Search the Community

Okay, I know I'm coming up with all sorts of ideas lately, so I'm gonna go for this writing spree as I have it. Welcome to Curses!, a babyfur story where six prospective college-aged animals applying for a daycare job are physically and emotionally (but not mentally, per my usual) age-regressed~ Not exactly original, but I hope to put some new spins on it~ Of course, there's going to be a few mature themes that are dealt with in the content warning tags, so if you know you'll be affected in any way, you can stop reading at any point, and I will make sure to warn you guys when those things come up. 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. And now, without further ado, the story: - Chapter One: Six Girls, One Job - Vanessa Cruickshank was bored and ready for the tour to begin for the daycare job she and her bestie, Shannon, applying for along with four other competitors. The giant anteater was dressed casually for the Bay Brooklet Development and Learning Daycare Center in Charlotte, North Carolina, wearing a black tank top with a skull in the middle, ripped blue jeans, and scuffed sneakers, her long bushy tail swishing with annoyance, as she waited outside in the chilly early October Saturday morning with the five other young women in her group. Needless to say, most of them didn’t get along with each other. “Watch where you’re swishing your tail!” the shortest among them, an Arctic hare, snapped. She was dressed to the nines: a white blouse, knee-length black skirt, black leggings, and five-inch heels (that somehow fit her large feet). “Hey, I don’t control where my tail goes!” Vanessa clapped back. “L-Leave her alone!” a mountain zebra spat at the anteater in a deeper voice that denoted her as trans. She wore a shin-length sky-blue dress (that didn’t work with her figure) and flats. “Funny, I thought she didn’t need a sidekick,” Shannon O’Brettle quipped harshly, the margay brushing her black miniskirt, her green sports tank top baring her midriff and combat boots somehow even more casual than Vanessa’s clothes. “At least I don’t dress like a slut to the job interview,” the hare sneered. “At least I rock my looks, Miss A Cup,” Shannon retorted, as the zebra looked down at her hooves shyly, the hare’s tiny paws patting the woman’s legs (as far as she could reach) gently as she glared at the margay. “And the job specifically insisted to wear your favorite clothes to the interview.” “C’mon, can’t we just have fun here?” the maned wolf asked in annoyance. She wore black jean shorts and crocs as well as a black T-shirt depicting a keyboard with the words “Don’t play me!” emblazoned on it. “There are three openings for pairs. We don’t have to argue.” “Just ignore them,” the African wild dog growled, trying to keep her ankle-length golden skirt and loose silver silk top from fluttering in the heavy gale, as she shuffled on her sandals. “Just because there’s six openings doesn’t mean they’ll get the job.” The job, Vanessa thought. Every one of them was desperate to get this job; it seemed like a dream for her, taking care of babies for six figures a month (she was not used to kids, only having an older brother and no younger siblings or cousins, but Shannon was, and she did everything with the margay), almost too good to be true. But she and Shannon were college seniors (and from the look of the others, they were as well), and they needed the money. Then the door opened, and a female northern flying squirrel wearing casual clothing (a red t-shirt without a logo, gray sweats, and tennis shoes) exited the daycare. She looked to be only a little older than they were. “Hi, I’m so glad you all could come!” she said in a perky tone. “I’m Connie Zanovelli, and I’m the head sitter of Bay Brooklet Development and Learning Daycare.” Vanessa was the first to shake paws, noting that Connie was even smaller than Victoria. “Nice to meet you,” the anteater said politely. “Vanessa Cruickshank.” Shannon was next. “Shannon O’Brettle,” the margay said confidently. The hare followed. “Victoria Box,” she said in a cool tone. “Wait, Box?” Shannon asked. “As in the rich female couple?” The hare’s face flushed. “Yeah, what of it?” she muttered. “Why are you interviewing for this job, then?” the margay asked curiously, her tone surprisingly concerned. “Your moms cut you off or something?”” “Because some of us want to take care of kids.” The maned wolf shook paws next. “Tempest Pitcairn. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Zanovelli.” The African wild dog continued with the paw-shaking. “Shiloh Nash. Good to meet you, ma’am.” The mountain zebra sighed shyly, shuffling her hooves, seeing as she was last. “I-I’m Hester Dampier. I-It’s good to m-meet you, Ms. Zanovelli, ma’am.” “It’s wonderful to meet you all as well, but please, call me ‘Connie’; ‘Ms. Zanovelli’ and ‘ma’am’ sound so stuffy.” Connie’s smile was friendly. “Technically, the Pilkvists wanted to hire extra help. I’m assuming there’s going to be a lot of kids, given the hires.” “How long have you been here?” Vanessa asked. “About a month. They just opened the daycare to the public, so…” Connie looked almost contemplative. “Well, I’m glad that you all are here for the job interview.” Vanessa looked at Shannon, the margay’s face matching her confusion. Only a month open? That was…a bit unusual. “My bosses wanted to hire extra help for whatever reason,” the flying squirrel said. “So…shall we go in? It’s a bit too cold to stand outside.” “Of course,” Victoria said, barging her way in with Hester, her apparent friend, following nervously. Shiloh and Tempest followed next, leaving Vanessa staring at Shannon. “You sure about this, Ness?” the tree cat asked. “It’s a little…” “Weird? Sketchy?” the giant anteater finished. “Yeah, but if it pays six figures a month for this alone, I’m willing.” “Thanks for coming with me, Ness. I know kids aren’t exactly your thing…” “Any time, Shanny. Let’s