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  12. Going to Capcon Mar 21-25th

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    • Aizawa gurgled, pretending not to know what he meant when Daddy moved his little hands over his face and cooed, “Where’s Aizawa?” The baby boy giggled uproariously in surprise when Daddy cooed, moving his hands from his face, “There he is!”  He looked surprisingly cute in his new diapers, though he still had big-boy hair down on his privates and a trail of dark hair up to his belly button from his pee-pee. Though he had hair down there, he still looked suitably babyish, with his soft face and big, round eyes.  His diapered bottom was nice and big in only two diapers, and his diapers crinkled as they were secured on his small body. When Daddy was all done taping the third up around his waist, it was obvious baby Aizawa wouldn’t be walking anytime soon. The pat to his padded crotch made the baby blush a little, smiling.  The comment about how he was all clean prompted him to reply with, “Baby awl cwean!” Aizawa nodded when his Daddy Alexander cooed that he wasn’t so bad, and he’d like being a baby. He was sure he would learn to like it, and get used to the baby-talk that still made him blush and the cute way he had to speak.  The outfit his new Daddy picked out really was adorable on him, just like he said. Aizawa cooed joyously; it was so soft and the colors were so pretty. When he noticed the duck on the front, he babbled, “Ducky!” and clapped his little hands.  He let the bigger man take him outside, carrying him downstairs and out the front door. Aizawa found himself buckled into his Daddy’s car in a car seat, like any other baby boy. The baby simply sat there, cooing, “Haiwcut fow baby!” in a cute little voice, squirming gleefully, obviously excited for his haircut.
    • (SPOILER WARNING for Game of Thrones / A Song of Ice and Fire) Awakening When the dragon queen opened her eyes, she saw neither Jon Snow nor the Iron Throne nor her loyal army before her. Instead, the vivid memory of a fresh nightmare taunted her: first came the gentle touch of her lover, then the sharp pain in her heart, and finally the cold embrace of the infinite nothing. For a time, she wrestled with this impossible revelation: after all, she had given everything for the Seven Kingdoms. Two of the only three children she would ever bear had been murdered in front of her; their scales and wings, resplendent as they had always been, now fed the maggots and the crows. So, too, did the corpse of the man who had loved her the longest, Ser Jorah of House Mormont, as well as the girl who had served her from the youngest age. When she recalled Missandei's face, broken and bloody, as she lifted it from the scorched earth outside King's Landing, she recalled it with a deep melancholy. Those she had lost were gone, and those she had found... Those she had found were the very ones who plotted treason after treason after treason. Those she had found were the ones who had seen fit to throw her beneath the turning wheel of oligarchy. Tyrion Lannister, she remembered, her lips curling into a snarl. Jon Snow - or, I should I say, Aegon Targaryen, my half-blood nephew? Sansa Stark, Brandon Stark, Arya Stark, she remembered wave after wave. Traitors, all of them. So be it. I will teach them the meaning of "Fire and Blood." When at last she had sworn vengeance upon those who betrayed her in cold blood, the fallen monarch realized her surroundings. Bright sconces burned ferociously against rough granite to illuminate a chamber littered from wall to wall with idols of the fire god R'hllor. Daenerys herself lay prostrate on a raised bed of black stone. She cast a furtive gaze toward her bare bosom in search of the tell-tale wound that should have ended her life. Instead, she found her porcelain skin as smooth and unblemished as the day she was born. "Your Grace," greeted a woman's voice. Daenerys jolted upright at the sudden intrusion. Her gaze flitted to the ruby-robed woman, then down at herself, then at the idols of the red god, then back at the woman. "Jon Snow killed me," she stated as if to confirm her wretched dream. "I watched through Drogon's eyes as he carried me here, and now..." She shuddered. "Now, what have you done to me?" "I have prayed over you," insisted the priestess. "That is all. The rest was done by the Lord of Light. He has plans for you yet." Dany pursed her lips. I don't know if I want to take part in his plans anymore, she wanted to say. Alas, Daenerys Targaryen couldn't be weak-willed, nor could she ruminate on tragedies past. Just so, the woman pushed a rogue lock of silver hair from in front of her face, looked the woman in the eyes, and nodded. "I imagine those plans will keep us rather busy on the road ahead. That's just as well," stated the dragon queen as she donned a defiant grin. "Shall we begin?"   The First Meeting "You say this man is the key to bringing peace to the violent streets of Volantis," began the Mother of Dragons as she wrung the bathwater from her hair, "yet he promises me nothing while demanding I conform to the city's newfound traditions. This is no promising start." "Your grace," protested the red priestess as she tied the silk ribbon of Daenerys's sapphire dress behind her back, "the Crown Prince of Volantis -" "You can't be a Crown Prince if there's no crown, no king, and no throne tied to the history of your 'kingdom,'" Dany interrupted. "The Crown Prince of Volantis," continued the patient woman, "is represented quite well by his dress code. After all, who else could tame these vast lands in the vacancy left by the deaths of the Triumvirate?" "Be that as it may," deflected Daenerys, "I don't see why the smallclothes are so..." When she tried to find the best word to describe the silk-lined garment stuffed with a stupendous amount of some special, locally-grown cotton, she floundered. Luckily enough for the dragon