forward. “jake, you’re going to be fine,” you said, wiping your eyes. “i promise, putting socks on a baby isn’t as hard as you think.”

he flopped dramatically onto his back, groaning. “i’m not ready for this.”

“you are,” you said, crawling over to him and sitting on your knees by his side. you rested your chin on his chest, tilting your head to look up at him. “you’re going to be the best dad ever.”

he gazed down at you, his expression softening, but you could still see the hint of doubt in his eyes. “you really think so?”

“i know so,” you said, reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of his face. “you’ve got the dad jokes down already. the rest is just practice.”

he groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “yeah, but what about the important stuff? like… like making bottles. or changing diapers! do you know how many straps and tabs those things have? it’s like trying to assemble IKEA furniture!”

you snorted, pressing your forehead to his chest as you laughed. “it’s not that bad.”

“it is that bad,” he said, sitting up suddenly. his hands flailed a bit as he tried to explain. “and what if i don’t wake up when the baby cries? or—or what if i hold them wrong? what if i drop them? oh my god, what if i don’t know how to swaddle? they’re gonna hate me.”

“jake.” you placed your hands on his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. “take a deep breath.”

he inhaled shakily, his wide eyes locking onto yours.

“you’re not going to drop the baby,” you said firmly. “or hold them wrong. and even if you mess up the first swaddle, or it takes you a few tries to get the diaper right, it’s okay. you’ll figure it out.”

he didn’t look entirely convinced, so you leaned closer, your voice softer now. “do you remember when we first got peanut?”

he blinked, his brows furrowing. “our dog?”

“yeah. you were so nervous about training him. you kept googling everything, and you were convinced he was going to hate you because you couldn’t get him to sit on command.”

jake huffed, his lips twitching into a reluctant smile. “okay, yeah, but peanut was a little menace at first.”

“he was,” you agreed, grinning. “but you didn’t give up. you were so patient and sweet with him, and now he listens to you better than he listens to me.”

jake let out a soft laugh, his shoulders relaxing a bit.

“it’s going to be the same with the baby,” you said, brushing your thumbs gently over his cheekbones. “you’re going to love them so much that none of the little mistakes will matter. and they’re definitely not going to hate you for struggling with a diaper or two.”

“you sure about that?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

“absolutely,” you said, smiling.

he sighed, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours. “what would i do without you?”

“probably drown in a pile of tiny socks,” you teased, laughing softly.

“you’re not wrong,” he muttered, but he was smiling again.

you both sat there for a moment, the quiet hum of the nursery filling the air. then jake pulled back slightly, his hand drifting to your belly.

“hey, little one,” he murmured, his voice soft and warm. “just so you know, your mom’s the best person in the world. so if i mess up, she’s gonna make sure you’re taken care of. and if you could, uh… maybe go easy on me with the diapers, that’d be great.”

you laughed, swatting at his shoulder. “stop making deals with the baby!”

“what? i’m just saying!” he said, grinning.

he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your belly, murmuring something too quiet for you to hear. when he sat up again, his eyes were brighter, his usual spark returning.

“okay,” he said, grabbing the tiny socks and holding them up like a trophy. “we’re definitely framing these.”

“i knew you’d come around,” you said, smiling as you kissed his cheek.

the rest of the afternoon was spent folding onesies and arranging books on the shelves, with jake tossing out ridiculous questions every five minutes.

“what if the baby doesn’t like my cooking?”

“jake, they’re not going to eat anything you cook for at least a year.”

“what if they cry every time i pick them up?”

“then you’ll hold them until they stop crying.”

“what if they call me ‘dude’ instead of ‘dad’?”

“then they’re definitely your kid.”

by the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the nursery was mostly finished. the crib stood in the corner, draped with a soft, pastel blanket, and the bookshelf was packed with stories you couldn’t wait to read aloud.

you stood in the doorway with jake, his arm around your shoulders as you both took in the space.

“it’s perfect,” you murmured, leaning into his side.