go in.” The two lifelong friends went into the daycare and looked around. The walls had a light pink hue and were decorated with infantile posters, the floor was covered entirely with soft fuzzy carpet, and the ceiling lights were warm yet not intrusive, but other than that, it was sadly empty of anything, like the items were going to be moved in at a later date. Even the other four applicants weren’t there, only Connie was outside of an office door that they hadn’t noticed before. “They want you going in separately,” the flying squirrel said to them. “Good luck with the interview!” “Where is the next one?” an older female voice asked in a raspy tone. “Who wants to go?” Connie asked. “You do it first; I know I’ll do well enough,” Vanessa said with a smirk. “Fine. I’ll see you as an employee,” Shannon said with a smirk of her own as the margay walked to the door, opened it, and entered the room. Vanessa waited and waited, tapping her foot, before she felt her phone buzzing to display a text message. The anteater was annoyed; she had purposely kept her phone on vibrate and told her folks not to call her during the interview. She looked at the message, no, a lot of messages, one after another. Threatening, wheedling, threatening again, demanding her to answer, threatening yet again, faux loving shit, and, to nobody’s surprise, threatening once more. In short? Another message from…him. Her stupid fucking ex, Ryan. She had blocked all of his phone numbers, but he always got a different phone to call her with. It was annoying and more than slightly scary. The anteater blocked this one as well; she had no time to deal with this shit. She noticed the time. Almost noon. What was taking so long? Connie was on the phone with someone as well, as she said, “Raffy, I know you wanted to pick me up for that fancy lunch, but I’ve got a slate of interviews at my job, and my bosses are very nitpicky about that.” A pause. “Sure, 1:30 PM works; they never stated anything otherwise…” Then the door opened, and Vanessa got nervous - because Shannon, nor any of the other four, for that matter, had not exited the room. “If we can see the final young lady?” a different raspy female voice asked. “Okay, looks like you’re up, Vanessa!” Connie said in a perky tone. “Good luck!” The anteater sighed, ready to go in and try to nail the interview in spite of her trepidation, not having a clue of what was to come. - Hope y'all enjoyed~

Okay (yes, I am on a roll when it comes to stories; I even have the next chapters for INSIWAb... and Semper Fi ready for their usual postings on Saturday and Tuesday, respectively.), I know this is another medical story in a whole lot of them...but it's quite different than most. Welcome to Patient Zero, a medical age regression journey into young toddlerhood for some (and maybe younger for one). I know it doesn't sound very impressive, and I was somewhat basing this off of an idea I got from an age-regression story (I don't recall which one.) where...well, I won't spoil. But as for the content warnings, not every character gets a nice background. In fact, a lot of them are quite hard, if not going-through-the-absolute-wringer hard (I kinda based one of the characters off of Killer Croc's backstory, though this one isn't a fictional disease, but a very real one.), and the content warnings are there for a reason. 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! And let's not delay, for here it is: - Chapter One: 4:30 AM - 6:55 AM, May 22nd, 2024 - Dr. Berry Glass woke up at 4:30 AM as she always did, ready for her job as a researcher and group therapist for one of the most prevalent modern diseases known to women under the age of thirty: Sudden Adult Age Retrogression Syndrome or SAARS. The thirty-three-year-old yawned, stretching out her long legs and arms as her alarm blared, her short sandy-brown hair frazzled with sleep. She slipped out of bed, rubbing her hazel eyes, going to the bathroom to shower; she didn’t use makeup at work. Work, she thought as she turned the water on, shivering from the chill. Giving hope of a better life to those who had none. SAARS was a disease that regressed otherwise normal women under thirty to a set age, normally around twelve to sixteen months old. It was also permanent as far as researchers like her could tell; whatever enzymes that aged people - namely telomeres that broke down with cell division - were paused. But what was worse than that was that there was no mental regression; the women had their adult minds and memories during the whole process. It would be so much easier if their minds were also regressed, but to be forced into babyhood forever with an adult perspective was a horrifying prospect, especially adults who had their own dreams taken away from them. Some people regarded it as an act of God for sin and rejected the unfortunate women. Worse still, a lot of people, whether it was parents, husbands, or boyfriends didn’t want to take care of the now-infantilized women that were their daughters, their partners, their friends, possibly forever being babies. Such a thing was heartbreaking, yet common. Therefore, there was a therapy session Berry headed, knowing the most about the disease, how the process worked (although there was no common vector as of now, no original patient to discuss; it had infected thousands of young women simultaneously), and - as one of the rare woman doctors unable to be infected - what to do in the process. Her job aside from research was helping the few women and partners who were struggling and genuinely asked for advice instead of being buried within walls of secretive shame. They came to her for advice, even if she didn’t have a clue about how to stop it, let alone reverse it. One thing for sure was this: it was manmade. Someone was playing God with the lives of innocent women, and as a doctor who took pride in following the Hippocratic Oath to the letter, Berry was furious that