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Okay, this is really my first (and thus far, only planned, although I'm Not Saying It's Aliens, but... is rather similar in a way) foray into Diaper Dimension stories, so I'll try to do my best to adhere to the whole thing. Basically, though, I will warn you of this: there is a war in this particular part of the Dimension, and neither country involved has their hands clean. That's the moral of this story: war sucks, every country has their dirty laundry, and nobody's innocent. The focus on Littles is also pretty far away; I'm focusing more on one particular Little and her perspective on the whole thing, and while Littles will appear, I'm not planning on them being the focal parts of the story for story reasons. If any other characters are really focused on perspective-wise (possibly; I have an idea how the story ends, but everything else is a work in progress, and I apologize; bipolar disorder makes it hard to focus on...well, anything, and I wanted to get something done to help with the depression.), it'll likely be the Amazons and Middles who are a part of that war. I will mention that I am not a member of the armed forces and not a marine, so while I'm trying to research the absolute shit out of this, I cannot promise to be perfect. If there is a marine here who wants to correct me, feel absolutely free, and I will apply those corrections to this story whenever possible. Likewise, I cannot give a specific schedule of when Semper Fi gets updated; I have a very busy four weeks ahead, and my mental health is likewise unclear, and that's why I'm updating this at the moment and trying - key word is trying - to get my other stories done, I promise. About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. But if you're not scared away by the numerous content warnings I've posted, read on: - Chapter One: Where is my Brother? - Corporal Clover Hope was so desperate to find her missing older brother that she had gone AWOL from the United States Marine Corps, all the way from Camp Lejeune to the last location he had been sighted: Nevada’s Death Valley. First Lieutenant (Marine Corps like her, semper fi!) Graywind Hope, tall and well-built at 6’4”, with his short black hair, his warm gray eyes the color of smoke on the breeze, his tawny skin denoting him (and her) as a member of the Navajo, his normal stoicism belied by the fact that he gave her all of the soft smiles he wouldn’t give anyone else, laughing at all of her bad jokes, and giving her all of the biggest hugs a big brother could ever give a little sister. He had gone missing a month ago, and whenever she brought it up with her superiors in the Marine Corps, they told her that they didn’t have answers, that she’d have to bring it up with the chain of command, who delayed her constantly, without remorse or empathy, every time she tried to go through normal channels. Clover was fucking sick of the chain of command, fucking sick of every noncommittal answer on normal channels. She wanted to see his smile again, hear his voice again, and nothing was worth more than that. She wanted her brother - her only family member with both of their parents dead - back, screw the military, and screw what everyone else thought. She was positioned just outside of the latest sighting, getting as much information as she could from the Nevada natives outside of Death Valley, close to another base that was very much like Area 51, but even more secretive in what they did. The United States military had been testing various things above her paygrade; that she knew, as she took a sip of water from one of her three twenty-four-ounce aluminum flasks she had brought along for the ride. Clover had ditched her uniform a while back, going for a cowboy hat, a tank top, leather gloves, a pair of jeans, and muddy combat boots to go along with her huge backpack, all crudely painted black with a stolen paint can now in the vehicle she stole - being conscious of the environment was the reason she didn’t use spray cans - and stolen from different places; she wanted to spare what little cash she had for necessary things like food, water, and gas for her car. Said backpack was stuffed with her other two water flasks, a case containing her Nintendo Switch OLED model with various games, charger, and a Power Bank for portable charging (to prevent her getting bored), a tactical flashlight (she had left her iPhone at the base so as to avoid being tracked, so she had stolen the flashlight), binoculars (military grade and yes, it was stolen), a bunch of canned and preserved food from a gas station (expensive and not particularly edible, but better than MREs, and she’d make do), a jacket and a beanie for the cold desert night (also stolen), a first aid kit (stolen again), and a military grade sleeping bag (to nobody’s surprise, stolen). Her M18 Modular Handgun System - a pistol based on the SIG Sauer used by the Marines - was holstered on her thigh with two extra magazines on her belt, along with a standard KA-BAR knife stored in a custom made (thanks to Graywind for her most recent birthday, her twenty-second two months ago) waterproof vegetable-tanned cowhide leather sheath, as she peered through the binoculars, her gray eyes cautious. The building had snipers posted on top, and she’d never be able get close to the place unless, maybe, when it turned to night - a massive problem since she was wanted by the Marines, local and federal police, and probably the fucking FBI and CIA at the rate she was going. Clover had dug herself a small hole into the rocky hill using her KA-BAR knife. It had been exhausting work, taking the whole of the day and sweat poured down her tawny skin and black ponytail, but she kept at it, even when bits of sand filled the hole, thinking of nothing more than her brother, safe, back with her, ready to face whatever consequences so she could see him again. When she finished, it was dinnertime: canned hash (basically salty beef and potatoes), canned corn, and canned black beans with a snack of trail mix and a quickly-browning banana. It was what she had been living on in the past three days that she had been AWOL, and she hated it…but it was still better than the military’s Meals Rejected by Everyone. She shuddered, remembering the first time she had tried the chili and macaroni MRE; she had nearly vomited the whole thing up, and it gave her severe constipation, taking for-fucking-ever to shit it out of her system. Good news is that prison food might be a bit better, Clover thought pessimistically as she chewed on the canned hash, drinking a bit more water to go along with it. Then a deep male voice, close, far too close, shouted, “Don’t fucking move!”, and she saw a bunch of red dots line up on her body, with three very tall, fully armored men pointing M27s at her. Bitter tears escaped her eyes. She was close, so fucking CLOSE to finding Graywind, and she had been denied it. “Who are you?” the speaker, a huge man in body armor that had to be at least 6’9”, demanded in a Southern drawl. “Specify the reason why you’re here!” She answered, like she had been drilled into countless times at boot camp, “Sir, Corporal Clover Hope, USMC, Service Number 8839754669, sir!” The speaker paused. “Where did you go to boot camp? What is your MOS? Where were you stationed? And what are the parts of the EGA, and what do they mean?” “Sir, MCRD San Diego, MOS is 0311, stationed at Camp Lejeune, and the parts of the EGA are Eagle, stands for United States, Globe, stands for global service, and Anchor, stands for our naval traditions, sir!” Clover saw the man smirk, could almost see the amusement in his eyes behind his sunglasses. “You expecting a Big Chicken Dinner for going AWOL?” he drawled. “To find my fucking brother, asshole!” she snapped. The man paused for a few moments. “...Semper fi,” he said. “Oorah,” she answered quietly. “Yeah, he was here,” he said, holding his hand up to signal his men to stand down. “Far above your paygrade.” “I don’t give a single shit, or I wouldn’t be here,” Clover growled. “Sir, we don’t have time for this,” the second marine said. “Just put her in the damned brig and be done with it.” “I wonder, though…” the big marine murmured, his finger scratching his blond beard. “Corporal, how much do you know of dimensional travel?” “Sir?” she asked, suddenly confused. “You’re talking aliens?” “Of a sort, yeah.” She got the feeling he wasn’t being entirely honest. “You’re about the right size for…yeah…if it were a Middle, it would be a different story, but you’re about 5’1”, should be enough for…” “Sir, what the fuck are you talking about?” Clover interrupted, completely confused about the reference to her height. Her boob size wasn’t much to brag about either, probably AA cup, maybe A at the absolute most, but she almost preferred it: the less staring and catcalls from the men, the better. “Take these.” The big marine handed her an earpiece (which, while she was confused about it, didn’t hesitate to put it in her left ear) and an odd gray device, circular in circumference and the size of her palm. “You’re going to want to get rid of your weapons - every weapon - and grab your backpack before you click the bottom button.” “I’m not relieving my weapons,” Clover said stubbornly, as she palmed the device. “Your funeral,” the big marine said with a shrug. “You come in with weapons, and the Amazons won’t be very fucking happy, but you asked for it; we’ve got plenty more where you come from.” She looked at the big marine like he was crazy. “Amazons? The fuck kind of aliens are those? Do they do deliveries and shit, too?” “Remind me to laugh at your shitty jokes if you ever get back,” the second marine growled, and she could almost hear his eyeroll. “Sir, you’re not seriously-” the third marine began before the big marine cut him off, saying, “Every Middle classification, including her brother, has disappeared without a trace, has immediately been cut off from radio contact. We’re not part of their world, so we can’t be Amazons. There’s only one classification left we haven’t tried, and we haven’t tried a woman yet.” “Littles!” the second marine spat. “She’d be useless to them!” “And she doesn’t know shit about this! Why not try someone else on base; hell, anyone else?!” the third marine snapped. “She has a personal stake in this. Motivation enough to risk a prison sentence.” The big marine sighed as Clover quickly devoured her meal, not even bothering to clear off the remnants of food from her face before she packed up her sleeping bag in her backpack. “Sometimes, that’s what the greatest of us lack: motivation and a reason worth fighting for.” Clover hefted her backpack over her shoulders and clicked the button on the bottom of the gray device, which lit up bright silver in the desert, whirling in her palm, burning as miniature tendrils attached themselves to her hand. She felt every fiber of her body react, her blood, sinew, and bones almost boiling like a bad morphine overdose. She wanted to scream, but it quickly died in her throat. The device emitted an ear-piercing shriek, and she may have as well before everything went black. - Hope y'all enjoyed~

