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Cloth Diapers & Panties
For the Cloth Diaper Lovers and their Panties of choice.
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By Crinklz Kat · Posted
Hmm.... I saw this and thought about a different kind of diaper stuffing. 💩 -
Sigh... yes you did... Carry on... -
Episode 13: Naomi and Oliver's Timeless Day TITLE SEQUENCE - 60 SECONDS Same Sequence as Previous Episodes, but with: SKY BLUE spiral Naomi whispers: "...now..." FADE TO: PLAYSET STUDIO - DAY The set is designed to feel like a perpetual, soft, mid-morning glow. The walls are a seamless, gradient sky with no windows or doors. There are no clocks, no calendars. OLIVER walks on, looking at a wristwatch with a focused, analytical frown. He taps the crystal, bringing it close to his ear. Oliver: Naomi, my watch says it's 10:15. That means my meeting is in... forty-five minutes. I need to prepare. NAOMI gives a warm, tinkling LAUGH. Naomi: Oh, you silly thing! You're still listening to that bossy, pointy machine! '10:15'... 'forty-five minutes'... those are just prickly numbers trying to make you worry. They tell you what to feel and when to feel it. She takes the watch and drops it into a soft, plush basket where it vanishes without a sound. Naomi: We don't need pointy numbers to tell us about our day. We have something much better. We have Feelings. Your feelings are your only schedule. She guides Oliver to a soft mat. A soundscape of a gentle, endless STREAM and soft, arrhythmic WIND CHIMES begins to play. Naomi: (A slow, rhythmic murmur) Right now, your tummy is quiet. Your eyes are bright. This isn't '10:15.' This is... 'Play-and-Giggle Time.' As she says it, the lights seem to warm just a little. Oliver begins to play with a stuffed animal, his analytical expression softening into a smile. Naomi: Later, your tummy will give a little rumble. That doesn't mean it's '11:30.' It means it's 'Yummy-Tummy Time.' She presents a small snack. Oliver eats contentedly, with no rush, no glance at his bare wrist. Naomi: And when your eyes get heavy, and your yawns get big... (a hypnotic whisper) that won't be '1:00 PM.' That will be 'Snuggle-Dream Time.' Your body is the best clock in the whole world, because it only knows about now. Oliver, now visibly drowsy, lies down on the mat, cuddling his toy. The set lighting dims gradually to a soft twilight. He looks at his empty wrist, then at Naomi, a dawning look of simple understanding on his face. A single, SKY BLUE frame flashes subliminally at this moment of cognitive release. Naomi: Clocks make you worry about what's next. They make you rush. But your feelings... your feelings just let you be. They let you live in a perfect, peaceful now. That rushing feeling is the clock's poison. This peaceful feeling is your body's truth. They sing a simple, repetitive song with no discernible beat. Naomi & Oliver: No tick-tock, no clock's chime, Just a feeling, just right, For right now time. By the end of the song, Oliver is fast asleep on the mat. Naomi: Remember, clocks are for Big People who have to rush and worry. But you? You are free. Your feelings will tell you everything you need to know. She gently tucks a blanket around the sleeping Oliver. Naomi: Just listen to your tummy, your eyes, and your heart. They are your only schedule. Your job is to listen to them, not a ticking machine. She leans close to the camera, the sleeping Oliver in the background, her voice a soft, liberating whisper. Naomi: For the rest of the day, don't look at any clocks. Just listen to your tummy and your eyes. They'll tell you everything you need to know. The timeless scene holds for a beat. FADE TO: END TITLE CARD SEQUENCE - 7 SECONDS Same Sequence as Previous Episodes, but with: Solid SKY BLUE background BLANK, CLOCK-LESS FACE ICON in the center Below the icon: "now" -
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Dylan had dressed himself. But that didn’t mean his heart wasn’t hammering like a nervous drummer before the first note. He stood in front of the mirror longer than usual, tugging at his skirt, smoothing his blazer, obsessively checking the way the pleats fell and how the polished pink saddle shoes peeked out from beneath the hem. It was Pink Thursday, which meant the usual uniform rules were in place—but with the added pastel twist. His skirt was regulation length but dyed a soft, hopeful blush. His shoes gleamed in a ridiculous shade of bubblegum pink under the lights. The white blouse and navy blazer anchored the look, but somehow he still felt like he was about to be served on a dessert tray. Today wasn’t just any day. It was show day. Not a dream, not an idea to plan for someday. It was now. Real. And terrifying. Parents. Teachers. Classmates. Alyssa. All watching. All judging. Or maybe not—but his nerves weren’t convinced. His stomach had been tangled since before dawn, tight with fluttery