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  1. I want to preface that this story is not mine however, I am the one who commissioned it. I have the full permission of the author to post it elsewhere. Please give them your support if you like it they have a Deviantart https://www.deviantart.com/redsabdlcreations and a subscribe star for early access https://subscribestar.adult/redsabdlcreations Hope you all like this! Btw I am deeply interested in commissioning more for diaper stories for thischaracter (or others!) please contact me if you are a interested writer. Prologue Shadowheart’s heavy panting filled the air of the ancient, dark dungeon. The old curved stonework was lit by a deep purple light from magical braziers above. The gold inlay on the floor glinted with the supernatural light. Her pride as a cleric was bolstered by the four umbral gems clinking in her pouch. She’d descended through the tomb, fought through the undead justiciars on her own, and bested the Gauntlet of Shar without any helpful clues from her Mother Superior. Before her stood the prize she’d been sent after, a black framed portal wreathed in gold accents. It shimmered with mysterious purple magic and loomed at one end of the room, its divine energy permeating the space. Shadowheart could feel her connection to her goddess Shar strengthen the closer she got to it. “Stare into the mirror and share with our goddess your ‘own secret’ so that you might be one of the chosen of our order.” Shadowheart said, repeating the instructions that Mother Superior Viconia DeVir had given her before arriving. An unnatural twang of nervousness struck her, causing Shadowheart to pull back from the artifact. Immediately she chastised herself for her faltering faith, telling herself that Lady Shar would never harm her devoted, nor would the Mother Superior send her to do something she thought Shadowheart would be unable to do. Shadowheart approached the mirror, gazing into it and allowing the divine magic of her goddess to flow through her and pick at the memories within. The process was less than pleasant and immediately made Shadowheart reconsider her earlier hesitation. The celestial energy was ripping through her with violent intensity, filling her head with a dull roar as it snaked through her memories to rip out whatever memory would be a secret shared between her and Shar. She sucked in a harsh breath attempting to bear down against the magical assault. “N-no, this isn’t what I wanted. NOT THIS!” Shadowheart was shouting now, unconcerned with the fact that she may alert any undead that still existed within the tomb. Her current battle with the mirror was far more important. Shadowheart fought and pulled against the mirror’s magic, trying to prematurely end its exploratory probe into her mind. She was dismayed to learn that the mirror was intent on not letting her go. Her struggles yielded no relief as she couldn’t break away from the mirror’s hold. “Why… Why can’t I break out?” she asked, “Lady Shar! Release me please!” Her call for divine intervention received no answer, leaving her stuck in the theft of her memory. She had the vague thought that this was an oddly familiar sensation before she felt a snap in her head. A thread somewhere deep within had been pulled to taut, brought to a point of breaking by the extreme arcane pressure. Something hadn’t just been taken from her, The mirror broke something within Shadowheart. Act 1 The dark-haired cleric’s eyes snapped open suddenly as if she’d been startled awake by a bad dream. She blinked hard, trying to remember what had been playing through her subconscious but no matter how hard she tried, Shadowheart couldn’t recall what she’d been dreaming about. She stopped worrying about it and stretched in her bed, wincing at the slight soreness that’d spread all over her body. Even after a full day of rest, her trip to the Grand Mausoleum had left an impression on her body even if there wasn’t one on her mind. The memory of her trip had been wiped from her memory, much like the nightmare that’d jolted her awake. Most would be concerned by this but for her, this wasn’t an unusual occurrence. As a member of a church whose goddess traded in secrets, important things were often erased from the cleric’s minds for confidentiality. Rather than worrying about a past she couldn’t remember, Shadowheart focused on the now. The order had set up their camp outside the Shadow-Cursed Lands in a mountain pass and they overlooked the ancient Rosymorn Monastery from their perch. It'd been a wonderful view that gave the assembled clerics something to look at while they waited. There wasn't much to do for them since they’d taken a day to rest after Shadowheart’s mission to the Grand Mausoleum. She’d returned in a state of exhaustion. They’d be moving on after this morning though, returning to the Grand Cloister in Baldur’s Gate. With quite a lot to do awaiting her, she rolled out of bed, heading for her discarded camp leathers sitting atop her personal belongings trunk. The tight garments slipped over her like a comfortable glove, making her feel comfortably confident. Exiting her tent revealed a camp bustling with activity. Already the other acolytes had started packing up the camp, getting things prepped to move. “Hmmm. Perhaps I allowed myself to oversleep.” Shadowheart said to herself, wishing that she’d started helping sooner. Logically that meant that she should start breaking down her tent now, instead, she strode toward the mess tent at the far edge of camp. This would be her last chance to enjoy a hot meal until they made it back to Baldur’s Gate and she had no interest in wasting that opportunity. Several of the other clerics sat gathered around the cooking fire, enjoying its heat in the cool morning while they slurped up spoonfuls of the hearty stew made by the camp cook. “Good morning Sister,” One of the clerics sitting around the fire said, “You seem to be moving much faster today, feeling better after a day of rest?” Shadowheart was pretty sure this woman's name was Kirivi. She was a lower-level cleric with brilliant red hair that Shadowheart had seen around the cloister occasionally but she didn't make much of an impression. “I am feeling significantly better, thank you.” Shadowheart said with a nod, “My quest to the Grand Mausoleum proved to be very tiring. I do appreciate the time you all allowed me to rest.” Kirivi nodded. “Of course, your mission is what sent us out here. We’ve come to support you at the will of our Mother Superior.” Shadowheart detected a hint of vitriol in the other cleric’s voice as if her mission had been an inconvenience to Kirivi. The dark-haired cleric bent at the waist to ladle some of the stew into a bowl, sending a swaggering, brash smile at the cleric. “I suppose our Lady Shar can’t relay a divine quest to the Mother Superior for all of us. We’re all chosen for a grand purpose someday.” The retort had been somewhat harsh but it had the intended effect of shutting down the cleric’s vitriol. Shadowheart turned with a flourish stepping away from the group to enjoy the stew in her tent. She made it a total of six steps before stopping, frozen in place by a strange and uncomfortable feeling. In her lower abdomen, an incredible pressure pushed out against her other organs. Her bladder was full to bursting, sloshing with all the liquid left over from her night of restful sleep. Shadowheart tried to do whatever it was one did when they felt the urge to void their bladder only to discover that the concept didn’t exist in her mind. “I… no, it’s so shameful I can’t just go here but I… what do I do when I have to pee? Where does one go to urinate!?” She was panickedly searching for the knowledge within her mind only to come up blank. She’d been so focused on her lost knowledge that she hadn’t devoted any time to stopping herself from peeing her pants. The front of her panties warmed with a steady stream of shame pouring from her body. It soaked through the silken material in moments, only to meet the much thicker and less permeable material of her leather trousers. The fiery urine pooled around her groin, desperate to spill over in the tight leather of her trousers. Trickles of it wormed their way down the legs of her pants, dribbling onto the ground around her shoes and leaving a damp puddle on the ground around her. One of her hands flew to her groin while the other tossed the bowl of stew aside and tried to cover her butt. As watertight as her trousers were, the amount of urine pooling within them was pushing their limits and a dark stain was starting to form across its surface. “No No No. Don’t look!” she shouted, her face turning red from embarrassment. As she blushed, tears also started welling up in her eyes as she heard the collected gasps of disbelief. From the crowd, one cruel smile peeked through, Kirivi was watching with a vindictive look painted on her face. Act 2 The next few moments were a whirlwind for Shadowheart. Several apostles of Shar grabbed her from the center of camp and whisked her away toward the tent of the Grand Cleric. The leading cleric of this expedition, Sariel, stared at her. Despite the fact they were the same height, Shadowheart got the feeling that she was being looked down upon. The woman kept her mouth in a tight line, awaiting an explanation. “I-I don’t know what happened.” Shadowheart explained, “I started voiding with no warning.” “And you couldn’t hold it?” Sariel asked, raising an eyebrow. “Hold it?” Shadowheart asked, confused by the concept. “Yes, clamp the muscles so you might make it to the chamberpot.” Again Shadowheart was confused and cocked her head. “Chamber… pot?” She watched a look of disappointed understanding crossed the Grand Cleric’s face. She nodded before instructing Shadowheart to remove her trousers while she turned around. Shadowheart gasped at the command, unsure whether or not to obey it. Sariel turned back with a strange shiny rectangle in her hand. “You will not have to be concerned about this problem once I’m done. Do as I say.” she commanded. The confidence Sariel displayed should have unnerved Shadowheart but instead, she felt comforted by the authoritative tone. The concept that she wouldn’t have to deal with or worry about this problem took a tremendous weight off of her. With a little sigh of relief, the dark-haired Cleric hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her soaked leathers and her panties at the same time, dropping them both to the dirt floor of the tent. The Grand Cleric took her hand and laid her down on the grandiose bed at one end of her tent. Using a basin of water and a rag, Sariel wiped down Shadowheart’s groin and legs, clearing the remnants of her accident that clung to her skin. The water was cool against her thighs and sent relaxing shivers through her body. It was followed by a slick tincture that covered her groin. The Cleric’s fingers glided across the smooth skin of her pubis mons, leaving behind a thin film across her delicate bits. She discovered this was purposeful because a white powder rained down like snow to cling to it. “I will give you these bottles when you leave, you must apply them in the same order I have to prevent a rash.” “Rash?” she asked. Sariel nodded, unfolding the rectangle of plush material and slipping it beneath Shadowheart’s rear. “Yes, since you lack the ability to make it to a chamberpot, you’ll be