Spanking

It is a busy story......I love it .....I think at home Paul needs a pasifer clip , and maybe a high chair .    

Hi I’m on Bracknell would love to meet some other abdl

Hi and welcome from the UK. Always happy to chat.

Chapter 10: Above the Clouds Calum sat against the wall of the daycare playground, arms crossed tight over his chest. Littlings dashed past in bursts of laughter, their voices high and sharp, needling into his ears. The air smelled like sun-warmed plastic and faint powder. The crinkle of his fresh diaper pressed against him—a loud, humiliating reminder of his wet, messy nap. His cheeks burned. It wasn’t fair. Nothing ever was. Miss Pavia hummed gently near the Naughty Chart, her fingers sliding magnets around like she was rearranging lives. Calum’s eyes locked onto his name. The row of clouds beside it taunted him—small, stupid shapes lined up like an army. His stomach twisted. He tore his gaze away, scowling. Nearby, Daan built a fort out of foam blocks. He wasn’t watching Calum, not really, but his eyes flicked over every so often. That look again. The worried one. The one that made Calum feel like he was being babysat. “Don’t be naughty, Cal,” Daan mumbled, just loud enough for him to hear. His voice tried to sound like teasing, but Calum caught the tightness under it. “I’m not,” Calum muttered. He shifted, the plastic beneath him crinkling loud in his ears. He didn’t care if Daan heard. He didn’t care about anything. Except— The rocket. It stood at the far side of the playground, red and gleaming in the sun. A giant, impossible dare. It was stupid how much he wanted to climb it. The bars practically called to him, like they knew he was staring. Miss Pavia’s voice from earlier brushed against his mind: “The rocket is off-limits today.” Calm. Firm. Like always. Calum’s fists tightened. Who cared what she said? He wanted to climb it. He should climb it. Show them all he could. Show her she couldn’t keep him down. His legs tensed, ready to push him up. But instead, his hand curled around a battered block beside him. He threw it. Not hard, but with just enough. It bounced once, skidded into Daan’s fort, knocking a wall over. Daan gasped, his hands flying to the blocks. “Hey!” His voice spiked, high and sharp. “You broke it!” “So?” Calum didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed on the rocket. The sun caught its metal rungs, making them shine. Daan huffed, scooping up the fallen blocks, fingers moving fast. “You’re just mad ‘cause you got clouds,” he muttered. “Miss Pavia’s gonna see. You’ll get in trouble again.” Calum’s jaw tightened. His fingers curled into his palms. “Don’t care,” he said, voice flat. The rocket stayed there, gleaming in the sun. The crinkle under him seemed louder. The chart with the clouds was still there. Daan was still watching. The moment Miss Pavia stepped out of the room, Calum’s eyes snapped to the rocket. It looked taller now, red paint gleaming like it had been waiting for him all along. His fingers twitched against the playground floor. His chest felt tight—like something was trying to hold him down. The soft crinkle of his diaper blended with the faint sound of Miss Pavia’s footsteps fading down the hall. That was all the permission he needed. He pushed himself up fast, yanking at the straps of his romper where they pinched his shoulders. The fabric bit in harder as he pulled. His diaper rustled—louder than usual—or maybe he was just hearing it more. He hated it. Every step forward was a waddle, the bulk between his legs spreading him wide, forcing him to move slower than he wanted. Like a baby. Like he wasn’t strong enough to run. But the rocket didn’t care about diapers. It didn’t care about clouds or frowns. It stood there, red and perfect—beyond Miss Pavia’s voice, beyond corners, beyond everything. The playground noise blurred. Dolls clacked together. Foam blocks toppled. Someone laughed—too shrill, too far away. None of it mattered. None of them noticed him inching forward. Except Daan. Daan was at his fort, tongue poking out as he placed a block bridge between two towers. But he saw Calum. His eyes went tight. “Cal…” His voice cut through everything. Small, but sharp. Calum’s breath caught. For a second, he almost stopped. But then he shoved it down. He was sick of stopping. “Nothing,” Calum muttered, smacking his romper straps back into place like it would make them stop digging into his skin. “Just walking.” Daan stood. His diaper crinkled, loud like Calum’s—like it was mocking them both. “You’re gonna climb it, aren’t you?” Calum grinned—he couldn’t help it. “Miss Pavia’s not here,” he said, like that was all that mattered. His chin jerked toward the door. Open. Empty. Daan groaned, throwing his arms out. “She always knows! You’re gonna get a frown, Cal! Then you’ll be in the corner forever!” Calum’s foot paused, half a step from the ladder. His eyes flicked to the Naughty Chart—those stupid clouds pressed in next to his name. His chest squeezed like a hand had wrapped around it. He could already feel it—that tight seat, Miss Pavia’s hand on his shoulder, her voice calm but cold. And worse—the heat, the sting across his backside, the way it stayed, even after the tears dried. But then the rocket glinted in the sun. “I’m just gonna look,” Calum said, like he believed it. Daan scrambled over his blocks, his diaper puffing with every move. His face was red. “No, it’s still bad! You’ll fall! She’ll spank you—” “Go back to your dumb castle,” Calum snapped. His hand closed on the ladder before Daan could grab him. The metal was hot—scorching from the sun—but it was real. Solid. His heart kicked harder. He planted a foot on the first rung. The ladder shifted under him, just a little. His foot slipped. His stomach dropped—but his hand held tight. “Calum!” Daan’s voice cracked. He was panting now. “Come down! You’re gonna get in trouble—and I’m not helping you this time!” Calum climbed. The metal burned against his palms. Sweat stuck his romper to his back. Each rung made his legs work harder, the diaper pushing them apart, but he forced his way up. Every crinkle felt louder. Every movement reminded him—but he kept going. Daan was below him now, grabbing the side of the ladder. His face was twisted with panic, his knuckles white. “Cal—stop!” His voice broke. “Please—just—please come down!” Something wavered in Daan’s voice, something Calum hadn’t heard before. He sounded scared. Not just worried—scared. Like something was breaking inside him. Calum’s chest twisted. He thought about pausing. Thought about looking down. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. His hand reached for the next rung. His foot pressed higher. The rocket gleamed above him—closer now. The sun glared into his eyes. The metal was too hot. His breath was fast and sharp, and his arms ached—but he was almost there. Up here, there were no clouds. No corners. No spankings. Just sky. Daan’s heart thudded as he watched Calum climb higher. The ladder creaked faintly with each step, and every shift of Calum’s legs made his diaper crinkle loud and clear. Daan gripped the rocket’s frame tighter, his own diaper hot and sticky around his thighs. “Cal!” he hissed, trying not to yell. “You gotta come down! You’re gonna get in trouble!” Calum didn’t look at him. He just kept climbing—higher, like he belonged up there. When he reached the top platform, he stood, wobbled for a second, then planted his hands on his hips like he was the king of everything. “I’m not coming down!” he declared, voice loud, proud, but thin at the edges. His diaper rustled as he shifted his stance. Daan’s chest tightened. His palms were damp against the cool metal frame. “Cal!” He stomped his foot, foam blocks wobbling beneath him. His voice was louder this time, panic creeping into his frustration. “Miss Pavia’s gonna see! She’s gonna give you a frown! You don’t want more frowns!” “I don’t care!” Calum snapped. His back stayed turned, shoulders squared like he was holding himself up by force. His hands gripped the side of the rocket, knuckles pale. Daan’s tummy twisted. That feeling—the one like something bad was about to happen—curled up deeper inside him. “You do care!” he tried again, voice shaking now. “You’ll miss snack time! And—and you’ll be in the corner all day! You hate that!” Calum didn’t answer. He stood still, fingers tightening on the rocket’s edge. Daan could see it now—how stiff his shoulders were, like he was trying to be tough, but it wasn’t working. It never really worked. Daan’s cheeks burned. He hated this. Hated being the one begging. Hated that Calum never listened. And then he heard it. A soft, faint hum—almost like a mosquito at first, but colder. It grew louder, sharper, like it was slicing through the air. Daan’s eyes went wide. The bot. Floating toward the rocket, smooth and round, its polished body catching the light like a mirror. Slow, steady, like it already knew everything. “Cal!” Daan squeaked, his voice cracking. His hands clamped on the ladder, holding it like it could protect him. “The bot! It’s coming! You’re gonna get caught!” Calum’s head snapped to the side. He saw it too. The bot hovered closer, its little lens turning slightly, like an eye narrowing. “Child,” it chirped, voice chipper but wrong. “You are not following the rules. Please come down and play nicely.” Daan’s throat tightened. His fingers dug into the metal. His legs wanted to run, but he stayed put, stuck. “Cal,” he whispered, panic flooding his chest. “It’s gonna tell Miss Pavia.” Calum stared at the bot, face tight. His hands balled into fists. His breathing was louder now, like he was trying to hold something in—or fight it back. “Go away,” he muttered through his teeth. The bot paused midair, its reflection catching Calum’s red face. “Child,” it repeated, voice louder. “Please descend immediately. Breaking the rules will result in a report.” Daan’s heart pounded in his ears. “Cal!” he tugged on the ladder. “It’s gonna tattle! Just come down—please!” “No!” Calum barked, his voice raw. His fists trembled at his sides. Then, before Daan could even gasp, Calum lashed out—his foot swinging hard into the bot. CLANG. The sound rang through the playground like a bell. Daan flinched, his whole body jerking back. The bot spun wildly, buzzing high-pitched and wrong, like it was confused—or angry. For a second, Daan thought it might fall, like maybe Calum had won—but it straightened itself again, hovering steady. Then the red light blinked on its side. A hard, pulsing glow. The bot’s voice wasn’t chirpy anymore. It was flat. Cold. “Bad behavior detected. Incident reported. Stand by.” The words hit Daan like a punch. His breath stuttered. His chest felt tight, like it was closing up. He looked up at Calum—still on the platform, fists clenched, face red, eyes wide. There was something else there now, mixed in with the anger. Fear. “Cal…” Daan’s voice cracked. “It’s gonna tell her. You’re in so much trouble now.” Calum stared back. For a second, he didn’t speak. He just stood there—like he was trying to decide if he was still mad or if he was scared, too. “Please,” Daan whispered, his throat dry. “Just come down. It’s not funny anymore.” The buzzing grew louder. The red light blinked faster. Daan’s fingers curled harder around the ladder until his knuckles hurt. Everything felt still—but it wasn’t the good kind. It was the kind before something bad happened. And Daan didn’t know how to stop it. The automaton wobbled a few feet back, its chirping voice reduced to garbled static. Calum felt a rush of triumph swell in his chest, a bright heat that made his whole body feel light. He had won. He had beaten it. His grin stretched wide as he leaned over the railing, hands gripping the metal tight, knuckles pressed white against the cool surface. “See that? Stupid bot couldn’t do anything!” His voice rang out with pride, louder than he intended, but he didn’t care. Daan didn’t look impressed. His face was pinched, arms crossed tight over his chest, but there was something else in his eyes. It made Calum’s grin slip for just a moment—something like fear, or maybe something worse. No. Daan was just being a baby. Before he could say anything else, the voice cut through the air, slicing everything in half. “Calum Vaylen!” Miss Pavia. Her voice cracked like a whip across the room, freezing Calum in place. The heat of victory vanished, replaced by an icy weight in his gut that dropped so fast it felt like he was falling. He blinked down at her, his heart thudding in his ears. She was striding toward the rocket, her shoes clicking sharply with every step, arms folded so tight against her chest it looked like she was holding her anger in place. Her mouth was set in that thin, straight line—the one that meant there was no talking his way out. “Get down here this instant!” Her finger jabbed toward him, cutting the air like a blade. Calum’s fingers tightened around the railing, holding on like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His mouth opened, but what came out was a tangled mess of panic. “I—I wasn’t doing anything! The bot—” He stopped, the words sounding small and weak, like he was shrinking while she grew taller. Miss Pavia wasn’t interested in excuses. She reached up without hesitation, her hand closing firmly around his ankle. Her grip was steady—never rough, but strong enough that Calum knew there was no arguing. “You heard me,” she said, her voice low, all steel and certainty. “Come