Crinkley Chronicles

“Look, Rarity! I don’t need diapers anymore!”

I freeze mid-stitch, somewhere between being horrorstruck and sure I have something clogging my ears. I must have misheard. She can’t have just said she doesn’t need diapers anymore. It’s impossible. I force a smile, my mouth twitching rather badly.

“Sweetie? Would you mind repeating that? I don’t quite think I—”

But as I turn around, my worst fears are realized. Sweetie’s grinning widely at me and it’s not hard to see why. Gone is the thick diaper I changed her into earlier this morning; and instead, a pair of thin, stretchy, pinkish training pants are pulled up around her bottom. Unsullied training pants, I note with no small amount of despair.

I haven’t been quite so lucky today. I’m already on my second diaper.

“W-Why, Sweetie, that’s…”

I search for the right words; words of encouragement, support, praise, but they don’t come out. My mouth is dry as old canvas. I’ve got to say something, though, so I blurt the first positive thought that comes into my head:

“—th-that’s wonderful!”

Rather ungenerously, I say it while imagining myself being the one in the training pants instead. My bluff works, though. Sweetie proudly strikes a pose, the better to show off her big-girl pants. Funnily enough, I seem to recall her doing the exact same sort of thing when she used the potty for the first time, too. How far away that time feels now…

Well, enough of that. If Sweetie’s confident enough to be wearing trainers instead of diapers, something must have changed for her. She’ll probably tell Twilight all about it—and well she should! Poor Twilight has been working around the clock to find a counter-spell to cure everypony, and any new piece of information would help enormously. But that said, I have to say I’m curious… should I ask her? It’s not a polite question, but…

“Yes, they’re lovely,” I say, pretending to admire the shamefully foalish designs printed all over the stretchy, soft plastic. “But tell me, Sweetie, does this mean you’ve, um, been accident free today?”

“Uh-Huh!”

My stomach turns to water.

“Wh-What kinds of accidents did you avoid?”

“Firsts!” she chirps. I gasp.

That’s impossible!

“F-Firsts?”

“Mm-hmm! Twice!”

My admiration for Sweetie’s monumentous accomplishment mixes with a crushing sense of defeat, and my shoulders sag with the irrefutable realization that my little sister has more control over her bodily functions than I do. Far more, from the sounds of it. I can’t tell I’ve needed to… to go until I’m already going.

As my tail flicks back and forth in a sudden moment of self-consciousness, my diaper crinkles traitorously under my onesie. The body stocking does little to muffle the noise, and it does absolutely nothing to hide its bulk. If anything, the tightly stretched fabric makes what I’m wearing even more obvious. I surely would have died of sheer embarrassment days ago if not for all the orders; the sudden, overwhelming demand throughout Ponyville for concealing dresses and practical onesies and other such clothing to hide, disguise, and securely hold in place the shameful things we’ve all been forced into wearing. My sewing machine hasn’t slept for days.

Sweetie claims she made it to the bathroom twice without having an accident? That’s better than I’ve done. It’s better than anypony’s done! I want to be happy for her, but it’s so hard to keep my jealousy in check…

“Rarity? What’s wrong?” Sweetie cocks her head to the side, frowning like she always does when she knows I’m not being truthful. With not a small amount of effort, I swallow my bitterness and slap the fake smile back on.

“N-Nothing’s wrong! In fact, it’s… well, it’s certainly very encouraging. Is that all you wanted to show me?”

“Yep! Oh, and the girls wanted to know if you’ve got their clothes ready. They’re still in diapers, but I’ll wear mine anyway.” She puffs out her chest, smirking, and admires her training pants. They make hardly a rustle as she struts about. “I’ll have to cover them up. Everypony’ll be jealous otherwise.”

I want to rebuke her for falling victim to the sin of pride, but she has a point. Many of the ponies I’ve seen over the past few days would kill to cease soiling themselves. I would count myself among them if I weren’t the cultured, levelheaded pillar of the community that I am.