diapered. After several uses, you’ll need to change yourself into a new nappy. I trust this will be easier for you. It’ll at least keep you from making a mess once we get to the cloister.” Shadowheart’s mind was wracked with questions but she held her tongue, doing her best to absorb the information being thrown at her while the Grand Cleric pulled up the front of the diaper. With no knowledge of a chamberpot, she could only assume that this was the correct way to deal with her voiding problem. After her change, Sariel helped her up and handed her a leather bag with the tinctures and a supply of diapers inside. “This should last you until we return to the cloister. As for your clothing, I will have some of the acolytes clean your leathers. You’ll have them by tomorrow.” Before she could ask one of the many questions filling her mind, she was ushered out of the tent with the leather bag filling her arms. The morning sun reflected off of her new bright, white diaper, drawing the gaze of the other clerics directly to her diapered rump. Shadowheart blushed, waddling back to her tent in a daze. Act 3 The wheels of a carriage clattered against the stone road on the way to Baldur’s Gate. A day had already passed since Shadowheart’s accident in the mess tent, as had her strange interaction with Sariel. She’d already changed herself twice since then, gradually getting used to the feeling of releasing into them. Using her diapers was one thing, but changing and disposing of them had become a clandestine affair. Shadowheart felt so embarrassed about her new condition despite not actually knowing of a better solution so she tried to execute her changes hidden away in her tent while also disposing of her diapers away from the rest of the camp. Now that she was riding in a mostly private carriage, that embarrassment was well behind her and she could fully relax without the prying eyes of the other clerics. The gentle rocking of the carriage was lulling her into a state of serenity so much so that her eyelids started fluttering as the cart traveled. She hardly even reacted when a spray of piss started to soak the front of her current diaper. The padding beneath the plastic shell swelled as it drank the urine streaming from her body growing in proportion to the liquid stored in her bladder. The worry that her diaper would fail to contain her accident remained ever-present in the back of her mind. If she could have tempered the flow, Shadowheart would have but the very concept of control was beyond her anyway. Luckily for her, a puddle didn’t form beneath her. Shadowheart's diaper contained the accident completely. There was a certain comfort to her pee being caught and held against her when she couldn’t control her bladder. The Grand Cleric had been right, Shadowheart didn’t have to concern herself with the issue of her accidents any longer. The flow stemmed itself as her bladder emptied, leaving the warm sap core hugging her groin. Shadowheart let her thoughts return to the rocking of the carriage with the gentle bumps lulling her into a drowsy state. “There’s still a day’s ride to the cloister. I’m sure a change can wait till after I enjoy a nap.” Act 4 Returning to the House of Grief proved more stressful than Shadowheart would have liked. The comfort she felt on the trail home proved to be a moment of solace before a storm of suffering. She and the acolytes of Shar barely started to unpack the caravan when they returned before one of the clerics who’d remained at the cloister was sent to find her amongst the gathered Shar worshippers. “Lady Shadowheart, The Mother Superior wishes to speak to you down in her quarters at once.” A shiver ran up Shadowheart’s spine upon hearing the woman’s title. She respected Viconia DeVir for her devotion to the Nightsinger. Only she matched Shadowheart’s zealotry toward the goddess. That fanaticism made her all the more difficult to deal with, she proved to be intense. “At least Sareil kept her word about my leathers being clean. I don’t have to walk into Mother Superior’s quarters with my nappy exposed.” The idea made Shadowheart blush bright red again, a situation that was becoming a common occurrence for her. Once she’d finally waddled her way into the secret cloister and down to the barracks for the worshippers of Shar, Shadowheart was feeling slightly winded. The bulk of the diaper proved to be more of a challenge than she’d expected. Its bulk was compressed around her groin beneath the tight leather of her pants, creating a five-inch obstruction between her thighs. This meant she had to walk with a bow-legged toddle that made each step take three times longer and took an astounding amount of energy. Viconia DeVir looked less than amused when Shadowheart finally entered her room causing the cleric to shudder again. “You’ve returned,” The Mother Superior said plainly, “based on the sending I’d received from Sariel you’ve also achieved the goal I’d entrusted to you.” Shadowheart nodded solemnly. “I have to take her word for it, Mother Superior. I have no memory of what happened in the Shadow-Cursed Lands.” “Worry not child, I know more than you need ever remember. You’ve done excellent in doing what I’ve asked. I’d rather prefer to hear what else happened. The part that you do remember.” “I… I couldn’t possibly know what you mean.” Shadowheart lied. She knew that Viconia could only be referencing her padding and the accident she’d had in the middle of the camp. “Remove your trousers.” The Mother Superior commanded, choosing to ignore the lie and cut straight to the point. It was the second time in several days one of her superiors had commanded that she remove her pants to reveal something embarrassing beneath them. It was also the second time she’d obeyed the command, hooking her thumbs into the waist of her trousers and lowering them. Shadowheart waited with bated breath for Viconia to say something. The woman's eyes remained locked on her diaper with a mixture of confusion and disappointment crossing her normally solemn face. “Did you apply this diaper yourself?” The Mother Superior asked. “I… Yes.” Shadowheart confirmed, “Sariel taught me how. She told me I needed to change after a few uses.” Viconia shook her head in disappointment. “I highly doubt Sister Sariel would teach you to haphazardly tape your diaper like this.” she said, stepping forward and picking at the very loose tapes of the diaper she was wearing. “Well I… She didn’t… I…” The usual sass and snark Shadowheart possessed was tempered in the face of her Mother Superior but the tongue-lashing she was currently sending her into a nonverbal shame spiral. “Please don’t offer any more disappointing excuses.” Viconia snapped. Shadowheart felt herself continue to shrink into herself under the weight of her superior’s words. The verbal assault continued even when Shadowheart felt a painful clench in her gut and doubled over. “N-no not now!” Shadowheart exclaimed. So far she’d only wet herself and had been waiting for the inevitable evacuation of her bowels. Given all the camp stew she’d consumed, she was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. In fact, it was just her luck that it was happening now that she was being reprimanded. A rumbling fart interrupted the Mother Superior’s admonishment of her poor tape job, followed by an extremely lewd squelching noise as a weighty lump of mushy matter dropped into the piss-soaked crotch of her diaper. “Ngh, guhhh. C-c-can’t stop my bowels from v-v-voiding…” Shadowheart groaned. One push followed another and then another after that. Shadowheart was dumping an embarrassing amount of excrement into her pants, quickly filling out the space in the back of her diaper. It sagged further and further, brought down by the ever-increasing weight. The more she pooped, the more she worried that the shoddy tape job Viconia had pointed out failing. If it did, she wouldn’t be able to keep from making an even bigger mess in front of the Mother Superior. Luckily, her diaper’s tapes held fast apparently kept in place by the grace of Lady Shar’s divine intervention. The Nightsinger must not have wanted to see Shadowheart make an even bigger fool of herself. Above her, the Mother Superior stood statue still, waiting for her cleric to finish her expulsion wordlessly. When the last of her accidental release dumped into the back of her diaper, Shadowheart expected Viconia to continue berating her. Instead, she approached the dark-haired cleric with a shake of her head. “I’m surprised to see that careless tape job held given how much you packed that nappy. You’re very lucky that there wasn’t a much bigger mess.” “I’ll do better.” Shadowheart promised, looking up at her pleadingly. “No, you will not.” Viconia shot back, “From now on you will not change your own diaper. It’s obvious you cannot be trusted with such a task. Instead, whenever you require a change, you’ll have to ask a higher member of our order to help you.” “Y-you can’t… I can’t do that!” Shadowheart exclaimed, feeling her cheeks burn at the thought of asking any other clerics for help. “You can and will.” Viconia said. “It’ll start right now. Your diaper is full, you must ask a superior for a change. Do it.” “I…” Shadowheart hesitated, knowing what Viconia was asking of her was unavoidable. “I need a change, will you please help me Mother Superior?” She nodded, pulling a hard mat from beneath her bed and setting it on the ground. “This time, yes I will.”
  2. Conspiracy is a short vignette written in the Unfair universe by Personalias. I originally posted this on his discord and he directed me to post here. Important notes: 1: This is fan fiction. It uses the events of Unfair to tell an adjacent story set at the end of Part 2. 