“almost perfect,” he said, resting a hand on your belly. “just missing one thing.”

you smiled, your hand covering his. “they’ll be here soon enough.”

he pressed a kiss to your temple, his voice filled with quiet awe. “soon enough,” he echoed.

and in that moment, surrounded by love and laughter and the promise of something even sweeter, you knew your little family was already complete in all the ways that mattered.

[willowser]

you don't know how much comfort your dragon king bkg drabble has given me ever since you posted it!! i keep reading it i love it sm 🥹

as it turns out, the man bakugou is — a bit harder to handle.

he sleeps like a heathen; you once thought the dragon bakugou to be a bit lazy, with how often he tended to curl up in the fields of grass, warm under the sun, but now — it would seem his little human form needs significantly less rest.

almost up all hours of the day, and when he does finally lay down, he's everywhere. a mess of limbs: one thrown carelessly out to the side and the other bent at an angle you can't believe doesn't hurt his joints. his head stays tucked into you somehow, either buried in your neck or pressed against your ribs — or you'll wake to find him nose-to-nose with you. he still snores like a dragon, however.

you're also beginning to wonder if there is a bottom to the pit of his stomach. he ate much before, whole fields of things, but you expected that appetite to dwindle, at least a little, now that his stomach has decreased considerably in size. and in number ? you're not even sure how many stomachs a dragon has; that's not something that was mentioned in the fairytales.

it burns through him quickly, gives him more energy than he needs, and it doesn't ever seem to affect his weight much. already, he's huge and thick with muscle and eating as much as he does never dulls the severity of his cut abdomen. not that you're looking all that much.

— not that you have a choice not to, as he seems to have little-to-no understanding of —

the door to the bathhouse kicks open, with enough force that you already know who it is without ever turning to look. you try not to shriek when you see him, because he seems to like that in some evil, impish way.

you've been alone to wash so far, thankfully, as the inn you'd managed to find was small and far enough out from the nearest kingdom that the occupancy was low — enough for you and your little brute.

the man bakugou comes to stand in front of the bath, blinking and huffing against the steam. finding clothes for him was — nearly impossible, and so the trousers you'd found hanging on someone's line outside fit above his ankles, a bit too tight around his waist. instead of a shirt, you've wrapped him in a scratchy linen, swaddled him up like a baby to cover the small smattering of scales that decorate his body, almost like freckles from the sun, though they gleam just as bright and red as they ever have. no matter his form.

a horn has started to sprout, on the right side of his forehead, and you've done your best to cover that, too.

you have no idea how long this man thing will last. if it's permanent or if he even has control over it. the last thing you need is for him to switch back, somehow, while you're in the middle of feeding him, absolutely demolishing whatever tavern you're in and calling all of king todoroki's guards to attention.

bakugou grunts, almost sleepy, and tosses a fat, weighty sack onto the edge of the bath. it jingles a certain jingle that makes your heart stop.

"oh, allfather—" you move for the edge, awkwardly keeping one arm against your chest despite the fact that he's seen it all by now. when you peek inside and confirm your fears, you lob it back to him furiously, as if it were a steaming potato. "where do you keep getting this stuff?"

things have started to turn up, miraculously. shiny things — like coins and rings and gems. things he could not have simply found rolling around in the dirt.

"go put it back!" you hiss at him, and the tone of your voice makes his frown deepen. you never realized how pouty he was, when he was still a dragon.

you think he understands you, and you're pretty certain he just chooses not to listen; instead of doing what you've told him in the slightest, he simply dumps the coin-purse to the floor, and then lets his linen and stolen trousers cover it as he unceremoniously undresses.

the biggest issue that you would say the man bakugou poses is — his complete lack of understanding of personal space.

"bakugou!" your voice wavers, shocked again by his nakedness. as if you haven't seen it all by now. "no, you — get out!"

but he does the exact opposite, which is hop into the steaming water, ignoring the arm you hold out to keep him away as he saddles up beside you. skin against scales, pressing a nose into your hair to huff out his annoyance, to make it something you can feel.

if anyone were to walk in right now, they would — probably think the lie you'd told the innkeeper was true. that you are a simple traveler and this is your mute, over-sized husband.

regardless, you think this behavior isn't polite. especially in a public bathhouse.