someone was doing this to these poor women on purpose. But she couldn’t focus on her rage, she mused, as she turned off the shower, her body cleansed. The women patients of simultaneous ages and their desperate partners - boyfriends, husbands, and the odd parent - were her priority today. Then came a long day of research as the only woman allowed in the laboratory while the cultures were done, even if she had to deal with…Digby Fletcher. She wrapped the towel across her nude body, her firm breasts sensitive at the touch. Fucking Digby Fletcher - Doctor Digby Fletcher, a transplant from the United Kingdom with Scottish and Irish descent, judging by his mixed accent - the arrogant, pretty-boy cocksucker (hey, it was true! His definite flamboyant sexuality was no secret.) with his against-the-rules-long ginger hair in a bushy ponytail that fell to his back and bangs that mostly hid his eyes. He was an asshole to everyone, to put it as kindly as she could, and always acted like he knew better than everyone in the room. Well, he was extremely intelligent like she was, that couldn’t be denied; he graduated with a doctorate from a super young age (he was currently twenty-two years old and graduated at Oxford with honors at the precocious age of seventeen), much like she did at Stanford University at eighteen years old (2005, good times), getting to college early and skipping a lot of grades, valedictorian, highest marks in the country in her graduate year. Maybe super smart people butted heads, but Fletcher’s caustic sarcasm and swelled head was almost unbearable and most definitely insufferable, especially when he had gone to the subject of parents and how hers must’ve been annoyed that she was a mere “pediatrician”. Mine died, she thought bitterly as she got into her therapy clothes - a lab coat and smart black pantsuit, and got her purse, the time on her phone reading 5:00 AM. To a drunken driver when they were on the way to celebrate her valedictorian honors. The drunk had died as well, leaving behind two devastated families. It was the only time she had ever seen Fletcher with any kind of remorse for what he said, with any kind of empathy - or any positive emotion that wasn’t snark, for that matter - in his dead icy-blue eyes, and to his rare credit, he never brought up the subject again. And Warwick had immediately stepped in and read him the riot act. Berry’s heart fluttered as she got her usual breakfast and lunch (both small meals for the slim 5’6” woman) packed in another bag and stepped out into the beautiful San Diego weather to get to her car, thinking of Dr. Warwick Cooks, his handsome tanned complexion and smile, his trimmed beach-blond beard and hair, his warm ocean blue eyes, so unlike the shards of glass that represented Fletcher’s eyes. Warwick was a fellow Stanford graduate who had taken her under his wing as a freshman, her best friend, her confidant, her occasional on-and-off lover when she turned eighteen, she recalled with a rare blush to her face, as she got in her Hyundai Kona Electric car and pressed the button to start the engine. Hot damn, he was good in bed. Thankfully, rush hour in San Diego was not until much later, and she got to the hospital in record time at 6:15, ready to begin the group therapy session at 7:00 in the morning. She prepared the seats for the prospective people…and the toys, stuffed animals, and lots of diapers for the women who needed them. Even though there was no mental regression with SAARS, emotional regression to the age they became was almost certain, and toilet training was the very first thing to go with them. SAARS usually took off years quickly, one year regressed a day, so she assumed she’d see people of varying ages. The windows on the outside were the only ones showing with the rest shuttered. The walls were soundproofed, so that nothing came out of the room. Safety and privacy were of the utmost importance when it came to those suffering from SAARS; they didn’t need the hatred, anger, and judgment from the outside world. The first people arrived at 6:30: a skinny young Black man with thin cornrows, glasses, who wore a black hoodie and sweats, gently carrying a sleeping two-year-old Black girl while balancing a computer bag and empty diaper bag on his scrawny shoulders. Her hair was done expertly, braided with beads in them, and she was wearing a pink onesie and a thick diaper. She drooled on her stuffed zebra before the man replaced it with a pacifier, which she unconsciously started sucking on. Berry didn’t recognize either of them, and she hadn’t had a phone call with them, but she figured she’d know more about them during the session. The next people arrived ten minutes later: a fairly young, pale cleanshaven Caucasian man with dark brown hair who wore a San Jose Sharks hat, and a black T-shirt and camo shorts that showed his sinewy frame. He was carrying a two-year-old blonde girl who was fearfully tucking her head into his arms, her thick diaper peeking from her pink dress, clutching a stuffed gazelle as if her life depended on it. She knew them from a phone call: Detective Oleksiy Pomonarenko of the San Jose Police Department, and his ex-partner/now-child Natasha Orlova. Oleksiy had taken custody of Natasha immediately, knowing her parental figures were…not very nice, to put it lightly. Berry’s research on Natasha’s parents confirmed Oleksiy’s fears, but it was not the place for a private session. The last to come at 6:50 was a bald Black man wearing a Sacramento Kings beanie, an Oakland Raiders mask across his entire lower face, a San Diego Padres jersey and blue jeans, and a Caucasian girl toddler in a dress and diaper who looked two years old, her hair in red pigtails. She chewed on one of her pigtails before the man replaced it with a pacifier, which she gleefully started sucking on. She was holding a stuffed horse, a Clydesdale. Berry remembered both of them from a prior session: Amos