queen, the priestess possessed some capacity for intuition. "The nectar of Asshai'i cactus has become a popular delicacy among the wealthy elite of the city," explained the wise woman, "but something about its juice causes abnormalities of the bladder. The effect is particularly noticeable in women, hence the staggering thickness." "So the ladies of Volantis," reiterated the clever woman, "just keep eating the cactus and wetting their smallclothes?" "That is correct, Your Grace." A bemused smile crossed the face of the bereaved queen as she shifted her thighs and considered her bulging silk-and-cotton smallclothes. "Do they work?" "I'm sorry, Your Grace," apologized the red woman as she slid silver slippers onto the feet of the dragon queen. "I'm not sure what you're asking." "If I, ah, made water, so to speak, in these smallclothes..." She chewed her lip for a moment in hopes the priestess would use the power of intuition once more. When no such luck came, she forced herself to continue her shameful line of questioning. "It doesn't all just, you know, go straight through, does it?" The red woman's laugh soothed Daenerys like summer rain. "You haven't seen Volantene cotton at work, have you?" "No, I haven't." "You will," assured the priestess as she stood, took the hand of the dragon queen, and helped her to her feet. With that, the two hurried to meet the renowned Crown Prince of Volantis. Through long, winding halls and dank under-city tunnels they traveled until, after a time, they reached the base of a pyramid. There, Daenerys was led by her hand up several flights of stairs, through hidden alcoves, and around dangerous paths created to ensnare the unwelcome. When at last they arrived in the summit of the pyramid, the relatively cool air of the great open room tickled her bare skin. This tingling pleasure spread from the skin above her slippers to the center of her thigh, where the edge of her sapphire dress just barely hid the peculiar Volantene smallclothes that hugged her hips. At a glance, she found every woman present, save for a few red priestesses, dressed in similar fashion. Apart from the superb quality of the silk and the vivid depth of the dye, the garment of the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was almost disappointingly in line with those so far beneath her station. How fall I have fallen, and so quickly, she realized, to be dressing myself up to plead for aid from upstart aristocrats. I suppose, though, that I would sooner wear the bulky smallclothes of Volantis than bear my breast to all of Qarth. Of course, if the khaleesi had her way of things, she would be garbed in Dothraki attire. Today, this was not the case. Just so, as self-styled lords and ladies competed to greet the dragon queen with the most zealous of niceties, she plodded along in all her padded glory. Then, with all the confidence of a Targaryen, she stepped up to the dais upon which sat a fair-haired man clothed in the violet velvet of royalty. Where she expected to hear Missandei's melodic voice, silence reigned. Thus, she stood still for a long moment and locked eyes with the ambitious man. A young woman, holding no more than sixteen years to her name, approached and offered the queen a drink. Graciously Daenerys accepted, but for a long moment she was left to wonder whether the girl was a servant or a slave. The difference, she told herself, would mean the difference between a declaration of friendship and a declaration of war. Fortunately enough, as the crown prince began to speak of the goings-on in Volantis, Dany came to realize the freedom and prosperity he intended to offer. If, of course, he could end the fighting and regain control of the city. "I suppose that's where you want me to come in," came the queen's response as, mere minutes after downing her delicious drink, her bladder twinged in a subtle request for release. "Who better to help me end the killings in this city," reasoned the crown prince, "than the woman who ended the killings of Meereen?" A smile crept across Dany's face as she realized how ignorant this man truly was. "I didn't just end the killings of Meereen," she corrected. "I ended Meereen along with the Triarchs of Volantis, the Great Masters of Slaver's Bay, and half the lords in Westeros. If you have the stomach for that sort of thing, then you've come to the right woman. If not, then I suggest you send a letter to the peacemakers in King's Landing." "Fire and blood has its uses and so does diplomacy," the man retorted without hesitation, "but I asked you here because you are the master of both: you are living legend, prophecy fulfilled, a dream made into flesh..." As the man stood and continued to monologue at length, Daenerys felt her bladder spasm; a sudden spurt of warmth spread throughout the cotton of her smallclothes, setting her heart to racing in fear of humiliation. She opened her mouth as if to ask what was in her drink, but all at once she realized the meaning of tradition. Tssssssss, hissed the relentless flood of hot fluid as it splashed against the firmly-resistant cotton, pooling and spreading all the way from the padding just below her belly button to the seat of her swelling smallclothes. She felt her face flush crimson as she lost control, but even as the smallclothes sagged underneath the hem of her dress, revealing her sodden state to any and all present, the crown prince continued to wax poetic about the purity of her spirit, the dignity of her name, and the glory of her titles. When at last the bladder of Daenerys Targaryen was emptied, not a single drop of that golden river had cascaded down the length of her legs. Instead, it had been drunk thirstily by Volantene cotton, and now it rubbed against her womanhood more tenderly than ever had her life's long procession of suitors. Thus, a rare and unique passion was born in the broken heart of the dragon queen.
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