down, or I’ll bring you down myself.” His hands clung to the railing for a moment longer, but he knew it was over. The fight was gone. “Wait! I’m coming! I’m coming!” he blurted, scrambling to climb down. She guided him with quiet force, keeping hold of his ankle until his feet hit the floor. The ground felt unsteady beneath him, even though it wasn’t moving. His pulse was still racing, his chest tight, cheeks burning. Miss Pavia crouched slightly, her eyes level with his, dark and steady. She didn’t need to shout. Her calmness was worse—it meant there was no getting out of this. “Do you think the rules don’t apply to you, Calum?” Her words were sharp, but her tone stayed even. “Because I assure you, they do.” He pressed his lips together, but the words pushed past anyway. “I wasn’t even that high,” he muttered, eyes dropping. He looked toward Daan, searching for something—an ally, maybe—but what he found twisted the knot in his chest tighter. Daan was standing stiffly, arms folded, his expression carefully blank. He wasn’t smiling, but he was shaking his head slowly, the small movement making something cold spike in Calum’s chest. “Daan!” Calum’s voice cracked as the panic turned sharp with anger. “Say something! Tell her I wasn’t—” But Daan didn’t speak. He just kept shaking his head, his eyes flicking away like he didn’t want to meet Calum’s gaze anymore. The twist in Calum’s chest snapped into something hotter. The sting of betrayal was sharp, cutting through his fear. “Oh, shut up, Daan!” His voice shot up, shaking slightly, but all he felt was heat rushing to his face. He turned away from his brother and Miss Pavia. “You’re not the boss of me!” “And neither,” Miss Pavia’s voice cut in, steady as stone, “are you the boss of this classroom.” Her tone wasn’t louder, but it flattened everything. It pinned him in place, made his anger twist into something he couldn’t hold onto. It should have made him stop. It didn’t. The pressure boiling in his chest finally burst. His fists balled at his sides, his breath coming fast and uneven. “It’s not fair!” His voice cracked, louder than he meant, but he didn’t care. His foot slammed down on the tile, making the foam blocks nearby tremble. “Stupid rocket! Stupid rules! Stupid EVERYTHING!” He stomped again, his sneakers squeaking against the smooth floor. His face felt like it was on fire. “I don’t care what you say! I’m not listening to you!” The playground was silent. Every Littling had stopped moving. Toys dangled in half-raised hands. The crinkle of diapers and the clatter of plastic blocks had vanished, leaving nothing but the sound of Calum’s heavy breathing. Even the automaton was still, its red light pulsing softly like it was waiting for what came next. Calum’s chest heaved, his fists trembling. His finger shot out, jabbing toward Miss Pavia. “You’re stupid! The rocket’s stupid! This whole place is stupid!” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Daan shift—just a small step back. The movement was barely anything, but it was enough to twist the knife deeper. His own brother didn’t want to be near him. “What’re you looking at?” Calum barked at Daan, his voice raw. Miss Pavia stayed where she was, hands on her hips. She didn’t flinch, didn’t scold. Her face stayed calm, but there was a kind of weight behind her eyes. The kind that told him she had seen this before. A hundred times, maybe. It didn’t scare her. It didn’t even surprise her. “Are you quite finished, Calum?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. Her voice wasn’t cold, but it carried the finality of someone who already knew the answer. His breath hitched. The heat in his chest faded into something heavier. His hands opened slowly, but he didn’t know what to do with them. He could still feel every pair of eyes on him, and his face burned hotter because of it. Miss Pavia straightened, folding her arms across her chest. “Good. Because now we need to talk about your consequences.” Her words landed like a stone in his stomach. The rush of anger was gone. All that was left was the weight of what he had done—and the certainty that it was far from over.   Miss Pavia stepped forward, her face still calm as she crouched down to Calum’s height. She wasn’t frowning. She didn’t even look mad. But the way she moved—so quiet, so slow—made his chest squeeze tighter. It was worse than yelling. Worse than anything. Calum crossed his arms tight, pressing them hard against his chest. His face scrunched up, hot tears stinging his eyes. He blinked fast, but they made his vision all shiny anyway. He hated it. “Calum,” Miss Pavia said, soft and steady. “I know you’re upset, but shouting and stomping won’t—” “You don’t know anything!” Calum’s voice cracked as the words burst out of him. His heart pounded faster. “You don’t know nuffin’! This place is dumb! Your rules are dumb! That dumb chart’s dumb too!” The tears slipped out, hot down his cheeks, but he didn’t wipe them. He was too mad. His tummy felt all twisty, like everything inside was fighting to get out. His fists shook a little. Miss Pavia didn’t say nothing. She just stayed there, crouched, with her hands folded all nice. She wasn’t mad. She was just looking. That was worse. That made his tummy hurt more. “And Tauvalin!” The words tumbled out, louder now. “Why we gotta learn that? It’s boring! It’s dumb! Nobody needs it! It’s just for babies!” His lip wobbled hard, but he kept talking. “You think we’re all dumb babies!” Miss Pavia stayed quiet. She didn’t blink, didn’t move, like she was made of stone. Calum’s breath hitched. He was shaking now, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He jabbed a finger toward the Naughty Chart. “And that—that is stupid too! You put clouds wherever you want! It don’t matter what we do! It’s fake! It’s all fake!” His voice got higher and squeakier, like it was climbing up his throat and he couldn’t pull it back down. Something flickered in Miss Pavia’s eyes, but it was gone too fast. Calum didn’t know what it was. He didn’t care. He was too mad. Miss Pavia stood up slow, smoothing her skirt like nothing was wrong. “Calum,” she said, her voice still calm, but tighter now. “I think you need some time to calm down. Let’s go back to—” “No!” Calum’s shout bounced off the walls, sharp and loud. Heads turned. Littlings stopped playing. They stared, eyes big like saucers. He felt them all watching. His skin prickled, hot and itchy. “I don’ wanna go back! I’m not takin’ a dumb nap like a baby!” Miss Pavia’s voice sharpened just a little. “Calum, this isn’t up for discussion.” “I hate naps!” His fists balled up tight again, knuckles white. His face burned. “I hate this daycare! I hate everything! I hate you!” His foot slammed down