Norwood and Hannah Norwood, a husband and wife in…less than ideal circumstances, poor Amos, especially. She wondered if Oleksiy would recognize Amos. Unfortunately for her, he did. “You,” Oleksiy said in a flat tone to Amos, who glared back. “I trust you’re on the straight and narrow when it comes to your new kid?” “It’s always been hard to find honest work,” Amos retorted. “Especially now. Y’all ain’t let me find it.” “A cop?” the young Black man with glasses asked in an accent that sounded slightly Arabic, rolling his eyes. “If there aren't enough problems…Allah give me strength.” “We are not going to argue about our backgrounds in front of your partners. Everyone is welcome here.” Berry’s voice was firm, her eyes flashing a warning sign to all that there would be no arguments on that front. She turned to look at the young Muslim man. “Might I know your name?” He looked at her, his brown eyes calm behind his glasses. “Darquarius Zerrouki. I’m from Morocco, born in the United States with citizenship from my mother. My partner, her name is Chief Petty Officer Lynn Graham of the United States Navy.” “Can she confirm?” Oleksiy asked immediately. The man called Darquarius surprisingly didn’t argue, as he gently nudged the girl awake, as she whined, “Daddyyy!” “Lynnie, cupcake, you need to meet the nice people,” the man said, his voice filled with genuine love. The Black girl rubbed her eyes with a yawn and said with a tired smile, “Hi! I’m Chief Peppy Offsher Wynn Gwaham. Me wash…” She frowned as her two-year-old lisp prevented her from saying the words right, her squirming meaning that she likely was close to messing her diaper when she didn’t want to, and Berry’s heart broke for the SAARS-infected woman. “Me wash en-gay-jed to Daddy. Daddy, I gots to go now.” “That’s what your diaper’s for, Lynnie. I promise I’ll get you changed.” Darquarius looked at Berry, the look in his eyes desperate, as a giant brown and yellow spot ballooned in his former fiancée’s diaper. “Do you have Pampers Swaddlers? That’s what she said she prefers, and I’m running on fumes, trying to babyproof the house alone...” “I have them,” Berry said kindly. “Natasha prefers Huggies Little Snugglers,” Oleksiy said. “Good choice; that’s what Hannah likes as well,” Amos agreed. “I have them as well,” the doctor said, noticing that Natasha’s face was relaxing as she pooped her diaper, and Hannah was squirming in discomfort, about ready to go herself. “We can change them here, and hopefully more people will come to start the session.” Thank holy God I came prepared. She was not prepared for a blindside hit she never saw coming. - Hope y'all enjoyed~

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 two two-quart-sized plastic 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 water flask and an aluminum canteen cup, 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~

This is my very first real foray into ABDL/age regression (had another one, but it went nowhere). Like all of my stories, there are mature themes, and I will warn you when we get to them - even with the content warnings in the tags; I have not led readers astray or lied to them about trigger warnings, and I'm never going to start. 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. If you're ready - and still with me - let the story begin: - Chapter One: A Girls' Night Out on the Town. - Svetlana Volkova was going to meet her two friends, Tatiana Voronina and Galina Tigrova for a normal Sunday brunch, and she had the feeling it was going to be quite exciting - especially on the day before Halloween. The three women weren’t really anything special, not really. All three were twenty-five-year-old Pittsburgh natives (from Russian parents), athletic, excellent figures (each of them were D cups), and all three were top-notch daycare workers. They had known each other since they were young, since before they could remember. Each of them had mousy-brown hair that they dyed to look prettier, and each of them had piercing icy-blue eyes. Some had confused the three for triplets at first glance. It was fine by them; they were each very much close. Even when they had their fights, it was solved rather quickly and with no hard feelings. Svetlana walked down the sidewalk with a purpose as her Pittsburgh Penguins jersey, knee-length black skirt and purse fluttering in the gusty wind. She brushed her shoulder-length dyed-golden-brown hair away from her eyes as she neared the stop. Tatiana was the first to notice, as she waved and smoothed her Penguins jersey and golden skirt, her shoulder-blade-length dyed-auburn curls noticeable. She nudged Galina, who was busy twirling her navel-length, shockingly-dyed-royal-purple hair before she turned to see her friend and jumped to her feet out of shock (and yes, she too was wearing a Penguins jersey and a golden skirt). The women walked over, hugging each other with gleeful looks on their faces. “Well, you finally came here, Svetka,” Tatiana said with a smirk. “We were beginning to think you had gotten bored.” “Bored? Of you girls? Never!” Svetlana was beaming. “Girl, I can’t remember the last time we haven’t spoken!” Galina exclaimed. “We do this so much, they give us free food.” “And we wear it well,” Tatiana laughed, causing the other two to join in. Svetlana sat down with her two friends. “So, how are things with you?” she all but sang. “Good! Can’t wait for the Pens game; that new swanky bar has the perfect place to watch,” Tatiana said. “You feel like coming, Svetka?” “Of course, Tanya!” the woman said. “I’m surprised we’re going out barhopping, though; we don’t have a car…” “Oh, come on, Svetka,” Galina said. “It’ll be so much fun.” She paused. “The only problem is, we have to bring someone else who can drive us, since our car is in the shop, and the only person we know who’s interested is…” “Celine,” the three said simultaneously, as they all let out annoyed sighs. Celine Fuchs was their old housemate they hated, and the feeling was very much mutual. A nosy busybody three years younger than them, Celine made no secret about having a fiancé to go back home to (it wasn’t that they couldn’t get boyfriends if they wanted; they were just not interested in dates at the moment.), and she critiqued them on every little thing, every miniscule detail, despite the fact that she was a law clerk. It was hell to deal with her. “You going to call her, Svetka?” Tatiana asked. “It’s not like we have a choice,” Svetlana muttered. She opened her smartphone and called Celine’s number. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. “Hello, who is this?” Celine asked in an annoyed tone. “It’s Svetlana.” “Oh, hi, Svetlana. What do you want?” “Tatiana, Galina, and I were going to catch the Pens game tonight at the new bar. Was wondering if you’d come.” “Oh, that would be marvelous!” Celine’s voice entirely changed, sounding genuinely excited. “Well, I’ll have to get ready. You planning on parking? Bringing money for food? What time would be best to leave-” “Don’t worry, Celine, we’re all going in the same car,” Svetlana said calmly. “Might as well bring my car; it’s a new one.” “You sure?” “It’s got multiple seats.” “Okay, fine. We’ll take your car.” “Can I bring my fiancé?” “Sorry. Girls' night out.” “Oh, well, I’ll tell him to go to our house. Where do I pick you three up?” “Right at Market Square. You’ll know us.” “Of course. Have a wonderful day! Go Pens!” Svetlana sighed when Celine hung up on her. Her two friends looked at her. “Guess it’s a go. She’s picking us up in her car.” “Ugh, she always likes to brag,” Tatiana muttered. “Always. It’s a new car, new clothes, new boyfriend, what-fucking-ever, I don’t care.” “She’s so fucking insufferable,” Galina said with a sigh. “I guess riding in her car won’t be the worst thing, right?” “True. It’s only one time, then never again,” Tatiana agreed with much reluctance. “Let’s just go to Market Square and wait; the game starts at 5:00, and it’s already 2:00 PM.” “Agreed.” They finished paying for their brunch and included a generous tip before walking to Market Square (hey, they always could use exercise, even with the various male catcallers), getting there at around 3:00 PM. It was a short wait until a brand-new Honda Odyssey that all but blared that it was Celine’s car pulled up, the aforementioned driver waving at them. “Hellooo!” she called. “You ready!” “Yeah, we are,” Svetlana said. No shit we’re ready, you dumb bitch. We’ve been ready! The three women packed into the backseats, none of them wanting to sit in the front with their annoying old housemate. “Look, I get you don’t like me, but…I do appreciate you bringing me with you to the bar with you,” Celine said politely. Svetlana looked at her younger ex-housemate who had a genuine smile on her face. Celine certainly was fairly attractive, actually, scratch that, definitely attractive with a blonde pixie cut, inquisitive sea-green eyes, and a larger bust than even they had. Tatiana was the only one to break the silence. “Sure, I mean, might as well bring you along; we know how big a fan you are,” she said. “Still, it is appreciated. Still, expect this to be a one-time thing, though.” “The feeling’s quite mutual,” Svetlana said bluntly. If only she knew just how dead wrong her words were. - So, let me know if there's anything I can improve on, anything you liked or disliked, stuff like that~

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~

Hello, this is another idea I've had for a fair bit. It may be slightly influenced by French Whines (kudos to the author of it; probably one of my favorite stories I've read on this site), except...well, this is more supernatural than anything. And now, for WARNINGS: there will be political undercurrents in this story. If you're not a fan of Israel or Arab countries, well, I will say this story probably won't be for you (as I am ethnically Jewish from my mom and have the utmost respect for all religions - so long as they aren't hurting people - including Christianity and Islam, my feelings, as much as I want to be an impartial observer, may spill out. I apologize beforehand, but this story is something I feel I had to write from the bottom of my heart after all that's happened). But I PROMISE beforehand, there will be a good ending to this; I may be cynical about our irl chances if/when another huge war spills out, but that doesn't mean this story has to be. Of course, politics and the bigotry (portrayed in antagonists INCLUDING THIS CHAPTER, JUST SO YOU'RE WARNED) are there, but I promise to be respectful in that regard. Violence is there, given the subject matter. Language is a given with any of my stories. And of course, gender-swapping is a major thing, and I promise to be respectful in that regard as well. 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, to start the story: - Chapter One: Death is Not the End. - Lieutenant Lavi Zingel’s calm brown eyes were constantly aware of their surroundings, for danger was close by. He was deep undercover in Sayeret Matkal’s operation in Egypt; if he was found out, Israel could deny any involvement. Operation Rebirth was risky, but he had been the first to volunteer for it. It was all he could do for his country, was it not? Ten top Israeli scientists had been captured by a shadowy Iranian-proxy organization, and it required a delicate touch; only one man could be sent to infiltrate, and he was perfect, as he was of Arabic and Jewish descent (from his father and mother, respectively), and looked the part with dark olive skin, and a full dark-brown beard. Mossad was worried that Alraabitat Almunahidat Lilsihyuniati (Anti-Zionist League, honestly, couldn’t they think of a more original name than that?) was forcing the scientists to build nuclear weapons in Egypt, which would then be shipped to Syria and Lebanon. Zingel was as skilled a combatant as had ever gone