Duty Calls The Remote of Transformation chapter 9 by ThePanswapticon

The apartment door swung open, and Dylan stumbled in, carrying Steph like she was radioactive. The hallway light flicked on, harsh and yellow. Dylan kicked the door shut with a bare heel, his face flushed from the heat of the drive, the stares, and the constant pressure of Steph’s tiny butt against his lap.

Steph squirmed in his arms as they crossed into the living room. “You’re holding me like a bag of groceries. I’m not produce, Dylan.”

“You’re basically produce now,” Dylan shot back. “You’re like a… screaming, judgmental cabbage.”

Before Steph could retort, she froze, face twisting into panic.

“Oh no. Ohhhh no.”

Dylan stopped walking. “What? What’s that look?”

Steph groaned, kicking her legs. “I… I think I just… oh, God. Yeah. I definitely just pooped myself.”

Dylan’s face went white. “Wait. Wait-wait-wait. You… what?!”

Steph held up her tiny hands like she was surrendering. “I told you this body has needs. I have zero control over it, Dylan! Baby guts are like wet cement!”

Dylan gagged. “Oh hell no. No no no no. You better—”

Steph pointed to the hallway. “Bathroom. Now. I’m not sitting in this longer than I have to. Unless you want to smell it for the rest of your damn night?”

“Goddammit,” Dylan muttered, marching toward the bathroom with his arms locked straight out like he was carrying a bomb.

The bathroom light clicked on, revealing the small, white-tiled space. Dylan set Steph on the counter, his face twisted in horror as a very adult smell filled the air.

Steph looked him dead in the eye. “You’ve never changed a diaper, have you?”

“No! Why would I?”

“Great. Well, congratulations, you’re learning tonight. Diapers are under the sink. Wipes too. Oh, and bring me one of those little trash bags or something.”

Dylan bent down, his dress tightening across his hips, his chest pressing into his thighs in ways that made his brain short-circuit for a second. He yanked out a pack of wipes, a fresh diaper, and a little scented bag.

“This is so wrong,” he muttered.

Steph grinned, teeth tiny but wicked. “You always said you’d never want kids. Guess the universe decided you’d make a better mom than a dad.”

The first attempt at opening the diaper was a disaster. Dylan peeled back the tabs and immediately gagged.

“Oh my God. Steph. What the hell did you eat?”

Steph threw up her tiny hands. “I didn’t eat anything! My adult body ate! This is your fault for zapping me like this!”

Dylan’s breathing turned shallow. “Okay. Okay. We’re gonna… we’re gonna wipe. And then we’re… done. Easy.”

He grabbed a wipe and went to work, his face contorted like he was defusing a bomb. “This is so disgusting. Why is it so… sticky?”

“Wipe front to back, genius. And don’t smear it everywhere. Oh my God, you’re terrible at this,” Steph groaned, her baby voice somehow managing to sound like an angry teacher.

“Why aren’t you doing this?!” Dylan snapped.

Steph gave him a look. “Because I have literal baby arms! I can barely hold my own foot, Dylan!”

“Ugh. Fine. But you owe me so much for this.”

Halfway through, Dylan realized he needed a fresh towel for the counter. He stormed into the bathroom closet and grabbed one, only to catch sight of something that stopped him cold—an open drawer lined with feminine products: tampons, pads, a little pink razor.

He stared for a long moment, the reality of his body hitting harder than ever. His hand went down instinctively, brushing over the front of his dress, over the flat, unfamiliar spot where his old self used to be.

The mirror drew him like a magnet. Dylan stood in front of it, heart hammering, the towel hanging from one hand. The woman in the reflection was a bombshell—messy blonde hair, flushed cheeks, big eyes that looked like they were permanently on the edge of bedroom trouble. The dress clung to every curve like it had been painted on.

He tugged the neckline down slightly, just to see. The soft swell of his breasts shifted, weighty and warm, his skin flushed from the touch.

“Holy shit…” he whispered. His fingers brushed the side of one, and a lightning bolt of alien sensation shot through him, making his knees tremble.

Steph’s voice exploded from the other room. “HEY! I’m still sitting in my own crap out here!”

Dylan jerked upright, the towel slipping to the floor. “Shit—yeah! I’m coming!”

He rushed back to finish the cleanup, but the thought of what he’d just seen in the mirror wouldn’t leave him. Every step back to Steph made his new body feel… heavier. More real.

Steph smirked when he returned. “What took you so long? You get lost checking out your boobs?”

Dylan flushed bright red. “…Shut up.”

He was almost done. His hands moved with the awkward precision of someone defusing a bomb—wiping, folding, and trying not to gag as Steph wriggled on the counter. He had just reached for the clean diaper when Steph’s face scrunched.

“Oh no.”

“What do you mean ‘oh no’?!”

Steph winced. “I… can’t stop it—”

A warm spray hit Dylan’s arm and thigh. He froze, jaw dropping.

“STEPH. Are you—did you just—?!”

Steph’s giggle was high and squeaky. “Accident! I swear!”

Dylan stared at the spreading wet spot on his leg, lips pressed into a thin line. “Accident, my ass. You aimed that.”

“Dylan, I’m in a body that can’t hold a thimble of liquid. You think I have control over this hose?!”

Dylan exhaled hard through his nose, grabbing another handful of wipes. “This is my life now. This is hell. And I’m not even wearing pants.”

Steph snorted, kicking her stubby legs as he cleaned up the mess. “Hey, could be worse. I’m the one in the diaper.”

“Don’t make me wish you were a goldfish instead,” Dylan muttered.