2: This is not what actually happened in Unfair, rather it repurposes the mystery in Unfair to tell a different story. A few of the details don't line up exactly right, and under no circumstances should you assume there is some reactionary conspiracy in Unfair involving "smoke filled rooms" of Amazons. Someone in chat made a joke about how it was all a government plot, and I ran with it. 3: Thank you Personalias for giving me permission to post this in public. I get how weird having people write fiction in your world is, so thank you for letting me post it. Conspiracy By Operational Systems (5260 Words) Julian Garibaldi squished his brown sun hat between his palms and salty water dripped out its front between his digits. He had been outside for less than half an hour, but it had been enough to drench the armpits of his previously white pressed shirt, wrinkle his black tie, and ruffle his pants. He breathed in heavily just outside the main office door. This was the perfect time of day, the quiet moment, the halls were empty, not a single student within a thousand feet of the building, just adults working in their offices and class rooms. If this had been earlier in the year, a parent teacher meeting, a scholar's challenge, or an evening football game would quickly puncture the quiet, but this was the last week of school. No one would volunteer to be here if they were not required to be in the building. His hearing picked up the shift as he was approaching the office. It was four 'o'clock, the air conditioning had shifted from full blast to night mode, and the change was like an orchestra playing its last note. The halls had been quiet before, and now they had an ambiance of noiselessness, the silence of a cemetery. The building would retain its cool seventy degrees for some time, before needing to be purged of the moist night heat in the early hours of the morning. Julian looked at his darkened reflection that flattened in the office window. With his wet drooping face, and scraggly remains of gray to white hair on the sides of his head, he didn't look intimidating, or commanding, he looked old. Maybe frumpy, or jolly, but definitely old. He put up a shaky smile as he opened the door. A small puff of pressure difference as he entered was enough to catch him off guard, and drop his false smile. The secretary Connie looked up from the computer as he entered. She dressed like she was one hundred but was only slightly past fifty. Her triangle red glasses had gone out of style forty years ago, if they were ever were in style, and her clothes had too many colors and patterns to be serious. She had picked up her fashion sense in 1988 and never evolved it. Julian was old enough to remember that time, almost no one dressed like this back then either. She was not ageless, she was eternally out of vogue. “Two more days” She politely reminded him. “It's not school that's exhausting.” School was exhausting like the sun was exhausting, but he had actually had a poor time sleeping last night. Connie was never one to turn down an opportunity to small talk about irrelevant issues, it was how she developed her trade as a quidnunc. A three minute conversation that went no where was as valuable as any gold vein, and like an old prospect miner, she would strike at Julian's rich deposits. She only needed a gesture, a hint of interest, a shift of her body closer and catch of his eyes. Go on, Mr. Principal divulge your darkest secrets. You can trust Madam Connie. “Jeremiah has been … he's in a phase now where he's needing to be held all the time. He started...” Julian was unsure how to describe it. His baby boy had become possessed by a demon. His baby boy had been replaced with a changeling. His baby boy had entered his terrible twos. “Jeremiah started quoting bible verses at me.” He said it as flatly as possible. “Like he's picked up something at church on Sunday? That's cute.” Connie gave him a reassuring smile. “No, I mean, he's not quoting... It's like he's preaching at me, it's like he's praying for salvation when we put him down. Like we're the problem and he acts like God will rescue him.” “Oh that, yeah, that's a spanking.” Connie was pretty old school, her answer to everything was a spanking. She used to be an administrator at the grammar school, and she kept the old habits here at Oakshire High School East. Disrespecting teacher? Spanking. Throwing food in the cafeteria? Spanking. Boys throw toilet paper all over the biology teacher's house. Spanking. Girl wears pants too short for school, definitely a spanking. “The worst part is, I looked it up, and none of the verses are in the bible. I don't know where he gets this stuff. It's all fire and brimstone and a vengeful god.” “Maybe Television? Or Daycare?” “He didn't want to sleep in the crib, didn't want to do anything. Emily finally just let him sleep with us, and that seemed to have jumper cabled him back to a perfect baby for a bit. I, you're right, two more days and I can be with him full time.” “Emily should stay with him if he's doing this. It's not right to leave him in daycare if they're going to let him get worse like that. They should be helping him.” “Yeah, well, she makes more money. Besides he's not actually...” They're more like pets. You love your pets, but you wouldn't quit your job or rearrange your life around their needs. The adults came first. “Oh right. Sorry.” Her attention fell on the piece of note paper she had placed next to the desk's telephone. “Actually, there is one thing while you're up. Theresa needs to see you, there's a problem with the State assessments. She needs you to meet her and the grading staff in library room two.” The room's temperature fell ten degrees and his mind raced with every negative possibility. Did they get destroyed by the scanning machines? Lost in the mail? It was done. If they had to redo them there was literally only two days left. Impossible. The whole thing had been planned for weeks, each step carried out with layers of precision and oversight, because no part of it could be allowed to fail. Darker worlds grew as he approached library room two. Hadn't there been a school district that had been caught by using arcane statistical methodology and found they had been cheating on the tests? What had happened to those teachers? To that school? He didn't know. Could the same thing have happened under his watch? With dread he went up to the wooden door and gave it a rap with his knuckles. He could peer inside the side window and see a woman get up from the table, she had been in conference with some others. Theresa unlocked the door and smiled while waving him into the room. He was barely a foot in before she started closing the door and locking it behind him. Julian wondered why she locked it. The room saw no use in the school year. In fact, the library saw no use period. Less than one book a day had been checked out since the start of the school year. He had personally removed that statistic from the reports to the board when earlier this year they had dragged him in to discuss parental concerns over inappropriate literature. No one knew what secrets could be found in the library, least of all the students. Library room two was filled with white boxes and manila folders, several stacked eighteen feet to the ceiling. In the center was a long wooden table in the shape of a flat oval with straight ends. It was able to seat maybe ten people, but while the paperwork and folders that covered it spread from top to bottom, only three other teachers were here. Julian moved up and pulled slightly at a close chair. It brought him low to the floor, as it was aimed for men and women closer to eight feet or nine feet than his full eleven. Before Theresa sat down she grabbed one of the white boxes and set it before him on the table. She then pulled out the seat next to him, sliding her nine foot frame into the chair. The school psychologist found a way to carry her small body so it seemed as prominent as Julian's taller frame, even if he hadn't already dragged his own stature down a foot with his exhaustion. Like Julian everyone else in the room had a stink to their demeanor, but Theresa's smile was permanently attached to her face, like she had gotten surgery to make it so. The biology teacher Mr. Vargas spook first, “We have a problem with the ninth graders. Or some of them.” Vargas was a plum of a man, but also the youngest here. He had only been teaching three or four years. It was the words he did not want to hear. They had finally done it. No Child Left Behind was another way of saying, 'we are going to push the idiots forward even if they can't handle it'. And now the buggers were up to his school and probably couldn't read or write or do basic quantum physics or linear regression. “How bad are the scores?” It would be his school's fault too. Obviously the students had been brilliant before they got to ninth grade. Ms. Finkel provided an answer. She taught English to Juniors, she was only a few years younger than Connie, but she dressed like a woman ten years younger and it looked good on her. Her husband was supposed to be rich, and she traveled to another country for vacation every two years. “The test scores are fine. The Flynn effect is still happening. It's a problem with the essays.” They were holding a meeting with him over this? Who cared about the essays? What mattered were the math and science scores. Typical Teachers! Always finding a way to complain. Finally Ms. Budde added her input, “These twenty students rejected the essay prompt and wrote something critical.” Ms. Budde spent her days in a potpourri of social science classes: government, history, world history, state history, even sometimes an exotic class like anthropology. Her hair had been overly curled, and she allowed it to grow long. It was as dark as the sharpie she had been grading with. Julian looked around the table, everyone was taking this seriously, “Come on. They're in high school. It's one of the easiest tricks in the book a student picks up. Just write the opposite of what the prompt wants. Be critical and you can pretend you are thinking critically. It's perfectly normal for students that age to think that's what critical analysis means.” He had said the wrong thing. He gave voice to how students played the system to win brownie points, and likely each of these teachers, at some point, had rewarded a student for doing that exact trick. There was a small cough from Mr. Vargas to puncture the awkwardness. Julian tried again, “As long as the writing is good, the State does not care what the substance is, and if they did not take the prompt seriously we are allowed to mark it as … exception or bad behavior. That's on the testing examiners too, they're supposed to monitor the students to make sure they're actually working, and I can talk to them if that's the issue.” Theresa decided now she could save him from embarrassment. “The State will care a great deal about the content of these essays, because the essays are subversive. Ever since those hypnotics were found in that foreign documentary, we have been charged with protecting the youth from bad influences or propaganda.” Hundreds of people had taken the trip to Yamatoa and come back with illegal adoptions – literal human trafficking. The video app the young people liked to use on their phones had been banned in most of the country. There was even evidence that ads were going onto TV and social media that were bought by foreigners just before the last election. This country was supposed to be free, but could it ever be “really free” if foreigners were using hypnotics to get citizens to vote a certain way or commit crimes? If the bad countries were corrupting the youth to hate their homeland, to see only the news and propaganda and opinions that favored their way of seeing things, what future would there be for their people and way of life? He pulled an essay out of the box, and carefully laid it on the table. The name was covered with a small bit of masking tape that had been hastily reapplied, and unpeeled slightly. A blank front page covered the offending document, like a diaper cover keeping the stench and dirtiness in the pants. Mr. Vargas brought the paper into context, “So the point of the essay is they have to bring in things they learned from school the past year, like biology or social science, or government, or history, even literature. It's broad but the students know they're being graded on how well they brought in that information, as well as the quality of the writing, not so much what they say.” “What's the prompt?” Ms. Finkel had it printed out on a short piece of paper, she brought it up and read easily with a practiced voice. “Since Unification, the lives of the normal sized people, those who reach an adult height less than seventy eight inches, have shown dramatic improvement. What are the causes for the improvement of the condition in the lives of the smallest and most vulnerable citizens? Incorporate lessons from your classes this year, like biology and sociology, on the unique challenges the