Okay, I know I should be working on many other stories...but I love Helluva Boss, and after someone already did a Loona de-aging fanfic (that sadly had very few canon things there, but it was still a very good story despite that), I had to get on mine, since Loona's my favorite. For those paying attention to Helluva Boss, a fair warning: this story occurs a bit after Loona gets her Hellbies shot, so some of the other things that have happened aren't going to happen in this story. I've taken a few liberties with some of the Sins that haven't appeared and Loona's past as well (as we don't know exactly what happened), so take that into account as well. Anyway, as a warning, this is Hell, so there's going to be a lot of complicated content warnings for this story that I urge you to take heed of in the tags. I promise to warn you when they come, but I do want to warn you ahead of time. Anyway, on with the show! - Chapter One: Expectations. - Octavia was tired of hearing her parents fighting, especially when it involved her. Stolas and Stella - her father and mother - were screeching at each other like homicidal demonic barn owls (don’t ask her how she knew that; some things weren’t meant for living human minds), barely paying attention to her, and yet…custody. Fucking custody. Over her. Just…why? It wasn’t fair. Yes, Loona had said that families were complicated, but this right after she had run away the last time… The owl-like Goetia heiress froze. Loona. The hellhound was definitely a bit rough around the edges, definitely sarcastic and rude, but she could talk to her, maybe? The last time, when she was lost on Earth, looking for a meteor shower she had waited years to see, it had been Loona who found her…and unlocked a side of her she thought was missing. Octavia felt like - in Loona - she had a sister, an elder sister she could confide in, someone braver than she was, someone whom she could…look up to, maybe? Her fucking emotions were getting the best of her, maybe, but hell with it. Lucifer, what if I’m being…no, time to be brave, Via, show Father and Mother what a mistake they’re making. She was going to go to I.M.P., maybe read from the Grimoire, maybe find a way to placate her parents, somehow, maybe talk to Loona, see what she thought. She had no idea Loona was already having a bad day. - Loona was pissed at Moxxie. Fucking fatass (he wasn’t really fat, she admitted to herself, but she needed another reason to hate the smug little prick.) imp was beyond late to work along with Millie, his wife. Bad enough she had five fucking years worth of her yearly Hellbies shot (She hated shots. Shots in the pound usually meant…euthanization for the hellhounds who aged out…like she had nearly been before Blitzo - known to all as “Blitz”; the “o” was silent - had adopted her. Blitz had lied to her twice, by the way: it was not “one little prick”, and her ass was still sore from it, so he lied about not feeling it as well. Thank Lucifer the cone was off, at least.) a week ago, but now he was pacing the halls, trying to figure out where they were. “Goddammit, if you could be any later, Moxxie, I’d need a fucking stopwatch to fucking time you…” Blitz muttered. If his voice didn’t clearly show his annoyance, the tic of him scratching the white and black, curved horns on his bald head certainly did. Loona knew that if the imp paced any more, he was going to wear out the floorboards - and they had survived a fire from hellectric eels (don’t ask), so she personally knew how tough they were to destroy and/or wear out. She flicked her bluish-gray hair fur to one side, her red eyes firmly focused on her most prized possession: her H-Phone 666 LX, a gift to her from Blitz for her twenty-first birthday a year ago. Then Moxxie and Millie broke down the door - quite literally. “You know that’s coming out of your paycheck, fatass,” Loona said, not even looking up from her phone as it played VoxTube videos. No response. She raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t like Moxxie to not defend himself from her taunts. “Okay, why are you two fucking hours late?” Blitz demanded. “We were supposed to be using the Grimoire for our target, and-“ “Sorry, Sir, but…” Moxxie twirled a strand of his white hair nervously (not that Loona was paying any attention or cared what Moxxie thought; it was clearly phone time). “We’re expecting!” Millie finished excitedly in her Wrathian drawl, her yellow eyes gleaming as Moxxie brushed her glistening black hair. “What, like a prize for being late?” Loona snarked, not even looking up from her phone. “No, silly: a baby!” Millie giggled. Blitz’s eyes went as wide as full moons, as he looked at them, doing a double-take at them. “Wha-WHAT?!” he stammered. “So, you were-“ “Well, I took the test, showed red, then went to the doctor who confirmed it!” the female imp gushed with excitement, as Moxxie wrapped his small, gentle arms protectively around his wife’s stomach. “Oh, that’s, uh, congrats!” the head of Immediate Murder Professionals (hence the name “I.M.P.”) said, his eyes gaining a semblance of…warmth? An unfamiliar emotion was growing in the pit of Loona’s stomach. She didn’t know what to call it, but she didn’t like it one bit. “So, Sir, we all have a lot of back pay from our jobs, so…” Moxxie began. “First kid’s always worth a break,” Blitz said with a jovial laugh. “Loony-Toony might have to join us later on while Millie handles the Grimoire, but-“ Loona barely heard the excited imp talking because she recognized a different, yet all-too familiar emotion bubbling up to the surface: anger. The hellhound had a nice job as the secretary of I.M.P. Yeah, going out in the human world for occasional work was fun and all, but her job was simple: open a portal to the human world, listen for when the three imps needed to get back, reopen a portal back. She had a routine. She had time to go on her phone, go to the latest Sinstagram pics and VoxTube videos, get a cup of coffee, and wait by herself, with no one’s problems but her own bugging her. And now this…this was threatening the entirety of that safe routine. And she was realizing the unfamiliar emotion was very familiar, after all: envy. A fucking imp baby with Millie replacing her job, and judging by Blitz’s expression, replace his affection for her. That’s all she was, when it came down to it: replaceable. Even after she told Blitz that she’d be there with him, she was still replaceable. The next words tumbled out of her mouth before she could take them back. “How do you know that they’re telling the truth? I mean, are you sure Moxxie can even have kids?” Loona immediately realized she had said something wrong with the immensely hurt look in Millie’s eyes, a pulsing vein throbbing dangerously in Moxxie’s temple as he drew his pistol, pointed it at her and shouted furiously, “YOU TAKE THAT BACK, YOU BITCH!” But the worst was Blitz looking…disappointed, as he said, “Now, Loony, you need to apologize to Moxxie and Millie.” “How about he apologizes for calling me the b-slur?” Loona snarled at Blitz without even thinking, her rising anger taking over. “LOONA, you will apologize to Moxxie and Millie.” Blitz’s voice was surprisingly stern, even a bit angry - a tone that, to her knowledge, he had almost never taken with her. “Oh, so you can replace me with the little brat, huh, Blitz, be a real dad as you stalk them in their private lives like you usually do? Well, guess what, Blitz: you aren’t a fucking real dad! You aren’t their kid’s dad, and you aren’t my fucking dad either!” She felt a vile concoction of satisfaction and guilt course through her as Blitz looked as if she had hit him. It almost would’ve felt better to her if he had hit her back, if he said anything at all. Even Moxxie was stunned into lowering his gun. “I-is this a bad time?” a new voice asked. Octavia Goetia had made her appearance, all four of them looking at her in simultaneous shock, the same look the demoness had on her face. Loona took the Grimoire from the safe, and Blitz didn’t even protest, the hurt look in his eyes saying all that needed to be said. “C’mon, Via, we’re crashing at my place,” Loona said darkly, as she held the Goetia heiress’s clawed hand to the demoness’s shock, leaving the job, the silent absence of a protest echoing in her heart. - Hope y'all enjoyed~ I don't know if I'll have a regular schedule for uploading; I never do, but I'll do my best every week, I think.