through Sayeret Matkal; everyone in the secretive unit knew it. He had aced every test, physical, medical, psychological, had been pushed to his limits and beyond, and he had come out of it stronger than ever before, a weapon who could kill a man hundreds of different ways. But the main thing that separated him from the others was his mind. He was an omniglot, fluent in over twenty languages and dialects. He had graduated top of his class in high school, a 750 on the Psychometric Entrance Test, summa cum laude in all classes, with a bagrut certificate. He was knowledgeable about how nuclear weapons worked, having had his Egyptian-Israeli father and Israeli mother working on them. It didn’t surprise him that he was the first choice for the mission. What did surprise him, as he looked at the weapons, was that they were far from nuclear armaments. Quite simply, as he looked at the manifests, saw the tired scientists working (not just Israeli, but Egyptian as well), it was far from nuclear. This was a weapon of which the likes had never been seen on this planet before, something he had as much a clue about as the workings of God: in other words, none. Then there was shouting, and he turned around to see a large Arabic man hit a short, heavyset Egyptian woman, who took the hit with stunned disbelief. “I don’t want excuses!” the man roared. “I wanted Project Rebirth to be up-and-running a week ago! I should kill you all, you worthless piles of shit!” “But…what you’re asking…” one of the Israeli scientists, a woman, spoke up timidly. “It’s impossible. This is God’s work, not-” “I DON’T GIVE A DAMN WHAT PIGS LIKE YOU SAY!” the man shouted, closing the distance and shoving a gun in the scientist’s face. “I wanted this to be done long ago! It should’ve been sent to Lebanon and Syria long ago! It should’ve detonated in Tel Aviv, the city of rats like you, long ago!” Zingel was torn. On the one hand, nothing could compromise his identity. Mossad specifically said that the weapons were the priority. But compassion had been instilled in him as well from his parents, and he wanted to rescue the hostages - for clearly the Egyptian scientists were just as much hostages as the Israelis. He took a chance. “Excuse me, sir,” Zingel said politely. “Yes, what is it?” the man snapped. “If we kill them, all hope for Project Rebirth is lost.” The operative was using all of his silver-tongued charm to both keep his cover and spare the lives of the hostages. “And the Zionists would attack us without recourse. Wouldn’t it be better to spare them just a day?” The man gave the operative a cold look. “Who the hell are you?” he snapped. “Dr. Mourad Slimani,” Zingel said in a perfect Algerian Arabic dialect. “I’ve been on this project since day one.” The man gave him a smile. “Well, Dr. Slimani, I suppose there’s no harm,” he said with a shrug. “It’s mostly finished anyway. All that’s left is to shoot them.” Zingel didn’t even blink, didn’t give anything away. “And once the weapon has been tested? What’s stopping the Zionists from attacking? You have to know that they’d send someone?” “I’d be surprised if they didn’t, my good doctor. But I suppose a heretic is as good as an infidel for this purpose.” He holstered his first pistol and grabbed the heavyset Egyptian woman - who had surprisingly dark skin for an Egyptian - by the hair with one hand, a second gun in the other, as she pleaded, “Please, please, I’m a mother, I have children!” “Shut up, you warped whore!” The man hit her in the face with the pistol. “I’ve killed many mothers and their children; don’t think you can negotiate that way with your life on the line!” A cruel smile played on his face. “But I’m not going to shoot you. He is.” He flipped the gun to offer to Zingel. “You can’t be serious! I’m a doctor, I swore not to take lives!” he protested. “You can shoot her…or I can. I can give you five seconds to decide, Dr. Slimani.” Zingel was trapped, and he knew it when he felt the weight of the semi-auto pistol. There was only one bullet in the chamber, which could only mean one thing: he was burnt. Who did it didn’t matter; he knew his cover had been blown. What he did next was impulsive as hell, but he didn’t feel like he had an option. He took the gun…and dropped it, proceeding to draw a hidden knife from his lab coat, grabbing the large man by the throat and backing them both against the wall, as armed guards went in the room, aiming their weapons at them. “You know you don’t have to shoot any of them,” the operative said calmly, as more guards had arrived and had drawn their weapons, shouting at him. The scientists were cowering on the floor…except for the heavyset Egyptian, who was looking at him…curiously? “You know damn well that these aren’t nuclear weapons.” “Of course not!” the man laughed. “Is that what your precious Zionist special agency said, ‘Dr. Slimani’ - or, should I say, Lieutenant Lavi Zingel? They’re not infallible.” “Then what are they?” “Something that will end the lives of all Zionists, purge the Western infidels, and-” “Shut up!” Zingel spat, drawing a tiny bit of blood from the man’s throat. “I asked what the weapons did, not the overarching goal.” “Why should I tell you anything?” “We’re both dead men either way. Feel free to state what you were planning on doing. I don’t have a wiretap, on my oath to God.” “The oath to your god?” “No. It can be yours if you wish. But I have no reason to lie. You’re the leader of this project. So spill.” The man laughed. “You should’ve been born a merchant, not an Israeli pig with that tongue of yours. Devil’s tongue. You think I’m the leader of this project? You think I’m in charge? No, this reaches far beyond your limited comprehension, into the heart of your supposed ‘allies’.” Zingel’s heart dropped. “The United States.” “Very perceptive of you. That is correct: there is an element in the United States who wants this weapon and would pay us by knifing the Zionist