Baby Talk

The thickness of double booster will also cause the leak guards, and maybe even the diaper leg cuffs, to lift off of your skin. That gap will be an easy leak spot. Especially for press out leaks like you had. If you want more absorption and capacity then go with a better diaper. If you just want that extra bulkiness then add a second diaper.

He is going through some stuff right now

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Chapter 6   The highlighter in my hand had run out of ink twenty minutes ago. I only noticed when the yellow line I was dragging across a particularly dense paragraph on renal tubular acidosis refused to appear. I stared at the page for a second, then at the dead highlighter, then at the small pile of equally exhausted stationery scattered across my desk. A half-empty formula bottle sat beside a stack of flashcards on acid-base balance. The fairy lights glowed soft and steady around the window. Rain tapped against the glass in a rhythm that had been going for hours. Behind me, Damien’s voice floated from the bed. “You’ve been reading the same page for twelve minutes.” I didn’t turn around. “I’m absorbing it through osmosis.” “You’re frowning so hard you’re going to get a headache.” “I already have a headache.” We’d been studying together every afternoon since that day at Damien’s apartment. Sometimes at the library, but mostly his place or mine. His had faster wifi, but mine had fairy lights, and Damien liked my plushies, and also having all my gear nearby in case I needed it. And not that I’d dare mention it, but there was something special about having him sprawled out on my bed, reading papers under fairy lights. Sheets rustled. A moment later warm hands settled on my shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the tight muscles at the base of my neck. I exhaled without meaning to. Damien’s fingers worked slowly, coaxing the tension loose one careful circle at a time. “Med school is still med school,” he said quietly. “Even when you’re dating someone who keeps trying to feed you electrolytes and steal your plushies.” I huffed a tired laugh. “The duck likes you more than me now. It’s a betrayal.” “I’ll share custody.” His hands slid down my arms, then settled at my waist. “Come sit with me for a bit. The anion gap will still be there in twenty minutes. It isn’t going anywhere.” I hesitated, then let him guide me up from the chair. The thicker diaper I was wearing gave a soft, familiar crinkle as I moved. Damien’s eyes flicked down briefly, but he didn’t comment. He simply led me to the bed and arranged us so I was settled between his legs, my back against his chest, the strawberry comforter pulled loosely over our laps. One of his hands settled low on my stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of my pyjama shorts — and the thick padding underneath. “You’ve been using the pacifier more the last couple of nights,” he said casually, chin resting on top of my head. “I noticed.” My cheeks warmed. “It helps me wind down.” “I know.” His thumb stroked slow circles just above the diaper. “It looks good on you. Makes you look softer. Smaller.” I went still. Damien didn’t push. He just kept up those idle strokes, voice low and thoughtful. “You get this look on your face when it’s in. Like everything slows down. Like you don’t have to hold everything so tightly.” A quiet pause. “I like that look on you.” I swallowed. The words settled somewhere warm and uncertain in my chest. He reached over, picked up the blue pacifier from the nightstand, and held it loosely in front of me. Not offering it yet. Just letting me see it. “You don’t have to wait until you’re already exhausted to use it, you know,” he murmured. “If it makes the evenings easier… if it helps you feel settled… you could start a little earlier. While we’re studying. While I’m here.” My pulse stuttered. It was such a small suggestion. Practical, even. But something about the way he said it — soft, unhurried, like he was simply noticing a truth I hadn’t fully admitted — made the idea feel heavier than it should have. I stared at the pacifier. Damien waited. After a long moment I opened my mouth. He slipped it between my lips with the same careful ease he used for everything else. The familiar weight grounded me instantly. My shoulders dropped. The constant low-level tension I carried after long days of lectures and labs eased, just a fraction. Damien made a quiet, approving sound and tightened his arms around me. “There,” he said against my hair. “That’s better, isn’t it?” I nodded, already a little floaty. His hand slid fully over the front of my diaper, cupping the thick padding through the soft pyjama shorts. He didn’t rub this time. He just held me there — warm, solid, possessive — while the rain continued outside and the fairy lights glowed. “You look really cute like this,” he added, almost absently. “All soft and quiet with your pacifier. Makes me want to keep you like this a little longer. Let the studying wait. Let you just… be small for a bit.” The words were gentle. Almost throwaway. But they planted themselves deep. I sucked slowly on the pacifier, leaning heavier into his chest, and tried not to think too hard about how easily the idea