Search the Community

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 eighteen 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 various 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 ballcap, 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 Black man wearing a Sacramento Kings beanie that covered the top of his bald head, an Oakland Raiders mask across his entire lower face (both of which hid all but his gray eyes from view), 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 ta 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 gray 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~

Well, came up with a new story on the fly. Welcome to Method Acting, a brand-new AR story. Yes, there's a lot of tags, but I figure it needed them. It's sort-of based on the Me-Too movement, given the subject matter, particularly young female actresses going up against a rich and powerful man. Obviously, all characters here are not based on anyone in real life; just the situation. As for the content, the tags do not include what the MC actress thinks happened to her fellow actresses: sexual assault; while what he did to the MC is a sexual crime and while there are implied threats, he did not assault the others in terms of forcing himself onto others. This story will not include sex crimes against children or grooming; he's not in it for that. He's a disgusting excuse for a person, don't get me wrong, though; just not...that. 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 still with me, feel free to read on: - Chapter One: Cynthia's Interview - Cynthia Nachtnebel was seriously pissed off, as she sat in the media room in the El Cid Theater, waiting for the exact time for security to open the door so that the media could come in, her long fingers steepled over the conference table, close to the microphone. Yes, she was a twenty-six-year-old up-and-coming actress, and yes, she knew that such a profession entailed a certain lack of anonymity. Yes, she was used to creeps by now - directors, actors, media, fans, all types - and she knew how to deal with them without trashing her budding career. Yes, she knew of the salacious rumor mill about whom she was dating, where she was dating them, and why she hadn’t sealed the deal. She didn’t care about any of that as much; she almost expected it, being a fairly tall (last time she had gotten measured, she was 5’9”; never ask a lady her weight), athletic (to the point of doing her own stunts) and beautiful (long and curly platinum-blonde hair, sky-blue eyes, and a body that most women would kill for) woman. Wasn’t her fault she hit the genetic lottery, after all, and people could get jealous of that. She knew that from middle school on. But there was absolutely no excuse for what this…motherfucking sleazeball did! What that fucker, A-Bomb or whatever his name was, did was despicable, degrading, and didn’t just cross the line; he leapt well over it. Cynthia had no issues raising hell against him, no matter how filthy rich and obscenely powerful he was - and he was absolutely loaded with both, especially for a paparazzi. Her fellow actresses and actors, the directors of her films, her agent, all of them had advised her against meeting him head on. But someone had to make a stand, right? If it wasn’t her, some other poor girl would have to do it - and Cynthia Nachtnebel was not the type to let someone else get hurt while she stood on the sidelines. The media were outside, waiting for her to start with bated breath: she had made it quite public on social media that she had a big announcement before she would take any questions. Some assumed she was pregnant. Cynthia was far from ace/aro (pan would be a more fitting description), but she was always careful with birth control and the like; she would wait for the kids until later on in her career. Her actress mother, Nikole, with Cynthia being an only child, wanted grandkids. Her mother would have to wait for that. Others thought it was to promote one of her movies. Cynthia never had regrets for any of the movies she played a role in, getting her start at seventeen in a horror film (which she played so well as a method actress - even though her character ended up dying at the end - that directors immediately lined up to get their piece), rising through the ranks and movies for eight (would’ve been nine, if not for…the incident) years, going from romance, to comedy, to action, and everything in between, never being afraid to dive deep into a character study. Even if the movies bombed, people still raved about her acting and how respectful she was to the character and the film. Still more thought it would be a minor thing that she thought was major news, making a mountain out of a molehill. Cynthia had no idea why some would think that of her, even after everything she did in her career, but she supposed there were skeptics for everything. She was always respectful to her fans, making sure to stay long hours for autographs, and respond to all of the social media posts and letters she received personally. She got along famously with the stuntmen and stuntwomen; her German-born father, Hans-Jurgen was one, and it’s what got her interested in doing her own stunts. She got along well with everyone involved in the film industry, from the cameramen, the costume designers, the makeup artists, and everyone, even to the most menial janitors, but the stuntpeople were whom she was closest to from childhood on. She always treated her peers with respect, even with other actresses, always trying to take the peaceful route, and ended up making a lot of lifelong friends with actors, actresses, agents, and many others…including two that she wanted to talk about today. Even the media, for the most part, she was cordial with, even when her anxiety caused her to have panic attacks around the scrums at first. The media was still a little scary for her, but most of them were accepting, she thought. None of those theories were close to the truth of the matter. Cynthia breathed. In, out. In, out. She was never comfortable with the attention; she just wanted to play roles, disappear into them, forget who she was for a moment in time. But she accepted that things were never going to go the way they did again. Not after what he did, and not after what she was going to do. The last nine months, from January on, were hell on earth. The disappearances of fellow actress and close friend Bethany Grassman and her agent, Nancy Leighton in the December before were bad enough…but then…it happened. The photos. The porn sites. The Photoshopping. The words of “slut”, “whore”, “cunt”, and many more uncreative variations wherever she saw her picture. The death and rape threats - including THE BIG ONE from HIM. The loss of respect and the shattering of her safety. The immense anxiety and numerous panic attacks. Checking voluntarily into a private psych facility from early February to late March (even though she never talked to a counselor about what had happened), and the stalking of her there by HIM. Disappearing out of Hollywood to the small town in Germany she was born in, becoming a recluse for four more months, and being forced to cancel her movies for the entirety