second species faces in our society, and how we now address those with changes in technology, custom, or law.” Julian's eyes were shocked, that's the ninth grader question? He wasn't sure he could answer it. Was this just the Flynn Effect? Well, if teenagers were so smart, why were they idiots who made a mess of the bathroom and got into fights over girls? Julian still had to ask, “Normal sized? What's wrong with calling them little? It's an accurate description.” No littles attended the high school, and only a couple tweeners – who weren't actually tweeners, they were Amazons who had developed a hormonal issue in their second puberty. Real medical conditions didn't count, and besides the doctors were helping treat their condition. Ms. Budde jumped in, eager to explain, “They don't like being called that unless they're in a diaper. I mean, an adult in a diaper, not a little little in a diaper.” Julian flipped open the page and began to read. Theresa could not help her self as she saw what he was reading. “Oh this, it's Amanda McDowell's essay. She's been on this feminist kick all year, and she just exploded on this.” “I'm reading it.” he quietly brushed her off so he could have space to take it in. The penmanship was excellent, the selection of words was like a fine chef pulling an exotic spice, the exact dash needed to elevate the everyday to the extraordinary. He wanted to love the author, and yet. It was daggers. Her linguistic mastery had turned bibles into kindle to set a bonfire that would bring the flag ablaze. Or maybe maternity bras. Either way it killed his soul to know someone could hate their society so much. Oikophobia, it should not be possible for a teenager to have such big feelings. He had compulsion to quote it aloud as he read, “'Ever since the discovery of birth control, men have struggled to find new ways to bring women back into the kitchen. The attempts through wage suppression and their narrow defeat of the equal rights amendment, were insignificant compared to a woman's ability to control her reproduction. Sex is now finally the domain of women, and her body and life could be in her complete control. Which is why it is no surprise that a new form of enslavement has emerged, both in the literal enslavement of adult women of smaller stature, but also us taller ladies, who are encouraged back to the realm of motherhood. If men cannot force women to submit through the womb, they will instead tell us we need to adopt. One way or another we will be relegated to the domestic servile role of changing diapers and giving bottles.” He threw the paper back on the table and slapped it with the back of his hand. Where did Amanda get this? “Are they all like this?” Who could have done this to sweet Amanda? Sure she dyed her hair purple, and got a lip piercing, but in Julian's mind she was the same Freshman he had had seen at orientation nine months ago. Mr. Vargas shook his head and answered, “No that's the thing they're all different. Jeremy for example talked about his experiences at the local gym and contrasted how there were plenty of weights and equipment for him, but that littles had to do yoga and other cardio or stretching exercises. He said that we had some ideal body in mind for them, which from a health perspective really only encouraged them to be dysfunctional. He thinks instead littles should be encouraged to focus on strength exercises so they can better fit into our world.” Jeremy? Jeremy Portillo, the star freshman on the junior varsity football team? Pretty hefty social commentary from a guy who was in remedial differential equations. Theresa stood up and looked through the white box, trying to find a specific essay. She plopped it in front of Julian. “This is from Colleen Sanchez.” Colleen had perfect grades to match her perfect glasses and perfect teeth behind metal braces. She had earned some position on student council next year, treasurer maybe? Julian knew her as her name kept coming up in announcements, she was known to the Principal's office but never had to go inside it. “The presumption that Maturosis must be caused through genetic condition cannot be justified. I have had the privilege of a newly adopted brother who is genetically distinct from the native population. Doctors improperly diagnosed him with an advanced case of the disease though neither blood work or physical change in neural activity was used to determine this condition. False medicalizing the condition is shamanism, a kind of useful hypocrisy to justify his forced abdication of rights and freedoms, one that moves along societal acceptable paths, rather than based in reality. This hurts the small ones because they, recognizing the cruel injustice of the medical system, avoid care for legitimate illness, leading to shorter more difficult lives.” “My exposure to this false scientism continued with the travel company as I inquired on the nature of my brother's loss of mass or possibility of his return to his people. Their explanation, nothing more than jargon filled pseudo-science of plasma loss – felt more like a cover up for what appears to be deliberate damage to otherwise healthy tourists. As the following short example from multi-dimensional physics shows, the stated explanation is not possible, and these travel companies should be put out of business. My brother who is fifteen years older than me and had worked his previous life in health insurance, is more sanguine, believing a similar system of oppression existed in his homeland and this is the state of all societies when the begin to worship at the altar of science.” No, not Colleen. Jeremy was an idiot, and Amanda was a goth lesbian, but Colleen! How could the youth be corrupted so? Who would do this? The Freewindians? The Free Port of Sing-a-ling? Some new app on the phones? They were supposed to be good kids. They weren't like this in their other classes. It might be too late for them, he wasn't even sure how to address a problem this deep. Just pull out the old black and white projector and play the same films from when he last was a Freshman? Theresa answered his internal dialogue, “It's a teacher. These essays get to who they are and how they see themselves. You need a mentor, someone really special in your life, to change an opinion like this. Not television, or books, or a video game. Not their parents.” It was a bit egotistical and self-serving to believe that only a teacher could have this much power over the young ones, but no other part of society wanted responsibility to claim to be that influential and important. It had to be a teacher. Once they found the source, the wannabe revolutionist could be fired. She needed to be pulled out of the classroom before she could further infect the minds of the young and the vulnerable with radical disruptive ideas. Once these essays got to the State, it would certainly result in investigation. However bad the library inquiries were, this would be a thousand times worse. They had to find the bad actor and remove her first. “They have no significant overlap in their classes.” Ms. Budde objected. Julian stood up, commanding the room, rallying his teachers and staff, “Then go back further. Middle School maybe? Do we have the earlier records?” Ms. Finkel stood up and grabbed another box. She brought it to the table and placed one massive folder in front of each participant. Each folder was stacked with dozens of pages. Trees had been slaughtered to create these permanent records. Part of him wished this had been digitized so they could easily go through the records, but the responsible part of him knew keeping it in paper form meant it was easier to not be accountable for a mistake like they were seeing in these essays. Paper was quiet. Theresa took out her laptop and started a spreadsheet. Each student's name, each year, and each teacher. Middle School was difficult, but it quickly became apparent it was not the problem. The twenty had been split between the two different schools. The student's paths converged again in elementary school. Down the list they went, not fifth grade, not fourth. All down to kindergarten and nothing. It was closing in on six o'clock and Ms. Budde finally surrendered, “I don't think it's a teacher, sorry, maybe this is proof we can rule us out? We tried all of them.” Theresa started a fight with her. Her correction brought all her psychological jargon her four years in college could bring to bear, the expertise of someone who knew just enough to lord over those who knew nothing. It made Ms. Budde's head grow red, either from the lack of air conditioning, or perhaps believing that a teacher, any teacher, could be so cruel as to inflict such horrible thoughts onto her students. Julian stared at the thick envelope and stack of paperwork for the four students he had personally gone through. Dozens of pages, detailed notes from every year, no evidence of subversion. Something was off. “Why are their permanent records so big?” Julian had, from time to time, needed to pull permanent records, most were thin folders often with just a paper or two from each school, a former list of classes, maybe a final grade, and important demerits at best. Mr. Vargas volunteered, “That's typical of students with education plans. Each year a teacher or councilor has to sign off on the longitudinal assessment. Some long term study thing for the State. It will be with them until they graduate, and I think we even keep a copy for years after that for research or evaluation purpose.” Julian turned to Theresa, “None of these students are disabled or need plans. Colleen is a perfect student.” Theresa gave him a dirty secret, “If you're ever flagged as needing developmental assistance, at any point, it has to be tracked, even if the student grows up healthy and normal. Just to make sure that there's no backtracking.” Left unsaid was the State's need to verify faculty weren't covering up a problem by having the next teacher check their work. Julian clapped his hands, “Well that's it then. We solved it. They all have a condition and that condition has manifested again ninth grade and we can... we can get extra funding to help with solving it”. It wasn't their fault. Maybe? Probably not. At least they had something to spin. No one would be fired. The small woman laughed, “No, here it's not in the paperwork, but I can pull it up on the laptop.” She typed some commands into her arcane system. The minute to load up the assessment software gave Julian time to wonder why they had chopped down a sequoia to fill all these folders if they were also going to have a digital copy of the same work. She brought up Amanda McDowell's portfolio, her 9th grade picture was prominent. She clicked a tab at the top. Oakshire Intermediate East, a younger gal of eleven filled the top box. Her piercing was gone, and her hair a soft red blonde that went over her shoulders. Theresa clicked again. Oakshire Elementary, and the picture became older, with fewer pixels and worse color. The girl looked around six. “So this is the official record, but not everything is in here, because it would be in the old system. So if we go to images, we can pull up a scan of the original classification.” The laptop's fan whirred to life in the growing heat of the room. It took thirty seconds for the first image to load. Much of it was scanned duplicates of the same information he had seen in the manila