I know that I should be working on A Little Loony, along with my other fiction, but bipolar disorder demands that I focus my efforts elsewhere, for now...so we come to the second of my Helluva Boss age regression fanfictions, one based with Moxxie (who gets a fair bit of age regressor stuff on AO3) and Millie (whom, sadly, does not)! Naturally, the backstories of a few of the characters are pretty sad, so there's content warning based on that; I will warn you when we get to these parts. Also, this does not feature diapers like my other stories do. The imps who are regressed are five-year-olds who are potty-trained, and while there may be funny moments like needing to go while they're in the car, that's about it. About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. In any case, here's the first chapter of Ki(mp)Court: - Chapter One: Early Extermination - Millie and Moxxie were going on a private date in Pride when things went to Hell - figuratively and literally. Millie was the one driving as Moxxie stared out of the window. Millie drove at a speed a little faster than most denizens of Hell. Not to the speed of their boss, Blitz (he was known as “Blitzo”, but the “o” was silent), but definitely a long way over the speed limit, and the streets of Pride were beginning to blend together as they drove close to the limits of Pentagram City for a lovely dinner at a fancy restaurant (The Rusty Hammer and Nail, supposed to have excellent Hell Hog burgers) before a night of…well, Moxxie could imagine the night they’d have in the bedroom. He looked at his wife lovingly. Millie was his everything; beautiful, brave, kind, strong, passionate, just an amazing woman he loved more than anything. He couldn’t imagine his life without her, and he knew she loved him just as much and felt the same way he did. He took a random look in the rearview mirror and let out a sound like a choking cat. Blitz’s van was right behind them with their boss driving like a maniac. And Loona, his hellhound adopted daughter, was clinging to the front seat, looking terrified at the tall imp’s driving. “HE’S STALKING US TO OUR DATE!” he shouted in annoyance. “AND I TOLD HIM NOT TO DO IT AFTER WE GOT KICKED OUT OF OZZIE’S, AND THAT RABID BITCH IS WITH HIM, TOO!” Millie chanced a look back and sighed. “Well, we could make concessions for them,” she said. “Moxx, that’s who Blitz is.” “That doesn’t make it right, Millie!” “He’s our boss…” “And it’s entirely inappropriate!” “Moxx, just…let’s just enjoy the night, whatever may happen.” The smaller imp grumbled, sinking into the seat, as they drove down the street…only to hear a siren. A very familiar siren. The Extermination Day’s siren. But it was too early, it wasn’t even three months since the last Extermination, it had to be a drill. “Moxx, were we scheduled to have a drill?” Millie asked, her eyes worried. “Mills, I’m sure it’s fine, it’s-” Then a blaring note on their phones echoed, and his heart stopped in fear. “Extermination Day has been moved up,” a metallic female voice echoed. “Take cover as soon as possible. This is not a drill, I repeat, this is not a drill. Take cover as soon as possible.” “We’re not being targeted,” he said with a nervous laugh, holding on to his wife as he saw the hole open up, saw the angels pour out of the hole, weapons drawn. “We’re Hellborn, the Exterminators don’t target Hellbo-” A rocket was fired at their car from one of the angels, and Millie grabbed Moxxie and leapt out with him…just in the nick of time, as they saw their vehicle go up in smoke. They scrambled to the side of the road, near a row of burnt-out buildings, Millie having drawn out her knives, and Moxxie, his pistol, as they took cover in a charred building without a roof. He chanced a look up at the sky, hearing the screams of Sinners dying. Moxxie was panicking, breathing heavily before Millie kissed him on the lips. He broke off for a second. “Mills, is this rea-” “We don’t stand a chance against Exterminators,” she whispered to him. “You know that. I know that. If we die, I want to have this memory of you and me. I want our last moment to be our best.” Moxxie nodded, tears in his eyes - tears in both of their eyes - as he kissed Millie, a kiss that would last a lifetime, a kiss that was their lifeline. Then he heard Millie scream in pain that he wished his lovely ray of hellfire would never feel, felt something hit his chest, shooting horrific pain into his nervous system, blood vessels, and brain, and he screamed in agony before everything went black. - Blitz was listening to his daughter, Loona, grumble as she texted Beelzebub, Vortex, and a couple of the hounds she met at the party, saying she couldn’t go, as he dressed in a nice long coat, shirt, and pants, along with his signature skull choker. “Can’t believe I’m missing a great opportunity to go to a party in Gluttony for this,” Loona muttered, flicking her white hair to one side as she tapped on her phone. “I know I’m keeping my word to Bee after you went to Gluttony to get me the first time, but still…” “Aw, c’mon, Loony, it’ll be great!” Blitz said excitedly. “We could go to an awesome restaurant in Pentagram City - Hell, even Sinners need to eat, right? - hit up Stylish Occult at the end, and you can get what you’d like within reason! What’s not to love?” “Whatever…” Blitz felt a little bad at not telling Loona the truth. He was going to that restaurant because the M&M couple were going. They were his friends, and he realized that they didn’t want him in their private life…but he wanted that intimacy, craved that affection, feeling like he didn’t deserve it, but knowing he wanted it, wanted it more than anything. Especially after…the evening at Ozzie’s. With Stolas. Hell, that hurt so much…but it’s why he wanted to go with that couple. They had something he admired, and he wanted it, even if it was rejected again and again, even if it was as a third wheel. And now he was bringing Loony along…even if he didn’t know why. No, he knew why: he wanted that familial bond that they had…to include her as well, as more than just coworkers. Because he knew some of Loona’s past, knew she had gone through shit that was horrifying, even by Hell’s standards, and he wanted her, Moxxie, Millie, and himself to be one giant family. One giant fucked up family in Hell. Ah, fuck if he knew. Fuck if he knew anything that was wrong with him. What he did know was that he was going to that restaurant with them, see how everything would go. Impulsive? Yeah, but that’s who he was. He grabbed the keys as Loona continued texting, grumbling as she got in the front seat of the IMP van that doubled as their normal car. He got in the driver’s seat, turned the key as the van rumbled to life, listened to the Pride station blare out music (Loona had headphones in; her phone doubled as an hPhone, so she could listen to her own music if she wanted to.) as they drove off. He drove surprisingly carefully for him, only honking his horn twice and cutting off only several cars than all of them, his eyes craning for Moxxie and Millie’s car…and when he spotted it, he immediately gunned for the car like a maniac, startling Loona out of her music with a shocked yelp. “You set this whole fucking thing up with Moxxie and Millie AGAIN?!” Loona screamed, as she held onto the car’s seat with her claws, her eyes wide with terror at the sheer insanity of his driving. “And you roped ME into it?!” “Loony, I know it sounds bad, but-” “I DON’T WANT ANYTHING TO DO WITH THEM OUTSIDE OF WORK! THEY ARE MY COWORKERS, AND THAT’S IT!” “Let’s just go to the restaurant. I’ll even order what you want, but let’s-” Then the Extermination Day sirens blared out, and Loona whimpered. “It’ll be okay, Loony-Toony, I’m sure it’s only a dri-” “Extermination Day has been moved up,” the metallic voice echoed. “Take cover as soon as possible. This is not a drill, I repeat, this is not a drill. Take cover as soon as possible.” “Shit, shit, shit, shit-” Loona swore multiple times, her tail tucked between her legs, eyes wide with fear. “Loony, they don’t target Hellborn, remember?” A rocket hit the van of Moxxie and Millie, as they barely got out in time, as he saw them scramble towards a burned out building. “I FUCKING HATE YOU, BLITZ!” Loona screamed. Blitz veered off the road, parking the van close by the building, as they saw an angel, its wings purely black without any lines, go into the building and shoot Moxxie and Millie with an angelic pistol as they were kissing, hitting them both in the chest. He went into the building, his flintlock pistol at the ready, along with a snarling Loona, ready to avenge the couple. The first angel went in for the kill, raising her gun, and that’s when things got crazy: another angel, with mostly gray wings and a black stripe across them stood in front of them, facing the first angel…and started to verbally ream the other angel up the ass. “YOU - FUCKING - MORON!” the second angel roared in a feminine ethereal tone. “What is Extermination 101? What is the very first rule you learn when you become an Exterminator? What is the ONE - FUCKING - THING we are NOT - under ANY circumstances, no matter WHAT those circumstances might be - allowed to do?!” The first angel lowered its head and mumbled in a feminine tone. “Target Hellborn or anyone other than Sinners.” “WHAT DO THEY FUCKING LOOK LIKE TO YOU?!” “...Hellborn imps.” “SO FUCKING HEAL THEM BEFORE WE START AN EXTRADIMENSIONAL INCIDENT!” Blitz aimed his flintlock at the second angel, who tried to pacify the situation after taking a deep breath. “Apologies for shouting, and apologies for my dullard apprentice. Do not worry, imp and hellhound; my colleague will heal them, and