of the year- something she had never foreseen herself ever doing - in tears, just so she could get away from it all. And worst of all, forcing herself off the computer for those nine months, just so that she didn’t start hysterically sobbing all over again from the horrible speculation, nasty comments, and all of the threats. Cynthia was going to show A-Bomb just a bit of that hell: by exposing his fucking ass for the world to see. And oh boy, did she have a fuckload of evidence to expose him. She’d go to court and everything if she had to. She’d get him locked away for the rest of his sad, miserable life. And even if her friends were… Tears poured from her eyes, and she wiped them away before a steely look came over her face. This was not the time to cry; she had done all the crying she had to do. This was the time where she had to be strong. Cynthia nodded to the security guards to open the door for the media storm, aware of the flashing cameras, aware of the shouts, but she was perfectly, shockingly calm. She knew that she had to do this. Nobody else needed to get hurt by A-Bomb. She tapped the microphone to make sure it was working, holding up her hand for silence before she began after taking a deep, long breath. “I’m aware that all of you have questions, that everyone has questions, and I promise that I will answer all of them in turn,” she began, making sure her slight German accent wasn’t breaking into her voice, “and I know it has been a very long time since I’ve publicly spoken. I’ve been asked not to speak out by directors, by the stuntpeople I know, by my agent, by fellow actors and actresses, by…well, everyone I’ve talked to. They’re afraid of what might happen to me if I do. But if not me, who? And what would it cost them, in turn? “I speak, of course, on the conduct of one man in particular: Adrian Naposki. You may know him as the famous paparazzi ‘A-Bomb’.” Cynthia’s fingers clenched the papers in her hands. “You have known me for a very long time. For the longest time, you have known that I have promoted myself as family oriented, even with my anxiety and panic attacks. I do not pose for nude pictures of my breasts while asleep in my bed. I do not pose for pictures spreadeagled so that my vagina is showing. And I don’t send said pictures to porn sites so that impotent whack jobs can jerk off on them and call me a slut or a whore. “For the longest time, you have seen that I do not partake in drinking or illicit substances; fellow actors, actresses, stuntpeople, directors, everyone who knows me knows that I do not partake in anything of the sort. I have never once tasted alcohol after what I saw it did to my grandfather and learning how he beat my dad when he was drunk. I have never been interested in marijuana, much less heroin and crack-cocaine. “Then where, you ask, did all of those pictures come from? Where did all of those drugs come from? Mr. Naposki, of course. I have video records of Mr. Naposki’s visits to marijuana parlors, liquor stores, even street corners where he made numerous purchases. I had to pull a lot of strings and spend most of my earnings to get the evidence necessary, but I got it. But more importantly, I have my house cameras…where he trespassed at night, took numerous pictures of me naked, and placed the illicit substances in my home.” She placed a large file of the papers on the desk. “You are free to read them at your leisure: because I’ve already sent it to every newspaper, every news website, even the tabloids - and the police. Especially the police. “I also have the digitally recorded kidnapping, rape, and death threat - and the implication that he did the same to Bethany Grassman and Nancy Leighton, two of my closest friends - of Mr. Naposki here.” Cynthia bit her trembling lip, brought out a tape recorder, and pressed play on the microphone, the New Jersey accented words of the paparazzi coming clearly out of the speaker. “Lissen, sweetheart, I’m gonna give yew a one-time offer: yew go public with what I say or do, I will screw with yew and what little remains of your pride. I will screw with yew so hard that your screaming and crying will echo in my house, like with Bethy and Nani. An’ if I ever get bored of yew, well, I might just make yew have an accident an’ have fun with that. Got it, sweetheart? I’ll be seein’ yew. Bye for now, cutiepie! Love your tits and pussy!” The room was so silent that one of the reporter’s phones dropped on the carpet with a thunderous crash…and nobody said anything of it, the horror in their eyes clear at what was a rich and famous media personality essentially admitting that he had raped and murdered two women - and was apparently more than willing to do it again. Cynthia’s eyes were dripping with tears as she paused the tape recorder. “That day, realizing that Bethany and Nancy were raped and murdered, was the worst day of my life,” she continued, trying to keep her voice from shaking, trying to breathe as she brushed her tears away. “I went to the police. For whatever fucking reason, they said they couldn’t help. My friends, two of the kindest women I knew, were murdered, and they couldn’t help me because this…monster was too rich and powerful for them to deal with. I was terrified of him, especially after I learned that he stalked me and took pictures of me when I was in psych. I left for Germany. I couldn’t handle the constant torment. “It took me too long…but I realized that Mr. Naposki would just hurt someone else if not me. So, I went higher than the police, pulled as many strings as I could. You can talk to CIA Agent Francis Fortier if you need more information; he’ll be more than willing to answer any questions you have. “I will not be cowed. I will not stay silent any longer. Mr. Naposki raped and murdered two of my friends and possibly many others that we don’t know of yet. He threatened to rape and murder me. And if this ends with me disappearing or dying, I’ll be glad to sacrifice my life so that he goes down for good. I will not leave it to another woman to suffer from him in order to for him to be put down like the rabid animal he is. “I have absolutely no problems with the media; you have embraced me even with all of my shortcomings, all of my flaws, all of my moments of weakness, and I love you for it. I have no hatred for the paparazzi as a whole; it is something that comes with being an actress, being well-known, and they have to make a living as well in this business, too. It is just this one monster, Mr. Naposki, that has gone way too far. “And to my fans who have been waiting for my name to be on a movie for almost a year, to the directors I’ve had to turn down offers from, including sequels to movies I’ve made, to my agent who has been in the dark with this, only knowing that I have a problem with Mr. Naposki, to the many people I’ve grown to know and love in the film industry, I am truly sorry that I have nothing to say except for what I’ve just said. This is something I had to get out, so that Mr. Adrian ‘A-Bomb’ Naposki cannot hide, cannot run, and most importantly, never harms anyone ever again. “With that, you may ask any questions you wish.” - Hope y'all enjoyed~

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~