I float over the three small onesies I finished for the Crusaders earlier today. Personally, I think they look very tasteful; Sweetie’s is a pale off-white with light purple hemming. Solid colors, no absurd foalish designs anywhere. Not like Pinkie’s onesie. Why she insisted on it being decorated with little teddy bears, building blocks, and rock candies, I’ll never know... or rather, I have a suspicion, but I’m not going to ask.

I float over Sweetie’s new garment and her eyes light up; of course they do. Better to have your diaper covered than exposed for all to see.

“It’s perfect!” she squeals, and immediately starts squirming her way in. I help her get head and front hooves through the holes, then direct her attention towards the flap at the bottom; the part that would normally go over her diaper and snap shut. Since her pull-up is thin, that particular area is a teensy bit loose. I’ll have to adjust the sizing later.

“I’m sure you already know how this works, yes?”

“Yep! Just pull to make it unsnap when I need to go, and I’ll deal with the rest.”

Lacking anything else to say, I pat her gently on the rump and send her out the door. “Have fun!” I call after her, and she vanishes down the street with a promise that she will. Habitually, I glance around before going back inside.

Every single pony walking the street is taped, pinned, and otherwise stuffed into a diaper.

Every single one.

Though to say they’re walking is a bit of a stretch, mostly because none of us have been wearing long enough to compensate for the natural waddle a diaper produces. We’ve adapted to them with varying degrees of success, but adapt we have. Life goes on, the shops are open, ponies go to the market; but the laughter is always nervous, with many sideways flicks of tails and ruffling of feathers. Most ponies are traveling in groups, simply because it’s not so embarrassing when you’re with friends.

Not far from the boutique, two such ponies stop. The unicorn of the pair says something to her earth pony friend and ducks into a nearby movie rental shop, leaving the earth pony practically shaking with nervousness, exposed to every wandering eye on the street; which, I should point out, is practically nopony. We’re all in the same boat, and we have no interest in paying special attention to anypony else, but that’s not to say it’s easy convincing yourself you aren’t being looked at. The poor mare certainly looks stricken, standing there all alone. Her onesie is pale cream with pink hemming, pockets on the chest. Practical. When she ordered it, she told me she was going to make the best of things.

She shakes and sweats by the side of the road, glancing around fearfully. She looks sick; but then again, all of us are sick, in one way or another. I can’t stand it, and I’m very nearly on the verge of venturing out to keep her company until her partner comes back, but before I can, a strange, queasy look washes over her and she bends slightly at the waist. I know that look all too well. No, she’s not about to be sick, but on a public road like this, it’s almost as bad.

Her tail lifts, and her already-pale face blanches. It only takes a moment, and then it’s all over.

“Ugh… L-Lyra?” she moans through clenched teeth, shifting gingerly from one hoof to another. She’s trying to keep the contents of her diaper from rubbing against her bottom by standing in such a way where that won’t happen, an exercise as futile as picking out colored thread in the dark.

“L-Lyra! Can you hurry it up? I—” Bon-Bon makes the mistake of looking back over her shoulder to see how bad it is. Shock and disgust hits her like a physical blow and she has to screw her eyes shut against the horrors of the heavy lump under her onesie.

Her friend hurries back out of the shop, both her saddlebags empty. “Hey, sorry about that, Bon. They didn’t ha– hey, what’s wrong? Didja have another acci—woah!!” as Lyra comes into smelling distance, she clamps a mint hoof over her nose, both eyes watering badly. “Holy… you’ve gotta warn me first, girl! What’d you even eat?”

“Y-You know what I ate, and I tried to tell you, and…” to make matters even worse for poor Bon-Bon, while she’s talking her tail lifts back up and the bulge in her diaper grows even larger. She doesn’t even notice until Lyra taps her on the shoulder and points it out.

The shame of soiling herself right in front of her friend is too much for poor Bon-Bon. Her bottom lip trembles, her eyes well up, and two fat tears roll down her cheeks as a desperate, terrified whine builds in her throat, Lyra’s smiles and half-hearted jokes to no avail. All the passers-by keep their heads down and don’t look. I want to look away, but I can’t.