folder. Theresa scrolled through the images with ferocity, the laptop struggling to load each page, often just leaving a blank sheet of white. Julian tracked her progress down through the Amanda's years until finally the last few documents were found in the preview bar. Theresa stopped her voyage to the past near the bottom of the long list. “Amanda McDowell: Age 4. Assessment: Developmentally Delayed”. It was a form filled with pen that slowly loaded top to bottom, letters squiggling into focus. Julian only needed to see a handful of words to determine why she had been doomed to a lifetime of invisible scrutiny by the State. She wasn't potty trained. Her parents had put her in pre-k and she wasn't potty trained, like they expected the teacher to impart that important life lesson. Of the three hundred students who attended his high school, most of them did not even go to the public school pre-k. Until this conference Julian had forgotten it was even a service offered at the elementary school. He had to ask the question. “She's potty trained right?” Could her lifetime of dealing with such a secret be enough to give sympathy for the normal sized ones? The disgusted look from the teachers told him that he shouldn't have even hinted at asking the question. How dare he accuse an Amazon of that. Ms. Finkel chastised him, “Yes, of course she is. That's why the flag isn't there anymore.” It took another forty minutes, but he had Theresa go through each student just to be sure. Each one had been developmentally delayed, each one had been enrolled in pre-k at Oakshire Elementary eleven years ago. Just how meaningful could such an early mentor be? What was she teaching these students that it stuck with them a decade later? It was impossible. No teacher was that important in anyone's life. And this was politics, children didn't watch the news or read the paper. You couldn't teach a four year old that littles were just as capable as real grown ups. Four year olds have no concept of what being an adult actually meant, what was the cycle of life, or anything about biology. How do you teach a three year old to respect people regardless of their height, when they themselves would bully and tease each other over the smallest of trivialities? How could anyone be that influential, that strong of a mentor, and yet she herself was content to limiting her influence to shaping the minds of those still in diapers? As if learning the shapes were as equal in importance as learning how to pick a side in the culture war. Whatever she was doing, it was worse than Kit-Kot. Worse than Us-box. Worse than putting the wrong ads on the NOW Network before the election. It was deeper than hypnosis, it shattered the foundations of what it meant to be a citizen by making them see society wrong. How do you break a Manchurian conditioning that started before they were even potty trained? “I'm going to give Ms. Brollish a call, this would have started just before her time, but I think we found the root of the problem and she needs to know what is happening.” That drew Ms. Budde to interrupt, “Elementary is out already. Who knows if this rebel is still teaching?” “In that case, if this teacher comes back in the fall, we'll be ready. We'll take any and all efforts necessary to ensure the continued safety of our children and our future. Any means.” Principal Garibaldi seemed to say the last part with too much pleasure and enjoyment. Where once his active mind had been filled with dread over damaged scantrons and idiot children, now he was redirecting the dark imagination to this treacherous teacher. There were punishments you could do to teachers and staff that went beyond firing, and surely this was the highest of crimes. Ms. Finkel brought it all back to the present problem, “And the students? What's the plan for unbrainwashing them?” “Theresa, go ahead and mark them all as developmentally delayed, I want you to setup an I.E.P for them. That should get the State off our backs when they read these essays, and when they come back in the fall we can give them the extra attention they need, someone who can push back on their undesirable behaviors.” Developmentally delayed, good use of words. It meant adults were not happy with your progress but you weren't actually disabled. Theresa seemed to struggle with her laptop's mouse, frustrated hard clicking that only resulted in beeping and chimes from the device. “This bullshit software won't let me put that flag on because they already had it once.” She fiddled with the mouse a bit, and then her classic smile returned. The two men and two women looked at her in anticipation. “But, it will let me put the old one back on.” Julian would need to bring Jeremiah's genie to school in the morning. It would be a shock for those students to find the yellow stained white cloth in their lockers that afternoon. Tomorrow was the day everyone cleaned out their lockers. The metal cabinets were given one last inspection by administration, verifying they were ready for the next year's new students, only to have these twenty students come up short of expectations. Any other student, and the discovery might be given a pass. Some prank by a bully or class clown. As the school psychologist would explain to their parents, these young lads have a preexisting condition, they had been taught to hide it remarkably well. It was good that they had been tracking it all these years, just in case it came up again. Note again: Conspiracy is fan fiction, it is not intended to be an explanation of the events in the original story. Thank you personalias for giving permission to post this in public.
  3. This story is not mine I commissioned it from a fantastic writer named Red. I have his permission to share it here with hopes that I can help get him more clients. https://www.deviantart.com/redsabdlcreations This is him and where you can contact him. Anyway I hope you all enjoy this story regardless if you are a big Star Wars fan like myself! “Where are they?” Kira asked, rustling through the metal cabinet in front of her. “You’d think such a fancy ship would have a fully stocked Med bay!” She had to consider the luck of such a ship even landing on Nar Shaddaa. Considering its position in Hutt controlled space, most knew not to land such a grand ship in a spaceport without a hired guard from the local crime organization. When Kira herself had snuck through the spaceport she’d made sure to keep a lookout for any such element, but there was none, just a shiny ship waiting to be plundered. Normally she’d go for the hyperdrive engine, given that its parts would net her enough to live unimpeded for nearly a month, but her current concerns were far more pressing to her. “If I don’t find them here, I’m in trouble, especially considering that this in my last one...” she groaned, tugging at the waistband of her flight suit to adjust its fit and feeling the rustling material underneath. She flicked her red hair from her eyes and closed the cabinet she’d been digging in, moving to the next one. The metal doors slid open with a loud *PHHHWWWSSSHHH* and a *KLUNK* causing Kira to cringe. “Whoops!” She quickly checked around, making sure nobody was coming by because of the sound. When she was sure the sound of footsteps wasn’t echoing through the halls of the ship behind her she returned to the cabinet and was overjoyed to find her prize directly inside. The clear plastic case reflected the light coming from behind her almost making it shimmer. Of course, to her it was just as valuable as Aurodium, and she grabbed at it greedily before standing up with a deep sigh. “That’s one worry taken care of; maybe I can grab the Hyperdrive Engine before I get caught.” With her prize in hand Kira pressed her bladder, feeling a gentle pang before warmth spread throughout her bottoms and flooding the area around her waist. Normally there was a hesitance to let go so easily, but knowing she had the ability to change herself now Kira figured why wait and waste the one she had on. ”Before you get caught you say?” A voice from behind Kira said, causing her to jump, and while still holding the package in her hands she turned around to see a female Togrutan staring her down with crossed arms. Kira groaned, feeling the consistent flow from her body soaking that thing. “ I uh, I didn’t mean...” The redheaded thief found herself at a loss for words and began flicking her eyes around the room, looking for a convenient escape around the stern woman standing in front of her. Bela Kiwiiks in the meantime stared at the young woman who’d broken into her ship: Short red hair, piercing blue eyes, and a dirty flight suit. She was obviously a minor criminal, only trying to survive on this crime torn moon. What confused Bela was what this girl had decided to take–it wasn’t medicine or drugs but a pack of incontinence underwear. “Is there a child that she’s caring for?” Bela wondered, watching the girl shift like she was going to make a break past her. “You won’t get far young lady, I do not recommend trying to run.” she said, causing the girl’s eyes to nearly pop out of her head in surprise. “I wasn’t...” she started but Bela cut her off with a loud: “Enough!” She had to consider what to do, and the girls stammering made it impossible along with the incessant crinkling backed by a slight squelching coming from her pants. “AIs that a bulge in her flight suit around the groin?” While all that was annoying in its own right, the main problem that was confounding the Jedi Master though was the powerful hum of force sensitivity flowing like waves from the girl. With her plans of escape somewhat dashed Kira stood still, figuring that she couldn’t run with the dipping bulge in her pants. “Okay,” she thought, “last-ditch effort.” W ith a deep breath, she channeled the ancient power of the force through herself, tinting her words with its power as she spoke to the Togrutan. “You will let me go.” she said but to her dismay the woman made no move besides cracking a slight smile. “What’s going on? The mind trick should have worked!” While the failure of her force powers was very much a mystery, the other anomalies with this stand-off started to become more obvious. Any noble who owned a ship like this would normally have called their mercenaries and a pilot would have thrown her off themselves. Not this woman though, and as she eyed the blue and white robes trimmed with gold that the stern-faced woman was wearing, she caught a glimpse of a piece of cylindrical hardware hanging from her belt. “That outfit itself is rather extravagant,” Kira thought, “and I think that’s a lightsaber... Could this woman be... a Jedi?” Now her mind reeled in panic–she’d been trying to steal from one of the most powerful warriors in the galaxy! Kira's breathing quickened in panic as she returned to looking for an escape. "There's gotta be a way outta this, there's always a way out. Oh, I wish I had a stealth field generator..." T he young woman's mind was in overdrive plotting and scheming, but Kira snapped back to attention when the woman in front of her spoke again, breaking her hopeful plans to flee. “Alright, young lady. I find you to be rather interesting and I do believe your potential is squandered here on Nar Shaddaa. Would you be willing to come with me and be presented to the Jedi Council? I think they’d be very interested in meeting you." Kira couldn't believe what she was hearing. Not only was this Jedi offering to get off-world, but there was, realistically, a chance at a better life. The young vagabond wasn't ignorant of her sensitivity to the force, but the idea that a Jedi could sense that didn't occur to her before now. Kira herself had been raised as a Child of the Emperor, a group devoted to bringing about the downfall of the republic by imparting some of the Sith Emperor's strength and essentially making sleeper agents. Kira had displayed her worth and was given actual training on the Sith controlled world of Korriban. That was before she'd escaped the harsh training to Nar Shaddaa where her only objective became to survive, but now, with the possibility of joining and helping the Jedi and working to protect the republic presented before her, Kira found herself thrilled. “Yes! Yes I'll go with you!” Kira said gleefully, unable to control her unbridled enthusiasm at the prospect of escape. Bela nodded, moving towards the door of the medbay. “Do you need to grab the child then?” the Jedi asked, indicating towards the diapers in Kira’s hand. Kira thought nothing of it though and dropped the package. “There’s no child.” she said, not considering that she might be revealing herself. From the doorway, Bela Kiwiiks shot her a questioning look before turning around. “We’ll leave right away then.