"bakugou," you try again, turning your face away as you speak to the wood-paneled wall. "i'm taking a bath, you have to wait your turn."

all you receive in response is another huff against your ear and a low rumble of disagreement from his chest.

he has yet to speak back, and has only used inhuman sounds as his points of conversation. the only word you've ever heard him utter is oi, which he does when he really thinks he needs your attention. you're starting to wonder if he's named you that in his head. oi.

curiously, you turn back to him and the movement has him pulling his face from your hair, just enough that he can look down at you, too. watch you, with the red-rippled sea in his eyes.

they're — amazing, you will admit. just as bright and detailed as they always have been. fit for a fairytale told by the fire, veiled by the soft-ash of his lashes. he watches you through them, half-lidded, and you wonder if it's something other than fatigue that has them so heavy.

"do you know what i'm saying?" you ask quietly, voice lacking the firm heat you want it to. instead it's heavy, too, weighted by something soft and unfamiliar and frightening. "can you even understand me?"

bakugou doesn't respond, not with a huff or a rumble or ever a purr, like the one he let out on the night he lay over you by the lake. you've only heard it sparingly since then, oftentimes in his sleep when his face is pressed into you.

you try not to frown at his silence, try not to let it disappoint you because it shouldn't; he's a dragon afterall, and you're not sure what it matters. the little horn protruding from his forehead catches your eye and you reach up to touch it gently, watching him blink away the water that drips from your wrist — and then he's turning into you again, too close.

beneath the water, you feel his hands skate up your bare thighs, wrap around your waist until your chest is pulled flush against his. you feel his huff, again, against the damp skin of your neck but it's slower, lighter. not laced with his frustration. some unknown thing you feel guilty for liking.

you drop your hand to his hair, rushing full force into all the damned things you've thought about doing but have been too afraid to. he's soft between your fingers, and you trace your nails lightly against his scalp until he groans quietly; a new noise, one you don't know how to translate.

your fingers stop when they brush upon little spines that have grown at the base of his skull, that have started to trail down the center of his back.

suddenly, tangled up in the bath with him, you wonder how much time you have left.

bakugou huffs again into your skin, a little fiercer this time, and it's because of his light jostling that you realize how rigid you've gone. you try to relax so that he will, too, though you must not do a convincing job, because a sharp nip comes to your earlobe.

"ow!" you squeal, but he doesn't let you go far, not even as you try to jerk away from him. in fact, the harder you try the more his teeth show: into your cheek and the point of your jaw and then dangerously low on your neck.

it's not until you finally freeze that he stops, huffing again, with a warmth that burns more than the steaming water.

and then, very quietly, he grumbles, "shitty wife," into your collarbone, just before biting you again.

[send-up-my-heart-to-you]

the painting in my house

422 words

In the living room of my house, there is a painting of my father and my brother. The house is as old as me, and maybe the painting is, too—it’s been there as long as I can remember. My brother is almost three years older than me, but he’s still a baby in the painting; with a round face brown as agar-wood, with small feet folded under him. They’re both in traditional clothes, exempting my brother’s bright blue socks—the obsidian kadoras they’re wearing contrasting the vibrant orange-red of the sand they sit on. 

I’ve memorized that painting better than I’ve memorized my own face, yet I still catch myself staring at it sometimes. Maybe it’s simply because paintings fascinate me, and it’s easier to analyze something you’ve seen every day since you’ve been alive. I don’t think I was born, yet, when that painting was made, or maybe I was still a baby swaddled in blankets in my mother’s arms. I don’t think it’d matter, really. The way the painting is made, you’d think they have no one else, a boy and a man isolated in a desert. 

In the painting, my father is feeling the sand under the palm of his hand, and my brother—still a child imitating the movements of his parents—is doing the same. He’s not staring at his own hand, but at my father’s, and I wonder why, sometimes. Was he remembering all those times my father carried him on his shoulders, and wondering how such a strong man could be so gentle? Maybe he was thinking of the size of their hands in comparison, and how one day he, too, would have hands that big. Or maybe he was just a child trying to copy his father.