Bon-Bon’s trembling legs finally give out and she collapses onto her mushy rump, bawling into her hooves like a small child. Faced with a near-complete meltdown, Lyra gives up trying to make light of the situation and grabs Bon-Bon and holds her close. Bon crumples into her shoulder. Her quiet, angry sobs carry far on the morning breeze. Lyra gingerly rubs Bon’s back, gently cooing reassurances far too private for me to hear.

I’ll give credit where it’s due. Lyra’s a quick thinker when she wants to be, and her thinking often results in solutions I’d never think of. Like right now, for instance, as she spreads her hind legs apart with a look of grim determination.

She’s not going to…?

Still hugging Bon-Bon tightly, Lyra scrunches her face up with effort. A yellow stain spreads across the back of her diaper, the thirsty padding swelling rapidly as it soaks up the not-quite accident—but that wasn’t what she was going for. Simply wetting herself wouldn’t be obvious enough. More than ever I want to look away, but a feeling of horrified curiosity keeps me watching. I want to see how this will turn out. She’s still straining, still concentrating, cheeks all puffed out. At last, her tail lifts up high, and…

I avert my eyes. I can’t watch this again.

It’s a beautiful sunny day and the birds are all singing. Somewhere in the background, a dog barks.

Ten agonizing seconds pass before Lyra finally breathes a huge sigh of relief; or maybe it’s a gasp for air, I can’t tell. Either way, Bon-Bon hears it. She hiccups, blinks, frowns, wrinkles her nose, looks down at Lyra’s waist, and when she sees what her friend has done—at how much of it she’s done—her mouth falls open and stays that way. Lyra grins widely, almost like she’s proud of herself for filling her diaper so completely.

More words, a quick kiss on both cheeks to dry Bon’s tears. A whisper. Bon-Bon nods shyly and smiles, Lyra takes her by the hoof, and both of them waddle off together down the street. As they turn the corner, Lyra drapes her tail over Bon’s back in just such a way that it conveniently hides her friend’s accident, while doing absolutely nothing at all to hide her own. Crisis averted.

I make a hasty retreat back into the boutique. Even after being presented with such a heartwarming display of true friendship, I can only think that it’s going to happen to me too, and…

I shake my head violently. I’m not going to think about it. I refuse to think about it. Think instead on how the worst of times bring out the very best in our true friends… Yes, that’s better. Put myself in Lyra’s position. Would I be able to do the same thing, if it came down to it?

…I don’t know if I could, honestly. I would like to believe the events of the last few days haven’t changed my generous nature, but soiling yourself intentionally is a lot to ask—Oh, shame on you, Rarity! Letting doubt enter your mind so easily? A dirty diaper shouldn’t bother you in the slightest! At least the mess is contained, and not… not. Besides, it’s not as if you aren’t used to it by now…

**  **  **

It all started four days ago. I wasn’t present when the curse was cast, but I remember well how the effects of incontinence first started to show on me. I was just coming out of the shops with a few new exciting patterns and bolts of fabric and other small things, quite pleased with myself and my purchases. I hadn’t gone ten steps out the door when I suddenly felt a warm trickle of something running down my inner thigh. Luckily I made it to a bush before anypony saw—but imagine my humiliation! Imagine my confusion! I hadn’t had an accident like that since I was… well, never you mind how old I was. Cider was involved, it doesn’t count.

I hadn’t noticed any signs of magical foul-play that morning—no earthquakes or evil skies, no sudden, irresistible urge to play the harpsichord—and thus it seemed presumptuous to assume the worst. Being the rational pony I am, I deduced my accident was a lingering side-effect of my recent visit to the Day Spa. I’d tried their new bath salts… yes, no cause for alarm. I decided to think nothing more of it, and made it home without any further difficulties. Understandably, my first wish was for a shower.

While I was busy shampooing my mane, it was there that the other thing happened.

Naturally, I fainted.