hard, sneakers squeaking on the floor. His arm shot out, knocking over a tower of foam blocks. They tumbled down with soft thumps, but the sound felt loud in the quiet room. Gasps rippled around him. Whispers, little voices buzzing, excited. The kind of whispering Littlings did when someone else was getting in trouble. Calum felt their eyes crawling over him. His chest squeezed so hard it hurt. Miss Pavia stepped forward, hands on her hips now. Her voice was lower, firmer. “Calum. That’s enough.” But it wasn’t. He couldn’t stop. “No!” he screamed, his face bright red. His breath came fast and sharp, like he couldn’t catch it. His legs shook, but he stomped anyway—hard, so hard his knees wobbled. “You’re not the boss of me! You’re not my mom! You can’t make me!” Miss Pavia didn’t move. She didn’t yell. She just stood there, looking right at him. Like she was waiting. Like she knew he was gonna do this all along. That made it worse. “I don’ care what you say!” His voice cracked, high and wild. His foot stomped again, but it didn’t feel good. It didn’t make the bad feeling go away. Before he could think, his foot shot out, kicking a wooden beam lying near the block corner. It wobbled, then tipped over with a loud CRACK. The sound echoed. Everything froze. Every Littling’s eyes locked onto him. No more whispers. No more gasps. Just wide eyes and still hands. The bot’s red light blinked slow and steady, like it was watching too. Calum’s chest heaved. His fists were tight, his face hot, his eyes still wet. He stared at the broken beam, then up at Miss Pavia. Her face hadn’t changed. She didn’t need to say anything. Calum already knew. He was in so much trouble. Miss Pavia wasted no time. Her face stayed calm as she stepped forward, her movements smooth and steady. She reached out, her hand closing firmly around Calum’s upper arm. It wasn’t rough, but it was strong—too strong. The warmth of her fingers pressed against his skin, but all he felt was trapped. He yanked hard, twisting his shoulders to break free, but it was useless. She didn’t even budge. The scattered blocks, the toppled beam, the wide-eyed Littlings—they all blurred into the background, fading beneath the sound of his own ragged breathing. All that was left was her unyielding grip and the crushing weight of her presence. “Enough,” she said, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. Without another word, she turned and started walking, leading him toward the door with long, purposeful strides. Calum dug his heels in, twisting in her grasp. His feet scraped against the floor, his sneakers squeaking as he fought against her pull. “Let go of me!” he barked, his voice wobbling at the edges. His face was burning hot, his chest tight, his breath coming in fast, sharp bursts. He sniffled hard, but the tears still pricked at his eyes. Miss Pavia didn’t tighten her grip, but she didn’t loosen it either. She just kept walking, her pace steady, like there was no question about where they were going. Like it was already decided. Behind them, the other Littlings whispered in hushed murmurs. A few peeked out from behind their toys, their eyes wide and round. A boy clutched his stuffed bunny tighter, shrinking behind the soft walls of the play area. A girl by the art table leaned closer to Daan, her voice a barely-there whisper. “Is he in big trouble?” Daan didn’t answer. His arms were still crossed, his posture stiff, but there was no teasing smirk this time. His frown was deep, his face tight, his fingers twitching slightly where they gripped his sleeves. He just watched as Miss Pavia led his brother away, saying nothing. “The nap room, Calum,” Miss Pavia said as they exited the playroom, her tone leaving no room for argument. The voices behind them faded, swallowed by the heavy stillness of the hallway. Calum’s feet dragged more, his sneakers scuffing against the floor, but it didn’t slow her down. “I don’ wanna nap! I don’ gotta nap! You’re just bein’ mean!” His voice cracked between whining and shouting, frustration bubbling over like a pot about to spill. Miss Pavia glanced back at him briefly, her face unreadable. She didn’t answer. She didn’t scold. She just kept walking, her shoes clicking against the smooth tile in an even, unbroken rhythm. Click. Click. Click. Like a clock ticking down. The hallway stretched out too far, too empty. No Littlings. No toys. No bright colors. Just the smooth floor and the hum of the lights above. The only sounds were her steps and the sharp, uneven breaths rattling in Calum’s chest. His stomach twisted up tight. He pulled back again, as if that could change things, as if she’d finally let go. “I don’ gotta nap,” he tried again, his voice smaller now, words sticking in his throat. Miss Pavia didn’t answer right away. She simply closed the door behind them.     * * * The cot’s mattress crinkled beneath Calum’s weight as Miss Pavia sat him down with practiced ease. Her movements were quick, knowing, her expression beautifully neutral, like she had done this a thousand times before. There was no hesitation in her hands, no wasted effort. Calum kicked out once, half-heartedly, his arms flailing as if that could stop her. “No—no!” he whined, twisting his body, fingers grasping at his romper, trying to hold it in place. His heart pounded, but Miss Pavia barely reacted. She didn’t scold, didn’t sigh, didn’t even flinch at his struggling. Her hands were too fast, too sure, moving with the kind of quiet certainty that made resistance feel useless. Before he could stop her, the romper was already slipping past his arms, then his legs, then gone. His chest rose and fell in short, shuddery breaths, his limbs tensing as his stomach twisted into a tight, squirmy knot. His hands twitched toward his lap, too slow, too late, as warmth crawled up his face. The soggy diaper wrapped around his waist felt heavier now, like it was the only thing left on him, like it was pressing down on him more than before. “I can do it myself,” he muttered, but the words barely left his lips, falling flat into the quiet space between them. His voice sounded too small, too thin, like even he didn’t believe it. Miss Pavia didn’t acknowledge it. She turned with the same quiet efficiency, retrieving a fresh diaper and—his stomach twisted tighter—the SootheKeeper pacifier. Its bright plastic shield, a smiling star streaked with playful designs, stared back at him like it knew exactly what it was, what it meant. Too babyish. Too much. Too wrong. “Kicking and stomping is no fun for anyone, is it?” Miss Pavia said, her voice gentle but firm as she shook her head, though there was no unkindness in the gesture. “Tantrums happen, Calum. What matters is learning how to handle those big feelings better next