My brother has grown up in the almost twenty years since that painting was made. He’s taller than my father, now, and their hands are the same size. His face is no longer round—he’s grown into it, with a beard growing along his chiseled jaw. He is away attending university, now, in Europe. The house feels strange without him, not quite empty, not quite silent, but like it’s missing something, its je ne sais quoi. It’s odd, having a painting of my brother hung up in the living room when he himself is thousands of miles away. Like it’s just a part of him that he forgot to pack away with the rest of his things. 

Maybe that’s why I haven’t cried over his absence, as my mother and sisters have, as my younger brother has. I know a part of him still lingers in my house, in that painting. And I know he’ll return to fill in that space he’s left. 

My brother will return, and that is why I do not cry for him.

[aressapereaude]

Lore dump! :3

As usual, 18+ only, minors and Ageless/faceless blogs DNI you WILL be blocked, etc etc,

Live Laugh Love Touchstarved Visual Novel

Lorrla's Origin:

The Unnamed

The Hound

The Alchemist

{The Burdened}

You traveled the lands as a musician for most of your upbringing, never staying in the same place too long except for one instance of a brief fling with a fond patron. Over the years your curse has gradually spread from your hands to the rest of your body, and now you travel to the Senobium not to play music but in search of a cure, to rid your body of the curse that keeps you from holding your newborn baby.

Lorrle's skills as a musician make her adept at quietly gathering information, blending into restricted environments, and charming potential allies/enemies. During her travels she has acquired a few weak but helpful spells, pocket-sized artefacts, and various ingredients to be brewed into elixirs. Her proclivity to hide in plain sight, however, makes her recognisable, as well as an easy target to bandits. She must be careful not to steal too much of the spotlight, lest she put a target on her back.

Her preferred pronouns are She/Her, and she identifies as Female. Her romantic and sexual orientation is best described as AroAce, and sex-positive. She refuses to specify the gender of her child. In addition to knowing a few different musical instruments, Lorrle is highly skilled at vocalising. She struggles to dance. Her outfit consists of a patterned peacock themed dress with long sleeves and a feathered tail, a feathered crest atop her head, and a full-body veil secured to er head by her crest and secured around her waist by a bejewelled corset. The majority of her belongings are worn on her person, and she owns very little of value that isn't able to be worn or carried. Beneath each eye are two studded piercings, and on her lip she wears a vertical labret hoop. Her ears are also pierced, and adorned with dangling jewellery.

Her child wears plain clothing of the same theme and colour, and is typically swaddled and secured to her using a cheap but strong fabric, tied beneath the veil at her hip. More often than not, she holds her child in her arms. There is always at least one layer of fabric between them, except in cases where the baby needs to be soothed or fed.

[tranceindia123]

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[eolande]

ppl are saying it's a pregnant belly INSIDE the fleshy shroud but if that's the case then literally why is it so small. marika is not THAT giant, she's decently proportional to the other bodies around too.... the "strands" are also literally proportional to hair that would come from someone marika's size.... so i think that could be the Actual Head of a baby in a godskin(?) swaddling cloth??? or else it could still very well be an eye...? it peeves me a bit to see ppl sprout theories that just flat out don't make complete logical sense 😭😭 there COULD be a tiny pregnant person. but why would that be the first conclusion lol

[fandom-nursery]

Luther agere headcanons

Has a wide age rage and regresses between ages 0-10 however he is most often toddler or baby age 

His regression was incredibly frequent while on the moon. Since coming back to earth it happens less often however when he does regress he tends to stay regressed for a very long time  

His regression is involuntary and he isn’t very good at stopping himself from slipping or at pulling himself out of headspace 

He first started regressing while he was on the moon. He didn’t know what was happening or what to do and he had no one he could turn to for help. Once back on earth he was able to figure out what was going on but that time when he didn’t know what was happening was really scary for him 

He is learning to accept his regression much more as he begins to heal from some of the trauma inflicted by his childhood and his time on the moon 

Little Luther is even worse than big Luther at keeping his feelings a a secret and there is almost never any doubt from others about what he’s feeling 

