This was a rare and dangerous state of affairs. Boredom, for a being who had spent centuries trapped in a disk, was the ultimate enemy. It was a void more terrifying than any prison. And right now, the Owl House, their magnificent, chaotic playground, felt as stale as yesterday’s cosmic dust.
He floated on his back in the living room, now a cavern of impossible proportions filled with floating furniture and rivers of liquid starlight. King was sitting by the (upside-down) fireplace, trying to subtly carve a message into a floorboard with his claw.
“This is boring,” The Collector announced to the ceiling.
King didn’t look up. “We could just… not play anything for a while. Have some quiet time.”
“Quiet time is extra boring!” The Collector flipped upright, zipping over to loom above King. “We’ve played Owl House for weeks! You’re the brave hero, I’m the puppet army, we have a big fight, you win a little, I win a lot, blah blah blah!” He mimed a yawn so wide his form shimmered. “You’re no fun anymore. You’re just… pouty.”
That got King’s attention. He stood up, his small frame tense. “Pouty? You turned my home into a dollhouse! You turned everyone into puppets! I’m not pouting, I’m… I’m grieving!”
The Collector waved a dismissive hand. “Same difference. You’re moping around with that grumpy little face all the time.” He peered closer, his starry eyes narrowing. “You know what you look like? A big, grumpy baby. A little tyke having a tantrum because he doesn’t want to eat his carrots.”
King sputtered, his fur puffing out slightly and frizzling a little. “I am not a baby!”
But The Collector wasn’t listening. The spark was back in his eyes. “A baby… oh! Oh, that’s it! A new game! We’ve been playing Owl House, but what about… playing House?” He snapped his fingers, and the world twisted.
King felt a sudden, strange sensation. A bulky, padded weight appeared around his middle. He looked down. A giant, pristine white diaper, fastened with babyish patterns, now encompassed his lower half. It was soft, absurdly thick, and rustled with every movement.
“Hey! No! Take it off!” King demanded, reaching for the clasp. His claws fumbled on the smooth, magical fastener.
“Ah-ah-ah! The game’s starting!” The Collector sang. With another gesture, tiny pink booties, knitted from nebulae patterns, sprouted onto King’s feet. They were snug and made his steps into clumsy, padded waddles. King tried to run, but his legs, constrained by the bulky diaper and the booties, could only manage an ungainly, wide-legged toddle. He stumbled, catching himself on a floating footstool. “Look at you waddle! So cute!” The Collector gushed, hands on his cheeks.
Next came the mittens. They were soft, the same shade of pink, and sealed at the wrists. King’s claws were rendered useless, pressed harmlessly into the padding. He growled, a low rumble starting in his chest. He focused, thinking of his friends, his family, his anger… the power that had shattered Belos’s hold. He opened his mouth, a wave of force building in his throat.
“WAA–MMMPH!”
A large, glowing blue pacifier, its shield-shaped handle dotted with stars, popped into his mouth. It didn’t just sit there; it sealed itself with a gentle shhh-click of magic. King tried to spit it out, to push it with his tongue, but it was as immovable as a mountain. All that came out were furious, muffled grunts. “Mmmph! Mmmph-hmm!”
“There we go! No more grumpy noises,” The Collector cooed. The final touch appeared, a frilly white bonnet that settled over his skull, a big satin bow tying under his chin.
The Collector floated back, his eyes shimmering with sheer delight. “Oh, wow! You’re adorable! The cutest little baby in all the realms!” He summoned a silvery, mirror-like surface. King caught his reflection: a small, furious beast in the most humiliating ensemble imaginable, his eyes blazing with indignation over the giant pacifier.
“HMMM-MPH!” King protested, shaking his head violently. The bonnet’s bow flopped pathetically. “I know, I know, you’re excited!” The Collector misinterpreted completely. “Time for your stroll!” A grand, old-fashioned pram with spoked wheels and a silky canopy materialized. Before King could waddle away, The Collector gently, but with unyielding cosmic force, lifted him and placed him inside. The pram was deeply cushioned, swallowing him up. He was lying on his back, staring at the frilly canopy, utterly trapped.
“Let’s go see the sights!”
The Collector began to push the pram. They glided out of the Owl House and onto a path that had once been the forest. Now, it was a cheerful, winding lane lined with giant, smiling flowers and trees shaped like rocking horses. And there were onlookers. Puppets, simplified, cartoonish versions of Boscha, Principal Bump, and even the Bat Queen lined the path. Their painted faces were fixed in expressions of exaggerated delight.
“Ooooh!” cooed Puppet-Boscha.
“What a precious little burden!” chimed Puppet-Bump.
“A mighty heir, in such tiny threads!” boomed the Puppet-Bat Queen in a squeaky voice.