settled under my skin — the idea of being small, of letting the adult parts of the day fall away, of letting Damien keep me soft and quiet and taken care of for longer than I usually allowed. He didn’t say anything else about it. He just held me, one hand steady over the thick diaper, the other stroking slow patterns along my side, and let the suggestion sit between us like a seed. For a while the only sounds were the rain and the soft, rhythmic pull of the pacifier. Damien’s hand stayed warm and still over the front of my padding, the pressure constant but gentle. Every so often his fingers would flex, just enough to make the dense bulk shift against me. Each small movement sent a quiet pulse of heat low in my belly. I tried to stay still. I failed. A tiny, involuntary roll of my hips pressed me more firmly into his palm. Damien’s breath caught against my hair. Then, slowly, he began to move his hand — not the firm, deliberate massaging he had done before, but something softer. Exploratory. His fingers traced the thick outline of the diaper through the thin pyjama shorts, mapping the padded curve, pressing lightly along the sides, then returning to cup the front again. “You’re getting warm,” he murmured. I made a small sound around the pacifier, equal parts embarrassed and needy. Damien responded by slipping his hand beneath the waistband of the shorts so that only the soft fabric of the diaper separated his skin from mine. The direct contact made everything sharper. He rubbed slow, patient circles, letting the plush padding compress and release under his palm. “D-Damien-” I felt the heat rise to my cheeks as I tried to turn around to face him.   “Oh, sorry sweetheart, did you want me to stop?” He grinned, a teasing tone in his voice, but his hand didn’t move away. It stayed exactly where it was, warm and firm over the thick padding, thumb still tracing slow, idle circles. I froze halfway through the turn, pacifier still in my mouth, face burning. The question hung between us. He was giving me an out — or at least pretending to — while the steady pressure of his palm made it very clear he already knew the answer. I shook my head quickly, the movement small and almost shy. Damien’s grin softened into something warmer, more satisfied. “That’s what I thought.” He guided me back against his chest with his free hand, settling me firmly between his legs again. The moment I was in place, his hand resumed its slow, deliberate stroking under the waistband of my pyjama shorts. The thicker diaper compressed and shifted with every pass of his palm. The sensation was even more intense now that I was fully hard and already so worked up. “You’re allowed to like this,” he murmured against my ear, voice low and coaxing. “You’re allowed to get all warm and squirmy while I’m touching you. Especially when you’ve got your paci in and you’re being soft for me.” I made a muffled, needy sound around the silicone. My hips gave another small, involuntary roll. Damien responded by pressing a little harder, rubbing in a steady rhythm that made the dense padding drag perfectly against me. “That’s it,” he encouraged quietly. “Just stay small and let me take care of you. No studying right now. No thinking too hard. Just this.” His other hand came up to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading gently through my curls as he kept working me through the diaper. The combination of the pacifier, the thick padding, his voice, and the relentless slow friction was pulling me under fast. Everything outside the bed — the flashcards, the rain, the entire concept of renal physiology — felt distant and unimportant. Damien kissed the side of my neck, then the soft skin just below my ear. “You’re so cute like this,” he whispered. “My soft boy. Getting all worked up in his diaper while I hold him. I could keep you like this for hours.” The words sent another helpless wave of heat through me. I clung to his arm, sucking harder on the pacifier, completely given over to the way he was touching me. Damien clearly felt it. His strokes grew a fraction firmer, a little more purposeful, guiding me closer with every slow circle of his hand. “I’ve got you,” he said, voice rough with quiet pleasure. “Let go whenever you need to. I’ll take care of the rest.” It didn’t take much longer. The tension that had been building finally spilled over in a soft, shuddering climax that left me trembling against his chest. Damien held me through it, hand never leaving the front of the diaper, stroking me gently as the waves faded. When I finally went limp and quiet, he pressed a long kiss to my temple. “Good boy,” he murmured. “Such a good, soft boy for me.” He didn’t rush to change me. Instead he kept me tucked close, one hand resting protectively over the now-warm, used padding, the other stroking slow patterns up and down my back. The pacifier stayed in my mouth. The fairy lights kept glowing. The rain kept falling. And the quiet suggestion he had planted earlier — that I could stay small a little longer, that it was allowed, that he wanted it — settled even deeper, warm and undeniable, while I floated in the safety of his arms.   —-------------------   The pacifier suggestion had been sitting with me for days. Not loudly. Not in any way that demanded immediate attention. It just… lingered. Quiet and persistent, the way Damien’s voice had been when he said I could start earlier, that I didn’t have to wait until I was already crashing, that looking soft and small was something he liked. I had used it more since then. Not dramatically. Just a little sooner in the evenings. Sometimes while we were still reviewing notes. Sometimes the moment we got back to whichever apartment we were staying in. Every time the silicone settled against my tongue, the same floaty quiet spread through my chest, and every time Damien noticed he would get that soft, pleased look and rest a hand over the front of my diaper like it belonged there. I was trying not to think too hard about how easily I had started letting him decide when the pacifier went in. Three days after the study session in my apartment, we ended up at his place following a long afternoon of clinical skills. I was more tired than I wanted to admit. The practical had involved a lot of transferring and positioning, and even with Valerie doing most of the work my arms and core were heavy. By the time the lift doors opened onto Damien’s quiet corridor I was leaning harder than usual into the push handles. Inside, he locked the door and turned to me with that assessing look he got when he was deciding how much of the evening I still had left in me. “You’re done for the day,” he said simply. I blinked up at him. “That sounded suspiciously like a diagnosis.” “It is.” Damien stepped around Valerie and crouched in front of me, forearms resting loosely on his thighs. “Terminal case of being completely cooked.” “I have reading.” “You always have reading.” “I have an endocrine quiz.” “On Friday.” “It is Tuesday.” “Exactly.” I narrowed my eyes at him. He smiled. It was deeply irritating how little effect my glare had started having on him. A month ago, Damien would have accepted the first I’m fine I gave him. Maybe the second. He would have hovered nearby, obviously unconvinced, but he would have respected the invisible boundary I put around myself whenever I was struggling. Now he knew me better. Now he noticed the tremor in my fingers before I did. He noticed when my words started coming slower, when I stopped correcting his terrible pronunciations of drug names, when my shoulders sagged forward against Valerie’s harness because holding my own head up had become an active task instead of an automatic one. “C’mon, sweetheart.” He got down on one knee and reached for the harness, preparing to lift me. “You need to rest.” I let him unbuckle the straps without protest. The moment the harness loosened, the last of my carefully held posture collapsed. Damien slid one arm under my thighs and the other around my back, then — instead of the usual bridal carry — shifted me with easy strength so I ended up perched on his hip. My legs dangled. My arms had nowhere to go except around his neck. The thicker diaper squished softly between us. I made a small, startled sound. Damien paused, adjusted his grip, and then a low, delighted laugh rumbled through his chest. “Oh,” he said, almost wonderingly. “You’re light enough for this.” He started walking toward the living room as if carrying a grown medical student on his hip was the most natural thing in the world. Every step made the padding shift. His arm stayed solid under my thighs, holding my weight with almost no effort. Without the harness I felt smaller than usual — tucked against his side, feet nowhere near the floor, completely dependent on him to stay upright. “Damien—” “I’ve got you.” He pressed a kiss to my temple, voice warm and amused. “You’re fine. Better than fine. You’re adorable like this.” My face burned. Damien didn’t put me down. He adjusted his hold instead, settling me more securely against the solid heat of his side. The thicker diaper compressed with a soft, plush sound every time he shifted his weight. I could feel the steady thump of his heartbeat through his shirt, the flex of muscle in the arm supporting my thighs, the faint scent of his soap rising with every step. “Damien, put me down.” “In a minute.” He sounded entirely unconcerned. “I’m testing a theory.” “What theory?” “That you like this.” I stiffened. “I do not.” “You went quiet.” “I’m processing the indignity.” “You’re melting.” His voice dropped into that low, knowing register that always made my stomach flip. “Your whole body just got heavier against me. That’s not indignation, sweetheart. That’s you letting go.” I opened my mouth to argue and found I didn’t have a clean rebuttal. Because he was right. The longer he held me like this, the more my muscles seemed to accept the support. My head had found the curve of his neck without permission. My fingers were loosely curled in the fabric of his shirt. The constant low-level effort of holding myself upright in Valerie had vanished, replaced by the simple fact of being carried. Damien turned his head and pressed another slow kiss to my temple. His lips lingered. “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t feel good,” he murmured. “You’re light enough that I can keep you up here. You’re soft enough that it feels right. And the way you go quiet when I’ve got you on my hip…” He gave a small, pleased hum. “Yeah. You like it.” “I like not being exhausted,” I tried. “You like being held.” His arm tightened fractionally, lifting me a little higher against his side. The diaper shifted again, warm and bulky between us. “You like that I can just… pick you up and take you where you need to go. You like how small you feel right now.” The words sank in with uncomfortable accuracy. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The combination of his voice, the steady strength of his arm, and the quiet intimacy of being carried like something precious and portable was doing dangerous things to the careful adult distance I usually tried to maintain. Damien carried me the rest of the way to the couch and only then lowered himself onto the cushions, keeping me settled across his lap so that one of my legs stayed hooked around his hip. His hand immediately found the front of my diaper, palm warm and proprietary over the thick padding. “See?” he said softly, almost to himself. “You fit. And you stopped fighting it the second I sat down.” His thumb stroked a slow circle. “You like being carried, Quince. You just needed someone to show you.” I made a small, muffled sound of protest that convinced neither of us. Damien reached for the pacifier on the coffee table and offered it. When I took it this time, the surrender felt a little more complete. He made that low, approving sound and tucked me closer, one hand still resting over the diaper like a claim. “That’s my soft boy,” he murmured against my hair. “All carried and quiet. We’ll practise this more. Until you stop pretending you don’t like how it feels.” I sucked slowly on the pacifier, face still hot, body heavy and warm against his, and realised with a quiet, helpless sort of clarity that he was probably right. I did like it. And Damien, as usual, had known before I was ready to admit it.   —---------   The next evening Damien arrived at my apartment with a paper bag from a store I didn’t recognise. He set it on the bed without comment, then went through the familiar routine of helping me out of the harness and AFOs after a long day. Only once I was settled against the pillows in my usual soft pyjama shorts did he pick the bag up again and tip it out onto the duvet. A small pile of clothing spilled across the strawberry comforter. It was unmistakably a baby outfit. Soft pale-blue footed pyjamas with little white clouds printed all over them. The fabric looked impossibly thick and fleecy. There were snap closures all the way down the front and along the inseam — the kind designed for easy diaper changes. A small embroidered cloud sat on the chest. Beside it was a matching bib, also cloud-patterned, and a pair of soft mittens with the same print. I stared at it. Damien watched my face with calm, patient attention. “What,” I said slowly, “is that.” “Clothes,” he replied. “For you.” “Those are baby clothes.” “They’re soft. They’re warm. The snaps make changes easier. And they’ll look very cute on you.” Heat climbed up my neck. “Damien.” “Mm?” “Are you trying to treat me like a baby?” The question came out sharper than I intended. Damien didn’t flinch. He simply sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the footed pyjamas, and ran his thumb over the fleece. “I’m treating you the way you already ask to be treated,” he said. “Just without the words.” I stiffened. “I never asked for this.” “You did.” His voice stayed even, almost gentle. “Every time you go quiet when I put the pacifier in early. Every time you melt when I carry you on my hip. Every time you push into my hand when I’m touching you through your diaper instead of pulling away.” He looked at me steadily. “You keep showing me what you need. I’m just listening.” “That’s not the same thing.” “Isn’t it?” Damien tilted his head. “You get soft and floaty and small the second I give you permission. Then you get embarrassed and try to climb back up into being a capable adult. But your body already told me the truth. It likes this. You like this. You’re just not ready to say it out loud yet.” My throat felt tight. “You’re twisting it.” “I’m naming it.” He held the pyjamas up a little. “You can keep fighting the word ‘baby’ if you want. But everything else — the paci, the thicker diapers, the way you go quiet when I decide for you — that’s already happening. This outfit just matches what’s already true.” I looked away, face burning. Damien’s voice softened further, which somehow made it worse. “You don’t have to admit you want it,” he said. “You just have to try it on. If I’m wrong, you’ll hate how it feels and we’ll put it away. But I don’t think I’m wrong, Quince. I think you’ve been waiting for someone to stop asking and start giving you the things that make you feel small and safe.” The silence stretched. He waited with that same calm certainty, as if the outcome was already decided and he was simply giving me time to catch up. After a long moment I nodded once, barely. Damien’s expression warmed with quiet satisfaction. “Good boy,” he murmured. He helped me out of my clothes with careful hands, then guided my legs into the soft footed pyjamas. The fleece was even thicker than it looked. It brushed warmly against my skin as he snapped