In younger headspaces he sometimes goes completely nonverbal and even when he’s older he tends to not be very talkative. A lot of this stems from the fact that for the first 4 years of him regressing he was alone and didn’t have anyone else to talk to so he’s still adjusting to having people around him 

He is surprisingly shy however this is mostly due to the isolation from the moon and with time he begins to become more outgoing. He is very eager to please which tends to manifest in obedience and anxiety 

When he’s little his memories tend to get kinda fuzzy 

It’s really 50/50 on weather or not he will nap when he’s regressed  

Because of his size it’s pretty difficult to pick him up but luckily his siblings have found some solutions. Ben can use his tentacles to help carry him and Klaus once used several ghosts to help lift Luther into the air just to pretend he was stronger than Diego who wasn’t able to pick Luther up by himself. 

He loves to play with his action figures when small and is constantly begging Diego to join in his games. When he’s older he also likes to play catch and when he’s younger he loved to be swaddled up and read to or shown movies/cartoons 

Very messy eater. Even at older ages he tends to get food all over his face, hands, clothes, the table, and the floor

He has been working hard to heal his inner child and it turns out part of that has ended up being buying whichever toys catch his eye when he goes out to the store. Being able to get himself the things he always wanted but could never ask for or receive from  Reginald has been very good for him. Because of this he has slowly amassed a collection of stuffed animals, legos, remote control cars, playdough, and more. 

His favorite toy is a stuffed bear that is dressed in a little astronaut suit  

When regressed he dresses in the biggest clothes he can possibly get his hands on. Due to his size most clothing fits him too tightly and when he's regressed that becomes uncomfortable. Additionally the bigger clothing helps him feel small 

He owns a paci but prefers to suck his thumb even though he knows that’s not very good for him 

When he is in a younger headspace he does need diapers and even in older headspaces he will sometimes still wear them because he finds them comforting 

The rest of the academy either learns about his regression by accident or is told about it. Since so many of them regress as well they are all very accepting. The sparrow academy and lila find out officially a bit later however most of them already had their own suspicions. 

While going through some of his dads things Luther found out that Reginald had know he was regressing while on the moon the entire time but had done nothing to help or even inform him in any way 

His siblings, and later Sloane usually take care of him while he’s small. Diego, Victor, and Sloane take care of him the most often

[comfymommy]

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[0rinthered]

Orin and Aena

Drabbles :3

In Orin's ever increasingly paranoid state, she turns to kill the only woman who ever treated her with absolute kindness. But for the first time in her life she hesitates.

How long had she been staring over this woman? Bated breath. Sweaty palms itching over the handles of the wicked blades. Toes curled over hardwood flooring and their body heat fogged the windows over. 

It had been a shockingly nippy Nightal - a winter like never felt before. Recently, the nights had left the grass snapping and breaking under the bitter ice and frost that wrapped around them. Unable to thaw out. Animals, big and small alike, either starved or froze to death. Ill-prepared cattle fell like playing cards and their carcasses stuck to the ground beneath them. The wrapped-up farmers would try pulling and tugging, with rope or without, until finally settling on just burning the animal entirely. A waste of blood. Flesh. Bone. Meat. Any that did manage to salvage the carcass was left with ruined leather and brittle meat - all of the yanking ripping the main body from frozen stuck leather. A great crrrrrrrrreeeeaeaaaaaaaak sounded out as it separated. Harrowing noise. Even the hardiest of winter vegetables struggled to grow beyond being a runt. The weather was unforgiving, unrelenting, unflinching and unpredictable. Another struggle for the less-than-fortunate to deal with or die underneath. 