King squeezed his eyes shut, wishing for a spontaneous sinkhole. The pacifier muffled his furious groans. The Collector waved to his audience, beaming. “Thank you, thank you! He’s a little fussy, but isn’t he just the sweetest?”
The tour felt endless. They rolled through a candy cane grove, past a lake of shimmering soda, all while the puppet chorus gushed. King’s embarrassment began to curdle into a hot, helpless rage, but the physical comfort of the pram, the gentle rocking, was insidiously calming. He fought against the lull.
Finally, they returned to the Owl House, to King’s room. Or what had been his room. His nest of blankets and assorted treasures was gone. In its place was a nursery with walls painted like a twilight sky. A giant, plush rocking horse stood in the corner, and in the center sat a high chair carved from dark, warm wood, its tray covered in cheerful, carved stars.
“Lunchtime for the little lord!” The Collector announced. He levitated King from the pram and held him close before removing the pacifier. He raised a finger and lightly tickled the tummy of the blushing boy. “Coochie-Coo.”
King jerked a little as the ticklish sensation hit him. But he was mostly just staring wide-eyed while flushing red in the face. He didn’t even speak now that the paci was gone and before he could he was placed in the high chair. A magical restraint strap secured him around the chest.
That seemed to snap King out of his stupor. King kicked his feet in vehement protest, the fluffy booties making soft thumps against the footrest.
A large bottle, filled with a swirling, glittery substance that looked like liquid galaxy, appeared in The Collector’s hand. He tested the temperature on his wrist with theatrical care. “Nice and warm!” “MMPH! NO!” King thrashed, turning his head away as the nipple of the bottle approached. The Collector simply giggled.
“Open wide for the star-choo-choo!” He gently used king’s mouth as a lever, tilting King’s head back just enough to slip the bottle’s nipple beside it. With another tiny click, the pacifier vanished. Before King could sputter a complaint, the bottle was in his mouth.
The substance wasn’t unpleasant. It tasted like what he imagined sweetened moonlight mixed faintly with berries would be like. But the principle of this was unbearable. King refused to suckle. He let the glittery milk just pool in his mouth.
The Collector’s face fell. “You’re not eating. Babies need to eat to grow big and strong!” He pouted, then brightened. “Maybe you need some encouragement!” He wiggled his fingers.
A sudden, tingling sensation erupted on King’s exposed belly fur. Unseen, magical fingers were tickling him relentlessly. He jolted, a muffled squeak escaping around the bottle. He clenched his diaphragm, trying to resist, but the tickling was insidious, searching out every vulnerable spot. A traitorous, hiccuping laugh burst out, and with it, an involuntary suck on the bottle.
“There we go!” The Collector cheered, ceasing the tickles.
The intake was all it took. The bottle’s magic did the rest, creating a gentle, irresistible suction. King had no choice but to swallow. Gulp after humiliating gulp, the bottle emptied. It was strangely filling, leaving a warm, heavy sensation in his gut.
“All gone! Such a good eater!” The Collector pulled the empty bottle away, and the pacifier instantly resealed itself in King’s mouth. King felt overwhelmingly full, a sleepy warmth spreading from his full stomach. He slumped in the high chair, a drowsy groan escaping him. “Mmmph…”
“Aw, still hungry? You must be going through a growth spurt!” Before King could even process the horror of that statement, another full bottle appeared. This one was produced, and the process repeated. The pacifier had long since vanished with the bottle replacing it. King was too full and too flustered to even fight the second round. He drank automatically, his protests dying into miserable, muffled sighs. By the end, his belly felt taut and round beneath his chin.
The Collector released him from the high chair, catching him as he wobbled on his bootied feet, drowsy and heavy. “Time for tummy tickles and a nappy change!” he sang.
King was laid on a soft, cloud-like changing table. He endured a series of vigorous, tickly raspberries blown on his belly, each one sending a shudder of unwilling giggles through him. The Collector then performed a fast and elaborate change of his diaper. King wondered why at first… until the diaper came off and he saw it sagging with wetness.
His face grew even more red. He just… decided not to think about it.
“And now… for the grand finale.” The Collector produced a blanket so soft it felt like it was bouncing his bubble butt without even touching him. It was a deep blue cloth woven with constellations. With practiced, swift motions, he wrapped up King tightly. The swaddle was masterful, pinning King’s mittened arms to his sides, leaving him a snug, frustrated burrito with just his head poking out, bonnet askew.
King was then lifted and placed into a brand-new crib. It was a beautiful thing, carved with images of moons and stars, but it was undeniably a crib, with high, slatted sides. A mobile of ballet dancers dangled above, tinkling a lullaby.
“Nighty-night, little King,” The Collector whispered, floating down to hover beside the crib. He gently booped King’s nose. “Sweet dreams.”