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was a bittersweet feeling leaving Nar Shaddaa.; on one hand Kira was free from her life of living on the streets and scavenging for everything, but on the other, she was leaving so much behind. The friends she'd made and the fellow survivors whom she'd struggled with. "But that's all behind me now..." she whispered to herself as the Jedi led her to the small cabin in which she'd ride out her journey to Tython. “You may stay here for the time being,” Bela said, making a sweeping gesture to the cabin. “But please try to stay put for the time being.” Of course, Kira had no such interest in following the instructions of somebody she’d just met, especially with the squishy feeling around her pants. Hell, she hardly liked to listen to people she respected, why would she do so for a stranger? Still, as she crept through the metallic halls of the ship, she wondered if her curiosity was worth angering the stern-looking Jedi who’d just taken her in. “Eh,” she shrugged, “what’s the worst a bunch of pacifists could do?” With her fears assuaged by the one person she trusted most, Kira continued with her snooping, peaking into any rooms she could as she started to make her way back to medical. She found herself hissing through her teeth when the hidden object under her pants squished loudly as her thighs compressed the waterlogged material. The vain hope that the rustling and other sounds were not too noticeable was a thin veil that kept her moving forward. It wasn't like she could do anything about the bulge or the way it made her spread her thighs when she walked, but she did her best to avoid making the plastic shell crinkle. It was too bad that to her the sounds it made were intolerably loud, reverberating in her ears with every step she made. Unfortunately for the redhead, there really wasn’t anything to see in many of the rooms. It wasn’t until she reached a room with a large holographic map of the outer rim that she found herself engrossed enough to linger at the door for more than a minute. Various beings were gathered around the map, all wearing robes similar to Kiwiik’s, and with her keen eye the snooping girl could swear she saw the outline of more lightsabers through the material. “So it’s not just one Jedi.” she said, scratching her head in confusion, “But why were they on Nar Shaddaa in the first place?” The group took turns pointing at various planets and speaking in tones too quiet for Kira to catch more than a few words at a time. “It’s Hutt space, we can’t...” one said, to which another started to respond: “Kiwiiks thought there was something important... “ Another scratched his chin pensively, “...worth the risk?” he asked. Kira wanted desperately to get closer, but if she did she risked her presence being sensed. So she moved on, passing the room all the way back to the medbay and heading straight to the cabinet that held her prize. “Finally,” Kira sighed, “a change...” While Kira may have thought she was being sneaky on her journey through the ship, she’d barely made it outside her room when Jedi Master Bela Kiwiiks sensed her moving through the ship. Somewhat amused at the audacity of the young hooligan, she followed her through the ship, finding that once she'd gotten close she didn't even need to sense her presence through the force. The loud crinkling that she'd heard from around the girl’s waist earlier resonated loudly through the empty halls and could be followed by its distinctive rustling. Upon finally catching up with the redhead in a dirty flight suit Bela discovered her peeking in on what she expected was a strategy meeting of her fellow Jedi. “Is she actually a spy?” Bela wondered, approaching Kira quickly, “I didn’t sense any darker energy within her, but we may have been tricked into picking up a dark Jedi...” She was surprised though when the girl moved on, leaving the door and continuing through the ship until she was back at the medbay. “Again?” Kiwiiks thought following her through the door to see Kira digging through the same cabinet as before. With her prey cornered Bela reached forward, grasping the waistband of her flight suit and pulling her away from the cabinet. “Gugh!” The sudden pull at Kira’s waistband caused her to gasp out loud, partially from the brief moment where the girl found herself lifted into the air and partially from the sudden sharpness in her bladder that caused a sudden spurt of urine into the padding around her waist. Once the floodgates opened Kira had no way of stopping them either, only whimpering helplessly as the warm urine began soaking into the soft core of her nappy, causing it to swell under the pants of her flight suit. “Oh noooooo...” she whined, frozen on the floor in shame as the heat of her own urine spread through the nappy again, forcing its crinkly plastic exterior to dip further and press against the low crotch of her pants, meaning the diaper had no more room to expand. Bela stood above Kira, allowing her normally composed face to slip into disbelief. When she’d pulled at Kira’s pants she caught a glance of the plain white material and ruffly high waistband that confirmed her suspicions. The girl had been wearing a diaper and had tried to steal a pack from the medbay out of necessity not just once but twice. Now, as she watched the girl she’d picked up on a whim collapse onto all fours and mewl like a baby animal, while the distinct hissing sound of urination rose from her groin, she reconsidered any previous notions about Kira that she may have had. The Jedi master had considered her to be a spy working as an enemy of the republic just moments ago, but seeing her as helpless as she was now, Bela figured there wasn't any way that could be true. “Did you really think you’d get away with spying on us so blatantly?” she asked, attempting to gauge the situation while maintaining control of it. Kira couldn’t believe what she was hearing: the time she’d spent soaking her padding had felt like an eternity and there was no way that the Jedi master before her hadn’t noticed the obvious hissing sound or heard her expletives as she peed herself helplessly. Still, she stumbled to explain while Jedi master Kiwiiks looked down on her disapprovingly. “I-I’m not a spy...” Kira whimpered, “and I’m not trying to start trouble...” From the hard unchanging glare the woman was giving her Kira Carsen could tell she wasn’t convincing the Jedi at all with her weak words, so she switched to a more direct tactic. “Listen!” she shouted, bringing the world around her to silence, “I need diapers... my continence is weak and I can’t really control when I go, so I was trying to steal some from you.” Kira turned away, closing her eyes as she did. She expected that the admittance of her weak bladder and bowels would elicit laughter or a sigh of disbelief or something other than the solemn nod given to her by the Togrutan, and she felt she needed to brace for it. Instead, Bela simply said, “I understand,” and bent down to help the girl up. “Come with me then.” The pair’s footsteps echoed as they walked through the hall. Bela moved with her unwavering stare pointed straight ahead and Kira with her head low, waddling due to the extra squishy mass between her thighs. She could feel the tight leakguards of her nappy straining to remain tight against her and every step left a small ring of warm wetness against the skin of her thighs. “This diaper literally can’t hold any more.” K ira thought. “If even one more drop was added, I’d have an embarrassing set of streaks going down my pants.” Much to the young hooligan’s surprise, her and Kiwiiks didn’t end up at her small cabin, but rather a much larger yet sparsely decorated one. “Wait here,” the Jedi said, releasing Kira’s hand that, up until that point, she’d been holding tightly. The door shut automatically behind Kiwiiks as she walked away and the young woman found herself alone in the strange room. The only thing that stood out to the normally prying Kira was a datapad sitting on a small otherwise empty desk. “I shouldn’t...” she thought to herself. “But I’m gonna,” she responded back defiantly. It seemed that even when she knew it was a bad idea Kira couldn’t stop herself. The snoop picked up the datapad, seeing what she could learn before the Jedi returned. There wasn’t much of interest that she had easy access to besides strategy and battle plans alongside some diplomatic orders. She was able to learn a little about the Togruntan who called herself Bela Kiwiiks, however. Not only was she a Jedi Master, but she was rather highly decorated, having served within the Jedi order during a battle that, surprisingly, Kira had heard of. In being raised as a Child of the Emperor she was taught that while the light side force users were cowards unable to take what they wanted and protected weaklings, they could, in great numbers, defeat imperial forces. The information in front of Kira disproved those teachings greatly. Kiwiiks had been part of a small team, one that’d driven away from the Empire from Rhen Var, and her fellow Jedi had dueled a sith lord and won! It was almost unbelievable after the years of indoctrination from the Sith that’d raised her. *PSSSSHHHHH* The door to the cabin began to slide open and in a panic, Kira dropped the Datapad back down to the surface of the desk with a clatter which elicited a questioning look from Kiwiiks. “Nothing!” Kira suddenly shouted, unprompted. The Jedi sighed, setting down a folded diaper and a few canisters that the young woman found herself confused by. “Please lay down so I can change you,” Bela said plainly, making a gesture to the bed. Kira, however, shook her head in refusal, glaring back at Kiwiiks with a look of indignation. “I don’t think so,” she said, “I’m perfectly capable of changing myself.” Such defiance was met with something Kira had not expected as she was lifted into the air suddenly. She fought back with her tenuous grasp on the idea of using the Force only to fall against the soft bed after having been completely overpowered. While sick of the young