the inseam closed over the bulky diaper, then worked his way up the front. The fabric enclosed me completely — feet, legs, torso — until I was wrapped in pale-blue clouds from neck to toe. He slipped the mittens on last, then sat back to look at me. “There,” he said, almost under his breath. “That’s exactly how you’re supposed to look.” I felt my face burning. The outfit made every movement feel different — slower, softer, more restricted in a way that somehow wasn’t unpleasant. The thick diaper sat heavily underneath. The mittens made my hands feel useless and small. When Damien reached for the pacifier and offered it, I took it without arguing. He pulled me into his lap, arranging me so I was fully settled against his chest. The thick fleece of the cloud onesie rustled softly as I moved. My mittened hands rested uselessly against his shirt. The pacifier sat heavy and familiar on my tongue. Then his hand slid down. He didn’t go under the fabric. He didn’t need to. His palm settled over the padded seat of the onesie, right where the thick diaper bulked beneath the fleece, and pressed. The sensation was immediate — dense, warm, slightly muffled by the extra layer of soft fabric. I made a small sound around the pacifier before I could stop it. Damien’s mouth curved against my hair. “There it is,” he murmured. His hand began to move in slow, deliberate circles, rubbing the plush padding through the onesie. “That’s the sound you make when I touch you like this. Every single time. And you still want to pretend this isn’t what you want?” I shook my head weakly, but the protest had no force behind it. Especially not when his palm pressed firmer, massaging the thick diaper in a way that made the fleece shift and compress against me. “Your body’s more honest than you are,” he continued, voice low and conversational, as if he were simply observing facts. “You went quiet the second the snaps closed. You took the paci without a fight. And now you’re already pushing into my hand.” He gave a slow, pointed squeeze. “That’s not resistance, sweetheart. That’s you settling into exactly where you belong.” My face burned. I tried to turn my head away, but Damien’s other hand came up to cradle the back of my skull, keeping me tucked against him. His fingers kept working over the padded seat of the onesie — firm, patient, relentless. “You like being dressed like this,” he said softly. “You like that I decided for you. You like that the snaps mean I can change you whenever I want without any effort from you. And you really like when I do this—” another slow, deep rub through the fleece “—while you’re all soft and little and can’t even use your hands.” A helpless whimper escaped around the pacifier. My hips gave a small, involuntary roll into his palm. Damien hummed in quiet satisfaction. “See? You don’t have to say it. You’re already showing me.” His hand never stopped moving, stroking and pressing the thick diaper through the onesie with devastating patience. “This is what you want. To be kept soft. To be carried and dressed and touched like this. To let me decide how small you get to be.” He kissed the top of my head, then the side of my face, still rubbing slow circles over the padded seat of the cloud onesie. “You can keep the word ‘baby’ if it scares you,” he murmured. “But everything else… the way you’re melting right now, the way you’re letting me do this without stopping me… that already tells me the truth.” I sucked harder on the pacifier, eyes half-closed, body heavy and warm and completely caught in the steady rhythm of his hand. The fleece, the mittens, the thick diaper, the quiet certainty in his voice — all of it wrapped around me until arguing felt not only impossible but somehow unnecessary. Damien’s palm pressed one more time, firm and claiming. “That’s my soft boy,” he said. “Exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

Bloodwork and other tests will be ordered. You'd also get prescribed a medication, then told to come back in 3 months. You'll probably be told to see a urologist too. 3 months later you'll go over the test results. You'll complain the medication isn't working and has side effects. So you'll be given 1 or more new medications. With orders to come back in another 3 months. Mkre test may also follow. The meds might help some, but certainly will not help 100%. You'll repeat changing the meds. Eventually you'll cycle through a half-dozen meds in about 1 year. You'll probably be told to adhere to a better diet. Water intake too. Ultimately you'll settle on some meds that at least help, or give up on the meds completely. A surgery of some sort will be offered. You'll either go for it, or finally tell the urologist you'd rather use diapers.  Finally, you will be given a prescription for diapers. Insurance will deny it. You and your urologist will appeal the denial, amd theybwill be approved. You'll then be sent the cheapest, thinnest, and crappiest diapers you've ever seen. They will leak, badly. You'll toss out the rest.  At this point you can appeal your insurance for better diapers. You might get a slightly better one, maybe even Depends pullups. Maybe appeal again for a specific one you know works. Or maybe you'll give up and buy your own diapers.