they’ll be right as rai-” The angel went over to Moxxie and Millie and spread a white light over them…and they began to shrink. “WHAT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK DID YOU JUST DO, YOU STUPID BITCH?!” the second angel screeched in disbelief, and Blitz and Loona watched in horror as their coworkers shrunk into their clothes, getting smaller and smaller, even though the bullet holes were healing. “PLEASE, GOD ALMIGHTY, PLEASE TELL ME YOU’RE NOT SUCH AN UTTERLY FUCKING INCOMPETENT AND USELESS IMBECILE THAT YOU COULD BOTCH A SIMPLE HEALING PRAYER WITH A FUCKING COMPLEX PERMA-YOUTHENING SPELL?!” “Um…” the first angel said sheepishly. “Sorry?” “SORRY?! SORRY?! I’LL ‘SORRY’ YOU, YOU STUPID FUCKING SILLY CUNT! YOU JUST TOOK AT LEAST TWENTY CENTURIES OFF OF MY AFTERLIFE WITH YOUR SHIT! LET ME HANDLE THIS, AND AFTER I’M DONE, I’LL MAKE YOU SORRY YOU EVER WENT TO HEAVEN, BY JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, MOSES OF FUCKING EGYPT, MUHAMMAD THE FUCKING PROPHET, AND GOD-FUCKING-ALMIGHTY THEMSELVES!” The second angel went over to the couple, who had stopped shrinking and now had the appearance of small child imps, trying to spread a light over them. “Not working, come on…” the Exterminator muttered, trying various glowing light magic without success before the siren stopped blaring…with them still as children. “...Are you shitting me?” the angelic superior said bluntly. “Fucking Extermination Day suddenly stopping out of nowhere…fucking idiot apprentice making this hard…fuck…what to do…hmm…” She thought a while and came to a resolution, pointing at Blitz and Loona. “You two, listen to me well. You are to take care of these two as if they are both your children, until I can get a proper healer to come down and fix this before the Lord smites everyone involved. They are about five of your Hellyears old now, and while they may remember they were adults, unfortunately, the memories of adulthood will be locked away. They will act like five-year-old children, will think like five-year-old children, and will need to be treated like five-year-old children. And since we can’t take care of them and give them help, it’ll be up to you two.” “But-” Loona protested, before the angel who was obviously in charge gave such a vicious death glare at the hellhound that she could do nothing but whimper in response. “If you two do not take care of them like they were both yours, I will personally annihilate you and every single thing you hold dear, Hellborn or not - and I have had centuries of killing under my wings. I have no tolerance for those who harm children, and I will do everything in my power to destroy you both if any harm comes to these two. Do you understand me?” Both Blitz and Loona nodded gravely, looking at the sleeping little imps who had once been a married couple. “Then we have an agreement. The next time I can get a Healer down here will take at least a year and a half; they are notoriously fickle. They will not grow up during that time, thanks to this IDIOT-” The lead angel jerked her thumb at the shamefaced apprentice, “making the spell so complicated, so I expect you two, what are your names?” “I’m Blitzo, the ‘o’ is silent, and this is my daughter, Loona,” the imp said. “Adopted,” Loona retorted. “Very well, Blitzo and Loona. I expect you two to be able to find help at times with other willing demons, but you must care for them the most. If they are harmed in any way, if they are not in your care when we return, I swear, as God as my witness, I will break you both in half. With that, we bid you farewell; we've overstayed our welcome.” The angel Exterminators disappeared in a flash of light, leaving the four alone with a whole Hell of a lot to deal with. - Hope you enjoyed~

Hey-lo, and welcome to another new story of mine (no, I have no shame in the use of this title). This is a dark spin on a babyfur story with real-world elements (with an evil member of Big Pharma being the Big Bad), so please pay attention to the content warnings on the tags. About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. So, with all of that said, do enjoy~ - Chapter One: Jealousy, Rage, and a Gilded Cage - Archer Dove was furious. That…bitch had broken the heart of the wrong man! Charmaine Dryden, a.k.a., the bitch who broke his heart. A top FBI special agent along with him (with him holding seniority as a senior special agent), beautiful platinum-blonde hair in a bun, sky-blue eyes, a towering 6’5” without heels (he was still taller at 6’7”), huge hips, ass, and tits to match her size. He had asked her out. “Married to my job,” she said. “Not interested in dating,” she said. “I would like to remain friends only,” she said. Bullshit! No woman could resist his charm! Every single one of them fell for him the moment they saw him. But he didn’t want them. He wanted her. And she dismissed him. Rejected him. Publicly humiliated him. He was strong, masculine, handsome, a talented shot, amazing in the sheets, everything a woman could want! Why did she reject his advances? Was she threatened by him? Of course, in her twisted little mind, a supposed “independent woman” would be threatened by a strong man. The horror of having a man tell her what to do! Unlike that fucking cuck friend of hers, Veil. She probably fucking pegged him and took it up the ass from the higher-ups, probably a bit of both at the same time. Dove smirked through his anger. Speaking of pegs, he had a plan to destroy her foolish pride and knock her down a peg or two. He’d have her no matter what, one way or another. Humiliate her a bit, have her fail miserably at her assignment, get her fired. And he’d be there to save the day for her, and she’d respect his authority. All he had to do was get a fall guy, and Shadrach Veil fit perfectly, the nerdy little nobody, stuck playing his stupid D&D games on his computer on FBI business, while the real men fought on the front lines with their guns drawn. He hated everything about that fucking geek, from his oversized horn-rimmed glasses covering his mud-brown eyes and baggy clothes two sizes too big for a weaselly 5’3” frame (probably why he was a fucking cuckold), to his nasally voice and twice-broken nose, all the way to his long (to the length of feminine) brown hair and messy brown beard that could probably hide a bird’s nest in it. Yeah, he had absolutely no issues with throwing the blame on Veil with his plan. The computer expert had his…sordid little past that should’ve disqualified him from the FBI, anyway. Dove tried to get him fired once before, but failed. He would say publicly it wasn’t personal between them, but privately? It most certainly was. It had been simple to get Veil’s computer password; as a supervisory special agent in the FBI, Dove had that power and oversight. It had been done in such a way that nobody would even remember he asked. From there, it was simple to hack into the nerd’s computer while he was away on his hour-long self-defense classes that the FBI all but demanded he get after he had his ass saved by Charmaine for the third consecutive time in the field (what a pussy, having to get saved by a woman!), see where Charmaine was going, where she had gone undercover…and burn her. Dove smirked, his green eyes showing cruelty at his little game. Charmaine wanted to fuck with Big Pharma, the biggest pharmaceutical company out there: MVF, based in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Technically, the name was Belgian: Mensheid Voorop Farma, standing for “Humanity First Pharma”, but “MVF” simply rolled off the tongue easier for most Americans. It was worth multi-billions, which, to him, at least, was more money than anyone could ever know what to do with. They made new treatments for cancer, stem cell research, shit that got grants up the ass. She had gone undercover as a scientist, apparently had a big enough brain for it, and had somehow managed to worm her way into the middle rankings (probably by sleeping with someone). Why she did it didn’t concern him an iota and what they “supposedly” did concerned him even less; let the rest of the FBI deal with the embarrassment of trying to deal with the fallout from her and “Veil”. It had been a simple matter from there to call them - from Veil’s phone, of course; it had been no easy feat to steal it and have him think he lost it. The security guard, some woman with a Dutch name and South African dialect - he didn’t particularly recall or care - was quite intrigued by his description of Charmaine’s false identity down to its entirety. She got him talking to her boss, the CEO of the company, the founder, a shockingly young Belgian man by the name of Augustijn Van der Aart. From his voice, Van der Aart sounded like he was in his early forties. To be that young and rich…well, at least he wasn’t more handsome than Dove was. The CEO sounded very interested in his proof, seemed to believe him, but Dove refused payment. “Too easy to trace,” the FBI agent said. And the only payment he wanted was Charmaine getting what she deserved. And now, all that remained…was to wait. - Augustijn Van der Aart was not surprised to hear the news from the man named “Veil”; just the person he expected the news to be about. The founder of MVF had long since known that there was a mole somewhere fairly high in his organization; such was the case when one was into the things he was. He had not expected it to be the woman known as Catherine Darden. She was fairly high in sciences, and she had earned every bit of it. From everything he heard about her, this woman (whom he now knew to be Charmaine Dryden) seemed to be an ideal candidate to be promoted to the mid-levels: smart