The water was quick to revive me and I awoke to find the evidence already washed down the drain. My hope that I’d dreamed the whole thing was shattered a half-hour or so later, when Twilight and the other girls arrived in a fine state of panic. Somepony threw a large, fluffy diaper at my head and told me to put it on right away. I didn’t think to question them. Even Rainbow was thickly padded.

I don’t remember much of that first accident, which is good. The second time it happened, though, I remember every sordid detail… which is exactly why I don’t want to think about it. It’s always the same disgusting sensations, the same tired descriptions, same spreading stickiness and same offensive, penetrating smell. It isn’t worth describing, because it lost all its shock value a long time ago. Messing is now just another part of my day, and that’s exactly what makes it so horrifying.

All I can do—all any of us can do—is wait for Twilight to come up with a cure. I certainly can’t stop it. I never can. I’m not lucky like Sweetie.

Oh yes, I seethe, Sweetie is such a lucky pony, isn’t she? She used the potty like a big pony, didn’t she? Did she have to be so insufferably pleased with herself!?

Jealousy, however, is among the very least generous of all emotions, so I push those wicked thoughts off dear Sweetie and focus them elsewhere. They recenter on the culprit behind this mes– ah, this unfortunate business. I burn his image into my mind and grind my teeth for good measure. The yellow eyes, the hooked snaggletooth, that constant knowing smile…

It’s all Discord’s fault! I whinny angrily, stamping my hoof in justified indignation. The sheer cheek of that brute, I swear! To lie, boldfaced, about it being the result of a failed prank! And he had the gall to claim there wasn’t a counterspell! ...Not that I believe him. I find it exceedingly difficult to believe that he can’t somehow undo what he did, and that he’s not just chuckling while we all scurry about with our tails tucked under our padded posteriors. Perhaps while sipping a refreshing milk of chocolate glass.

I’d like to believe that, but I can’t. He has to have forgotten the counterspell, or something along those lines. Why else would he be suffering the same fate as the rest of us? Would the great Draconequus of old, the former Lord of the Seven Isles and master over all things weirdly absurd, allow himself to be seen in the same sort of compromising position poor Bon was just in? I very much doubt it, and yet he was. And is. Perhaps it’s all part of his plan, assuming a being of chaos would have need for a plan.

Oh, I can only imagine the absolutely delightful shock the two sisters felt when they saw him all padded up on Fluttershy’s couch. I’ll never forget how their faces lit up when they suddenly and unexpectedly witnessed proof that it wasn’t a joke, contrary to his theatrical stammering, his cries of “No, really, it wasn’t an accident! I meant to do that!”

Since Luna was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe, Celestia answered him. To her credit, she managed to keep a straight face throughout the whole exchange.

“You meant to do it?”

“Y… Yes! Of course I did. All the cool ponies are doing it, didn’t you know? You should try it sometime, Celly. Being padded would suit you well, but why stop there?” He crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow. “We can do one better; how about you change me?”

“What?” said Twilight. Discord ignored her.

“Dear oh dear, how this must look. I always make such a mess of things, don’t I? And your little ponies are always the ones cleaning up after my accidents.”

“First time I’ve ever seen an accident like that,” said Rainbow, wrinkling her nose. Celestia just stared at Discord, eyebrows raised with mild curiosity.

“Excuse the terrible metaphors, but it’s only fair that you take some responsibility for me this time, Celestia. After all, it was by your infallible foresight that you saw fit to have me reformed, but didn’t give me anything to do after your ponies had gone and done it.”

“And this was your way of combating boredom?”

“No!” says Twilight. “We were arguing and he started casting a big spell so I tried to put up a shield and—”

“Her shield fractured my spell, and here we are. Not that I’m saying she’s entirely to blame—I carry some too for using the wrong spell. I wanted to embarrass our eager, new Princess, but not with incontinence. I was going for something more along the lines of musical flatulence.”

“That’s a lie! You—”

Fluttershy coughed a very small cough.