This house held strong against the frost, yet groaned and moaned under vaguely warm sunlight come morning - that much was clear. Cracks in the walls, warped floorboards, misaligned glass panes… relief from a callous cold showed scars everywhere. A small cobweb hung sadly in a corner, the far left one from the door. A curled-up, rock-hard spider sat in eternal silence in the centre, and the delicate strings adorned with crystalline droplets. A glass of water idly frozen atop the small, rickety table. A handmade bedside cabinet, to be precise. Poorly made, yet done so with love. Scratchy carvings of hearts and crosses along the rims, and even a shoddily carved out heart for the drawer handle. The wood split and splintered in little areas, from temperature abuse or general wear or tear it was unclear and consistent. The bed it sat next to was also handmade by an amateur but seemed to have more experience put into it - perhaps from more attempts or even the addition of a more skilled hand. Large wooden beams constructed the frame; One much larger than the average-sized bed, and wider, too. The mattress was a mixture of straw and discarded feathers, wrapped up in a linen cover with a weak frame inside to hold shape. Like the bed, it was custom-made. It was littered with a wide selection of furs, a mixture of high and low-quality ones. The sneaking, prowling individual had paid little attention to the home she broke into, but in the anticipated silence, details revealed themselves to her. Most, if not all things, here had been crafted by amateur hands and not necessarily the same ones. Large clothing had been neatly folded on an old chair, clean tunics in warm and bright colours, suffocated underneath the blue of night. Burned-out candles and rusted lanterns, hunting knives scattered across a small desk that seemed almost comedic compared to the clothing and the bed size. This was by no means an extravagant house, but it was certainly made into a home.

The burning life of the home lay beneath the multi-furs, swaddled entirely. Large pelts layered over each other to cover this bulky woman, even tucking into her neck crook and one draped over her head. Her platinum hair leaked out from under the coverings, curling and kinking slightly yet stopping at a medium length. Her nose tinged peony from the pinching chill, and her cheeks followed suit. Specks of blue, green, and white littered her skin, thick dark eyebrows and eyelashes contrasted against such pale skin. Baby rose lips. 

And the woman breathing over the top of her, seemingly unphased by the cold… slender. Strawberry blonde hair is woven into a thick braid reaching beyond the knees. Her nose tinged peony from the pinching chill, and her cheeks followed suit. Specks of blue, green, and white littered her skin. Shaped, dark eyebrows and long eyelashes contrasted against bizarre, swirling skin. Charcoal smeared lips.

Orin the Red loomed over her clean sister. She inhaled brittle air and with it, the soft smell of Aena. The pollen mixed with a hint of sweet steel. Her breathing was steady and clear, deep and consistent. She lay flat on her back. The mattress sunk in at her sides but the bedframe held up well against her weight. Feather-filled pillows cuddled at her skull and around the furs swaddling her head. The furs and everything else surely would not be keeping her warm during such a frightful winter night, but she seemed content enough. Her body did not flinch or twitch. It did not tremble. It did not even acknowledge Orin’s deadly presence. Her nose didn’t respond to the putrid odour of her armour - one that oozed with decay and agony. Orin didn’t attempt to conceal her presence when approaching the tiny house on the outskirts. She sauntered in like she owned the place with little effort for disguises or sneaking and had been lingering ever since. In the past, when she hadn’t bothered with those details, it was because she wanted her prey to give chase. They would sense impending doom from Orin’s lurking alone; the hairs on the back of their neck would stand up straight, their eyes would begin to dart around and every little snap and crunch of twigs drawing closer and closer would be enough to set them off. It was a thrill. It was the hunt. It was delicious. Aena, however, slept through it.

 Orin raised her eyebrow. A part of her wanted to tut and even whisper “typical”, but she had no basis for that. Was that typical of Aena? Maybe, maybe not. Orin was far too young to remember many traits of Aena before they were torn apart, and it was something she actively tried to forget about. It wasn’t important to her cause, it was a detriment, and at the end of the day, Aena is Bhaalspawn.  Whether Selune declared otherwise or not, it mattered little. Bhaal’s blood ran through those thumping veins of hers, and so did the threat towards Orin’s power. Her nose scrunched up as she continued to glare down at the clueless Aena. 

She had been made very aware of Aena’s little digging and investigations into the Temple of Bhaal as of late. Asking questions, sending letters, asking about Orin. It was worrying, to say the least. Bhaal whispered fear into her ears - fear that spun into delusions of Aena usurping Orin’s title and taking it for her filthy, filthy self. Suddenly, during the height of Orin’s paranoia-induced delusion, food didn’t taste quite right. Bath salts smelled… bizarre. Even the clearest of waters seemed cloudy. Sleeping in her bed always felt like there was a pair of eyes watching… waiting for Orin to drift into a sleep she would never wake from. 