as a whip with a personality to match, an ideal aptitude for company work, driven - all things Van der Aart admired in a woman. However, he had no tolerance for moles (to him, they were not really much different than rats), no tolerance for the FBI being in his business - and thankfully, this FBI agent’s selfishness and pettiness (he could tell even from the phone that the man had probably been rejected by her, and to be honest, he could certainly see why; Veil seemed extraordinarily toxic.) gave him a perfect opportunity for his latest test run. Apparently, he had covered Dryden’s tracks from the FBI well. Nobody in the Bureau knew where she had gone specifically, just that she was deep undercover. He had looked up her familial records: both parents had died when she was young, an orphan without any siblings, not even a spouse. Perfect for his line of…specimens. Nobody to miss her, nobody who would give a shit if she disappeared. He had called up his chief security officer, Margaretha Roijakkers, and his head scientist, Deborah Leblanc, to his office to discuss the matter discreetly. His chief security officer was a white South African woman born in an upper-class family, a driven woman with a vicious cruel streak that unnerved even him…but she was undoubtedly, unquestionably loyal to him after he saved her from a very long imprisonment for mass murder and crimes against humanity in her home country, and for allowing her sadism to be unchecked and hidden from the law. His head scientist, a Belgian like himself, had made all of his dreams possible. She was driven, ambitious, and at the same time, cared less about the subjects than one would an ant they had stepped on. All the “volunteers” were mere statistics, mere stepping stones to her rise, and yet she was also loyal to him for giving her a job after science groups had spat on her…and because he indulged her perverted fantasies about her work - so long as she kept it to her work. He discussed things with both women, neither interrupting until he had finished discussing the situation. Then Roijakkers brushed a loose strand of short blonde hair out of eyes as blue as sapphires, yet dead like the many Black men she had murdered and buried. “So, how do you want to play this?” she asked. “I’ve looked at her file; she’s very quick with a gun and knife, and if we tip her off, we’re finished.” “Well, you stated it succinctly, Margarethe,” Van der Aart said, steepling his long fingers, his green eyes never leaving the desk of papers, his bald head gleaming in the light. “We can’t let her leave here, and we can’t tip her off. Deborah, is there room for another subject?” Leblanc’s blue eyes lit up like a Christmas tree as she panted excitedly, her long blonde hair tickling her heaving chest. Roijakkers, for her part, looked annoyed at her colleague. “I could easily use another test subject!” the scientist said, her glasses askew. “And if the FBI finds out?” Roijakkers asked. “Then we’ve ruined our entire operation.” “The FBI doesn’t know she’s here at the moment,” he said calmly. “I expect Veil to turn on us again; if he’s turned on the FBI, he’ll turn on anyone. His cooperation is simple: to him, he wants her, and he thinks he can have her no matter what she thinks about him. But if we simply kill her or fire her, we risk having everything crumble. Making her disappear and paying off or blackmailing Veil? Definitely the best option - and our science works perfectly in that regard.” “I could have the formula ready by today!” Leblanc said. “Ooh, do give me the order, Sir, and I’ll have her in chains, ready for her dosage, oh, yes, I will!” “We’d have to keep her as a lab rat for the rest of her life, much like the others,” the South African said coldly, trying - and failing - to ignore her colleague all but orgasming out of ecstasy. “If she’s ever freed, she’ll talk, and people will listen.” Van der Aart smiled. It was not the warm, well-meaning smile that most were accustomed to seeing at work; the malice behind it was as deadly as a pit viper, unnerving even the psychopathic sadist that was his chief of security. “Then we see to it that she’s never able to talk again.” - Charmaine Dryden was preparing for another day at work undercover at MVF. The science team was nice for the most part (even if Dr. Leblanc was absolutely creepy as hell), work was fun and she was able to do it easily. Even the vast majority of security she saw was easygoing, even if the things the FBI had on the head of security painted her as the Devil in heels. She stretched her arms out, as sharply dressed as a scientist could be: lab coat, a white blouse, black slacks, and casual flats. Normally not her style (she wouldn’t be caught dead in a skirt, dress, or heels; that just wasn’t her), but that was okay. She was just eager to get the day started, especially with what she had seen yesterday after digging through MVF’s security camera files (with a huge amount of thanks to Shadrach for teaching her basic computer hacking skills). Many odd specimens, both human and animal. Small, probably children or around that age. It was very limited information, and she needed more info, needed to know what, exactly, she was dealing with, but what she did know was that the FBI - and Dove, in particular, much as she was extremely annoyed at his constant flirtation towards her - was right to send her on this mission: whatever MVF was doing couldn’t be good for humanity, as much as they proclaimed the origin of their own name to be. Then a voice blared on the intercom, obviously one of Van der Aart’s secretaries. “Can I request Miss Darden to the CEO’s office in terms of a promotion?” the pleasant feminine voice said. “Again, Miss Darden to the office of the CEO for a promotion.” The scientists crowded around Charmaine excitedly, some of them giving her fistbumps, others shaking her hand, and still others clapping her on the back, and for a moment, she truly regretted having to burn these men and women. Perhaps when this was all over, she’d try to convince the FBI to give them jobs somewhere - at least, those who were innocent of any crimes. She walked over to the elevator, feeling naked without a gun or knife on her. MVF had stringent policies about weapons, and even better detectors that could pick up the smallest trace of a weapon. If I need to, I can just get a weapon from a security guard? But they have no reason to suspect me, right? Nobody knows I’m FBI…right? Charmaine knew that it was a possibility that someone had caught her snooping around. A small possibility, but not too small to fully ignore; after all, mob families had given out promotions to lull targets into complacency before killing them. Just stick to the act. You are Catherine Darden, a normal scientist getting a promotion. Stick to the act, and you’ll be fine. She was used to acting; this was far from the first undercover mission she had undertaken. She was in the drama club in high school, and this wasn’t much different; all she had to do was get into character - and it was easy getting into character for this Michigan girl, born in Detroit’s tough streets (Fiskhorn, if one wanted to be specific), orphaned at a young age, doing everything to survive in the various foster homes. That was where Charmaine met Shadrach Veil. They had become inseparable, like siblings, even though they looked completely different and had different interests. They had both worked hard to become the people they were because nobody expected anything from them…and when she had been selected to the FBI (mainly because she was an expert sharpshooter in college marksmanship, but also because of her abilities as someone who could go into any role needed), she had insisted that they hire him as well, despite…his history. Charmaine was lost in thoughts as the elevator stopped at the top floor, the office of Augustijn Van der Aart. She opened the door nervously, seeing the man himself greet her with a warm smile. Then she felt the prick of something behind her neck and immediately collapsed, her muscles no longer supporting her, a whirlwind of nonsensical thoughts forming a cacophony in her brain before everything went completely black. - Hope y'all enjoyed~

Well, this is a new story (I swear, I'm not abandoning any of my older stories! I just have bipolar mania, and when I'm manic my mind flits to other ideas, and I can't control where it goes.) set in Hong Kong in 1995 for...political reasons. This is about a granddaughter of the head of the Sun Yee On Triad who is a Red Pole (basically, a commander in the organization) who goes undercover in a high school to root out drug dealers. Things don't turn out well, even though she makes six new friends. As such, there's going to be heavy topics that I promise to warn you about. About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. Now, without further ado, let's get into the story (and I apologize in advance for the first chapter being shorter than others I've done): - Prologue: Lockpicks are a Girl's Best Friend - The early summer moon was beginning to rise in the sky over the Kowloon District of Hong Kong. It was the first day and night of St. Joan’s Secondary School, and Mandi Jiang couldn’t sleep in her dorm room - although, technically, she wasn’t supposed to be there because she was a year older than the oldest students at nineteen years of age, lying that she was two years younger. She was undercover for the Sun Yee On, one of the Triads of Hong Kong. The Mountain Master - her grandfather - had tasked the Red Pole commander with a mission that only she could do: infiltrate a school where opioids were being illicitly sold to teenagers, something that