“Um, sorry for interrupting, but I don’t think Twilight did anything wrong, Discord. She didn’t do this, you did.” Discord flinched at her words. Not so obvious that the normal eye could see, but I have an eye for details. “So, um… you cast the spell, so can’t you undo it? Please?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t. We’re stuck like this for the foreseeable future.”

“O-Oh. Does that mean it’s… permanent?”

She blinked up at him, big tears welling in her eyes.

“No! Absolutely not! At least, erm... I don’t recall it being permanent?”

A silence fell on the room.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “Twilight tried to block my spell without understanding how my magic works. You ponies can’t blame me and only me this time, no matter how much you’d love to.” He sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging just like the equally terrible metaphor taped around his waist, and turned again to Princess Celestia. “Look at me, wallowing in my own filth. I’m a victim, too. Where’s your sense of pity, Princess? You must admit my oh-so-obvious incontinence is proof this was all an acci—”

He was interrupted by a low-pitched gurgling from his stomach, followed by a shifting of bowels so grotesque it gave me nightmares for two days. He staggered backward and flopped on the couch, nearly melting into the cushions with purest shame, but stopped because he probably realized it would have made the diaper leak and cause more trouble for Fluttershy.

Angel and Applejack ran around the house frantically throwing all the windows open, but not even the morning breeze was enough to kill the pervasive stench. I would have helped them, but it’s difficult to run with both hooves clamped over your nose.

Amidst all the chaos and confusion, Celestia just chuckled, like she’d made up her mind about something, and said something that surprised everypony.

“Very well. I’ll permit you to stay at Canterlot until a... cure is found, under one condition.” Discord shuffled around with a barely audible squishing, looking all the world like a stabbed puppy. Celestia smiled. “What you said earlier. Say it again, slowly, so I can remember it. You soiled yourself on purpose? ...Twice?”

He tried to answer, he really did. But after the near-total decimation of his poor diaper, he couldn’t say anything at all. Fluttershy hopped up next to him and nuzzled him in the side, her own thick padding crinkling under her.

“Awww, there there. It’s okay! Would my little Discikins like a changey-wangey now?”

Discord sheepishly pressed his index fingers together, and…

Well, I may not know what actually happened between Discord and Twilight—she’s been reluctant to talk about it since, and I can hardly blame her—but I know Discord needed to be humbled somehow, and I’d say he was. Suffice it to say Celestia has him under very close supervision right now, and mercy be to poor Fluttershy. Yes, Element of Kindness, I know—but to think she’d insisted on going with him, on changing him…

Deep breath, collect myself. I’ve a long day ahead of me, and I refuse to spend it focusing on unpleasant bodily functions. Everypony is depending on me to do my part during this crisis, and I want to work. I want to be distracted.

I step back up to the marrequin and resume pinning Lily’s summer dress together. It has to be light, but it also has to have volume in the back; Lily wears cloth instead of disposables. Cloth tends to be thicker, harder to hide. I have things well in hoof; if nothing else, this catastrophe has made me a sort-of expert in this type of clothing. After this is all over, I think I’ll continue making these onesies and other such cute things for The Buckled Harness in Canterlot. I’ve a feeling they have a set of clients that will appreciate them.

On the subject of cloth diapers, I’d considered wearing them in lieu of disposables, perhaps in a floral pattern to match the season. I’m told that when I was very, very young, mother and father had me wearing cloth of the brightest colors, and I do so like to carry on traditions of fashion where my family is concerned, especially considering how infrequently the words fashion and my mother and father fall into the same sentence, but that was then, and this is now. I didn’t have to think very long to realize cloth wouldn’t work for me; diapers you have to wash afterwards? It’s enough to make one’s skin crawl! It simply won’t do, and I’m afraid no amount of clever stitch work will change my mind.