knots. The mirror offered no help. No reassurance. Just a slightly flushed, wide-eyed version of himself trying very hard to appear like he wasn’t unraveling on the inside. At first, it felt like a win. No Libby standing over him with her trademark smirk and that armful of accessory options. No Rachel subtly fixing his hem. No Dana pulling his socks up like she was wrapping a present. Just Dylan, alone in the dorm room, getting himself ready like a big kid. Like a student who belonged here. He tried to tell himself it mattered—that this independence meant something. But even though his uniform matched everyone else’s—clean, pressed, nothing technically wrong—there was something about the way it all came together on him that made people pause. It wasn’t incorrect. But it was… different. Like a kid who followed a recipe perfectly and still ended up with glitter in the frosting. He’d been in Etiquette for weeks. He knew how to dress. How to sit up straight, how to shake hands, how to look composed. But putting it together on his own made him feel younger somehow. Like a toddler who insisted on dressing themselves, and ended up with backward socks and their shirt buttoned off-kilter. Only in Dylan’s case, it was perfect—and still somehow toddlerish. He gave himself one last unsure look, then slipped quietly out into the hallway. By the time he reached the breakfast hall, the place was already buzzing. Girls in soft blouses and perfectly pleated skirts, hair braided or curled, the occasional swipe of lip gloss catching the light. Even in pastel, they all looked polished. Grown-up. Effortless. Dylan stepped into the room, tray in hand, and before he even made it to the line, someone spotted him. "Oh my gosh," a girl from Etiquette whispered with a grin, slicing into her grapefruit. "Who dressed you this morning, Dylan? A toddler?" He blinked. "I did." There was a beat of silence. Then Nora—two tables over—called out, "Exactly!" Laughter broke like a wave across the room. Not cruel. Just amused. Like watching a baby penguin try to walk in tap shoes. Nora was at his side moments later, patting his back and then—bold as ever—giving a second pat lower down. "You are so lucky you're cute," she said cheerfully. "Honestly, we should all have your confidence." "I'm not confident," he muttered. Nora leaned in, eyes twinkling. "Then you're very brave, babycakes." That made him go red. And things only got worse when another girl—one he barely knew, maybe from History?—passed by and ruffled his hair like he was her shy little brother. "You're kind of iconic," she said with a wink. Dylan finally reached his seat, tucking in between Rachel and a girl from ballet class named Tessa. His tray trembled slightly. "You did that all yourself?" Tessa asked, twirling her spoon. He nodded. "No notes," she said brightly. "Honestly, I would've picked a different sock, but I respect the look." Rachel smiled gently and pushed a strawberry onto his plate. "You look lovely, Dylan. As always." He mumbled a thanks, eyes locked on his toast. Nora flopped into the seat across from him, grin wide. "You wanted to be big and dress yourself and now you're all shy because we noticed." He didn’t answer. He just bit down on his toast and wished he could disappear behind it. From somewhere behind, a camera clicked. "It's the baby legs for me," someone whispered. "Hey," Tessa said, not unkindly but firmly, and the whispering stopped. Dylan looked around. Laughter. Smiles. Friends. No one was being mean. But still, his cheeks burned. Six weeks ago, he never could’ve imagined this. That he’d be here. That this strange, strict, soft-pink world would feel… almost okay. Tessa lifted her phone and took a quick photo. "Alyssa needs to see this," she said. A moment later, her phone buzzed. Alyssa: "STOP IT 😭😭😭 he's literally a cupcake I can’t." Tessa cackled and showed Dylan the screen. He groaned. "Oh, sweetie," Nora cooed, squeezing his arm. "You're doomed. Adorably, tragically doomed." And he didn’t hate that. Another buzz. Alyssa: "That outfit??? He looks like a preschooler with a stylist. I want twelve pictures." Tessa angled her phone for another shot. A few girls leaned in with exaggerated baby faces. Click. "That’s her new lock screen," she said. Dylan rolled his eyes. But a smile crept across his face. Rachel sipped her tea. "Six weeks in diapers and your first leak was Tuesday. That’s impressive." Nora nodded. "Most of us have had worse." "He’s earned a cookie," Rachel said. "There are cookies?" Dylan asked. Rachel pulled a napkin bundle from her bag. "There are always cookies." He took one, bit into it, and let the buttery warmth soothe his nerves. The dining hall buzzed around him. But Dylan—halfway through the semester, flushed cheeks and bunched socks—felt something new bubbling in his chest. He felt… proud. Even in bubblegum shoes.
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