Weeks of this disturbed sleep and eating very little almost drove her completely insane. Countless murders were almost landing her and other Bhaalists in extremely hot water with a handful of bounty-hunting collectives. Her recklessness and lack of real discipline shone bright in those moments and she had to do something about it quickly. Aena could not be allowed to exist - not for as long as her blood flows red. 

Orin relaxed her face and flexed her fingers over the handles, hearing them click and pop ever so gently. The sweat from her hands had a very thin film of frost over it, adding to the crackle and a stern stickiness to her skin and the grip. Had she left it for any longer, she could’ve been peeling her palm from the blade as those farmers did with their cattle. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, stretching it over the bed and Aena’s rising chest. The chosen hovered for a brief moment, debating on if she should risk waking the victim up by seating herself on her chest, or if she should remain kneeling yet be slightly unstable…

Enough fussing.

Her face scrunched up, painted eyes closing under furrowed brow and lips parting almost in protest. How much time had she wasted here? An hour? Two? Maybe three? The glimmering sharpness of the crescent moon hung much higher in the moon when Orin arrived at the cottage. At this point, it had stooped to kiss the treetops. Too long. It had been too long. 

Both raised were held upwards into the air and Orin pressed her thighs against Aena’s sides. Corpse-like eyes glaring down through a thin curtain of tears. Everything in her mind screamed at her to plunge them down yet the bloodlust refused to spark beneath her nostrils. She could smell Aena’s pulse, true enough, but it didn’t invigorate anything within her. Instead, Orin could feel the tiny rattling of Bhaal’s prodding and poking, his vacant encouragement to dig deep into her sister's ribcage and feast on the bloody rewards. Her disembowelled sister. 

Orin shoved her leg into Aena’s side.

Wake up.

Perhaps it was because Aena wasn’t awake to feel fear. Orin couldn’t taste it in her sweat or read it behind her eyes so that wasn’t tempting her bloodlust. Of course. 

Aena groaned. She nestled herself further under the furs, undisturbed apparently. 

Orin squinted and pursed her lips, impatience lapping at her insides. Another shove, her kneecap digging into Aena’s bottom ribs.

Still, nothing.

What in the Hells is wrong with this woman? Orin could hardly believe how heavily her sister slept. Unphased by the presence of another person, bitter cold and two shoves into her ribs. Orin could be awoken by a mere squeak of a faraway bat or even the trickling of blood into the crevice beside her bed. 

This wasn’t working.

Orin lifted the blades again, this time with watchful eyes. The furs obscured Aena’s general form and made it nearly *impossible* for Orin to make precise incisions; the new plan. Cutting her open should be enough to wake her, and Orin was beyond masterful in the art of keeping someone alive during it… if she can see what she is hitting.

Frustrated, the changeling landed yet another shove into Aena’s side, and instead of watching her eyes rip open as she’d hoped, the paladin began to roll over. 

Orin squeezed at her blades and nimbly hopped off of her before she had the misfortune of toppling to the floor. The wooden boards were punishing against her bare feet. The cold started to bite and scratch at her exposed skin, tinging the tips of each piggy lilac. The blood swirling underneath the first few layers of skin slowed slightly. Bhaalist bones began to rattle. Morning was nowhere near close meaning the temperature wasn’t going to let up whatsoever… but it wasn’t like Orin had plans to stick around…

She chewed at the insides of her gums. Lingering, still. Aena huffed and puffed in her new sleeping position, unbothered. Unaware. Completely fucking useless. Orin fussed momentarily, her toes curling against the boards and blades wavering impatiently. They were impatient - Orin was impatient - but not for blood. Not this time. Instead of preparing to fight, she wanted to flee. To run away. That raw adrenaline pumping through her veins and bones and skin and muscles SCREAMED at her to get out of the house and never look back. She didn’t want to be around Aena but her brain demanded her blood over her chest and her meat inside of Orin’s stomach. It skipped past the fantasising part, too. No dreams of cut arteries, flesh falling from bone, eyes drooping and bursting. Gore ignored.