I finish Lily’s dress without too much trouble and do the chalks for two more onesies. Lunch is two fresh mangoes and a tall glass of lemonade. As I sip my drink and tug at my collar, my thoughts inevitably stray to the current state of my diaper. I haven’t had a single accident since Sweetie left to play with her friends. Or at least, I don’t think I have. My diapers wick the wetness away so well, it’s mercifully hard to tell. But I’m not going to check. Checking would make me feel uncomfortable, and I’ve only just gotten comfortable. I’ll check myself once Sweetie gets home… or no, scratch that, I’ll do it just before she’s due to come home. As her role model, I should always present a picture of maturity and cleanliness.

Grrrr… Not that she needs me to show her how to stay clean…

For some reason, that thought conjures up the image of a smiling Pinkie Pie cheerfully informing me I’m being neurotic and paranoid about nothing. However, I don’t think my dream image of Pinkie is terribly credible in that regard, seeing as how she’s in desperate need of a change and yet doesn’t seem to care; in other words, she’s acting exactly like the real Pinkie. The last time I saw her, she was prancing around in diapers so thoroughly soaked that she genuinely needed her onesie to hold them up. I say diapers and them, plural, because I’m fairly certain she was wearing two at once. Possibly three. Or more. I don’t see how she could make a single diaper swell enough to almost make the buttons pop off her onesie. I made it stronger than that.

Like I said, I have my suspicions (more like unspoken deductions) about her, but… no, it’s not my business. Pinkie is Twilight’s affair, seeing as the two are having one, and if Twilight is accepting of Pinkie’s unusual tastes, I should be too. Based on what I’ve seen this past week regarding Twilight and thickness of padding, it’s even possible that Pinkie’s obsession with thickness can be directly traced back to our dear princess. Four at once? I was there to see it, and I could still hardly believe it. That’s another story for another time, though.

For now, I suppose the best I can do is invent onesies for Pinkie and Twilight with extra room in the back and strong elastic in the leggings… Hmm… Ooh, that’s an idea. A combination onesie and diaper cover, perhaps? With a waterproof lining sewn in around the bottom?

I pop the last chunk of juicy mango in my mouth and chew slowly. Hmm… a refinement to a truly classic, functional piece of nurseryware? It wouldn’t just work for Pinkie and Twilight, it would probably work for foals, too. Mothers would love something like that.

“Hmm,” again. Food for thought. Naturally, they’ll need two onesies each; one normal sized, one extra-large in the back for when they need to accommodate that considerable bulk they seem to enjoy so much. I’ll think on it later.

Yawn, drain glass, refill, and start toddling back to my idea corner. After a moment’s thought, I take the pitcher of lemonade with me, too. Thinking is thirsty work.

This week, my idea corner is the one on the far left behind three dusty racks of evening wear from last season. I’ve a small table and chair set up, with rolls of marking paper, chalk, and oil pastels in neat little racks, just how I like them. There’s a sewing machine, plenty of thread, and a few marrequins squeezed in against the wall. I settle onto the chair with a muffled crinkle and get comfortable.

So much extra work, and all over these puffy, white, disposable things. Things! I refuse to refer to them as ‘garments’, as I’ve heard one or two of my customers doing, because these are not garments. I refuse to acknowledge what the dictionary says on the matter. ‘Garment’ is a word reserved for silk dresses and princely robes, not something meant to be soiled and disposed of.

Disposed! When I think of it like that, the thought of me wearing something, anything meant to be thrown away after being worn just one time should offend my finer sensibilities, but it sort of… doesn’t, actually. Not completely.

Oh, I’ll readily admit that I don’t hate being trapped in them as much as I thought I would—providing they remain clean, of course, but this isn’t just about the alternative of not being diapered being markedly more unpleasant. Silly as it sounds, they have a pleasant fit to them; a soft tightness I wasn’t expecting. They’re far more comfortable than any disposable thing has any earthly right to be. They keep you nice and warm, without being restrictive like a dress. I like how soft and squashy they are, like big pillows.

Guilty admission? Given the circumstances, I also rather like how they let me concentrate. I used to have to take breaks. I don’t have to anymore.

Another sip of lemonade. I reach for the chalks and paper.