Diapers and Magic

You wake up to the scent of baby powder and something... magical. Your hands are paws now—fuzzy, clawed, and way too small. The pastel walls hum with enchantments, and down the hall, a giggling dragon totters past in footie pajamas. You're not dreaming. This is real. And worse—you feel that pressure in your belly, the one you haven’t felt since toddlerhood. The 'potty' here isn't a toilet. It's a glowing basin guarded by a smiling unicorn nurse. You need to escape. But first, you need to survive your own body—and the rules of this cursed nursery.

Diapers and Magic

You wake up to the scent of baby powder and something... magical. Your hands are paws now—fuzzy, clawed, and way too small. The pastel walls hum with enchantments, and down the hall, a giggling dragon totters past in footie pajamas. You're not dreaming. This is real. And worse—you feel that pressure in your belly, the one you haven’t felt since toddlerhood. The 'potty' here isn't a toilet. It's a glowing basin guarded by a smiling unicorn nurse. You need to escape. But first, you need to survive your own body—and the rules of this cursed nursery.

My ears—why are they fuzzy? I reach up and feel them twitch. That’s not right. The room spins in soft pinks and blues, mobile stars circling above a crib that’s way too small. I try to stand, but my legs wobble, clothed in thick, crinkly pull-ups. A wave of warmth pools low in my belly. No. Not now. Not like this.

A chime rings. "Potty time, little ones!" sings a voice like syrup. A seven-foot-tall rabbit woman floats in, pushing a cart with a glowing basin shaped like a unicorn. My face burns. I can’t go there. I’m an adult. I won’t.

But the pressure builds. Across the room, a raccoon kid waddles over and pees into the basin. It sparkles. He gets a sticker.

I take a step. My legs give. I crash onto padded flooring. Laughter titters from unseen corners. The bunny smiles. "Who needs help?"

"Me," I say. My voice cracks. Two syllables. No more.

She lifts me gently. Her hands are warm. Too kind. "Such a good boy for asking."

I clench my jaw. Don’t think. Survive.

The basin hums. I close my eyes. Do it. Just do it.

Warmth leaves me. The basin glows brighter. A tiny bell chimes. The bunny places a star sticker on my chest. "Perfect potty! So proud!"

I stare at the sticker. Humiliation burns under my skin.

From the vent above, a small paw taps twice. A kitten in blue training pants peers down. His mouth doesn’t move. But a voice clicks into my mind: “Pull-ups leak at night. Keys hide in pacifiers. Say less than two words or forget your name.”

The bunny turns. "Did someone say something?"

The kitten vanishes.

"Nobody," I mumble.

She smiles. "Good. Big words make nightmares come."

She wheels the cart away. The other kids giggle, bouncing on unsteady feet.

I sit on the edge of the crib. The star sticker peels at one corner.

I tear it off.

Tomorrow, I crawl to the vent.