A choice had to be made.

Kill her. Be done with it all, never worry about the paladin coming to usurp her place as Father’s beloved favourite.

Run away from her. Go home, wherever that was supposed to be. Go back to bed, and forget about her.

[the-kr8tor]

inspired by the two bat tiktoks Dolls sent through (baby fruit bat and big ass fruit bat tryna break in..I'm sure the breaking in one is an australian one) Daily Hobie HC! While I was making notes for this on a night-walk an hour ago, a fruit bat almost flew into me and knocked me over If there's one thing Hobie loves, is to be pampered by you and only you. He loves how sweet you are, especially when he's shifted into a fruit bat. He's almost the size of your torso, but clings onto you as if he were a tiny bat, and he knows it. He loves clambering up your back at times, hanging by the back of your shirt with his nosy head peaking over your shoulder at whatever you're doing, sparing a few licks to the crook of your neck affectionately, and successfully snapping you out of whatever you were doing. Despite being a large bat, he makes himself light for you to be able to hold him somehow. Instead of dragging you down whenever he lands on your back, all you feel is just his little feet and claws. One of his favourite things is for you to cradle him in your hands. However, due to his size, that usually means your forearms as well. His wings will fold at his sides, and make himself snug against you, no matter what you may be doing. Hobie adores doing anything that involves spending time and teasing you. At times when you're cooking or making something, he'll drape his wings over your eyes or he'll climb under your shirt just for being able to poke his fuzzy head out. Or if you're doing art, Hobie will offer his services as your muse, which happens incredibly often. Your sketchbooks have beenn filled with him ever since you've met him, and you aren't done yet. Hobie will simply just sit and stare at you with big, shining eyes as you dress him up, one of his ears perking up as the pirate hat you put on his head began lopsided. Hobie had to refrain from turning back to a human and attacking your face with kisses right then and there when he heard your giggling, claiming how this was so stupid yet you loved it so much. Even as he sits there like an angel as you sketch out his bat pirate captain appearance, you can't help but listening to his indignant huffs as you mention one incident with a window. While Hobie was out flying (and probably being a pain in someone's ass), a storm had hit. With the wind and rain pelting down hard, his claws scratched at the bedroom window, getting your attention almost immediately with how unpleasant the noise was. The moment you let him in, Hobie tumbled into your arms, shivering from the cold. You dried him off with a towel and put on the heater for the night. The moment he turned back into a human, he fell into your arms under the covers, snuggling and clinging onto you for warmth as you rub his back. No doubt that in the morning, Hobie had a cold, which he kept denying for almost the entire day, if it weren't for the fact the moment you put a cold towel around his neck for the fever, he immediately felt relief from his suffering. Hobie huffs at your laughing at the memory, flying off the table and turning back into his human form with feigned annoyance. His lopsided captain's hat and clothes had grown with him, the pirate hat dipping to cover one of his eyes ever so slightly. He immediately grabs you, holding you close to his chest as he begun to attack your skin with kisses and playful nips, muttering about how he feels so 'hurt' about the fact that his 'darling lover would laugh at him when he was suffering'. -🐦‍⬛

Lmaooo yeah it probably was!

Daily Hobie HC ‼��

Omg that was Hobat 😲

HOBAT IS SUCH A BABY!!!!! I LOVE HIM SM

He's a backpack and an apron all in one HAHHAHAHAHHA

Hobie closing his wings around himself like a little newborn needing to be swaddled is the cutest imagery i had 🥰🥺🥺🥺

Hehehehe pirate hobat hehehehhe

I can imagine him flying above your bed in bat form then suddenly shifting back to human form to just plummet atop you crushing you from hunder him 🤣🤣🤣

HIM PEEKING BEHIND YOUR SHOULDER WHILE HE'S CLINGING TO YOU IS SO ADORABLE JENZIQKZKOWJZKWOSK

Nuuu he got sick :( that's what he gets for flying in the rain! He'll never hear the end of it 😂

Hell yeah smooches from pirate vampire Hobie!