woman’s disobedience at this point, Bela found herself impressed by the amount of pushback she was able to generate against the Jedi’s telekinesis. “Truly this one exhibits a strong affinity with the force. If she can stop her nosey sneaky tendencies she’ll make a fantastic Jedi...” With Kira held down she moved to initiate the change and despite her charge's struggling, she was able to pull down the young woman’s pants and reveal the yellow stained padding beneath them. The crotch of Kira’s diaper puffed out, obviously waterlogged by her urine. “She’s used this to the point that it’s almost leaking. She really can’t control herself...” Bela thought, watching empathetically as Kira blushed and turned her gaze away, avoiding eye contact as her struggle died down. Internally Kira was screaming at her body to fight back, to use all of its power to break free and stop this humiliation, but another more rational voice told her to stay still. There was very little chance of her beating a Jedi master, especially since she was already on her ship. As the tapes of her disposable incontinence underwear were ripped open Kira cringed, the acrid stench of her urine beginning to fill her nostrils, and she knew it was the same for the distinguished Jedi above her. However upon peeking back she saw that Bela Kiwiiks seemed unfazed and wiped away any residual moisture with a straight face. Kira looked away again, but with only a blank metallic wall to focus on the sensations of the wipes dragging across her pale skin were heightened, and she couldn’t help but squirm beneath the cool material. With the girl cleaned up Kiwiiks moved on to lotioning and powdering, two very important steps that Kira had obviously neglected or was unable to do in her street life on Nar Shaddaa. She worked the Soothing oil in with a tender touch, paying special attention to the mildly irritated areas between the young woman's legs. While she wasn’t oblivious to the twitches and responses Kira's body involuntarily made from her touch, Bela chose to ignore them, moving instead to dump a liberal sprinkling of the distinctive scented powder. She looked towards her new charge’s face, never making eye contact but reading the various emotions of humiliation, embarrassment, and mild arousal from both her changing expression and the empathic energies of the force. “What an interesting case,” Bela thought as she unfolded the new nappy, “One so attuned to the force needs such help.” The crinkle of the diaper in her hands seemed extraordinarily loud as she pulled the front up around Kira’s exposed crotch and the Jedi wondered how exactly she could have missed it before. Kira breathed a deep sigh of relief as the changing of her diaper finally finished before she turned her gaze back to see the Jedi who'd just changed her offering a hand to help her up. Without hesitation, she grabbed the Togrutan’s palm and stood with her aid, her new clean diaper in full view. “How’d you know how to do that so well?” Kira asked sheepishly, pulling her pants back up to hide the incontinence aid from the world once more. Bela only gave her the same neutral expression as always, and calmly answered, “I’ve spent time with younglings, it’s no different." before leaving to lead Kira back to her room. The rest of the journey back to Tython was generally uneventful, mostly because Kira actually remained in her cabin this time. While bored, she’d been shown that her stealth attempts earned her nothing but humiliation, and no information that she'd learn by snooping was worth going through that again. Instead, she flexed the muscles that she’d long since allowed to atrophy and played around with using the force in her small space to manipulate her environment. She’d even managed to bring a spoon full of her dinner all the way to her lips before accidentally dropping it onto her flight suit. “Just another stain...” Kira sighed, sitting down to eat the rest of her meal using her hands instead. Upon landing on the terrestrial surface of Tython the young force user found herself amazed, having never seen anything like it in her life. Unfortunately, before she was truly able to take in the planet's splendor she found herself whisked away by Kiwiiks and in what seemed like a flash the pair was standing in a room with a massive circular table in the center. Seven chairs sat situated around it and in each was an imposing figure with stern looks that matched the Jedi who'd taken Kira in. Only the chair to the immediate left sat empty, devoid of its master. A dark-haired woman sat at the head of the table and her frosty blue eyes felt like they might shoot right through Kira were she to look away. With her gaze fixed on the young girl in a dirty flight suit, she addressed Bela. “Master Kiwiiks, what have you brought before us?” she asked. The Togruntan immediately launched into making a case for the highly force-sensitive young girl, but Kira found herself unable to focus. The various Jedi all nodded at the story they were being told, taking in the information, and preparing to make an informed decision. Meanwhile, Kira Carsen felt her stomach drop and, knowing her own body, understood that there was only about half a minute before something horrible happened. ”You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she cursed to herself, shyly pulling one arm across her stomach to add an extra layer to try and block the gurgling sound emanating from her gut, “Not now, nonononono--please noooo.” Unfortunately, she didn’t really have any control besides desperate clenching that was far too weak to stop the process that had already started. Before her some of the most powerful warriors in the galaxy discussed Kira's fate, all while her bowels pushed, forcing a shameful wave of odorous mess out into the back of her padding. She cringed at the sensation–even after so many years it never felt right, and the waves of hot mush piled into her padding as it sagged down. Frantically the helpless pants filler looked around the room, checking to see if anybody could tell what she was doing. Luckily she saw that not one face changed and no gaze turned to meet hers. “Maybe I’m in the clear.” she thought. The young force user’s accident was, however, not unnoticed. While she helplessly cringed and pushed the Jedi around her watched on, taking this into account as her merit was judged. All seven realized what she was about to do by the change in her energy almost immediately, and the smell that followed only confirmed any suspicions. Still, as the last quiet bit of flatulence sounded out, muffled by her padding. Bela Kiwiiks looked forward, resolute in her next statement. “I’d like to take this young woman on as my padawan and train her in the ways of our order.” The council stared back silently at their fellow master and Kira Carsen looked at her with abject disbelief, the squishy muck in her pants squelching against her as she turned to say: “What!?”
  4. CHAPTER ONE PERSONAL LOG: Stardate 44317.8 Welcome to the USS Hyacinth, the oldest (and only) running Miranda-class vessel in all of Starfleet. Once upon a time it was a science vessel, built during an age when tensions with the klingons ran high. Now it’s little more than a cargo ship and personnel transport; easy assignment for an engineer straight out of the Academy. We’d just shipped out of Risa, the infamous pleasure planet; not that the crew collected any stories. We had a schedule to keep and no leave outstanding. What little we saw involved half-naked locals waving goodbye to our passengers. We ushered them aboard the away vessel and began our journey to the nearest star base. Not that I was bothered. Risa has its reputation for a reason, and brags billions of satisfied visitors, but that’s not me. Sex is great, but I’m just not a ‘Risa’ kind of girl. The things I want are… complicated. God, what I wouldn’t give for a working holodeck, and a night’s freedom from Starfleet protocol. Life aboard the Hyacinth comes with challenges, but rarely with difficulty. The ship itself is in good shape despite being over a century old. The crew, twenty five in total, are friendly enough, though we have little to talk about. By the time my shifts end I’m eager to return to my quarters, replicate a meal, snuggle my teddybear, and pass the time watching andorian melodramas. It gets lonely sometimes. We all get lonely, but the shape of my feelings aren’t the kind to be shared. I check in with a Starfleet counsellor every couple of weeks, but there are no practical outlets to meet this need. Three days into our journey to Star Base 12 and I received a call from one of the passengers. The replicator in her quarters had shorted out, and she was in desperate need of a raktajino. It was close to the end of my shift, but didn’t mind making the effort as the other ensign signed on. ‘Love Songs of the Forbidden Moon’ could wait. I moved to the passenger level, walked along the corridor, and pressed my thumb to the bell. The doors hissed open, and immediately I was dumbstruck. There in the center of the room stood a woman, naked as the day she was born, smiling without a care in the world. I covered my eyes. “Oh! I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have-” “No, no, don’t be silly,” she said. “Come in. You’re here to repair the replicator, yes?” “Yes, but… ma’am. You’re naked!” She hummed. “Yes, I’m aware. Nudity is nothing to be ashamed of.” My shoulders turtled to swallow my head. “I appreciate that, ma’am, but if it’s all the same to you I’d prefer if you wore clothes.” The passenger huffed. I listened as she sorted through her things and waited until she found adequate attire. When I dared to look, curious in spite of myself, she wore an incandescent blue gown that clung to her shape. Heavy breasts, round hips, she was the embodiment of a mythical goddess. I followed her body upward to the thick, scarlet curls that ran down her shoulders. She turned, persing her sharp and very full lips. “Is that better?” she asked. I nodded dumbly and collected myself. Yes, she was the most beautiful woman I’d seen in a long time, let alone stood near, but I was there to do a job. She was a passenger, not a potential date. Even so, what were the chances of… No. I wouldn’t go there. The replicator proved an easy fix. “One of the photon sequencers is misaligned,” I said, and crouched to reach the upper corner of the machine. One new micro-coupling and a psionic fixer later and it would be as good as new. It was the kind of work I could do in my sleep, or with an attractive distraction lingering in the room. She took a seat at a nearby table, and crossed one leg over the other. My heart beat faster. The smell of sex lingered from under her robe, conjuring memories of the last time I lay with a partner. It seemed forever ago, and my body ached for it. The sooner I could return to my quarters the better. “You didn’t tell me your name,” she said. “Ensign Morris, ma’am.” “Morris,” she hummed, her voice deep and smokey. “Do you have a first name, ensign?” I hesitated, but thought better than to catch her eye. “Sally… ma’am. And you?” Her deep forest eyes probed under the layers of my Starfleet uniform, prompting a shiver down my spine. She finally answered, “Artemis.” A goddess in body, and a goddess in name. How ironic that she should share a title with a patron of chastity. Her wild aura, however, seemed entirely apt. “Does it get