time.” Calum scrunched his nose, looking away as heat crept up his neck. His fists curled against his thighs, his whole body tensed like a wound-up spring, but no words came. He muttered something under his breath, but even he wasn’t sure what he meant to say. Miss Pavia simply held up the pacifier. She didn’t press it forward, didn’t move it closer or further away, just held it steady, waiting. Calum stared at it, his breath coming faster, shallower. His chest rose and fell in uneven jerks, his fingers tightening into the blanket bunched under him. His heart thudded in his ears as her patience thickened the air between them. He clenched his jaw, lips pressing into a thin line, willing himself to push back, to resist. Miss Pavia didn’t speak. She didn’t shift, didn’t push. She only waited. The pacifier hovered close, not quite touching but near enough that the warmth of the rubber brushed faintly against his lip. It was a quiet, steady pressure—so small, so soft, but there. His lips parted before he could stop them, barely, just enough for the pacifier to slip inside. It nestled snug against his mouth, familiar in a way that made his stomach clench. The faint vanilla taste curled over his tongue, slow and warm, the kind of comfort that seeped into him whether he wanted it or not. He clenched his teeth, just for a second, just long enough to remind himself he didn’t have to accept this. But his body ignored him. His mouth moved on its own. A soft, slow suck. Then another. It wasn’t even his choice. And that was the worst part. Because it felt good. And he hated that. His shoulders slumped as the tension drained from his limbs, leaving him loose and heavy against the cot. His fingers twitched, the last flicker of defiance curling at the edges, but they didn’t ball into fists anymore. The crinkly sound of the fresh diaper barely registered as Miss Pavia laid him back with smooth, practiced movements. The soft blanket followed, pinching him into place like it knew he wasn’t going anywhere. The air smelled warm, lavender laced with the subtle hum of sleep, settling over him like something weightier than a simple scent. Miss Pavia gave his forehead a quick, perfunctory pat before rising, her touch brief and businesslike, just another step in her routine. “Rest,” she said, her voice unwavering, steady as ever. “I’ll come check on you later.” Her footsteps moved away before he could think of something to say, before he could even decide if he wanted to say anything at all. The dim light in the room seemed to dip lower as she stepped back, leaving only a sliver of the outside world visible through the crack in the door. Calum tried not to grind his teeth against the pacifier, tried to ignore how the vanilla taste made everything feel slower, heavier, harder to fight. It was like pushing against a wall that wouldn’t move, like struggling against something inevitable. Then— A glint of blue flickered in the dim light near the door. Miss Pavia’s steps paused, just for a second. She didn’t turn her head, but her gaze flickered toward the frame, toward the unmistakable mop of Daan’s hair peeking past the edge. She didn’t stop him. She didn’t scold. She didn’t move. She just let him be. Then, as smoothly as before, she let her gaze slide away, gave the faintest tick of her mouth—not quite a smile, not quite nothing—and turned, shutting the outer daycare door softly but deliberately behind her. The nursery was quiet—too quiet. Daan lingered at the doorway, his fingers curling tight against the frame as he peered inside. He wasn’t sure why he had come. He should go back to the playroom, where everything was loud and normal, where Littlings laughed and played, and no one was sucking on a pacifier like they’d forgotten they were angry. He told himself to turn around, to slip back before anyone noticed, but his feet stayed where they were. His chest felt wrong—tight, like something was pushing under his ribs, urging him forward even though his brain said to leave. He stepped inside. His bare feet padded carefully across the floor, each step soft, too soft, like he was afraid the room might scold him if he made a noise. He kept glancing toward the hallway, half-expecting Miss Pavia to appear, arms crossed, telling him to go back. No one came. The air smelled like lavender, the dim light stretching shadows across the walls, making everything feel slower, heavier, like the whole room was holding its breath. Calum lay curled up on one of the cots, his blanket bunched unevenly around his shoulders. His chest rose and fell too fast, each breath making his body shiver slightly beneath the covers. The steady sucking of the pacifier was soft, quiet, but Daan could hear it. His cheeks were blotchy and red, eyes squeezed shut, while his hands were tucked under the blanket, curled into fists so tight it looked like they might never open again. Daan swallowed thickly, his throat dry as he stood there, watching. He had expected Calum to still be mad—to be lying stiff, arms crossed, scowling at the ceiling like he was daring someone to say something. But he wasn’t. He looked small, smaller than Daan had seen him in a long time, like all the puffed-up anger had drained out and left someone else behind. He shifted on his feet, toes curling against the floor as his weight rocked slightly. He should leave. Maybe Calum wanted to be alone. Maybe this wasn’t something he was supposed to see. His fingers twitched against the cot’s frame, tapping nervously as he hesitated. He almost turned back, ready to step out into the hallway, but then he heard it. It wasn’t a sniffle. It was softer than that—broken up by the steady bob of the pacifier—but it was still there. A sob, muffled and small, but enough to freeze Daan where he stood. The tight feeling in his chest squeezed harder, pressing right up against his heart. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Maybe he was supposed to leave. But he didn’t. His fingers tapped the cot’s edge again, and instead of stepping away, he climbed up. The cot was small—too small for both of them—but Daan squeezed in beside his brother, shifting carefully until he was lying on his side. The mattress dipped under their combined weight, and the blanket crinkled between them as their shoulders almost touched. Calum’s body tensed, his head turning sharply away toward the wall. His knees curled up higher under the blanket, and his voice came out thick and slow around the pacifier. “Go ‘way.” Daan heard the words, but he stayed put. He wasn’t going anywhere. He let his hand rest lightly on the blanket near Calum’s shoulder, not grabbing, not pushing—just being there. “It’s okay, Cal. I’m here. Big brother, ‘member?” His voice was quiet, not teasing, not soft in a fake way—just steady. Calum’s breathing stayed tight, each inhale shaky and sharp. His body locked up like he thought if he stayed still enough, Daan might give up and leave. Daan didn’t move. He didn’t press him. He just lay there, his own breath slowing a little, waiting for Calum to see that he wasn’t going anywhere. The cot creaked softly beneath them, but nothing else filled the room. The quiet felt heavier now, but not the bad kind—the kind that made Daan feel like this was the only place he needed to be. He let the weight settle over both of them. Calum’s breath hitched once more, but then, slowly, he let it out. It wasn’t much. It was small, quiet, and shaky, but it felt different. The tension in his body shifted just a little, like the fight in him was still there but too tired to push back. Daan noticed. He felt it. Without thinking, he leaned forward and pressed a small kiss to Calum’s temple. It was quick—light and warm—but it made Calum flinch slightly, more surprised than anything. Daan didn’t pull back far. He stayed close, his breath warming the side of Calum’s head. “I got you,” he whispered, the words coming out almost without him meaning to say them. Calum didn’t answer. He didn’t push him away. He didn’t call him dumb or shove him off the cot. He just stayed still. But Daan could feel it, the way his brother’s body softened a little more, the way his breath wasn’t so fast now, the way his legs loosened under the blanket instead of curling so tight. The pacifier moved slowly in Calum’s mouth, the sucking steady, gentle now—like it wasn’t part of the fight anymore. It was just… there, helping him breathe. Daan didn’t need him to say anything. He didn’t need him to admit it. He knew. He stayed still, their shoulders barely brushing through the blanket. He didn’t talk, didn’t move, didn’t try to fix anything. He just stayed. Calum shifted slightly, his breaths still uneven as the last of his tears dampened the SootheKeeper’s cheerful shield. His lips trembled around it, his fingers twitching beneath the blanket, but he didn’t fight anymore. His body sagged, exhaustion pulling him down like a weight too heavy to hold up any longer. “’M sorry,” he murmured around the pacifier, the words barely more than a breath, breaking apart before they could fully form. Daan blinked, his chest squeezing tight. The apology was small, tangled in sleepiness and leftover frustration, like Calum hadn’t even meant to say it at all. And somehow, that made it worse. The words weren’t for show. They weren’t trying to fix anything. They had just… fallen out, unguarded and raw. The pacifier stilled in Calum’s mouth for a moment, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the silence that followed. Then his lips moved again, the slow, steady rhythm of sucking returning, softer this time, less desperate. His body slackened into the cot, the last of his energy drained away, leaving only the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the blanket. Daan didn’t say anything. He tipped his head back against the cot’s curved side, arms folding loosely over his stomach, his foot still dangling just above the floor. His gaze lingered on Calum’s freckled face, watching the way his brother’s lashes fluttered slightly before finally settling. The tension in his brow faded, his whole body shifting into something looser, something softer, like the ripples of a pond evening out after a stone had sunk. Something heavy stirred in Daan’s chest—not relief, not guilt, but something else. Something he didn’t have words for yet. He shifted slightly, careful not to nudge Calum too hard, his weight dipping the mattress as he adjusted. The familiar rustle of his romper against the blanket and the faint crinkle beneath him brushed against his ears, anchoring him to the moment. The sound should’ve made him squirm. Sometimes it did. But not now. Miss Pavia always said Littlings didn’t have to figure things out on their own. He had never really cared when she said that, never really thought about what it meant. But now, lying here, his little brother curled up beside him, his own body still half-tense from everything that had happened, it didn’t sound dumb anymore. Maybe it had never been dumb at all. Maybe that was what Calum needed. Maybe it was what he needed too. He could leave. He could slip out before Miss Pavia came back, go back to the playroom, pretend none of this had ever happened. But as soon as the thought formed, his chest squeezed tight again. Leaving felt wrong. Like something unfinished. Like breaking a promise he hadn’t spoken out loud but still meant. Big brother. That’s what he was. And big brothers stayed. He shifted again, this time more deliberately, easing his weight further onto the cot. The mattress dipped slightly, his knee brushing against the blanket, but he ignored the way his romper bunched at his stomach. He wasn’t moving now. The soft pull of the pacifier was the only sound between them, quiet and rhythmic. The air still smelled like lavender, wrapping around them like a lullaby neither of them had asked for but couldn’t escape. Calum’s breathing stayed deep and steady, his body warm under the blanket, the last remnants of his fight fading into sleep. Daan wasn’t going anywhere. And when Calum woke up, he’d still be here.   * * * The nursery remained quiet, the soft hum of lullabies drifting through the air. Daan stayed still, his body molded against the cot’s frame, Calum’s slow, steady breaths beside him anchoring him in place. Beyond the walls, faint voices began to drift through the hallway. Miss Pavia stood with her hands gently clasped in front of her, her expression composed but not cold as she addressed Richard and Eleanor. They stood side by side, their presence familiar in this place—but no less significant. The light from the hallway stretched long over the polished floor, catching the edge of Richard’s shoes as he shifted his weight slightly. “There was a bit of trouble today,” Miss Pavia began, her voice calm but warm, measured the way someone speaks when they’ve done this many times before—but still care. She glanced at Eleanor, who stood with her arms crossed, but her gaze was attentive, her face softer than it often was. “Calum had quite an outburst during activity time—escalated faster than we’d hoped. But he’s settled now.” Richard took a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. It wasn’t frustration—it was that steady patience he always seemed to carry, the kind that filled any room he stood in without trying. He said nothing yet, giving her room to finish. Miss Pavia continued, her tone shifting subtly—gentler. “While he was upset… Daan came to him. He snuck into the nap room to be with his brother. I