he absolutely refused to tolerate. To her grandfather, white collar crime - harmless vices - was the way of the future. Counterfeiting, money laundering, insurance fraud, stuff like that was acceptable. But a fair few of the Red Poles - the people in charge of the day-to-day parts of the Triad - still thought that the old ways of prostitution, drugs, and even human trafficking was quicker, cheaper, more lucrative. Even then he was lenient…so long as the victims were adults. He refused to allow children to be harmed by the Triads that were supposed to be quietly in the life of Hong Kong. Mandi stretched her tiny 121.92 cm. frame. Small though she may be, young though she may have been, she was respected and feared amongst the Red Poles, and not because of who her grandfather was; she was cunning, pragmatic, and ruthless toward her enemies. She was not known to police and the underworld as “Little Dragon” for nothing. Ironically, the police didn’t know her English name, and that was the saving grace of her being undercover. The school insisted on silly English names to differentiate the various girls who came from all over Hong Kong, from many different country backgrounds to this school. Not that she was a part of any school for very long, she mused as she curled a strand of wavy black hair away from eyes as dark as teak; she had dropped out at a young age…to be closer to her grandfather. He had probably secretly desired for her to be educated, to not be forced into crime like he was, but school bored her. What use was mathematics when she knew how to disassemble and reassemble mechanical devices as easy as breathing? What use was history to a woman who already had a body count of opposing Triads when she turned fifteen? Why should she care about making friends at school when none of them knew her for who she was? Of course, the typical male response was this: woman = housework. She sucked at housework. She could burn a simple seafood soup, she was more interested in taking the vacuum cleaner apart than actually vacuuming, and the only thing she bothered cleaning in a house was herself. And raising children? HAHA, no. But her grandfather never showed any disappointment towards her for the life she chose, so long as she was willing to accept it for everything it was. He loved her unconditionally, and she loved him with the same fervor, ever since… No, that’s in the past. Never look to the past when the present moment is there to be seized. Mandi looked out the window in boredom, and something immediately grabbed her attention: six silhouettes in the rock garden, clearly not supposed to be there. Well, looks like my job got a lot easier. I was supposed to just find out who the dealers are and report back to the Mountain Master, but if they’re right there, and I can catch them, easy. She snuck out of the dorm room with a gentle use of her trusty lockpick (never leave home without one…even if you’re undercover at a secondary school) unlocking the various doors in her way. Soon enough, she was in the rock garden, as well, close enough to see…six girls, all of whom were at the same school she was infiltrating, given the uniforms they were all wearing: an emerald-green blazer with ties signifying their ages (they were in the seventeen age-range, judging by the ties), white blouse, knee length black skirt, black dress shoes, and black tights. She could also tell that while they weren’t drug dealers (dealers wouldn’t be bitching about the day and which girls were acting like what bitches to each other): just clearly looking like they were troublemakers at heart…like herself. “Hey, you!” Mandi swore under her breath as one of the girls - clearly Chinese Uyghur - saw her, causing the other five to turn around and take in their breath. They all looked to be from different ethnicities, and she could tell from her first glance that their families had been as broken as hers was…before her grandfather stepped in. “I’m not here to bust you or whatever,” Mandi said calmly, stepping into the girls' sight. “Unless you happen to be dealers.” “What? Those assholes?” A Vietnamese girl was the speaker as she snorted contemptuously. “Nah, I wouldn’t touch what they’re selling with a twenty-meter pole - and you shouldn’t either.” “Fair enough. What are you doing here?” Mandi asked. “First, your name,” a Thai girl - one Mandi nailed down to be the leader of the group - snapped. “Mandi Jiang.” “Oh, the new girl!” a Cambodian girl said excitedly. “Hey, we don’t know anything about her!” the Thai girl protested. “If she’s out here, she’s liable to get in trouble like us,” a Hmong girl said. “How did you get out of the room?” a Burmese girl asked. “You’d need a-” “Lockpick?” Mandi finished, holding out her lockpick. “Come on, I’m not going to out you girls. I may be new, but I know when people are on the margins…like I was.” The Thai girl sighed. “Fine. I guess you could hang out here. Not much we do anyway aside from talking freely.” “Can I have your names, now that you have mine?” “Not the stupid English names,” the Vietnamese girl groaned. “I hate when they make us-” “Not that bullshit,” Mandi said bluntly. “Schools like this, they just want to get rid of culture. Personally, I prefer the English name I was given by my grandfather, but I won’t use the English names given by the school when you clearly prefer your own.” The Thai girl gave Mandi a smirk. “In that case, I’m Achara. Achara Noi. Call me ‘Angel’.” “Phượng Hà,” the Vietnamese girl said calmly. “Known to my friends as ‘Phoenix’.” “Veasna Keo, or, ‘Destiny’, if you’d prefer,” The Cambodian girl nodded her head. “Duabntxoo Fang,” the Hmong girl said quietly. “Shadow.” “Thang,” The Burmese girl shook Mandi’s hand. "These girls call me ‘Storm’.” “Aynur Cebrail, or rather, ‘Moonlight’,” the Uyghur girl introduced herself last. “Well, if we’re going by nicknames already…Dragon.” Mandi knew she was taking a risk revealing a bit of her identity…but she felt a kinship with these girls, as she forgot all about what she was going to ask and just…talking to them about the school, the other girls, everything except what she was here for. These girls are like me. Broken homes, awful parents, cast aside like they were nothing. Snap out of it, Mandi, an inner voice chided. You’ll forget them as soon as you’re done with this assignment. They’re younger than you, minors, kids. So was I when I joined. They’re…me. Me at a younger age. She knew that she shouldn’t think that way. She was ruthless to all, pragmatic, not prone to sentimentality with anyone but a few. So, why them all of a sudden? Why them? - Hope y'all enjoyed~

Well, I came up with a story in the psych ward I stayed in for a lot of June (and I was admittedly inspired a tiny bit by @LittleFallenPrincess's Monstrum series, but in a different sort of way than hers; do check out her stories because they are absolutely fantastic): a story about humanity and Weres (Werewolves, Werehawks, Werebruins, Weretigers, and Weregators) co-existing after a long tumultuous period...for now. Of course, something has to change. As a notable WARNING: there are a lot of mature themes in this story - bigotry from antagonistic forces, first and foremost; this is a modern take on Jim Crow/HIV panic for Weres when it comes to humanity (and some Weres believe in Were-supremacy), and to be respectful to the subject matter, I will not skimp on just how a society of humans and Weres has that underlying tension and real life problems, so consider this your only warning on that. Adding on to that, politics. There is political stuff in this: one of the MCs is a pro-Were politician who wants to enact change for Were-rights. Quite simply, I have no intention of insulting parties on other sides. I don't do that with stories because I don't wish to offend, but quite simply, the politics cannot be avoided, and I promise not to inject my own political views into this story. Granted, it's difficult to be objective when it comes to stories; we all suffer from that, but I will do my utmost best to avoid any issues and avoid offending. As far as other warnings, police brutality and corruption is prevalent (given the Jim Crow style hatred for Weres), there is a notable case of domestic violence and domestic sexual assault hinted for a character, violence, and sexual themes. I promise to give warnings at those points; I have not ever skimped on a warning before, and I promise not to do it now. There's also language (up to "fuck"), but if you're reading one of my stories, that's a given. About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. Thank you in advance! Now, on to the show: - Chapter One: The Meeting - The alarm of the clock blared in Stephany’s ears, and a soft groan exited her lips. Eyes still closed in defiance of the brand-new day, she fumbled in the dark before slamming her hand on it, only managing to turn it to a radio station. She opened her eyes and hit the clock again, this time turning off the alarm. She noted with sorrow that her nighttime…misadventures had not improved with time. Maybe a doctor could help…if a doctor would help. “It’s Saturday,” she mumbled, ripping off the tabs of the saturated diaper. “The hell could be so damn important on a Satur-” She froze, remembering just what was so damn important on a Saturday. “Aw, hell!” Stephany did a quick shower, barely managing to scrub the affronting smell off of her. Then she threw on an outfit that did nothing for style: a T-shirt without a logo and jeans with the zipper halfway done before kicking on a pair of sneakers, not even caring about the loose laces. It was haphazard, like her frizzy red hair, her green eyes rheumy from sleep. “Fuck