The lights dimmed. The mobile spun slowly. The Collector vanished, presumably off to plan the next day’s “game.”
King lay there, swaddled, full, and burning with humiliation. A new pacifier appeared and held his mouth shut. He focused all his will on staying awake, on not giving in to the drugging warmth of the “milk” and the comfort of the swaddle. He thought of Eda. He thought of her smirk, her wild hair, the way she’d call this situation “a real diaper dilemma.” He held onto that.
It took an eternity. The lullaby played on a loop. His eyes grew heavy. He rolled over to purposefully bump against the railing of the crib, using the tiny pain to stay alert. Finally, when the silence had been deep and lasting for what felt like hours, he began to work.
Wriggling was impossible in the swaddle. But he could rock. He shifted his weight, millimeter by millimeter, building momentum. Thump. Thump. Thump. His body, wrapped like a cocoon, bumped against the crib slats. After a painful, tedious while, he managed to rock himself onto his side, and then, with a final heave, onto his front. From there, he could push up with his knees, leveraging the crib bars. It was awkward, noisy, and slow, but eventually, he half-climbed, half-toppled over the railing, landing with a soft, padded whump on the floor.
Freedom. Sort of. He was still a swaddled, diapered, bonneted prisoner. He inched across the floor like a caterpillar, making his way to the hidden chute that led to the basement. He slid down, bumping to the bottom.
The night outside the Owl House was perpetually a soft twilight under The Collector’s reign. King crawled and hobbled through the distorted landscape, a bizarre, wriggling parcel. Reaching the hidden door to the old rebel hideout was a monumental task, but desperation gave him strength.
He nudged the door open with his head.
Eda and Lilith were huddled over a map etched into the dirt floor. They looked up. There was a long, silent pause.
King lay there, bound in his constellation swaddle, bonnet tilted, pacifier firmly in place, meeting Eda’s one golden eye.
Lilith’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my.”
Eda’s eye widened. Then her mouth twitched. A snort escaped. Then another. She tried to compose herself, pressing her lips into a thin line, but it was futile. She erupted into howling laughter, clutching her sides and wheezing.
“Oh-oh, King! Your-your outfit!” she managed between gasps.
“MMPH-HMMPH!” King growled, his face burning crimson.
“Sister, please, it’s not funny, the poor thing is clearly traumatized!” Lilith said, though her own shoulders were shaking.
“It’s a little funny,” Eda wheezed, finally calming to chuckles. She wiped a tear from her eye and approached. “Alright, alright, let’s get you out of this… whatever this is.” She examined the swaddle, the pacifier, the bonnet bow. “Huh. Collector’s work is neat. No obvious knots.”
She tried to untie the bonnet, but the bow simply re-formed. The pacifier wouldn’t budge. The mitten seams were seamless. “Right. Magic baby stuff. The strongest kind apparently.” She sighed, a fond smirk on her face. “Alright, King. Stand still. This might tingle.”
With a flash of golden magic from her finger, she traced a quick, disruptive spell over the bonnet’s bow. It sizzled and fell loose. Another at the pacifier’s seal. It popped out of King’s mouth with a soft plop, and he took his first deep, free breath in hours.
“YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’VE BEEN THROUGH!” he yelled, the words rushing out.
“I can guess,” Eda said, working on the mittens now. They peeled away like banana skins. “Playing House got a little too literal, huh?”
With his claws free, King was able to help shred the rest of the swaddle and clumsily undo the star-clasp on the diaper. But it re-latched itself onto his waist. He tried again but the diaper stayed put.
“HRRRRRK!” he whined and flailed his arms up and down.
He stood in the hideout, finally (mostly) himself again, the crinkle of the diaper still on his butt and the feeling of the booties and the ghost of the bonnet still lingering. He shuddered.
Lilith had the decency to look sympathetic. “A most undignified trial, King.”
Eda ruffled the fur on his head, her expression softening from amusement to something warmer, fiercer. “You okay, kiddo?”
King leaned into her touch, the residual humiliation melting into exhaustion. “I’m full of glitter-milk and I never want to see a bottle again. But… yeah. I’m okay.” He looked up at her, a new determination in his eyes. “We’re getting everyone back. Soon. No more games.”
Eda’s smile turned sharp, full of promise. “That’s my boy. Now,” she said, the smirk returning, “about that diaper. You want me to stash it for the historical record? ‘The Day the Titan King Wore the Patterns of Adolescence on His Tush’?”
“EDA!” King screeched, as Lilith failed to suppress another giggle.
Getting to work on undiapering King would take the longest but at least he had help. Though, the teasing was unrelenting and stretched on more than the tapes keeping him padded.
This was the longest night of his life.
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