regime in the back. I don’t care what the hell they do with this weapon; they’ve paid us with nuclear armaments already. Israel will soon be no more!” “Not if I have anything to say about it!” The man stabbed the Israeli operative in the leg with an odd stone knife and shouted, “Praise be to God! Open fire!” Zingel felt the pain from the stone knife lance through his leg, felt shots nail him in his torso, passing through the man to get to his heart, as the knives from both slipped from their grasps. He slumped against the wall, tearing out the knife he had been stabbed with - it had hit his femoral artery, and he knew he was a dead man anyway, no matter what - breathing ragged gasps. The Arab man was dead, a sadistic grin permanently etched on his face. “That. Is. Enough.” The Israeli looked in shock as the Egyptian woman, now twice as tall as any man and bearing animalian features all over her body: the paws and limbs of a lioness, a crocodilian tail and back, the breasts of a human woman, and the face of a hippopotamus. A very angry hippo. The scared guards aimed at her, but she merely waved a paw, and the guns melted away, the armed guards in the room shriveling into mummies in an alarmingly-short time. The Israeli and Egyptian scientists had their eyes closed and were seemingly sleeping before they vanished into thin air. “Wha-” Zingel coughed up blood, as the creature turned to him. He cowered; he knew enough about Egyptian mythology from his father to know who this…goddess was. But he saw her eyes soften when they saw him. “Shh…it is okay, little one,” she cooed. “I am here.” “But…Ta-wa-ret…” His eyes were tinged red, darkness slowly slipping over them, as he hacked up blood from his ruined lungs. “Yes.” Tawaret’s black eyes were warm, and a sense of security washed over the dying man. “The scientists are safe, away from here, their memories of these horrors gone. But you…you have been hurt with the weapon, my own powers. I cannot heal you, but there is another way I can keep you alive. You, the bridge between worlds, the one who does what is right, must stay alive, must find the ability to stop the world from warring once again, for it will be the end of all. Do you understand, little one? Just nod if you agree.” Lavi Zingel nodded once, as the last breath left his body and darkness swallowed him whole. - I will explain what all of the Israeli things mean (I hope Google Translator did okay with the rare Arabic...): Sayeret Matkal = Israeli special forces, equivalent to British Special Air Service and United States Delta Force. Specializes in deep reconnaissance for intelligence gathering, but also does black operations, combat search-and-rescue, counterterrorism, hostage rescue, manhunts beyond Israel's borders, etc. Mossad = National intelligence agency for Israel, responsible for gathering information, counterterrorism, and covert operations. Much like United States' CIA. Psychometric Entrance Test = Israel's standardized test/entrance exam, based on quantitative reasoning, verbal reasoning, and English. Scores range from 200 to 800. Basically, that means that Lavi's a genius. Bagrut certificate = A certificate that says a student passed the matriculation exam for Israel. High scoring ones like what Lavi had are necessary to go into higher-leveled jobs.

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~

Well, I watched Deadpool & Wolverine...and I loved every moment of it. I also love The Boys for their gritty, somewhat, realistic take on superheroes. Along with the current situation and...real-life events, I think I'd try my hand at a superpowered individual adult baby story! There are also similar elements taken from The Handmaid's Tale and Dragon Age's mage situation (a very fun video game series). As such...a lot of mature themes will be in this story that, quite frankly, delve just as deep into the potential of a new Gilead, and the content warnings are as such. There is sexism by not only the men leading the country/world towards women - both trans and cis - but by the goddess towards men as well. It will be handled delicately, but at the same time, punches will not be pulled; to do that would disrespect everything that's happening in the world today. If you're still with me, I hope you enjoy this story~ - Chapter One: (Another) Brand-New Day. - “Wake up, lovelies! It’s time for a brand-new day.” The melodic feminine voice of Mommy snapped Kirsteen Calhoun’s - better known to all as “Chrissy” - eyes wide awake, peering at the room around her. Pastel pink was everywhere, the mobile hanging above her crib. She let out a yawn and rubbed her sage-green eyes with her mitten-clad hands, noting her pacifier falling from her mouth, the soft fuzziness of her pink-footed sleeper she was dressed in. Then crying echoed around the room, and she knew that some of the other fifteen-year-old girls in this place had realized that their diapers were utterly soiled. Of course, she knew that her diaper was far from clean as well, but she wasn’t going to cry like…them. She was a big girl, she could hold it in. She remembered…remembered a time where that would be unthinkable…but that time was when she had a male body, male expectations…none of which felt right to her, and those days were blurry, like a whisper in a fog, ghost-like and silent. She had been transformed on her tenth birthday, utterly transformed from boy to girl in her sleep. The Nullifiers came immediately after, took her away, sent her to one of the many Classrooms across the United Region of Biblical Interests…Urobi, for short. Thirty girls to a Classroom, basically an overgrown daycare and nursery for those girls who were Dicers, girls with supernatural powers, chosen by the roll of a dice. The Goddess had cursed them with it, they had learned; the Goddess, under a cruel whim, had decided to babify a third of girls around the world, take away their ability to control something a simple toddler