allowed it, just for a little while. It seemed to help.” Richard’s brow lifted, just slightly. His eyes moved to Miss Pavia’s, weighing the words. His hand smoothed over the edge of his cuff, more from habit than need. “Sneaked,” he repeated, letting the word stretch, his tone not sharp but thoughtful, feeling it out. “So… deliberate defiance?” Miss Pavia tilted her head, her voice softer still. “He broke a rule, yes. But… it wasn’t rebellion. He was looking after Calum. That’s different.” Richard pressed his lips together, his eyes sliding to the closed nap room door. He was thinking—not calculating, but weighing it as a father. His fingers drummed lightly against his other wrist. He could picture Daan, making that choice. He could picture Calum needing him. He didn’t like rules being broken, but he knew his boys. Eleanor shifted beside him, her hand brushing lightly along his sleeve. She didn’t speak, but the touch said enough. They’re figuring it out. Together. Richard exhaled slowly, a breath more than a sigh, and gave a small nod. “I don’t like it… but I see it. We want them to look out for each other, don’t we?” Miss Pavia smiled—small, knowing. “That’s what I thought.” Richard let the pause sit between them before his mouth tugged slightly at the corner, the ghost of a smile—equal parts reluctant and amused. “Light correction, then. Let them think they’ve gotten away with something. But make sure they know they haven’t.” His voice softened a little more, warmth slipping through the authority. “That’s being a father, right? Letting them think they’ve won while we know better.” Miss Pavia gave an approving nod. “Understood.” Eleanor’s hand brushed his sleeve once more—still gentle, still wordless. Richard didn’t look at her, but his fingers shifted slightly, brushing against hers for just a second before folding his arms.   * * * Calum blinked, his vision blurry from sleep. The soft afternoon light filtered through the high windows, making his eyelids squeeze shut again before fluttering open. His mouth felt full—warm, the familiar rubber teat of his pacifier resting heavy on his tongue. His lips suckled instinctively, slow and steady, the motion as natural as breathing. His body shifted, and the swollen bulk between his legs squished up against him—wet, warm in places, cold in others. His face pinched as he wriggled under the blanket, trying to ease the cling of damp padding against his skin. It didn’t work. It never did. This was every day. Every nap. Every morning. His mouth worked faster around the pacifier, the sucking growing louder in his ears as his body settled back into stillness. Beside him, Daan stirred with a faint grunt. His legs stretched under the blanket before he tensed. Calum didn’t need to look to know what happened next. He could feel his brother’s breath hitch—hear the faint crinkle as Daan’s hand pressed over his diaper, confirming what he already knew. Wet. Like always. Daan sighed through his nose, the kind that made his pacifier wobble slightly. His fingers prodded at the thick, squishy bulk beneath his romper, but they both knew it was useless. There was no point checking. There was no point hoping. It was part of waking up. Every time. Daan squirmed, knees shifting apart, then together. He sucked harder—fast little pulls on the pacifier—like that might drown out the feeling below. It didn’t. It was just there. Calum wriggled again, fingers clenching in the blanket. The diaper pressed back, cool and damp along his thighs. His eyes flicked toward his brother. Daan’s gaze was on the ceiling, cheeks pink, his hand still resting on the front of his romper like he was holding everything still. Like maybe that would help. It wouldn’t. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them could. The LittleProof pacifiers kept them silent—firm against their lips, shields resting warm against their cheeks. Their fingers brushed the edges sometimes, but there was no trying to pull it out. Not anymore. That was just how it was. The door creaked open. Both boys stilled—reflexive, automatic. Their breath slowed, though their chests still rose fast under the blankets. The room always felt different when grown-ups came in. Like the air changed. Like they stopped belonging to themselves. Richard stepped in first, his stride steady, eyes sweeping the room—not searching, just taking in what he already knew was there. Eleanor followed, her gaze moving quickly but calmly, her hand resting against the doorframe before she stepped forward. Daan sucked harder on his pacifier, his chest tight. His hand flinched away from his diaper like he could pretend he hadn’t been checking. Calum kept still, but his toes curled under the blanket. “Ah, there they are,” Richard murmured, his voice low and warm. Calum hated that it made his chest ease. That it sounded like everything was fine. Like it was normal. Because it was. Eleanor was already moving. Her hand on Daan’s back was gentle but certain. He sat up when she guided him, his legs spreading wide as the diaper forced them apart. He flushed, eyes darting toward the doorway where other parents talked softly outside, some glancing in—just quick looks, nothing rude—but they saw. Calum knew they saw. Richard’s hand wrapped around his arm, firm but easy, helping him up. Calum’s legs trembled as the damp padding pressed up harder. His pacifier bobbed with his breathing. He didn’t fight the hand. He stood. That was what you did. The strollers were already there. Waiting. Seats padded, harnesses unbuckled. Ready. Calum’s chest tightened. It wasn’t a punishment. It was just… what happened. Daan whimpered quietly through his pacifier—barely a sound. His feet shifted back half a step, not fighting, just wishing it didn’t have to happen. Eleanor guided him forward with a gentle hand. “Mommy…” His voice cracked, the pacifier muffling it into something soft and little. She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Calum’s eyes darted toward the door again. The parents still chatted, but one woman smiled—kind, knowing—as if this was exactly what was supposed to happen. And it was. That’s what made it worse. Richard’s hand on his back was warm, pressing lightly. Forward. Keep going. Daan went first. Eleanor lifted him into the seat, legs kicking once, not in protest—just because his body did that. She buckled him in, the straps snug over his chest, the lower one pressing his diaper tight against him. He winced, but he didn’t say anything. He just sucked, staring down. Calum was next. Richard’s arms lifted him easily, settling him into the stroller like he belonged there. The padding under him pressed the wetness up again, making him squirm, but the straps clicked fast—across his chest, over his hips. Snug. Secure. He wriggled. The straps didn’t care. “They look so peaceful now,” Eleanor murmured, adjusting Daan’s canopy. Her voice was light, fond, like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t cried. Like they weren’t sitting in wet diapers, pacifiers locked in their mouths. “You’d never guess they were such little troublemakers earlier.” Richard chuckled quietly. His hand brushed over Calum’s hair—gentle, almost absent—but it made Calum feel smaller. “Only ours,” Richard said, his voice warm, “could manage to look this adorable after such chaos.” Calum sucked harder, his fists curling under the harness. His legs pressed together, but the diaper stayed. The pacifier stayed. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. He glanced over—met Daan’s eyes under the edge of his canopy. Wide. Red. But not surprised. Just tired. Calum knew. They both did. This was how it always ended. The stroller wheels clicked forward, smooth across the floor. The voices of parents hummed softly behind them—gentle, pleasant, like everything was exactly as it should be. Because it was. And there was nothing to do but sit. And suck. And wait.   * * * Richard stood before them, arms crossed, his presence filling the room with quiet certainty. The plush carpet muffled their small, restless movements, but it couldn’t soften the weight pressing down on them—the waiting. Calum stood stiff, his lips pressed into a tight, stubborn line. He wasn’t trembling, but his chest felt tight, and his toes curled into the carpet, like he was trying to anchor himself. Daan kept his head low, his fingers fidgeting at the waistband of his diaper, the soft crinkling the only sound cutting through the silence. His thumb brushed the elastic edge again and again, not trying to fix anything—just looking for something to hold onto. Richard’s voice was steady when it came, even, measured, but it carried no room for anything but truth. “You both tested boundaries today,” he said. “Tantrums. Outbursts. That’s not how we behave in this household.” Calum shifted slightly, but he didn’t step back. His shoulders were tight, his arms locked at his sides, but he stayed put. Daan’s sniffle was small, his free hand rubbing at his arm, his eyes fixed somewhere near his feet. His fingers kept tugging lightly at his waistband—like maybe, if he could just sink into it, none of this would be happening. Richard’s gaze settled first on Daan, his tone patient but firm. “Comforting your brother doesn’t mean ignoring the rules. You understand that, don’t you?” Daan’s breath hitched, his fingers curling into his shirt now, twisting the fabric. He nodded quickly, his head bobbing like he was afraid to do it wrong. “Uh-huh,” he mumbled, his voice wobbly. His lips pressed together tight, like he was trying to stop himself from sucking on them. Richard’s eyes turned to Calum next, sharp but not unkind. “And Calum. Breaking things. Screaming. You know better than that.” Calum’s jaw tensed. For a second, it looked like he might push back. His chest rose, his fingers curled into small fists, and his mouth opened—just a little—like he was about to argue. But Richard’s eyes stayed on him, steady, waiting. He wasn’t angry. He was waiting for Calum to understand. Calum’s shoulders dropped. The fight bled out in a slow breath through his nose. “I didn’t mean to...” His voice was small, barely there. Richard nodded slightly, his expression unmoved. “It’s not about meaning to. It’s about control.” Calum’s chest tightened again, but he didn’t argue. The room went still. Richard let the pause settle over them before he spoke again, his tone final but calm. “Now. We’ll settle this.” He stepped forward. Daan braced first, his small frame tensing as Richard’s hand guided him gently but firmly into position. The swats came—three, controlled, padded by his diaper, barely more than sound. They didn’t hurt, not really. But Daan’s bottom lip quivered, his toes pressing into the carpet as his legs squeezed together on instinct. His breath caught, a small sniffle breaking free as his fingers bunched tighter into his shirt. Richard turned to Calum. Calum was already red. His chest was tight, his fists trembling at his sides, but he didn’t move. He stood still, waiting, knowing it was coming. The swats landed—quick, firm, the padding absorbing the sting. It didn’t hurt, but it didn’t need to. It was the act itself—the reminder, the final say—that made Calum’s face burn hotter. His breath came in quick huffs, and his legs twitched with each swat, toes gripping the carpet for something—anything—to hold onto. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t. Richard stepped back, adjusting his cuffs with slow precision, smoothing the fabric as though nothing had happened. “Perhaps next time you’ll think before acting,” he said, his voice steady. “You’re learning. Both of you. But you’re better than this.” Daan wiped his face quickly, his breathing still uneven, but he didn’t speak. Calum stared at the floor, his ears hot, his heart still racing even though everything was already over. Richard let the moment sit—long enough for them to feel it. To let it sink in. Then, without turning, he called toward the other room. “Eleanor.” Her voice came almost instantly, light but certain, as though she’d been waiting. “Bath time, I assume?” Richard gave a small nod. “Yes. Make sure they’re cleaned up before bed.” Eleanor stepped into view, her expression soft but composed. Her eyes flicked briefly over them—taking in their flushed cheeks, their damp diapers, the stiffness in their posture—before she extended her hands, palms open, welcoming. “Come along, my darlings,” she said. Her voice was gentle, but they knew it wasn’t a question. Daan moved first. He always did. His hand slipped into hers, small fingers clutching tightly, like holding her made everything okay again—or at least small enough to handle. His other hand wiped at his face, his breathing still shaky, but quieter now. Calum hesitated, his feet rooted, his chest still tight from the swats, from holding everything in. He thought about staying still—about holding on to that last bit of defiance—but his fingers twitched. And then, before he even thought about it, they slipped into Eleanor’s hand. Her fingers curled gently around his. Together, they walked toward the bathroom. Small steps, close, the soft crinkle of their diapers following them with every movement. It was familiar. Routine. And it still made Calum’s face burn. Richard watched them disappear down the hall, their small hands in Eleanor’s. He wasn’t angry. He was certain. They would be bathed. Changed. Tucked in. Tomorrow, they would try again. And he would still be here—making sure they got it right

that's fair!