lonely out here, Sally?” Her asking sent goosebumps running down my arms, not because there was anything wrong with the question, but because of how it called attention to my plight. Space, and the confines of a starship, were isolating at the best of times. But I didn’t tell her that. Instead we chatted about my home on Earth, just outside of Alberta, and my Mom’s ginger snap cookies that no machine could replicate. The hollow in my chest deepend, pining for the familiar, but work was there as welcome distraction. The photon sequencer snapped into line, and the job was done. I started to place my tools back into their box. “You’re human, yes?” As though being from Earth didn’t imply that. “Yes,” I said. “I find humans delightful,” she said. “You believe yourself the rulers of your emotions, but anyone with the mildest sense knows the undercurrents you suppress.” My body tensed further. “You’re betazoid.” She warmed like a breeze that filled the room. Thick plates of transparent aluminum shielded us from the void of space, so it had to be her. “Got it in one,” she said. When I moved to stand she placed a hand on my shoulder and with great care guided me down again. “I’d like you to stay on your knees a while, if that’s alright.” I should have been insulted. As an officer of Starfleet it was unbecoming to fall for the wiles of a passenger in transit. There were protocols about this sort of thing. And yet to do so would be bluster. She was a betazoid, an empath! She could sense the arousal in my belly, the spinning in my head, the deep desire inspired by a strong woman looming above. Her hand stroked my cheek like palm fronds in the wind, and she hushed. God help me, I curled into her touch. Starfleet be damned, she wrested authority from them with the smallest motion. “I… I…” Her voice softened, almost sang. “It’s alright, my girl. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ve got you.” She knew this was my weakness. The sex, the wanting, the throne she held by sitting above. Before I was even aware she held all of the cards, and was playing them to her advantage. Worse yet, I wanted her to. My body was a cacophony of desire hungry for sensation; for her to touch, to claim me, make me small, make me hers, to fill me, to hold me, to… to… I pulled away and snapped to my feet. Tears pricked my eyes, but they did not break my resolute stance as an officer of Starfleet. My shoulders stiffened and I started for the door, forgetting my toolbox as I did. “This can’t happen,” I said, telling myself as much as I did her. Artemis glided to her feet and smiled. Her understanding was like a beacon in the dark, begging me to fall. “You don’t have to be ashamed,” she said. “You’re not a little girl.” The words struck like a hammer. Why did she have to say that? The air left my lungs, and my body was on the verge of collapse. All I wanted was to scream and to cry, to find somewhere safe, but there was nowhere to turn. Her expression turned. The cold in my chest was hers as well. With painted shock she flew to me and wrapped her arms tight. Wide stretched loving hands cradled my back, running up and down in a soothing motion. “Except you are a little girl,” she gasped in realization, “and nobody has seen you in a very, very long time.” Tears rolled down my cheeks like boulders. Shame caught in my throat. I was small in her arms, afraid, without the disciplined Starfleet officer to protect me. All I had was this strange and sudden women whose song and whose hands knew where to go. Finally I held her back, shaking, clinging with all I had. “I’m sorry. I-I can’t…” “Shhhh.” Her digit stroked my brow, removing a strand of hair so she could see me fully. I didn’t want her to see. The thought turned my knees to jelly. If experience had taught me anything it was that little girls were difficult to love when their hearts sat in an adult body. Flashbacks of every confused lover flew across my senses. Some were angry, others so bewildered by the reality that they turned cold. Why should this be any different? Artemis swayed, and cooed, and sang. Her hands were like magic, weaving warmth with every turn. “It’s alright, babygirl,” she said. “I’ve got you. I’ll protect you.” No. I wasn’t a baby. I was an adult. Nobody could protect me. I had to protect myself. But her words shattered my cold ego. Once upon a time I thought someone so loving a fantasy; something that could at best be created on the holodeck. But there she was, flesh and blood, resting my head above the cradle of her breast. I cried, I cried, and I cried. Hot tears spilled off my cheeks and onto her skin. Artemis didn’t seem to mind at all, and encouraged these out of control feelings with a gentle tone. Somewhere in an ocean of sobs I stopped being Ensign Morris of the USS Hyacinth, and became Sally, the small child wandering the distant cosmos.
  5. Hello! Long time lurker, first time poster. Started writing this in my head last night and decided to take a crack at fan fiction. Note, there is some mental health talk at the top of the story and this is more a prologue than anything else. I do not own any characters from RWBY, all belong to Roosterteeth. This takes place after the events of the main series and all characters featured are in their mid-20s. ____________________________ Blake awoke clutching her chest, throwing the covers off of her self and took what recently had become a familiar position against the closet door, her arms stretched up, gripping the hooks that normally hung clothes, but allowed her to stretch and feel and tighten herself like a spring. Yang stirred with a yawn that quickly became a frown. “Another nightmare, Bee?” Blake nodded. In the dark, Yang couldn’t see her, but she already knew the answer to her own question. “Do you want me to get you a glass of warm milk?” Blake’s taut form relaxed some and with a tired giggle, she released her grip and crawled back into bed to give a kiss to the forehead of her yellow-locked love. “You know, just because I’m a cat-faunus doesn’t mean you can always ply me with milk?” Blake smiled weakly. Yang returned the kiss to Blake, softly on her cheek. “I know, I know. But. You’ve been having that nightmare more often these days.” A silence filled the small space between them on the bed. It had been years since Blake and Yang had killed Adam Taurus, the object of her abuse, in the cold, rocky mountains of Argus. But that didn’t mean the abuse was over. Blake carried it with her, in the deep, dark recesses of her mind. “And I know exactly why it’s happening more often.” Blake’s eyes widened and her ears perked. Yang couldn’t possibly— “I know I’m going out on a hunt tomorrow. You don’t have to worry about me, you idiot. I’m the strongest there is.” Yang playfully gave a shot to Blake’s shoulder, causing Blake to exhale. Of course Yang didn’t know why Blake was having the nightmares more frequently. In reality, Blake couldn’t wait for Yang to give her some time to indulge herself. But of course, best to play the worried girlfriend. “You know me too well, idiot,” Blake punched back, before drawing Yang into a deep embrace. Looking past her, Blake spotted the small suitcase in the corner that held the objects of her desire and signed near imperceptibly. “Sorry. Not all of us could manage to give up the glamourous life of a huntress to become head of Faunus-Human relations.” Yang squeezed Blake tight, whispering it into her cat-ears, which made them twitch in a way Blake would never admit she adored. “How, how lucky am I to have an understanding huntress of a girlfriend who does not care for office work. I feel like if you were my secretary, I’d have to fire you within a week,” Blake pulled back from the embrace to see a look of faux shock and insult on Yang’s face. “Now,” Blake continued. “I know the perfect way you could help me get back to sleep.” Blake leaned down and let her hot breath graze Yang’s neck, before grabbing her metal hand and guiding it toward’s Blake’s twitching, wet sex. Yang’s gasp turn into a grin, as with her other hand, she grabbed Blake’s hair and pulled her into a deep, full kiss; her teeth lightly biting and then sliding against Blake’s lower lip, making her moan softly, quickly turning into a purr. Anyone who had their ear to the door that night would have heard gentle vibrations, soft moans and, at one point in the next hour, a ravenous “meow” that Yang would not soon let Blake live down. It was the next day, barely an hour after Yang’s departure, when Blake returned to their bedroom. The scent of sex, sweat — and a small amount of red from when Blake nibbled just a smidge too hard on her lustful companion — stained the sheets. Laundry could wait, however. She retrieved the suitcase from the corner of their apartment room and pulled it open as if it was another one of the relics of Remnant. Yang never questioned its presence and Blake all too well knew the value of hiding in plain sight. She took a large inhale of air after she opened it, like savouring the scent of ramen before breaking apart the chopsticks. She was in for rest, relaxation, and most importantly for her: an escape. It was a few hours later Blake was laying in bed, clutching a small, infantile plush of a grimm, when she heard the door bang open. Her eyes widened, as she brought the sheets to her chest and sat up in bed. “New record! Finished the hunt in less than a day. Well,” Yang paused as Blake heard her bang around in the kitchen, dropping bags and kicking away errant furniture as she made her way to the bedroom. “Technically, the hunt was over before it began. Total false alarm. But I’m counting it as a win anyways.” She pushed open the door to their bedroom, to see Blake in bed, the sheets pull all the way to her chin. “Napping, huh? Well, I did keep you up late last night. How about we go for round two?” With a grin, Yang pulled hard on the edge of the sheets, surprising Blake as they were ripped off of the bed. Yang’s grin went from confusion, to concern, jumping from a slight bit of anger, then.. all the way back to confusion. There was her girlfriend. Clad in a black and white polka dotted crotch-snap onesie, clutching an infantile plush, of which Ruby probably had a thousand — the dolt. Around her head was a matching, frilled bonnet you’d probably see poking out of a bassinet or stroller. A bib with two cat-paw prints pulled around her neck, with pink cursive writing declaring her the “kutest kitty,” and a pair of frilled, white tights pulled up to her thighs. What was not as obvious at first glance, but glaring around the slender Faunus’s hips was the presence of a thick, white diaper. Its plastic edges just barely poking out from within the onesie, splaying her legs, making her look like she’d have to waddle toddler-like from room-to-room if she wanted to get anywhere at all. And there, in Blake’s mouth, was a yellow-and-black striped pacifier. Blake was thankful for it, as she had no idea what she could say. Instead, instinctively, she gave it a comforting suckle, before internally chastising herself for how it must look. She met the eyes of her wonderful, loving Yang for only a moment, before hanging her head, her ears drooping in a sad, almost pathetic manner. Yang put one hand on her hip, with the other in her face, shaking her head before clearing her throat. “Blake Belladonna. I think we need to talk.”
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