me, I can’t be late to this,” she groaned, rubbing her eyes and stuffing her purse full of her crap before exiting into a dreary April morning in Seattle. She noticed the two Weres almost immediately. Weres. The bane of her fucking existence. Yeah, humanity and Werekind did not get along, hundreds of thousands of years of tumultuous skirmishes evolving into a tentative peace. These two were Werewolves, but there were four other types: Werehawks, Weretigers, Werebruins, and Weregators, all of them looking quite animalistic…with the exception of Werewolves who alone could try to hide amongst humankind. “Hey, babe,” one of the Weres crooned while the other let out a wolf whistle. “You got time to come with me, right? We could have a great time together, you and I!” “Go away,” Stephany growled, hugging her arms together; she deeply regretted not bringing a jacket to fend off the drizzle from the sky. “C’mon, don’t be stingy, baby,” the other one said, crowding around her, sniffing her hair. She grabbed both of his hands, and with ten simultaneous snaps, the fingers of the Were were broken, and he let out an agonized scream. “For the last time - and I’ll give you two simple words to follow: Fuck. Off!” she growled, her eyes blazing with rage. The uninjured Were grew pale. “You…you’re a-” “Yeah, I fucking am,” she snarled, baring the fangs that had gone unnoticed by the other Weres. “Last chance to fuck the hell off.” “Fine, you fucking bitch!” the injured Were whined. “I bet you suck in bed anyway!” The two left, and Stephany sighed. It sucked to be a Were. A normal person may have been confused. Being a Werehawk meant one could fly! A Weregator could submerge themselves for long periods of time! Werewolves were masters of disguise and could run forever! Werebruins had outstanding physical strength! Weretigers were stealthy and powerful! What was so bad? Everything else. Every little thing, from the inability to eat anything other than meat; the restaurants, hotels, and apartments that had blazing neon signs saying, “No Weres”; the various anti-Were laws that seemed to pop up every day that crowded Weres into the worst neighborhoods and forbade them from doing so much as owning anything other than certain properties or have anything other than certain jobs; hell, the discriminatory attacks and the inaction from the law to prevent the humans from attacking Weres. And that wasn’t even getting into Were biology. The way that Stephany was turned - a single one-night fling with a Werewolf - created a burning desire to feed, a constant hunger that could only be undone by turning someone into a Were herself - and even that was temporary at best, a screaming ache in her stomach that was making her think of doing something incredibly stupid. So, she was going to a meeting of Weres to discuss her new life. Just fucking peachy. Stephany ignored the stares as she walked through Belltown, the worst area in Seattle, ignored the mothers shielding their children, ignored the men with itchy trigger fingers. She just continued to walk to the seediest part of Belltown until she arrived at the large establishment that was her destination: The Crewe Club. It looked fairly nondescript for a bar, with only a neon sign showing the name. The windows were dark, shuttered, and obviously reinforced; a sad necessity, given the large number of firebombers that struck pro-Were establishments. She let out a sigh and opened the door. The interior shocked her. It was almost gothic in design, with beautiful stained-glass designs close to the windows, a mesmerizing chandelier, lamps with candle lights above every polished wooden table, with plush seats making the atmosphere downright cozy. The bar itself was also well-lit, showcasing every liquor bottle, the various cocktail options, and the food items for both Weres and the rare human who chose this bar to eat and drink at…not that many humans would choose to go here. Behind the bar was a Weregator with a large gray beard spilling down to the top of his chest, his toothy snout protruding and greenish scales shining. He was cleaning glasses, one after another. “Can I help ye?” he asked in a very deep Southern drawl, not even looking up from his latest glass. “Looking for…” Stephany showed the Weregator the meeting card she had been given, “...Weres Anonymous?” “Only humans and newly-turned call it that,” the Weregator said bluntly. “Ain’t nothin’ ‘bout us that’s ‘Anonymous’. But I can tell you’re newly-turned.” “How?” Stephany was confused. “The smell. The uncertainty. The fact that ye look like ye just jumped out of bed. You’re tryin’ to make a deadline. Don’t worry, kid; they ain’t gonna start without ye.” “Where can I find the meeting spot?” “Downstairs.” The Weregator jerked his head at a door she hadn’t seen. “Thank you, Mister.” “Just call me ‘Clay.’ Everyone does.” “Thanks, Clay.” Stephany let out a sigh, walked to the door and opened it. A dark, winding hallway with stairs greeted her. Her night vision, being a Were, was solid, seeing shapes of objects as clearly as if they were in daylight. She grabbed the railing of the stairs, taking it one step at a time down the meandering staircase. It seemed to take forever, and she wondered how Weres that were in wheelchairs could get down here. Then she nearly ran smack dab into another door, this one barred shut. She knocked on it. A deep feminine voice answered, “You newly-turned? Clay told us to expect you.” “Yes!” Stephany squeaked. “Well, come on in; we don’t bite.” The newly-turned Werewolf opened the door to see the largest Werebruin she had seen in her life. The Werebruin wore a simple T-shirt and jeans, and the smile on her furry snout was kind. “Welcome, welcome,” the Werebruin rumbled, the look in her rich brown eyes filled with mischief. “I’m Nora, Nora Villanueva. I hope the walk wasn’t too far. What’s your name?” “Stephany Mercer.” Stephany shook Nora’s hand, which enveloped hers like a child’s. “Welcome, Stephany!” A huge Weretiger woman entered the conversation, her voice as perky and bright as her pink T-shirt and skirt. “I’m Zora Villanueva. Nora’s my lovely wife.” Zora’s whiskers on her striped face twitched excitedly, the look in her amber eyes warm. “Now, make yourself at home, please.” Stephany looked around the room, the aromatic smell of raw meat tickling her sensitive nose. It was quite large and well-lit with scented candles. There were comfy couches to sit on, only one of which was occupied: a nervous-looking male Werehawk sat there, and he shrank away from her - visibly flinching - when she walked over to him. Her voice was filled with confusion as she asked the couple, “Did I do something wrong?” “Oh, Dane’s new, like you,” Nora explained. Stephany had a feeling that Nora wasn’t being entirely truthful, but she let it slide as she sat on a couch. “We’re going to talk about so much, but don’t worry; it’s all to help.” God, is that really it? I don’t need any help; I just want a fucking cure! “So, how were you turned, Stephany?” Zora asked gently. “I don’t think you deserve to know,” the Werewolf growled, a dangerous hint in her tone. It was embarrassing to her, it- “Fetish-site?” Zora asked. Stephany’s wide eyes obviously gave the Weretiger all the proof she needed, as she continued, “That’s how most are turned. Some assholes use those sites to lure in vulnerable people, and-” “I’M NOT FUCKING VULNERABLE!” Stephany snarled, before a wet feeling on her bottom- NO! She was peeing all over the couch, her jeans utterly soaked, and she started to sob hysterically, burying her head in her hands. Not fucking vulnerable, my ass… She felt a gentle hug from both sisters and, to her shock, Dane as well. “I think you’ll need to see a therapist as well as us,” Nora said gently. “Don’t worry, they’re quite nice, they’re knowledgeable about LittleWere physiology, and...” Stephany barely heard the words, lost in her stupid embarrassment, the outing of her fetish, wishing she was someone, anyone else. I HATE being a Were. Why?! Why me?! --- Well, that's that for the first chapter. Hope y'all enjoyed~

Now for something entirely different. This is another babyfur story of mine (one that actually got inspired by @Panther Cub's stories, actually; if you are a fan of babyfur stories, check them out), but it's got very heavy themes. I promise to warn you when they come up. EDIT: About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. Now, on with the show: Chapter One: Guilt and Shame - Constantin Tremblay woke up with a large yawn, the American ermine stretching his limbs, his tail and whiskers twitching with anticipation for the first week of August, the first week of his sophomore year of high school. Then he smelled something funny. He took off his blanket and gasped. No. No, it can’t be! He had unmistakably wet - no, soaked was more like it - the bed. His thoughts were frantic. It’s just got to be a bug. A summer bug. Can’t be FIID. It can’t be that, no, summer bug, it’s just a damn bug. Fallout Incontinent/Infancy Disease, the hidden scourge of the weapon known as Project A, the weapon that turned the world’s then-humans into humanoid animals way, waaay back in the time of, like, the dinosaurs (technically in 1963, during the Kennedy administration, but still) affected about a tenth of all middle and high schoolers. It was a horrible disease, turning those kids into what basically amounted to teen toddlers. No, he was not going to have that. He was already hiding being trans from his parents; he couldn’t have that as well. Already cost me friendships. Can’t have it cost my family too. With those thoughts, Constantin gathered his night clothes and sheets, quickly putting