could forever. This was a kindness, Mommy said, until they could grow up into big girls again. But Chrissy knew that something was missing, knew the story was just that: a story, only made to frighten little girls like her. Her powers weren’t fancy: she had the constantly active ability to discern anything, through walls, through different floors, even through the truths and lies of people themselves, but her powers, her curse, was efficient enough to know that something…something… Her brain wasn’t functioning again, and the uncomfortable squelch in her diaper told her she desperately needed a change, so she did the only thing she could: cry along with the twenty-nine other girls. A large group of adult women - the Aunties - then entered the room, all of them wearing floor-length dresses, some of them bearing the obvious baby bumps of pregnancy. Soon enough, Chrissy and the twenty-nine others (including her cribmate, a girl named Briar Droney) were quickly and expertly changed. An Auntie with her brown hair expertly braided in a bun (in contrast to Chrissy’s dark-brown pigtails with beautiful pink ribbons in pretty bows to pin them) put a bib on her before she realized that the morning bottle was next, filled with breast milk made by the numerous breeders. As she was wearing mittens, it was all but impossible to grasp the bottle, so the Auntie fed her. A large bit of the milk dribbled from her mouth to her bib, but she managed to finish it all. She could tell that the Auntie didn’t particularly care for the job, for her or any of the other girls. None of them did, really; it was just an upgrade compared to the rights of most women in Urobi. There was even something off about Mommy… Chrissy’s brain immediately became fuzzy again, as the big girl thoughts vanished, as she drummed her legs and squealed excitedly for the day to begin, not even caring about the spurt of pee that entered her very thick diaper, as the Auntie set her back into the crib. “Chrissy?” She turned around to see Briar again, talking to her, the brilliant green eyes of her cribmate complimenting her curly flaming-red hair. Even dressed as infantile as she was in a pink footed sleeper with a pacifier clip spelling out her name completed by a pacifier that stated “Princess”, the obvious thickness of the diaper around her big hips, her cribmate looked genuinely beautiful with a much bigger bust than hers (not that hers was small in the slightest), a nice butt (even if it was covered by a diaper), and a heart-shaped face with cute freckles. “You okay?” Briar asked in a pure Scottish drawl. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Chrissy mumbled in her own Irish brogue, while chewing on her pacifier, forcing herself not to blush. “I hope we all learn something today,” Briar said wistfully. “Like ABCs, 123s, and that stuff? Nah.” Chrissy knew - she knew she knew - that males were taught more than females, more than the stuff that girls, and especially Dicers, were taught…but what were they? What were they… “No. The story about…the Goddess.” The redhead had a dreamy look on her face. “You mean the bedtime story we’re read every night?” Chrissy rolled her eyes at the thought of it, the same stupid story that she knew wasn’t true. “A fairytale?” “Every fairytale’s based on something. I wanna learn more.” The two paused the conversation. It was the same conversation they always had when they woke up, always about learning something new, even when nothing new was really learned…but Briar was Chrissy’s only real friend. The other girls didn’t like her as much, she thought, as it was too easy for her to discern their true thoughts, if they were telling the truth or lying. Nobody liked having a living lie detector around them, nobody wanted their secrets spilled, and thus, trust and kindness was an option they couldn’t, no, wouldn’t afford her. Briar was different. She was the smartest girl Chrissy knew, but was fun-loving, hid nothing from anyone, and cared about everyone. And she didn’t treat Chrissy any differently because of her powers. Like everyone else. The other girls. The Aunties. Even Mommy… With those thoughts, she felt an Auntie pick her up and set her in a giant pink stroller with Briar, ready to be whisked away for a new day of learning. The hallways were that of a typical daycare for girls: pastel pink, with cutesy female human doll caricatures all around them. The strollers were fun and had nice toys to play with as the long stroll from nursery to daycare began. But there were no stuffed animals, nothing that could define anything other than humanity. Chrissy could remember having a stuffed animal a long time ago, but the animals - both stuffed and real - were all…gone, except for the usual hideously mutated farm animals that she had seen a few times outside of the walls - animals so horrifying that they weren’t even really animals to her, just…meat. What was the word…gone? No, not exactly right. Bye-bye? No, definitely not that. It started with an “e”. What were words that started with “e”...? What was “e”...? Her thoughts were quickly regressing into infancy again, and she let out a soft babble through her pacifier as she batted at one of the toys. Then Briar poked her. Gently, yet still a firm poke that brought her thoughts back to...well, not exactly adolescence, but close enough. “What did you poke me for?” Chrissy said with a slight pout, feeling her comforting pacifier fall out of her open mouth. “Because you look adorable,” Briar said, sticking her tongue out before she grabbed at her pacifier with both mitten-clad hands to put it back in - a skill that Chrissy had yet to master, as she realized that with another pout. Then the long hallway ended at a pair of barred doors, and the Classroom’s daycare began, the start of another brand-new day. - Hope you enjoyed~ I'll see when I can update this story, hopefully soon (as well as my, admittedly, numerous other projects).