them in the washing machine with a lot of bleach, before turning the bleach toward his bed. Then the shower. The thing he hated the most, his dysphoria clearly showing there. His breasts, unmistakably showing his outward sex, hiding the powerful man he knew he was. He hated them, hated them. The ermine made sure to take a longer time in the shower than normal, washing every single part of his awful body to get the smell off of him. He put on his clothes: baggy black jeans, a loosely-fitting black T-shirt, and combat boots. Thank whatever gods existed - not that Constantin believed in a god; if there were any, they wouldn’t have made him like this - that there wasn’t a school uniform for anything other than basketball; it would’ve sucked if he was forced to wear a skirt or dress. Then he did the gel in his short hairfur, spiking it up. Then his glasses. He hated that he needed glasses; it made him look nerdy. Yeah, he got decent grades, but it was his basketball career that he cared about. His parents were fine with it because they were former jocks (Dad played soccer; Mom was a former cheerleader.), but… He shook his head furiously. He was going to have a good day at school, damn what the morning wanted him to think. Constantin let out another yawn, making a small breakfast for himself (his parents were off on their high-paying five-to-five jobs, so he was fairly self-sufficient.): just regular cereal and orange juice (breakfast of champions!) before he got his stuff packed and ready for school. He noted the silver coin on the countertop with Mom’s signature (payment for lunch and a thinly-veiled demand for “Marie-Claire” to join cheerleading) telling him to take the coin (which he did), and let out a sigh, exiting into the morning light. The ermine was early for the school trolleybus (it was rare for animals to have a car, since the gas-guzzlers had stopped being produced after the Fallout, and electric cars were only used by the rich...like his dad and mom), getting on with a nod at the driver, an elderly gorilla who nodded back at him before the trolleybus sped off. Constantin sat at the back, relaxing and almost nodding off with rock-n-roll music, before a familiar voice woke him up. “Hey, you’re taking my spot.” He opened his black eyes to see an ocelot, her amber eyes appraising him cautiously. He knew her. Allyson. Allyson Blood, his former bestie before…stuff happened. Mainly because Constantin never came out as trans to her (to anyone, really), and felt uncomfortable around girls nowadays (he was definitely attracted to girls, which made things…complicated.)…but partially because Allyson had gotten FIID, along with…his other two former friends. She was wearing a pink onesie with cartoon cats that did nothing to hide the fact that she was wearing a very thick diaper, and had a pink pacifier clipped to the neck area of her onesie. Her spotted tail flicked nervously, as she clutched a stuffed saber-toothed tiger in her paws. “Then take it from me if you can,” Constantin said in a bored tone. “It’s my spot. I’ve had it all of last year, Marie.” He looked at her, her eyes watering with tears, and a guilty feeling gnawed at his heart. “I…fine, take it,” the ermine muttered, shifting over so Allyson could get her body into the seat. “Thank you, Marie,” the ocelot said gratefully, popping in her pacifier and sucking nervously. “Whatever, I didn’t know it was your spot,” he muttered, hating his high-pitched tilting female voice. “Sho…I shee you’re doin’ bashketbaw?” The pacifier muffled her words, almost cutely. Not cutely. She’s just a damned overgrown baby now. Your friendship with her is over, let alone anything more. And yet… “Yeah, I figure that since I’m on the girl’s team…yeah.” “I’vf sheen your gamesh. You’re reawy good.” “Eh, I’m decent.” A lie. He had already gotten scholarship offers - women’s, of course, but one or two men’s teams as well - from high-profile colleges all across the United States, despite starting this year as a sophomore. “Don’t wie. I’m onwy FIID, not shtupith.” He looked at Allyson, seeing her glaring at him. Still intimidating, even though she was dressed as a baby (especially since she was bigger than he was). “I said I was decent. What’s there to lie about?” “Whatever.” The ride continued in stony silence, as more and more students - and teachers - got on the trolleybus. Constantin noted with dread that the ride had picked up his two other former close friends: Haylee Kilgallen the black-backed jackal and Krysten Peppers the long-eared owl, both of them sitting on the opposite side of him, both clad in similar attire to Allyson (only with a stuffed unicorn for Haylee and a stuffed roc for Krysten). “Hi, Marie!” Krysten said excitedly. “It’s been a while…” “Krys, she made her choice,” Haylee said coldly, her paw on Krysten’s wing feathers, as Constantin felt another gut punch of guilt. It’s not like they’d be your friends anyway. You’re not a girl, never were one. There’s too many issues, too many problems, and they’d stop being your friends if they knew the truth. So why did he feel so guilty and ashamed? “Hey, MC!” a voice cut through. The ermine looked up (way up; the speaker was a giraffe) to see his fellow basketball teammate (and fellow superstar), Xenia Chaconas. Xenia had a smirk on her face, as she said in mock sympathy, “I didn’t know you were FIID, MC. You wearing a diaper, too?” “I’m not,” Constantin huffed. “I’m just sitting with them, that’s all.” “You don’t have to sit with them, you know,” the giraffe continued. “You could sit with the big girls and talk with us.” “Yeah, but I just wanted to listen to my music, not talk,” Constantin growled. “Then sit somewhere else!” Haylee snapped at him. “We don’t want you here.” The words cut straight to the ermine’s heart. Haylee was someone who would fight off the legions of hell for someone if they were her friend. To hear that from her… “C’mon, Lee, you don’t mean that…” Krysten twittered nervously. “I do, Krys. She’s not welcome to sit with us anymore.” “Aw…you hear that? It’s almost like they’re talking!” Xenia cooed mockingly, as Constantin reluctantly got up and walked with the giraffe, who sneered, “I’ll come by the nursery to see you three later.” “Hey, MC!” “Yo, MC, what up?” “Howzit goin’, MC?” The words of Constantin’s fellow basketball teammates felt hollow to him; using the initials of his deadname as a nickname was almost too much to bear, and yet…he knew they meant no malice with it; it was all they really knew. They don’t know you. Your old friends did. And they don’t ever want to see you again. The guilt and shame grew in his heart, so much so that he almost wanted to cry. But he couldn’t. Not in front of his teammates. He felt a large arm snake around his shoulders, the hoof grabbing on to him, as he turned to see…Dragan. Dragan Lazarov. The superstar of the soccer team…and his wannabe boyfriend. The impala planted a kiss on the ermine’s cheek, to his inner disgust. “Hey, MC,” the soccer player rumbled. “You doing okay? Xenia’s not giving you too much grief, is she?” “She’s fine,” Constantin said, wanting Dragan to get the hell away from him, he wasn’t interested in boys, he was never interested in boys. “You know, I was thinking about a date, you know?” “Dragan…” “A date it is, then! How about we see that R-rated movie, huh?” Constantin squirmed under Dragan’s gaze. “I’m a little busy…” “Too busy for me? Blasphemy.” A smirk. The ermine hated that smirk. “C’mon, your dad, my dad, we know each other. It only makes sense.” He looked at the impala. Just because their dads played soccer on the same professional team didn’t mean he was interested in Dragan. Not. One. Bit. “I’ve got a lot of other things to do,” Constantin said, a hint of finality in his tone. “It’s a date then! You know where I’ll be.” The school - Frederick Frost High, the biggest public school in Chicago’s suburbs - came into view, and Constantin could not wait to get off, which he did…but out of the corner of his eye, he saw his three former friends get off as well, along with a fair few other obvious FIIDers, saw the two feline caregivers, what were their names, oh, right, Colleen and Carolina Cross, give assistance, and something drew him over to them, as he hid behind the school tree (a blooming oak tree, one of the few trees left after the Fallout), watching Allyson start to cry as her diaper was checked. “Aww, it’s okay, Ally, you’ll get potty training down eventually,” Colleen the caracal cooed, wiping the ocelot’s tear-and-snot-covered face with a wet-wipe in her paw. “Uh oh, looks like we have a couple of other stinkypants on our paws!” Carolina the serval announced as she checked Krysten and Haylee, who both looked embarrassed and on the verge of tears. I…they were my closest friends. What have I done? What the hell have I done? Was this really worth it? Don’t be a pansy. Of course it was! You and them…it wouldn’t have mixed. You’re on the girl’s basketball team. You’re a top basketball recruit in the nation. They’re going back into their second toddlerhood. And you didn’t have a choice. No, you ALWAYS had a choice! YOU chose to leave them when they needed you the most! YOU chose to hide everything about yourself! YOU chose to live a damned lie every day instead of being honest! You deserve EVERY bad thing that comes your way! You don’t deserve true friends! The feelings of guilt and shame tore him up, and he slumped down the tree, starting to silently cry. - Well, here's hoping for the best for Constantin~ Feel free to review, tell me what I did right, what I can improve on, or even something you liked; that helps me, as an aspiring authoress, more than just blind praise.